"It may have been four years, Kyle, but that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how you operate."

I snatched her hand as she reached to open the door to the studio. I wasn’t ready to end this moment alone with her. "You don’t think I’ve learned a few things since then?"

She smirked and shook her head. "New tricks. Same dog."

It was impossible not to take her words as a challenge. I pushed her back until she was pinned against the door and leaned in close enough that our breaths mingled. Her eyes snapped wide the same way they always had whenever I’d invaded her personal space, and I watched, satisfied, as she sucked in a lung full of air and held it.

"That mentality will be your downfall this time around, Val." I leaned in, letting my lips linger at her jawline for a moment too long before bringing them to her ear. "Same old tricks," I whispered. "New man."

With that, I kissed her cheek and breezed past her into the studio, leaving her flustered and in need of another moment to collect herself all over again.

"This, I think, is what chemistry will do for you. Because Emily and I have mad chemistry. When Im with her, I am no longer Ryan Mills, a nice, but ordinary guy who will always live in his fathers shadow. With Emily, I am the great lover, Don Juan de Marco. I am Superman. I am Sir Lancelot, Knight of the Round Table."

“Why are the only happy endings the ones where the couples get together?” I ask. “Can’t they just be friends? Can’t that be a happy ending too?”

“I have never really understood why people call it falling in love but now, tonight, I do. Because when I drop Garrett off and watch her wave goodbye, I feel like I am furiously out of control and falling fast. But also I feel like I’m flying, like there is wind and air beneath me. I don’t think you can fall and fly at the same time, though; I don’t understand how it would work. It seems that eventually one will win out over the other, and I’m pretty sure it’s much easier to crash than it is to soar.”

“Touch was funny like that. How one movement could choke you and kill you, but another meant nothing more than a caress and an invitation. How sex and rape were just a few motions apart.”

“So let me get this straight.”... “He threw the note at Tommy and then told him to fuck off? Or do I have it backwards?”
“I’m detecting some sarcasm.”
“And then got himself sent the principal’s office because he was ready to defend your honor?”
“Quinn.”
“Her friend waved a hand. “No, I think you might be on to something. This is clearly an elaborate plot to screw with you. He asks you out, he defends you from that meathead—what next?” Quinn’s eyes flashed wide in mock surprise. “Crap, Bex, do you think he will do something truly horrible like buy you flowers?”

“You're probably thinking I owe you my life."
"No." she snapped.
"Just sixty bucks."
"You charge for the hero act?"

"Wesley Rush doesn’t chase girls, but I’m chasing you"

“Interesting. Is this how you greet all the boys you like?”
“I don’t like you.”
“Does that mean you love me, then?”
I hated the smooth, confident way he spoke. A lot of girls thought it was sexy, but it was really just stalker-ish. Everything about him screamed date rape! to me. Ugh.
“It means that I hate you,” I snapped. “And if you don’t stay the fuck away from me, I’ll report you for sexual harassment.”
“Might be a hard case,” Wesley mused. He swiped the pencil from me and began twirling it between his fingers. “Especially considering you’re the one who kissed me. Technically, I could report you for harassment.”

“Wait, Dylan, we need to slow down.”
“Why?”
“I’m trying to last.”
She leans her damp cheek against mine and her hot breath is in my ear. “Think about the ugliest male teacher you’ve ever had,” she tells me, and then she licks my ear.
I laugh. Okay, brilliant idea. Ugly teachers . . . that’s easy. Mr. Frederickson. Fifth grade. Ugh. It is not possible to have a beer gut that big and still be able to stand up straight. His three alternating polo shirts always had grease stains. Everywhere. And who can forget the pit stains? And his breath? Lethal. It could be used to torture terror suspects. I didn’t raise my hand once that entire year in fear he’d come over and blast me with breath so bad it was probably flammable.
This is good. This is working.
Eighth grade. Mrs. Kelly, English teacher. She never wore a bra and she was always nipping out.
Uh, I’m getting close.
No! Make a list. Any list. List places to take Dylan before she leaves. Hiking. Hiking is good. But it’s so hot. Too hot.
“I’m close,” I breathe.
Hiking. We’re hiking. Where, where the hell are we hiking?
“Hiking,” I moan.
“What?”
“Nothing!”

Dylan walks me around the living room and introduces me to plants she named: Ivo, Ivy, Ivan, and Yvette. She points out her red backpack on the floor is Ruby.
“You have a naming fetish,” I inform her.
She tells me she names everything. Even her freckles. She turns her arm over and introduces me to two freckles close to each other on her forearm, Blake and Stacey. She claims they got in a fight with a third freckle, Meredith, farther up her arm near her elbow. I don’t encourage the conversation any further.

I played the leaning game tonight. It’s this stupid theory I’ve heard, that if she leans her legs or shoulders or head toward you, it’s body language saying she likes you. But this girl doesn’t sit still long enough to confirm anything other than she’s hyper.

She’s not my type. She’s bizarre and awkward and she dresses like one of the bums on Mill Ave. But, that’s the problem. She isn’t awkward at all. She’s a tomboy. And she dresses normal. She doesn’t expose every piece of flesh to the world. And she isn’t weird. She just doesn’t go out of her way to impress people, which is impressive. And admit it: she’s sexy.

“Looks like her car could use a face-lift,” he says.
“That’s my beast. His name’s Pickle.”
He wrinkles his eyebrows at the orange car.
“I see the resemblance,” he says

“I think you should know right away that I have a rare medical condition,” I confess.
He doesn’t look at all surprised to hear this. He watches me closely and waits.
“I suffer from freak creative outbursts,” I say, which is true, and his mouth starts to twitch.
“That’s what you call lying?”
“No,” I refute. “Lying is manipulation. I prefer to call what I did ‘improvisation in times of desperation.’”

He moved his attention to the dance floor. “I actually need your help. You see, your friends are hot. And you, darling, are the Duff.”
“Is that even a word?”
“Designated. Ugly. Fat. Friend,” he clarified. “No offense, but that would be you.”
“I am not the—!”
“Hey, don’t get defensive. It’s not like you’re an ogre or anything, but in comparison…”

Closing my eyes, I think of my steamy spine-tingling kiss with Adam. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. No… Think isn’t the right word. Will is correct. I will never forget the kiss with Adam in the middle of the North Place Mall. His kisses are like the bite from a poisonous snake. Sitting in the car, I can feel the venom spreading. I can feel it writhing in my veins. I’m so elated that I don’t care if the venom kills me.

“Take me home,” I demand. “This tour is over.” Something about the way Adam said he wanted to ‘get to know me’ doesn’t feel right. A bout of nausea waves over me. I need to get away from him. I need to get out of this car.

A hysterical laugh vibrates in Adam’s throat. “I’m driving. This tour is over when I say it’s over.”

“I’d rather be dead than be in this car with you.”

“That can be arranged,” he says icily.

The urges started when Adam Jacobs was ten years old. He sat on the toilet, observing as his father stood in front of the bathroom mirror, eliminating line after line of thick, white shaving cream. It reminded him of the homemade frosting his mother spread across a batch of freshly baked cupcakes.

His father brought the razor down and cleaned it off in a pool of water that rested in the sink. “You see, son,” he said as he elongated his neck, bringing the razor back to it, “this is what you’ll have to do when you become a man.” Adam’s eyes followed the razor—the sound of scraping flesh throbbed in his ears. He closed his eyes as the scraping continued. One line. Two. Three. Then….

“Ouch!” his father yelped.

Adam opened his eyes. They widened as droplets of blood oozed down his father’s neck. Adam’s insides swirled at the sight of it. His veins pulsated. He wanted to rub the blood between his fingers.

He shot off the toilet and rushed to his father’s side. The blood called to him. He dipped his fingertip in a crimson drop glistening on the counter, but his father slapped his hand away. That was when Adam’s heart sank. The initial sight of the blood caused him more joy that anything he’d ever experienced.

“What would you do if the one person you want comfort from is the one who cause you pain? How can you want to desperately for him to wrap me up in his arms but also want so much for him to leave me alone?”