by Alyson Noel
I just sit there, sipping my drink, but not saying a word. Partly because I can’t risk having them think I’m stupid by opening my mouth and removing all doubt, and partly because I cannot believe that people my age actually talk like this. I mean, I’ve been sitting here for what surely must be at least a half hour now, and already they’ve touched on the war in Iraq, the likelihood of the first female president and who it will be, and have now moved on to Big Media. I mean, don’t these people realize that Jessica left Nick, Brad ditched Jen, and Paris will no longer speak to Nicole?
“That’s the point. It’s all about perspective, which is the same thing any writer does. Except with blogging you get the immediate gratification of making your views instantly available, in real time, for free.”
Immediate gratification. . . that’s what I need, I think, taking two quick, yet substantial, sips of my Bacardi and Coke. I mean, I like to write, so maybe I should start a blog. I could write about being a lunchtime loser and call it, “The View from Table C.” Or I could write about life in the It town for the non-It girl and call it, “Laguna Beach: The Painfully Real O. C.”
“That’s total crap! Blogs will never replace the novel. Because in the end, people still want their tactile experience. You cannot curl up in front of a nice roaring fire, with a cup of hot cocoa, and your shiny, cold, Apple iBook. It’s just not the same experience,” Easton says, shaking his head and finishing his drink, as Gin, the heated debater, just laughs and walks away.
I look at Easton and think how I could really get used to living like this. You know, hanging out in other people’s amazing lofts, with a group of young, cool, smart people who talk about interesting things, and where I’d enjoy an exciting, hip life that I could totally blog about in my spare time. Let’s face it, it definitely beats the sad and empty lunch table I’ve got waiting for me back home.
“What’re you thinking?” Easton asks, leaning toward me, looking at me in a way that I originally thought I wanted him to, only now I’m not so sure.
“Um, nothing,” I say, shrugging nervously, not quite willing to share my latest New York blogger fantasy with him.
Then he slides his hand into his pocket, pulls it back out, and opens his palm. And as I stare at the medium-sized joint, just lying there in his hand, I realize I’ve just added a fifth to my list.
I watch as he grabs a small box of matches, lights up the end, and takes a substantial drag before passing it to me. And as I hold it between my fingers, I think about how, for pretty much the last five years of my life, everyone from school administrators with their awkward auditorium talks, to TV celebrities starring in public service announcements, to even my very own, well-meaning (yet ultimately hypocritical if you count those brownies they used to bake that Autumn and I weren’t, under any circumstances, ever allowed to eat) parents, have been doing their best to coach me for just this very moment. And even though their advice was all slightly different, the message behind it was always the same—just don’t do it! Like the world’s most negative Nike ad.
So it’s not like I haven’t been well versed and overrehearsed in how I’m supposed to handle such a moment. I mean, over and over again I’ve been told to just smile demurely, shake my head, and take a pass. But even after knowing all that, despite all that well-meaning antidrug message-mongering, I still place it right between my lips as I proceed to mimic every single thing I saw Easton just do.
Only I don’t really inhale.
In fact, I don’t inhale at all. I just totally fake like I did, and then I shyly turn away from him, so that I can politely release a fake cloud of invisible, nonexistent, imaginary smoke. But as I pass it back, I make sure to cough just a little, so everything will appear completely legit, so he’ll never guess that I’m a virgin.
After he takes a few more hits, I take one final fake one, then he stubs it out, drops it into a heavy crystal ashtray, leans in, and starts kissing me. And even though I admit that I’ve never actually done this before either, there’s just no way I’m faking it. So I lean in, too, wrapping my arms around his neck, and concentrating on kissing him back, just like I practiced on my hand for the last three years, hoping I’m pulling this off even half as well as I did with the whole pot-smoking thing.
And even though it’s not nearly as romantic as I’d expected, and even though there’s absolutely no trace of that completely swoony feeling I was sure I would experience if I was ever lucky enough to kiss a guy as hot as Easton, that doesn’t mean it’s not nice. But just when I think I’m really getting the hang of it, he pulls away, grabs both our cups, and heads for the bar to make a refill run. While I remain on the couch, feeling simultaneously dazed and elated, thinking how I can’t wait to share that with Sloane.
But then I remember how I can’t exactly do that anymore, since we’re no longer friends. And how that’s pretty much the reason why I came here in the first place.
So then I gaze around the room at all these amazing people with names like India Pink and Calla Lily (which definitely makes me feel better about my own weird name), and I think, Screw Sloane. And screw those stupid, superficial, synthetic cheerleader clones too. I mean, they may be cool in their zip code, but in this one? Not so much.
And when Easton returns and hands me my drink, I take a sip, smiling when I realize I can now start a new list.
I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow Easton is on top of me, kissing the side of my neck and moving his hips in a way that simulates something I’ve definitely never done before. And when I turn my head to the side, I open my eyes, and peer all around, and from what I can see in this dim, shadowy light, we’re definitely not the only ones doing this.
So I focus back on Easton, trying to concentrate on just kissing him, but my head feels so weird, and my brain feels so soggy, then all of a sudden the whole room starts spinning around and around like when you’re on that Mad Tea Party ride at Disneyland. So I squeeze my eyes shut, and make my body go all stiff, hoping that will somehow slow it all down, or even make it stop. And then I feel Easton’s hand creeping its way inside the top part of my dress, and even though I’d already decided I’d maybe let him do that if he tried, now that it’s actually happening, I’m thinking maybe not.
And then, oh, my God, I feel that sudden, unmistakable, unstoppable urge to vomit. And I know I have like maybe ten seconds to get out of here before I blow.
Frantically, I push Easton off, so hard that he falls to the floor and goes, “Hey!” Then I get up and bolt for the door, crushing a few stray limbs along the way, but with no time to apologize.
Then with my hand clamped firmly over my mouth, knowing that I cannot, under any circumstances, projectile vomit anywhere inside this trillion-dollar loft, I head straight through the door and onto the street where it’s all fair game. And I lean into some bushes and just stay like that, heaving and puking ‘til there’s nothing left.
When I’m finally empty, I just stand there, all hunched over, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling helpless, shaky, and humiliated as hell. And then Easton arrives with my purse in his hand, going, “Are you okay?” While looking at me with so much concern, it makes me feel even worse.
I just nod, even though I think it’s probably pretty obvious that I’m not.
And he says, “Here, let me take you home.”
But I shake my head and avoid his eyes. “Just get me a cab,” I mumble, gazing down at the ground, amazed at how the trip from “cool” to “loser” was a lot quicker than I would’ve thought.
He hails a taxi, and gets me safely inside, and when he closes the door between us, he goes, “Uh, you’re not gonna mention any of this to your dad, are you?”
But the cab pulls away from the curb before I can answer.
Nine
Even though I didn’t exactly tell my dad, it’s not like he didn’t know. I mean, remember the band, the Billboard hit, and the whole rock star thing? Well, trust me, I couldn’t have fooled him if I tried.
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br /> So the next morning, by the time I finally make it into the kitchen, there’s a big bottle of water along with two extra- strength aspirins, waiting patiently beside my coffee.
“So how bad was it?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his folded in half newspaper.
But I just shrug, and drop my head in my hands. Because even though I have no other hangover stories to judge it by, I’m definitely convinced that it’s probably pretty bad.
“Should I have stopped you?” he asks, gazing at me with concern.
I swear that’s how he parents. Like everything is this thoroughly considered, nonpartisan, fairly voted on, democratic decision. And when it doesn’t work out? Well, that’s when it becomes “a learning experience.” So obviously, it’s pretty tough to get in trouble around here.
I just look at him and shrug. “In retrospect? Maybe,” I tell him.
But he just laughs. “So?” He looks at me, waiting for all the dirty details.
Oh, yeah, that’s the other part of his parenting, he likes to be kept well-informed and in the loop. So full disclosure is the price you pay for not being put on restriction.
“Two Bacardi and Cokes, half a beer, and like, two or three pretend hits of pot,” I confess. “But that’s it. Scout’s honor,” I say, raising my right hand as though I’m solemnly swearing.
He just looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“What can I say? You raised a lightweight.” I shrug. “Oh, yeah, and then I deposited all of it in the bushes right outside of the most amazing loft you’ve ever seen.”
“You’re way better off, trust me,” he says, nodding his head while taking a swig of iced coffee.
“Funny, I don’t feel better off.” I shrug. “I mean, I have red eyes, dry mouth, a raging headache, a bad case of embarrassment, a world of regret, and a pretty heavy dose of much humbled humiliation.”
“And Easton?” He looks at me, waiting.
“He’s totally terrified that I’ll tell you,” I say, swallowing the aspirin, followed by a hearty chug of mineral water chaser.
“And did you learn anything?” he asks, still looking at me.
“Believe me, I learned plenty,” I assure him, grabbing the New York Post and searching for Page Six.
The rest of the day was pretty low-key. Partly because of my delicate condition, and partly because it was our last day together so we just wanted to be mellow. So after taking a leisurely stroll through the park, we went to a matinee, and then headed to one of my dad’s favorite haunts to enjoy an early dinner. And even though I was still fending off a few residual shakes, I was mostly just thinking about how great it was to hang with my dad, one-on-one for a change, and not have to share him with Autumn, or one of his many girlfriends.
“How come you never got remarried?” I ask, taking a bite of the hamburger he made me order (swearing that the mixture of protein and grease would be good for my queasy stomach), while glaring at the back of the waitress’s head, the one who spent the last twenty minutes flirting with my dad, auditioning for the role of my new mommy.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for it,” he says, sipping his chardonnay and looking at me.
“That’s exactly what Mom says,” I tell him, as he sets down his glass and smiles.
“Speaking of, are you ready to face the music?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Do I have to?” I hold my breath.
“No. But I think you should.”
I took at him for a moment, and then I just nod, dragging my french fry through a puddle of ketchup, knowing he’s right.
The second we get back to the apartment, Easton calls. I guess he wanted to make peace with my dad, make sure he’s not fired, and say good-bye to me (yes, in that order). And after my dad gave him a lecture so severe it left me with my mouth hanging open in shock, he handed me the phone, and promptly left the room.
“Hey,” I say, plopping onto the couch, kicking off my shoes, and resting my bare feet on the coffee table.
“So, your dad seems pretty upset,” he says, sounding kind of scared and nervous, and not at all like the overconfident guy from last night.
“Yeah, well.” I just shrug, and gaze at my pedicure that’s in desperate need of revision.
”Okay, well, I just wanted to say that it was really cool meeting you.”
“Yeah, you too,” I say, feeling relieved that he’s not completely turned-off and grossed-out by the whole puking fiasco.
“So, when do you think you’ll be back?” he asks.
“No idea,” I tell him. “Probably not ‘til summer though.”
“Okay, well, next time you’re in the city, you should definitely look me up,” he says, sounding cool and casual, and maybe, just maybe, even a little bit hopeful.
And after I agree to “definitely” do that, I lean against the cushions, close my eyes, and replay my incredible week in New York. It’s like, in the course of just five days, I grew closer to my dad, hung out in the coolest city in the world, added some crucial pieces to my wardrobe, knocked five items off of my “virgin list,” and (most important of all) survived my first romance-hook up quickie boyfriend pretty much unscathed.
And even though all of those things originally had me longing to stay, I now know that because of them, I’m finally ready to go.
Ten
Jeez, you’d think I’d been gone a month the way my mom and Autumn hugged me at the airport. Though to be honest, I actually kind of missed them, too. And the first thing I do when we get back home is head for my room, then I freeze in the doorway, dropping my bag in shock, when I see how everything has changed. And I don’t mean that I’ve been gone so long that I now see everything in a fresh, new light kind of changed. I mean that, literally, everything has changed. There are new dressers, new beds, new sheets, there’s even these cool new curtains that surround each of our beds, so that Autumn and I can share a room without having to constantly look at each other.
“So what do you think?” my mom asks, as Autumn stands beside her, smiling.
“I love it!” I gaze all around, touching the soft cotton curtain, and running my hand over my cool, new dresser drawers. Then I look at them, and they’re so excited about the fact that I’m excited, that it makes me feel horrible for running away like that. “I’m sorry I ran off,” I say. “I just-”
But my mom raises her hand and shakes her head, sign language for “it’s my turn to talk.” “Believe me, I’ve thought long and hard about this, Winter, and while I realize you’re growing up and that we may not always see eye to eye, I’m afraid I can’t just let this one go. You know there are consequences to your actions.”
I stare at her, my stomach heading south while I wonder what she could possibly have in mind. Damn, I knew all the hugs and furniture were too good to be true.
“I went along with the cheerleading, haven’t said a word about your new hair color, and the other day I actually left the store early so I could drive you to the mall. And even though I may disapprove of some of your more recent choices, I haven’t tried to stop you because I know they’re important to you. But this, running off to New York without so much as a note.” She shakes her head. “Well, you have no idea how worried I was. So for the next two weeks, I want you coming straight home from school, no detours, no side trips, and no TV. You missed a lot of schoolwork and I want you fully caught up. I also want to know that I can trust you again.”
She raises her eyebrows and lowers her chin, as I exhale slowly and nod. I mean, what else can I do? I’m getting off easy. And trying to barter her down will only backfire.
By dinnertime, all anyone can talk about is Rey. Seriously, all through the salad and well into the main course, it’s like “Rey this,” and “Rey that.” And, “Oh, my God, remember that time when Rey said such and such?”
So finally, I bite. “Okay, who the heck is Rey?” I ask, twirling my pasta onto my spoon and glancing from my mom to Autumn.
”This young boy I hired last wee
k,” my mom says, taking a small sip of her sparkling water with lime.
And since my mom’s definition of “young boy” pretty much covers anyone between the ages of three and thirty, I say, “Details, please.” Then I take a bite of pasta so big I need a pair of scissors to cut it, just like on that old episode of “I Love Lucy.”
“He’s sixteen, just moved to Laguna, and he’s taking over your shift at the café,” she informs me.
“My shift?” I stare at her. “But why? I was gone less than a week, and you already replaced me?” I mean, jeez, just because I sometimes complain about having to work there doesn’t mean I actually wanted to stop. Especially now that my life’s so lonely and pathetic I have no other way of filling up all my spare time.
But my mom just looks at me carefully, obviously confused by my reaction. Then she says in a soft, patient voice, “Well, honey, when you ran off like that, I thought all the pressure was getting to be too much for you, and that maybe you’d enjoy having your weekends off, you know, to spend more time with your friends. So I hired Rey to pick up the slack.”
I just glare at her. I mean, hello? Now that Sloane has gone to the other side I’m pretty much all out of friends. And even though I realize how my mom can’t possibly know any of that (since I haven’t exactly divulged any of it), I can’t help being upset. I mean, I feel like she should just know.
“I’m sorry, I thought you’d be happy,” she says, giving me a worried look. “Because now you can spend all of your Friday and Saturday nights with Sloane.”
And just like that I feel like I never even left. Like I’m picking up exactly where I left off, and that nothing has changed, least of all me. “Yeah, well that’s just great, Mom,” I say, shaking my head, dangerously close to tears. “Except for the fact that Sloane and I aren’t exactly friends anymore, and somehow I just completely forgot to cast an understudy.”
