then Sam did something—pulled away, shifted closer to sit beside her instead of across from her—and when he kissed her again theawkwardness began to fall away in one fluid collapse, unraveling even as Olivia’s thoughts began to unravel. He kissed her again, touched her hair, said, Try putting your arms around me, and little by little, with hands seeking skin, bodies seeking contact, they got better at kissing, and soon, the kiss that had started out so tepid grew hotter and wilder until it was something much more, something that made Olivia feel like she was being pulled into some deep, bottomless abyss from which she never wanted to return.
They’d spent the rest of the school year sneaking kisses and caresses when they could. Sometimes, they even talked about it in front of other kids. Do you want to practice after school today? Sam would say, right in front of everyone. Or Olivia might comment, Do you want to study later? Really apply ourselves? And no one would think anything of it, but a wash of heat would crest over Olivia’s whole body, and Sam would grin at her, and she would know that they had long passed the threshold of practicing and were as coordinated, synchronized, and hot together as any two teenagers could be. It was only by the grace of God that they’d managed to not have sex; Sam would stop, or she would, though neither one of them had a precise reason as to why they should stop except that Sam, who was two years older, said he would feel guilty if they did it because she was too young.
Now Olivia wished Sam hadn’t been so damn considerate all those years ago. Her only experience with romance would be forever limited to the illicit, fumbling, but wonderful interludes she’d had as a teenager with the boy next door. As the summer of her sixteenth year slogged on, Sam had been having increasingly sensitive reactions to what seemed to be poison ivy. It was nothing at first—just a minor itchiness. But by the summer’s end, he seemed to have poison ivy all the time. Olivia—who hadno idea she was the cause of his discomfort—would have to keep herself from touching him while his skin healed. Then, once he was better and she could touch him, the rashes would reappear. It became a kind of miserable cycle. On your mouth, again? his mother asked. What, are you eating it? Sam began to spend all of his time inside.
While he was trying to figure out what was wrong with him, Olivia was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her. She had been trying to ignore the signs because the very idea that she might be dangerous seemed ludicrous. But the evidence of her own toxicity was constricting around her like so many merciless vines.
After she could no longer deny her condition, after she’d tried keeping herself out of the garden for a time, and after she wrestled with the problem of how she was going to tell Sam what was causing his allergic reactions, Sam’s parents finally took him to see a doctor. When he came home from the appointment, he let himself into the farmhouse, found Olivia in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, and told her everything: The doctor said he had a rare kind of sensitivity to urushiol, that he was “exquisitely sensitive,” and that the more he was exposed to poison ivy, the worse his reactions might become over time. He did not seem especially concerned by his sensitivity; he seemed only perplexed about where he might be getting poison ivy at all. That, he said, was the main problem. He had to figure out where he was being exposed to the allergens; otherwise, he would just get worse and worse. How bad could it get? Olivia had asked him. And he’d told her that he had no idea, but that the doctor had shared a story about a patient who couldn’t get within a foot of poison ivy without having a reaction. But everyone’s different, he said.
Olivia had stood quietly at the kitchen sink, washing her father’sdishes, listening. She knew then she would not be
They’d spent the rest of the school year sneaking kisses and caresses when they could. Sometimes, they even talked about it in front of other kids. Do you want to practice after school today? Sam would say, right in front of everyone. Or Olivia might comment, Do you want to study later? Really apply ourselves? And no one would think anything of it, but a wash of heat would crest over Olivia’s whole body, and Sam would grin at her, and she would know that they had long passed the threshold of practicing and were as coordinated, synchronized, and hot together as any two teenagers could be. It was only by the grace of God that they’d managed to not have sex; Sam would stop, or she would, though neither one of them had a precise reason as to why they should stop except that Sam, who was two years older, said he would feel guilty if they did it because she was too young.
Now Olivia wished Sam hadn’t been so damn considerate all those years ago. Her only experience with romance would be forever limited to the illicit, fumbling, but wonderful interludes she’d had as a teenager with the boy next door. As the summer of her sixteenth year slogged on, Sam had been having increasingly sensitive reactions to what seemed to be poison ivy. It was nothing at first—just a minor itchiness. But by the summer’s end, he seemed to have poison ivy all the time. Olivia—who hadno idea she was the cause of his discomfort—would have to keep herself from touching him while his skin healed. Then, once he was better and she could touch him, the rashes would reappear. It became a kind of miserable cycle. On your mouth, again? his mother asked. What, are you eating it? Sam began to spend all of his time inside.
While he was trying to figure out what was wrong with him, Olivia was beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her. She had been trying to ignore the signs because the very idea that she might be dangerous seemed ludicrous. But the evidence of her own toxicity was constricting around her like so many merciless vines.
After she could no longer deny her condition, after she’d tried keeping herself out of the garden for a time, and after she wrestled with the problem of how she was going to tell Sam what was causing his allergic reactions, Sam’s parents finally took him to see a doctor. When he came home from the appointment, he let himself into the farmhouse, found Olivia in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, and told her everything: The doctor said he had a rare kind of sensitivity to urushiol, that he was “exquisitely sensitive,” and that the more he was exposed to poison ivy, the worse his reactions might become over time. He did not seem especially concerned by his sensitivity; he seemed only perplexed about where he might be getting poison ivy at all. That, he said, was the main problem. He had to figure out where he was being exposed to the allergens; otherwise, he would just get worse and worse. How bad could it get? Olivia had asked him. And he’d told her that he had no idea, but that the doctor had shared a story about a patient who couldn’t get within a foot of poison ivy without having a reaction. But everyone’s different, he said.
Olivia had stood quietly at the kitchen sink, washing her father’sdishes, listening. She knew then she would not be
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