Page 53 of Where It Begins

“Hold this for me.” Miller, or Buck, or whatever I’m supposed to call him, hands me the bag of chips.

He cups his hands around his mouth. “Hey! No fucking on my living room furniture! Take it to the backyard.” Chips fly out of his mouth and land on the floor. He wipes his hands on his chest, smearing wet chip crumbs all over his abs and his blond fuzz.

He’s living up to the jock stereotype in spectacular fashion.

He’s a decent guy. But when all these dude-bros get together, their combined testosterone levels reduce their brain function to ten percent.

The couples break apart and hands duck out of tops and bottoms. I don’t want to contemplate too closely the bodily fluids that are currently being wiped on Sidney’s sofa. All the horny teens vacate the living room.

Buck-Miller takes the bag of chips from me, and I follow him upstairs. When we get to my temporary bedroom, he throws open the door. I’ll never be able to unsee the tangle of limbs, or the frankly disturbing act taking place on my bed.

“Is she eating his a—”

Miller-Buck’s hand comes up to cover my eyes. I’m semi-grateful, because I couldn’t look away and I honestly didn’t want to see any more of that, but my eyeballs refused to close.

“Get the fuck out!” he bellows.

There’s a flurry of motion, which I don’t see because Buck-Miller’s giant mitt blocks my view.

“Sorry, Buck,” the guy mutters as they pass, still both naked and carrying their clothes.

Buck drops his hand once they’re gone. The room smells like butt.

“I feel like just standing here will give me pinkeye.”

“You can stay in my room tonight and I’ll sleep in here,” Buck offers.

“The sheets need to be changed.” I don’t want to touch them.

“I’ll sleep in my dad’s room,” he amends. “Come on.”

I follow him down the hall. He unlocks his door. His room is a typical teenage guy mess. Clothes hang over his computer chair and litter the floor around his bed and by his dresser and closet. A box of tissue and a giant bottle of lotion sit on his nightstand. The garbage can beside his bed is full of used tissue.

“I don’t know if your bed is any better than the one in my room,” I observe.

“I changed my sheets this morning.”

I side-eye him.

“Swear on my mom’s grave.” He makes the sign of the cross.

My heart twinges at that. My mom told me he lost his mom to a rare brain tumor when he was just three.

“My friends think you're cute,” he blurts. “They like the whole nerdy vibe you got going on.” He makes a circle motion to my face.

“They probably think I’m all inexperienced and virginal. And I’m close to fun-sized with a rack.” I motion unnecessarily to my boobs. “All plusses for the cisgender straight or bi identifying XYs.”

“Are you inexperienced?” Buck’s voice cracks.

“Teenage boys are idiots. My mom is pro-self-exploration.”

“Whoa. Wait. What?” His eyes are comically wide. “You masturbate?” He sounds like he’s regressed a few years and puberty has reclaimed him.

I roll my eyes and stalk across his room, pointing to his nightstand where exhibits A through C are located.

“Yeah, but I’m a dude. All dudes choke the chicken.”

“So because I’m a girl, I’m not supposed to take care of my own needs?”

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