college-application
credential—that the team’s second-best swimmer would embrace in a heartbeat. “I’ve
already told the coach my vote goes to Harrison.”
“That’s crazy, ” Vivian said. “As crazy as skipping
practice. You’ll get kicked off the team and be sent back to the reformatory.”
“If that’s what happens, that’s what happens.”
“If you don’t attend today’s practice, Luke, even if you’re
allowed to stay on the team, we are through.”
“Fine.”
“You’re willing to risk breaking up with me?”
Breaking up implied more of a relationship than they’d had.
But Luke wasn’t about to argue semantics.
“I think we just did.”
He had left a disbelieving Vivian—how dare he?—in
search of Snow.
And here she was, imagining a happily-ever-after for him and
Vivian.
“You and your fairy tales.”
“I’m not as innocent as you think. Just because I’m fat—”
“You’re not fat, Snow. You’re lovely.” And sad—oh, Snow,
don’t be sad. “And innocent.”
“I’m not innocent, Luke.”
“You’re fifteen.”
“Almost sixteen.”
“In five months.”
Snow needed him to touch her, and kiss her, and more. More .
The need was neither casual nor whimsical. If Luke didn’t touch her again, at
least touch her, her heart would break . . . with no hope of ever becoming
whole.
She was fighting for her very survival.
And what ammunition did she have to wage this foreign war?
Words of counsel from her mother. Men have remarkable egos, Leigh had said,
when it comes to sex. That’s a little tidbit, some motherly advice, that might
come in handy for you someday. While I’m at it, men want sex. Period. If you
feel like seducing a man, you can. Easily . So easily, it’s ridiculous.
Mimicking Leigh’s sultry tone, Snow began.
“My fifteenth birthday,” she said, “was the first time I made
love. He was seventeen and knew what he was doing. He was way better
than my next two lovers, but nothing compared to the college boyfriend I
have now. He’s nineteen and thinks my weight is sexy. He’ll still like me, though, want me as much as ever, when I’ve lost the weight I’m planning to lose.
I’m good in bed, Luke. My mother’s daughter, through and through. You must have
thought I was an idiot not to see what she was doing.”
“You were a little girl.”
“Not anymore. My mother loves sex, and so do I. I can’t
imagine charging for it, though. It wouldn’t seem fair. I enjoy it far too
much. Although, my mother says, money adds to the pleasure, for both her and
the man.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.’’
“You’re a virgin, Snow. You don’t have a college boyfriend.”
“Any boyfriend, you mean? Just because you don’t find me
desirable doesn’t mean other boys don’t. Lots of other boys, Luke. Lots
and lots.”
“Stop it.” Luke’s command was the one she had given him on that
Christmas Day, when she had found him, in the forest, throwing snowballs to
punishing excess.
Her words were causing punishment now, for both of them. She
saw his anger, how fearsome it was, and maybe, just maybe, his jealousy of her
make-believe lovers.
“ Make me stop, Luke. Prove me wrong . . . or right.”
“Damn you, Snow.”
“Kiss me, Luke.” Please kiss me .
He swore again, and pulled her to him.
She was lost in the joy of it.
Luke was lost, too, in joy. And loathing. He didn’t hate her.
He never could. But he hated how expert she was, the certainty of her
passion—at this moment—for him.
If not so frenzied, the scene would have been romantic. The
warm sun, the soft grass, the birdsong wafting in the autumn breeze. The lovers
might even have undressed and made a nest of their discarded clothes.
As it was, Luke claimed her quickly—and heard her gasp, felt
her shock.
Her other boyfriends, he realized, were the fairy tales he
had suspected them of being.
And her expertise? Too late, Luke felt the truth of the
fingers that had touched
credential—that the team’s second-best swimmer would embrace in a heartbeat. “I’ve
already told the coach my vote goes to Harrison.”
“That’s crazy, ” Vivian said. “As crazy as skipping
practice. You’ll get kicked off the team and be sent back to the reformatory.”
“If that’s what happens, that’s what happens.”
“If you don’t attend today’s practice, Luke, even if you’re
allowed to stay on the team, we are through.”
“Fine.”
“You’re willing to risk breaking up with me?”
Breaking up implied more of a relationship than they’d had.
But Luke wasn’t about to argue semantics.
“I think we just did.”
He had left a disbelieving Vivian—how dare he?—in
search of Snow.
And here she was, imagining a happily-ever-after for him and
Vivian.
“You and your fairy tales.”
“I’m not as innocent as you think. Just because I’m fat—”
“You’re not fat, Snow. You’re lovely.” And sad—oh, Snow,
don’t be sad. “And innocent.”
“I’m not innocent, Luke.”
“You’re fifteen.”
“Almost sixteen.”
“In five months.”
Snow needed him to touch her, and kiss her, and more. More .
The need was neither casual nor whimsical. If Luke didn’t touch her again, at
least touch her, her heart would break . . . with no hope of ever becoming
whole.
She was fighting for her very survival.
And what ammunition did she have to wage this foreign war?
Words of counsel from her mother. Men have remarkable egos, Leigh had said,
when it comes to sex. That’s a little tidbit, some motherly advice, that might
come in handy for you someday. While I’m at it, men want sex. Period. If you
feel like seducing a man, you can. Easily . So easily, it’s ridiculous.
Mimicking Leigh’s sultry tone, Snow began.
“My fifteenth birthday,” she said, “was the first time I made
love. He was seventeen and knew what he was doing. He was way better
than my next two lovers, but nothing compared to the college boyfriend I
have now. He’s nineteen and thinks my weight is sexy. He’ll still like me, though, want me as much as ever, when I’ve lost the weight I’m planning to lose.
I’m good in bed, Luke. My mother’s daughter, through and through. You must have
thought I was an idiot not to see what she was doing.”
“You were a little girl.”
“Not anymore. My mother loves sex, and so do I. I can’t
imagine charging for it, though. It wouldn’t seem fair. I enjoy it far too
much. Although, my mother says, money adds to the pleasure, for both her and
the man.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.’’
“You’re a virgin, Snow. You don’t have a college boyfriend.”
“Any boyfriend, you mean? Just because you don’t find me
desirable doesn’t mean other boys don’t. Lots of other boys, Luke. Lots
and lots.”
“Stop it.” Luke’s command was the one she had given him on that
Christmas Day, when she had found him, in the forest, throwing snowballs to
punishing excess.
Her words were causing punishment now, for both of them. She
saw his anger, how fearsome it was, and maybe, just maybe, his jealousy of her
make-believe lovers.
“ Make me stop, Luke. Prove me wrong . . . or right.”
“Damn you, Snow.”
“Kiss me, Luke.” Please kiss me .
He swore again, and pulled her to him.
She was lost in the joy of it.
Luke was lost, too, in joy. And loathing. He didn’t hate her.
He never could. But he hated how expert she was, the certainty of her
passion—at this moment—for him.
If not so frenzied, the scene would have been romantic. The
warm sun, the soft grass, the birdsong wafting in the autumn breeze. The lovers
might even have undressed and made a nest of their discarded clothes.
As it was, Luke claimed her quickly—and heard her gasp, felt
her shock.
Her other boyfriends, he realized, were the fairy tales he
had suspected them of being.
And her expertise? Too late, Luke felt the truth of the
fingers that had touched
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