Page 14 of Catcher's Lock

I don’t even taste the tequila going down, only the burn that travels all the way to my toes and has nothing to do with the alcohol. I shove a lime wedge between my teeth before anyone else can offer, coughing weakly while Gem pounds on my back and everyone hoots in delight.

“We should probably switch to beer.” Penny’s voice is slightlywavery, but I can’t tell if it’s from the tequila or the subtle rejection.

I drink two beers and then take one more shot and watch Gem and Penny fall over each other, dancing on the back deck.

Hannah collects us a little after one in the morning and shoves us both into the back seat with a warning not to puke in her car.

“Gem already puked in the bushes,” I inform her.

“Traitor,” he huffs, slumping into the seat and laying his head on my shoulder. “It was fun though, right?”

“It was fun.”

I drift all the way home, with soft curls tickling my jaw and the taste of salt on my tongue.

“When are you finally gonna hook up with Penny, anyway?”

We’re at Jughandle Beach a few weeks later, straddling our surfboards out past the breakers while we wait for a decent set. The sky is low and ominous, but the rainy season hasn’t started yet. In another month, it will be getting dark by the time school lets out, and we’ll be back to begging for rides on the weekends.

So far, high school with Gem has fallen painfully short of my fantasies, and I definitely haven’t told him I think he’s beautiful. Plenty of girls have, though, pressing their boobs against his arm and smiling up through painted lashes.

I’d never had a problem with the girls in my class before. Most of them are pretty cool. The school is too small, and we’ve all known each other for too long to have mean girls or elitist cliques or even cheerleaders. And it’s not their fault they’re growing into bodies the other guys—Gem—want tolook at. It’s not his fault he’s the shiny new toy everyone wants to play with.

It’s stupid to be jealous.

No one minds that he drags me along wherever he’s invited. I’m too introverted to be popular, but people like me because I don’t make trouble and I’m nice to everyone. The perfect guy to have in a group project. The one who collects the trash from our tables and makes sure we leave a tip in the jar at the bakery after lunch.

So I tag along, and I sit in algebra and history and morning circle, watching him charm our peers with his antics and annoy the teachers with his inability to sit still for longer than five seconds.

And I learn to share.

Even now, there are three of our classmates chasing each other around the beach with a frisbee, waiting for us to get bored of the crappy surf and retreat to the driftwood fire burning at the base of the cliffs.

At least on the ocean, it’s just us.

Until he has to go and ruin it by asking stupid questions about Penny.

“Probably never,” I admit.

“Why not? She’s totally into you. You like her. It’s fun.”

Fun for him, maybe, dragging a new girl into the corner every week.

“I wouldn’t know where to start. Kissing, I mean.” It’s a lame excuse, because at fifteen, my lack of experience should make me more eager, not less, but he doesn’t call me out on it. We sit in silence for a while, stirring lazy circles in the swells with our feet until his board bumps against mine and our knees brush. In his sleek, tight wetsuit, he’s like a storybook selkie ready to slip his skin and drag young men to their doom.

“How do you do it?” I ask, because now that I’ve broughtit up, my brain won’t stop fixating on what it would be like to kiss a boy—nothim, because I’m not totally delusional—but someone, someday. “How do you tell if they want to be kissed?”

“When they throw their arms around your neck or crawl into your lap, it’s usually a pretty good sign.” He smirks at me sideways, and I shove at his shoulder. When his board stops threatening to dump him into the surf, he continues. “You can always ask. Consent is sexy, and girls are into that shit these days.”

I try to imagine asking any of the guys at school—even Cameron Hardy, who’s been out since sixth grade—if I can kiss them, and shake my head. “Too embarrassing.”

“Then give them thelook, and if they give it back, you lean in and go for it.”

The look. I know the one he’s talking about. I’ve watched him turn it on a dozen girls and a few women in the year and a half we’ve been friends.

“Yeah, the look. You bat your soulful Rocket eyes at them and pout a little.” The full force of his charisma hits me in the chest when he demonstrates. A tiny gasp escapes me as my gaze drops to his mouth before I can help it.

“You got it.” His voice is miles and inches away. “Then like this.” And he closes the gap between us.