Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  You and I have had this conversation before, about how the yearly talent show has gone from lip-synching to the real deal ever since your freshman year, when you and your band decided to turn the mics on and plug the amps in.

  “I would just like to point out that my boyfriend has revolutionized the entire RHS talent show system,” I say. “Can you imagine how much this would have sucked if it was all lip-synching?”

  Nat rolls her eyes. “Well, it should be pretty fun watching Peter, Kyle, and Ryan try to be One Direction.”

  “Gav tried to talk them out of it—it’s on them,” I say.

  Poor Ryan, getting roped into their scheme. Now, instead of just being the cool bass player of Evergreen, he’ll be remembered as boy band wannabe number three.

  You laughed your ass off when they told you they would be lip-synching and doing a choreographed dance to “What Makes You Beautiful.” The only person willing to be their fourth boy band member was a freshman.

  “I can’t wait,” I say. “Mostly because I’m going to take a million pictures and use them as blackmail for the rest of their lives.”

  Nat laughs. “I told Kyle he’s lucky I’m not dumping him.”

  She and Kyle have pretty much been together since Peter’s party.

  Lys nods. “For real.”

  My phone buzzes and I check my text—it’s from you.

  Peek-a-boo

  Where are you?

  In a super secret rock star location. I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.

  Can you see me?

  Oh, yeah. Your boobs look good in that shirt, btw.

  Do you ever think about anything else?

  Sorry, I didn’t catch that. I was busy imagining my girlfriend with her clothes off.

  “Is he nervous?” Lys asks.

  I laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”

  You never seem to get nervous. You take all the attention in stride, like it’s your due. I think you’ve probably always been this way. Taking things as your due, I mean.

  The first act comes on, a group of three girls singing an old Destiny’s Child song. I’m annoyed by their general lack of clothing. Wonder if any of them flirted with you backstage. Wonder if you flirted back.

  “Skanks,” Lys mutters under her breath.

  I wish I could say I didn’t laugh, but I did. Nat hits her, though.

  “You’re the worst feminist ever,” she hisses. “Didn’t you read The Vagina Monologues?”

  Lys flashes an evil grin. “Let the record show that Nat just said vagina—in public.”

  When you and the rest of Evergreen go onstage, the entire school’s energy spikes.

  That’s my boyfriend, I think, proud, as guys whistle and girls scream. I’m not jealous of the girls this time—you’re mine.

  You’re always hot, but with your electric guitar in your hand and your hair in your face as you strut across the stage, you are gorgeous. You really do look like a rock star.

  When you get to the center mic, you pull the guitar strap over your shoulder and when you do, your Ramones shirt cinches up a little and for a second I see a swath of skin. Skin that I’ve touched, kissed, licked. Those narrow hip bones, unexpectedly delicate.

  You pull your mic closer, then look out over the audience. And I know you’re looking for me. I wave and your face breaks out into a grin and you wave back. It’s like having a neon sign over my head that says GIRLFRIEND. I love it. You’re wearing the necklace I made you—a guitar pick strung on a braided leather choker—and your fingers touch it once, for luck maybe. For me.

  You guys launch right into a cover of my favorite song, “California Dreamin’.” You didn’t tell the guys why you chose it, but I know why and it’s the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone has done for me. It’s a great cover—true to the song, but its own thing entirely. You guys went for a real California vibe—Sublime mixed with the Chili Peppers, with a reggae riff here, punked-out Green Day bass there. It’s all my favorite things mixed into one. Every now and then you look out and sing to me, your mouth close to the mic.

  I hold my breath the entire time and I know I’m not the only one. I watch your hands on the strings, the way the muscles and tendons strain against the skin. The way you seem possessed by the music, how it takes you and you let it. You launch into a guitar solo filled with longing, desire, a raw need I see in your eyes every time we shed our clothes like second skins.

  The way you growl the part Well, I got down on my knees and I pretend to pray is so sexy I can’t stand it. The audience erupts and you smile a little, the same smile you get after we’ve messed around. Satisfied. A knot of longing builds in my belly and I imagine running backstage, grabbing you, and taking you into the nearest empty classroom.

  When the song finishes you get a standing ovation—the only one of the afternoon. I scream and wave my hands as the band shuffles offstage, suddenly awkward boys again—the potion of the music has worn off. You’re different, though. You just walk off, like the whole thing doesn’t matter anymore now that the music’s stopped. You don’t even look at the audience again, even though you’re the real deal—no potion necessary.

  I feel the lack of you deep in my chest, just like I always do when a door shuts behind you, when I hear the dial tone in my ear.

  Later, we go swimming at your house. Everyone’s there, including your mom, whose job, it seems, is to keep the pizza coming. We go to your room after everyone leaves. Your parents tell us to leave the door open and we do, but it doesn’t matter because they’re in the living room watching a movie and the last time you went by there to grab us some drinks from the fridge, they were asleep.

  “You were amazing today,” I say against your lips.

  I’m sitting on your lap, straddling you, and your hands are busy untying my bikini top. You don’t say anything—compliments make you bashful—but you sing “California Dreamin’” softly as your lips travel down my neck toward my chest. My arms are wrapped around you, my hands in your hair, and I slowly sit up on my knees so that your hand can slip more easily into my bikini bottom.

  “I bought some condoms,” you whisper in my ear. “Just in case…”

  “We … can’t … Your parents…”

  I gasp and you laugh softly as you lay me on the bed and unbuckle your pants. We lie against each other, naked. You press closer to me.

  “Are you sure?” you whisper.

  I want to lose my virginity to you. I just don’t know when the right time will be. I think I’ll just know. I’ll feel it in my bones.

  “Not when your parents are home,” I whisper.

  I find the Grace inside me who’s got her head on straight. But she looks nothing like she used to. I roll you so you’re on your back and then I slowly make my way down your torso, past that patch of skin I coveted when you were onstage. Lower and lower.

  Your hands snake through my hair and I smile against your skin, feeling powerful, feeling like I’m the only thing that matters to you right now. I’m finally the most important thing in the world to someone.

  When it’s over, I wipe my mouth and look down at you. I wish I could paint. No, I wish I could sculpt. I want to turn you into clay, run my hands along every part of you. I want you under my fingernails and stuck on my skin. I want to know exactly what you’re made of, what’s inside.

  I look at you and look at you and look at you.

  * * *

  WHEN I SEE you in your cap and gown, I cry.

  I’m sandwiched between Nat and Lys and they both, as if by silent agreement, wrap an arm around me. This makes me cry harder.

  You give me a tiny wave from where the seniors are lining up behind the bleachers.

  Lys tries to redirect my attention. “How are things with your parents?”

  “They’re still pissed as hell at me,” I say, wiping my eyes.

  Which is why I’m grounded from seeing you all summer, your last summer before college.

  You tap my window and I’
m at my bedroom door seconds later. Underneath my skirt I’m wearing the lacy underwear you bought me.

  I’m sliding back the glass door when it happens:

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The Giant. Oh god, to be caught by HIM of all people.

  My hand falls from the door handle. Your face is nearly as white as the stage makeup for mimes.

  I turn and say the first lie I can think of.

  “I couldn’t sleep, so I called Gavin. We were just gonna hang out on the porch and talk until I got sleepy.”

  “You better get home right now, Gavin,” The Giant says. He turns to me. “Congratulations. You just lost your summer.”

  “At least they didn’t ground me from you guys,” I say.

  That was on the table for a while.

  The girls tighten their hold around me, a cocoon of best-friend love. I have my new version of the Three Amigos. No Ewww, the purple house, but this will do.

  The ceremony goes by faster than I thought it would—months of dread for one and a half hours of good-bye.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I say to Nat and Lys as I hurry down the bleachers.

  I get to see you before you go off to a party with the senior class. We’ve agreed to meet on the baseball field before you find your parents.

  “Hey,” you say, wiping away my tears. I hate that I’m all splotchy. “I love you. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  I nod, miserable. “I just love you so much and what if—”

  You press your lips against mine, soft and sweet. I hold on to you, greedy. I don’t care who sees us.

  “I have to go,” you say, pulling away. “There’s no way I’m not seeing you all summer—we’ll figure it out. Promise.”

  I sleep over at Nat’s and she, Lys, and I spend the night eating popcorn and chocolate. If it weren’t for them, I would have been inconsolable tonight. We talk about you going to college and how, even though it’s local, it’s an entirely different world. No—an entirely different planet.

  “He’s going to be this hot rocker guy and all these college girls are going to throw themselves at him,” I say miserably.

  Lys nods. “Yeah. Sorry, but … yeah.” Nat hits her and she says, “What? It’s true.”

  Nat puts an arm around me. “He’s obviously in love with you. I think you guys will make it next semester … if you want to.”

  “Of course I want to,” I say. I can’t really picture any scenario in which we’re not together. “Okay, no more boy talk, it’s too depressing.”

  “Agreed,” Nat says. “Can you believe we’re officially seniors now?”

  Lys reaches for the bag of kettle corn. “I know, right? Time to blow this Popsicle stand.”

  The future is creeping up on me. The possibilities, I realize, are endless. I’d forgotten that over these months with you. My already tiny world had shrunk to the circumference of your arms.

  “Am I losing myself?” I ask suddenly. “Have I become that girl?”

  “That girl” is the one who ditches her friends for a boy, a girl whose whole life revolves around him.

  Nat hesitates. Takes a long sip of her Pepsi Freeze.

  “Well,” she says, weighing each word in that thoughtful way of hers. “Maybe a little.”

  I reach for her hand, then Lys’s, and squeeze them. “That’s lame. I’m sorry.”

  Nat shakes her head. “You’re happy, right?”

  “With Gavin? Yeah,” I say. “It’s my parents who are making everything with him so complicated.”

  “Then that’s all that matters.”

  Happy. This time next year, Gavin, I won’t be happy. I won’t be desperate to see you. By this time next year, I’ll be ready to say good-bye.

  EIGHTEEN

  You have the perfect family.

  I like to just sit back and watch you together—your mom, teasing you, kissing your cheek to reassure you when you take her ribbing seriously. I love how when she kisses you, she makes a smacking sound. Mwah! That means she really loves you, in case you didn’t know. Your dad: absentminded and sweet, always walking into whatever room we’re in, looking for his glasses (or maybe checking up on us, I don’t know). You’re an only child and it’s obvious: you are their entire world. They worship you just like everyone else does—your first acolytes.

  “Grace, I wish we could just put you in one of our suitcases,” your mom says. “You’re such a tiny thing, I bet we could manage it.”

  “A carry-on bag would be better,” you say. “Then she wouldn’t have to stay in the bottom of the plane with all the other luggage.”

  Your dad chuckles. He thinks you’re the cleverest boy in the world. I do, too.

  You come closer and kiss my head, expression serious. “I can’t believe your mom said no. I thought for sure—” You break off, sighing.

  “I know.” I look away when my throat starts to close up. I’ve been crying so much lately.

  I am so in love with you, Gavin Davis. I love how messy your hair is and how you wear the same three outfits all the time. I love how I can hear you playing guitar when I walk up to your house. I love that you’re the only person who knows that I’m unbelievably ticklish on the inside of my elbow.

  “It’s criminal,” your dad agrees.

  Your parents are taking you to Hawaii for ten days and they offered to pay my way as a graduation present to you and my mom said no. Hawaii. A tropical beach and hardly any clothes and you you you.

  It is criminal. I hate my mom. I know that’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s true. I think she’s jealous of me, that I have a guy that doesn’t walk all over me, that I’m young and thin and happy. That I have lots and lots of orgasms. Sometimes I’ll catch her looking at me with real dislike. And she’s become more critical of me lately. I have fat rolls in my stomach when I hunch forward, I don’t have nice enough knees for short dresses and skirts, my favorite color (red) makes me look pasty. She even got pissed when I weighed myself and realized I’d lost a couple pounds. Just wait until your metabolism slows down, she said. You take after your dad and look at the women in his family.

  “Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I say. I’m practicing having a stiff upper lip. Chin up, as Beth would say.

  “That’s the spirit,” your mom says as she places a Coke in front of me—she knows how soda deprived I am at home, how it’s considered a luxury on my family’s grocery list.

  “Thanks, Anna,” I say. I like that she refuses to let me call her Mrs. Davis. You’re one of the family now, she says. He loves you, she says, so we love you. It’s that simple.

  And it really is. Your parents have become parents to me, too. They give me advice, they worry about me, they feed me. Your mom even insists she and I have girl time together. Manicures or lunch. It’s all the things I hear about other moms doing, but didn’t know they actually did. When you told them what happened the morning I missed my SATs, your mom actually started crying. You made me promise that from now on, you’re my ride for anything important.

  She squeezes my hand. “When you two get married, we won’t have to deal with this crazy anymore.”

  By now I’m used to your family’s openness, but I had no idea your parents approved of me that much.

  You smile at the surprise on my face. “Yeah, we talk about you behind your back” is all you say.

  I blush. You will always be able to make me blush, no matter what. You plop down next to me and bury your face in my shoulder. It’s been days since we’ve made out, since we’ve gotten to touch each other. One more chance, Mom said, after the night The Giant took my summer away. Next time, you’re breaking up with him.

  I think I might die if I had to break up with you. The thought of another girl in your arms, lying beneath you—it kills me.

  “Anna, Grace’s parents aren’t crazy.” Your dad looks from your miserable face to mine. “Okay, maybe a little.”

  “This sucks,” you grumble.

  My m
om’s attempt at a peace offering is letting me be here to say good-bye. Then it’s back to being grounded from you all summer. You have these amazing parents who’ve embraced me, made me part of your family, and I have a mom who locks me up and throws away the key. It’s like I’m Rapunzel without the romantic tower and gorgeous hair.

  “If I were a better parent,” your mom says to you, “you’d be grounded, too, after what you pulled, going to her house in the middle of the night.”

  “You can’t ground me,” you say. “I’m eighteen.”

  I feel like I will never be eighteen.

  “I’ll ground you until you’re forty if I feel like it,” she says, trying to hide her smile.

  You turn to me. “Don’t your mom and The Giant—”

  Your dad swats you on the arm with his newspaper. “Don’t call him that.” But I can see the little glimmer in your dad’s eye.

  “Don’t your mom and (cough) The Giant (cough) Roy”—you grin at your dad and he just shakes his head, his lips twitching—“realize that when they ground you, they ground me, too?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think they care about that,” I say.

  There’s a honk outside—your shuttle to the airport has arrived. The sound is like a punch to the gut.

  You grab my hand and pull me toward your room. “We’ll be right back,” you call to your parents as they start bringing stuff outside.

  “Don’t make me a grandmother!” your mom calls.

  “Har-har,” you say.

  She’s joking, but it’s her way of reminding us of boundaries and responsibility and all that. She doesn’t sweep sex under the rug. Your parents talk to us about it and they know we’re both virgins. Your mom even took me to Planned Parenthood because she knows my mom would never in a million years do that. It seems like those would be horribly awkward conversations, but they aren’t. Your parents are … cool.

  When we’re alone in your room, you press me up against a wall and kiss me, hard. You taste like coffee and sugar and I grip your hair in my fists and rub against you.

  “I wish I could slip inside your skin,” you murmur against my lips. “Be as close to you as I can.”