I wasn’t afraid. He had never tried anything with me before, never taken me by surprise; if anything, I wondered if he would ever try to touch me beyond holding hands and kisses. I took a full breath of rancid air from his sofa, utterly baffled, waiting to see what he’d do next.
“That’s a wrestling move,” he told me, as I sat up. “I just pinned you.”
He was a varsity wrestler, and a pretty good one. I’d tried to watch a meet once but had been too embarrassed by the sight of him in his singlet and padded-ear helmet. I hadn’t even told him I’d been in the stands.
“Cool,” I said. I smoothed down my shirt.
“There’s pretty much nothing you can do to get out of that,” he said. “That one’s a killer.”
“I can imagine.”
“I can show you others,” he said.
“That’s okay.”
He nodded. Poor guy, he was more frightened by Shyla and the promise of her shiny bra than I was. All the kissing? It wasn’t prelude—it was, quite simply, where he was. It would have been hell for him not to be boning and scrumping all over the place. He was a sixth former and an athlete. I knew what other guys would expect of him. My chest was tingling from where he’d held me with his forearm. My breasts were untouched. He smiled, and his top teeth stuck out.
“Okay,” I said. “Show me another good move.”
He hopped to his feet. “Come on!” He helped me up, hand wrapped around my wrist, and stood me in front of him, showing me how to widen my stance, how to get moving and stay light. We grappled. His arms were alarmingly strong, but his focus, which was not on me, left me puzzled. It took me a long moment of watching him hop around, arms ready, to recognize this feeling I had, a deeply familiar mix of tenderness and condescension, for what it was: sisterly. Shep might have been my little brother. We might have been at home roughhousing, ages ten and five.
We were dancing around the little space between his bed and his sofa. I waited for him to make his move.
“I kept your note, though,” he told me, grinning, and then he gently threw me to the ground.
That April, Shep was admitted to Cornell. Tennis season had started. I was going to sign up for the housing lottery with the Kittredge girls so we could all live together as fifth formers. Shep would be off to college, where he could start over again as the fully fledged heir come into his own instead of the scrawny boy with the rabbit grin and the cooler, bigger friends. We were united in our potential, but our ambitions depended on one day getting away from each other.
But we kept dating for another few weeks. Why not? To leave the common room after Seated Meal and see someone attractive waiting for you? To walk with that person down the long chilly hall and out into the spring night? Why quibble about things like love or a fetish for wrestling throws?
On his way out of St. Paul’s, Shep was helpful to me in decoding the place—I had the sense he was preparing himself to leave by parceling out his experience for my naive ears. One night, walking back to my room, we worked through the problem of the tennis team. I’d been frustrated by my inability to advance. Spots on the varsity and junior varsity squads were managed via a ladder, with players ranked 1 through 14, the top six forming the varsity singles team. Every week, during Thursday practice, we’d play a challenge match against the teammate one rung above or one rung below us. This was to ensure that our ladder was as accurate as possible, and to keep us in fighting form. I had beaten every girl on the bottom half of the ladder, and then I’d beaten the fifth former in seat No. 7, earning me her place and a shot at varsity. But the coach would not let me challenge the girl at No. 6. Every week I again played the girl I’d already beaten. She was given the chance to unseat me, but I could not advance.
When I asked, the coach explained that as a fourth former I had plenty of time to shine, and that I ought to focus on my game and let her worry about the rankings. This stung. Winning made me uncomfortable, just as the Ferguson nomination had made me feel painfully visible. Was I behaving inappropriately by wanting to challenge up, being ungracious or arrogant? I knew I was a stronger player than at least a few of those girls above me. Was it wrong to want to prove it?
“Oh, good Lord,” said Shep, his arm around my waist. I felt through my leather flats how the earth was soft now. Even the shadowed edges of the ponds were iceless. The buddies had ditched their Levi’s cords for cargo shorts, and my urban friends, whom I didn’t see much of anymore, had debuted in class a series of miniskirts that made our tennis skirts look like kilts.
“What?” I asked.
“Just think about it. Think who’s number six.”
“Fiona?” A fifth former who was unfailingly friendly and kind.
“Precisely.”
“She’s a sweetheart.”
“Of course she is.”
“So I’m not allowed to beat her?”
Shep was smiling. “Not as long as you’re playing on those courts, you’re not.”
I pictured our shiny indoor courts. The facility had not been open long and still smelled of
