Skin by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

Good.”
    “Where were you at lunch on Thursday?” There. I asked it.
    “The team ate together. We had a few things to figure out before practice.” He takes another bite and talks with his mouth full: “Where were you at lunch today?”
    He looked for me today? I gag on a bite. “I had to go to the library. I skipped lunch.”
    “That’s why you’re so hungry.”
    “And dinner.”
    “You skipped dinner, too?” He sounds appalled. “Want me to make you a second sandwich?”
    “This is enough.”
    “I saw a box of cookies in the cupboard,” he says.
    “I hate junk food. I always have.” I jut my chin out at him. “You’re the one who used to munch chips all the time.”
    “Not anymore. It ruins my game. No junk food. No alcohol. No drugs.”
    “You’re like an ad.”
    “I’m trying to be.”
    My cheeks burn. He’s so earnest. And I realize he was like that in fifth grade, too. Everyone was sort of earnest in those days—but he was extreme. We had that in common. We understood each other somehow.
    We finish and wash everything and put it away. All the evidence gone.
    “I’ll be back.” I go to the bathroom and check my lipstick. It’s still okay. I take toilet paper and blot it—something I read about online. Nothing comes off. Maybe this lipstick has become a permanent stain.
    When I come out, Joshua is sitting on the couch again. He’s big and quiet. He has thin cheeks. Thin cheeks look good on him. Thin cheeks look fantastic on him.
    I walk over and stand there looking down at him and feeling like a stupid blob.
    He pats the cushion beside him.
    I refuse to think. I refuse to hope. I sit down.
    His lip twitches like he almost smiled. But nicely. Everything he does is so nice. He pats closer to him.
    I move closer. I’m breathing hard.
    His face comes close to mine. The scent of spicy mustard is strong. But we share it—we smell the same. Spicy mustard can be “our” scent—like some couples have a song. What would he say if I suggested it?
    We’re not a couple.
    I look down at the back of my hand. At the white spot that I’ve checked at least nine hundred times since I first saw it. It’s bigger than a nickel now. White lips and one spot on a hand. Not so bad. But it could be so much more, so soon. It could be horrific.
    “Will you look at me?”
    I look at him, feeling stupid.
    His face comes closer. But slowly. Very, very slowly. As though he isn’t really moving.
    “Are you okay?” His breath stirs the little hairs above my lip.
    He’s like a curve on a graph. Like in geometry. And I’m like an asymptote. A line he approaches. I’m his limit. Has he stopped? I can feel his body heat. And all I know is that I want. I want so much. This is unbearable. I may die. I know this is a mess. I know this is bad timing. Vitiligovitiligo vitiligo. But can’t I have just a little something good first? Just a kiss? One kiss? “You get closer and closer,” I whisper, “but you never get there.”
    “I’ll get there if you want me to.”
    This is really happening. If I want it to. If I don’t go flying away toward infinity. If I don’t tell him the truth. But I have to tell him. I have to. “Your eyes are gray-green.”
    “Yours are rich chocolate.”
    “Your skin is tan from all that football practice.”
    He smiles. “Your skin is like a giant olive. I love olives.”
    I swallow. “I’m changing color.”
    He blinks. “I think I got that. With the lipstick stuff.”
    “It’s more than that.”
    “Okay.”
    “Okay? Is that all you have to say?”
    “I… I don’t know. We’ve been talking a lot. I was sort of hoping we could try not talking. For a little while. Do you think we could try that? Try not talking?”
    “There’s something I should probably tell you.”
    “For a little while? Not talking just a little while? Could we try it?”
    His lips are so close to mine I can almost feel them. Like a force. Only he isn’t forcing anything. He asks so nicely I could