You, Maybe by Rachel Vail

Emelina said, defending me, I guess.
    Carson let go of me and said to her, “I’ll show you good sportsmanship.”
    “Promises, promises,” she answered, and walked away.
    I watched her go. Carson grabbed me from behind again but I pulled away. “Hey,” he said. I shrugged him off. He grabbed my hand and tugged me around to his side yard. “Somebody’s jealous,” Carson said, unzipping my jacket. “That turns me on.” He slipped his hands inside and ran his hands down my shoulders, across my chest, up my sides. I felt like clay he was sculpting, felt every contour of myself get molded by his hands. When his mouth came down to mine, there was no resistance left in my lips. I felt his fingers touch my neck, my earlobes, my earrings.
    “Everything about you turns me on,” Carson whispered. “Your great-grandmother’s earrings, even. Is that weird?”
    “Yes,” I whispered back.
    He groaned. “Mmm, how you never take them off—it makes me want to get you completely naked. . . .”
    “Carson . . .”
    “Someday?” he asked. “Someday, not now, obviously, but someday, will you take them off, for me? Be completely naked with me. Come to Emelina’s, in the mountains. Oh, wouldn’t that be so great?” He kissed my neck, his hands slipping under my sweater. My mother’s sweater.
    “I don’t know,” I said. I could feel the cold air hitting the strip of bare skin he was exposing.
    “Just imagining you taking off everything, even your earrings . . .”
    “I never take them off.”
    “I know,” he said, touching my earrings and kissing me again. “Promise me, though, someday. Josie, please. Say maybe, at least.”
    “Maybe, at least,” I said.
    “Second half!” his father yelled. “It’s starting.”
    Carson groaned. “I’m gonna explode. Ugh.” He held my hand walking back in. I watched Emelina notice that.
    We settled back into the same spots. Carson’s cheeks were pink and he smelled like winter. I tried to watch the game instead of just him. It was a challenge. After about ten minutes he kind of untangled from me and whispered, “Will you get me a soda?”
    “Um, okay,” I whispered back.
    I stood up and started to make my way across the family room, past and over people. Everybody looked attached to the TV by invisible strings from their eyes to the screens, loose smiles on their faces, slumped in random positions all draped on one another. It was nice, actually. I had always imagined these groupings of beautiful people being high-tension affairs, with secret codes and competitive strife, each person checking out everyone else, jockeying for position and superiority. These guys all seemed relaxed and comfortable, easy. Like normal people only better-looking. I wondered if maybe, possibly, I fit in among them.
    I went to the kitchen to get Carson a soda, but stopped when I got to the fridge. It was full of pictures, and beside it was a whole bulletin board filled with more photos as well as lots of invitations, letters, and a calendar. I guess I started reading and lost track of time. I was reading Carson’s acceptance from Harvard, which was pinned next to the emergency phone list and a photo of Carson with his parents and a gorgeous girl I didn’t know, hiking on a mountain, wide smiles across all their faces.
    “Hey,” Carson said, behind me.
    I jumped, startled and caught.
    “Thanks for the soda.”
    “Sorry, I was just . . .”
    “Yeah, I see,” he said, opening the fridge and getting himself a can of soda. “So?”
    “What?” I asked him.
    “You tell me, you’re the one going through my stuff.”
    “Harvard uses nice paper for its acceptances,” I noted. “And who’s this?”
    Carson glanced at the photograph. “Me,” he said.
    “And?”
    “And my parents and my sister Veronica,” he said. “She’s at Brown, a junior. What else?”
    “Are you mad at me?” I asked.
    He shrugged.
    “Why?”
    “Nothing.” He pressed up against me and we made out a little.