Last Stand Read online

  “We’ll figure something out.” Her eyes lock onto mine, but her hands stay right where they are. “Toby, it’s our anniversary. I—I think today should be the day. I’ve been thinking about it for months, and Toby, we’re ready for this. We are.”

  “So you really—?” I can’t say the words, but it’s plain from her face that she’s planning on way more than a hand job tonight. That in her mind, we’re picking up where we left off in the tent.

  It felt all out of whack then. It feels out of whack now. Surreal.

  “That’s a big step,” I say.

  She’s a virgin. Connor pushed her, but she never went all the way with him. I know because she gave me all the details back when I was just her friend, hoping I could give her, in her words, “the guy’s perspective.”

  Like I’d have the slightest insight into a mind like Connor Ralston’s. Just because I’m male doesn’t mean we’re the same species. But I wasn’t going to admit that to her.

  A blush creeps across her cheeks. “I, um, actually thought when you went for your backpack earlier, that you might have a condom in there. Maybe.”

  No.

  “But the necklace was okay,” she adds in a rush. “I just thought, after having virtually no time together this summer, and with it being our anniversary, it’d be perfect. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Your parents are upstairs.”

  She laughs. “You know they won’t check on us for awhile. Their favorite show’s on, and there’s no way they’re leaving to check on us. We’re focusing on homework, remember?”

  What I remember that I’m supposed to be doing my homework instead of my girlfriend.

  I reach up with one hand to push her hair back, looping a long strand behind her ear. Man, she looks cute like that, with her hair hanging down on one side of her face and tucked back on the other.

  “I really want to, Toby. I think it’s time to take our relationship to the next level, don’t you?”

  I know I should make an excuse, like I did in the tent. Say that the timing’s not good since it’s nearly nine p.m. on a Tuesday and I have to get home. Point out that I do not have a condom, not in my wallet or backpack or even at home in my nightstand.

  Tell her I think she’s too special to lose her virginity on a basement sofa.

  A dozen gentle let-downs run through my head, but what do I say? “No.”

  Chapter Three

  As soon as the word leaves my mouth, I know I’m screwed, and not in the way Amber originally intended.

  Her eyes widen for a moment, like she’s not sure whether I’m kidding around, then fill with tears as she realizes I mean it.

  “I don’t believe this,” I think she says. It’s more to herself than to me, so I’m not sure. She shoves at my shoulder, unable to get off me fast enough.

  I sit up, grabbing her hand to stop her from leaving the sofa. “It’s not that I don’t want to keep going, Amber. I mean, this is fantastic. I just didn’t think tonight…” I swear, I must be insane. “I’m not ready.”

  She glances at my shorts. “All evidence to the contrary. Unless you mean you’re not in love with me enough yet.”

  I scoot so one of the pillows from the back of the sofa gives me some cover. “It’s not that, either. Definitely not that.”

  I can’t imagine being as into someone as I’m into Amber. Who else in the world would tell her friends that it’s cute when I describe the hand-to-hand combat that occurred during the sea battle marking the final defeat of Blackbeard? Who else would appreciate how much I want to be first chair sax? And I can’t imagine anyone else calling me at exactly midnight on February 28th to wish me a happy birthday, telling me she’s thought of me on this date since she first saw my Leap Day birthday posted on the hall calendar outside my kindergarten classroom and thought it was cool.

  I cup her face in my hands, forcing her to look at me, to see how serious I am. “Amber, I love you. I hope you know that.” It’s not like I haven’t told her before.

  “Is it…is it a protection issue, then?” she asks.

  “I don’t have any.” I can tell from her lift in her expression that she’s about to tell me she does, but I don’t want the discussion to go down that particular road. I let my hands drop into my lap. “But that’s not it, either.”

  “A religious thing? I mean, I completely understand if that’s it.” She gives me a lopsided grin. “It didn’t stop Keira from doing it, obviously, but she did tell me she doesn’t believe in abortion, that it’s part of her Catholic upbringing.”

  “You talked to Keira about us?” Who asks a guy’s sister about this kind of thing?

  “No! I stopped in for coffee on my way to work last week and she mentioned that Stewie loves his new daycare. So I asked if it was hard for her sometimes with a baby, or if she ever worried about how she’d handle it all when she first found out she was pregnant. And she told me not handling it wasn’t an option; she knew that she could never have an abortion as a good Catholic—those were her exact words—and said she knew she’d have to find a way to make it work. That’s all.”

  “Oh. For a minute there, I was wondering—”

  “No way! I would not talk to your sister about sex! Geez.” She smiles when she says it, but quickly gets serious again. “I just figured that if Keira feels strongly enough about being Catholic that she never considered abortion, I dunno. But if sex before marriage is out of the question for you, I assume it’s something you’d have told me by now. Is—is that how you feel?”

  There’s a look in her eyes I know cold. It’s the look that tells me to tell her what she wants to hear, which in this case is along the lines of how I want her bod in the worst way, that I’m tempted beyond words but am worried about going against a deeply ingrained religious principle.

  It’s the perfect out. If I take it, though, will she think I never want to have sex with her? Because I just don’t know. Simply having that thought in my head—sex with Amber DeWitt—is enough to blur my vision. And even though it’s true that I’m Catholic—my parents definitely get me to mass every Sunday and I pay attention for the most part—I’m not against sex before marriage. So it’d be a lie.

  And I can’t lie to Amber about who I am and what I believe.

  “Amber, it’s not any of that. I’m just not ready.” I try to think of the best way to explain this to her. I want to say, “It’s not you, it’s me,” but it sounds so clichéd, she’ll think I’m hiding something else. Finally, I go with, “Look, we’ve been apart for most of the summer. Let’s try to ease—”

  “Geez, Toby. Just say it. It’s because of me. You’re just not that into me.” There’s a finality to her words, one that scares me.

  “No, that’s nuts! If anything, it’s the opposite. You’re—”

  She focuses on me, and the hurt in her eyes makes my chest feel like it’s being physically crushed. “Just stop, Toby. I know better. Back in June, at Sophomore Blast, we had the whole night together up by the reservoir. There was nothing to stop us; no one would have noticed if you stayed in my tent all night. Meghan knew we were in there, so she planned to crash with Christy Daggett or Joely Wiedermeier. And the chaperones were focused on the kids they thought would sneak in alcohol. We were completely under their radar.”

  Amber’s voice gets higher the longer she talks, her tone going from one of mild upset to full-on rage. I’m afraid Mrs. DeWitt’s going to hear us and come downstairs, so I try to quiet Amber down by putting a hand on her knee. The gesture only gets her more riled.

  “You said you thought it’d be better to wait, to make the night special. To wait until there was no chance Griff would walk in on us to grab you for flag football or whatever. And I believed you. I thought it was just a timing thing. Well, Toby, no one else is around tonight, and what the hell’s more special than our anniversary? Than celebrating the fact that I’m done with Friendly’s and we’ve made it to junior year, and the fact that we love each other? Or don’t we, real
ly?”

  “Are you kidding me? Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” I can’t believe this. How’d we go from making out to fighting so fast?

  “It’s all words, Toby.”

  “You’re out of frickin’ control, Amber.” Anger bubbles up inside me. I know her feelings are hurt, that she’s probably lashing out because she’s feeling rejected. But my feelings are hurt, too. Does she think I’m stringing her along? Or that I’m like Connor, who—at least in my opinion—didn’t respect her enough? “Look, Amber, I told you I loved you. You can believe it or not.”

  “Then why? It’s not like half our friends aren’t doing it. And they aren’t in relationships nearly as tight as ours.” When I don’t respond immediately, she adds, “And it’s not like we’d be stupid like Keira and not use protection.”

  How she knows that is beyond me, since I never asked Keira if she and Pete skipped protection, a condom broke, or what. I figured it wasn’t my business. But maybe Amber’s just tossing it out, trying to convince me.

  Or maybe she’s bringing my sister into this—and referring to Keira as stupid—to try and get me to lash out the way she is. It seems like she wants to fight. In the most calm voice I can muster, I ask, “Since when did anyone else’s relationship become our yardstick?”

  She arches an eyebrow. It’s the same thing I’ve seen her do when she argues with Meghan and knows she’s in the right.

  Screw this.

  I run a hand through my hair. It’s still wet. I practically sprinted here when I got out of the shower so I could give her the time she wanted, and it’s pissing me off that I knocked myself out just so she could pick a fight.

  If I stay any longer, I’m afraid she’s going to get one. And that’s not me.

  I let out a deep breath, hoping I sound less angry than I feel. “Look, we’re arguing and we don’t need to be. With all your work hours and the stress of being apart all summer, maybe we’ve put too much importance on school starting and on the anniversary. You think?”

  She stares at me for a few long seconds. I have no idea what she’s thinking, so I make an effort to keep a positive expression on my face.

  “Maybe you should go home and we can take a break for a day or two,” she finally says.

  “If that’s what you want, sure,” I tell her. I don’t really want to, but maybe it’s better if we talk later, when we’ve both had a little while to settle down.

  She stands up, then gathers her books and stacks them on the coffee table.

  I take the hint and pick up my Trig papers, shoving them into my backpack. I sling it over my shoulder, then look at her. I move to kiss her goodbye, to ask her if she’s okay and tell her again how much I love her, but her arms are crossed over her chest and it’s clear that—in her mind—our day or two break is starting now.

  “See you in band?” Tryouts are tomorrow during class, so we’ll know if the practice time this summer paid off and we each get picked to be first chair in our sections.

  She nods, but more to the coffee table than to me.

  “I’ll be cheering for you,” I tell her, then take the stairs in twos. Things will look better in the morning, after she’s through her tryout. I’m sure of it.

  • • •

  Now that eight flute players—going on nine—are through their Grieg solos, I’ve gone from nervous to downright sick. The clarinets are set to play next.

  Amber isn’t as serious about school as I am, which is a good thing. My friends tell me my kind of insanity is certifiable. Still, she’s never late for class.

  Steve Rickett, who’s sitting behind me, pokes me in the back with his trombone. “Your girlfriend sick or something?”

  I shrug, keeping my eyes forward. I can’t help but fixate on the empty chair in the clarinet section. Wonder if Mr. Beels, the band director, will let her audition later? Or will he just stick her in some pre-ordained spot in the pecking order?

  I hope this isn’t because of last night.

  “She’s here.” Another trombone player replies in a too-loud whisper. “Saw her talking in the hall with…uh, with somebody.”

  “She’s screwed if Beels saw her,” Steve hisses back.

  I shoot a look over my shoulder while Mr. Beels is focused on one of the flute players. “Shhh.”

  “Mr. Maitland, is there a problem?”

  Shit. I turn to look at the band director. The overhead fluorescents make it easy to see right through his thinning black hair to his scalp. “No, just thought I dropped something.”

  “Your classmates would appreciate quiet while they’re auditioning. I’m sure you’ll appreciate their patience while you take your turn?” His voice goes up on the end of the statement, meaning he expects a response with an appropriate level of contrition.

  At that moment, Amber eases in the door behind Beels. Her face is pink, but not from embarrassment. Some kind of drama’s been happening in the hall.

  She slides into the row of clarinet players, taking the empty seat. The girl next to her, Annabelle Gatskowsky, hands Amber her clarinet, which she’d apparently put together and tucked on the side of her chair.

  So she’d known Amber would be late. What the hell is going on?

  “Mr. Maitland?”

  I realize Beels is still focused on me. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I answer, hoping it’s heartfelt enough for him without making me look like a total kiss-up to everyone else. “It won’t happen again.”

  He returns his attention to the final flute player, then notices that Amber’s arrived. “Miss DeWitt. Kind of you to join us. Please remain for a moment after class.”

  She tells him it’s no problem, as if she has a perfectly legit explanation, but I know better. The minute his back is turned, she gets the same edgy, wiped-out look she used to have whenever too many customers were vying for her attention at work, or when she and Connor were on the verge of a nasty argument.

  Which means her tardiness probably is about last night.

  We’ve had fights before, but never over how-far-will-we-go. It’s usually over silly stuff like whether I said “blue” or “two” in answer to a pie-piece question in Trivial Pursuit. The worst was when I forgot to bring coffee to a football game for her like I’d promised and she’d been craving it for nearly an hour.

  But never the kind of fight to put that look on her face.

  Beels moves to the clarinets and asks Amber to go first. She smiles like she doesn’t have a care in the world, then plays the first few notes of her solo. Everything’s technically correct, but the rich tone and energy she normally has when she plays is missing. The lack of warm-up is hurting her, and it doesn’t help my guilty conscience when Steve hits me in the back with his trombone again and whispers, “She’s off.”

  Ten seconds in and Amber finally hits it, the wonderful sound that only she can get a clarinet to produce. She sails through the rest of the piece and even Beels can’t hide his pleasure at her performance.

  “Well done, Amber.” He makes a few notes on his clipboard, then nods at the next person in the row, who promptly begins the same piece. It’s clean, but not the same.

  No one’s the same.

  “Playin’ for second,” someone down the row whispers. I catch Amber looking at me. I start to give her a thumbs up, letting her know she nailed it and trying to communicate that I’m sorry if her rocky start was my fault. But she turns to watch the other clarinet players as if she never even noticed me.

  That’s when I see she’s not wearing the necklace.

  • • •

  As everyone bolts for lunch, I scan the clumps of people jamming up the hallway. I’ve been waiting at my locker a solid five minutes, and it’s slowly dawning on me as the hall gets emptier that Amber’s taking our break seriously.

  The locker next to mine opens with a clang. “Everything okay, Toby?”

  “Sure. Why?” I fake a smile and watch as Ginger Grass empties the contents of her backpack into her locker.


  She shrugs, but her casual attitude is as fake as my smile.

  I give up on Amber and ask Ginger what she’s doing for lunch. We haven’t had lunch together in a long time, I realize. Maybe freshman year, even, when were lab partners in Earth Science.

  “I was going to be subversive and eat in the library while I write up my Chemistry report.”

  This is why I’ve always liked Ginger. Well, that and the fact she doesn’t take crap from anyone about her name. What illegal substance her parents were on when they named her is anyone’s guess. If my last name were Grass, I sure wouldn’t name my kid anything plant- or herb-like.

  “Want company?” I ask.