Perfect Girl - Weebly

acing, I add, “With me.”
The city bus bumps along Route Thirteen, stops in
Boyds Corner, Biddles Corner, St. Georges, and Wrangle
Hill. Each stop is little more than an opening and closing of
the door. We sit together on the double seat, our denims
brushing up against each other with each lurch of the bus. I
want to nibble his earlobe, tell him he’s my Saturn and I’m
his rings. A celestial storm of fright and thrill pulses through
every capillary. The musky smell of his hair overwhelms me
with feelings of love. Already, it’s the most amazing day.
Perry doesn’t say a word. I’m tempted to fill the silence
with nervous chatter, but I stop myself. Words would ruin
the moment. And I want every nanosecond of this day to be
burned into my memory forever.
Besides, my lips are so dry, words would only get stuck
on the way out of my mouth.
Perfect Girl can have her flawless tan. I have Perry.
Once we transfer to the Greyhound bus in Wilmington,
three and a half hours separate us from Washington, D.C.
With each passing hour, my buzz level increases exponentially.
(I know this because Perry explains that the word
exponential means a number multiplying itself by itself, and
that’s exactly what is going on in my adrenaline-flooded
body.) By the time the bus driver bellows, “Washington,
D.C., the nation’s capital, next stop!” we’re both shooting
sparks off the tops of our heads. Perry leaps to his feet before
the bus even comes to a stop.
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