Girls stare at me with jealousy. I know they’re wondering how I snagged you. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
After the dance, you get me into the backseat of your Mustang and we kiss so much my lips get swollen. Someone raps on the window, shines a big flashlight at us.
“Kids,” the security guard says, “clear out.”
I look out the window as you scramble into the driver’s seat. We’re the only car left. When we got here, the parking lot was full.
For the next hour we drive to some of our favorite make-out places: the Mormon church parking lot (a favorite among local teens—who knew?) and that fancy neighborhood across town that doesn’t have that many streetlights. Except someone in one of the houses calls on us.
The cops come by again. After they let us off the hook, we both burst out laughing.
“I have some pretty salacious stuff to write in my diary tonight,” I tease.
“You have a diary?”
I nod. “Ever since I was in kindergarten.”
“Damn. Do you write about me?”
“Of course I write about you. But don’t worry—it’s well hidden.”
We end up at a dark patch of street in your neighborhood, in the backseat once more. It’s surprisingly comfortable. You bunch my dress up around my hips and I run my hands through your hair. Your lips, your tongue, your fingers—they’re all over me. I should be embarrassed by what you can see and taste, the moans coming out of my mouth, but I’m not. I close my eyes and a shudder of pure bliss rolls through me and I get it, I know what that is. And I love you so fucking much.
My eyes snap open and you wipe your mouth on my knee, smiling against my skin.
“God, I love doing that to you.”
“Really?” I whisper.
“Are you kidding? Yes.”
Natalie would say sick. Mom would … god, I don’t even know what she’d do.
I know it’s not true, but I can’t help feeling that no one in the history of ever has felt this way about each other. How can anyone have wanted another person this much? Or felt like they were a part of them?
I sit up and reach for your belt. “Come here,” I whisper.
I remember one time a cheerleader in my geometry class was talking about Justin Timberlake and said something like I want to have his babies and I thought that was so weird.
But I have that thought, out of nowhere. I want to have your babies. I want you inside me. I want to melt into your skin so that I’m with you all the time.
“I love you,” I whisper against your lips.
Your mouth turns up in a love-drunk half smile. “I love you more.”
I’m obsessed with you. When you said that to me, I felt proud. I can’t stop thinking about you. Sometimes I can’t sleep until I write a song about your lips, the sound of your voice, the way your middle finger curves slightly to the left.
We stop before we go so far we can’t turn back and when I catch my breath, I feel relieved. I don’t want anything to ruin tonight. As much as I want you, I don’t want to lose my virginity on prom night. I don’t want the first time I have sex to be a cliché.
We get back into the front seat and head toward my place, the college indie station playing quietly. It’s nearly curfew—Mom is letting me stay out until midnight. This is a good thing, her rule. It keeps us from going to the housing development that’s still being built, the one where we first kissed. You know I don’t want to have sex yet, but we talk about it all the time. You’re not pushing me. I want you just as much as you want me. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I’m just scared. Sex seems like a huge step, one I can’t ever go back from. I don’t want to be one of the girls in my high school who have sex. It would just feel … wrong. Like suddenly belonging to an alien race. All of my friends are virgins. I don’t want to be the first to lose it. And I don’t want anything between us to change. I’m scared what will happen if we do it.
I want to be your first, you said the other day. Then you changed your mind: I want to be your only.
I still can’t believe you’ve never had sex. I am so going to deflower you, I’d said. You laughed your head off, told me no one makes you laugh like I can.
We’re almost home when I feel the atmosphere shift from blissful giddiness to something … bad. I have no idea where it’s coming from. Your hands tighten on the wheel. Without realizing it, everything in me tenses up. The happy evaporates. This is how I’m supposed to feel at home, not with you. Never with you.
“I’d really like to read it,” you say quietly. “Your diary.” You turn to me. “Can I?”
“What?” I shake my head. “Wouldn’t that be weird?”
You shrug. “I mean, if you’re not hiding anything, what does it matter?”
I sit there, quiet. Thinking. I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t feel right.
You rest a hand on my knee. “I just want to be as close to you as possible.”
Some of the fear inside me melts away. You love me. You want to know me inside out, just like I want to know you inside out. But still. I can’t shake the wrongness of the question—that you even asked it.
“I know,” I say. “But … it’s my diary.”
You frown. “I read you my poems, my songs. That’s like my diary.”
That’s true. Except you get to choose which ones you read to me. My diary—I don’t leave anything out. The whole mess of me is in there. Matt’s in there. You already hate him, hate that I’m working with my ex and that he gets to see me more than you.
“I trust you—why don’t you trust me?” you say.
“I do.”
“I just … can’t be with anyone that isn’t up-front with me. Summer … she had a lot of secrets.”
Summer is the magic word. I think you know this. I don’t ever want you to think I’m like the girl who pushed you toward suicide. I see it that way now—as though you slitting your wrists were somehow her fault. I’m not like her. I’ll keep you safe. You’ll keep me safe.
So I cave.
I read you parts of my diary the next day. You’re sitting on the hood of your car and I stand in front of you, your arms around my waist. After several entries, your hands drop away. You’re angry—why? I left out the Matt parts, like when I kinda wanted to kiss him when he had flour on his nose that one time. So what is there to be mad about?
“I know you’re skipping parts,” you say. You reach for the diary. “Come on, let me read it.”
You’re right—I have stuff I’m hiding. Entries where I wonder if you’re really the one. Entries that list your faults. Like, I think it’s really dumb you’re super into He-Man. You have the figurines from the eighties and you and the guys are always all I have the power! But maybe that bugs me because you once said I’m not as hot as He-Man’s sister, She-Ra. I’m sure you were joking, but still. Stupid little nitpicky things like that.
If I don’t give you this diary, you’ll know I’m hiding something. And you’ll force it out of me. You asked me a few weeks ago if I’d ever masturbated and I lied, but you could see the lie all over my face. You pushed me to tell you how I do it, what I think about.
You better only think of me, you said. You weren’t teasing—sometimes I think you’d set up security cameras in my mind if you could.
I hand you the diary. But I’m strategic. I flip to a page where it says how much I love you, how maybe we might get married someday. This is the truth and I want you to know it.
After you’re done reading the entry, you pull me closer. You’re beaming.
“See,” you whisper, your lips brushing my hair, my neck. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“No,” I say, relieved. “It wasn’t.”
I never write in my diary again.
SIXTEEN
I like that you tell me your secrets. Sometimes you get so sad you can’t stand it. And you don’t know why you feel this way and you’re terrified your parents will find out. They watch me all the time, you
say. Every word, everything I do—it’s like they’re analyzing it. They think I’ll … that I’ll try to hurt myself again.
You confess that the sadness is eating you alive. That the only thing that’s saving you is music … and me. Me.
“Do you ever feel so trapped you can hardly breathe?” I ask you one afternoon. We’re at your house, pretending to do homework but really just kissing every moment your mom isn’t in the room.
“All the time,” you say. “I mean, I love my parents, but this town, this life—it’s their version of heaven. I just totally don’t get that.”
“I know—Nat and Lys are the same way,” I say. “Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in this entire school who actually has a dream. Like, a big dream.”
Nat and Lys have dreams, sure. But they’re human-sized. Nat wants to be a nurse, Lys wants to be a psychologist.
“Which is…”
“Bohemian starving artist,” I say immediately.
“Ha! You would say that.”
I swat at your arm. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hmmm … let me think,” you say, rubbing your chin. “Remind me—how many times have you seen Moulin Rouge?”
“Well, okay. But even you have to admit that would be a cool life.”
“Grace, are you telling me your life goal is to be a whore dying of consumption?”
I will not be swayed.
“If that’s the only way I can live in Belle Epoque Paris, then yes, yes I do want to be a whore dying of consumption.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come join me,” I say. “You can die of syphilis—it’ll be so much fun!”
You laugh, shaking your head. Your fedora topples to the ground and you pick it up as you turn to an imaginary audience and gesture to me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.” You reach up and brush your finger against my cheek, smiling that soft smile that’s just for me. “I need you. You’re the only good part of my day, you know that?”
I bat your hand away, blushing. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
You take my hands and lean closer. “You’re so good at this.”
“At what?”
“Dealing with me.”
“Gav, I don’t deal with you. You’re…” I bite my lip.
“God, I love when you do that,” you say.
“Do what?”
You shake your head. “I’m not telling you—you’ll get self-conscious and you won’t do it anymore and then what am I supposed to daydream about in class?”
Lines, these fucking lines of yours—why can’t I see that they’re all too perfect? How would things have turned out differently if I hadn’t fallen for every single one of them?
“So. I have some news,” you say. “I’ve actually had it for a while, like over a month, but I’ve had to do a lot of thinking, so … yeah.”
My stomach tightens. “College news?”
You nod. I try to smile. I knew this was coming. We both did.
“Okay,” I say, quiet.
“Don’t be sad.”
“I’m not.”
You gently push me. “Liar.”
“Okay. I’m a little sad. Maybe a lot sad. Just tell me and get it over with.”
“I’m not going to UCLA.”
I stare at you. “What? How could they have not chosen you?”
You shrug. “Their loss.”
I feel so guilty for being happy.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Well, I thought you might like to know that I’m staying here. Going to State.”
I blink. “But you’re supposed to move to LA and be a rock star and forget all about me.”
You lean your forehead against mine. “First, I could never forget about you.”
“Once you have groupies you could.”
You laugh and brush my lips. “You’re the only groupie I need.”
“I’m trying really hard not to be happy about this,” I say.
“Why? Were you planning on breaking up with me in September?” you tease.
“No. But you hate it here. You’re going to be miserable.”
“Can’t be miserable when you’re around. It’s just one more year, Grace. When you graduate … we can go wherever we want.” You grin. “The world is our fucking oyster.”
* * *
LAST NIGHT MY mom grounded me from eating eggs for a month because I forgot to wash the pan I’d cooked them in. A few days before that, she threatened to pull me out of the school dance concert if I left the laundry in the dryer again. The ridiculousness of all this has quickly slid to the number one spot in Reasons My Mother Is Crazy.
Now, it’s almost eight in the morning and my SAT test is at eight-thirty. The test center is twenty minutes away and I’ll need a few minutes once I get there to prep. Mom is taking me because I don’t want to make you wake up on a Saturday at an hour you consider to be, and I quote, the ass-crack of dawn. But Mom said we couldn’t leave until I’d folded the laundry (The Giant’s tightie-whities and undershirts) and now I’m about to start crying and am so stressed because I need to go take my fucking SATs, you bitch, I hate you.
“Mom, the laundry is done, can we go?”
She looks over the pile of clothing, refolds the top items, then nods.
I run outside and jump into the van and just after Mom turns the key in the ignition, this begins:
“I don’t think I locked the front door,” Mom says. “Go check it.”
“I saw you lock—”
“Grace. Go check the door.”
I fucking saw her lock it because I knew this would happen, I knew it. I make a big show of trying to open the very locked door. I get back in and Mom ignores me as she pulls out. Talk radio is on way too loud and my head is spinning and I am totally going to fail this test. Next week is the last week of school. I don’t want to have this hanging over my head all summer.
We’re halfway down the street when Mom stops the car.
“Crap,” she says. “The back gate. I doubt Roy locked it when he took the trash cans out.”
Mom starts to do a three-point turn. The clock on the dash says 8:05. I point to it.
“Mom, please. I’m gonna be late.”
“The Hendersons had their yard broken into last week,” she says.
“They have a totally jumpable gate!” I say. “And it’s eight in the morning, Mom. I’m sure all the thieves are sleeping.…”
She ignores me. We’re back in the driveway. I jump out before she tells me to, run, and—sure enough—the gate’s locked. I sprint back to the car.
“Okay, okay, we’re good. Let’s go,” I snap.
“Do not take that tone with me, young lady. I’ll just sit here and wait until you can be respectful,” she says.
Tears well up in my eyes and I bite my lip. If I start crying I’ll get a headache; I’ll say something I’ll regret.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“I’m sorry.” My words this time are louder, the defiance stuffed way down deep where she can’t see it. I am Totally Remorseful Daughter.
Suddenly she pushes open her door, pulls the keys out of the ignition.
“Mom! I said I’m sorry!”
“My curling iron,” she calls over her shoulder, hurrying to the door. “I left it on, I’m sure I did.”
No you didn’t!!!!!!!!!
8:10
8:15
I’m crying now, tears blurring my index cards, each one neatly printed with an obscure piece of vocabulary, but the only words running through my mind are:
Obsessive
Compulsive
Disorder
I am tired of invisible dust.
Doors that unlock themselves.
Creases in smooth sheets.
Cold irons burning.
Since I’m grounded from my cell (long story involving a forgotten broom on the front porch), I compose a
n imaginary text to Natalie:
Can’t make it. Good luck. I fucking hate my life.
I hear the door slam and now the dance really begins. Mom locks the door, goes down the porch steps, turns, checks it. Still locked. She walks down the path, pauses. Starts to turn. Her eyes meet mine. I am silent. Tears running down my face. I can see the battle she fights inside herself—check it again, her little demons tell her, one more time. My eyes beg her to get in the car. Her eyes beg me to understand. But I can’t. I won’t.
She holds up a finger. One more time. Better safe than sorry.
8:45
We arrive at the testing center. They tell me I’m late. They tell me I can’t take it. I turn to my mom.
“I hate you,” I say, quiet.
She knows I mean it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. Her voice is a shrug, but I can see the misery in her eyes. She won’t admit it’s her fault, though. She won’t admit she needs help.
We don’t talk the whole way home.
SEVENTEEN
The entire sloping lawn in front of the school’s outdoor auditorium is packed. Hot sunlight burns down, turning anyone with pale skin pink. I sit squished between Natalie and Alyssa, waiting for the end-of-the-year talent show to start. Waiting for you to knock everyone’s socks off.
It’s the last day of school and finals are over. It wouldn’t be Roosevelt High without this annual tradition. Even though it’s just a school event, there’s a carnival feel to it all: summer is here and you can feel the rapture of the school year coming to an end. We’re animals in a cage who are so so close to being free. At least, that’s what we tell ourselves. Freedom is an illusion, Lys says. The Man invented summer vacation to make us forget that he’s keeping us down the rest of the year.
“It’s so stupid they still call it Air Guitar,” she says, taking a bite from the In-N-Out burger she’s gotten at one of the food trucks parked around campus for today. “Like, hello? Everyone is actually playing guitar.”
Bad Romance Page 12
