Any Red-Blooded Girl
he said, shaking his head and
smirking, “I’m a virgin. I don’t know why, but I wanted you to know
that. I’ve never been with anybody else, so…”
    “So am I,” I blurted. What the hell. If he
was willing to put it out there, I might as well too.
    “Oh. That’s good,” he said, obviously
relieved. “But, well, on top of thinking about you all the time,
I’ve also been feeling very physical around you—more than I ever
have around anyone before. I just don’t know if I can restrain my
appetite,” he said, breathing a little defeated sigh.
    Unless I’d misunderstood him, which was
certainly possible, Mick was saying I was making him horny. I,
Flora Fontain, was making the sexiest virgin alive horny.
Uncontrollably horny. Surely he must be joking.
    “I know. I want you too,” I said, flinging my
arms as far around his neck as they’d reach. “And for the record,
I’m just as new at this as you are.”
    He eagerly slipped his hands under my T-shirt
and caressed my bare back; meanwhile, I peppered his neck with soft
kisses. And just as I was preparing to start a hickey near his
collarbone, he whispered in my ear, “I love you.”
    Reluctantly, I pulled my lips away. “I love
you too.”
    For a while longer, we stood right there
pressed against the Wiener Tree and made out. But as much as I hate
to admit it, even sucking face with the man of your dreams can get
boring after a while if you don’t mix things up a little.
    “Hey, wanna go watch karaoke?” I asked.
    Sounding surprised by the idea, Mick said,
“There’s karaoke?”
    “Yeah. I think it’s in the…” I slid the
wrinkled recreation schedule out of my pocket. “The Activity
Center. Do you know where that is?”
    “Uh-huh,” he said, lacing his fingers around
mine. “It’s the white building over by the basketball court that
sort of looks like a church. Shall we?”
    “Well, this is a little sad,” I said, as Mick
and I claimed our metal folding chairs in the back row of the
nearly deserted Activity Center.
    “Oh, I don’t know,” he said optimistically.
“Those kids seem to be having fun.” He nodded toward the stage,
squeezed my hand, and smiled
    It was true. Maybe ten or twelve kids were
huddled together at the front of the room, where a tiny brunette
clutched a microphone and a teenage girl about my age (probably a
Wild Acres employee) exercised fleeting control over the
teenybopper chaos.
    And after some heated disagreement among the
teenybopper crowd as to which song the diva should sing, the little
brunette finally started belting out the winning tune: Genie in
a Bottle . And at first it seemed like an okay pick, at least
for a seven-year-old. But then the diva’s act dissolved into a lewd
series of gyrations and pelvic thrusts, which just about made me
lose my lunch. I mean, I guess it could’ve been funny in a Little Miss Sunshine -esque way, except that unlike the girl
in Little Miss Sunshine, this girl had very smooth moves.
Honestly, it was disturbing.
    “Okay…that’s a little sick,” I said,
wondering how Mick was taking the provocative display. Before I
could inquire, though, his horror became apparent.
    “Why is she doing that?” he asked, screwing
up his face in disgust. “Isn’t anybody going to stop her?” He
glanced around anxiously, like he was expecting the karaoke police
or maybe even the decency squad to intervene, but it was no
use.
    “Should we say something to someone?” I
asked. It was a stupid question, really, since nobody but us seemed
freaked out.
    Mick stood up. “Wait here,” he said. “I’m
going to do something about this.”
    How chivalrous. My sweet, sweet boyfriend was
hell bent on defending the kid’s honor. But from where I sat, I
couldn’t see much of what happened when he stalked up to the stage
and cornered the Wild Acres girl—although I imagined he was
explaining that he had sisters not much older than the little diva,
and that he found the child’s behavior

Similar Books

Frenched

Melanie Harlow

Some Kind of Peace

Camilla Grebe, Åsa Träff

Meet the Austins

Madeleine L'Engle

Pack Council

Crissy Smith