Hobby bumped into Heather unexpectedly at a beach party in Dionis. He was pretty drunk, he was out with Anders Peashway and the disreputable David Marcy, and when he saw Heather, he knew only that he knew her, but not how he knew her. She had been drinking, too, and she toyed with him, making him guess, until finally she said, “Normally when you see me I’m wearing a white apron.” And he said, “Henry! I mean, Heather!” They embraced like long-lost friends. After a few more beers, Heather was feeling very friendly. She led Hobby away from the party, down the beach, and they started kissing. And Heather, who was at least three years older than Hobby, took charge. Soon they were lying on Heather’s cashmere hoodie, and she was straddling him, and he tried to stop her because he was ready but not prepared-he didn’t have a condom!-but she told him she was on the pill, and he thought, Okay, then. And he thoroughly enjoyed himself, taking as much pleasure in being at last shed of his virginity as he did in the act itself.

But then a couple of days later, when Hobby walked into Henry Jr.’s beaming with excitement about seeing her again, Heather was short with him. Her sentences were clipped; she didn’t smile. She made his sandwiches, wrapped them in white butcher paper, and slammed them down on the counter. Hobby obviously knew something was wrong, but he had no idea what it might be. He had called her cell phone and left a nice voicemail about how much fun he’d had with her. What had gone wrong? He wanted to ask her, but there was a line of construction workers behind him, so there was no way he could broach the topic. He paid her, and she handed him his change, and he hesitated, wondering if he should leave a tip. Would the tip be misconstrued? Would she think it crass? If he didn’t leave a tip, would that seem crass? He’d always left a tip before, so he deposited a dollar in the tip jar, said thank you, and walked out of Henry Jr.’s into the hot parking lot, thinking, I just really don’t have any talent with women.

But with Claire Buckley, things were different. Hobby had put in a lot of time with Claire. They had gone to school together since kindergarten. He’d always known that Claire was smart, a cut above the other students. And she had developed into a phenomenal athlete as well, playing field hockey, basketball, and lacrosse. She was tall and strong, more interested in her quad muscles than in her breasts-though, as Hobby happened to notice, she had very nice breasts. But what Hobby found most attractive about Claire was her drive. Claire wanted to excel at whatever she did, just like Hobby.

She responded to his text:

Of course.

Of course she would be his date for the prom. Hobby got that text just before lunch, and he grinned and thought, Excellent. He ate two meatball subs draped in gooey, melted mozzarella cheese, and he thought again, Excellent!

One reason Hobby hadn’t asked Claire in person was that he feared she might say no. There had been a time-in late fall, between Thanksgiving and Christmas-when he and Claire were seeing each other every day. Basketball season had just started, and they were both in and around the gym all the time. Claire had a car, and she often offered Hobby a ride home. There had been one time when the moon was coming up over Miacomet Pond, big and round and shining a cool gold color. It looked like a giant sugar cookie, Hobby thought, but that was a stupid thing to say, so he kept it to himself. Claire pulled over on the dirt road that led to Hobby’s house so they could properly ogle this moon, and the next thing he knew, they were kissing and he was really turned on and so was she and he thought they might and she thought they might-but they were two good kids, and they didn’t want their first time having sex to be in Claire’s car on the side of the road, and so they stopped. Caught their breath. Stared out the window at the moon and the reflection of the moon on the pond.

The kissing and getting all worked up had subsequently continued-on one occasion, Hobby’s pants were around his knees, and Claire was sitting on his lap, but no, they still didn’t. Then Claire got sick with bronchitis, then Hobby went away for the weekend for a basketball tournament, then they were both busy studying for their SATs, then the boys’ team made it into the playoffs but the girls’ team didn’t, and Claire and Hobby lost the momentum that had been building between them.

And then Hobby heard a rumor that Claire had hooked up with Luke Browning, whose brother, Larry, was in the correctional facility in Walpole, which was exactly where Luke was destined to wind up too. Luke was known as something of a ladies’ man, but Claire Buckley was too smart to fall prey to his obvious charms. Right? Right? Hobby saw Claire in class and around the halls, and she was nice to him, but then again she was nice to everybody. She wasn’t going out of her way to start a conversation with him, and she didn’t offer him any more rides home. The good thing was that when he saw her out-at the second night of the school musical, Grease, for example-she was always with her girlfriends. So he thought maybe the rumor about Luke Browning had been just stupid Nantucket gossip, which bit its victims like a pit bull and shook them until there was no life left.

Hobby decided to ask Claire to the prom because he didn’t want to go with anyone else.

Of course, she said. As though it were a given.


Claire and Hobby had sex for the first time on the Wednesday morning before prom. They were supposed to be at school, but Hobby’s American History teacher had called in sick and the front office couldn’t find a sub, so he had a free period. He decided to work out in the gym, and he bumped into Claire by herself in the hallway in front of the locker rooms. She said she had been planning on working out, but it was such a beautiful spring day that she thought she might ditch for one period and drive to the beach. Ditch? thought Hobby. Seniors were allowed to leave school during their study halls and lunch period, but nobody else was. Still, Claire was right, it was springtime, the janitors had just cut the grass, and the scent wafted in through the windows. And they were practically seniors.

Hobby said, “I’ll go with you.”

They climbed into Claire’s car, and without their exchanging a word, Claire knew to drive right to Hobby’s house. He jiggled his leg; he couldn’t be misreading any cues. This was it.

Claire shut off the ignition in his driveway. “Your mother’s at work?”

“All day,” he said. He couldn’t stop his leg from doing its own dance.

“Are you nervous?” she asked him.

The cool answer would be no. Hobson Alistair Jr., who had scored the winning touchdown in a Hail Mary against the Vineyard with thirteen seconds left in the game, nervous?

“Yes,” he said. He was nervous about many things: he had never skipped school before, and he was afraid of getting into trouble. If he got caught, Coach might not let him pitch in the game against Dennis-Yarmouth, and it might go down on his school record, and what if some admissions director at Stanford or Duke noticed it? He was nervous that his mother might show up for some reason. Hobby’s bedroom door didn’t lock; Zoe would feel no compunction about barging right in, even if she did recognize Claire Buckley’s car in the driveway. And finally, he was nervous because he wanted this to go well. He wanted her to enjoy it. Probably this was her virginity they were talking about, and if it wasn’t, then Hobby wanted to be better than the other guy. That was just his competitive nature.

It went well. Very well.

Despite the fact that Hobby was openly nervous and Claire was nervous but hiding it, they took their time. They kissed without touching each other until they couldn’t stand it anymore, and then they touched each other. Claire was wet to melting; the sound that escaped from her lips when Hobby touched her was so erotic that he nearly came in his underwear. He climbed on top of her.

She said, “Yes, I’m ready. I’m so ready.”

She had said this at the exact moment when Hobby was reaching for a condom. He had a box of three, as yet unopened, under his bed. But when Claire said, “Yes, I’m ready, I’m so ready,” Hobby construed this to mean that it was okay for him to enter her right then, without a condom. He figured she must be on the pill. What he thought was, Okay, she’s on the pill, lots of girls are on the pill, it helps with acne or whatever. Heather was on the pill, even Penny is on the pill. Claire’s mother, Rasha, is cool, she must have made sure he daughter was on the pill, that’s what cool mothers do.

He entered her halfway-not wearing a condom-and checked with her. “You okay?”

“God, yes!” she said. “Go!”

So he went, slowly at first, gently, kissing Claire’s face, and then he went faster and faster, and Claire cried out and again the sound aroused him like nothing else had in his entire life, and he came all the way up inside her.


Eight days before graduation, on June 8, she was standing by his locker in the morning, and he knew. It was written all over her face. But maybe not, he thought. Maybe she just looked like that because she’d bombed her Chemistry final.

“Hey,” he said.

She dissolved. Tough Claire, cool Claire-she was a wreck. Hobby collected her in his arms. Claire was tall, but he was taller, tall enough to kiss the top of her head. To the rest of the runty adolescent population of their school, he supposed they looked like a couple of mating giraffes.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said.

“It’s not okay,” she said. “I’m seventeen.”

Yes, that was something he could identify with. He was seventeen also. A daft seventeen-year-old boy. He’d assumed she was on the pill. Wasn’t she on the pill? he asked gently. And if she wasn’t on the pill, what had she thought they were using for birth control?