Finally, there was a small photo of Rudy, cheesing in her cross-country uniform, holding a fifth place medal out in front of her body. She had just finished running, and her cheeks were red. Her hair fluffed away from the sides of her head. The picture was from our conference meet, where I had won the second place medal, and I had a copy of the same photo on my bulletin board at home, a copy where I hadn’t been cropped out.
Haley Hatfield. That was the name of the girl Drew asked to his junior prom – the girl he had followed into an upstairs bedroom at Corey Jennings’ party. Like me, she was a sophomore. Unlike me, apparently, she went after the things – the boys – she wanted. I heard she didn’t have sex with him that night, but it seemed things between them were pretty serious. Serious enough for him to get on the school P.A. system and ask her to be his prom date in the middle of the morning announcements, and serious enough for them to date through the rest of the summer and into the fall of my junior year.
As for me, I threw all of my extra energy, all of the energy I had wasted pining uselessly after Drew, into track. I focused on hurdling, in particular, the event that Coach Kline had selected for me, specifically, the previous year. At first I had been upset – embarrassed that I was being singled out – when he had called my name at the end of warm up one day in the middle of my freshman season. I made eyes at Rudy, and she paused and shrugged before turning and hurrying after the sprint group as they paraded through the parking lot toward the track. As I was walking toward Coach Kline, another coach waved for his attention, and I stopped and waited a few feet away, my arms crossed awkwardly over my chest, until they had finished their conversation and she left.
“Jillian?”
I nodded. What was this about, I thought. The track team wasn’t supposed to make cuts. And besides, there were far worse runners on the team than me. I was self-doubting, but I wasn’t stupid.
He glanced over my head. The rest of the gym was empty. He shrugged one shoulder toward the door.
“Let’s walk and talk.”
He held the door open and followed me out onto the parking lot, the gymnasium door swinging shut behind us with a slam.
“Jillian, have you ever done hurdles?”
What? That wasn’t a question I had been at all prepared for.
“No,” I said, confused.
“How would you feel about giving them a shot in the next meet? You’re tall and you’ve got long legs and a nice stride; I think there’s a chance you’d be pretty good at the 100 and 300 meter hurdles.”
“Really?” I blushed. “Yeah, sure. I’ll try it.”
“Awesome.” Coach Kline had given me a quick smile, then his face returned to normal. Business face. Head coach face. “I’ll have you practice with us today, then. See how things go.”
“Today?”
He nodded. “We’ll start with some drills. Simple stuff.”
“Okay.” I nodded as we walked through the huge, arced gates that led onto the track. The sprinters were already out on the track, the whole group of them running down the straightaway. They slowed as they reached the curve, first the lead group of boys, then each person behind them slowing to a brisk jog. I had picked out Rudy in the middle of the pack, knowing her by her neon orange shorts.
Since freshman year, I had grown another two inches, my legs longer and leaner, my body more gazelle-like than ever. I did okay during my first year as a hurdler, but sophomore year I was ready to work. Ready to put in all the effort. I did short sprints down one length of the blue rubber track and hurdle drills running the length back down toward Coach. There were only four of us who competed in the hurdles, but we had Coach Kline’s undivided attention for half of each practice as he ran us through drill after drill, learning to run, not jump, over each hurdle, to snap our front legs back down once we’d sailed over one plank and were on to the next. He timed us with the stopwatch he always wore hanging around the back of his tanned neck.
I didn’t think about prom again (of course I thought about it – I thought about it every time one of the girls at lunch refused to eat anything other than carrots and celery sticks, or when my mom pressed me about picking a time to go dress shopping – but it didn’t float to the forefront of my thoughts) until one day after practice in early May. I was standing on the track with my heel hooked over one of the hurdles, leaning into the stretch until I could feel it pull the muscles in my hamstrings.
“Hey.” Rudy walked up in front of me, swinging both of our book bags in the crook of her elbow. The sprinters regularly finished twenty minutes before the hurdlers, but Rudy and I still rode together.
“Hey,” I said to the ground, my face pressed into my knee.
“How was your practice?” She leaned against the other side of the hurdle and it scooted forward an inch. She stood again, crossing her legs awkwardly.
“It was okay.” I gave her an odd look. I let my right leg drop and swung my left onto the hurdle. “What about yours?”
“It was good. Hand offs.”
“That’s cool.”
It was a Wednesday and we had a chemistry exam the next morning. She was probably dying to get home and start studying.
“You don’t have to wait for me,” I said. “We can start driving separately, since I’ve been getting done later.”
“I know,” was all she said.
When I stood, Rudy handed me my book bag and we started walking.
“So, I was thinking,” she started, then paused.
I waited.
“You still don’t have a date for prom yet, right?”
“No. Thanks for pointing that out,” I said sarcastically.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Well, what about Jack?”
Jack was Houston’s friend. He was a senior, the one who had gone sledding with us and helped spike our hot chocolate with Baileys the winter before.
My heart beat faster.
“Does he want to go with me?”
Jack was cute. Not Drew cute, but still very cute. And everyone at school liked him.
“Yes.” Rudy had changed into flip-flops, and they slapped against the bottoms of her heels as we tromped across the pavement.
“How do you know?”
“That’s what Houston said.”
“Well, why doesn’t he ask me then?”
“I think he’s going to. I just wanted to make sure you’d go with him.”
“Of course I would.”
We reached her car and she popped the trunk for us to throw our bags inside.
“I think we’re getting a hotel room after the dance,” Rudy said quietly, when we had both climbed inside the car and shut the doors behind us.
“Really?” I shot her a wide-eyed look. Was this why she was acting weird? “You guys haven’t had sex, have you?”
She shook her head quickly. “No, I would have told you.”
But they were getting a hotel room. After prom.
“Are you going to?” I pressed.
Rudy clutched the steering wheel and nodded.
“I think so. I think he really loves me, Jill.” She looked at me, her face unsure. “Is that bad? Should I not?”
I was taken aback. She had told me everything she and Houston had done – not in detail, or anything, but discreetly – and I knew she was thinking about it, but I thought she meant in the future. At the end of the summer or something, months away. I didn’t know she’d meant now.
“No,” I said quickly. “I mean, yes, you should, if you want to. I guess.”
She bit her bottom lip.
“Sorry, I sound like a moron. It’s just,” I took a deep breath. “I just wasn’t expecting that. You should do whatever you think.”
“I know.” She started to back out of the parking spot, even though there were no cars around her. She could have just pulled forward and left. “I wanted to know what you thought, though.”
I was flattered, if a bit confused still.
“I get it. No one’s going to think anything less of you – nobody’s going to think you’re a…”- it was hard to say the word – “a slut or anything, if you’re worried about that. It’s not like it’s a one night thing. You guys have been together a long time.”
“So you think I should?”
“I think you should.” That was what she wanted me to say, wasn’t it? “If you want to, obviously.”
“Okay.” She dutifully looked both ways before pulling out of the school parking lot and onto the street. “Would you want to get a room with us then?”
“What?” I looked at her again and she returned the look. “Like, me stay in the room with you and Houston?”
“And Jack.”
“Oh.” Duh. Of course. “Is that what the guys want?”
“I think, so we can hang out together at the hotel,” she said to the windshield. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. We could just go to someone’s house afterward.”
“Like you’d skip the hotel room if I don’t want to go?”
She bit her lip and shrugged. “I told Houston I wanted to ask you about it first.”
I swallowed. “It would be fun though, right?”
Rudy nodded. “And, obviously, you don’t have to do anything with him if you don’t want to. I mean, I don’t know if he’s even thinking of that, but you know what I mean.” She took her eyes from the road; when she said this, she looked directly into my pupils.
“Duh,” I said.
My heart thumped in my chest. Maybe, if she hadn’t given me permission to back out, I could have refused. But she did. It was all up to me, and that pretty much sealed the deal.
The next morning I found a bouquet of a dozen red roses in my locker, a small note attached to them with a one word proposal in bold-faced font across the front. “Prom?” it read. He had signed it on the back.
“That’s so cute,” Rudy cooed, peering over my shoulder into the locker. “You should wear one behind your ear today,” she teased.
I blushed. “Yeah, right. For good luck on our test.”
I left them in my locker, of course. I thanked Jack at lunch and gave him my affirmative answer before Rudy and I scurried off to our Chemistry test. But I couldn’t concentrate on neutralizing equations. Periodic elements didn’t have to worry about what transpired in hotel rooms after prom. Or maybe they did; what did I know? Before I even turned in my test, I knew I had failed.
The day of the dance, we got our nails, make up and hair done, my mom chauffeuring us around town to her favorite spots; this was her area of expertise. I wore mine in long curls down my back; Rudy got an up-do, to showcase the low-cut back of her gown. When I zipped her into the dress, I stood back and whistled.
“Look at you, hot stuff.”
You could see the points of her shoulder blades as the black dress curved down her tanned back.
She grinned a red lipstick grin. “Put yours on. I want to see yours.”
I don’t think I’ve ever posed for more pictures in my life.
There were photos of Rudy and me on the grand staircase in the Goldens’ foyer, the chandelier glittering above us in the background. There were photos of us with our dates when they came to pick us from Rudy’s. They were wearing white tuxedos; their ties and vests matched the colors of our dresses. My mom snapped a photo as Jack unboxed a corsage and tried to slip it over my wrist.
We took more pictures at Houston’s parents’ home, more still at Forest Park, in front of the beautiful architecture of the art museum, with a big group of classmates. At dinner, Rudy hardly touched her salmon. I ate more than normal, devouring my entire steak, and immediately thought I shouldn’t have. My stomach roiled.
At the dance, there were more photos. Shrieks and compliments and posing for individual and group shots every time we saw one of our friends. My cheeks ached, but I smiled my face off.
An hour before the dance ended, we were off to the hotel. Houston was sipping a beer as he drove. Rudy and I sat in our gowns in the backseat. She reached for my hand where it lay, limp in the empty middle seat. I squeezed her cold fingers.
We told our parents we were sleeping at Deena’s.
I feel like I should note that the boys were sweet about it. They held the car door open for us. They turned their backs as we undressed, letting our expensive dresses crumple to the carpet where hundreds, probably thousands, of other people’s feet had tread. My dress had a poofy skirt, and when I left it behind it kept its shape, rising off the floor like I had left part of myself inside.
As it was happening – as I felt that sharp pain, that dull throbbing in my lower body – I glanced across the room at Rudy, just a few feet away. The lights were off but I could just make out her face. Her pretty hair was limp, smashed up against the professionally laundered pillowcase. She met my eyes for a split second before we both looked away, and I thought I saw something sad there. Something much older and wiser than I felt at that moment. I was probably imagining things.
I was glad I was there with her.
All the time I hear people claiming they live with no regrets. Celebrities say it in magazine interviews, musicians write it into their song lyrics. Spunky, “cool” high school teachers hang inspirational posters touting the phrase. Well, I call bullshit.
I regret so many of the choices I made during my adolescence, I couldn’t even count them on all my fingers. Maybe not even my fingers, toes and teeth combined. There are mistakes I’ve made that make me wince, choices I wake up thinking about and can agonize over for days still, years after the fact. Then, there are smaller mistakes, smaller regrets whose outcomes I can live with. Pills I can swallow.
Losing my virginity when I was only sixteen, to a boy I barely knew, in an expensive hotel room paid for by his parents’ MasterCard – I wish I could say that was one of my worst mistakes.
For the remainder of the school year, the whole two months after that fateful party, Celine sat in the back of our math class at a table by herself. I never tried to apologize, and that summer I heard her family had moved back to Seattle as soon as school was out. I never spoke to her again. If Rudy did, she never told me.
BONGS AND BONGS
8
Junior Summer
Rudy and I dove into the summer before our junior year like champions. I made it all the way to the state track meet, where I finished 12th out of 16 in the 100-meter hurdles. Rudy was selected to be one of Ogden’s junior yearbook photographers for the next school year. It was the first full summer we both could drive; we had no obligations and the weather was getting warmer by the day.
Uncharacteristically, my parents had offered to treat Rudy and me to a trip to Cancun in July of that summer, as an early gift for my seventeenth birthday, and we jumped at the chance. My mother, eager for some sun and “girl time,” would be our chaperone. We prepared for the trip by tanning regularly, drinking copiously and shopping for tropical outfits. My mom allowed us margaritas at the hotel on our first night in Mexico and the gates were open wide from there. It was paradise in our teeny bikinis.
Houston dropped the bomb upon our return to St. Louis. We arrived back at home – jet-lagged, dehydrated and sunburned, despite our valiant attempts to stay on the safe side of the tanning/burning line – and Rudy was on the phone with him for nearly an hour. I think I drifted in and out of sleep in her bed, readjusting every few minutes when the sheets scratched at the sensitive pink skin on my shoulder blades. When she began to cry, it was so softly that I almost didn’t hear her. I flipped onto my side and there she was, curled up in the seat at her vanity, her phone limp in her hand and un-wiped tears falling down her pink cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” I sat up.
Rudy just closed her eyes and shook her head.
“What happened? Did something happen?”
“He wants to break up.” Her voice came out steady but upset. Forlorn. Sad.
“Why not?”
She shrugged and fiddled with the phone in
her hands. “College.”
Ah. College. “But it’s only July.”
“He wants to “get used to being single” before he leaves.” She made the quotation marks in the air with her index and middle fingers. “I guess.”
“That’s stupid,” I said dully.
I wished I were better at sympathy. Another person’s tears put me on edge; how could I possibly console them? By patting their back? Wiping their face? The right words never seemed to come to me. I was, and still am, uncomfortable with the truest displays of emotion. I pulled at the hair tie on my wrist and let it snap back against my skin.
“Houston’s an idiot.” I snapped the band again. It made a satisfying slapping sound. “He’s an asshole.”
Rudy stared at the henna tattoo on her ankle and sniffled.
“You could do better than him, anyway. So,” I threw my head back and added a whole line of “o’s” to the end of my “so”. “…much better. Remember how I always sat in back when we rode with him to school last year?”
Rudy nodded.
“His football stuff smelled like death.” I took a stab at humor. I just wanted to make her smile again. “Once, I accidentally touched his dirty jock strap. I almost made him pull over so I could vomit. I think it was molding or something.”
One corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. She was still looking at her feet, wiggling her toes against the chair.
“I hope he gets herpes or something. Not something deadly. Just so his balls fall off.”
It wasn’t really funny, but at this Rudy gave a deflated laugh and I sighed internally in relief. She had stopped crying but a little tear droplet still clung to her jawline.
“We need to find new boys,” I offered. Did we really? Truthfully, I thought I would probably be fine with the pool and my magazines and my best friend. “Different boys.”
Golden Page 15
