Welcome to The Blue Route!

It’s Only Weird if We Kiss

By: Jamie C. Hennick

He’s the first boy who she had allowed to pull her shirt up. The only boy, actually. They were five. Sam doesn’t really remember the exact moment, but there’s a picture in one of the photo albums that her mother pulls out every time their families get together for dinner.

“Here’s that picture of Sam and Ben!” she screams, while all the adults laugh, “I guess Ben always wanted to be a doctor!” In the picture, Sam is smiling. Ben holds her shirt up as he checks her heartbeat with a plastic stethoscope, which is placed somewhere around her belly button. Then Ben’s mom chirps in,

“Good thing he learned his anatomy!” The parents laugh while Ben and Sam roll their eyes. Sam’s mom always tells her that she’s such good friends with Ben because they both share the same disdain for their goofy parents. Yeah, Sam always thinks, we do.

It’s winter break during Ben and Sam’s freshman year at college- the first reunion since parting ways from their sleepy New England town. Coincidentally, they had both decided to go to schools on the west coast, far away from home and from each other. They have been neighbors since preschool. Neither had returned for Thanksgiving, since it involved an expensive plane ticket home and the distance reduced their relationship to rushed emails and infrequent phone calls. They were busy. Sam hadn’t really noticed how much she missed Ben until tonight when they were at the same dinner table, and now sitting on the same familiar couch in her basement watching reruns of Saturday Night Live.

In the soft glow of the television, they talk in a broken conversation, interrupted by the laugh track from the TV and gaps in each other’s understanding of the other’s college experience. He’s taking classes to fulfill requirements and a class on music theory. That’s great, Sam says, she’s proud that he’s holding on to his commitment to the piano. He joined a band and works part-time in the library. He says he’s hungover during most shifts and can get away with it. He tells her about some of his crazy escapades, peeing on the president’s lawn or waking up in someone else’s bathtub with dinosaurs drawn all over his arms. Sam senses that he’s proud of these accomplishments and is jealous that he’s so happy at school. She’s not. Her mom had pointed out in whispered observation that he’s developed a beer gut. She tries not to look down at his stomach.

Sam tells Ben that she likes school enough, but she secretly hates being at an all girls’ school, that she feels like she’s drowning in estrogen. He laughs, but feels bad, then suggests that she transfers, which exasperates Sam. After waiting so long to go to college, there’s no way she’s reapplying to transfer. She’ll make it work. She knows she can. She tells him that she loves the friends she’s made. She misses him, she says repeatedly. He misses her too. But he doesn’t look her in the eye when he says this, instead he remains glued to the television.

Sam shifts to sit on her hands. They’re clammy for some reason. So are her feet. She gets up and retrieves an afghan from the pile on the adjacent recliner and sits back down, tucking her limbs under the thickly woven yarn. It’s cold outside, but cozy in the basement which is well-equipped with an assortment of space heaters. They whir in the background and light the darkness with their little orange power buttons. Ben takes out his phone and opens it. Then he closes it and replaces it in his pocket.

“So, any girls I should know about?” Sam asks.

He smirks and doesn’t respond.

“What? I’m just wondering. Last I knew you were still talking to Pissy Chrissy…”

“What? Christine? She ended that months ago. Remember? I told you that…” He hates it when she calls her Pissy Chrissy.

“She dumped you?”

“Yes.”

“Geez. What an idiot. What’s her deal? And you didn’t tell me about this, FYI.”

“It was the distance thing or something. I don’t know, and I did tell you, you probably just didn’t read my email or something.”

“Whatever. She’s an idiot. And I told you that was going nowhere fast. Remember? I told you that you should dump her over the summer,” she says as she points her chin upwards matter-of factly, “Hate to say I told you so!” But she immediately sees Ben’s disappointment and smothers her smugness. She never liked Christine, but Ben really did. What a bitch. She probably broke up with him over text message too. Poor Ben.

“Well I have no regrets. College is treatin’ me fine in the romance department anyways if you know what I’m sayin’” he winks at Sam. She waits a moment before asking,

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Oh yeah.” Silence covers the room again with the same itchy discomfort as the afghan thrown across Sam’s lap. She’s jealous of his freedom- she imagines him surrounded by beautiful, intelligent girls, all throwing themselves at Ben. He’s an attractive boy, a nice boy, a charming boy. She’s jealous of the new faces he has to touch, the lips he has to kiss, the new bodies he has to hold. She thinks of the muffled noises of the parties she can hear through the walls of her dorm room hours after she turns off the lights. She thinks of what she might be missing. The anxiety that prevents her from going, an iron cage with no visible way out. But it doesn’t bother her that much. Everyone’s another trashy drunk girl, something she doesn’t want to be. She discards the afghan to the side of the couch and stretches out her toes. Her mom would yell at her later for not wearing socks, it’s the middle of winter, you know.

“So am I supposed to ask if there are any guys?” Sam knows what he’s thinking. That she’s never had a real boyfriend and probably still doesn’t. That in high school she was too focused on dissections and derivatives and her GPA and getting into college that she had neglected her love life. That now she goes to a prestigious college, but it’s all girls and her biggest fear is becoming a LUG, lesbian-until-graduation. It’s a term they use to excuse sexual deviance/experimentation, and campus is crawling with them. Once at a black-light party, she kissed a girl, Caity, on the dance floor. It was an accident. It was the first time Sam had been drunk. It was her first kiss. The whole thing mortifies her. A girl. There were even guys at the party, and she still kissed a girl. She still can’t believe that after waiting all these years for her first kiss, she wasted the moment on a sloppy lip lock with a girl. Drunkenly. She silently vows never to tell Ben and wonders if he’s hiding any secrets from her.

Since then, she’s tried to stay focused on school. On papers and tests and the next mock trial. She goes to the gym and the cafeteria, the library, even, to socialize. She’s friends with the girls in her hall. She tells them she’s had boyfriends before and shows them pictures of her with her boy cousins as proof. She wouldn’t trade those girls for anything, though, because besides the lies, they really understand her.

“Well, there’s this guy who works at the café in the library,” Sam says after a while. There’s absolutely nothing going on with them but it’s still a true statement. The words burn like poison as they roll off her tongue. She never lies to Ben. But there is a guy who works at the café in the library.

“Oh yeah? You two have a thing?” Sam looks at Ben, wondering if he’s just playing along. But he seems serious.

“Yeah we sneak away to the study lounges during his breaks to bang. They’re sound proof.” She’s nervous that he’ll call her out on it, of course she’s still a virgin, but Ben accepts her word as gospel, not questioning any of the fictitious elements. Instead he says,

“Whoa! When did you start using the word ‘bang?’ You don’t ‘make love’ anymore?” Sam punches him in the arm.

“Shut up.”

“So what’s his name?”

“Craig,” she lies. Ben’s satisfied with this and continues to watch the TV. She feels bad that she lied. But Sam wants him to believe that she’s promiscuous and crazy. Sam knows she’s being carried far away from the truth, like the riptides that lurk in the water at the beach where she lifeguards. She’s always on the lookout for signs of riptides, boogie boards torn from raucous boys, lost sandals pulled to the ocean floor. They’re always there, even if she can’t see them, always threatening to carry away innocent swimmers. They’re powerful. Directional. Consuming.

Sam’s mom yells down to announce that Ben’s parents are leaving but Ben can stay as long as he wants. Sam’s parents are going to bed, so, goodnight Sam!, she yells. It was good to see you, Ben. See you soon. She’ll see Sam in the morning.

A movie comes on TV, one they’ve both seen several times before. Through the opening credits, Sam listens to her mom as she shuffles around the kitchen. Sam can see from memory the routine- preparing the coffee maker, putting away the placemats, pushing in the chairs, starting the dishwasher and turning off the lights. She’ll leave on the bathroom light so Sam can find her way to bed.

“Want to play a game?” Sam asks. Sure, Ben says, how about Candy Land? Like the good ole’ days?

“How about strip Candy Land?” Sam’s suggestion flies out of her mouth like an unexpected hiccup. She waits nervously for a response.

“Whoa girl. Wild child!… But alright- your parents have any booze lying around?” Sam looks around the basement, locates bottles of wine on a nearby pantry shelf and tells him that they’ll notice if they’re missing. Ok, he says. No worries.

The game begins slowly. Sam doesn’t know why she suggested this. She’s glad it’s winter. She’s glad she put socks on. Two layers. Ben has no shame. In no time, he whips through the Candy Cane Forest and takes off his shirt. Soon enough he’s down to his boxers. Sam’s layers and good luck allows her to remain in her jeans and t-shirt. She fidgets, bites her finger nails, plays with her hair, anything to divert her attention from Ben’s body, a sight she’s conditioned to seeing from summers lounging in her pool. But she’s never seen him in the flickering lights of the TV. In the winter. On her couch. She lands on Gloppy the Molasses Monster. Ben looks up at her, waiting for her to chose which item to remove. Pants or shirt. Sam sits there, mad at herself for suggesting such a game, considers refusing to play, but decides she must. She crosses her arms and reaches for opposite sides of her waist. She pretends she’s Pissy Chrissy and pulls her shirt up slowly, allowing it to mask her face for as long as possible. But then it’s off, and Sam’s aware that she’s naked, no, almost naked. She wonders if she’s wearing the wrong kind of bra for a boy to see. A boy named Ben that she’s known since she was two. A boy whose face she could barely see anymore in the darkness of her basement.

“Ok, this is weird.” She finally says. She knows she sounds like a prude.

“Nah. No it’s not… it’s only weird if we kiss.”

She looks up, squinting her eyes to detect a smirk in his face. There’s no smirk. Is he teasing her? Is this flirting? When did they start flirting with each other? Did it really only take her taking off her shirt? In her basement? Over a game of Candy Land? Is Ben really that much of a boy?

Of course he is. Sam thinks. She lets her knee touch his. An electric charge courses through their connected patellas. Sam feels the energy race up her inner thigh. She wonders if he can feel it too.

She leans in, balancing her head on her palm. Watching Ben as he picks a card. She knows she’s very close to falling out of her bra. She looks down. She has cleavage.

Ben leans back from the coffee table where he was taking her turn. Hey, oh hey, he says, that smirk sweeping across his face. She knows he’s kidding, but an unfamiliar compulsion envelopes Sam and leads her lips to his, locking them together. Sam closes her eyes. She thinks that’s what she’s supposed to do. Ben obliges. He reciprocates. He starts moving his head, his lips, in fleshy activity that tastes like the apple pie they had for dessert. It’s easier than she’d imagined, but Sam still wonders if he can tell she’s never done this before. Soberly. Or with a boy. She thinks she likes it, but isn’t sure. He separates their faces a few millimeters, leaving Sam’s lips tingling. She licks them.

“Now, this is weird,” he says, smirking again. He grabs her by the naked waist and she remembers her lack of shirt. But she’s supposed to be almost naked, right? She runs her fingers through his hair, stopping when her hand reaches the nape of his neck. It’s hot, maybe starting to sweat. Is this right? Is she good at this?

She feels his fingers fumbling with the fastening of her bra. She pulls away. Panics. Not yet, she whispers in a tone she’s never heard. He laughs and their lips fuse together once again.

They get into a rhythm. Sam likes the rhythm. The infomercials distract her a little but not as much as his wandering, experienced hands. She thinks about how funny kissing sounds. She wonders what to do with her tongue. She follows his lead. She’s making out with Ben… Ben, Ben.

He reaches down to her pants, trying to unbutton them…does he want to bang? Sam puts a hand in front of his face. Now what? He asks. She doesn’t answer. He apologizes. We don’t have to do this, he says. Sam grabs her shirt and tells him maybe he should go home. He does. She wonders what’s wrong with her. She replays each touch, each move, each kiss, over and over. It was bliss. So why did she send him away? Will he call her tomorrow? Will they do this again? Will things be weird? Did he imagine she was someone else?

She throws her shirt on the ground. Takes off her pants. Her bra. Her underwear. She crawls under the coffee table where Ben and her used to make forts. She looks up at the scribbled letters that barely resemble their names.

She feels dirty. She wishes she had stolen some wine. Then maybe she wouldn’t remember this whole thing. Ben was probably home, already talking to some girl on his computer. She hopes that miraculously he’ll forget the whole thing. Won’t tell anyone, won’t make fun of her for not knowing what to do, for not letting him take her pants off… Sam thinks about how meaningless it all is. She’s just one more girl in his book.

She falls asleep under the coffee table and wakes up the next morning with the afghan covering her naked body. She looks upward to the couch and sees Ben passed out face down. Sam panics and hopes her mom hasn’t come downstairs to do laundry. She crawls out from under the table and reaches for her clothing, dressing herself under the afghan. She’s furious. Why is he still here? What is he thinking? She runs upstairs and grabs a glass of water, creeps back downstairs. She stands there, contemplating how to exile him from her house. She kicks him.

“What the…”

“Yeah, what the hell. What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you, you seemed freaked out. And it was raining so I just crashed here.”

“You need to leave.”

“Whoa, Sam. Chill out. Want to go to our fort? Looks like you were pretty cozy there…”

"Shut up! And if you tell anyone about this, I’m hiring a hit man.”

“Whoa. Chill out…” He stretches and yawns, “I just woke up…” Sam stands with folded arms, glaring disapprovingly, “Ok, ok, I’ll go, I’ll go… want to do something later?”

Sam imagines what Ben sees when he looks at her. A body to undressed, to be conquered. She assumes he only wants to hang out to get in her pants. He’s going to use her. She thought Ben was better than this. Do you want to? He asks again. No, she doesn’t. She’s indignant. Get out, she says. He’s too slow. She pours her glass of water on his head. What the hell was that for? He shouts as water soaks into his shoulders. She’s not sure. She starts crying, sobbing. Ben sits there and stares, untrained as to what to do with this particular specimen.

Jamie C. Hennick is a senior English major at Dickinson College, planning do something with her life that does not involve a dress code or a cubicle. She plans to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing once she is out of debt from the cost of her undergraduate degree.


	It’s Only Weird if We Kiss By: Jamie C. Hennick He’s the first boy who she had allowed to pull her shirt up. The only boy, actually. They were five. Sam doesn’t really remember the exact moment, but there’s a picture in one of the photo albums that her mother pulls out every time their families get together for dinner. “Here’s that picture of Sam and Ben!” she screams, while all the adults laugh, “I guess Ben always wanted to be a doctor!” In the picture, Sam is smiling. Ben holds her shirt up as he checks her heartbeat with a plastic stethoscope, which is placed somewhere around her belly button. Then Ben’s mom chirps in, “Good thing he learned his anatomy!” The parents laugh while Ben and Sam roll their eyes. Sam’s mom always tells her that she’s such good friends with Ben because they both share the same disdain for their goofy parents. Yeah, Sam always thinks, we do. It’s winter break during Ben and Sam’s freshman year at college- the first reunion since parting ways from their sleepy New England town. Coincidentally, they had both decided to go to schools on the west coast, far away from home and from each other. They have been neighbors since preschool. Neither had returned for Thanksgiving, since it involved an expensive plane ticket home and the distance reduced their relationship to rushed emails and infrequent phone calls. They were busy. Sam hadn’t really noticed how much she missed Ben until tonight when they were at the same dinner table, and now sitting on the same familiar couch in her basement watching reruns of Saturday Night Live. In the soft glow of the television, they talk in a broken conversation, interrupted by the laugh track from the TV and gaps in each other’s understanding of the other’s college experience. He’s taking classes to fulfill requirements and a class on music theory. That’s great, Sam says, she’s proud that he’s holding on to his commitment to the piano. He joined a band and works part-time in the library. He says he’s hungover during most shifts and can get away with it. He tells her about some of his crazy escapades, peeing on the president’s lawn or waking up in someone else’s bathtub with dinosaurs drawn all over his arms. Sam senses that he’s proud of these accomplishments and is jealous that he’s so happy at school. She’s not. Her mom had pointed out in whispered observation that he’s developed a beer gut. She tries not to look down at his stomach. Sam tells Ben that she likes school enough, but she secretly hates being at an all girls’ school, that she feels like she’s drowning in estrogen. He laughs, but feels bad, then suggests that she transfers, which exasperates Sam. After waiting so long to go to college, there’s no way she’s reapplying to transfer. She’ll make it work. She knows she can. She tells him that she loves the friends she’s made. She misses him, she says repeatedly. He misses her too. But he doesn’t look her in the eye when he says this, instead he remains glued to the television. Sam shifts to sit on her hands. They’re clammy for some reason. So are her feet. She gets up and retrieves an afghan from the pile on the adjacent recliner and sits back down, tucking her limbs under the thickly woven yarn. It’s cold outside, but cozy in the basement which is well-equipped with an assortment of space heaters. They whir in the background and light the darkness with their little orange power buttons. Ben takes out his phone and opens it. Then he closes it and replaces it in his pocket. “So, any girls I should know about?” Sam asks. He smirks and doesn’t respond. “What? I’m just wondering. Last I knew you were still talking to Pissy Chrissy…” “What? Christine? She ended that months ago. Remember? I told you that…” He hates it when she calls her Pissy Chrissy. “She dumped you?” “Yes.” “Geez. What an idiot. What’s her deal? And you didn’t tell me about this, FYI.” “It was the distance thing or something. I don’t know, and I did tell you, you probably just didn’t read my email or something.” “Whatever. She’s an idiot. And I told you that was going nowhere fast. Remember? I told you that you should dump her over the summer,” she says as she points her chin upwards matter-of factly, “Hate to say I told you so!” But she immediately sees Ben’s disappointment and smothers her smugness. She never liked Christine, but Ben really did. What a bitch. She probably broke up with him over text message too. Poor Ben. “Well I have no regrets. College is treatin’ me fine in the romance department anyways if you know what I’m sayin’” he winks at Sam. She waits a moment before asking, “Oh yeah?” “Yeah. Oh yeah.” Silence covers the room again with the same itchy discomfort as the afghan thrown across Sam’s lap. She’s jealous of his freedom- she imagines him surrounded by beautiful, intelligent girls, all throwing themselves at Ben. He’s an attractive boy, a nice boy, a charming boy. She’s jealous of the new faces he has to touch, the lips he has to kiss, the new bodies he has to hold. She thinks of the muffled noises of the parties she can hear through the walls of her dorm room hours after she turns off the lights. She thinks of what she might be missing. The anxiety that prevents her from going, an iron cage with no visible way out. But it doesn’t bother her that much. Everyone’s another trashy drunk girl, something she doesn’t want to be. She discards the afghan to the side of the couch and stretches out her toes. Her mom would yell at her later for not wearing socks, it’s the middle of winter, you know. “So am I supposed to ask if there are any guys?” Sam knows what he’s thinking. That she’s never had a real boyfriend and probably still doesn’t. That in high school she was too focused on dissections and derivatives and her GPA and getting into college that she had neglected her love life. That now she goes to a prestigious college, but it’s all girls and her biggest fear is becoming a LUG, lesbian-until-graduation. It’s a term they use to excuse sexual deviance/experimentation, and campus is crawling with them. Once at a black-light party, she kissed a girl, Caity, on the dance floor. It was an accident. It was the first time Sam had been drunk. It was her first kiss. The whole thing mortifies her. A girl. There were even guys at the party, and she still kissed a girl. She still can’t believe that after waiting all these years for her first kiss, she wasted the moment on a sloppy lip lock with a girl. Drunkenly. She silently vows never to tell Ben and wonders if he’s hiding any secrets from her. Since then, she’s tried to stay focused on school. On papers and tests and the next mock trial. She goes to the gym and the cafeteria, the library, even, to socialize. She’s friends with the girls in her hall. She tells them she’s had boyfriends before and shows them pictures of her with her boy cousins as proof. She wouldn’t trade those girls for anything, though, because besides the lies, they really understand her. “Well, there’s this guy who works at the café in the library,” Sam says after a while. There’s absolutely nothing going on with them but it’s still a true statement. The words burn like poison as they roll off her tongue. She never lies to Ben. But there is a guy who works at the café in the library. “Oh yeah? You two have a thing?” Sam looks at Ben, wondering if he’s just playing along. But he seems serious. “Yeah we sneak away to the study lounges during his breaks to bang. They’re sound proof.” She’s nervous that he’ll call her out on it, of course she’s still a virgin, but Ben accepts her word as gospel, not questioning any of the fictitious elements. Instead he says, “Whoa! When did you start using the word ‘bang?’ You don’t ‘make love’ anymore?” Sam punches him in the arm. “Shut up.” “So what’s his name?” “Craig,” she lies. Ben’s satisfied with this and continues to watch the TV. She feels bad that she lied. But Sam wants him to believe that she’s promiscuous and crazy. Sam knows she’s being carried far away from the truth, like the riptides that lurk in the water at the beach where she lifeguards. She’s always on the lookout for signs of riptides, boogie boards torn from raucous boys, lost sandals pulled to the ocean floor. They’re always there, even if she can’t see them, always threatening to carry away innocent swimmers. They’re powerful. Directional. Consuming. Sam’s mom yells down to announce that Ben’s parents are leaving but Ben can stay as long as he wants. Sam’s parents are going to bed, so, goodnight Sam!, she yells. It was good to see you, Ben. See you soon. She’ll see Sam in the morning. A movie comes on TV, one they’ve both seen several times before. Through the opening credits, Sam listens to her mom as she shuffles around the kitchen. Sam can see from memory the routine- preparing the coffee maker, putting away the placemats, pushing in the chairs, starting the dishwasher and turning off the lights. She’ll leave on the bathroom light so Sam can find her way to bed. “Want to play a game?” Sam asks. Sure, Ben says, how about Candy Land? Like the good ole’ days? “How about strip Candy Land?” Sam’s suggestion flies out of her mouth like an unexpected hiccup. She waits nervously for a response. “Whoa girl. Wild child!… But alright- your parents have any booze lying around?” Sam looks around the basement, locates bottles of wine on a nearby pantry shelf and tells him that they’ll notice if they’re missing. Ok, he says. No worries. The game begins slowly. Sam doesn’t know why she suggested this. She’s glad it’s winter. She’s glad she put socks on. Two layers. Ben has no shame. In no time, he whips through the Candy Cane Forest and takes off his shirt. Soon enough he’s down to his boxers. Sam’s layers and good luck allows her to remain in her jeans and t-shirt. She fidgets, bites her finger nails, plays with her hair, anything to divert her attention from Ben’s body, a sight she’s conditioned to seeing from summers lounging in her pool. But she’s never seen him in the flickering lights of the TV. In the winter. On her couch. She lands on Gloppy the Molasses Monster. Ben looks up at her, waiting for her to chose which item to remove. Pants or shirt. Sam sits there, mad at herself for suggesting such a game, considers refusing to play, but decides she must. She crosses her arms and reaches for opposite sides of her waist. She pretends she’s Pissy Chrissy and pulls her shirt up slowly, allowing it to mask her face for as long as possible. But then it’s off, and Sam’s aware that she’s naked, no, almost naked. She wonders if she’s wearing the wrong kind of bra for a boy to see. A boy named Ben that she’s known since she was two. A boy whose face she could barely see anymore in the darkness of her basement. “Ok, this is weird.” She finally says. She knows she sounds like a prude. “Nah. No it’s not… it’s only weird if we kiss.” She looks up, squinting her eyes to detect a smirk in his face. There’s no smirk. Is he teasing her? Is this flirting? When did they start flirting with each other? Did it really only take her taking off her shirt? In her basement? Over a game of Candy Land? Is Ben really that much of a boy? Of course he is. Sam thinks. She lets her knee touch his. An electric charge courses through their connected patellas. Sam feels the energy race up her inner thigh. She wonders if he can feel it too. She leans in, balancing her head on her palm. Watching Ben as he picks a card. She knows she’s very close to falling out of her bra. She looks down. She has cleavage. Ben leans back from the coffee table where he was taking her turn. Hey, oh hey, he says, that smirk sweeping across his face. She knows he’s kidding, but an unfamiliar compulsion envelopes Sam and leads her lips to his, locking them together. Sam closes her eyes. She thinks that’s what she’s supposed to do. Ben obliges. He reciprocates. He starts moving his head, his lips, in fleshy activity that tastes like the apple pie they had for dessert. It’s easier than she’d imagined, but Sam still wonders if he can tell she’s never done this before. Soberly. Or with a boy. She thinks she likes it, but isn’t sure. He separates their faces a few millimeters, leaving Sam’s lips tingling. She licks them. “Now, this is weird,” he says, smirking again. He grabs her by the naked waist and she remembers her lack of shirt. But she’s supposed to be almost naked, right? She runs her fingers through his hair, stopping when her hand reaches the nape of his neck. It’s hot, maybe starting to sweat. Is this right? Is she good at this? She feels his fingers fumbling with the fastening of her bra. She pulls away. Panics. Not yet, she whispers in a tone she’s never heard. He laughs and their lips fuse together once again. They get into a rhythm. Sam likes the rhythm. The infomercials distract her a little but not as much as his wandering, experienced hands. She thinks about how funny kissing sounds. She wonders what to do with her tongue. She follows his lead. She’s making out with Ben… Ben, Ben. He reaches down to her pants, trying to unbutton them…does he want to bang? Sam puts a hand in front of his face. Now what? He asks. She doesn’t answer. He apologizes. We don’t have to do this, he says. Sam grabs her shirt and tells him maybe he should go home. He does. She wonders what’s wrong with her. She replays each touch, each move, each kiss, over and over. It was bliss. So why did she send him away? Will he call her tomorrow? Will they do this again? Will things be weird? Did he imagine she was someone else? She throws her shirt on the ground. Takes off her pants. Her bra. Her underwear. She crawls under the coffee table where Ben and her used to make forts. She looks up at the scribbled letters that barely resemble their names. She feels dirty. She wishes she had stolen some wine. Then maybe she wouldn’t remember this whole thing. Ben was probably home, already talking to some girl on his computer. She hopes that miraculously he’ll forget the whole thing. Won’t tell anyone, won’t make fun of her for not knowing what to do, for not letting him take her pants off… Sam thinks about how meaningless it all is. She’s just one more girl in his book. She falls asleep under the coffee table and wakes up the next morning with the afghan covering her naked body. She looks upward to the couch and sees Ben passed out face down. Sam panics and hopes her mom hasn’t come downstairs to do laundry. She crawls out from under the table and reaches for her clothing, dressing herself under the afghan. She’s furious. Why is he still here? What is he thinking? She runs upstairs and grabs a glass of water, creeps back downstairs. She stands there, contemplating how to exile him from her house. She kicks him. “What the…” “Yeah, what the hell. What are you doing here?” “I came to check on you, you seemed freaked out. And it was raining so I just crashed here.” “You need to leave.” “Whoa, Sam. Chill out. Want to go to our fort? Looks like you were pretty cozy there…” "Shut up! And if you tell anyone about this, I’m hiring a hit man.” “Whoa. Chill out…” He stretches and yawns, “I just woke up…” Sam stands with folded arms, glaring disapprovingly, “Ok, ok, I’ll go, I’ll go… want to do something later?” Sam imagines what Ben sees when he looks at her. A body to undressed, to be conquered. She assumes he only wants to hang out to get in her pants. He’s going to use her. She thought Ben was better than this. Do you want to? He asks again. No, she doesn’t. She’s indignant. Get out, she says. He’s too slow. She pours her glass of water on his head. What the hell was that for? He shouts as water soaks into his shoulders. She’s not sure. She starts crying, sobbing. Ben sits there and stares, untrained as to what to do with this particular specimen. Jamie C. Hennick is a senior English major at Dickinson College, planning do something with her life that does not involve a dress code or a cubicle. She plans to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing once she is out of debt from the cost of her undergraduate degree.