As we dug around that ditch, I saw how broad his shoulders had become, how his biceps stretched the sleeves of his clingy gray T-shirt. An eon’s worth of natural selection had come to pass. The boy who used to be shorter than me now towered overhead at six feet, four inches. Those years between twelve and sixteen might as well have been the Paleolithic Period.
That afternoon, Ben held the bucket while I brushed off tiny bits of ancient history, but we unearthed more than a few hunks of limestone for Mr. Johnston’s class. As Ben bent to grab one last piece of coral, I glimpsed the scar behind his ear, and when I saw it, a tremor fluttered through my chest.
A tiny seismic shift.
The layers inside me got all stirred up that day.
I uncovered something beautiful buried deep within my heart, and realized it had been there all along.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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four
BEN DOESN’T MISS a single shot—even when I call his name. He grabs his own rebound, then turns to face me with a grin.
“She lives.”
I cross my arms. “Disappointed?”
He bounces the ball in my direction. I catch it and slowly dribble in place without looking at my hands, daring him. He stands between the basket and me, smiling and nodding. “Okay, then. Show me whatcha got.”
I drop back like I’m going to take the shot, then try to fake him out and drive around him.
As if.
In a single step, he’s cut me off, his stance wide and low, his arms over his head, blocking my layup. It’s a textbook illustration of that chant the cheerleaders do: Hands up. Defense.
Of course, I realize this too late. I’m already jumping toward the basket. I can’t stop my forward momentum, but Ben’s leg does, and in a flash I’m sailing headfirst toward the pole that holds the backboard aloft.
I close my eyes and brace for impact. Instead, my body is suddenly redirected. Ben’s arm snakes around my waist and pulls me sideways into him. When I open my eyes, his face is inches from mine.
“Gotcha, hotshot.”
I’m still off balance. Ben is the only thing holding me up—like it’s nothing, as if I were made of pure air. His arm is solid in the small of my back, the grip of his hand at my waist steady and sure. I’m not going anywhere.
We are pressed together so tightly he must be able to feel my heart beating against his chest. Each breath I exhale bounces off his neck and back into my face. I make a mental note to thank Will for reminding me to brush my teeth.
I arch an eyebrow. “That was a foul.”
Ben laughs. “Yep. On you.” He gently sets me upright, and goes to grab the ball from the grass next to the driveway. “We call that charging.”
I can still feel the heat where his arm roped my waist. The scent of his skin lingers in my nose—a whisper of the cologne he wore to the party last night: fresh oranges and pepper and smoke from a campfire.
“No way. You fouled me. And you almost brained me on that pole.”
Ben bounces the ball between his legs as he walks. “I was in a legal defensive position.”
“Oh, is that what we call ‘cheating’ these days?”
He’s close again, spinning the ball on his index finger, a challenge in his smirk. He palms the ball and holds it over my head. I try to grab it but he is too quick. He swings it low, and high again, then whips it around his back and tosses a perfect hook shot through the net. Thwfft. No rim. Barely looked.
“Don’t hate the player. Those are the rules. I was set and you made contact.”
“I’ll show you contact.” I charge him with a growl.
He yelps and turns to protect his rebound as I jump on his back, throwing my arms around his neck. I try for a headlock, but I’m weightless to him. He clamps his arms over my legs and takes off. I hang on for dear life as he swings me around in circles. My stomach gets woozy again, and we laugh like crazy people.
He skids to a halt under the hulking oak tree in his front yard, both of us giggling and panting. Dizzy, I slide from my perch. As I slip down his back, my eyes find the scar behind his ear. In a flash, I am seized by the urge to brush my lips against it.
I didn’t mean to feel this way about Ben. I thought it was a fluke when it started last September—something that would fade away. Like the tan I got on Labor Day, I assumed it would be gone by October. I thought I could control it. Cover it back up like my freckles—toned down with some foundation, hidden with a little powder. I’d always planned to choose the person I fell in love with.
I didn’t know it doesn’t work that way.
You were once my friend.
Iowa was once an ocean.
Given enough time, everything changes.
I hover there in midair. I can’t say it yet—but maybe he knows already. I reach out and lightly trace the scar with the tip of my finger, then my sneakers hit the grass, and I am back on earth.
Ben touches the place behind his ear and shakes his head. “The first time you fouled me.”
“It was an accident,” I protest, but his eyes snap and crackle above his smile. His laugh spills across the space between us.