I hold her cigarette while she fumbles with the camera. There’s a beep. “Okay,” she says. “It’s gone.”
I nod. “Good. Let’s go back inside.”
We start moving, faster than before. I can feel her looking at me. “That’s it?” she says, “That’s all you’re going to say?”
I have no idea what I’ll think about this tomorrow, but tonight it’s clear. “That’s all I’m going to say this minute.”
She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, so broad in that halter dress. She goes to take a drag on her cigarette, but changes her mind and throws it to the ground. “How about I take a new picture of you?”
“Now?”
She holds up her camera. “Why not?”
“Here?”
“No, on Jupiter,” she says. “Yes, here.”
I stop walking. “I guess.”
“Stand sideways, you’ll look skinnier. Oh, don’t look so pissy, everyone looks skinnier sideways. Now smile.” The flash is blinding.
She presses a button on the camera and shows me the photo. I see a dark-haired princess person in a pretty princess dress. Her smile is bright and sad at the same time, like the moon’s.
“Who the hell is that?” I say.
Pam saves the picture and drops the camera in her bag. “I don’t know,” she says, “but I’ll send you a copy. Maybe there are some people you could show her to.”
Stars
The final class ranking: Audrey Elaine Porter, 2/314. During my salutatorian speech at graduation, I say that although I’m ranked second, I get to speak first, and that’s got to count for something. I tell the audience that when I was told I had to write a speech, I had no idea what I would say; I’m more of a facts person, I’m more of a numbers person—ask Mr. Lambright, my English teacher. How do you cram the last four years into a few paragraphs? How do you make people remember from the beginning all the way to the end? How do you help everyone understand how wonderful it was and how horrible it was and how everything it was?
So, I say, I came up with a few rough statistics in an attempt to capture our high school experience in the best way I know how. In the four years we attended Willow Park High School, there were
5,600 pencils
10,000 pens
200,000 caffeine fixes
4,700 books bought
367 books sold
165 books lost
34 books stuffed in garbage disposals
13 books thrown out of moving vehicles
63,000 homework assignments
256 dogs who ate them
45,000 poor study habits
450 science experiments
162,000 unfortunate experiments with fashion
14,000 bathroom passes
15,000 hall passes
4,000 lame passes
2,800 tests passed
234,900 rumors passed
158 stupid boyfriends
143 psycho girlfriends
222 broken hearts
64,000 crazy dreams
150,000 sleepless nights
302 phones ringing
145 phones taken
3,082 tests taken
2,000,000,001 tears cried
2,000,000,001 tears dried
3,000,000 lies
5,000,000 truths
252,000 changes of clothing
45,233,000 changes of personality
141 detentions
62 eyebrow piercings
21 belly piercings
9 “other” piercings
14 tattoos
5 languages spoken
3,000 papers written
75,000 instant messages
1 too many photographs
247 games lost
532 games won
56 teachers
A trillion lessons
78 awards
3,000 friends
63,000 hugs
A zillion words of encouragement
315 success stories
Zero regrets…
I was told that under NO circumstances could I adlib it, that I had to present whatever I turned in to the principal’s office for approval—a formal speech that included quotes by Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Edison, and one of the Popes—but I totally say whatever I wanted to say, and there’s nothing that Mr. Zwieback or the rest of them can do about it. They don’t even care; they give me my diploma and call it a day.
Plus, my speech has kicked Ron Moran’s lame valedictorian ass, thank you very much.
After the ceremony, me, Ash, Pam, Cindy, and Joelle gather in the football field with our parents, congratulating one another, hugging one another, and generally being stupid and giddy. My mom and dad can’t stop kissing me and telling me how proud they are, and then kissing each other, which normally would embarrass me to death but now seems sort of cute.
“Your parents,” says Ash, laughing.
“Yeah,” Pam says. “They’re so happy it’s disgusting.”
“They’re just relieved,” I say. “They probably thought this year would never end. The little accident has finally graduated.”
“Oh, please, Audrey. Ever since I’ve known you, your parents have always looked like that,” Ash tells me. “They’ve always been happy. Face it. They’re not normal.”
“Don’t be surprised if they spring a baby brother or sister on you while you’re at college,” Pam says. “They’re pretty hot, you know. For old people.”
I’m trying to wrap my brain around this: my parents are happy, my parents have always been happy, my parents are hot, when Ash pokes me and whispers, “And speaking of hot…,”
Luke is standing in front of us. “Great speech,” he says. With his index finger and thumb, he flicks my gold tassel and walks away before I can answer, his gown streaming behind him like a cape on a super-hero.
“Who was that?” says my mom, moving to stand next to me.
“Oh. A guy I know,” I say.
The guy I know shows up at my house the next day. My dad answers the door and, because of his dad radar, is immediately suspicious. Against his better judgment, he calls me down from my room.
I see that my dad hasn’t invited Luke into the house; I have to go out on the porch. My dad stands behind the screen door for a minute, glowering like a guard dog. After he’s gone, Luke says, “Your dad is going to get his lawn mower and try to clip me down, isn’t he?”
“You run faster than he does,” I say. “It shouldn’t be a problem.”
We sit down on the porch steps. He pulls out his cell phone, flicks it open, and shows me the screen saver. It’s me in my wedding dress. The message I’d sent him with the picture said: “No, it’s not a proposal, just an apology. I’m sorry for everything. I suck (and not in the good way).”
“Hot girl,” I say. “Who is she?”
“Thought you could tell me.”
“Can’t help you,” I say.
He snaps the phone shut. “Heard you guys made an entrance at the prom. Nardo filled me in.”
“We did. You should have been there,” I say.
“Went last year with a senior girl. I rented the tux, paid for the limo, bought the corsage, know the drill,” he says. “I didn’t think it would be worth it. Besides, there was only one girl I wanted to ask, and I was still mad at her.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. We sit there for a few seconds. “What are you doing in the fall?”
“Rutgers,” he says. “Undeclared major. You?”
“Cooper Union. Architecture.”
“Sweet. That’s in New York City?”
I nod. My heart is doing an imitation of the mambo, and my head bobs along with it. A bird calls, Heeeeere birdy birdy birdy birdy, and I imagine Cat Stevens salivating at the living room window.
“My grandfather’s bald,” Luke says suddenly.
“Huh?” I say. “Random much?”
“My brother’s losing his hair, too.”
“You
r brother? Which one?”
“Jeff.”
“But he’s only, like, twenty-two or something!”
“I know. He’s freaking out. So’s Eric. It runs in my family. My mom’s dad was bald by the time he was twenty-eight. Her brother was only twenty-five.” Luke puts a hand on the top of his head. “I figure I should enjoy it while it lasts, you know? That’s how I think about a lot of things. You should just enjoy them. I mean, maybe I’ll be bald next year and maybe I won’t. I can’t worry about it now. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Great. Metaphors. That’s what I need in my life, more metaphors. “I’m not sure.”
“We had a good time, didn’t we?”
The heat rises in my cheeks. “Yeah. We did.”
“Well,” he says. “Except for the dumping thing. And the treating-me-like-I’m-some-sort-of-leper-horndog-for-practically-the-whole-year thing.”
“Except for that. I’m sorry about that.”
He doesn’t answer; he just props his elbow up on his knee, his chin in his fist, and gazes at me—like he’s already moved on, like all of it was something that happened a decade ago and why get all worked up over it? I think about how he tried to go down on me that one time and maybe I could have let him—it might have been okay, it might have been…nice. But then again, maybe it would have been a disaster. I hadn’t trusted him. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know myself.
He bumps my shoulder with his. “I guess I shouldn’t worry about losing my hair. You wanted me for my body, anyway.”
“Watch it. I can always get my dad again,” I say. “I’m pretty sure he’s in the kitchen, sharpening his knives.”
He laughs. “Touched a nerve?”
“You touched all of them,” I say, picking at my fingernails. “The nerves, I mean.” I feel so stupid, sitting here. He’s been inside me and I’ve been inside him. I’ve swallowed his spit, his sweat, and he’s swallowed mine. How do you talk to a guy after that? How do you start talking to a guy after that?
“You told me once that you’d read Moby Dick and you thought it was funny.”
He nods. “Yeah, I did think it was funny. Why?”
“What else?” I say.
“What else what?”
“What else should I know about you?”
“Let’s see. I’m five foot ten and weigh 162 pounds. I like dogs, moonlit walks under the stars, and milkshakes I can share with that special someone.”
“You are so not five foot ten.”
“You can check my license.” He picks up my hand. “You seeing anyone?” he asks me. “Nardo—Ash—said you weren’t.”
“No,” I say. “You?”
“Gave it up for Lent.” He runs a finger in the spaces between my knuckles. “I told my mom I’d bring the van back by six today, but do you want to go to the beach tomorrow?”
I’m surprised. “The beach?”
“Yeah, the beach. You know, sand, water, bathing suits. I’ll do my best to win you a really huge, really ugly stuffed animal on the boardwalk. On the way, you can ask me all the questions you want.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Come on,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”
I think, Yes! I think, No! I think, There’s no way this will work. I’m still me and you’re still you—I’ll obsess, you’ll flirt, we’ll go down in flames. I think, I’m leaving, you’re leaving. Rutgers is too big and New York City is too big and there’s too much to do and too many people to meet. We’re seventeen years old and eighteen years old, we’ll come home older and won’t know who we are anymore, as if we ever did. Maybe it’s better to leave it where it is, while we don’t hate each other…
“Hey,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze. “Stop it. Stop thinking for one second. We have the summer. You can’t know everything that’s going to happen.”
“I—”
“You don’t know everything.”
He’s right. There are a billion things I don’t know, as this year has proven. Why not take a chance? We do have the summer. Two whole months of it.
“Come on, Audrey.” He drops my hand and holds his up like I’ve pulled a gun. “I’ll keep my mitts to myself, if that’s what you want.”
I admire his long fingers. They look strong, like they could last a while, a half hour maybe. But I’m more greedy than that. There are other things I want, too. His brain, maybe even his heart. I’ll start with those and see what happens. “Okay,” I say. “The beach it is.”
He smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Ten too early?”
“No. I’ll be ready.”
“Good,” he says.
He hops down the stairs and takes the driveway in a jog. Then he turns around and runs back.
“Forget something?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says, and leans down and kisses me—short and sweet. A casual, friendly, see-ya-later kind of kiss, the kind we never got to have before.
After he’s gone, I sit there a long time, watching the clouds form and re-form, feeling the warm breeze, the kiss on my lips, just trying to be still, just trying to be. It’s hard, being. Hard not to pit yourself against yourself, hard not to measure and compare and rank yourself against everyone else. It’ll take practice, and I’m not sure if it will ever work. Then I remember some dumb saying, or maybe a song, about having the same sky over us and the same stars shining down on us and the same God smiling with her big God teeth, and think now that it’s corny, but true. Our moon is the same moon, our sun is the same sun, and the stars will sparkle for us no matter who or where or what we are—not sluts, not players, just people. We can all look up and say, Okay, there’s the South Star, there’s the Big Dogpile, there’s the Little Dipshit.
Twinkle, twinkle.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to my editor, Clarissa Hutton, who was willing to take a chance when I wanted to write something completely different. Ellen Levine, who is equal parts agent and fairy godmother. Anne Ursu and Gretchen Moran Laskas, who push and prod and occasionally, prop me up—every writer should have such amazing friends. The 2005 Writefesters, especially Greg Leitich Smith, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Tanya Lee Stone, Libba Bray, and Sean Petrie, who braved both the first draft and my near-psychotic fretting over it later. Audrey Glassman Vernick, who kindly lent criticism, support, and her first name. Carolyn Crimi, Esther Hershenhorn, Myra Sanderman, Esmé Raji Codell, and Franny Billingsley, who can take one cranky writer and make her laugh so hard and so long that she (almost) forgets how to be cranky. Melissa Ruby Horan, Annika Cioffi, Linda Rasmussen, and Tracey George, who have listened for years and for some crazy reason, keep on listening. My parents, who let me read everything I could get my hands on and answered every question without blushing. And finally, thanks to Steve, one of the good boys.
About the Author
Laura Ruby grew up in New Jersey in an era predating cell phones. She spent much of her misguided youth writing angry, angsty poems and dyeing her hair lots of colors not found in nature. She now lives in Chicago with her husband and stepdaughters. She is also the author of three books for younger readers, LILY’S GHOSTS, THE WALL AND THE WING, and THE CHAOS KING, and a collection of stories for adults, I’M NOT JULIA ROBERTS. You can visit her online at www.lauraruby.com.
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Also by
Laura Ruby
LILY’S GHOSTS
THE WALL AND THE WING
THE CHAOS KING
Credits
Cover photograph © 2006 by Ali Smith
Cover design by Amy Ryan
Copyright
GOOD GIRLS. Copyright © 2006 by Laura Ruby. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engi
neered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub © Edition SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780061884139
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Laura Ruby, Good Girls
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