THIS IS THE LAST TIME
we�ll walk up this staircase together, Peter taking the stairs two at a time, me nipping at his heels, huffing and puffing to keep up. It�s the last day of school for seniors, the last day of my high school career.
When we reach the top of the staircase, I say, �I feel like taking the stairs two at a time is just bragging. Have you ever noticed that only boys ever take stairs two at a time?�
�Girls probably would if they were as tall.�
�Margot�s friend Chelsea is five eleven, and I don�t think she does it.�
�So what are you saying�boys brag more?�
�Probably. Don�t you think?�
�Probably,� he admits.
The bell rings, and people start heading for class.
�Should we just skip first period? Go get pancakes?� He raises his eyebrows at me enticingly, pulling me toward him by the dangling straps of my book bag. �Come on, you know you want to.�
�No way. It�s the last day of school. I want to say good-bye to Mr. Lopez.�
Peter groans. �Goody-goody.�
�You knew who I was when you started dating me,� I tell him.
�True,� he says.
Before we go our separate ways, I hold out my hands and wait expectantly. Peter gives me a curious look. �My yearbook!�
�Oh shit! I forgot it again.�
�Peter! It�s the last day of school! I only got half the signatures I wanted!�
�I�m sorry,� he says, rubbing his hand through his hair and making it go all messy. �Do you want me to go back home and get it? I can go right now.� He looks genuinely sorry, but I�m still annoyed.
When I don�t say anything right away, Peter starts to head back toward the stairs, but I stop him. �No, don�t. It�s fine. I�ll just pass it around at graduation.�
�Are you sure?� he asks.
�Sure,� I say. We�re not even here the full school day; I don�t want him to have to run back home just for my yearbook.
Classes are pretty lax; we mostly just walk around saying good-bye to teachers, the office staff, the cafeteria ladies, the school nurse. A lot of them we�ll see at graduation, but not everyone. I pass around cookies that I baked last night. We get our final grades�all good, so no worries there.
It takes me forever to clean out my locker. I find random notes I saved from Peter, which I promptly put in my bag so I can add them to his scrapbook. An old granola bar. Dusty black hair ties, which is ironic because you can never seem to find a hair tie when you need one.
�I�m sad to throw any of this stuff away, even this old granola bar,� I say to Lucas, who is sitting on the floor keeping me company. �I�ve seen it there at the bottom of my locker every day. It�s like an old pal. Should we split it, to commemorate this day?�
�Sick,� Lucas says. �It�s probably got mold.� Matter-of-factly he says, �After graduation I probably won�t see any of these people again.�
I throw him a hurt look. �Hey! What about me?�
�Not you. You�re coming to visit me in New York.�
�Ooh! Yes, please.�
�Sarah Lawrence is so close to the city. I�ll be able to go to Broadway shows whenever I want. There�s an app for same-day student tickets.� He gets a faraway look in his eyes.
�You�re so lucky,� I say.
�I�ll take you. We�ll go to a gay bar, too. It�ll be amazing.�
�Thank you!�
�But everybody else I can take or leave.�
�We still have Beach Week,� I remind him, and he nods.
�For the rest of our lives, we�ll always have Beach Week,� he says mockingly, and I throw a hair tie at him.
Lucas can mock me for being nostalgic all he wants. I know these days are special. High school
will
be a time we remember the whole rest of our lives.
* * *
After school, Peter and I go to his house because mine is a disaster zone with wedding stuff, and Peter�s mom has her book club after work, and Owen has soccer, so we have the
house all to ourselves. It seems the only place we�re ever truly alone is in his car, so moments like these are rare and of note. My last drive home from high school, and Peter K. is the one who�s driving me. It�s fitting, to end high school the way I spent it�riding in the passenger seat of Peter�s car.
When we go up to his room, I sit down on his bed, which is neatly made, with the comforter pulled in tight; the pillows look fluffed, even. It�s a new comforter, probably for college�a cheery red and cream and navy tartan that I�m sure his mom picked out. �Your mom makes your bed, doesn�t she?� I ask him, leaning back against the pillows.
�Yes,� he says, without an ounce of shame. He flops onto the bed, and I scoot over to make room for him.
Late afternoon light filters in through his pale curtains, and it casts the room in a dreamy kind of filter. If I were going to name it, I would call it �summer in the suburbs.� Peter looks beautiful in this light. He looks beautiful in any light, but especially this one. I take a picture of him in my mind, just like this. Any annoyance I felt over him forgetting my yearbook melts away when he snuggles closer to me, rests his head on my chest, and says, �I can feel your heart beating.�
I start playing with his hair, which I know he likes. It�s so soft for a boy. I love the smell of his detergent, his soap, everything.
He looks up at me and traces the bow of my lip. �I like this part the best,� he says. Then he moves up and brushes his lips against mine, teasing me. He bites on my bottom lip
playfully. I like all his different kinds of kisses, but maybe this kind best. Then he�s kissing me with urgency, like he is utterly consumed, his hands in my hair, and I think, no, these are the best.
Between kisses he asks me, �How come you only ever want to hook up when we�re at my house?�
�I�I don�t know. I guess I never thought about it before.� It�s true we only ever make out at Peter�s house. It feels weird to be romantic in the same bed I�ve slept in since I was a little girl. But when I�m in Peter�s bed, or in his car, I forget all about that and I�m just lost in the moment.
We�re at it kissing again�Peter�s shirt is off; mine is still on�when the phone rings downstairs, and Peter says it�s probably the repairman calling about when he�s coming to fix the pipes. He puts on his shirt and runs downstairs to answer it, and that�s when I spot my yearbook on his desk.
I get out of bed and pick it up and flip to the back. It�s still empty. When Peter comes back upstairs, I�m sitting on his bed again and I don�t mention my yearbook, I don�t ask why he still hasn�t written in it. I�m not sure why. I tell him I�d better get going, because Margot�s coming home from Scotland tonight, and I want to stock the fridge with all her favorite foods.
Peter�s face falls. �You don�t want to hang out a little longer? I can take you to the store.�
�I still have to clean up the upstairs, too,� I say, standing up.
He tugs on my shirt and tries to pull me back onto the bed. �Come on, five more minutes.�
I lie back down next to him and he cuddles in close, but I�m still thinking about the yearbook. I�ve been working on his scrapbook for months; the least he can do is write me a nice yearbook message.
�This is good practice for college,� he murmurs, pulling me toward him, wrapping his arms around me. �The beds are small at
UVA
. How big are the beds at
UNC
?�
My back to him, I say, �I don�t know. I didn�t get to see the dorms.�
He tucks his head in the space between my neck and shoulder. �That was a trick question,� he says, and I can feel him smile against my neck. �To check and see if you visited a random
UNC
guy�s dorm room with Chris. Congrats, you passed the test.�
I can�t help but laugh. Then my smile fades and I give him a test of my own. �Don�t let me forget to take my yearbook with me when we leave.�
He stiffens for a second and then says in an easy tone, �I have to hunt it down. It�s here somewhere. If I can�t find it, I�ll just bring it over later.�
I pull away from him and sit up. Confused, he looks up at me. �I saw my yearbook on your desk, Peter. I know you haven�t written anything yet!�
Peter sits up and sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair roughly. His eyes flit over to me and then back down again. �I just don�t know what to write. I know you want me to write some great, romantic thing, but I don�t know what to say. I�ve tried a bunch of times, and I just�I freeze
up. You know I�m not good at that kind of thing.�
Feelingly, I tell him, �I don�t care what you say as long as it�s from the heart. Just be sweet. Be you.� I crawl closer to him and put my arms around his neck. �Okay?� Peter nods, and I give him a little kiss, and he surges up and kisses me harder, and then I don�t even care about my dumb yearbook anymore. I am aware of every breath, every movement. I memorize it all, I hold it in my heart.
When we break away, he looks up at me and says, �I went to my dad�s house yesterday.�
My eyes widen. �You did?�
�Yeah. He invited me and Owen to come over for dinner, and I wasn�t going to go, but then Owen asked me to come with him and I couldn�t say no.�
I lie back down, rest my head on his chest. �How was it?�
�It was fine, I guess. His house is nice.� I don�t say anything; I just wait for him to go on. It feels like a long time before he says, �You know that old movie you made me watch, where the poor kid was standing outside with his nose pressed to the glass? That�s how I felt.�
�That old movie� he�s referring to is
Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
, when Charlie is watching all the kids go hog wild at the candy store but he can�t go inside because he doesn�t have any money. The thought of Peter�handsome, confident, easy Peter�feeling that way makes me want to cry. Maybe I shouldn�t have pushed him so hard to reconnect with his dad.
�He put up a basketball hoop for those kids. I asked him
for one so many times, but he never did it. His kids aren�t even athletic. I don�t think Everett�s picked up a basketball once in his whole life.�
�Did Owen have a good time?�
This he grudgingly concedes. �Yeah, he and Clayton and Everett played video games. My dad grilled hamburgers and steaks. He even wore a damn chef�s apron. I don�t think he ever helped my mom in the kitchen once the whole time they were married.� Peter pauses. �He didn�t do the dishes, though, so I guess he hasn�t changed that much. Still, I could tell he and Gayle were trying. She baked a cake. Not as good as yours, though.�
�What kind of cake?� I ask.
�Devil�s food cake. Kind of dry.� Peter hesitates before he says, �I invited him to graduation.�
�You did?� My heart swells.
�He kept asking about school, and . . . I don�t know. I thought about what you said, and I just did it.� He shrugs, like he doesn�t care much either way if his dad�s there or not. It�s an act. Peter cares. Of course he cares. �So you�ll meet him then.�
I snuggle closer to him. �I�m so proud of you, Peter.�
He gives a little laugh. �For what?�
�For giving your dad a chance even though he doesn�t deserve it.� I look up at him and say, �You�re a nice boy, Peter K.,� and the smile that breaks across his face makes me love him even more.
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