I’d love to invite him over to spend the night, but what would my mom say? She’s disappointed enough as it is, though she doesn’t tell me in so many words. She doesn’t have to—I can hear it in her silence before she asks how he’s doing, in her pause when I tell her he stopped by after practice and we hid out under the bleachers after all the other players left the field. He held me out there where anyone could see. It was amazing.
All my mother wants to know is, “Why can’t you find a nice girl in your class?”
“Mom,” I whine. It’s not that—I love him. Can’t she see that?
I can’t say anything, though. I’m seventeen, she’ll remind me. What do I know of love?
I’ll tell you what I know. I know no one else looks at me the way he does, as if I’m the only one who exists. I know no one else can
