Cherry (19 page)

“Is that so? Who told you about the kindness machine?” Alex asked.

“Oh . . . just this girl.”

“
Just
, huh?”

“I drive her to school.”

“Lucky you.” Alex smiled. She liked the playful banter between them, but she was finally noticing just how calculated it all really was, as if they were putting on a show for each other.

“Are you actually mad?” Oliver asked, breaking their rhythm.

“About the flower?” Alex asked impulsively. If she'd thought about it, maybe she would've realized that he was asking about Trevor's party last weekend. They'd spent most of the night playing drinking games and hanging out with the other guys on the basketball team, which was
fun
and all, but they didn't even come
close
to kissing this time. “I don't care about the flower,” Alex added, hoping it sounded believable.

“Good. I know you think Valentine's Day is bullshit—and so do I.”

“Is that your way of saying you don't have any plans tomorrow?”

“I'll text you,” Oliver said with a smirk before he took off down the hallway.

“That's not what I meant,” Alex yelled after him.

  *  *  *  

“But it's what you wanted me to say,” Oliver shouted over his shoulder without breaking his stride or looking back at her. Alex shook her head. Mostly she was annoyed that he was right.

  *  *  *  

LAYLA
helped carry the crate of leftover carnations to Logan's car after school.

Logan had the brilliant idea to donate the extra ­flowers to a nearby retirement center. Logan was always having ideas like that, ideas that were so thoughtful that you couldn't help but be impressed by his kindness. Layla
was
genuinely impressed but, at the moment, she couldn't help being annoyed with him too.

“Layla. I got every single person on the student council a carnation,” he tried to explain. “Even the boys.”

Layla didn't care about that part. The problem was Logan had gotten one for Vanessa, too.

“So what? Was I supposed to get one for everyone
except
her?”

“I don't know.”
Layla exhaled. Now she was annoyed at herself for even starting the conversation. “I'm sorry I brought it up, but I saw the carnation hanging in her locker, and now she, like . . . she has it forever, this romantic thing from you—”

“Layla, it's not
romantic
—”

“Okay, but
she
doesn't know that. She thinks it's special.”

“Lay, come on. Can we please just forget about Vanessa?”

“I'm trying.”

“All I can think about is you,” Logan said, which made Layla smile but also made her feel more petty and stupid, too.

Of course Layla
wanted
to forget about Vanessa and her shameless advances toward Logan, but that wasn't Layla's nature. She couldn't just pretend to be something she wasn't. But she
could
stop complaining to Logan about it. And she would. Starting now.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly. “I'm sorry.”

“Love means never having to say you're sorry.” Logan smiled.

“So, I'm
not
sorry?” Layla asked, laughing a little.

“No, I don't know . . . that's from a movie. My dad says it sometimes.”

“What movie?”

“I don't know, but it's older, and black-and-white maybe. He's always trying to rewatch it with my mom, but she says she doesn't like the movie as much as he does, and whenever he says the you-don't-have-to-say-sorry thing, my mom says it's the stupidest thing she's ever heard about love, so . . .”
Logan always talked just a
little
bit faster than normal when he got nervous.

“Love also means never having to ask
Did you get my text?
” Layla offered, hoping to ease Logan's nerves.

“Oh. Did you text me?”

“No. That's a quote I found online. Makes more sense now that I realize it's probably making fun of your movie.”

Logan smiled as he pulled a small red envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Layla.

It was the first clue.

My Layla
, the letter started. The words were written in blue pen in Logan's boyishly sloppy handwriting, and just those first two words were enough to make Layla's heart melt. She almost didn't want to read the rest. Right now everything was perfect: the card, the handwriting, the blue ink. She didn't want to ruin it. But, practically speaking, she also didn't want to stand in the parking lot forever, so she kept reading:
I want to start by saying that you are the absolute best. Pack an overnight bag—and I'll take care of the rest. Be ready tomorrow for a bright and early start. I love you with all of my big, silly heart. To the moon and back, always, Logan.

“I wish I were better at writing or rhyming,” Logan said.

“Nope. You're perfect. The card is perfect.”

“If you think
that
was perfect . . . ,” Logan said as his lips curled into a smile. His dimple was on full display, popping out of his cheek as he laid out the plan for their Valentine's Day. He explained that there would be thirteen more clues (for a grand
total of fourteen, obviously). The clues would take them all over the city. He'd made plans and reservations and had mapped out a whole schedule. “It's going to be the most ‘Layla day' that's ever existed,” Logan said, pulling her in for a big kiss. “Get excited.”

  *  *  *  

ZOE
had stopped making excuses to sneak into the tech booth during rehearsals.

When she and Austin first started hooking up, she would pretend that she needed some more spike tape. Or she needed to ask him a question about the spotlight. And then she'd make her way back to the booth, and they'd make out for a few minutes, or for many minutes, or for as long as they could go without getting paranoid that anyone was getting suspicious.

Other times Austin would be the one making up excuses, finding reasons to come visit Zoe backstage. He'd say he needed to adjust the focus on one of the lights, for example, and then walk back to the utility closet where the ladder was, and Zoe would meet him, and they'd make out there for a while.

Now they were both getting far bolder and cockier about their make-out sessions. They'd meet in the tech booth or backstage and make out, for longer and longer each time. And they didn't even really care if anybody noticed anymore, because it was simply too much fun. Today, Austin had pulled her behind the curtain, which was bunched up on the right side of the stage and provided the perfect hiding spot. Zoe wasn't sure how long they'd
been kissing during this particular make-out session, but she was pretty sure that in the past couple of weeks, she'd spent more time kissing Austin than she had kissing anyone else in her entire life
combined
.

To be fair, Zoe hadn't kissed all that many people before him, but still, this seemed like an achievement worth celebrating. She'd read somewhere that in order to be a master at something you had to do it for ten thousand hours. She wondered if it were possible to be a master of kissing (whether you kissed for that many hours or not). She wondered how many make-out sessions she and Austin would have to have before they'd even get close to that number.

Then, her thoughts returned to another familiar question . . .

“Am I sexy?” she asked between kisses.

“Do you really even have to ask?” Austin asked, pulling back for a moment. “I guess you do, since you just did, but
yes
. The answer is obviously yes. You are
so
sexy.
Beyond
sexy.”

He looked into Zoe's eyes, and she could see her image reflected in them, and she felt strangely and wonderfully beautiful. It was like she could feel his attraction to her pouring out of his pupils and into her soul. And she knew his feelings were strong, and real, and . . .
hard
.

Or.

He
was hard.

Zoe was almost embarrassed to admit, even just to herself, that she liked turning him on like that. She liked the fact that her kisses made him hard and that she could feel
him between her legs as they kept kissing . . . but it made her nervous, too—and also excited and scared and all that—but mostly it just made her want to kiss him more and touch him more, so that's exactly what she did.

  *  *  *  

LAYLA
's version of “getting excited” also meant being prepared.

As soon as Layla got home from school, she climbed onto her bed, opened her laptop, and read her entire Sex Doc from start to finish. Ultimately, all of the “oh my God I'm having sex tomorrow what do I need to know?” advice more or less boiled down to three key points: make sure you're ready, pick the right person, use protection.

Layla knew they were using a condom.
And
she was on the pill.

She knew she'd picked the right person.

And she knew she was ready . . .

But.

She was still nervous.

She wasn't nervous about having sex with
Logan
, but, if she were being entirely honest—with herself or the universe or whatever—the truth was that she
was
nervous about having sex in general.

Layla decided that maybe a little nervousness was actually a good thing.

It meant that it mattered.

Yes, tomorrow with Logan would be a big deal, a
very
big deal, even, but it would only be one time. The first time. And the whole point of having a first time in the first place
was that there would be many more times to come. Layla giggled at her thoughts and the thematically appropriate use of the word “come”—or “cum.”

There'd be more time for that, too.

She clicked on another article in the Sex Doc, called “How to Have Better Sex,” which provided tips like “talk dirty” and “undress slowly” and “use the reverse cowgirl position.”

Layla didn't know what the
regular
cowgirl position was, let alone the reverse version. A Google search revealed some pictures that quickly cleared up any confusion, but now all the preparedness was just stressing her out. Even though Layla had endless amounts of information, literally at her fingertips, there was still so much more that she wanted to know.

Like, about her actual fingertips, for example.

Where was she supposed to put them during sex?

And where was she supposed to put her
hands
for that matter? On Logan? On the bed? How would she know? How would she know what to do with
any
part of her body? Like her eyes, even. Should she look at Logan? At the ceiling? Would he be on top of her? She read in the Sex Doc that it generally felt more pleasurable for the woman to be on top, but that seemed rather ambitious for her first time. Emma said there probably wouldn't be time for more than one position, but Layla wanted to know how long it would last. Or at least how long it
should
last. She realized that the answers to those last two questions were probably not the same thing. And then what about everything else afterward?
Would she feel different? Or look different? Would there be any sort of aftertaste? Or whatever . . .

Layla felt silly for wanting to ask these questions, as she realized that they were all basically things you could only know by actually having sex with someone, which made the little hairs on the back of her neck stick straight up. She could feel her blood pressure rising and some sweat pooling on her forehead . . . She recognized this feeling. It was basically the one she'd get before a big test at school. She knew she was as ready as she possibly could be, and now the only thing left to do was take it already.

Or in this case, “do it” already.

Luckily, Layla didn't have to wait much longer.

Twenty-four hours and counting . . .

  *  *  *  

EMMA
watched the minutes slip into seconds as the game clock wound down.

59 seconds, 58 seconds . . .

Emma could feel a pit of nervous excitement growing in her stomach. She really wasn't a sports fan, but she'd spent the last 47 minutes and
46 seconds, 45 seconds
watching the boys varsity basketball game from the stands and getting swept up in the intensity of it all. The team's entire season was on the line: win and advance to the CIF semifinals or lose and go home.

The tension was real and palpable, and Emma could feel it all pulsing through her entire body as she sat in the stands next to Savannah, who was covering the game for the school newspaper. Emma was supposed to be snapping
pictures for the yearbook, but she kept forgetting to watch through the viewfinder, which was a rarity for Emma.

There'd already been more than a dozen lead changes in the game, and now, as the seconds fell off the clock, the Wolverines were still losing by one. Oliver controlled the ball, dribbling down the court. Beyond Alex's Oliver car pool stories, the general rumors that existed about him, and all the whispers in the hallway, Emma didn't actually know him very well. Regardless of what was true about Oliver, he was, without a doubt, the most impressive thing Emma had ever seen on a basketball court. To be fair, Emma hadn't actually seen all that many things on a basketball court, but still . . . even she knew he was special.

With
22 seconds . . . 21 seconds . . .
left on the clock, Oliver threw the ball off his defender's foot, causing the ball to go out of bounds and stopping the clock.

After the inbound play there would be time for only one more shot. Oliver would take it. He knew it. His teammates knew it. The other team knew it. Every fan in the stands knew it. And yet. When Oliver dribbled right and faked left and finally pulled up for a fadeaway jumper with no time left on the clock there was absolutely nothing anyone else could do . . .