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IT’S LATE, AND ALL THE lights are off at my house. Daddy’s at the hospital; Kitty’s at a sleepover. I
can tell Peter wants to come inside, but my dad will be home soon and he might be freaked out if he
gets home and it’s just the two of us alone in the house so late. Daddy hasn’t said anything in so many
words, but since the video, something shifted just the tiniest fraction. Now when I go out with Peter,
Daddy oh-so-casually asks what time I’ll be home, where we’ll be. He never used to ask those kinds
of questions, though I suppose he never had much reason to before.
I look over at Peter, who has turned off the ignition. Suddenly I say, “Why don’t we go up to
Carolyn Pearce’s old tree house?”
Readily, he agrees. “Let’s do it.”
It’s dark outside; I’ve never been up here in such darkness. There was always a light on from the
Pearces’ kitchen or garage or from our house. Peter climbs up first and then shines his phone
flashlight down on me as I make my way up.
He marvels at how, inside, nothing’s changed. It’s just like we left it. Kitty never had much interest
in coming up here. It’s just been sort of abandoned since we stopped using it in eighth grade. “We”
was the neighborhood kids my age: Genevieve, Allie Feldman, sometimes Chris, sometimes the boys
—Peter, John Ambrose McClaren, Trevor. It was just a private place; we weren’t doing anything bad
like smoke or drink. We’d sit up there and talk.
Genevieve was always thinking up games of Who Would You Choose. If we were on a deserted
island, which of us here would you choose? Peter picked Genevieve without hesitation, because she
was his girlfriend. Chris said she’d pick Trevor because he was the meatiest and also the most
obnoxious, and who knew if at some point she’d have to resort to cannibalism. I said I’d pick Chris
because I’d never get bored. Chris liked that; Genevieve frowned at me, but she’d already been
picked once. And besides, it was true: Chris would be the funner island companion, and probably
more helpful around the island. I doubted Genevieve would help gather firewood or spear a fish. John
took a long time to decide. He went around the circle, weighing all of our merits. Peter was a fast
runner, Trevor was strong, Genevieve was crafty, Chris could handle herself in a fight, and for me he
said I would never give up hope of being rescued. So he picked me.
It was the last summer we spent outside. Just, every day was outside. As you grow up, you spend
less and less time outside. Nobody can say “Go play outside” anymore to you. But that summer we
did. It was the hottest summer in a hundred years, they said. We spent most of it on bikes, at the pool.
We played games.
Peter sits down on the floor and takes off his coat and spreads it out like a blanket. “You can sit
here.”
I sit down, and he pulls me toward him by my ankles, reeling me in carefully like a big fish that
might jump off the line. When we’re knees to knees, he kisses me: soft-lipped, we have all the time in
the world kisses. I’m shaking, but not from the cold. I feel jittery heart-palpitations kind of nerves.
Peter bends his head and starts kissing my neck, making his way down to my collarbone. I’m so keyed
up, it doesn’t even tickle the way it normally does when someone touches my neck. His mouth is
warm, and it feels nice. I fall back against my hands, and he moves over me. Is this it? Is this when