by Amber Kizer
What is the etymology of the word “date”? Who looked at a wizened piece of brown fruit and thought, “Perfect. Girls and boys getting together can be called dates. What an inspired idea!”
Did cavemen growl about fire and then decide tupping was fruity? And what’s with the fruity thing being gay? If heteros go on dates, then aren’t we fruity too? Who of dating age isn’t fruity?
And if we’re going for obscure fruits for naming get-togethers, why not a hot fig? Or a spicy kumquat? Or a durian?
The obvious would be to call them bananas—or if we want to be biblical, we could call them apples.
To Australians, “date” means “anus.” So what do they call a date? And do you have to be really careful around Aussies and clarify that you’re using the other meaning? And seriously, how did that evolve? Did someone get focused on anal sex and start a whole word revolution? Can you imagine being the first person who said yes to a date and got a surprise at the end of the night? That makes my toes, and my date, curl.
Personally, I think I’d like a kumquat. Can’t be nearly as confusing as dating. Although now that I consider it, what exactly is a kumquat?
“Great party,” I say. Lying is a necessary skill for high school.
“Isn’t it.” Jenny’s eyes glow red.
I wish I had my camera with me; no one will believe me when I say she’s a demon. “So?” Why isn’t she moving on to the next victim? Don’t I look paralyzed enough?
“So. Stephen?” She quirks a brow at me. I’m not sure if that’s a precursor to the deathblow or if she’s trying to be chummy.
I stick with noncommittal. “Uh-huh.” Has she forgotten we’re not friends? We will never be friends again. Ever. She killed my favorite stuffed animal at a sleepover in fifth grade. Drowned him in urine. I will neither forget nor forgive.
She crosses her arms. “He’s cute.”
Why do I feel like I’m dating her boyfriend? She seems like she’s trying to make me feel guilty. I don’t even understand why. “Yes, he is.”
She nods, never breaking eye contact. “He’s nice, too.”
What’s with the catalog of Stephen’s assets? “Oh, look, there’s Maggie. I should—”
“I don’t see her.” Jenny must have demon eyes in the back of her head, since her front set is still piercing my brain.
“I do. And I promised I would say hello immediately. So thanks. Great talking to you.” I walk away slowly, waiting for her fangs to sink into the back of my shoulder. Talk about an angry cobra. I am mongoose.
Too bad I have no idea where Maggie is. My saying yes to this darn party was all her fault. She thought I should spend New Year’s with my boyfriend instead of her. I didn’t want to, but she made me. She got this sad face and said, “I wish I had a boyfriend to spend New Year’s with.” Well, then what do you say? Too bad—want to borrow mine? I’m sure I should feel more possessive about him. I mean, I’m not likely to slit my wrists if he doesn’t call me—isn’t that real love? The melodramatic, kill-myself-on-theatrical-cue kind of love? I so don’t love him up to that standard.
Of course, I think secretly Maggie was thinking about this guy Jesse who started new this year and whom she casually brought to my surprise sixteenth birthday party. She gets all dreamy talking about him but then flatly refuses the idea that she might want to date him.
I move around a pile of bodies playing naked Twister. I’m not old enough for this party. I will never be old enough for this party.
What is that smell? “I’ll take Dead Beer for six hundred, Alex.”
I step in something sticky and crunchy. It oozes over the toe of my shoe before I can step away. It’s between my toes. I hate these shoes. I will back the car over these shoes, after I put different ones on; I’m not going to back the car over these shoes with my feet in them. I don’t think that’s possible. Plus, it’d be painful.
Smiling at guys with Cheetos stuck in their braces. Avoiding groping hands and almost avoiding pinching fingers. I rub my butt cheek. That hurt. I shoot a glare over my shoulder, but the perpetrator could be one of many guffawing baboons. Forced chuckling at jokes I can’t catch completely. Probably for the best that I can’t hear much over the bass and amped-out guitars. Cats in heat, anyone?
I am so over acting like I want to be here. Whose idea was this? And why was I persuaded that I’d have a good time? Momentary lapse in my otherwise stellar judgment.
There must be someone here to talk to. I swivel, trying to manage the cool-vibe-photoshoot-in-Paris twirl. Nicely done. Still no one up to par.
Someone. Anyone?
I catch a glimpse of hair. A curl over the collar of a black polo shirt.
Could it be?
Lucas. Lucas is here. My heart races. My toes tingle.
He’s here. That hair. That mouth. I push through a few random hookups and almost slip on a puddle of—God, I hope that was beer—trying to get a better look.
Those shoulders. My breath hitches as my gaze follows the way the shirt caresses his lean muscles. Long strong arms. Those unbelievably manly hands that are on another girl’s butt. What?
Quick. Close eyes.
Reopen. Crapping buttocks! Same butt.
Oh, Lucas, why do you do this to yourself? With Sophie? Senior Sophie? Rumor has it she has three kids in a Swiss preschool high in the Alps. Sophie has the body of Angelina Jolie with the face of America’s Next Top Model. However, since this is her fifth year as a senior, I take comfort in knowing I probably outscored her on the PSAT. Very cold comfort.
Lucas obviously doesn’t know how important brains are to a relationship. I should enlighten him. I should bring him up to speed. Yep, I’m going to march over there. As soon as he and Sophie unmeld their tongues, I’ll explain it real slow.
“Watch it! I’m walking here.” Thing with a keg of beer on board beefy back bumps into me; it’d be a swishy piggyback ride if the keg had legs. How charming.
I can’t help pointing out, “You’re weaving. It’s a whole other sport.”
“Bitch.” The shade of green tingeing his cheekbones isn’t attractive. Though I’m guessing he doesn’t care if I find him sexy. Neither is the stench: vomit-filled ficus tree. Wonder if that makes good fertilizer, or can plants get alcohol poisoning?
Lucas and Sophie have disappeared. Just as well. I’d hate to vomit without the benefit of being drunk first.
Stephen. I should find Stephen. I look around, hoping to spot him without having to wander through the downstairs again. And here I was thinking he’s clingy. He wants to talk all the time.
Are there right answers to his questions? I always feel like I’m in an interview for the role of girlfriend and at any moment I can be fired for not measuring up.
No Stephen, so I’m wandering. Drunk people are so drunk. Do you start with fewer brain cells to want to get that way, or is it a cumulative effect of parties like this? I mean, a good buzz I can see. Haven’t ever touched the stuff, but I can appreciate the appeal. The beer bong, pass-out-in-less-than-five-minutes approach to responsible drinking? Not so much. I am no one’s mother, but I’ll just keep my eye on that chick over there whose chest is barely rising and falling. Maybe I should call 911. Maybe not. How do I know if she’s dangerously drunk? I didn’t hand her plastic cups of fun. And frankly, do I want to be the-chick-who-called-911-on-the-sober-sleeping-girl? I’d never live that down.
Where’s Maggie? She promised to come. Where’s Clarice? She thought she might come. Where’s my bestest friend, Adam? He is at home smooching his honey and I’m here trying not to get vomit on my sexy bare toes. I’m fairly certain I have someone’s Cheetos and Cuervo as nail polish on my left foot.
Oh, I see Stephen. Relief abounds. He’s talking to a bunch of guys I don’t really know. Relief is replaced with panic.
“Hey, Gert!” Stephen yells, waving at me. He wants me to come over. I can tell this from my fabulous powers of deduction. “Get over here so I can introduce you.”
Or
perhaps he just thinks I’m stupid and don’t know what the waving means.
“Hi.” I do a girly simper and three-finger twiddle.
Stephen puts his arms around me from behind and smashes his chin against my very complicated and now flat hairstyle. “This is Gert. My girl.”
Your girl? Are you an ape now? But I manage to keep my cool and simply smile pithily in the general direction of the rest of the silverbacks.
“You in high school?”
Nope, just graduated med school. I’m a neurosurgeon; can I drill into your skull right now? “Sophomore.”
A rather cute dark swarthy type asks, “You play football?”
Do I look like I play football? Diet Coke, here I come.
Stephen laughs at my expression. “Ricardo is from Colombia. He means soccer.”
That explains the funky, though slightly erotic accent. “No.” Soccer? Me?
Stephen tries to whisper in my ear. “You want another drink?” But it comes out sounding like a loud demand.
The fumes on his breath alone could kill roaches.
“No, I’m good.” And I won’t be driving anywhere with you tonight.
He wiggles against my butt. Oh my God, he actually rubs an erection against me. What am I, Aunt Irene’s ottoman? Are you a shih tzu on Viagra?
“Be right back.”
“Take your time.” The crowd of he-men thins. I’m stuck staring at Mr. Exchange Student. At least he’s an attractive diversion.
“You like it here?” I ask.
“Party is good.” He nods.
Where is he from again? “You like the U.S.?”
“Party is good.”
Okay then. I can adjust the conversation. “Good party, huh?”
“Yes. You know football?” he asks.
I know nothing about football, but dear God don’t make me mingle anymore. “It’s a great sport.” I try to appear interested and, more importantly, interesting.
“I like.” The relief on his face is blinding and frankly, I’m not sure if he’s saying he likes me or that he likes soccer, but I’m in party hell, so I’ll take either one.
“Who do you like to watch play?” I smile encouragement.
He lets out a torrent of Spanish (I think). Could be Portuguese, or Russian. It’s unclear.
Nodding and smiling seems to do the trick to keep him going. I throw in a few “Sí, sí’s,” which about sums up my Sesame Street bilinguality. At least I can ask for agua if I get desperate. Foreign languages aren’t my thing.
I tune back in to the conversation, hoping I haven’t missed anything I can understand. Ricardo seems to be waiting for me to respond. I try widening my eyes. No dice. Who was he talking about? Who, who, who? I dive in. “Jaime is a good player.”
Ricardo bristles. He even starts to turn a daring shade of red. I’ve said something wrong. I thought we were talking about how good Jaime is. Obviously not. I laugh and wave my hands around like I’ve made a big joke. “Sometimes. But mostly Jaime is a bad player.” I wrinkle my brow and put my hands around my own throat like I’m choking myself. Maybe overkill, but his face lightens back up.
Better. Much better. I should be a UN ambassador. This multicultural stuff is easy.
Crapping buttocks, I know that look. Ricardo is waiting for me to take over the conversation. Now he thinks I have as much to say as he does. I grab at any foreign-sounding name with the hope he might think I’m mispronouncing something familiar. “Personally, I really like Sephora. This side of heaven. Really.”
He gives me the confused you-stupid-American look. I guess Sephora doesn’t come from wherever he’s from. I try to broaden our discussion. Other popular names … think, think, think. “Jesus?”
He smiles, a quick show of teeth; then he’s off to the races again. “Jesus.” Another torrent of fast coolness I completely don’t understand.
I nod and smile. I answer a question. “Yes, Jesus made a big impression on history, didn’t he? All blessings and healings and stuff.” I don’t think we’re discussing the same guy.
“Gert. It’s almost midnight.” Stephen grabs my waist and leans into me. Thank the Holy-Mother-of-Boyfriends, there are no bulging parts this time. I don’t really know what to do with those yet.
“Sorry.” I give Ricardo my best apology face. The one I’ve practiced in the mirror in case a cute cop pulls me over for speeding.
“This is the best party,” Stephen gushes while pulling me down a long hallway. Sure, drunk boy, whatever you say.
“Yeah.” Here’s the deal, I didn’t think lying was part of the whole dating thing. Aren’t we supposed to be completely, totally honest with each other? Isn’t that what a healthy relationship is? Holy-Mother-of-the-Self-Help-Section, am I sabotaging this relationship? Do I want to end up alone, wearing housedresses and talking to parakeets? Must fix. I open my mouth to tell the truth when I hear—
“Jenny is so cool. Great chick.” Stephen doesn’t even turn around while delivering this info.
Okay, we’ll start the honesty stuff tomorrow.
He keeps dragging me along the world’s longest hallway. “They’ve got five big screens set up in here to watch the new year come in all over the world.”
It’s a technology shrine. I am doomed.
To add to the technological haze, the only lighting comes from the sets themselves. Which is probably more light than you’d think, but still not enough to sober anybody up. I need a spotlight to shine in Stephen’s pupils.
Stephen’s had a few too many. I can tell because the fumes are overpowering the cologne he got for Christmas. The combination could be a WMD, as it’s making my eyes burn.
He’s nuzzling my neck like I’m his favorite pillow.
Bodies are intertwined all throughout the room, and I’m busy trying to figure out how Jacquie is able to hold that position. Doesn’t she have a neck cramp or something? I catch a glimpse of flesh as she sits up. Was that a—Holy-Mother-of-the-Cartoon-Network, is that a penis?
I slap at Stephen’s hands and turn my face back toward his. I’m not done here. Dude’s all zipped up now. Jacquie is downing a beer like she’s been in the Sahara for weeks. Interesting. Must file this info.
But Stephen’s hands are everywhere.
Everywhere. Good God, he’s grown more hands. I swear there are four distinct palms groping. None of which has heard the term “tender love.”
Stephen breathes across my face. “It’s almost midnight, Gert. You know what that means?”
I gulp air and try to shove myself over toward the wall as more people pile into the room. “It’s a new year?” This has to be against fire codes.
“Ten!” everyone but me screams.
Oh, Holy-Mother-of-Stopwatches, we have to count down now? The house actually reverberates. “Nine!”
Stephen looks really happy as he finds my butt cheeks with the palms of his hands.
“Eight!” I’m too stunned to move.
Decidedly, deliriously happy as he squeezes like he’s found a new toy.
“Seven!”
Goofy, but at least he has let go of my butt; it can breathe now. Where are his hands going? Tell me he’s not going to grab my boobs. Please don’t grab, please don’t grab.
His hands keep moving up, past my breasts. “Six!” he yells like he’s howling at the moon.
He gazes back at me while cupping the cheeks on my face. Why is he bracketing my face like I’m in trouble? Like Aunt CiCi used to do when she babysat and I swiped a cookie.
“Five!” He is so strong.
Eye contact. We have eye contact.
I anticipate the next number. “Four!”
Thank God, he lets go of my face. That’s my butt. Again.
“Three.”
He smashes his face against my ear. “You have the best butt. I am so into you.”
“Two.” The crowd keeps pressing around us. What do you say to that?
“I’m into—” I start to say.
St
ephen smooshes his face against mine. He has super-tongue, all big and strong, pushing past my lips. The shock makes my jaw drop. Big mistake.
His tongue is in my mouth. If I had tonsils, he’d be fondling them.
Is this it? French kissing? This isn’t romantic; it’s revolting.
Swallow. I have to swallow spit or I’m going to drown. I so don’t like the taste of beer, which is why I didn’t drink any. I had no idea I’d have to taste it anyway.
I can’t retract my tongue any farther. I’m trying to stay out of his way, but I feel like someone’s got a tongue depressor in my mouth fit for an elephant.
Where’s the sound track? Where are the gooey feelings? Where’s the liking this?
He pulls back. His hands are still on my butt. Squeezing like I’m taffy.
“Wow. Happy New Year!” Stephen smiles at me. He appears to think that was a fine first French. Was it?
I think my first French kiss just sucked. Does it get better? Or, oh my God, am I gay?
“You’re not gay.” Clarice shakes her head. I can hear her shaking her head, even over the phone at two a.m.
“How do you know?” Now I’m panicked. I thought I was supposed to know from birth or something. Shouldn’t I be really into home improvement stores and rugby?
Maggie, always the voice of reason in three-way calls, says, “Gert, instead of Stephen, picture a really hot chick doing that slobbering-conquering-choke-with-tongue thing.”
Hot chick? Who’s my type? “Who?”
Maggie hmphs. “Jennifer.”
“Which one?” There’s Aniston, Garner, Lopez, Love Hewitt—how do I know which is my type?
Clarice doesn’t let me waffle long. “Pick one.”
They don’t have to sound so exasperated. This could be a defining moment in my life. “Just asking.” I’m visualizing. Yuck. Still feels like I’m the beaches of Normandy being stormed by Enormo-tongue. I must gag out loud because Maggie and Clarice both jump in and break my visualization.
“So?” Clarice asks. “Do anything for you?”
