jeans, the comforter, my corduroys, and my boxers between us
, I thought. Five layers, and yet I felt it, the nervous warmth of touching—a pale reflection of the fireworks of one mouth on another, but a reflection nonetheless. And in the almostness of the moment, I cared at least enough. I wasn’t sure whether I liked her, and I doubted whether I could trust her, but I cared at least enough to try to find out. Her on my bed, wide green eyes staring down at me. The enduring mystery of her sly, almost smirking, smile. Five layers between us.
She continued as if I hadn’t been asleep. “Jake has to study. So he doesn’t want me in Nashville. Says he can’t pay attention to musicology while staring at me. I said I would wear a burka, but he wasn’t convinced, so I’m staying here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Oh, don’t be. I’ll have loads to do. There’s a prank to plan. But I was thinking you should stay here, too. In fact, I have composed a list.”
“A list?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavily folded piece of notebook paper and began to read.
“Why Pudge Should Stay at the Creek for Thanksgiving: A List,
by Alaska Young.
“
One.
Because he is a very conscientious student, Pudge has been deprived of many wonderful Culver Creek experiences, including but not limited to
A.
drinking wine with me in the woods, and
B.
getting up early on a Saturday to eat breakfast at McInedible and then driving through the greater Birmingham area smoking cigarettes and talking about how pathetically boring the greater Birmingham area is, and also
C.
going out late at night and lying in the dewy soccer field and reading a Kurt Vonnegut book by moonlight.
“
Two.
Although she certainly does not excel at endeavors such as teaching the French language, Madame O’Malley makes a mean stuffing, and she invites all the students who stay on campus to Thanksgiving dinner. Which is usually just me and the South Korean exchange student, but whatever. Pudge would be welcome.
“
Three.
I don’t really have a
Three,
but
One
and
Two
were awfully good.”
One
and
Two
appealed to me, certainly, but mostly I liked the idea of just her and just me on campus. “I’ll talk to my parents. Once they wake up,” I said. She coaxed me onto the couch, and we played Decapitation together until she abruptly dropped the controller.
“I’m not flirting. I’m just tired,” she said, kicking off her flip-flops. She pulled her feet onto the foam couch, tucking them behind a cushion, and scooted up to put her head in my lap. Mycorduroys. My boxers. Two layers. I could feel the warmth of her cheek on my thigh.
There are times when it is appropriate, even preferable, to get an erection when someone’s face is in close proximity to your penis.
This was not one of those times.
So I stopped thinking about the layers and the warmth, muted the TV, and focused on Decapitation.
At 8:30, I turned off the game and scooted out from underneath Alaska. She turned onto her back, still asleep, the lines of my corduroy pants imprinted on her cheek.
I usually only called my parents on Sunday afternoons, so when my mom heard my voice, she instantly overreacted. “What’s wrong, Miles? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I think—if it’s okay with you, I think I might stay here for Thanksgiving. A lot of my friends are staying”—lie—“and I have a lot of work to do”—double lie. “I had no idea how hard the classes would be, Mom”—truth.
“Oh, sweetie. We miss you so much. And there’s a big Thanksgiving turkey waiting for you. And all the cranberry sauce you can eat.”
I hated cranberry sauce, but for some reason my mom persisted in her lifelong belief that it was my very favorite food, even though every single Thanksgiving I politely declined to include it on my plate.
“I know, Mom. I miss you guys, too. But I really want to do well here”—truth—“and plus it’s really nice to have,
, I thought. Five layers, and yet I felt it, the nervous warmth of touching—a pale reflection of the fireworks of one mouth on another, but a reflection nonetheless. And in the almostness of the moment, I cared at least enough. I wasn’t sure whether I liked her, and I doubted whether I could trust her, but I cared at least enough to try to find out. Her on my bed, wide green eyes staring down at me. The enduring mystery of her sly, almost smirking, smile. Five layers between us.
She continued as if I hadn’t been asleep. “Jake has to study. So he doesn’t want me in Nashville. Says he can’t pay attention to musicology while staring at me. I said I would wear a burka, but he wasn’t convinced, so I’m staying here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Oh, don’t be. I’ll have loads to do. There’s a prank to plan. But I was thinking you should stay here, too. In fact, I have composed a list.”
“A list?”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a heavily folded piece of notebook paper and began to read.
“Why Pudge Should Stay at the Creek for Thanksgiving: A List,
by Alaska Young.
“
One.
Because he is a very conscientious student, Pudge has been deprived of many wonderful Culver Creek experiences, including but not limited to
A.
drinking wine with me in the woods, and
B.
getting up early on a Saturday to eat breakfast at McInedible and then driving through the greater Birmingham area smoking cigarettes and talking about how pathetically boring the greater Birmingham area is, and also
C.
going out late at night and lying in the dewy soccer field and reading a Kurt Vonnegut book by moonlight.
“
Two.
Although she certainly does not excel at endeavors such as teaching the French language, Madame O’Malley makes a mean stuffing, and she invites all the students who stay on campus to Thanksgiving dinner. Which is usually just me and the South Korean exchange student, but whatever. Pudge would be welcome.
“
Three.
I don’t really have a
Three,
but
One
and
Two
were awfully good.”
One
and
Two
appealed to me, certainly, but mostly I liked the idea of just her and just me on campus. “I’ll talk to my parents. Once they wake up,” I said. She coaxed me onto the couch, and we played Decapitation together until she abruptly dropped the controller.
“I’m not flirting. I’m just tired,” she said, kicking off her flip-flops. She pulled her feet onto the foam couch, tucking them behind a cushion, and scooted up to put her head in my lap. Mycorduroys. My boxers. Two layers. I could feel the warmth of her cheek on my thigh.
There are times when it is appropriate, even preferable, to get an erection when someone’s face is in close proximity to your penis.
This was not one of those times.
So I stopped thinking about the layers and the warmth, muted the TV, and focused on Decapitation.
At 8:30, I turned off the game and scooted out from underneath Alaska. She turned onto her back, still asleep, the lines of my corduroy pants imprinted on her cheek.
I usually only called my parents on Sunday afternoons, so when my mom heard my voice, she instantly overreacted. “What’s wrong, Miles? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Mom. I think—if it’s okay with you, I think I might stay here for Thanksgiving. A lot of my friends are staying”—lie—“and I have a lot of work to do”—double lie. “I had no idea how hard the classes would be, Mom”—truth.
“Oh, sweetie. We miss you so much. And there’s a big Thanksgiving turkey waiting for you. And all the cranberry sauce you can eat.”
I hated cranberry sauce, but for some reason my mom persisted in her lifelong belief that it was my very favorite food, even though every single Thanksgiving I politely declined to include it on my plate.
“I know, Mom. I miss you guys, too. But I really want to do well here”—truth—“and plus it’s really nice to have,
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