I was silent for a few moments, thinking over a book on the Supreme Court in the Twentieth Century I’d read last year for extra credit. “Could’ve been much, much worse,” I told him. “They could’ve named you Felix Frankfurter Jefferson. Then you’d be screwed any way you looked at it.”
We both broke into hysterical giggles, which lasted for a minute or so until he leaned forward and kissed me, a quick peck on the lips.
Don’t ask me why, but this startled me. After all, I was captain of the ship, his superior officer. We’d never held hands, never touched even casually except in the briefest, most incidental way. I pulled my head back about three inches, blinked, and gave him a devastatingly witty rejoinder: “Oh.”
He started to back off, looking incredibly guilty. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry. I did
