The Book Of Firsts

by Portia Moore

  She’s the rudest girl I’ve ever met…but I think I’m in love with her…or in lust…probably the latter.

  Two

  Megan

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you put on makeup before!” Gabriella gushes, leaning in the bathroom doorway and watching while I do my best to look good.

  Looking good is usually the problem.

  We’ve lived together for about a year since the thing happened with my last roommate. This one works nights in customer service for a company I forgot the name of, has a full-time class load, and spends the rest of her time at her boyfriend’s place. I knew all of this before I moved in which was why I prayed so hard to get the apartment. My space has been important to me since I’ve had to share so much of it all my life. Gabriella grew up in small house, having to share one room with her other sisters, so she understands the luxury of privacy and space.

  “Yeah, I kind of have a date,” I admit nervously, applying mascara to my lashes. I’d barely call what I’m doing makeup since I’m more clueless about the application of it than speaking Japanese, but I did pick up tips here and there from all the foster mothers and sisters I’ve had.

  “Your lashes are really gorgeous. Do you mind if I help a little?” she asks, but before I can respond she is already pushing me towards the toilet to sit down. Her brown eyes gleam as she eyes me, coming up with what she’s about to do in her head.

  “One minute!” She’s out of the bathroom in a flash and comes back with a large plastic pink case that looks full of cosmetics. I’ve never seen her wear very much makeup. She’s beautiful and doesn’t really need it with her dark olive skin, thick brows, and long lashes that people pay money for.

  “Head up!” she practically sings, pointing to our toilet top. I do as I’m told and let out a nervous sigh. Her dark curly hair is piled in a bun on top her head. Her brown eyes study me quickly before pulling several items out of her bag.

  “Not too much. We’re just hanging out, kind of,” I tell her before she starts.

  “I got you, simple and flawless is what we’re going for.”

  “So, who’s the lucky guy?” she asks as she begins to apply moisturizer to my face. My stomach flips just thinking about him.

  “His name’s Kameron. He’s…he’s sweet.”

  “Is he fine?” she asks sneakily and my cheeks naturally light up.

  “He is,” I admit. She smiles widely as she puts dots of what I think is foundation on my face. Gabriella is a few shades darker than me I’m surprised she has my shade.

  “I play around with makeup to make extra cash sometimes,” she says, maybe reading my expression. “Your eye color is really unique, it’s gorgeous and you can do so much with shadows if you wanted. Did you get them from your mom or dad?”

  It’s a question that should be simple to answer but isn’t.

  “I don’t know. I never met either of them,” I say with a tight smile. Her face softens.

  “I never met my dad. He checked out before the test turned pink.”

  I didn’t know that about her. I guess there’s a lot we don’t know about each other. We had worked together at Scooters after I graduated high school and both wanted a place to live. The only thing we needed to know about each other back then was that we cleaned up after ourselves and had clean backgrounds. Our work schedules are so hectic that we’ve never had time to be close, which has worked out great for me.

  “Are your parents alive?” she asks hesitantly.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them other than they didn’t want or weren’t capable of taking care of a little girl.” I laugh a little and shrug.

  “You know when I tell people my dad left my family, they say it’s his loss, but we both know that’s not true, right? It’s ours…in the end we lose.”

  We exchange a knowing glance of understanding, one that only people who are missing part of themselves can.

  “Well, are you excited about the date?” she asks brightly, changing the heavy subject to a lighter one. I am excited, I’m nervous, and more than most people probably would be. Truth be told, it’s my first date. One where I’ll be picked up and taken out and by a guy I can’t even think about without smiling.

  “I am, even if it doesn’t really go anywhere,” I say.

  “You never know, when I met Jarvis it was when I least expected it and we’ve been together ever since.” She’s smiling at the memory.

  “I’m not hoping for much, if he turns out not to be a jerk I’ll be happy.” Her brow furrows at me and she puts the brush down on the sink.

  “Hey, I know we’re not best friends or anything but you’re beautiful Megan, and not on the inside how friends tell their ugly friends they are. You’re stunning. Why do you think I want to play on your face? I charge $30 an hour for this,” she says, with a hand on her hip, and I laugh. “You go to one of the best schools in the country and you’re sweet. If the guy’s a jerk you kick him to the curb ASAP.”

  I’m touched by her words. We continue to make small talk and it’s easy, not forced, and I realize how much I lucked out to have her as my roommate. Aside from the horror stories I’ve read about with roommates being lazy, sloppy, and rude, she’s intelligent with a hint of what she calls “Latina sass.” She tells me that her hours have been cut at her job and she’s trying to get into freelancing to supplement her income, so this free makeup session was a win for both of us. When she’s done she faces me towards the mirror and my eyes widen. It’s perfect—the makeup, that is. “Beautifully simple” is what she calls it.

  “I just wanted to highlight your features. You have great skin and these alluring eyes. This Kameron guy isn’t going to be able to get you out of his head.”

  It’d only be fair since I can’t get him out of mine.

  I can’t think of a time since I was a little girl that I’ve been optimistic, hopeful about someone or something

  It’s okay to be like this.

  Things are better and nothing else matters. All the days I worked instead of partied, drank water instead of soda, studied instead of slept, got me here, in my own apartment at one of the best schools in the country…and almost on my way to a normal life. I don’t even need normal, just bearable, but Kameron is anything but ordinary. He’s made me feel more than I have with just a glance. The question is Why me? but I tell myself Why not? to shut up the voice in my head that comes whenever something good happens, which hasn’t been often, but the few times it does it crushes the hope and optimism that I try to have. This time I won’t listen to it. When I was younger I hated the way I looked when I was called beautiful from people who were inappropriate and shouldn’t have said that to me. I cursed my parents for my almond-shaped eyes, the weird way they bounced between grey and green, how tall I was—I didn’t want any of it because it’s always made my life harder, but the things I’ve hated made me stand out to Kameron, made him notice me.

  It’s the only thing you’re worth and he’ll be gone when he realizes it.

  I pray that I’m not an imposter, that I’m not what I look like, that what’s on the outside doesn’t match what’s beneath. That all the ugliness, pain, and fear I’ve grown up with will spill out and rear itself.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  Kameron has pulled up in front of me in a black Porsche; it’s sleek, new, and beautiful, and I have to stop my jaw from falling open. He’s out in a flash and walks over to meet me. I have to remind myself that he’s here for me, this beautiful man with the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen has driven to the ugly part of Indiana beyond the sprawling campus lined with trees, new buildings, and hopes and dreams. He’s in front of me where reality lives a far cry from all of that, where the grass isn’t cut, people loiter, and an imperfect girl waits for him to realize it.

  “Hi beautiful,” he says happily, and seemingly unphased by our surroundings. I kick myself for not protesting more about him not picking me up, but he insisted.

  “You look a
mazing,” he says, a dazzling smile spreading across his face. My cheeks flush red as I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He has on a pair of dark denim jeans and a white t-shirt with a Lacoste logo inconspicuously in the corner.

  Rich prick?

  I swallow hard and try to smile away my embarrassment.

  “So do you…nice car.” I gesture to it.

  “It’s my dad’s, my truck is having engine issues.” He opens the door for me and I let out a little gasp. I’ve never been in a car this expensive in my entire life and my nerves have climbed up my throat.

  I peep over at him as he settles into the car as if he was made just for him. I wonder if this is the feeling all the girls talked about when I was fourteen and they all had their first crushes. Boys were the farthest thing from my mind at that point.

  “Can I be honest with you about something?” he asks, and I hold my breath.

  “Yeah. Shoot,” I tell him.

  “I had this feeling you were going to stand me up,” he says with a boyish chuckle.

  I swallow hard. He has no idea how much convincing it took for me to be here.

  “I wouldn’t have stood you up, if I wasn’t going to go I would have told you beforehand,” I tell him honestly. He eyes me carefully.

  “Is there a reason you would have?” he asks, and our eyes lock. Am I more transparent than I thought, or do I read awkward or wrong?

  “I’m not much of a dater.” He arches a brow at me.

  “I’d have thought you’ve had guys lining up for the chance.” he says, almost surprised.

  “This is my first year going to school on campus, I’ve been doing virtual admin work the past year or so. I haven’t really been out as much.”

  “Purdue’s best kept secret then. I’m glad I found you first,” he says genuinely. I think of the irony of his words. There are so many secrets in the world; I’m not one of them. I just have more than a few.

  Based on TV shows my foster siblings described, I always thought a first date involved going to a movie or a cheap restaurant. Not a gourmet cooking class where the teacher, Ms. Chereaux—a short, plump, stunning woman who speaks with a French accent—is an expert that looks like she came straight off the Food Network.

  Kameron is more than what I thought he was. In my imaginary reality, before he actually asked me out, he was still beautiful of course, but the silent type. This Kameron is warmth, jokes, and fun. Not a stuffy prince but like the handsome jester that you thought was a jester until you find out he’s really a prince.

  I’ve been reading too many books but I’m not nervous around him like how I thought I’d be. Things are nice and almost easy and that I’m not used to in any part of my life.

  We’ve fumbled our way through most of the instructions. Kameron’s entertaining and I bet he’s been raised by parents who believe manners and etiquette are important. I’m sure he knows how to set a place at the table, the ones rich people have where there’s like five forks.

  “Turn the heat up how you want in the bedroom!” she booms gracefully, directing us to finish off our crepes. My face turns red as a skittle. Kameron covers up a laugh as we turn our stove up and stir the ingredients. There are only us and two other couples in the room so it’s nice to have a certain amount of privacy without it being too intimate.

  “I suck at cooking,” I admit, trying to keep my dish from becoming a burnt mess.

  “I’m glad you chose this place.”

  “I wanted to do something fun where I could get to know you. Our options are limited here in good ole Indiana but this isn’t as bad as I though it’d be.”

  “I hope it’s a hundred times better than you ever expected,” Ms. Chereaux adds almost magically, appearing behind us.

  “Oui!” he laughs, and I give him an embarrassed smile.

  “The secret ingredient to making food is to make it with love, passion…think of food as your lover.” She winks and playfully pats Kameron on the shoulder. She makes her way over to the other couple to embarrass them.

  “I’m much better at other things, I promise.” His eyes hint at a mischievous innuendo between his words, while his smile remains angelic. How does he do that?

  I press my lips together and try to make my dish as edible as possible. I load mine up with fruit and powdered sugar. I notice Kameron watching me, amused.

  “You’re like an eight-year-old,” he teases. I freeze, embarrassed. I can imagine how refined this must look.

  He thinks you’re immature; you’re really just stupid.

  “No, it’s cute. I didn’t mean to offend you,” he follows up quickly, and to compensate he adds more fruit and sugar to his and gives me a butterfly-inducing smile. I add a little more powdered sugar on his food for good measure.

  Once the instruction portion of the class is over we’re sat at a separate table to eat our dishes, some masterpieces other couldn’t aspire to reach the heights of being on a value menu at a fast food place.

  Ours are both edible and the presentation isn’t as bad as we’d imagined it to be while making it. The fruit and sugar no doubt covers up the failing we may have had in making the perfect pastry. Ms. Chereaux thankfully supplied eggs and sausage to supplement what dish could have been a tragedy.

  “Before we break bread I’d like to share with you a tale of two lovers from my country,” Ms. Chereaux begins. “Alexander and Sophie, we’ll call them. Sophie was beautiful of course, as girls must be in stories like this. She was a student at the time, young and vibrant, and would stop at a little café everyday before her class. Alexander was handsome young man who worked in the café and would watch Sophie from afar every day. This was not creepy in those times.” The class laughs, and my arm tingles when Kameron slides his hand down it and holds my hand.

  “One day he worked up the courage to ask her if she was available for a date and he did this writing the question on her favorite pastry. However, the pastry was instead delivered to a big burly prideful man who was sitting next to Sophie, and that request did not go over well. The man was upset and insulted and Sophie stepped in saying that it was at her request as a joke. And being young, vibrant, and beautiful as she was, the man only mildly scolded them both. Young Sophie then asked Alexander if she could have one of her very own crepes and if so she’d like one that said ‘yes.’ He obliged and that was the first of many they shared over a lifetime.”

  “Isn’t your name Sophie, Ms. Chereaux?” Kameron asks as charming as a beautiful man should be, as she says.

  “Guilty!” she laughs and the class joins in with her.

  “And I was the schmuck who almost got pummeled,” her husband adds, joining her. She beams and kisses him on the cheek.

  “I say it would have been worth it right?” she shrugs daintily, and we all applaud.

  “We now will let you lovers enjoy your meal why we enjoy ours.”

  “That was such a cute story, were you asked to tell everyone her name?” I ask as we begin to dig in to our food.

  “Ms. Chereaux is actually a friend of the family,” he admits with a half shrug.

  “Really? Your mom is French?” I ask, stealing an extra blackberry.

  “No, she spent a year abroad where her and Ms. Chereaux met.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing,” I tell him, genuinely impressed.

  “Have you been to France?” he asks.

  I shake my head a little. “No, the only place I’ve been to outside of Indiana is Michigan. At least that’s what my birth certificate says,” I say lightly. He looks at me curiously.

  “Really, not even Chicago?” he asks, almost amazed.

  “No, not even there,” I say, feeling a little awkward.

  “I bet you’ve been everywhere, haven’t you?” I ask, attempting to change the subject.

  “Nah,” he says quietly, shaking his head with a boyish grin.

  “Come on, where have you been?” I ask, letting him know it’s okay to share.

  “Well, my parents are big trave
lers so we’ve gone to Europe a couple of times,” he says modestly. They probably go every year. My eyes take notice of the watch he’s wearing. It’s sleek and looks expensive like his dad’s car.

  Kameron is rich. I know this now. The question is…how rich is he? I hate that and it makes me uncomfortable even though he’s done nothing but be kind to me. What would the two of us have in common? He’s probably been around the world several times. I bet he knows different languages and probably has a trust fund worth more than I’ll make in my entire life.

  You’re not good enough for him.

  It’s hot in here. I need air, or space, that’s what I need.

  “Excuse me,” I say, getting up from the table. He gets up as well, concern littering his handsome features.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just have to go to the bathroom,” I tell him, excusing myself as quickly as I can.

  Once I make my escape to the bathroom I take in several deep breaths. What am I doing here? I should be home studying or picking up an extra shift. This was a mistake! A fantasy. The chances of a guy like him being truly interested in me—and even if he is—he’d eventually realize I’m just a little girl from foster care with no family, and a whole lot of problems that someone like him doesn’t have to deal with. His family will hate me if it even got to that point. Maybe he just wants to sleep with me and be done with it. I’m not ready to date and to just be thrown away. Does he want to have sex? Is that what all of this is for?

  “Hello, Jolie?”

  I’m not alone anymore, Ms. Chereaux has come in with a wide smile on her face. When she looks at me it falters a bit.

  “The food didn’t agree with you?” she asks, worried. I try to pull myself together.

  “No the food was excellent, this…it’s so wonderful. I feel like I’ve had a little piece of France.”

  “Then something else wrong?” she asks, her eyes searching me.

  “Ugh first date jitters.” I shrug, and immediately kick myself. She’s his mom’s friend so she probably knows, and if she didn’t, she knows now.