Election. Tom Perrotta

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      “Wow,” I said. It was embarrassing to realize that she'd spent more time thinking about my campaign than I had. “I wish I knew how to thank you.”

      She touched two fingers to her mouth and gave it a moment's thought.

      LISA FLANAGAN

      TAMMY STARTED to scare me, or maybe I started to scare myself. It was like an undertow that kept dragging me farther and farther out to sea, away from normal life and other people.

      We'd agree to stop, but then it would start right up again. It was hard to stay away from each other after school, when both our houses were empty and the only alternatives were TV or homework.

      “When did you realize?” she asked me one day.

      “Realize what?”

      “You know. I've known for a long time.”

      I felt sick inside when she said that, like someone had accused me of a crime.

      “I'm not like that,” I snapped, my face heating with shame. “I don't even know what I'm doing here.”

      I moved away from her and began sifting through the tangled pile of clothes on the floor, trying to separate my stuff from hers. I spoke without looking at her. My voice shook.

      “You think I don't want a boyfriend? Is that what you think? ”

      She didn't answer, but I heard her sobbing as I slammed the door. A week later I was back, modeling this pink camisole she'd stolen especially for me from Hit or Miss.

      Once, at the movies, we sat far away from everyone and held hands. Sometimes she slipped little notes through the vents of my locker. She kept inviting me to sleep over in her bedroom, insisting that no one would ever suspect. I couldn't bear the thought, not with Paul and her parents in the house.

      One day I noticed that a picture of me had appeared inside her locker, a snapshot from the previous Fourth of July. I was holding a hot dog in one hand and a burning sparkler in the other, looking happier than I actually remember being in my entire life. I ripped it off the door.

      “You can't just keep that there,” I hissed.

      “Why not?”

      “Someone might see it.”

      “So? It's just a picture.”

      “Tammy, please. Don't do this to me.”

      On Valentine's Day, when no one was looking, she gave me a red rose. She also placed an anonymous ad in The Watchdog.

      “L.F.,” it said. “Come watch Oprah with me anytime. Your totally secret admirer.”

      I have to admit, that made me happy. I must have read it a dozen times, thinking how nice it was to be remembered like that. All I gave her was a hard candy heart with a stupid message on it, “Sweet Stuff” or “Candy Girl,” something like that.

      Not long after that—I guess football practice got canceled or something—Paul walked in on us in the living room. We weren't really doing anything, just watching TV with my head in her lap. She liked giving me scalp massages.

      “Hey,” he said. “Look at the lovebirds.”

      I sat up like a gun had gone off. I thought I was going to die, but Paul just went into the kitchen for a soda.

      A couple of weeks later, somebody scratched the word “Dyke” into my locker. I remember staring at it for a couple of seconds, trying to catch my breath, feeling like someone had my head underwater and was holding it down. I knew we had to stop before something awful happened.

      My solution was clean and dramatic. That spring, I joined the track team. Instead of spending my afternoons with Tammy, I occupied myself by running laps around the football field. I was cold to her at school and said I was busy when she called me at night. Eventually she got the message.

      I liked running and turned out to be pretty good at it. The sunshine cheered me up and so did the fresh air and camaraderie of belonging to a team. Slowly, I started to feel like a normal person again, out of danger. Except sometimes, running in a meet, I had this creepy feeling she was chasing me, that I'd glance over my shoulder and see her bearing down, gaining with every stride.

      TAMMY WARREN

      I SAT in the bleachers and watched her run. She seemed so far away from that perspective, a total stranger, talking and laughing with her teammates, pretending not to notice me. They'd hug each other after crossing the finish line, three or four girls linked together in a private circle, sealed off from the world.

      I felt so bad and weird that I actually made an appointment with the school psychologist. She's pretty, maybe thirty years old, with really great taste in clothes—silk scarves, Italian shoes, some kind of subtle perfume (most of the other women teachers smell like they're wearing Wizard room deodorizer). I remember walking into her office and wanting to be her, to skip ahead ten or twelve years to a time when I'd be poised and elegant and totally in control of my life.

      “This is all strictly confidential,” she told me. “Feel free to say whatever's on your mind.”

      “I'm in love.”

      Just blurting it out was such a relief, I immediately burst into tears. She pushed a box of Kleenex across the table and watched me with a sympathetic expression.

      “Take your time,” she said, pausing for a second to admire her enormous diamond engagement ring. “When you're ready, you can tell me all about him.”

      That's when I realized how impossible it was, my whole life. Talking about it wasn't going to change anything. I thanked her for her time, and got a pass back to study hall.

      PAUL WARREN

      MY EX-GIRLFRIEND WAS a kisser. I went out with her a whole year and never even unhooked her bra. She was perfectly happy to make out for three hours at a stretch, but if I so much as tried to untuck her shirt, everything came crashing to a halt.

      “Paul,” she'd say in this shocked voice, like I'd just whipped out a pair of handcuffs. “What are you doing!”

      I guess that's why I was so amazed when Lisa started unbuttoning my shirt after just a few minutes of kissing. Her mother was at work, and I realized pretty quickly that she wasn't fooling around. Her face was hot and she was breathing in these hard little gulps. She took my hand and pulled me toward her bedroom.

      “Are you sure?” I asked.

      She said yes. She fumbled for something in her dresser drawer and told me she'd be right back.

      Time seemed to expand while I waited for her, but I felt totally focused, totally connected to the moment, the way I did sometimes on the football field.

      “Close your eyes,” she said from the hallway.

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