He takes a sip of his coffee, and then his eyes light up. “Okay, what about the time in seventh grade when you got your”—he pauses, tripping over the word—“um, period at school and you had to borrow my sweatshirt for the rest of the day?”

I remember the horror of that day clearly. I stood up at the end of math class and noticed a small red stain on the chair. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. I wasn’t friends with the girls yet and didn’t have anyone to ask but Andrew. I held my backpack awkwardly over my butt and pulled him to the side of the room, my face burning as I coughed out the words. He let me tie his sweatshirt around my waist for the rest of the day, and we never once brought it up again. It was one of the first times I felt a strange kind of distance from him—when I began to realize I was a girl and he was a boy, and our experiences were going to branch off into different directions.

“I can’t believe you’re bringing that up,” I say, feeling my face heat.

“I’m just saying, this can’t be more embarrassing than that.” He takes another sip of his coffee and then sets the mug down on the table and leans back in the booth, waiting for me to speak. I don’t.

“Okay, I’ll ask you questions then,” he says, leaning forward again and clasping his hands in front of him on the table. “Is this similar to the great period incident of seventh grade?”

I shake my head no.

“Okay, what else is embarrassing? Hmmm. Does this have to do with . . . bodily functions? Bathrooms? Toilets?”

I laugh, shaking my head again. “No toilets.”

“Thank God.” He thinks for a moment. “Does this have to do with Hannah? Is that why you can’t ask her?”

I sigh, shaking my head again. “I can’t ask her because she’s a girl. I mean, I could I guess, but I’m . . . um, straight.”

“Hmm. Does it have to do with James Dean?”

I nod, tapping my nose like in charades.

“Did he do something?” He leans forward, frowning. “Do I need to kill him?”

“No. Nothing like that,” I say, and he relaxes.

“Is this a sex question?” He leans forward in the booth. “That’s why you can’t stop giggling. It’s because you’re five years old.”

“Hey!” I say, but tap my nose anyway. He’s getting too close and I’m not sure I want to keep playing the game. If I ask him, there’s no turning back. There’s no guarantee things won’t be ruined between us forever. This is worse than the great period incident of seventh grade. Much worse.