I was surprised it took us this long to talk about it. Ruthie told stories—kissing her older brother’s friends, skinny-dipping in Lake Erie, making out with a friend named John in her parents’ basement. Her retellings seemed anecdotal—lacking substance or feeling or any kind of reflection. But I’d never asked her for more details because I didn’t want her to ask me for any. Before reading Cosmo and Seventeen, I had gone my entire life without saying the word sex out loud. It was never talked about. And never talking about something—that kind of extreme restriction—just makes you want to binge once you finally have it.

Maybe that’s why Ruthie was so obsessed with losing her virginity. Maybe she was less experienced than she made it seem.

“Just hookups,” she finally answered, vague. I got the sense she wanted to avoid the question as much as I did. “I’ve told you about them. First base, second base. A little third. But that was high school. College is more fun.” A smile started creeping up her face, like she was trying to hide it. “You should get Tim away from the group. Go for a walk with him or something. See what happens.” She paused, then added, “I’m one night away from a home run. Maybe you’ll catch up to me.”

I didn’t know what qualified for each base in her metaphor, but I got the general idea, and I knew I was probably only on first. But I also knew what a home run was. If that’s what she wanted, that’s what I wanted, too.

Like a small battalion, we changed our spot in the forest every few days, dragging the cooler and drinks deeper into the trees, or farther down the stone wall. Though we were sure we’d never be discovered, we took all the necessary precautions regardless—loosening up any packed dirt formed from sitting for too long, covering our tracks. If we were going to be found out, it wasn’t going to be because we were stupid.

When it was Timothy’s turn to find us a new spot, I offered to go with him. It was getting colder and darker, and the combined directional knowledge of two people gave us a better chance at remembering where we put everything, so we didn’t have another mishap like last week. Ruthie had been in charge and immediately forgot where she set things up after she exited the forest. It took us forty-five minutes to figure it out.

“You’ve really gotten the hang of the misdemeanor life,” Timothy said as we trudged through the trees, a heavy cooler balancing over his left shoulder like a boom box in the movies. I had two handles of Smirnoff clanking in my backpack like a chorus.

“And you’ve gotten the hang of Covenant campus life,” I responded, indicating his church-issued khakis.