Peaches

focused on combing through the peaches, looking for signs of rot with her paring knife and a worried flutter in her throat, that she had hardly noticed.
    But now, on the stairs of Camp B, she tightened her ponytail and stuck her sweat-slicked hair back behind her shoulders. She rubbed the sweat off her face one more time, her heart pounding, and looked at her dogs. “Stay.” And then she took the last couple of steps and knocked on the door, calling through the screen. “Puedo entrar?”
    One of the men, Fonda, appeared at the door and pushed it open slightly, smiling.
    “I just want to make sure you have everything you need.” Birdie stepped in and the door hissed closed behind her. Immediately, she was bowled over by the foreign smell of the dorm. It smelled like men.
    Birdie could feel herself blushing. “Is everything okay? Necesita más? ”
    Fonda just smiled at her and shrugged, then turned and led her into the common room, which was disgusting compared to the women’s—the couch was in a shambles with cushions lying all over the floor, empty beer cans and soda bottles were strewn about, a pair of tighty whities lay across the top of the TV. Five or six guys were sitting on the floor, a card game spread out in the middle of them. Everyone was covered in the same glistening layer of sweat. Enrico wasn’t among them.
    “You can check,” one of the guys said. “I think we have everything.”
    “Okay, well…” Birdie took a step backward, thinking that she would just take their word for it. The dorm felt too manly for her to be standing here. It felt like she’d invaded forbidden territory.
    She glanced down the hall and swallowed. “Well, maybe I’ll just take a quick look….” The men’s house was much bigger than the women’s, with a long downstairs hall that held eight rooms, four on either side. It was filled with a blue glow from a light that was coming from one of the open doorways. Birdie padded down the hall, peeking in through the door as she passed.
    Enrico was lying on the bed by the window, watching a tiny TV, his arms glistening beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt.
    His eyes shot up to hers and widened. “Birdie.” He sat straight up, looked around, and straightened the covers around him. He ran a hand through his hair, which was all messy.
    “Come in.”
    Birdie shuffled in and took the seat Enrico offered beside him on the bed.
    The room smelled better than the rest of the house—more like boy than man. His bed smelled like boy. It was beginning to make her giddy. She peered around the room nervously—noticing several books lying all over the place, open and facedown—then glanced up at the TV.
    “What’re you watching?”
    “The O.C.”
    “Oh.”
    At the moment a local commercial was on. “Are you tired of riding around in that old hooptie? Come see the Credit Doctors, where we make buying a new car easy.”
    Birdie tried not to laugh, but a small snort slipped out. Enrico shoved her playfully on the shoulder.
    “You think I drive a hooptie?”
    “I can’t believe you even know the word hooptie.”
    “I know many English words,” Enrico said, grinning at her.
    In an effort to look casual, she leaned back so that her back curved and her head rested against the wall.
    “Here, pillow,” he said, holding up a pillow as if it were a lesson. “Almohada.”
    “Almohada,” Birdie repeated.
    He settled the pillow down behind her head.
    “Thanks.”
    Then he lounged back beside her.
    “This girl is very pretty,” he said, nodding to Mischa Barton on the TV.
    Oh. Birdie sized up Mischa. She was skinny, for one thing. And delicate. Birdie wondered if she was his type.
    They lounged like that until the end of The O.C.
    Birdie thought she should go, but she couldn’t get herself to move. She stayed through the mini–news update and still didn’t move. They stayed put through the next couple of shows.
    During each commercial break Birdie tried to think of something to say. She’d look at Enrico and he’d look at her, his eyebrows rising expectantly, and then, when she didn’t say anything, he’d turn back to the TV, unconcerned.
    Their thighs touched a few minutes later, but Enrico pulled his away.
    Finally the nine-thirty news came on, and a hot weight descended on Birdie’s chest. The news was hardly a pretense for staying. She could feel Enrico’s breathing change from slow and deep into a nervous, uneven rhythm. His arm pushed against hers gently, almost