I trawl through images of double-A cup, double-D cup, and everything in-between. There are pictures of different breast types—pert, pendulous—and detailed instructions on how to calculate your bra size. There are even warnings about the dangers of silicone implants, although the images are kind of gross so I go back to admiring the other ones.
After fifteen minutes, I’ve learned enough to know that Zach may have been on to something when he said Paige is barely a 32A. I close the screen, and I’m about to get up when Mom walks in and sits on the sofa beside the desk. I’m glad she didn’t come in a minute sooner.
“So how was the date last night? Now that Abby’s not here, you can actually try being honest.”
“It was good. I had fun.”
“So you’re going out again?”
Uh-oh. I really don’t want to admit that I’m going on a date with a different girl so soon. Then again—
“Yeah, I’m going on another date tomorrow,” I say, hoping she’ll assume it’s with Paige.
“Oh, that’s nice. You must have made a connection then.” She hesitates a moment, then stands up.
I’m so pleased she misunderstood me that I conjure a broad smile, and she smiles back. But somehow her smile seems empty, like I’ve just told her the very thing she didn’t want to hear.
16
She’s so notoriously ditzy that I half-expect Jessica to forget our date by the time school ends the next day, but I spend the final period chewing gum just in case. The image of Paige’s face as I ate the chips and salsa is still branded on my memory, and I don’t want there to be any obstacles to full-on French kissing this time.
I walk out of school and there’s Jessica, waiting by the main doors just like we arranged. Well, not exactly like we arranged—she’s kneeling in the grass, winding daisies into a chain. When she sees me she waves, and a moment later she’s wearing the daisy chain around her head and I’m wondering if this date is such a good idea after all.
Not that she isn’t cute. She’s wearing a figure-hugging, sky blue tube dress that ends a gratifyingly long way above her knees, and her legs are tan like she spends most of her life outdoors making daisy chains. She reminds me of a character from one of those age-swapping movies; it’d sure be easier to explain her behavior if she were actually an eight-year-old trapped in an eighteen-year-old’s body, even though that would make this date kind of immoral.
“Take my car?” she asks, skipping over to me.
“Uh, sure.”
“Or we could take yours,” she adds thoughtfully.
“No, I don’t have a car.”
“Oh.” Her eyes grow wide and she bites a fingernail. “You probably shouldn’t admit that. It’s not cool.”
“Okay. How about we pretend I have a car but we’d prefer to take yours?”
“That’d work. Although it’s actually my sister’s car.”
“Isn’t it uncool to admit that?” I say as we traipse across the grass toward the student parking lot.
“No, ’cause I’m a girl. And ’cause I have access to a convertible Beetle. That makes it okay.”
Her logic temporarily eludes me, but rumor has it that extended questioning rarely leads to clarification when it comes to Jessica, so I let it go. And then she’s opening the doors to a shiny new Bug, and I think she may be right about this being the next best thing to owning your own car.
“I’m going to open the roof, okay?” she giggles, pulling back the black canvas top. She’s finished before I have a chance to answer.
A few minutes later we’re whistling along residential streets and Jessica, minus daisy chain, is trying to coax her hair up so that it will fly around in the breeze. She seems unsure that it’s working and spends most of the time checking her reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Don’t you just love to feel the wind in your hair?” she bubbles. “It’s so liberating.”
“I don’t have much hair.”
“Oh, then you should get a wig or something. No one should miss out on this.”
Once again the tiny, rational part of my brain wants to ask her how on earth I could feel a wig, but this is Jessica, and so the best course of action is to pretend we’re having parallel, unrelated conversations.
“So where are we going?” I ask, as the buildings begin to thin out.
“I think you’d look good with long blond hair,” she gushes. “It’d look kind of feminine, but I think I’d like that.”
“Are we going far?”
“Although blond might not work with your pasty complexion.”
“Do you like spring? I like the warmer weather.”
“Maybe long brown hair. I could braid it for you.”
“Long hair wouldn’t be so good when the weather gets warmer.”
“I like the warmer weather. Do you like spring?”
I take a deep breath and marvel at this unlikely confluence of conversations. “Yeah, I like spring.”
“Hmmm, interesting,” she sighs, then shuts up completely. Strangely, this is an improvement.
Five minutes later she pulls into the parking lot beside Brookbank lake. She looks around nervously, gets out, and walks swiftly toward a secluded clump of trees. When we’re past the first tree she grabs my hand and performs a couple of pirouettes beneath my outstretched arm.
“I like you, Kevin. I think you’re funny.”
“Um, thank you. I think.”
“Do you think it’s a compliment to be called funny?” she asks with sudden deathly seriousness.
“Er … I’m not sure, really. I guess not.”
“What about hunk? Would it be a compliment to call you a hunk?”
“Well, yeah, although we’d both know it’s not true.”
Jessica is sweeping her foot across the ground, brushing the grass back and forth. “Hmmm. So what compliment would you like to hear?”
I expect to see her laughing at me, but she’s actually serious. I’m beginning to reflect nostalgically on our conversation in the car.
“I don’t know. Maybe interesting. Or genuine.”
Her eyes open wide and her mouth contorts. “That’s it? Interesting or genuine? Geez, you aim pretty low. I thought you’d at least try for good kisser.” She looks away coyly. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“A good kisser.” She takes my hand and performs another pirouette.
I turn a deep shade of red. “Not really,” I mumble.
We disconnect and she plants her hands on her hips. “Ooooh, that’s not a good way to put it. Way too honest. Try again.”
“Um … I … yes, I’m amazing.”
“Naaaah. Wrong answer. Kind of gross. Try again.”
“Geez, why can’t I just show you?”
“Ah,” she whispers. “Definitely getting warmer.”
And then she’s holding my hand again and our lips are touching, and I’m content to stay that way as long as she likes. I don’t change a thing about our gentle, moist little kisses until she opens her mouth, and then I do exactly what Paige told me to do. And it works. Jessica doesn’t pull away for at least ten seconds.
“Whoa, you actually are a good kisser.”
“Thanks,” I say, preparing to continue.
She leans back. “But your hard-on is rubbing against me and it’s weirding me out.”
Why do guys have such an overtly expressive sexual organ?
“But don’t worry,” she reassures me. “It’s just a little time-out, that’s all.” She smiles and takes my hand. “Do you think I’m cute?”
I look away. “Yes.”
“I’m glad.” She chuckles. “Ever since that Women’s Studies class started, some of the girls are saying you shouldn’t judge someone on their looks. But I don??
?t see what’s so wrong with being pretty.”
“No. I like pretty girls.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, that sounded kind of weird.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Forget about it … I’m just saying it’s not fair for someone to hate me just because I’ve got the same physical measurements as Jessica Alba, you know?”
“Hold on. Did you just say Jessica Alba?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that incredible?”
Yup, that is incredible.
“That’s exactly what Paige said.”
“She did?” Jessica furrows her eyebrows and stares into space. “Oh, it must have been Paris Hilton then, not Jessica Alba.” She gazes at me again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you about your ex-girlfriend.”
Ex-girlfriend? My date with Paige only lasted seventeen minutes. Is it really possible to become an item in less time than it takes to shower?
“Well, anyway,” continues Jessica proudly, “I just got measured for my prom dress. And it turns out I’m a 34B-25-35. Do you need me to repeat that?”
“Huh? No, I got it.” I give her breasts a closer inspection. “Are you really a 34B?”
“Yeah, of course. Why would I lie about something like that?” She pauses as I shrug. “Here, you can touch if you want.”
I wait a moment, expecting her to say “April Fools’” even though it’s almost May, but she doesn’t say a word, and she’s moving toward me. I swallow hard, then place my hands on her breasts and give a little push.
“Ow!” She steps back. “Geez, Kevin. It’s best if you touch a girl’s breasts gently. They’re kind of sensitive, in case you hadn’t heard.”
Actually, I hadn’t heard, but I don’t tell her that.
“Try it like this,” she says, gently rubbing her fingertips across the part where I imagine the nipples must be.
I take over and she smiles, and I know that I’m doing well. I’m even considerately keeping my distance so that my boner doesn’t disturb her again. I begin to entertain visions of a long and enjoyable evening.
“Good, you’ve got it.” She removes my hands. “So, you believe me now?”
“About what?”
“They’re 34B, right? It’s obvious.”
“Oh yeah. 34B. Absolutely.”
“Great. Well, this was nice.”
She does one final pirouette and wanders out of the woods.
I’m trying to keep up with what just happened. It seemed like we’d made a real connection. But I don’t want to sound desperate—even though I am—so I just trot along behind her.
As she gets into the car I notice a bumper sticker emblazoned against the Beetle’s red paint: I have PMS and a handgun. Any questions?
“Is that bumper sticker true?”
Jessica puts the keys in the ignition. “Which part?”
“Um, the bit about you having a gun.”
She laughs. “Is that what scares you the most?”
“Yeah, of course.”
She laughs again. “Then you don’t know girls at all, Mr. Mopsely.” She’s facing the passenger seat as if I were already sitting next to her. “That’s really an elementary—”
I don’t hear what comes after that because she’s driven off without me, although she continues talking to the invisible Kevin Mopsely all the way out of the parking lot.
In the hour it takes me to walk home, I wonder how long our conversation lasted before she noticed I wasn’t even there.
17
It’s been two months since I’ve seen my dad, although he only lives twelve miles away. Like most realtors, he shows open houses on the weekends, and I can’t say I’ve felt much of an urge to see him, anyway. Until now, that is.
Over the last two weeks my life has taken several strange turns for the better, but I can’t share the good news with the two people I talk to the most: Mom and Abby. They’d both freak out and they’d both hate me and I’d still have to face them every day. This is just the kind of situation where absent, adulterous fathers come in handy.
He’s supposed to pick me up at lunchtime, but lunchtime comes and goes and we don’t hear from him. Mom pretends that nothing is out of the ordinary because she tries not to badmouth Dad to my face, but by four o’clock I call his cell phone to tell him that she’s dropping me off at his house. He doesn’t answer, which means he’s ignoring me because he always keeps his cell phone on. I leave a message telling him I’ll be there in half an hour.
I know it kills Mom to have to drive me over to his new home. It’s actually his girlfriend’s house, but by the time he admitted to his extracurricular activities, he’d pretty much moved in there already. It’s in a new, suburban gated community for middle-class people who believe that everyone’s out to get them. Dad must feel quite at home.
When we pull up to the gates, I’m surprised to see that he’s already waiting for me. He waves halfheartedly and wanders over to our car. Mom gets out before I can stop her.
“Hey, Kevin,” says Dad. “We’ll be heading right out, okay? Things to see, people to do, you know.” He laughs at his own wit. “Hello, Maggie.”
He swoops in to peck Mom on the cheek, but as he does she sniffs the air suspiciously.
“Have you been drinking, Darrell?”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Just drop it, okay?”
“No, I won’t drop it. You know I don’t like you driving when you’ve been drinking.”
“It’s just one drink—”
They continue to bicker, but I’ve already heard enough, so I pick up my bag and let myself into the passenger side of Dad’s car. Mom doesn’t realize what I’ve done, but Dad notices and as soon as I’m inside he waves goodbye and hustles over to join me. Before Mom can protest further, we’re pulling out into traffic.
“Christ, that was annoying.” Dad slaps the steering wheel for effect.
“Well, we haven’t had many of these family reunions yet. Maybe it’ll get easier over time.”
“Yeah, sure,” he snorts. “And maybe she’ll buy herself some clothes that actually look decent, and dye her hair like every other woman.”
I laugh in spite of myself. I suppose I’d never realized that Mom’s appearance bugged him too.
Dad notices me laughing and looks over. He has a wicked grin on his face. “See, we both know some things’ll never change.”
“I guess not.”
“I know not.”
Dad looks different than I remember. He’s dyed his hair black, and there seems to be more of it than before. He’s even wearing a new tan leather jacket, which makes him look trendier, more youthful. I’m glad that at least one of my parents is taking care of themselves.
We pull into an ugly, concrete apartment complex, where an ostentatiously large sign proudly proclaims that these are The Grovington Apartments. A part of me wants to know what we’re doing here, but another part of me certainly doesn’t, so I remain mute and follow him out of the car. Dad steps up to the nearest first-floor apartment and unlocks the door with one of the keys on his chain. He walks in and beckons me to follow.
“Ta-da!” he booms, as though I’m supposed to be impressed by the stained, cream-colored walls and the worn sofa facing an ancient TV propped up on a beer crate.
“Um, what’s going on, Dad?”
Dad shoots me a confused look. “It’s my new place,” he explains with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“But Mom took me to your new place … that gated community.”
Dad shakes his head and smiles. “No. Things didn’t work out with Kimberly, see?”
I’m trying to process this, but it requires some serious work. He left his wife of twenty-two years for this woman, and now, barely eight months later, he acts like it’s no big deal that it
didn’t work out.
Dad pulls a couple cans of beer from a crate beside the sofa and hands one to me. I wait for him to take it back, say he’s kidding, but he’s already focused on his own. I hold the can tightly in both hands—it’s warm, but it’s beer so I’ll drink it anyway.
“Does it bother you that things didn’t work out?” I ask finally.
“Not really, no.” He forces a laugh. “Kimberly was a total bitch.”
I try to hide my shock, but “bitch” certainly wasn’t part of Dad’s vocabulary when he lived with us. Seems as though his drastic makeover wasn’t limited to clothes and hair.
“So . . . well, what happened?”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” he mutters. “I mistook Kimberly for a smart woman—someone who’d let me be myself, without judging me the whole time. Stupid, aren’t I? First your mom, then her. I’m batting 0-for-two. Not a good average.”
“So what’s next?”
He swigs his beer and frowns. “Well, for one thing, I’m not going to get trapped again. See, I realize now that women are all about trapping guys. They talk about lack of commitment and stuff like that as if it’s some big character flaw, and so you feel all guilty and before you know it—BAM, you’re engaged, or married, and it’s all over.”
He chugs the whole beer and so I chug mine as well. Immediately my body erupts in a belch and tears sting my eyes. Dad barely seems to notice as he pulls out two more.
“See,” he continues earnestly, “there’s nothing wrong with being in a relationship per se, but you’ve got to stay on at least even terms, know what I mean? Like, if you want to have some girl, then have her.”
“I do,” I tell him, although it feels like it’s someone else saying it; the beer is already working its magic. “Twice this week I had dates with different girls.”
Dad raises his beer and knocks it against mine as a kind of masculine toast to my burgeoning libido. “That’s excellent, son. What’re they like?”
“Well, Paige is hot as hell, and Jessica’s kind of ditzy but she’s cute as well. Come to think of it, they’re both really sexy.”