“And Teresa?” He looked at me, his eyes filled with worry.
I took a deep breath, remembering the expression on her face, the wide eyes and gaping mouth so easy to translate, even from all the way across the parking lot. And how it turned into a slow curving smile as she watched us climb into the car and drive away. “I’ll deal with Teresa,” I said, having not the slightest idea how I’d actually do that. But it sounded convincing.
Then I grabbed my purse and crawled out of the car, shutting the door firmly between us. And just as I started to move toward my house, I turned back, leaned through the open window, and said, “Hey Marc, thanks. Thanks for today.”
He smiled at me, holding my gaze for a moment. Then he turned up his stereo, shifted into gear, and drove away.
But now, with the three of us crowded into Teresa’s guest bathroom for the sole purpose of talking Abby down from her self-induced, body-dysmorphic panic attack, I realize I still have no plan for how to handle Teresa.
But then again it’s not like she doesn’t have her own secrets to hide. And it’s not like she was alone either.
“Listen, this is crazy. We’ve got to get out of here,” Jenay says, having reached her limit as she reaches for the door handle. “We’re in here, the guys are out there, and there’s something very wrong with this picture. Abby, you look great, you are great, and I can tell Jax is totally into you. But if you don’t get out of this bathroom right this second and back to your date I’m going to scream.”
Abby takes a deep breath and follows Jenay, while I linger behind the two of them, peering into the mirror as they head out the door, wondering how it’s possible to still look like me, when I feel so different inside.
Okay, so normally on a Saturday night, when someone’s parents are out of town and they decide to throw a party, you can pretty much expect to see the usual things—music blaring from somebody’s docked iPod, a lamp and/or vase breaking into a million little pieces, a half-hearted fistfight that breaks up well before they can take it outside, sporadic alcohol-induced vomiting in the bushes, people sneaking upstairs to hook up—I mean, those are just some of your basic, all-purpose party ingredients, right? Not that I’ve been to that many parties, but still, I’ve watched a lot of TV and movies and read a lot of books, so I think I know what to expect.
But Teresa’s party is nothing like that. Probably because she only invited her friends from school, which means she’s acting more like her lunch table self—you know, cute, flirty, preppy, and fun, as opposed to her off-campus self—the slutty girl who smokes and drinks, wears low-cut sweaters, and has really bad taste in men. I mean, if “Hot Jason” and “Asshole Tom” were here, I doubt she’d be blasting the indie girl CD, serving snacks and appetizers from a carved, bamboo tray, and dispensing cocktails from her parents’ sleek, well-stocked, mahogany bar.
It’s like everything is so carefully coordinated—the plates match the cups match the napkins match the flowers—heck, even her outfit is in cahoots, with the belt, shoes, and earrings all coordinating with tonight’s color scheme. And it’s kind of bizarre to be hanging with a bunch of kids from school on a Saturday night, at a party that seems way more like a baby shower.
“I saw this same exact spread in InStyle magazine,” Teresa says after Jenay compliments her on the tiny, matching, sky-blue bud vases she placed in an undulating pattern across the glass-topped coffee table. “It was for someone’s baby shower, I can’t remember who. Jennie Garth? Jennifer Garner?” She scrunches up her face. “No, someone else. Anyway, I clipped it because the second I saw it I knew I wanted my baby shower to be just like that, but then I thought, omigod, what am I waiting for? I mean, getting knocked up is like, at least a decade away. So I just made a few tweaks, and voilà!”
She says “voila!” like “voy-la!” But I don’t have the heart to correct her. I just stand there, sipping my drink and smiling, wondering if she has any immediate plans to out me.
I gaze over at Abby who’s perched on the edge of the sofa, nodding at Jax’s every word, and trying hard to look interested in whatever it is that he’s saying. And then Parker walks up, slips his arm around my waist, and kisses me on the cheek.
And my eyes dart straight for Teresa, like the second he does that, wondering what she’ll do. But she just smiles even wider and goes, “You guys are way too cute together.” Then she winks at me and walks away.
“Come on, I wanna show you something,” Parker says, tugging on my arm as he leads me upstairs. And when we end up in the guest room, well let’s just say I’m not exactly surprised.
“Parker, I don’t think—” I start, but then he puts his finger over my lips before quickly replacing it with his mouth.
So I let him kiss me. At least while we’re still just standing by the door. But when he tries to pull me toward the bed, I shake my head and go, “No.” Pulling away, attempting to free myself from his grip.
“Come on.” He smiles. “No one’s gonna walk in. It’s just us.”
But it’s not about somebody walking in. It’s about the fact that I just can’t do this anymore. Not after having kissed Marc. Not after having tasted the real thing.
“I just want to go back downstairs and hang out with my friends,” I say. “Come on, let’s go. We can do this later.”
“I’m your friend,” he says in this syrupy voice that totally gets on my nerves. “And I’m right here.”
“I mean my other friends. You know, like Jenay and Abby and everyone else.” I shake my head and roll my eyes, making no attempt to hide it.
“What’s your problem?” He squints at me, his face looking more hurt than angry. “You hardly answer your phone, you’re always running off. It’s like, if you don’t want to be with me, Echo, then just say it.”
I gaze down at the ground, then back at him, wishing I could be the right kind of girl. The kind who wouldn’t just know that she’s lucky to be with him, but actually feel it too. The kind of girl he deserves. But I’ve strayed so far from normal now, I’ll never find my way back. And the truth is, I no longer want to.
“I don’t think we should do this anymore,” I finally whisper, still staring at the ground, yet feeling the weight of his stare upon me.
He stands there for a moment, not saying a word. Then he shakes his head and brushes right past me. “Whatever,” he says, as he heads down the stairs.
By the time I make it back down, it’s pretty clear that everyone knows. I can tell by the way they all look at me, eyes wide, lips parted, voices gone suddenly silent. Believe me, if anyone knows the signs of being the headline, the star of the big juicy story, it’s me.
So I head straight for the door, knowing better than to stay. And just as I grab the handle, Jenay and Abby appear. “Where you going?” they ask, their voices careful, their faces concerned.
“It’s a couples party,” I remind them. “And since I’m no longer a couple . . .” I shrug, wanting to leave it at that, but knowing I can’t. They’re my best friends, which means they’ve earned the right to hear more. “Listen, don’t worry. I’m fine. Just have fun and call me tomorrow. I’ll explain it all then, okay?”
And before they can even respond, I’m already halfway down the drive. And just as I reach the end I hear Teresa call out, “Hey Echo, be careful out there, okay?”
And I don’t know if she’s referring to the walk home, or what she saw at the park. But either way, I just keep going.
Twenty-one
July 10
I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like, I thought I knew what it was like to be in love—the first time with Bryan Boxer, back in seventh grade, for one crazy, completely awkward week, and then again freshman year, when I first hooked up with Stephen (when I was young and impressionable and didn’t know any better). But now I know I was wrong.
Dead Smacking Wrong.
THIS is love.
Marc is Love.
Me + Marc = love.
I know it sounds crazy si
nce I’m only sixteen, but I just can’t help but believe that we were made to be together. I mean it. I love everything about him. There’s nothing that annoys me or gets on my nerves (a total miracle, I know). And whenever we’re apart for more than a few hours, I feel this major aching loss, like I’m weak and incomplete, until we’re finally back together again.
Okay, I just reread that last part and totally cringed. And to be honest, I’m thinking I should probably just scribble it out and pretend I never wrote it. I mean, WEAK and INCOMPLETE? Get a freaking life already! I know. But still, I’m just gonna leave it there, cuz the truth is, it’s how I really feel. And even though I can’t imagine ever not feeling this way, I still want to write it all down—the good, the bad, and the completely embarrassing—so that I can read it again someday, when we’re both old and gray, swinging in a hammock and listening to our iPods—or whatever old people will do in the future.
Anyway, Marc’s been sneaking into my room practically every night for the last week, but now with Echo coming back soon, we’re gonna have to find another way. I mean, she probably wouldn’t care if he tiptoed past her bed, since she’s a pretty deep sleeper and it’s not like she’s ever busted me before, but I’m still not one hundred percent positive I even want her to know. I just don’t think it’s such a good idea to involve her in this. So I guess I’ll just have to think a little harder, and find another way.
Yesterday I snuck him into work, and stashed him under my desk. It’s a HUGE wood desk, so trust me, he fit. And we totally made out during one of the fifty-minute sessions. And then right before our time was up he kissed me good-bye and said, “I better get out of here before the goateed wonder catches us.”
And as I sat back in my chair, I readjusted my skirt and said, “You gonna go look at that Camaro? The one you told me about?”
And he just nodded and went for the door.
Then right before he walked out I went, “Hey, how’d you know he has a goatee?” And when I looked at him, I noticed he had the weirdest expression on his face, but then just like that it was gone.
And he goes, “You told me.”
And then he left.
But the thing is, I don’t remember telling him that, since I never really talk about my job to anyone other than my parents who insist on a weekly report so they can make sure I’m working hard as opposed to humiliating them in front of a colleague.
But I guess I must’ve told him, because how else would he know?
July 11
Marc picked me up from work today in his same old Camaro, saying that in person, the one he was gonna buy was just not up to his standards. Whatever. I mean, to me it’s just some old beater car that takes up most of his free time, and I just don’t get the attraction. But as long as he’s willing to drive me to work and back, I guess I can’t really complain. Not to mention how it spares me from having to beg for my own car, since my parents are pretty much not cooperating and refusing to hear my pleas.
Speaking of parents, I have to say that it’s kind of weird how I’ve never met his mom. Not to mention how I’ve never even been to his house! I mean he’s here all the time, and even though my parents definitely don’t know about him spending the night and stuff, at least I’ve introduced them! Though I did try to keep it all casual and act like he was just a friend.
I’m still not sure why I did that, and I could tell Marc was kind of hurt. Even though he didn’t really say anything other than, “Why’d you call me your friend?”
But I just said, “Cuz you are my friend. And believe me, it’s not like they need to know all the details.”
So we just left it at that, but still, I could tell he was bothered.
I guess there’s just so many crazy, mean rumors about his family that I didn’t want my parents to get all freaked or anything. I mean, I LOVE HIM, I really, really do. But that doesn’t mean they’ll understand.
July 20
Echo’s back. Which means I’ve barely had time to see Marc since I’ve been working all day, and I’ve yet to figure a way to get him into my room without getting caught. And because of that, we had our first fight.
And I know how most people keep journals specifically for moments like this, but it drags me down so bad, I don’t feel like writing about it, much less thinking about it. I guess that’s why I didn’t write for a few days, but we’re better now, so I’m back.
But if I’m gonna be honest (and if I can’t be honest here, then where?) then I have to say that it’s just not the same as it was before. Now it’s different, altered. Like when you scrape your knee and you get a scar, but then the scar fades so much that no one can see it but you. But you know where it is. Cuz you remember what caused it. And no matter how hard you try, you can never forget how bad it hurt when it first happened.
Well, that’s how it is with us. From the outside, everything looks the same, but on the inside, it’s all different. And what makes it even worse is that it wafall my fault to begin with.
It’s just, sometimes Marc gets so detached and quiet that it makes me all needy. And then needy turns to whiny. And then, well, I started nagging him about not having enough time together (which is totally crazy, I know) but I was just hoping that would make him invite me over, even if his mom is half out of the bag all the time. I mean, he lives in a mansion, so it’s not like she’ll even notice.
But he didn’t invite me. He didn’t say anything. So then, of course, I started accusing him of not wanting to be with me (I know, pathetic, insecure, lame, etc). Until he goes, “Zoë, I’m 16. What do you want from me?”
And I went, “NOTHING!” Which obviously was a lie. So then I said, “Do you realize that not once have you invited me to your house?”
And he closed his eyes and shook his head, which only egged me on more.
So I go, “I’m serious. You’ve met my parents so why can’t I meet yours?” Which I know is not exactly fair since that time when I first introduced them I didn’t really cop to our relationship, instead I pretended we were study buddies.
But then he looked right at me and said, “Trust me, you so don’t want to come to my house.”
And I said, “You don’t know what I want.”
So then he shook his head and said, “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I lay in bed, with Zoë’s journal facedown on my chest, watching the red message light on my cell phone flash on and off in my now darkened room. I know it’s either Abby, Jenay, Parker, or Teresa. But it doesn’t matter. My phone’s been ringing off and on practically since I got home, but not once did I consider answering it.
I know my friends are probably just worried, and I know the least I can do is let them know I’m okay so I close the diary and pick up the phone, wondering just exactly where to start making amends.
But there’s only one message, and when I hear it, I realize it’s not really a message, just a bunch of music. And just as I’m about to delete it, thinking for sure it’s a mistake, I remember the song from Marc’s car, the one that was playing as he drove away.
And I lay there with the phone pressed tight to my ear, playing it over and over again, until I finally fall asleep.
Twenty-two
The next morning I’m listening to Abby’s version of everything that happened, in sequential order, from the moment I left Teresa’s party to the moment she left Teresa’s party.
“So wait, Parker was flirting with who? I thought it was couples only,” I said, phone clenched between my shoulder and ear as I paint my toenails a nice deep red. “Was he hitting on someone else’s date?”
“Trust me, after you left, it all went to hell. And by ten o’clock word was out, and practically all of Bella Vista showed up.”
“Seriously? What’d Teresa do? Whip out more cheese logs and little blue drink umbrellas?”
Abby laughs. “No. Always the perfect hostess, she just raided the liquor cabinet and the wine cellar. It got pretty crazy. I bet she’s really gonna pay when
her parents get home.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I say, replacing the polish top and leaning down to blow on my toes. “I hear she’s pretty spoiled, you know, only child, daddy’s little princess, mommy’s little protegee.”
“Must be nice,” Abby says. And then, “I mean, well, you know.”
“Relax.” I gaze out the window. “I may be the only child left, but I’m no princess. Anyway, back to you. You know you still haven’t told me what I really want to hear. What happened with you and Jax? Disaster? Or love at second sight?”
Abby sighs loud and heavy, and for a moment she sounds much older than her years. “I don’t know. He’s cute, and nice, and all that, but when he walked me to the door and kissed me good night, well, there weren’t really any sparks, you know? I mean, I know you can’t always expect bottle rockets, but can’t I at least get a sparkler?”
I think about the difference between Parker and Marc, and realize how funny it is that I, of all people, can now be considered some kind of expert. Well, at least where Abby’s concerned. But then I remember how she doesn’t actually know about Marc, at least not that I know of. “Did it seem kind of clinical?” I ask. “Or more like a relative? Like a frisky, drunken uncle?”
“That’s disgusting, but no. It was more like two actors rehearsing a role, hoping they were getting it right. Like, the whole time my lips were moving my head was thinking, That’s it? You waited fifteen years for this?”
“Yikes.”
“Tell me,” she says. “But here’s the thing, do you think maybe it was just nerves? I mean, do you think I should try it again?”