Vegan Virgin Valentine

by Carolyn Mackler

  “Valentine and Hart,” V read in this singsong voice. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. And four-ever, no less!”

  “We’re not together anymore,” I said.

  I could swear I heard my mom whimper. It’s been more than eight months, and my parents still haven’t gotten over the fact that Travis and I didn’t work out. It wasn’t just the Valentine–Hart thing, though that was the icing on the cupcake. It’s that on paper Travis is the Man for Me. He’s over six feet, handsome, and my guy counterpart. Not the slut stuff, but on the overachieving front. We’re in the same accelerated classes. We do most of the same extracurriculars. And we’re currently in a heated competition for valedictorian of the senior class. With two marking periods to go, we’re down to the decimal point. It’s so insane because it won’t even affect our academic futures. Three days after I got into Yale, Travis got accepted early decision to Princeton. But it’s like whatever tension, sexual or otherwise, went on between us, we’re now dueling it out on the GPA – Grade Point Average – battlefield.

  Sex, or lack of it, was our downfall. Travis treated our physical relationship with the cutthroat aggressiveness he applies to the rest of his life. It was all about conquests and scores. He was constantly pushing me to go further—second base, third base, that grand old slam. Early in our relationship, when he was trying to make it inside my bra and I kept shooing his hand away, he said, “What’s the big deal? It’s not like there’s much there anyway.”

  Travis isn’t a total jerk. He was just a jerky boyfriend. The brainiac circuit at my high school is small enough that I had to let go of my hostility toward him almost immediately. It’s not like we’re friends, but we’re friendly enough. We’re both on student council. We’re co-chairs of Chemical-Free Grad Night, which is this no-alcohol all-night party that the school throws the night of graduation. We’re active in National Honor Society. We tutor sixth graders on Wednesday afternoons. Sometimes we even joke about our race for valedictorian, but I’m still determined to relegate him to salutatorian, to have the last and final laugh.

  “How come you and the Hart guy didn’t stay together forever?” V asked.

  “We just didn’t click,” I said.

  “What didn’t you click about?”

  I glanced at my mom.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this,” my mom said.

  “Why not?” V asked.

  “Because it’s over,” I snapped. “Besides, it’s not like he was anything to me. Just some guy.”

  “Very interesting,” V said.

  I reached over my mom and flipped the page.

  Later that night, as I was flossing, V came into the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid.

  “I can’t believe Aimee has exiled me to fucking Brockport,” she said.

  I know I’m counting the seconds until I go away to college, but I was born and bred here, so I wasn’t about to let V trash it. “What’s so wrong with Brockport?”

  “More like what’s right with it? It’s freezing cold. It’s in the middle of nowhere. And what the fuck do you do for fun here?”

  “It’s not the middle of nowhere. Rochester is a half hour away.”

  V peered up at me through her long bangs. “Rochester? Are you kidding? Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  I turned back to the mirror and slid the floss between two molars.

  “So,” V said, “it’s interesting to see where things stand.”

  “Where things stand?”

  “With your virginity.”

  I yanked the floss so hard it cut into my gums. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the fact that you’re still a virgin. That you’re going to turn eighteen in July and you still haven’t done it.”

  I spat into the sink. There was blood in my saliva.

  “Frankly,” V said, “I’m worried about you.”

  “I don’t need your concern,” I said. “And, besides, you don’t know anything about me. Unlike you, I choose to keep some things private.”

  “What’s there to keep private? You didn’t do it with that Hart guy.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I could tell by the way you talked about him,” V said. “You did … let me guess. Second base? Maybe some haggling on his part to get to third. Oh, yeah. I bet you went down there once and got so freaked out that you vowed to never touch another dick for the rest of your life.”

  How did V know this? This is the kind of stuff I’d never tell anyone and here she was, banging the nail right on the head.

  V was smiling. “I’m right, aren’t I? I’m so right.”

  “Will you get out of here?”

  V stood up and headed out of the bathroom, singing, “I’m so right. I’m so right. I’m sooooooooo right.”

  I slammed the door and locked it behind her.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, I drove V over to the high school. We didn’t say anything about the night before. Actually, we didn’t say anything at all. I was silently raging at being trapped behind the slow-moving parade of buses that was turning the half-mile trip from my house into a hefty commute. And no matter how many times I adjusted the defroster, I couldn’t get the windshield to stop fogging.

  V stared out her window at the icy soccer fields. She was wearing an oversize army–navy jacket and flicking a convenience-store lighter on and off, on and off. That was annoying me, too, but I didn’t feel like telling her to quit doing it and risk getting her started about something.

  We didn’t make it into the school until the first bell had already rung. I walked V to the main office and introduced her to Rosemary, the administrative assistant. I’m frequently in the main office meeting with Mr. Bonavoglia. Otherwise known as Mr. B. He’s the vice principal, in charge of all student affairs.

  “Vivienne Vail Valentine,” Rosemary chirped. She has curling-iron-shaped bangs and an unflappably sunny demeanor. “Your records got faxed over from California yesterday. With Mara’s reputation here, we are thrilled to have another Valentine at Brockport High School. And you’re both so tall! Do you play basketball?”

  People are always asking me that, too. Just like how everyone always asks whether I’m a real heartbreaker because my last name is Valentine. I hate both of those questions. To set the record straight, the answers are No and Most Definitely Not.

  “Just call me V,” V said. Her hands were rammed in the pockets of her jacket. As we were driving over to school, I noticed that the fucks on her fingers had faded since yesterday.

  “V,” Rosemary repeated. “I’ll try to remember that. So remind me … how are you girls related?”

  “V is my…” I paused.

  “I’m her niece,” V said.

  “Niece?”

  “I have a sister who’s almost twenty years older than me,” I said quickly. “She’s V’s mom.”

  “A sister by the same parents?”

  Why are people so darn nosy? The obvious subtext to this is Your parents were still doing it two decades later? Gross.

  V was opening her mouth to say something when the second bell rang.

  “Almost time for announcements!” Rosemary exclaimed. “Let me go look for your records, Vivi … I mean, V.”

  Rosemary headed into an adjacent room. V picked up a cafeteria menu and began fanning her neck. “Principals’ offices make me sweat my ass off,” she said.

  I glanced around to make sure no one had heard her. V unzipped her army–navy jacket, wriggled out of it, and hung it over one arm.

  Oh my God.

  No wonder V had come down to the kitchen this morning already wearing her jacket. Underneath, she had on a hot-pink tank top with silver lettering that said I’M JUST A GIRL WHO CAIN’T SAY NO. To make matters worse, she was braless yet again, and her you-know-whats were poking through her shirt, feeling the morning chill.

  “What’s up with that tank top?” I hissed.

  “What do you mean?” />
  “Don’t you think that’s making the wrong first impression?”

  “What first impression do you think I want to make?”

  I shifted my bag around on my shoulder and glanced up at the clock. Three minutes until homeroom.

  Ms. Green walked into the office. She’s one of the younger teachers at the high school. She teaches sophomore English but also directs the school plays, so she’s frequently trailed by aspiring thespians hoping to brownnose their way into a leading role.

  Ms. Green waved at me and then eyed V. “Are you new here?”

  “I’m Mara’s niece,” V said.

  I flinched. Why couldn’t V just be my cousin? My long-distance cousin.

  But all Ms. Green said was, “Cool shirt. Like Ado Annie.”

  V smiled. “You know Ado Annie?”

  “Of course.” Ms. Green walked over to the mail cubbies and pulled out a few envelopes.

  I had no idea what they were talking about, and I didn’t want to be late for homeroom, so I tapped my fingers on the counter. “I’ve got to run,” I said. “Rosemary will send you over to the guidance counselors to get your schedule figured out. Is that okay?”

  V chewed at her thumbnail. “I cain’t say no.”

  I didn’t see V for the rest of the day. I left school before noon, headed over to the college for my Tuesday/Thursday statistics class, ate a Boulder Bar, and spent the afternoon holed up in Drake Memorial Library. I was busy memorizing influential Supreme Court rulings for a test in government the next day when my cell phone vibrated on the table.

  I glanced at the caller ID. My dad. My parents and I have a Family Talk plan where all our cell phones are linked, so it’s free minutes whenever we call each other. They keep frequent tabs on my whereabouts, but it’s not like I’m doing anything shady, so I don’t really mind.

  I pressed the “answer” button and said hello.

  “Mara?” my dad asked. He always does that, asks if it’s me when he knows for a fact it’s me because he dialed my number. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in the college library,” I said in a hushed voice. “I can’t really talk.”

  “Oh, okay,” my dad said. “I just got back from Wegmans, and Mom is on her way from work. Will you be home soon?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Six-twenty.”

  I was working at Common Grounds that night, but I didn’t have to be there until seven-thirty. It’s a five-minute drive from the college to my house, so I could easily pull off the family dinner. But I just didn’t feel like seeing V. Besides, the government test was going to count for 15 percent of my grade and, at this point, I’m striving for any edge over Travis.

  “I’m going to keep studying. I’ll head to work from here.”

  “What will you do for dinner?”

  “I’ll grab something at Mythos,” I said, referring to this vegan-friendly Greek place right across the street from Common Grounds.

  “Do you have enough money on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s already dark out. Will you be careful when you walk to your car?”

  “I know, I know, I will.”

  “Okay, sweetie. Have fun tonight. Mom and I will probably be asleep when you get home, but we’ll leave the yard lights on.”

  It was great to be at Common Grounds. We were crammed with customers all evening. College students hunched over mugs of chai, writing in their journals. Local burnouts doing espresso shots in between playing Hacky Sack under a streetlamp on the snowy sidewalk. Middle-aged types consuming the mother of paradoxical desserts: fudge cake and a nonfat decaf latte. My favorites, however, were the Internet daters.

  Claudia and I have a field day with them. Claudia Johns is a junior at SUNY Brockport. We do all our shifts together, so over the past year we’ve honed the art of identifying dot-com matches.

  “Twenty-something mama’s boy seeks, well, mom,” Claudia recently said when a geeky guy held the door for a chubby woman who looked like she was at least ten years older than him.

  I responded with, “I like walking on sandy beaches, eating candlelit dinners, and having someone read The Runaway Bunny to me at bedtime.”

  Claudia giggled. “And what do you think is the woman’s deal?”

  I thought for a second before saying, “She just wants a bling-bling on her fing-fing before her biological clock goes ding-ding.”

  Claudia and I were in hysterics over that one. We didn’t sober up until James, our boss, got on our case for making fun of customers. “Just have a little discretion,” he said. “We still need to sell them an overpriced cup of coffee.”

  It’s weird to call James our boss. He’s more like a friend. James McCloskey is twenty-two and the owner of Common Grounds. He opened the café when he was only nineteen. I’m constantly telling him he’s totally prodigal. Especially since it’s not a grungy dive. It’s dimly lit, with an exposed brick wall, an assortment of hand-painted tables, and a fully functional vintage coffee roaster.

  I’ve never been sure why James didn’t go to college. He’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. He and I are always debating things like What Constitutes Art and Does Advertising Influence Us Even Though We Swear It Doesn’t. He has this ability to think it over and form his own opinions, not just read and regurgitate an article, like I always seem to do.

  That Thursday night, Claudia arrived at work shaken up because an eighty-year-old guy nearly plowed her down as she was crossing Holley Street. This prompted James and me into a big debate about whether senior citizens should automatically get their licenses taken away. I was sitting on the stool behind the counter. I’m taller than both Claudia and James, so I usually sit down when I’m talking to them. I was saying things like, “Grandma and Grandpa are a hazard to themselves and everyone else on the road, not to mention that they drive in first gear on the highway.” James kept insisting that many elderly people are fine drivers and the DMV should just do a yearly evaluation of their abilities.

  After ten minutes, Claudia began grinding coffee beans so loudly that neither of us could talk. “Will you two quit it already?” she shouted. “I’m the one who almost died tonight, not you guys.”

  I cracked up. That’s exactly what I love about Common Grounds. It gets me out of myself. I took the job here to diversify my college application, but it’s become so much more. When I’m serving coffee and goofing around with Claudia and James, I feel like a different person. I’m not obsessing about my grade-point average or hyperanalyzing a conversation or thinking about my to-do list for the upcoming week, month, and year.

  Around nine-thirty, James was tinkering with the coffee roaster at the back of the café. Claudia was brewing a pot of Mocha Java. Just as I squirted cleanser on the counter and began scrubbing off a coffee stain, a beefy middle-aged guy strutted through the door. He was wearing a black leather jacket and had this pimpish gold earring in his left lobe. Several steps behind him was a tiny blond woman, probably in her early thirties. Her hands fluttered in front of her face, as if she were hoping no one would recognize her.

  “Recent divorcé paid a visit to Piercing Pagoda before getting ‘out there’ again,” I whispered to Claudia as I tossed a paper towel in the trash.

  As Claudia glanced in their direction, I noticed that her licorice-black hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. That’s odd for Claudia. She’s one of those lucky souls with shiny straight hair. She’s always running to the bathroom with a brush in hand and then shaking her mane around her shoulders.

  “And the girl?” I asked. “What’s the blond girl’s deal?”

  “The blond girl … the blond girl…” Claudia stared at them like she was trying to come up with a response. Finally she moaned and said, “I’m sorry. I’m really pining tonight. I can hardly think straight.”

  “You are?”

  Claudia nodded sadly.

  “Oh, Claud,” I said. “Are you going to tell him soon?”

  Claudia shrugged
. “I don’t know. I’ve dropped enough hints, haven’t I? If he hasn’t guessed by now, he must not like me back.”

  Claudia was talking about James. That’s the Big Unspoken Dynamic at Common Grounds. Claudia is in love with James. She’s had a crush on him since we both started here last year. She’s always giggling at everything he says and complimenting his sweaters and bringing him cans of chicken soup when he’s got the slightest sniffle. He’s definitely nice to her. But he’s nice to everyone, so I’ve never been able to figure out whether he likes her back.

  James is three inches shorter than me, which makes him a perfect match for Claudia. He’s got broad shoulders, a cute smile, and medium-length chestnut hair that he usually keeps in a ponytail. Claudia says it flatters his bone structure, but I just can’t get into male ponytails.

  The guy with the leather jacket and the blond woman approached the counter. I glanced briefly at James. He was still over by the roaster. I could have sworn he was watching me because we made eye contact for a second. As he looked away, I felt this weird thump in my stomach.

  Claudia poured coffee for the customers. I rang them up on the cash register.

  Once they headed to the condiment island, I turned to Claudia and said, “Beautiful black-haired Common Grounds employee finally works up the nerve to tell the guy she loves how she feels about him…”

  Claudia whimpered. “And loses her job and her pride in the process?”

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”