Two Roads from Here

by Teddy Steinkellner

  “I know what my choice is. I know that by spilling my feelings, I risk losing the entire friendship, and that’s the scariest thought. But you know, she just got into college far away, and her mom is sick again, so, like . . . if I don’t tell her the truth . . . maybe I’ll lose her anyway.”

  A chill ran down my back. I let out a massive exhale. “You’re a girl. Tell me what to do.”

  Nikki nodded slowly. She brought her fingers to her chin. “Wiley,” she said. “Wiley, Wiley, Wiley. You are such a good guy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But, like, what do I do?”

  She looked up at the ceiling, lost in thought for a second. “Lordy,” she said. “You’re in a bind. That friend zone is a rough place to be.”

  Then she did something that surprised me—she touched me. She lifted her hand and she touched her finger to my chest. To my heart, I guess.

  “I do have one nugget of advice,” Nikki said. “And it’s this: If you decide to go after her, go hard. Don’t pussyfoot around. You want her, so give her a reason to want you back, you know? This is your moment, Wiley. Grab the bull. Take the horns. Make the boldest play possible. It’s what my boyfriend did with me, and we’ve been happy ever since.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “That makes sense.”

  I nodded at Nikki. She batted her Texas-size eyelashes back.

  “Who is your boyfriend, anyway?” I asked. “The Big Mack, right?”

  Nikki’s eyes almost bulged out of her head. She’s such a hot girl, but for a quick second there she reminded me more of a wacky dog from an old-timey cartoon.

  “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. I mean sure, when I first moved here I was assigned to be Brian’s rally girl and all, but nothing ever happened . . . ew. Yech. No, no.” Nikki let out one final shudder. She regained her composure and smiled. “No, I’m with DeSean now.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Lucky you. Mr. USC, UCLA, and Oregon himself.”

  The conversation mostly faded after that. We sat in silence for a while. I thought about Allegra and what I might do to make myself worthy of her and all the ways I could fail, but all the reasons I need to try. At the same time, Nikki conducted an entire, possibly erotic, text chat with DeSean under the table. Popular girls are truly impressive sometimes.

  Before detention ended, I did ask her one final thing:

  The Breakfast Club question.

  “Hey, Nikki?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I was wondering. After today . . . like, I’m gonna wanna update you on how the whole Allegra thing goes, but . . . but you know, you’re cool and stuff. So, well, uh . . . am I ever going to talk to you again?”

  Nikki put her finger to her lips. She furrowed her brow slightly. “Honestly, sweets? I have no idea. I hope so, but who knows? Hmm . . . could really go either way.”

  • • •

  I know what I have to do.

  I know how my hero’s journey ends.

  It came to me after I left campus, after I passed by Nikki outside the library with her tongue down DeSean’s throat. It came while I was at the mini-mart, grabbing Nutter Butter Bites and tapping my foot to the gas station radio, listening to two random guys talking about the big homecoming game and whether Big Mack was gonna suit up or let the team down.

  It came all at once. The perfect idea.

  I’m going to do it for freaking real. I’m going to reveal the entire truth to Allie, and in the boldest, most cinematic, most me way imaginable. I’m going to give her the happiest ever after.

  And I’m going to do it Friday night.

  NIKKI FOXWORTH

  DeSean kissed me on the side of my neck, in my favorite place.

  “You a bad girl?”

  “I’m a bad girl.”

  “You a bad girl?”

  “I’m a bad girl.”

  “You my naughty girl?”

  “I’m your bad little thing.”

  “All right, bad girl,” he said between kisses. “Why don’t you prove it?”

  My hand shot to my mouth.

  “DeSeannnn.”

  I hadn’t wanted to come to the Grease Pole thing to begin with. I’d wanted to do what DeSean and I have done every other lunch these past two weeks since we started seeing each other—sneak off in his car and make the heck out like it’s five minutes till Judgment Day.

  But D very much needed to witness the competition, for personal reasons, he said. So he told me we could sit in the way back row, where no one would spy on us, where we could basically be alone, where we could get as intimate as we liked.

  And he was right. None of the hundreds of people surrounding us were paying us any mind, because the whole time DeSean and I were canoodling—my arms around his neck, my legs across his lap, his hand between my thighs, his kisses all over my face—that entire time, Brian Mack was down on the stage, jelly-rolling and booby-shaking in the most desperate bid for attention I’ve ever seen. That poor boy.

  I don’t like thinking about Brian too much, so I looked back at DeSean. I pursed my lips and gave him a little smile.

  “What do you mean, ‘prove it’?”

  “Well,” he said. “It’s like, you like me, and I like you—I love you, in fact—”

  “I love you too,” I said. I squeezed my thighs softly around his hand.

  “So if we love each other,” he continued. “Maybe we can, you know, do . . . certain stuff?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” DeSean added, in a low voice. “Let’s take shit to the next level.”

  I giggled and shook my head. “Sweetheart, I told you before. I don’t know if I’m ready.”

  He nodded. “You’re nervous about your first time. Believe me, I was too. But there’s nothing to be worried about. I’ll be slow. And gentle. I’ll treat you right.”

  He lifted his hips as he said it, pressing into me slightly. I felt him as he did it, all of him. It felt . . . well, golly, it felt amazing.

  “What do you think?” DeSean said. “Today? After school? The spot?”

  He said the words quickly, almost like he was panting. I looked up at him, my strong, sweet man. I made my eyes as big as I could.

  “I really love you, D,” I whispered. “And I want you. So bad. I want you to be the one to, you know . . . but I just don’t think it’s time. Not yet.” I lifted my hands and placed each of them on his chest, one by one.

  “Okay?” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, nodding.

  “Okay,” I said.

  DeSean dropped his head. He grinned. “Damn, naughty girl,” he said. “Stop acting so pure. You’re killing me, baby.”

  He wiggled his fingers between my thighs. It tickled something fierce. I burst into laughter and tickled him back.

  And right then, right at that very moment, that’s the exact second we stopped thinking about sex.

  That’s when the bald boy got bopped on the head.

  • • •

  A few things happened right away.

  First, and most important, Brian turned out to be fine. I breathed the biggest sigh of relief when he gave the crowd a big thumbs-up and did a happy little tushy dance. As weird a vibe as I sometimes get from Brian, I truly do wish the best for the kid. I’m glad he’s all set to play this Friday—for his sake, for the good of the team, for DeSean.

  D was furious, though. I’ve never seen him like that before. “I friggin’ predicted this would happen,” he kept on saying, and “fatass fool.” I didn’t want to have to defend Brian or whatever, but DeSean wasn’t being fair, and he was showing a very ugly side of himself. I was about to say, hey, you know, if you’re gonna get hateful like this, we might have to rethink this whole “taking it to the next level” thing, and that’s—

  That’s when I got my detention.

  “Foxworth! Off his lap. Hands on the bench. Feet on the ground. Now.”

  It was Ms. Fawcett, the vice principal, the one with the pointy chin and the spiky hair. Back when I
said nobody was watching us, apparently I was way off, because she had a look on her face like she had mentally recorded every one of our neck kisses, every twerk of our hips.

  “No public displays of affection,” she said to me and only me. “That’s not the way to make an impression at your new school. I’m assigning you detention, Nikki, in the library, for the next two days.”

  She stared at me real hard and super-cold, like I was sixteen and pregnant or something.

  Before she walked away, she said one more thing:

  “Good luck this Friday, D.”

  I know I should be way more ticked off than I am. I know how unfair it is that I got two detentions and my boyfriend none, simply because he can’t afford to be suspended for the big game. I know how harsh the double standard is, how insane it is that I should be treated like a witch getting stoned in the town square just for being cute on a bench with my guy. I know I have to walk the narrowest tightrope ever at this school, and I know that it’s total bull.

  But, true story, I don’t even care that I had to do detention.

  After all, the Lord tends to work in mysterious ways.

  Detention is where I made my best memory of the year so far.

  Wiley is beyond adorable. His passion for Allegra is like something out of a storybook. It’s so amazingly inspiring. He’s been waiting all these years for her, building up the bravery to make his gallant move. And now, with a little help from his fairy godmother, he’s really going to do it. He’s going to put it all on the line for love.

  So honestly, I realized this afternoon, why can’t I? Why should I spend the entire year worrying about being the new girl in town, about my reputation, about what people like the dance team captains or Ms. Fawcett think of me? Who cares? I’ve got to follow the same advice I gave Wiley. I’ve got to take action. DeSean is my dream. He’s my future. I need to do what feels right.

  • • •

  “Okay, Mr. USC, UCLA, and Oregon,” I said to D as he met me coming out of detention. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “This Friday. Homecoming game. If you guys win . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll be your reward.”

  DeSean’s eyes got huge. He gulped. “And if we lose?”

  I crinkled my nose at him. I gave him a secret smile. “I’ll be your consolation prize.”

  He bit his fist. “You serious?” he said.

  “Serious as cancer,” I said flirtatiously.

  “Yes!” DeSean whooped, jumping in the air and pumping his fist. “Yes! Yes! YES!”

  • • •

  When I got home, I snuck into my room through the back way. My dad’s in Texas on business, so I wasn’t worried about seeing him as I tiptoed in, but my mom—

  My mom was sitting at the foot of my bed, a glass of red wine in her hand. On my bed, there was a big book open. She was flipping through the pages, looking at pictures.

  “Freshman year,” she said without looking up. “JV Majorettes. Pep squad. Class social chair. Disney Club. You were so precious, sweet one. So precious.”

  “Why are you looking at my old yearbook?” I said. “What are you doing in my room?”

  I half turned away from her as I said it, just in case there was anything incriminating on my neck.

  “Your vice principal called,” she said, still staring down at the book.

  “Oh.”

  “She said she saw you at lunchtime.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I thought we weren’t going to be getting in any trouble.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But it wasn’t fair, the double standard—”

  “We made an agreement. You, me, and your father.”

  “I know, I know, but I don’t think I did anything wrong—”

  She repeated it, quieter this time. “We made an agreement.”

  She closed her eyes. She took a small sip of wine.

  “Mom, I—”

  “Do you have a boyfriend, Nicole?”

  “What?” I tried to say. “Mom, I—what?”

  I waited for her to look at me. She didn’t. She flipped a page in the book. She sighed. She flipped another page.

  I turned to face her. I covered the side of my neck as I did it.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I made a mistake.”

  My mother nodded and smiled. She closed the yearbook and placed the glass down. She stood up from my bed and walked over to me. She leaned in. She touched her forehead to mine. “Good,” she said. “This is a new year.”

  • • •

  I was a good girl in Dallas. I made good grades. I organized so many charity events through my youth group. I got mani-pedis with my mom every other Saturday and watched football and golf with my daddy most Sundays after church. And I told them everything. For a while.

  And yes, I had boyfriends, but good girls are allowed to have boyfriends. There shouldn’t be anything wrong with having a boyfriend.

  I lost my virginity at the end of freshman year. His name was Garrett. He was a senior on the football team, and he was a real good linebacker, and he was going to be a walk-on at A&M. My parents still don’t know about him.

  There were other boys, too. Marcus. Luke. Bryce. Adrian. Lamar. Some I dated for a couple months, and some I saw just once or twice. None of them went to my school. A couple went to rival schools—football players, naturally. Some were my age, some a little bit older. All of them were gentlemen in their own way. I really do believe that.

  And then, last year, there was someone else. I don’t want to say his name. I can barely acknowledge his existence.

  He was in my class. We started dating in December, after football season ended. We became very close very fast, maybe because he was the first one to feel less like a glorified hookup and more like an actual boyfriend. I opened up to him in a way that I hadn’t to the others. I trusted him. After a few months, I even told him about some of the others, because he seemed like he wanted to know. He was so sweet seeming about all of it. I really, really trusted him.

  I had dance camp in Florida over spring break, and I was hooking up with him the night before I left. He said he was going to miss me during the week I was gone, and he hoped he’d have something to remember me by in the meantime. He asked if I wanted to make a movie. I thought it was a bad idea, but I have to admit, something about it excited me too. I asked him if we could delete it as soon as I got back. He said of course.

  He used his phone to record us. That’s all I remember, that he used his phone. I’ve blocked everything else out.

  I was in the cafeteria at camp when my girlfriend texted me. That’s when my world ended. Then my parents called, and my world ended again. I had to leave camp early. As soon as I got home, I called all my friends, but very few of them called me back. The ones who did told me he’d spread the video to his friends and that he’d spread rumors around too, the rumors about me and all of the other guys. Some of the rumors were made-up. Most of them were true. I never spoke to him again. I heard he got expelled, which sucks for him, I guess. But I bet he got to keep his friends. I’m sure he got to keep his life.

  At first I appreciated the way my parents handled everything. My mom let me finish out eleventh grade doing my schoolwork from home. My dad secured a work transfer to his West Coast office so we could move to California this year, so I could start over again as a senior. The two of them promised me I would never have to dwell on this situation again. And in a way, they’ve made good on their word. Since the day we moved, neither of them has brought up the tape. Not a single time.

  But they don’t look me in the eyes anymore, either. They don’t ask about my classes or dance practice. They don’t invite me to mani-pedi Saturdays or daddy-daughter Sundays. Sometimes they ask if I have a boyfriend. That’s all they ever ask me.

  I desperately want what they want for me: for this to be a new year. All I want is to be a different person. Different ac
tivities, different friends—people like Wiley, good solid people like that—and, most importantly, no boyfriends. Absolutely no boyfriends. No godforsaken boyfriends.

  And after all that, here I am. Baking brownies for the guys with my dance squad girls. Chasing another quarterback. Collecting hickeys after school. Lying about everything.

  DeSean is different. I feel accepted by him and desired in all the right ways. I love him, and I know that for certain. I want to give him what he wants, because I want it too.

  But all the same, I’m terrified. I’m afraid of my parents. I’m afraid of the world. I don’t want to want sex the way that I do. I’m afraid of being myself.

  Bad girl. Bad girl. I really hate those words.

  COLE MARTIN-HAMMER

  And in 1912,” Mr. Pargo droned on. “Frost’s good friend, the poet Edward Thomas, whose long walks through the woods with Frost helped to inspire the poem in the first place, enlisted in World War I, citing the piece as his main inspiration. However, two years later Thomas was tragically killed in action, leaving us to wonder, somewhat ironically might I add, what might have happened had Robert Frost never written the poem at all. . . .

  “All right, who’s got some good analysis for me?”

  Guh.

  G to the mothereffin’ uh.

  GUH GUH GUH.

  Why does high school have to be so.

  Boring?

  It didn’t matter if I paid attention to the question. I’m going to get an A+ in AP English—same as I’m going to get an A+ in every damn class except stupid worthless math—without even trying. That’s how brilliant I am and how remedial the rest of Dos Caminos is. I can afford to sit passively through every single period until June, ignoring the shit out of the teachers and focusing purely on what I love best.

  Gossip, obviously.

  So I sat in the classroom yesterday morning, and instead of studying “The Road Not Taken,” I studied the faces of the people whose lives I will one day destroy.

  Cody Shotwell was spacing out, scratching his ear with his pencil. I hope he scratches that shiz right off, that purple-nurpling, towel-butt-whipping, locker-room bully. I’ll never forget the way he treated me in freshman year PE. And after I tell the whole school that his lady, the Moaner, has totally been cheating on him with Liam “Forehead Mole” Garner, well sheeeeit, he won’t soon forget me either.