Hopeless

add a few extracurricular activities to the applications. After months of incessant pleas from Six and me, Karen finally conceded and allowed me to enroll for my senior year. I could have enough credits to graduate from my home study program in just a couple of months, but a small part of me has always had a desire to experience life as a normal teenager.
    Of course, if I had known then that Six would be leaving for a foreign exchange the same week as what was supposed to be our first day of senior year together, I never would have entertained the idea of public school. But I’m unforgivably stubborn and would rather stab myself in the meaty part of my hand with a fork than tell Karen I’ve changed my mind.
    I’ve tried to avoid thinking about the fact that I won’t have Six this year. I know how much she was hoping the exchange would work out, but the selfish part of me was really hoping it wouldn’t. The idea of having to walk through those doors without her terrifies me. But I realize that our separation is inevitable and I can only go so long before I’m forced into the real world where other people besides Six and Karen live.
    My lack of access to the real world has been replaced completely by books, and it can’t be healthy to live in a land of happily ever afters. Reading has also introduced me to the (perhaps dramatized) horrors of high school and first days and cliques and mean girls. It doesn’t help that, according to Six, I’ve already got a bit of a reputation just being associated with her. Six doesn’t have the best track record for celibacy, and apparently some of the guys I’ve made out with don’t have the best track record for secrecy. The combination should make for a pretty interesting first day of school.
    Not that I care. I didn’t enroll to make friends or impress anyone, so as long as my unwarranted reputation doesn’t interfere with my ultimate goal, I’ll get along just fine.
    I hope.
    Grayson walks back toward the bed after ensuring my door is locked, and he shoots me a seductive grin. “How about a little strip tease?” He sways his hips and inches his shirt up, revealing his hard-earned set of abs. I’m beginning to notice he flashes them any chance he gets. He’s pretty much your typical, self-absorbed bad boy.
    I laugh when he twirls the shirt around his head and throws it at me, then slides on top of me again. He slips his hand behind my neck, pulling my mouth back into position.
    The first time Grayson snuck into my room was a little over a month ago, and he made it clear from the beginning that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. I made it clear that I wasn’t looking for him , so naturally we hit it off right away. Of course, he’ll be one of the few people I know at school, so I’m worried it might mess up the good thing we’ve got going—which is absolutely nothing.
    He’s been here less than three minutes and he’s already got his hand up my shirt. I think it’s safe to say he’s not here for my stimulating conversation. His lips move from my mouth in favor of my neck, so I use the moment of respite to inhale deeply and try again to feel something.
    Anything.
    I fixate my eyes on the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars adhered to the ceiling above my bed, vaguely aware of the lips that have inched their way to my chest. There are seventy-six of them. Stars, that is. I know this because for the last few weeks I’ve had ample time to count them while I’ve been in this same predicament. Me, lying unnoticeably unresponsive, while Grayson explores my face and neck, and sometimes my chest, with his curious, over-excited lips.
    Why, if I’m not into this, do I let him do it?
    I’ve never had any emotional connection to the guys I make out with. Or rather, the guys that make out with me . It’s unfortunately mostly one sided. I’ve only had one guy come close to provoking a physical or emotional response from me once, and that turned out to be a self-induced delusion. His name was Matt and we ended up dating for less than a month before his idiosyncrasies got the best of me. Like how he refused to drink bottled water unless it was through a straw. Or the way his nostrils flared right before he leaned in to kiss me. Or the way he said, “I love you,” after only three weeks of declaring ourselves exclusive.
    Yeah. That last one was the kicker. Buh-bye Matty boy.
    Six and I have analyzed my lack of physical response to guys many times in the past. For a