“Are you taping Trading Spaces?” she asked. Isobel once told me she thought reality shows were bunk and, quoting her dad, “the death of the culture Americaine” but even she was addicted to home-makeover programs.
“Yeah, isn’t it awful? Those raffia headboards have got to go.”
“Yuck, what is that color are they putting on the walls? Fuchsia?”
“Check out the seashell headboard!”
“Ooh, Wonder Boys on HBO!”
I flipped to it during a commercial. We swooned over Tobey’s white ribbed tank top. Isobel wanted to get “Mrs. Maguire” inked above her derriere, but I talked her out of it for now.
“There’s a bonfire at Baker Beach tonight,” Isobel mentioned casually.
“I know,” I said. (Claude’s fan site had even provided a map to the exact location.)
“Is that boy going?”
“Most likely.”
“You know, he and Whitney are bangin’,” Isobel said. She had just watched 8 Mile and had started to insert hip-hop phrases into her speech.
“No way! I thought she had a boyfriend in Carmel.” (Jeez, you really couldn’t believe everything you read. The site reported Claude was “happily single.”)
“They broke up. I heard Georgia talking about it in English,” Isobel said.
“So he’s really dating her?”
“J’écoute he’s taking her to the Soirée.” A small knot formed in my stomach. So it was true. He really was dating Whitney. He was taken. I mourned our five-second conversation in geometry. And I thought we had really connected!
“Are you going?” I asked.
“Me? No! I told you. It’s moronic. What about vous?”
“Me neither.”
“Should we make a pact that we both won’t go to the stupid Soirée?” she asked.
“Okay. I promise.”
“Moi aussi.”
We were on the phone for the next two hours, watching as different sets of neighbors discovered what atrocities or wonderments their friends had inflicted on their homes, until I finally fell asleep on the phone to the sound of agitated complaints and ecstatic commotion.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] SENT: Sunday, October 25, 8:01 PM
SUBJECT: sat night fever
Hi, Peaches—
Your sister’s debut sounded so fun! I wish I was there. I can’t believe your parents wouldn’t allow you to bring a date though! Was Rufi mad?
Last night, Whit, Georgia, Trish, and I met the guys at Baker Beach for a bonfire. We roasted marshmallows and hot dogs, and Claude brought his guitar. I wore my new Esprit T-shirt, but I should have brought my sweater because it was so malamig. The fog suddenly rolled in, and I finally discovered what “goose bumps” are.
Whitney and Claude sat next to each other. Do you think that means anything? I think she might like him, too! What am I going to do? Wouldn’t that suck?
Love,
V
8
Clown-skull Book Covers Rule
THE WORST THING about working at the cafeteria after school is the utter lack of sunlight, windows, and any semblance of fresh air. We’re located all the way in the back of the store, and the fluorescent lights make everything look green.
I hated doing my homework there. The table behind the counter was rickety, and I always had to lay out all my papers unevenly. It was Monday afternoon, and I was totally pitying myself for being stuck inside doing homework when I could be watching Claude at the lacrosse game. So far, I’d only been able to catch one match, thanks to the Spirit bus and Mom giving me the odd afternoon off from the cafeteria.
Half the semester was over, and I still didn’t know a rhombus from a trapezoid. Claude was no help either. He didn’t even show up to class half the time. We had a midterm coming up in geometry and we were both hopeless.
Annoyed at a particularly irritating question (How DOES one prove two triangles are congruent? More important, who really cares?), I picked up The Fountainhead instead. I decided it was my Most Favorite Book of All Time. If they ever remade the movie, I thought Tobey would make an excellent Howard Roark, the suffering architect (who was described as a redhead, but that was a minor point—Tobey could dye his hair, just like he did for Seabiscuit). I had just gotten to the moment when Dominique, the feisty heiress, declared her love for Howard, when Paul the stock boy walked in, wearing his trademark red baseball cap.
He came in every afternoon on his break, and I’d gotten used to seeing him around after four o’clock. He usually asked for a Pepsi (sometimes a Kit Kat, too), sat down at a back table, and left after fifteen minutes. He always said “Hey” when he entered and “See ya” when he walked out. The cafeteria was usually deserted when he was there, making us the only two people in it, since most of the employees liked to take their afternoon breaks in the mall, not that I could blame them.
“Hey…Vi-sen-za.” He smiled, pulling out his headphones on his MP3 player, which was blasting so loudly, I had heard it from across the room.
“It’s Vi-chen-za, but most people just call me V,” I said in a rush. It’s weird. I don’t even think he’s cute. But I just get all jittery around boys, no matter who they are. It’s not like I like him—I mean, first of all, he’s got those braces, and he’s always wearing an ugly Papa Roach or Rancid T-shirt under his ratty Sears uniform shirt.
“Are you at Mills?” he asked, naming a public school in our area.
“No, I go to school in the city. Grosvernor. It’s a private school,” I said, somewhat embarrassed and hoping he wouldn’t think I was some kind of snob. I had begged my parents to let me attend the local public school. I craved the anonymity I imagined a big school would bring. It was somewhat difficult to disappear in a class of thirty perfect girls.
He shook his head. “I guess that explains the uniform. I should have known.”
I suddenly wished I had changed out of my ugly gray skirt and cranberry blazer.
“Frosh?”
“Um-hm.”
“I’m a sophomore at Hillside.”
Why is he telling me this? I wondered. Not that I didn’t already know that about him. As far as I could tell, half the junior salesclerks in Cosmetics had crushes on him. Laurie, this loudmouth who worked in Housewares talked about him all the time. Once I realized it was Paul she was talking about, my ears pricked up whenever they chatted about him. She and her crew were always mooning over him during break, talking about how his muscles bulged when he picked up the washer-dryers or how cute his butt looked in his 501’s. I already knew he was a sophomore, lived in San Mateo, and liked to surf.
“Wanna listen to something cool?” he asked.
“Sure.” I shrugged.
He handed me his headphones and I stuck them in my ears gingerly. He turned down the volume a bit, and I heard jangly guitars playing and a low voice growling a surprisingly plaintive, catchy tune.
“It’s good. Who is it?” I asked.
“You really think it’s good?” He smiled, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeah.” I nodded, getting into it. It had a hard edge, but the lyrics were kind of nice. It was some sort of love song.
“It’s me,” he said, “and a couple of guys. We’re kind of in a band.”
“No way!” I reached over and turned it up a little more. It was definitely his voice—deep and kind of gravelly. Funny that I didn’t notice before. “Did you write it?”
“No, Led Zeppelin did.” He laughed. “But I’m getting some of my own stuff together,” he explained, as I handed him back his earphones. I suddenly felt shy and a little self-conscious about the intimacy of having something in my ears that was just in his.
“Well, it’s really good. You guys ever play anywhere?”
“Nah,” he said. “It’s just a hobby. It’s not like I really think I’m going to be some guitar god or anything. I’m not that much in denial. Besides, the corporate-industrial-music complex ha
s totally ruined the world.”
“What, like MTV and stuff?” Jeez, I loved MTV. What was his deal? I didn’t peg him to be such a cynic.
“Yeah, MTV, radio—it’s all corporate rock. There’s nothing real out there anymore.”
“That’s not true,” I argued. “And, besides, it’s just entertainment. You shouldn’t take it so seriously.”
“No, music matters, man.” He shook his head. “That’s the worst thing about the world right now—everything is trivialized into entertainment. What about passion? Art? Soul?”
“You’re telling me Britney Spears doesn’t have a soul?” I joked.
He made a face. “How can you listen to that crap?”
“I like Britney,” I defended. “Give the girl a break. She’s been through some tough times.”
“V, you disappoint me,” he said, shaking his head and looking down at the counter. “Oh man! And don’t tell me you’re reading that!” he said, flicking his thumb at my copy of The Fountainhead.
“What do you mean?” I asked, annoyed. Ayn Rand was a genius! She was a philosopher! What would some Sears stock boy know?
“That’s a terrible book!” he said. “She started a cult. She was a dangerous person. That book is incredibly dogmatic and manipulative. It’s not a novel. It’s a…whatchamacallit…a manifesto…a rant!”
“Have you ever read it?” I asked.
“Yes and believe me, it’s even worse than listening to teen pop. At least Britney doesn’t try to tell you how to think.”
Only how to dress, but I didn’t want to seem like I was coming around to his way of thinking, so I just shrugged.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he teased.
“No, no…” I said, not wanting to be rude.
“Look her up sometime. You’ll see what I mean.”
“All right,” I said coolly, even if I had no intention of doing so.
I gave him his Pepsi and his Kit Kat before he even asked for them.
“Thanks,” he said, and handed me exact change. I put it away in the cash register and went back to my reading, still a little annoyed by his criticism.
I peeked over the pages and watched him sit down at the nearest table. He pulled out a worn paperback and began to read.
Even if we didn’t see eye to eye on pop culture, I still liked having him there. It felt oddly comfortable, like, even if we were alone, we were being alone together.
After fifteen minutes, he stood up and walked over to the counter. What now? I wondered.
He stared askance at my book, as if the mere sight of it caused him pain. “I really hate seeing someone waste her time on it. You deserve to read something more rewarding.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“Like this.” He smiled, pulling out a battered copy of Stephen King’s It from his back pocket and laying it on the tiled counter next to the cash register. I scrutinized both books side by side—the Stephen King with its silly clown-skull cover and the Ayn Rand, with its cool Art Deco graphics. Stephen King? Give me a break! I waved off the book, inadvertently brushing the back of his hand.
“You’ve never read any Stephen King?”
“No.” I shuddered. I hated horror books. And Stephen King was a pulp fiction writer—cheap trash as far as I was concerned. I prided myself on being a little high-minded when it came to literature—I’d already read the first volume of Proust’s Remembrance of Things Past—not that I could understand any of it—and had just devoured Kafka’s The Trial for Honors English. Dr. Avilla said I was reading at college level. I discovered Ayn Rand all by myself in the library. I didn’t have time for Stephen King.
“Take it,” he said, pushing it toward me.
“I don’t really—”
“No, seriously—you should read it, it’s a great book.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. Whatever.
Paul looked at his watch. His wrist, I noticed, was so knobby it stuck straight out of his arm. His arms were long, tanned, and freckled. “I’ve gotta go. Break’s over.” He downed the last of his Pepsi. “Can I?” he asked, motioning to the trash can behind me.
“Sure,” I said, moving out of the way.
He pretended to dribble and shot it in an arc. It bounced off the top and rolled down the floor.
“Oops!”
“I’ll get it,” I said, but he was already behind the counter and bending over to reach for it. “Sorry about that,” he said as he straightened up. He was so tall I only came up to the bottom of his chin. I’d never noticed that before—it’s kind of hard to gauge from behind the cash register.
“You gonna read that book?”
“Maybe,” I said, running a finger on the well-worn spine.
“All right. See ya.”
“See ya.”
He walked out of the cafeteria, swinging the doors behind him. I put down The Fountainhead and stared at the ugly clown head laughing at me from the cover of the grotty Stephen King book. I opened to the first page, where he had scribbled his name, Paul Hartwell in the top right-hand corner.
I opened the cover of The Fountainhead where I had written my name, Vicenza Arambullo, in the top right-hand corner as well.
FROM:
[email protected] TO:
[email protected] SENT: Tuesday, November 3, 7:30 PM
SUBJECT: present!
Dear Peaches,
DYING!!! Claude was so sweet yesterday. I went over to his house in the afternoon to watch his band practice. Yes, he’s in a band! Isn’t he so talented? He plays lead guitar. He writes all the songs. Maybe he’ll even dedicate one to me, like Chris Martin did to Gwyneth! When I left, he handed me a present! A book I’ve been dying to read. He even wrote the sweetest dedication in the front. Do you think this means he likes me?
Still confused,
V
9
The Last American Virgin?
I’VE BEEN IN this country for almost four months now, and I really don’t think I’m that strange. Sure, my parents are a little weird and I just moved here and everything, but most of the time I feel just as American as anyone else. I bought a Clay Aiken album (for my mom, but I secretly listen to it all the time). I wear Gap jeans. I have a favorite Pizza Hut pizza. But yesterday I found out how truly, totally out of it I am. It happened in gym class. Whitney was going up to everybody to ask them questions for this “survey” she was taking.
Lately, she has all these projects she’s working on all the time. If it’s not about getting a theme for the Soirée (they decided to base it on Titanic although I don’t know how they’ll manage to turn the hotel ballroom into a sinking ship), it’s getting everyone to sign petitions to convince the school to provide Zone meals in the cafeteria.
I thought it was just another of her dumb pet causes. She really thinks she’s something else. The other day she lectured the class about the dangers of expired mascara, even if she hardly wears any makeup. She got all dramatic, too, telling us how she came so close to dying when her Lancôme went bad. Isobel and I just rolled our eyes.
During gym, Whitney went up to each girl in the line, as we waited our turn on the tennis court. She had a stack of typewritten pages with her, which girls were filling out, using each other’s backs to write on. Everyone was giggling and blushing.
When she got to me, she looked skeptical. “Ever hit home base?” she asked, a pen poised over her notebook.
“Excuse me?” I asked. “What’s this all about?”
“Sex. You know. Wait—don’t tell me. Are you, like, a virgin?”
I was so shocked I dropped my tennis racket.
“So, are you?” she asked, sizing me up.
“Uh, yeah.” I nodded. I’m fourteen years old. Wasn’t everyone?
“Thought so,” she said, smirking as she marked a check in an empty column. I peeked over and saw tons of checks in the “Dirty Thirds” column, and wondered what it meant.
“You won’t be needing this then,” she said
, snickering, as she passed a sheet of paper over to Georgia.
I heard them whispering and pointing at me, hissing the word “virgin” as if it was some kind of insult.
What’s so wrong with being a virgin at fourteen? I didn’t even know it was possible to have sex that early. Was I that naïve?
That afternoon, when I got to the Sears cafeteria, I called Isobel on my cell. Hers was the only number programmed in it. I had to ask her a geometry question anyway. I’d taken to calling her whenever I got stuck. She was like a human mathematical database with a funny accent. She answered her phone after a few rings.
“Comment?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Allo! You’re missing the biggest sale at Rolo’s!”
“Like I have the money anyway.”
“Don’t worry. If I see anything you might like, I buy it for you.” Isobel was like that. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a big fan of gold lamé.
“Hey, Iz. What’s a dirty third?” I asked, momentarily forgetting my geometry problem.
“Comment?”
“Did you get that poll Whitney was taking today?” I asked.
“Oh, le sex poll?”
“Yeah.”
“What about it?” she asked.
“Did you get a copy?”
“Uh-huh. And Georgia e-mailed everyone a copy, too.”
I felt a stab of hurt that I hadn’t even merited the online version. “Can you send it to me?” I asked Isobel.
“Sure.”
Isobel filled me in on all the bases. “No big deal,” she said. “I don’t even think half these girls have done it. If they say they have, they are deranging.”
“Deranging?”
“Um, not to tell the truth?”
“Lying.”
“Oui.”
“Have you?”
“Of course.” She sniffed. “Twice. With my boyfriend, Sam, in New York.” Right. Isobel’s eighteen-year-old boyfriend who was a nightclub DJ and a freshman at NYU.