I remembered the first time I’d seen his hands — strong, tan, gripping a baseball bat, definitely a force to be reckoned with. Since Mike’s bedroom overlooked the ritzy Scot’s Glen golf club, where kids from the other side of town — the wrong side of town — got their kicks by sneaking onto the course to chuck golf balls at the mansions. Totally adolescent, yes, but it’s not like there was much to entertain a trailer-park kid on the Cawdor side of the bridge. It was part of the fun that the rich kids kept arsenals by their back doors to chase off the vandalizing have- nots.
Sure, I’d had a few good times with exactly those wrong kinds of guys, always in and out of juvie, often with names like Junior Junior. My old friend Sarah Lutsky used to say nothing heated up a redneck romance like a run-in with the law. But right around the time I met Mike, I’d decided to turn over a new leaf.
It was September fifteenth, freshman year, and I had just transferred over to Palmetto. My mom had recently remarried,
It’s crazy to think about it now, but I’ll never forget how, when Mike came out of the house swinging his baseball bat, wearing only a pair of crisp khaki shorts, my first instinct was to run. Sarah’s take on getting caught had always been, “When the going gets rough, swim home.”
“Hey, wait,” Mike had called out, jogging after me. “Hang on, I thought you were. . someone else.”
I froze, standing by his pool in my brand-new golf polo and pleated white miniskirt — a gift from my new stepdad and the most expensive thing I’d ever owned. Right then I realized, for the first time in my life, that I had a right to be there. All I had to do was choose to own it.
Mike still didn’t know exactly how influential that first meeting was. He liked to think our little make-out session by his pool shack was what made me remember the day so fondly and insist upon celebrating its anniversary every month. But we’ve been going strong for more than three years now (way longer than my mom’s third marriage lasted). At this point, I figured, when it came to certain parts of my past, the whole “total naked honesty” thing only really needed to go so far.
As Mike went to town on my neck, I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into relaxation mode and let out a contented sigh.
“Hey, I know that sound,” Mike leaned into my ear to whisper. “You’re falling asleep. Don’t forget you’re not the only one in the world who needs a little after-school stress relief.”
My eyes shot open, and I sat up on the waterbed, causing it to jiggle.
“Do you mean you’re worried about Palmetto, too?” I said quickly. “I thought it was just me, but you must have seen all the posters today, too. Do you think we put enough up? Do you think we look better than everyone else?”
“Way to kill the mood,” Mike joked. He rubbed his hand down my side. “I just meant I could use some. . ahem. . general stress relief. . hint hint.”
“Oh,” I said, reaching over the edge of the bed for my bag to pop a piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth. “That.”
“Yeah,” he said. “
When I met Mike’s eyes, I realized how stupid I’d sounded. I didn’t even mean it. Being this close to his body always made me want to rip his clothes off. It wasn’t that I’d lost sight of that; I just had the Ball on my brain.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said, burying my face in his chest. “That’s not what I meant. You know I can’t get enough of you.” I started kissing my way down his stomach, which always left him paralyzed. I hovered right above his boxers to look him in the eye. “It’s only that I want the whole school to want you just as badly. . serving as their Prince.”
He moaned and stroked my head. “I’ll settle for
I ran my thumbs inside the waist of his boxers and clicked my tongue. “Uh-uh, that’s not enough. You know I want to celebrate our status. . with crowns.”
“Why?” he whispered. “What status? Who cares about anything besides you and me?” He tried to pull me up to him, and I could feel our bodies fitting into their natural groove. I had to will myself to pull away.
“
“Nat,” Mike sighed. He sat back up and combed his fingers through my hair. “I know you’ve been fantasizing about the two of us getting crowned at the Ball for, like, our entire relationship, but you do know there is life after Palmetto Court, right?”
Mike was smirking at me the way that he did when I started to get carried away. His deep-brown eyes got all crinkled up, and his dark wavy hair flopped over his forehead. I’d have to remind Binky, his housekeeper, that his hair was about three, no, more than four days away from needing a trim — though it looked pretty cute for now.
Still, cute wasn’t going to win us anything at this stage in our lives. Why was I the only one in the room who seemed to be aware of it? It was times like these when I realized Mike had no concept of what it meant to work for something. It was almost like, if he didn’t already own it, or couldn’t buy it with his charm, he had no use for it. Sometimes I wondered whether he was even capable of
Now he leaned in for a kiss, but I held him back, pushing on his chest with two fingers. He was inches away from my mouth.
“I will die if Justin Balmer walks away with your crown,” I said.
Mike sighed, collapsing back on the bed.
“I’m not getting into J.B. with you again,” he said. He stared up at the glow of the solar-system stickers we’d stuck on his ceiling back when we’d first gotten together, back when Palmetto Court dreams seemed as far away as the stars outside.
“I can’t believe how little you care about how much I care about this.” I banged my fist down on the bed, making more waves. Then I quickly shoved it into my other hand to keep myself still. “Have you even
Note: In case you’re reading this from another planet, the Jessamine is not just the South Carolina state flower; it’s also the longtime corsage of choice for Palmetto High School dances. Of course, somewhere along the line, the tacky southern flair for design infiltrated that tradition, and today’s Jessamine is like a nouveau riche distant cousin of its former self.
In the old days, guys just picked fistfuls of the golden wild-flower and pinned them to a brooch. But today’s Jessamine can only be ordered from the Duke of Jessamines, and all the flowers look like they’re on steroids. They’re silk, about the size of a Frisbee, and decorated with all the bells and whistles (and ribbons and stickers and photo buttons and school spirit emblems — and I swear I saw one last year that lit up and played music) that your date can afford.
Guys custom-order them weeks in advance, and girls sport their Jessamines to school on the day before the dance. It’s the only time of year you’ll see cheerleaders in overalls — the denim bib holds up the weight the best. Jessamine Day has gotten to be so huge that if you’re unlucky enough not to get asked to the Ball, you basically call in sick. It’s better to flake than to show up flowerless.
I know it sounds intense. The Duke of Jessamines even has to hire a team of seasonal employees to help him make the corsages this time every year. Which is how my mother got her current job — and her current benefactor. . I mean, boyfriend.
“Nat?” Mike brushed his thumb on my cheekbone, interrupting my thoughts. “I said I was going to order it tomorrow.”
“MIKE!” I jumped up in horror. Picking out the right Jessamine was the biggest, most public display of commitment a guy could make toward his girlfriend. “The dance is a week away! You know they run out of the best flowers.”
Mike wrapped his leg around me. He tried again for a kiss, but I sucked in and pursed my lips.
“Have I ever let you down?” he asked.
I crossed my arms, and I couldn’t decide whether I was fake-pouting or real-pouting. “Not yet,” I responded.
“I never will,” he said.
“I’ll believe that when you beat J.B. for Prince.”
