Free Undercurrent by Paul Blackwell

no sense to me. If Cole didn’t put it there as a joke, then who did?
    The woman doesn’t care. She just wants to crawl across the sand, straight out of the picture, to tear off my clothes.
    My body responds to her desire.
    But after a moment, the feeling goes away. Because she doesn’t like me. It’s all pretend, for the camera.
    I surprise myself by suddenly leaping up. With one swipe, I tear down the poster, leaving only a couple of loops of tape behind. The poster falls, torn, to the floor.
    I begin thinking about Ivy Johansen now, about her kissing and groping me in my hospital bed. Was she faking it, too, I wonder? I honestly don’t think so. Why would she?
    And now I can’t get her off my mind. The feeling of her long, athletic body stretched out on top of mine, my hands trapped under her taut stomach . . .
    I have to feel that again before I die, I decide.
    But then I remember Willow. She was here, on my bed, just the other day. Sitting on the edge, listening to me play a new song I wrote—a lame, stupid song I could hardly get through.
    She clapped and said it was good, though. And I just sat there, flushed, wondering if she was faking it.
    I wonder what would she think about one of the best-looking girls in school climbing all over me. Ivy was touching me and kissing me. Kissing me! I suddenly feel awful about it.
    But why should I feel bad? It’s not like Willow and I are really going out. And this is Ivy Johansen we’re talking about—the entire male student body at Crystal Falls High would probably give me a medal if they knew about it. So why feel guilty?
    Because I’m in love with Willow, I realize.
    I’m uncomfortable even thinking it. After all, we’ve only just become friends this last year. I haven’t even kissed her yet. But I’m in love with her, I know. Why else would I have a collection of her lost bobby pins in my desk drawer—the ones she uses to keep her bangs out of her eyes and that I always find on my bed and on the sofa?
    I can almost hear Cole’s voice: Because you’re an effing weirdo.
    Probably, but I don’t really care. I reach for the desk drawer but stop myself. Playing with secret keepsakes isn’t enough. I really need to talk to Willow now. But I’m scared to phone her. What’s wrong? Why didn’t she come to visit me?
    There’s only one way to find out.
    I know Willow’s telephone number by heart. I pick up the phone in my bedroom and dial. It rings on and on. Just as I’m about to hang up, Elaine answers.
    “Hello?” she says, all out of breath.
    Elaine is Willow’s mother. She hates being called anything else, especially Mrs. Hathaway, I found out the first time I met her.
    “Save me the missus, sport—there’s no Mr. Hathaway,” she told me sternly.
    I felt pretty embarrassed. But it didn’t last, because Elaine is otherwise fairly easygoing. Yeah, she’s got weird fashion sense, wearing pointy boots and patterned dresses that make her look a bit too hippie-witchy for my taste. But I like Elaine. And she likes me, Willow says. Which is the most important thing.
    “Hi, it’s Callum,” I say, feeling nervous. “Is Willow there?”
    Fortunately the woman isn’t in a chatty mood. “One minute, please,” she answers. I can hear her clamp a hand over the receiver and call her daughter.
    There’s only one phone in their whole house, so usually I have to wait a while. For some reason Elaine doesn’t approve of phones, cells especially. To be honest, sometimes I wonder if it’s just so she can keep Willow’s private business out in the open. Although she’s fairly cool, Elaine is still overprotective when it comes to her daughter.
    “Who is it?” I finally hear a faint voice say.
    “I don’t know,” Elaine whispers back.
    Okay, that’s weird. Elaine knows my voice, and I even said my name. Already I’m feeling more unsteady than ever.
    “Hello?”
    Willow’s voice makes me feel better. In fact, it’s the best voice of any girl I’ve met