Speechless(141)

                Good for her. Who wants to be a virgin forever? I mean, it’s                     something I’ve thought about, obviously. People always assume only teenage boys                     have an obsession with sex, but girls do, too. The difference is that most of us                     want it to mean something. We’re complicated. We                     need more than magazines and badly acted pornos to get off.

                Since Sam and I kissed, sometimes I find myself imagining. Just                     a little. And for the first time, when I’m thinking about it, I’m not worrying                     about how much it would hurt, or if I’d be doing it right, or how awkward it                     might be; I’m wondering if it would feel as comfortable, as natural and right as it did when he kissed me.

                Not that it matters—we haven’t done anything since. Or even                     talked about what happened. Maybe it was nothing more than a fluke. Maybe he’s                     not even interested.

                Lou says, “So I heard you’re all going to some winter dance                     this Saturday?”

                I nod and flip to the next page of my textbook. Andy and Sam                     said they’ve already picked out suits to wear. Asha never bought anything from                     Recollections, but she says she has something else in mind, and she’s been all                     mysterious about it ever since. This morning I pulled my dress out, laid it on                     the table and started making measurements, figuring out where to take it in and                     how far to adjust the neckline. I can already see the finished product in my                     mind. It’s going to be so absolutely perfect.

                The urge to whip out my notebook and sketch more ideas for the                     dress is tempting, but I force myself to focus on history. There’s a test                     tomorrow, and I’ve been on a roll with this academic kick; I’m self-aware enough                     to know that if I slip now, I will inevitably succumb to a slacker spiral and                     never get on top of things again.

                Andy comes over to swap out the condiment bottles and glances                     at my open textbook. “You could save yourself the time and rent the biopic,” he                     says. “The one with Cate Blanchett and Joseph Fiennes at his physical peak.” He                     pauses. “You should watch it either way, really. Joseph Fiennes alone is worth                     it.”