Theodora Twist Read Free

boyfriend, but all he wants to do is fool around. Yesterday I was telling him something important, and he stuck his hand up my shirt and under my bra. . . .
    As Zach Archer sticks his hand up my shirt and under my bra, I try to remember what Been There/Done That (the advice columnist on GirlScene.com) told Emma K., fifteen, Omaha, Nebraska.
    I’m pretty sure this is supposed to feel good—his hand on my chest, groping, squeezing. Like Emma K., I’m in love with my boyfriend. But it doesn’t feel good. It feels . . . weird. We’re in my bedroom now (door ajar, as per Mom). Tonight we went to the movies (a documentary about foreign affairs that our history teacher assigned for extra credit). Here’s a recap of the walk home:
    Me: So, what did you think of the movie?
    Zach: You have really sexy legs.
    Me, glancing down at my too-skinny legs: Thanks.
    I’m glad I listened to my friend Belle and wore the cute skirt and not my jeans. I’m thrilled that Zach thinks anything about me is sexy. But since we started seeing each other, he’s ignored almost everything I’ve said. Up until now I’ve let it go—his compliments overshadow any rude behavior. I’ll say something like, “My stepfather can be so clueless sometimes,” and Zach’s response will be: “I really like your shirt. You look hot.” Tonight, though, I’m determined to have a real conversation. We will get to know each other.
    Me: I really learned a lot from the film. I had no idea that—
    Zach: (Stands in front of me. Lifts the hem of my shirt. Stares into my eyes and slips his hand under the fabric.)
    Me: (I freeze. Then step back. Turn red. Quickly say) I’m going to write my extra-credit paper on the effects of war on children caught in the crossfire. How about you?
    Zach: (Lets out frustrated breath. Resumes walking. Never answers my question.)
    This pretty much sums up our relationship. Our thirteen-day relationship. And now, while he squeezes my 32A chest, his breath warm in my ear, I will the phone on my desk to ring or my baby sister to let out a blood-curdling shriek. But there’s silence. Except for the occasional “You’re so hot” being whispered in my ear.
    I’ve wanted Zach Archer for two years. Two years! And he finally noticed me, suddenly, mysteriously asked me out two weeks ago. Zach is beautiful. Dark, thick wavy hair. Dark blue eyes. One dimple. He’s smart. He’s funny. And until he asked me out I thought he was out of my league.
    But here he is, on a Saturday night in April, the first warm night of spring, sitting next to me on my bed, whispering that I’m not.
    I wriggle away and try to think of something interesting to talk about. Zach isn’t the conversationalist I’ve always imagined him to be. I could bring up something funny that happened in school. Or I—
    “Emily,” he whispers in my ear. “I have something important to ask you.”
    We’re talking! Yes, Zach. Yes, yes, yes. Of course I’ll go to the junior prom with you. In fact, I’ve already bought a great dress. . . .
    He takes my hand. “Emily, when do you think you’ll be ready to have sex?”
    I come back to earth fast. This is the first time he’s asked—directly. For the past thirteen days, he’s limited the topic to trying to find out for himself. Tonight, for example, was a repeat of our first date, when he tried to un-snap my jeans under the table in Burger Busters, my favorite diner. A French fry in one hand, my silver snap in the other. I bit the fry out of his hand to distract him, and it worked. For a minute. Same thing afterward in the dark movie theater. Every day he’s tried to take off my pants/skirt/shorts. Every day I’ve distracted him.
    “I don’t know,” I say, feeling like such a baby. Please stop pressuring me. I just want to talk to you. Look at you. Kiss you. Be with you.
    “A week? A month?” he asks, leaning over to kiss my neck. One hand is on my rib cage, just under the band of my bra.
    If I’m so in love, why