36

It never got online, at least. That’s what she kept telling herself. That her mistake wouldn’t follow her around for the rest of her life.

Wishful thinking. She didn’t need the Internet for it to follow her around. She would remember everything.

She knew who he was before he ever spoke to her, of course. Everyone knew who he was. But his name sounded different coming from his mouth, the upperclassman talking to the new girl, the freshman only a month removed from a mid-year transfer, and she remembered thinking: Benny? That’s a dog’s name!

Later, she would wonder why she hadn’t seen it coming. She would think that maybe she’d been disarmed by the name. A fluffy, cuddly, harmless little dog’s name.

She would remember looking in the mirror before leaving her house. Brushing her hair over and over again. That euphoric giggle. Maybe it’s nothing, she would remember thinking. Maybe he’s just being nice. Maybe he invites lots of freshmen to his parties.

She would remember the conversation with her parents as she left. Be safe! You know I will. We love you! I love you, too.

She would remember arriving at the party with her new friends, other freshmen just like her, and she would remember wondering where her new friends had disappeared to so quickly after they’d arrived.

She would remember that first taste of punch. She would remember climbing the stairs. The pulsating bass from the living room speakers. So dark in that house for some reason, light coming from outside, from the kitchen, from any room but the one she was in.

She would remember being the one to lead him upstairs as the giddy elation exploded in her chest, his hands on her waist as they climbed. He steered her down the hallway to his room. She was in his room. There was a bed.

She would remember that he smelled of mouthwash.

And she would remember that it was the smell of mouthwash that cut through the effects of that punch. Making her look around as if for the first time, making her wonder why she was here. What she was doing in this boy’s bedroom.

She would remember feeling like she shouldn’t be doing this.

She would remember also feeling like she should. After a lifetime filled with moving, and new schools, and more moving, a whole life of never feeling like she belonged, she was here, in his room, just one month into her newest school. She was older now, and fifteen, and she was pretty, and she was going to make such great friends this year, and here was the proof. This time, she was going to belong.

She would remember making the decision—this was the new Amelia. She had the power to decide for herself, so she did. Yes, she decided. Yes, she would. Yes, of course she would.

And she would never forget the door opening. The cluster of faces in the doorway. Those smiling faces in the doorway. The laughing.

She was on her knees, and the door was open, and she looked up at Benny, and he didn’t run over to close the door, and he didn’t tell them to close the door, either. He laughed.

And she froze.

And he told her to get back to it.

Later that year, when her mom got transferred again, Amelia collapsed in tears.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I know you’re upset. I thought this was going to be our forever home, too. I know Houston isn’t California, but we’ll make it up to you. This is our last time, I promise.”

Her mom held her close, and the rush of relief was so strong that Amelia couldn’t fight it. She let herself melt. It didn’t even matter that her mom didn’t know what her tears meant.