From Butt to Booty

by Amber Kizer

  I choose not to dwell on the idea that a bunch of Bunko ladies are waiting to hear my thoughts on anal anything.

  “Hey, Gert. Party at our house Saturday night. Bring a date if you want.” Lucas pauses by my locker. Just a brief pause to get the words out.

  I smile. “Sure. ’Kay.”

  “Hey, Adam? You and Tim are getting drinks, right?” Lucas turns to him and asks.

  “Yep.” After Lucas has walked on, Adam leans down to me and whispers, “He’s inviting the whole soccer team, kind of an end-of-season thing.”

  My smile doesn’t falter. “Whatever.”

  “Whatever?” Adam asks. “Word is he doesn’t have a date to GAGD yet.”

  “So?”

  “Just thought you might care. You bringing a date to the party?”

  “You busy?” I ask with a grin.

  “Taken. But you can be our favorite inny.”

  “Inny?” I’m not sure I really want to know.

  “Girls inny, guys outy.”

  I giggle. “That’s so juvenile.”

  Adam just laughs and walks away. He and Tim now have a secret language. I don’t think I’m okay with that.

  A date? Who? But bigger still, do I possibly have the balls to even ask someone?

  Who am I? It’s simpler to write a paper about who I’m not. I don’t know who I am. I’m Gert. I’m a friend to Adam, Clarice, Maggie and a few others. I’m the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi. I’m the sister of Michael. I’m the future sister-in-law of Heather. The future girlfriend of someone. The ex-girlfriend of Stephen. I am a sophomore in high school.

  I am a girly-woman, or am I a womanly girl? See, I don’t even know what the truth is.

  Life would be vastly easier if I knew who I am. If I had one part of me that I could hold on to and say, “Don’t touch, that’s me, that’s mine.” But I don’t yet. I have days, sure, where I think I know what I need to know and what I want. But that feeling is fleeting.

  I’m not a beautiful person. To compete I’d need about ten different plastics. I don’t think so. I’m not a plastic surgery person. I mean, sure I’d love to have perky boobs and a nondescript nose, pouty lips and a tight tiny booty. But what if I change my mind after it’s all over? See, here’s the deal, I like to change my mind. I change it often. Occasionally, I’ve been known to change my mind simply because I’ve had the same opinion for too long. Maybe that’s stupid, but it’s true.

  So I’m not beautiful and if a manly-boy were to tell me I am and really mean it, I think I’d probably cry. Because we all want one person who isn’t our parental to think we’re beautiful, don’t we? Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think so.

  I’m not going to be a Merit Scholar with scores like I got on the PSAT. So perhaps I’m outgrowing the Brain definition too. Maybe I’m not as smart as some. I once had this friend who wrote an essay about how one girl she was friends with was her intellectual match, and I was her political and social match. We’re not friends anymore. You’re not very bright if you think you can easily sum up smarts like that.

  I’m an American. I like being American. I don’t like the rest of the world hating me, but there are very few other places I’d be happy having been born a woman. You know? There aren’t a lot of choices for free, for me. So I’m not going to be emigrating anywhere or dissing the U.S. itself. She’s been good to me, hasn’t she?

  I’m not big on God, but I’m not completely faithless, either. I just don’t know how much of anything I believe in. How can you believe in something when you don’t even know who is doing the believing? Don’t I have to know myself before I can believe in anything remotely unseen?

  I am the girl who plucks her eyebrows daily in the hopes that this grooming makes me less likely to stick out and perhaps more likely to be considered attractive.

  I am the girl who dates kinda-cute boys but not Lucas.

  I am the girl who joins a sports team to be around a guy, though I secretly hate myself for feeling like I need to be around a guy in the first place. Aren’t I supposed to be all feministy and complete without a penis in proximity? Does this make me a traitor to my gender? Or to women who can’t vote? If I like to be around a manly-boy enough to run miles upon miles, does this make me the girl who cuts my hair the way he wants it to be cut? Who does my makeup according to his preferences? Who makes excuses if he hits me?

  That’s all I have so far.…

  I arrive at the party with Adam, who picked us all up at Clarice’s house. We’re spending the night. Not Adam, just Maggie and me. But we’re going to the party first so we can have something other than the upcoming dance to talk about. They’ve been trying to convince me that asking Lucas to the dance would be good for my development as a confident human being.

  Clarice is so full of crap. They laid off when Adam laughed in the car and said that Lucas has been turning girls down since November. He has a date now, though. I guess he stopped turning girls down when Aubrey asked him. Or is it Amanda? Ashley? They all probably asked at one time or another.

  The bass is thumping. I’ve been here before. It’s still the normal-looking house with the amazingly terrible AstroTurf decorations with flowery bows. I’m working on my calm self-assured exterior, but I wish my insides matched my outs. It’s still Lucas’s house. There’s only so much calm a girl can be.

  “Hey.” A guy I don’t know opens the door.

  “Hey.” I can’t think of anything else to say and he’s waiting for a reply.

  “Dude.” He nods.

  “Duu-dde.” Adam makes it two syllables.

  “Righteous.”

  I walk past, trying not to laugh. “Righteous”? You’re kidding, right?

  This is drunk-people conversation. Drunk people, or stoned people, for that matter, will want you to believe that being under the influence creates a higher form of consciousness. Like they’re reaching a plane full of rainbow colors that makes them better or bigger human beings. But put any sober person in the middle of their conversation and it will be recorded accurately: it will be full of exclamations and pronouncements and a whole lotta crap. Really. There’s not a nice way to put it.

  I really don’t get the attraction, but this party is full of people who want to surf the wild rainbow. I guess the end-of-season party means the end of spring, the end of hunting season, the end of wild-duck mating season instead of the tame and relatively benign interpretation I had, which was end of the soccer season. Huh. My bad.

  There are tons of people. Lots I recognize from Jenny’s New Year’s party. A few who came to my birthday party back in the fall. And some I’ve never seen before in my life. I didn’t think this town had this many people.

  And really, if I need to be drunk to ask a guy out, maybe that’s my sober self’s way of trying to get me to pay attention to what I really want. If I really wanted to ask a guy out, I’d be compelled to act, rather than needing to drink Listerine in an effort to get the freshest breath and my stomach pumped. What’s the point?

  Tangent: sorry.

  If I wanted it, I’d do it. So maybe I don’t want it that much.

  The party is okay. No real talking. Lots of making out. A few full-fledged coital hookups in bedrooms and a couple who decide the floor behind the couch is all the privacy they need. Holy-Mother-of-Hind-Ends, I don’t need to see his full moon and its orbiting bits. If my parentals only knew.

  I drink a Mountain Dew. A cold one. Munch on a freshly opened bag of chips. I saw them open the bag; I can’t bring myself to eat any of the food that is sitting out. I’ve seen too many of those high school movies where the unenlightened eat or drink a very unappetizing ingredient.

  Clarice disappeared with Spenser soon after we got here. She’s intent on finding out exactly what he thinks about being in a relationship with her. She told us she wants to take her boyfriend to GAGD, but Adam and I shared this look that pretty much shouted, “But he has told you!” He wants to be benefriends, how much more obvious does he nee
d to be?

  But Clarice didn’t pick up on it. Nothing. So Spenser is cornered in this house trying to explain for the three-hundredth time that what he wants he stated clearly the first time they had this conversation. Hmm. I can see why guys get exasperated with us.

  Maggie finds me around eleven. “Help.” She grabs my arm and all but attaches herself like a barnacle to my side.

  “Whoa, personal space,” I say, pulling away.

  “Don’t. Look like you like me.” She hugs me tighter.

  “Huh?”

  “Gert, we’re together. Together. Put your arm around me.”

  I am so not following this conversation, but I put my arm around her back while reaching for another can of soda. I will have to pee if I keep drinking this way, but what else can I do with my hands? Hmm.

  Maggie whispers through clenched teeth, sounding all snakey and hard to understand, “Jesse is following me around hinting that he wants to go with me.”

  “So?” I ask.

  “So, I like him. Kiss me.” She tilts her head up toward mine.

  I snort Doritos and Mountain Dew up my nose.

  “Thanks. You’re so supportive.” She glares at me but doesn’t even give my snort secretions room to maneuver.

  I pull away, wiping my nose on a used paper towel. Beggars and all that. I try to point out, “You like him.”

  “Of course I like him. He makes me insane.” Maggie turns around and starts rearranging the stuff on the table.

  “So, what’s the problem?” I can’t begin to unravel this one.

  “I’m not ready to like him. I certainly am not ready to ask him to go to a public function with me.”

  Again with the rational thought. “So, don’t ask him.”

  “But he’s getting pretty close to asking me to ask him and I can’t say no because then he’ll think I don’t like him, but I really am not ready to talk to him every day and kiss him and have sex with him and meet his family and—”

  “Breathe,” I say.

  She inhales.

  “Exhale,” I demand. She does. “Better?” I ask.

  She tenses up again. “He’s coming over here.”

  “Don’t freak. He’ll think he smells bad.” I pinch her cheeks.

  “What?” She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  I don’t expand and tell her that my worst fear is a group of people recoiling from me because I smell and haven’t figured it out.

  “Hi, Gert. I got you a soda, Maggie. I didn’t know what kind to get.” Jesse holds out four different ice-cold, sweating cans.

  “Hi, Jesse,” I say, but he’s not even looking at me. Maggie is speechless. She’s back to looking like a puppy that’s been kicked for peeing in the wrong place.

  “Thanks.” She takes the top can.

  “So, you like Sprite,” he says, nodding.

  “Huh?” Maggie says.

  “Yes, actually Maggie here loves all types of beverages.” I jump in to rescue her.

  “Good to know,” Jesse says, all sagey.

  Maggie is still speechless, pinned to my side like a Halloween costume.

  “So,” he says. His head swivels to take in the room, but I’m not sure his eyes ever really leave Maggie’s face.

  I rack my brain trying to come up with a topic of conversation because I’m starting to lose blood flow to my left side and Maggie isn’t loosening her grip. I can’t flee from the scene. Painful as it is.

  “Do you like comic books, Jesse?” I ask.

  “What?” He swings his gaze back to me.

  No wonder she’s creeped out. He has the I’m-going-to-nibble-on-you, very manly expression on his face. I feel my own fear beast and step back. He’s all manly and intimidating.

  I repeat myself.

  “I used to,” Jesse replies.

  I happen to know he still collects a bunch of different kinds. It came up in a guy conversation I overheard one day. I think Adam also told me. He’s reliable.

  “Really?” I raise my eyebrows and my falsetto. I’m quite the actress. “Maggie here loves Spider-Man.”

  She nods quick, like a rodent scenting cheese.

  “Huh. Well, I have a couple of first editions,” he says, trying not to sound too excited. But he has that little-boy-trying-not-to-let-on-that-it’s-Christmas-morning expression.

  “Oh. Um, um,” Maggie stutters.

  “Maggie, you were just saying the other day that you didn’t think anyone we knew could possibly have first editions, weren’t you?” I may lay it on a little thick, considering the looks they both give me. What can I say? I’m not an actress.

  I push Maggie off me and toward Jesse, only half listening to him expand on his very favorite topic of graphic novels. They move away and I’m left alone again. Until I spot a familiar face.

  “Ricardo,” I say, smiling.

  “Jesus, chica.” He smiles broadly at me and moves in my direction. He’s really quite cute.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Whassup?” he says. I guess in the two months since he’s been here he’s become fluent in teen-speak.

  We look at each other for a few seconds. I don’t know how long. But then it comes over me. I want to kiss him. He’s supercute and waiting for me to say something inspired. And more importantly, I’ve had eight Mountain Dews, so I’m as high on caffeine and corn syrup as it’s possible to be. I’m inspired. Feeling reckless.

  “What’s Spanish for ‘kiss’?” I ask with what I hope is a twinkle in my eye and not a total turn-off expression.

  He blushes, but takes a step closer to me. “Uh—” He’s obviously trying to find the right words.

  Okay, so his English hasn’t improved that much. I must be drunk—it’s the only explanation for what I do next. Only I haven’t been drinking, so I have no explanation. I scrunch up my lips and smack them. “You know, ‘kiss.’ ” I pause to assess his reaction.

  He’s smiling broadly. “En español?”

  “Sí,” I say.

  “I show you.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward the more darkened recesses of the living room.

  I don’t have much time to process this swift change in climate before his face is literally a heartbeat away from mine and he stops.

  “En español.” He lowers his lips to mine.

  I don’t close my eyes because I’m (a) startled I had the cojones to flirt to this extent and (b) waiting to see if it’s me or are there really good kissers in the world?

  I try to focus all my attention on my lips and my senses so I know exactly how different this kiss is from the first few ridiculous excuses. He smells good.

  His lips move against mine with enough pressure that I know they’re there (as if I could remotely forget) but not so much that I feel like I’m being eaten alive. It feels good. Really good.

  He pulls me closer and angles his head so his lips slant more or less across mine. His tongue touches my bottom lip, just a quick little lick asking permission. That’s what it feels like. I don’t feel impaled. I feel gooey.

  I open my mouth and our tongues introduce themselves. We don’t get the same rhythm right away, but it’s fun kissing a boy.

  I was under the impression that kissing could only be good if you like the person you’re kissing. Like there’s an emotional attachment that must take place before anything can be gooey. I can’t even try to say that Ricardo and I have any kind of emotional attachment. It’s not like we bonded over soccer trivia. He’s not my soul mate, but he sure as hell is good for my self-esteem. I’m kissable. Definitely kissable. And good at it. It’s fun.

  I don’t really pay too much attention to anything else going on around us. We kiss. We stop. We start talking to other people. At some point, I lose track of Ricardo. Maybe that’s best. What would I say, really? Thanks for helping me to know I’m not the problem? Keep in touch? Nice technique?

  Maggie and Clarice and I head out, meeting Adam by the car. I don’t even say goodbye to Kiss Boy.

 
“Wow, Gert, I didn’t know you were that kind of girl,” Adam whispers to me outside.

  “I didn’t know I was.” I shrug. If that kind of girl means knowing that making out should be good for me, then I’ll embrace that title. I’m that-kind-of-girl. I giggle. Who knew?

  We’re all jammied up at Clarice’s with blankets and sleeping bags heaped on the floor of her family’s media room.

  I can’t believe I heard correctly, so I ask Clarice to repeat. “He what?”

  She shrugs. “He asked me to go down on him.”

  Maggie puts down the bag of Twizzlers and swallows. “And?”

  “Yeah, what’d you do?” I scramble out of my sleeping bag. This is too exciting to be weighted down by down.

  She chews on her lip a little. “I did.”

  Oh, to have a friend who’s been that up close and personal with a penis. I have questions. Lots and lots of questions. Most importantly, “How was it?”

  She smiles. “Odd.”

  I want details. “How so?”

  “Did he pressure you?” Maggie demands, breaking my flow of question energy.

  Clarice is startled. “No … I mean … I don’t know.”

  I demand clarification. It’s so not cool if she didn’t actually want to. “Wait, this is vastly different. You didn’t want to?”

  “No, I did, but he never really gave me a chance to say no. It was so fast. It was—”

  “He forced you?” Maggie’s face is turning red.

  “No, I could have stopped, I guess. I just wasn’t really thinking. And it was cool. Fun. Fine.” Clarice grabs a Dr Pepper and gulps it.

  This requires the entire story. Maggie and I put on our invisible detective hats to figure out if Clarice was duped into kissing the snake or if she bit that apple on her own. “It was what? Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.”

  Now she’s all scared and shy. “I don’t know if I really want to talk about it.”

  “I would really like to respect your privacy and not force you to go into graphic detail, but I’m not that nice,” I say.