16

My “risk” comes sooner than I thought.

I’m not prepared.

Eric and I sit at the kitchen table talking government and working through some calculus problems. My sister lies sprawled across the couch in the next room. We had a half day today, so he came over right after school.

Mom keeps buzzing in and out of the room for random things she “forgot,” and after she buzzes out for the zillionth time, Eric leans over and catches my mouth with his. Quick, determined, and mostly close-mouthed—although at the end he pushes his tongue in and it surprises me. I’m stunned, and all I can think is, Did he really kiss me?

He pulls back, almost embarrassed-like, and looks at me. “You are so pretty,” he whispers, looking at me like I’m not real and he wants to touch me to make sure.

Okay, so this is awkward. Because what am I supposed to say back? Am I supposed to try to repay the compliment and say something nice to him? And you’re brilliant! Or, You might be cute in a few years. Or, Gee, thanks. None of those sound right. So I say nothing. Instead I just lean back in and give him a peck on the cheek. His skin feels sandpaper rough to my lips, like maybe he had some stubble there that he’d shaved off.

Eric sits the rest of our study date with this goofy half-smile, and I swear the kiss has vacuumed his brain cells away, because he doesn’t know his government from his English lit. And I’m sitting there thinking, That was all right. Not great, not horrible, but all right. And I’m hoping he can hold on to some of those brain cells and still help me keep an A in government.

Eric takes off an hour before my helpline shift. He squeezes my hand before he goes and looks like he wants to kiss me again. But Mom is still buzzing around, and there’s just no time for that, so I stand there wondering whether I even want him to kiss me again. Maybe. As long as he doesn’t drool on me.

But the moment passes, and he wraps his arms around me for an awkward hug, even though my mom’s standing right there. She doesn’t say a word. Maybe if I only date guys with IQs higher than mine, she’ll be cool with it. He heads off, his backpack strapped to his shoulders and looking like it’s carrying a library full of books. For some reason, this is a bit of a turn-off.

My phone buzzes on the table. Text from Janae. Can’t make it to the shift tonight. Got the flu. Hope I didn’t already give it to you. That means Miguel and I will be on our own.

Thank goodness the shift starts with a bunch of easy calls. “My best friend’s using drugs, what should I do?” Since we can’t give advice, we just read down a list of referral numbers for counseling and for drug treatment. “My boyfriend broke up with me and boohoo.” Piece of cake. Just listen and validate feelings.

When Miguel answers the phone, I scoot my chair in so I can reach his notepaper. When he speaks, there is something soft in his voice that lulls me. Maybe it’s just his attempt at being supportive. He speaks in low tones, and I quickly stop paying attention to what he’s saying, so his words run together, but they almost sound musical.

Ping! Man problems. Need advice.

“I’ll take this one.” I elbow Miguel.

“Not sure you’re qualified.” He elbows me back. “You don’t date, remember?”

Good point. “Well, I’m more qualified than you!”

Men! What’s up? I type.

Why do they always seem so nice at first?

I look pointedly at Miguel. “Okay, maybe you are more qualified. Answer this question: What’s up with this nice-guy act?”

“Ahem. I can only speak for myself. I am truly nice. Can’t help it.”

We must have taken too long to respond, because she (I’m assuming it’s a she) texts again. But when they get what they want, they morph into assholes! Explain this to me.

I look at Miguel. He holds up his hands. “Those guys give men a bad rap. That’s not me.”

Again, I’m not going fast enough for her. Advice?

So I’m not actually allowed to give advice. But I can give you a referral for counseling.

Seriously? I don’t need a shrink. I just need someone to talk to.

Is there anyone at home you can talk to?

Uh, no. That’d be why I’m texting you. No one at home would understand. They’re all perfect, and they already think I’m screwing up my life.

What’s more important is what YOU think. That must’ve caught her attention, because she doesn’t text back right away. What do you think?

I think I deserve to be treated better than this.

You go, girl! After I press Send, I gasp. “What if that wasn’t a girl? It could’ve been a guy.”

Miguel smiles. “True. Good point.”

Hopefully I didn’t offend him-her, because he-she texted back. Thanks.

In between calls we decorate the office, joke around, and tack our homemade bracelets to the office walls in a great, big peace-sign shape. Miguel’s arm keeps bumping into mine. I pull away. I feel like he’s got some kind of electric current running through him, and every time he touches me I get shocked. It’s not a bad feeling exactly, but it surprises me, and I’m not sure what to make of it.

Miguel stands back from our peace sign and studies it. Then he turns and studies me. “So you survived almost a whole shift without your bodyguard,” he jokes.

“Who, Janae?” Now that’s funny, because Janae’s about my size. “If I wanted a bodyguard, I’d have picked Garth. Besides, I can protect myself.” I go to sock his arm, but he grabs my hand and pulls me toward him. He smells so clean, like always, like he just stepped out of the shower and his clothes are fresh from the dryer.

“¿Puedo besarte?” he says, reverting back to his new-immigrant persona.

“What?” I’m stalling. I’ve had four years of Spanish. I know what that means. I step away. He’s not my type. But what’s my type? And wasn’t I just telling myself to take a risk? To experiment a little to see what I like?

Miguel’s grinning. Like he already knows I want him to. “Look, I’m not like one of those guys our texter was talking about. I’m a nice guy. I promise.” I see a tiny dimple in his upper right cheek that I never noticed before. “And you are muy bonita. Can I kiss you?”

His shirt is pretty tight. I try not to notice how his chest presses against it. He looks like he’s fit underneath it—not like he lifts weights, but more just naturally fit. He waits expectantly. Crap. I answer in Spanish, as corny as that sounds. “Está bien.”

He pulls me in again, and he doesn’t hesitate. I hold back at first, tense. Take a risk, take a risk, I tell myself. I close my eyes and allow myself to relax. Then I’m melting into his arms, my mouth melting into his mouth, and every single hair on my body is standing on end. So electric. The rest of the world blurs and there is only him. His hands cupping my face, moving to my shoulders, and settling around my waist. Our hips touch and my body is on fire. So this is a kiss. I want more. I am hungry for more.

When we pull away I have no idea how much time has passed. Was that one kiss? Or a marathon of kisses?

“Wow,” he whispers in my ear. His breath sends tingles down my arms. “We got to do that more often.”

I don’t say anything at first, just stand there, catching my breath and drinking him in with my eyes. “I think you have a point.”

That seems to be all the invitation he needs, because suddenly I’m melting into him again, feeling warm and cold and tingly and like I’m floating. Everything I see bleeds into something else, all my senses are on overload, and my thoughts are ricocheting around in my brain. Like I might lose my footing at any moment.

Even after we stop kissing, the goose bumps last twenty minutes. And the tingles last an hour.

When I get home, I realize something terrible. I’m a player. I can’t believe I just kissed two different guys in one day. Or, more accurately, two guys kissed me. I’m the kind of girl Beth and I normally hate.

Both the kisses were nice. But Eric’s kiss was all about the physiology of it—lips meeting lips, tongue meeting tongue. Miguel’s kiss involved all the same body parts, but the end result was tingling electricity. No comparison. Just the thought of Miguel’s minty taste makes my body light up again.

And suddenly it feels wrong. I feel wrong.

I can’t be kissing two guys in the same day. Especially not two guys who know each other. That’s a recipe for disaster! It’s the kind of reality-show drama Chloe would love. And the kind I avoid like the plague.

I’m not sure if I’m feeling panic, or my heart is just racing because I’m thinking about Miguel’s kiss. But I know I have to do something right away. Take a risk, I prompt myself. If I want to try dating someone (and I most definitely do), then I need to decide which one.

But it’s not a decision. My mind was made up from the moment our lips connected. I want to be with Miguel.

So I corner Eric at school the next day. And I lie. A great, big, fat lie about why I don’t want to study together anymore.

I don’t mean to lie. I mean to give him a mostly true explanation about valuing his friendship and not wanting to mess that up. I think through at least five different ways to say it, but none of them sound right.

And then because I start to tell him without thinking it all the way through, I lie. I say, “I’m just not into guys right now.”

I see him digest this meaning, and I know within seconds that he thinks I just told him I’m gay. I’m not, of course.

But I don’t correct it. Letting him believe this about me seems like an easy way to let him down.

As long as he doesn’t find out otherwise.