But instead he looks at me and says, “It’s okay. Really.”
“It is?” I look at him suspiciously, unsure if he means it.
“Yeah, it’s your call.” He reaches down for his jeans and I watch him step into them, one leg at a time.
I’m standing in front of him half naked with my dress held tightly against me. I feel like such a loser, such a big baby. And no matter what he says I know I totally blew it. But it’s too late now, it’s not like I can take it back. I turn away from him and pull my dress over my head. When I face him again he’s buttoning his shirt and smiling at me.
“You’re not mad at me?” I venture.
He shakes his head. “Not at all. But I was wondering.”
“What?”
“Well, how long will this take?”
“What?”
“I’m kidding.” He looks at me and shrugs. “Well kind of.”
I follow Connor outside and I’m just waiting for him to ditch me, to go in search of a more mature, accommodating girl, but instead he reaches for my hand, wraps his fingers around mine, and pulls me up alongside him.
Chapter 10
When we go back inside the house I’m surprised to find the party just as we left it. It seemed like we were in that cabana forever, like something monumental had happened. But now, seeing all these people slightly drunker, but basically unchanged, makes me feel like maybe it wasn’t that big of a deal. I mean, Connor is still here, and I have every right to say no, right? I remember reading somewhere that your body is your temple and only you can choose who comes to worship. Whatever. All I know is that eventually I will lose this virginity of mine, but it’s gonna be on my terms and it’s gonna be glamorous.
We find M lounging on a giant-size beanbag chair, holding a drink in one hand, and a pool cue in the other. The room smells kind of weird like someone’s been smoking pot or something but I’m sure it wasn’t M ‘cause neither one of us does stuff like that. When she sees me standing in the doorway she shouts, “Oh my god! I’ve been looking all over for you!”
I watch her struggle to get upright without spilling her drink.
“Help me out here, would you?” she says.
I give her my hand and help her up. She rearranges her Burberry plaid miniskirt that has risen up and twisted around, says hi to Connor and goes, “Hey Trevor come here, this is Alex.”
I watch Trevor make his shot, and then scowl as he narrowly misses his pocket. He looks up and smiles and gives me a halfhearted wave. And I’m not sure if his lack of enthusiasm is because of the missed shot, or if he’s already bored by me.
“I can’t believe you missed that shot,” Connor says, walking around the side of the pool table.
“I suppose you could do better?”
“You know it.”
Connor looks around for a cue stick, and M goes, “Here, take mine, I’m bored with this game.”
“We just started!” Trevor says.
“Yeah, well,” M just shrugs and takes another sip of her drink.
I settle onto a velvet beanbag chair next to M and watch Connor and Trevor play pool, and I try to think of what celebrities they resemble. Trevor is kind of skinny and not very tall, with hair that’s all dark roots and bleached tips. And with his dark brown eyes, and pale, English-schoolboy skin, he looks kind of like a guy version of Gwen Stefani. And Connor with his dark, wavy, tousled hair, swimming pool-blue eyes, hot body, and that one, slightly crooked, front tooth, makes me think of what Hugh Grant and Elizabeth Hurley’s kid would have looked like if they hadn’t broken up and she hadn’t gotten knocked up by that other guy who thought he wasn’t the dad but then it turned out he really was.
“Where were you guys?” M asks, giving me a suspicious look.
“We took a walk.” I look at her briefly, then back at the guys.
“Where to?”
“Outside,” I say, still not looking at her.
“Front or back?”
“Why?” I ask. I mean, god, she’s practically leering at me.
“Because you’re being so secretive that it makes me want to know.”
“We were outside, in the back, in the cabana, by the pool. Okay? Happy now?” I look right at her.
“What were you doing in there?” She leans in and stares at me.
“Jeez, M!”
“Well?”
“Nothing, okay. Just talking.” I fidget with the hem of my dress.
“Why so sensitive?” she asks.
I look over at Connor and Trevor, but they’re into the game, they can’t hear us. “Listen, we almost did it but then we didn’t.”
“Did you get coitus interrupted?” M laughs.
“Yeah, by me.”
“What?”
“I just wasn’t ready, I couldn’t go through with it.”
M looks at Connor who just made his shot and is pumping his arm into the air. “Well, he doesn’t seem too upset about it. But I’m telling you, you really need to get it over with and put it behind you. You act like it’s such a big deal, and it’s really not.”
I just look at M and shrug. Our realities are so different. She lost her virginity last summer to some hot surf instructor during a family vacation to Maui. She called me like the minute it was over to give me all the details. It’s like, she just breezes through life never worried about the consequences. I wonder what it’s like to always feel so safe.
“Well, there’s one more thing,” I tell her.
“What’s that?”
“I told him I was nineteen,” I whisper.
“What?” she shouts.
“Shhh.” I look around frantically. “You heard me,” I whisper.
“Does that make me nineteen too?”
“I guess.”
“Cool.” She takes a sip of her drink and leans back.
“What about you, what have you been doing?” I ask.
“Nothing. I watched that movie for a little while, then I bumped into Trevor and we’ve just been hanging out.”
“Is there anyone famous here?”
“No, just a couple of Bachelorette wannabes.” She sets down her drink, then stands up and walks over to the pool table and leans against the far-left-corner pocket, the same one Connor is shooting for, only now he misses.
“Oh, and you almost had it,” M says, giving him a flirty smile.
“I did have it. Until you distracted me,” Connor says in a joking way, but I wonder if he’s partly serious.
“Yeah, well you seem to be easily distracted,” she says.
“What does that mean?” He leans his weight on his cue stick and looks at her, while Trevor lines up his next shot.
“Well, like how long did it take you to call Alex?”
Connor just stands there looking at her, and I’m sinking deeper and deeper into the beanbag chair, wondering where she’s going with this and wishing she’d stop right now.
“Oh, that’s right, you never did call her did you? See what I mean by easily distracted?”
M just stands there smiling and I’m completely frozen. I can’t believe she just said that. I’m just about to say something, anything, when Connor goes, “Well, actually, I was waiting for Alex to call me. I thought that’s how you do it in America. Lucky for me I found her in the hallway.” Then he looks at me and smiles and winks and even though it was really nice of him to do that, I still want to kill her.
Then out of nowhere she goes, “Hey, is anybody else hungry? ‘Cause, I’m starving. Do you think we could get some breakfast?”
“You want me to make you a waffle?” Trevor drops his stick and grabs her around the waist and nuzzles her ear. It’s the second time he’s seen her and he’s already gone. It never fails.
“No, let’s go somewhere,” she says.
And so we leave all the guests to continue the party on their own, and pile into Trevor’s Hummer and end up in some funky old diner with sticky, illustrated menus.
The restaurant scene is surreal. I
t’s like being trapped in that Tori Amos video where she keeps morphing. The waitress looks like she’s trying to morph into Christina Aguilera but that’s not why I feel sorry for her. I mean, I can’t imagine working here at this hour. Nothing but drunk people trying to sober up and not throw up before the long drive home.
When Connor slides in the booth next to me, he moves in so close that our legs are touching. He opens his menu and leans his shoulder into mine, and when I look up I catch M watching us with an expression I can’t quite read.
Then Trevor picks up a menu and goes, “Okay, you guys just order anything you want, it’s on me. But not you Connor, girls only, you’re on your own.”
So I go, “Well thanks, Trevor, but I think I’ll just have coffee.”
“No really, I mean it. You want this burger here,” he holds up the menu and points at a picture of a greasy-looking burger, “You just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”
“Well, as generous as that offer is, I think I’ll stick with coffee,” I say.
“Okay, last call M, how ‘bout it?”
“Well . . .”
So then the pseudo-Christina waitress comes over with her notepad, ready to take our order. I stick with coffee because every time I eat this late at night my dreams get even crazier than usual. Connor gets coffee and pancakes, Trevor taps his finger on the picture of the greasy burger and says, “This. I want this.”
And M goes, “Okay. I’ll start with a small garden salad with ranch dressing, on the side. Then I’d like a grilled cheese sandwich, but use very little butter please. I’d also like some peach cobbler warmed up with some vanilla ice cream, but if you could put the vanilla ice cream in a separate bowl, I’d appreciate it, because I don’t like it when it gets all warm and runny. Oh, and a Diet Coke. Thank you.”
The waitress doesn’t even flinch. She just takes her tan, hair extensions, and notepad back into the kitchen to place our orders.
Trevor retrieves a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offers them all around, but Connor shakes his head and says, “Not me. I quit.”
Trevor holds the pack in front of me and goes, “He’ll never quit. We’ve been smoking forever.”
I look at Connor and he just shrugs, then I push the pack away because M and I don’t smoke. Not to mention that it’s illegal to smoke in restaurants in California and I wish that Trevor would just stop because I’m kind of a wuss about rules like that. But then M grabs the pack from Trevor pulls one out, taps it on the table like a professional smoker, and holds it up to her mouth, waiting for a light.
I look at her totally shocked because we gave up smoking after three tries in junior high when we realized it didn’t make us look cool, it just made us smell bad. But now Trevor gives her a light and she’s smoking it, and I can’t believe she’s doing that but I don’t say anything.
When our food arrives M and Trevor finally put out their cigarettes and everybody just sort of digs in. There isn’t much in the way of conversation, which is fine by me ‘cause I sort of shut down when I get tired and it’s hard for me to act all vivacious. Trevor and M are sharing off each other’s plates and whispering back and forth. Then suddenly they both get up and say, “We’ll be right back.”
I watch M walk away and wonder what they’re up to. Normally she’d drag me into the bathroom with her so we could talk about the guys and stuff. But I guess she’s not going in there with Trevor so they can have a conversation.
I take a sip of my coffee and lean my head back and close my eyes. I feel Connor squeeze my hand and then lean over and kiss me softly on the cheek. I open my eyes and smile at him.
About fifteen minutes later Trevor and M come back and want to go. She’s acting all hyper and fidgety and weird, and when I try to catch her eye she purposely looks away. And I’m really starting to wonder what went on in the bathroom just now. I figured she probably went in there to fool around with Trevor, but now I’m thinking there was more to it, like maybe they were doing drugs or something. I mean, earlier, when she was playing pool and the room smelled like pot, I was so positive it wasn’t her. But now watching her act all strange and secretive, I’m no longer sure.
When we walk outside I’m surprised to find that it’s still dark. I mean, it feels like it should be the next afternoon or something. But technically it’s Saturday morning and I remember that I’m scheduled to open the store today.
“So where to now?” M asks bouncing up and down in the backseat of the Hummer.
“Wherever you want.” Trevor looks at her from the rearview mirror and smiles.
“Alex, what do you think?”
I look at my watch and then I look at everyone else, and I don’t want to be a major party wrecker but I really need to get back to Orange County so I can sleep, shower, and change before work. “Well, I hate to say it, but um, I really have to go home soon.” There I said it, peer pressure be damned.
“No!” M whines. “The night is young!”
I look at her and I can’t believe she’s whining like that, but I just say, “I’m sorry, but I have to work tomorrow.”
“Call in sick!” She rolls her eyes, clearly frustrated with me, which just makes me more determined.
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I can’t call in sick.” I’m glaring at her and I feel really embarrassed to be fighting like this in front of Connor.
“Well, I’m not going home, Alex. So just take these, take the car.”
She’s dangling her car keys in front of me and I can’t believe she’s doing this, but I just swipe them out of her hand and say, “Well what about you, how are you getting home?”
“Don’t you worry about me, I’ll find a way.” She gives me a smug look and I’m so mad I just stare out the window for the rest of the ride.
When we get back to Trevor’s, Connor gets out of the Hummer and M climbs into the front seat and slams the door between us. She waves at me as they drive away, and I cannot believe she’s ditching me like this.
“Are you going to be okay?” Connor asks. “I know it’s a long drive.”
I give him a smile I don’t really own and say, “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’ll just listen to some music.”
Then he kisses me good-bye and he tastes like pancakes and maple syrup and it’s really hard to stop.
Chapter 11
On Monday morning I pull into the student lot and look around for M’s car, partly because we usually park next to each other and partly because I’m wondering if she’s here yet since I haven’t talked to her since she ditched me on Saturday night.
I tried calling her yesterday after I got home from work but her mom answered the phone. I could hear her go, “Hello? Hello?” and then “Who is this?” and that’s when I hung up. I know that’s a terrible thing to do, but I didn’t feel like talking to her and I couldn’t figure out why she was in M’s room answering her private line. I spent the rest of the night hoping she wouldn’t star sixty-nine me.
But since M wasn’t in French or Calculus, or even at our lunch tree, I’m starting to worry that maybe something happened to her, like maybe she didn’t get home safely, and that makes me feel guilty about being mad at her.
I switch books at my locker and run to my English class because I don’t want to be late and attract any unnecessary attention. When I get to the door, I look around for M but she’s not here either, so I just sort of slink to my desk and hope for the best.
Mr. Sommers walks in, glances at us briefly, then goes over to his desk where he starts flipping through some papers and rubbing his scraggly beard in a distracted way. And I’m thinking, well today must be the day. The day when he finally hands back those Anna K papers, the one I still haven’t started. He’ll look at me when the papers have all been handed out and then he’ll say in front of the entire class, “Alex, I need to speak to you later.” And then everyone will turn around and snicker at the former-homecoming-princess-now-big-loser sitting in the next-to-last row.
I watch him get
up from his desk clutching some paper in one hand and still fingering his beard with the other. He’s standing in front of us and he’s looking right at me with these dark eyes that look like they’ve seen things he’s not going to tell you about in this AP English class. And as much as I want to look away I can’t, because part of me is just like all the others. Part of me wants to watch this train wreck that is surely headed my way.
He clears his throat like he always does at the beginning of class and I sink a little lower in my seat, preparing for a verbal caning, when he says, “I’d like to read you a story written by one of my students that really impressed me.”
So I relax. I’m relieved that it’s not about me and I wonder why I’ve become so paranoid. Then he starts reading “Holly Would,” that short story I turned in instead of the Tolstoy paper. I sit frozen at my desk. I can’t even believe it.
When he’s finished reading someone goes, “Who wrote that? Whose was that? That was really good.”
And then Mr. Sommers looks at me and waits and in an unsure voice I say, “I wrote it?”
And then everyone turns around and stares at me in disbelief. And then someone who I used to dismiss, someone who once felt like a total loser because of me, someone who is now well aware of my social decline, says, “No way. No way, she wrote that.”
And now everyone is staring at me to see how I’ll respond. But I don’t say anything because I remember how I once treated this person and how it always comes back to you.
Mr. Sommers sits on the edge of his desk and says, “Alex did indeed write it and it got me thinking. For your next assignment I’d like you to write a short story, fifteen-hundred words, due Monday.”
I sit up straighter, feeling good about myself in a classroom for the first time in two years. No homework for me! I’ve got plenty more where that came from, a whole drawer full of stories that I’ve written, and they’re not all about Richard Branson either. But it’s just a little hobby of mine. I mean, it’s not serious or anything.