non-American people watching Dance Moms. Then she says, “Do you want to go have sex in
Stonehenge?”
I laugh a little. “Sure.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“What?”
“I’m serious,” she says.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. I’ve snuck in before.”
“You’ve snuck intoStonehenge?”
“You’re surprised?”
I look at her, speechless.
“It’s easy, baby. Trust me.”
“Maybe it was easy when you were a kid, but now there’sgot to be security and stuff.”
“There was security and stuff back then.”
“How would we even get inside?”
“Don’t worry about it. Tomorrow night.” She gets up,presses her lips to my forehead,
and goes to the bathroom, pretending she didn’t hearme call her name. I turn back to Dance
Moms. There’s no way.
We settle beneath the bleach-white hotel duvet aroundmidnight. I roll onto my side and
kiss her neck, on the brown mark beneath her jaw thatis my favorite spot. She shakes her head
and tuts at me like one would a child reaching fora cookie jar.
“What’s wrong?”