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Dare.
That's what Chloe looks like, her head tilted to one side, her eyes sparking as she gives you a look, pure challenge, and her voice, which sometimes sounds fluttery but most of the time sounds as sure as you always wish you were, says Clark likes you (angry) and you know it (angrier) and you--pause---you (wondering)--and her eyes spark again,
dare.
You see Chloe every day, a thousand times, hallways, cafeteria, gym, and once when you were in second grade you went over to her house and played, sat and watched, horrified and fascinated, as she shoved her Barbies into a toy car and pushed them off the stairs, giggling as they fell (wanna try? she asked): you see her every day and so what is it that burns right in the middle of your chest, a slow melting tingle spreading outwards, your breasts, your stomach, your throat, and her eyes, her eyes are much closer now; Whitney leans in like this when he wants a kiss, and the first time he leaned in towards you your breath caught because he was wonderful and wanted you and it was like waking up, discovering the touch of his mouth on yours, and you wanted him and you still do but there was never this--
dare.
Never this hitch of sensation, terribly guilty wonderful giddy hot golden glow because there's something so-bad-so-good slippery ache about it all, you standing here, Chloe next to you (no one else around), and this, and this--you know what this is, this is a
dare.
You know what you want and oh, the thrill of it, pounding blood rushing everything hushed and this waiting
( pause )
and even your fantasies, closed-eyed imaginings of Whitney and you and a dark quiet room, even they don't produce this rush, this chill that burns, and Chloe's eyes spark once more and her lips part and Lana she says, Lana?, and it's not a question, never was, is instead a--
dare.
Will you? Do you? Can you? I came, you tell Whitney when his hand brushes between your legs, his face smiling down into yours, your skin wet and warm and shivering under his touch. I came, you say, and maybe it's a lie, but that feeling, that almost that's always been wonderful and enough, picture it a million times more and it doesn't come close to the sweet close-your-eyes glow that rises brighter and brighter as your lips touch hers, perfect.
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