pulling it back up. Then I took a deep breath and,
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bending forward as little as possible, got the yellowtail back on my chopsticks. As I dropped my
chin to get the piece in my mouth, the strap started slipping again, and when I grabbed for it, a
clump of rice dropped off my chopsticks and slipped down the front of my dress. I felt it lodge
between my breasts, right where a tiny decorative rose might have nestled if I'd been wearing a
bra.
I panicked. Should I try to remove it? How do you reach down the front of your dress and subtly
pull out a rice meteor? Maybe the best thing to do was just leave it there and hope it went away
by itself. But what if it "went away" by heading south? I could see it now. I'd stand up, and a
second later a golf ball of rice would drop onto my chair. I'd look like Long-Eared Peter, the
rabbit we had in my second-grade classroom, who dropped little pellets wherever he went.
This particular image occupied a not-insignificant part of my brain for most of dinner. I kept
lightly stroking my chest just above the top of the dress, hoping to find an opportune moment to
plunge my hand into the bodice and remove the offending rice ball.
The problem with my plan was that Connor's eyes were glued to my hand, which I realized too
late was like a pointer directing his gaze to my (basically non-existent) cleavage. If he hadn't
dropped his fork halfway through the meal and needed to look around for a waiter to get him a
new one, I might have had to remain seated for the
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rest of my life. Luckily, the three seconds during which he was distracted were all I needed to
lean forward enough to loosen the tight fabric, grab the rice out of my dress, and drop it next to
my pile of wasabi.
"May I take your plates?" asked our waitress.
"Yeah, sure," said Connor, dropping his napkin on the table and stretching. "That was delicious."
I nodded in agreement as the waitress expertly cleared the table.
"Some dessert?"
Connor shook his head at her and then looked across the table at me, "I'm sorry, Red. Now that
we might make the states, Coach is insane about us being home by ten when there's no game. He
called Matt's house last week to check up on him."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm stuffed."
"I'll bring the check," said the waitress.
As we sat there, Connor stroked the back of my hand, and I felt the tingles I always got when he
touched me. "That dress is really hot," he said.
His look made the whole rice fiasco suddenly worthwhile. "Thanks," I said.
"Wow, I've been yapping away," said Connor, smiling at me. "You're a really good listener."
That smile. It made me dizzy. "Thanks," I said again.
"But I want to know more about you," he said, turning my hand over and pressing his palm into
mine.
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"What do you want to know?" I asked, suddenly anxious. I should have prepared some funny
anecdotes about myself. What could be more boring than a person just launching into her life
story? Well, I was born in Los Angeles, and after my mother died when I was three ... Connor
would be asleep before I hit fourth grade.
Luckily, just as I was considering narrating an imaginary but fascinating childhood posted in port
cities around the globe, the waitress brought our check. Connor took out his credit card and
handed it over. His casual confidence as he dealt with the check was sexy; it made him seem
older. Not so old that it was gross he was going out with a high-school girl, though. He seemed
just older enough.
"Thank you for dinner," I said. It came out more formal than I'd meant it to, as if I were thanking my friend's dad or something.
Connor didn't seem to mind, though. He raised an eyebrow at me. "Sure, Red. But I still owe you
a dessert." It sounded flirtatious, like we were talking about something way more intimate than
gelato.
"Maybe I owe you a dessert," I said. I hoped I sounded flirtatious, too, and not like I'd been tallying up what each of us had spent on the other.
Connor gave me his killer smile. "All the dessert I need is you in that dress," he said. Then he let out a howl like a werewolf.
We both laughed, and when the waitress brought
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the credit card slip for Connor to sign, we were still laughing. When we finally stopped laughing
he said, "You're hilarious, Red," even though he was the one who'd made the joke. It made me
feel witty and amusing.
At the door, Connor helped me into my (his) jacket, and outside he leaned me up against the car
door and we started making out. His tongue traced a line from my ear to my collar bone. I
wished we'd just skipped dinner and spent the whole night in his car fooling around, but it's not
exactly like you can suggest something like that.
The whole ride home Connor held my hand; luckily he had to fix the equalizer on the stereo a
couple of times, so I was able to wipe my palm on my dress before it could get too sweaty. And
he didn't just hold my hand like it was a rock he'd happened to drop his hand down on. He held it
perfectly, tracing my fingers with his thumb and then squeezing my hand into a fist, or brushing
his fingers over my knuckles. I didn't know what Connor's career plans were, but he could
definitely get rich teaching other guys how to hold a girl's hand.
When we pulled up in front of my house, Connor kissed me lightly on the lips. "Thanks for
understanding about curfew, Red," he said. "Even if we make the states, it's only a few more
weeks, and then we can stay out until dawn. And I expect you to wear that dress." He lifted my
hand up to his lips and kissed it.
Since I planned to set fire to my dress as soon as I
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got inside, Connor probably wouldn't be seeing it again. I didn't mention that, though, especially
since staying out until dawn with Connor sounded like a fine idea to me. We sat in the car,
kissing, until the clock on the dashboard read nine fifty-five.
"I gotta go, Red," he said softly.
"Yeah," I said. I remembered to undo my seat belt before I opened the car door.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he said. I shut the door and waved; before he pulled away, he mimed
howling at the moon.
When I got into bed, I closed my eyes and replayed Connor's kisses in my mind. Then I got out
of bed, grabbed my iPod, and replayed them again, this time to music. I turned out the light and
snuggled under the covers, leaving the music on. I closed my eyes, feeling Connor's hands on my
face, his lips gently tracing the curve of my ear. The last song I heard before I fell asleep was
"Little Red Corvette." I tried to figure out why it was the perfect sound track for the night, and when I came up with the answer, I almost laughed out loud.
Of course it was perfect.
It was Prince.
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Chapter Thirteen
Connor called me during the South Carolina game on Sunday, and we "watched" the whole
second half together. Later he called again, and we stayed on the phone until the end of the pre-
game show, when he had to get off because he'd told his dad they'd watch the game together.