Girl, Unstrung

by Claire Handscombe

  Somehow we’ve both ended up way closer than we were. Both taking steps toward each other without realizing it. But now I’m very much realizing it, and so are my butterflies. But I get the words out somehow. “So we’ll get two scoops. Save the three-scoop celebration for after nationals.”

  “You’re gonna do nationals with me?”

  With me. I thought I was done with the Scrabble thing. But that could be fun. And nationals involve travelling. Hotel rooms. Beds.

  “That depends,” I say.

  “On what?”

  I lower my voice conspiratorially. “On whether you’re ever going to kiss me.”

  Total non- sequitur. I know that. Maybe a little desperate, too. But like I said, it’s important that everyone is clear on what the situation is. I spin around and walk to my mom, leave him standing there, the challenge and the promise hanging in the air. I’d like to say that was all planned for maximum effectiveness, but mainly it’s because I can’t believe I said that and I think I might have scrunched up my face weirdly as I got the words out and now I’m a little embarrassed. That was forward, even for me.

  “You look very pleased with yourself,” mom says, hugging me.

  “Oh,” I say. “I am.”

  “But you lost.”

  “I came second, mom. I didn’t lose.”

  “Wow,” she says, pulling away and looking into my eyes, trying to read my thoughts in them. “Okay. I’m not sure what is happening here, but okay.”

  “I’ll tell you someday,” I say. What I mean is, after I’ve had the chance to use that teal lingerie. Long, long after that.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  What is happening is that I’m realizing there are things in life that are better than winning. There are feelings better, even, then the feeling of being clapped after a viola solo.

  There is, for example, the feeling you get from putting on the lingerie with the gentle scratchiness of lace – not that I expect Tim to see it, not yet, but just for me, to give me confidence, to make me feel good, and yes, okay, maybe to be prepared, just in case. It has never in my almost fifteen years hurt to be prepared. And putting it on under my normal clothes feels like a secret superpower.

  There is the feeling of anticipation: I am going on a date. With a swoopy-haired boy who doesn’t know or care who Madison Harper is. He texted me last night to say that he couldn’t wait for the ice cream, that he was sitting in his room listening to a Brahms viola solo, thinking about how I want him to kiss me. It took me forever today to choose just the right outfit, my denim shorts and my off the shoulder red shirt, and then to do and redo my hair half-up and my makeup until it looked like I hadn’t spent much time on it, just woke up naturally looking amazing.

  I stand by the bay window in the living room, waiting for him to pull up, because he can drive himself now, then when I see his lime green Kia I walk away from the window so that he won’t know I was waiting. I give it a second or two after he rings the bell to open the door so I don’t seem too eager. In that second or two, I catch Ebba’s eye and smile, and I remember what she said at the kitchen table in the middle of the night that time, you are a wonderful young woman, and I think maybe she meant it. I take a deep breath and open the door.

  “Hi,” I say. “No flowers today?”

  I don’t know why I make this joke. In all my planning of this moment – and trust me, there has been a lot of planning – I have never anticipated making a joke like this. But now he’s standing there, looking nervous, like he was six months ago, with the flowers, and here we are.

  “I’ll bring flowers next time,” he says. I can’t tell if he’s joking back, or if this is his way of apologizing, if maybe he didn’t get that I was kidding. I don’t know him well enough. I don’t know him at all, really. This is harder than I thought, this dating thing. At least when I was too busy for boys because the viola was taking all my time, that was predictable. You start off terrible, you practice, you get better. Guaranteed results. This thing, it feels slippery. Like nothing is guaranteed. It unnerves me. But it’s also exciting.

  “I’m kidding,” I say, just in case.

  “I know,” he says. He stands there, still, in the doorway, kicking his feet together, smiling at me. His eyes keep flicking down to my chest. One thing at a time, I want to say, but I also don’t. The teal lingerie must be working its magic already. See: superpower!

  “Bye, Clara,” dad shouts, down the stairs. “Have fun!”

  “I think that’s our cue to leave,” I say to Tim.

  “Let’s do it,” he says. Then he blushes. I’ve never seen him blush before. I think I didn’t

  realize that boys could blush. “I mean, not like that. That’s not what I –”

  “I know,” I say. “It’s fine.” He’s so different, standing here, than he was at school that first week. He seemed so self-assured then, so confident. I shut the door and take his hand. I was trying to do it casually, like, no big deal, but no-one warned me what happens to your arm when you take the hand of a boy you like. How sparks run up and down it. How the butterflies in your stomach start performing Swan Lake. We start to walk down to his car, and I realize I’m going to have to let go of his hand if he drives and suddenly that seems impossible.

  “Want to walk?” I say. We’re less than fifteen minutes from Bengee’s and it’s not so hot today. Walking feels more romantic somehow.

  “Sure,” he says. There are all these long silences between our sentences. This is so unlike him, unlike both of us.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask him, because I’m worried that if one of us doesn’t say something this could get way too awkward way too fast.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “I mean, yeah. You’re usually way more talkative than this.”

  Tim interlaces our fingers, and that sets off a fresh chain reaction of sparks. What’s the science behind that? And why do I care about science right now?

  “I’m not usually on a date with you,” he says.

  “But when you see me by my locker –”

  “I take a deep breath. I make myself seem more confident. The first time I saw you, I was confident. I had no idea how terrifying you were. I had no idea I’d wind up liking you so much. So much that even when you made it clear you weren’t interested anymore I wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about you.”

  That’s his favorite word for me, terrifying. But I focus on the next part, the part where he likes me so much, even after everything. Now I’m the one who can’t think what to say next. So instead of anything intelligent, I ask him what ice cream flavors he likes best. He likes the combination of lemon and mango. I like mint chocolate chip, but only if the mint is white and the chocolate isn’t too sweet. I explain the hierarchy: the very best is Three Twins mint confetti (extra points for the cute name), but you can only get that in Santa Monica. It has a perfect ratio of mint to chocolate. Haagen Dazs is not far behind, though, and the newest addition to the list is Graeter’s, which you can finally get in Pasadena. The creamy texture is amazing and the big shavings of dark chocolate are A+. And then it’s Ben and Jerry’s, always reliable, but a bit too cakey on the chocolate chip front. We’re on safe ground now, conversation-wise, or really Clara-monologue-wise, and we both desperately want to stay there.

  But at Bengee’s I take the chocolate-covered strawberry, because how can you not? Tim lets me try his mango-lemon combination after he buys it, right there by the counter, and I have to admit that it’s a good one, that the flavors complement each other perfectly, one smooth and sweetish, the other a little sharper. Not unlike us. It turns out that how it feels to try your boyfriend’s ice cream is also better than how it feels to be clapped after a viola recital, especially when he looks at you the way Tim is looking at me. Like he wants to take a bite out of me. To eat me up whole, maybe.

  “What?” I say, stupidly, ruining the mood.

  “Nothing.”

  He’s smiling, though. Grinning, almost. So I ask hi
m again. “What?”

  “I was wondering when I get to kiss you, is all.”

  The butterflies in my stomach are doing the part in Swan Lake where Odile spins round and round 32 times doing fouettés. They’re all doing that. Every single one of the twenty million butterflies is doing it.

  “Not right here.” And not outside right in front, either. Del Mar is a busy street. It doesn’t seem like the right place.

  “Think that maybe that’s what the courtyard behind Lemonade is for?”

  “I do,” I say. “I think that’s exactly what that courtyard is for. That’s the purpose for them building it there.”

  It’s not like this in the movies. In the movies, no-one discusses kissing before they do it. There’s a moment, romantic music plays, they lean in, and bingo. But I am nothing if not a planner. I guess Tim must be too. How else do you become Southern California’s Junior Scrabble Champion, if not by planning? We walk out and turn right onto South Lake. I have a block to finish my ice cream. I sneak glances at Tim, and he eats fast, fast, fast. I linger with mine. I want this moment to last, this anticipation. And also, now that this moment is here, now that I’m finally going to kiss a boy, I’m nervous. What if I do it wrong? Is there a way to do it wrong? They never do it wrong in movies.

  “You almost done with that?” he asks me after we turn into the courtyard with its two red British phone boxes. (I’ve never understood why they’re there, but now isn’t the time for such questions.) Tim’s done waiting, and I don’t blame him. I nod. He takes the little tub from me and reaches to throw it into the trash can. Clean and tidy. I like that about him. He takes me by the hand and leads me to the pebbly gap between the phone boxes.

  All those months chewing gum just in case, and in the end we’ll both taste of ice cream.

  “I don’t know how to do this,” I say. I’m leaning against one of the glass doors, which is lucky, because I’m not sure I’d still be standing otherwise. My legs are jello.

  “Like this,” he says. He leans in and so do I, and his lips are on mine, and then I open my mouth and our tongues are chasing each other round and round. Somehow I’m still breathing.

  “Wow,” I say, pulling away a little. “So that’s how.”

  “Pretty good, huh?”

  “It’s only going to get better from here, too.”

  “Practice makes perfect,” he says, leaning in again.

  I can’t argue with that.

  The End

  Girl, Unstrung pg.

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