Did I mention I was a hypocrite too?
He looked up, his eyes less familiar than I had ever seen them. The already strong lines of his face looked harsh, accentuated by the shadow of stubble around his jaw. His lips were chapped, pressed around the edge of an angry swallow of OJ. “You’re not my ex.”
After the hangman pulls the lever, I imagine there would be a second of slack silence where you just hover, before gravity takes hold and yanks you down. That kind of silence hung in the kitchen as his words passed from neuron to neuron until they sunk in. I shook my head in mute disbelief, shoving down the prickling warmth of tears. “You asshole.”
I turned away before I could see him not respond. The entire seventeen-step walk out of the kitchen, I was fighting the desire to look back at him, to apologize. Seeking an alternate focus, my eyes fell on the white plastic that had caused this whole stupid fight in the first place with its stupid, slow-moving red analog timer.
Of course the damn coffee would be ready now.
17.
Pounding something sounded good. Something painful and physical and angry. Hate sex sounded good. Damn it. I could settle for a run. The one sports bra that had somehow still made it into my stuff was on top of the bag in a (thankfully) empty room and it didn’t take long to find the shorts I’d packed just in case. My iPod took a few minutes longer to dig out, but it wasn’t hard.
I ran out the door feeling self-righteous, virtuous and extremely pissed. It lasted three feet down the beach. Then the only thing pounding was my head and the only thing racing was my uneven breathing. Running with no sleep, a hangover and a good first attempt at chimney sweep lungs is not a good idea.
My limping jog lasted until I’d gotten past Cleo’s property line, where my legs gave up on me. At least I was behind the rock wall that delineated the separation. Nobody from the house could see me as I wrapped my arms around my knees, hugging myself closer.
I couldn’t cry. The energy to cry over Dev again had completely failed me. It sucked in a way. Tears were romantic and tragic and besides, at least they had a beginning and an end.
Coked-out rockers crooned in my ear, singing about sex, drugs, rock ’n’ roll. None of them were virgins. They sang about being alone, being in love, being in lust in gravelly voices backed by amps and amphetamines. I suspended belief in managers and synthesizers and the manipulation of the masses through mainstream media to strip and swig and stop eating. So I listened, letting them scream and cry on my behalf as I stared.
When you dive into the pool at the beginning of a race, the incessant pull of gravity takes its time to catch up with the vanished pressure beneath your feet. You are weightless, hovering, hanging. And then you hit the water. It stings your body, chlorinated and chemical, bitter on your tongue and sharp on your skin. And while it’s supposed to look somewhat graceful to the outside observer, there is always a violence to breaking the surface of the water.
The last few weeks, I had been weightless, running around with Cleo and Dev and all their friends, thinking I was like them, forgetting the lessons of freshman year. Hitting the water had been inevitable the whole time, and I’d been an idiot to think I could avoid it. My lack of forethought ensured that instead of the controlled entrance of a dive, I had just belly-flopped.
The sun was much too high and much too hot when I snuck back into the house, hoping no one would see me, skin stinging with a slap of reentry and covered with an oil slick of sweat. At least it looked like I’d actually been running.
The synthesized sounds of a video game were audible from the moment I stepped into the house: I could hear Alec and Evan swearing and a voice I knew was Dev trying his vocal chords at Bon Jovi. As quietly as I could, I ran upstairs to the room I’d slept in the night before. Luckily for me, it was still empty. After my second shower of the day, which eroded the sand that adhered to my skin and seemed to have snuck into every pore and crevice of my body, I felt a little more alive. At least relatively.
Constructing an outfit seemed like too much effort, so I tunneled my limbs into a sweatshirt and spandex shorts. I disappeared into the bathroom to cover up my face and came out to find Nicky sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hey.” She smiled, patting the bed next to her. “How are you?” I obediently sat on the crumpled blankets on top of the duvet. I didn’t want to know what we had left on the sheets.
Nicky was probably the only person in the house who I wasn’t in the middle of a fight with, either passively or aggressively. At least Amie and Dev knew we were fighting. Cleo had no idea. Alec was probably too drunk to know or care.
“I’m okay.” I leaned forward on my knees, looking at my hands. “You?”
Her smile widened. I hadn’t seen her smile in a couple weeks. “I’m good.”
“Scott?”
“He’s good too. Asleep.” She looked at me as I looked at my hands. “You sure everything’s okay?”
The words spilled out before I could stop to think. “Dev and I fought and Amie’s mad at me and I think he hooked up with Cleo.” I dammed the flow of words and bit the chapped skin of my lip.
She listened, letting the silence sit for a minute before she said anything. “I can’t help you with Dev. He’s an idiot, he always has been. But he’s a good guy and he really likes you.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. My voice had a bitter edge to it, a salted rim of self-disgust.
“And I don’t think Cleo would do that to you.” Her voice was impartial, even casual. I couldn’t decide whether it pissed me off that she defended Cleo or her words delivered the news that redeemed the weekend—at least a little bit. I wanted it to be true. “And Amie and Alec aren’t your fault. That breakup was coming for a while.”
“What? They broke up?” I felt sick. It was debatable if there were any more monumental mistakes I could have made this weekend.
Nicky didn’t seem too worried about Amie or Alec. “They knew it was coming. It’s not you. Amie’ll be fine in a day or two. She just needs someone to be angry at, you know?”
All too well.
“Hey.” I looked at her. The sympathy in her eyes was unexpected, the empathetic twist to her smile even more so. She had been here too. The lump in my throat that had been slowly loosening since I’d woken up unraveled in a choking sob. Before I knew it, Nicky’s arms were around my shoulders, and I was crying into the overwashed corner of one of Scott’s old lacrosse T-shirts, tears bringing out the smell of detergent.
The tears didn’t last long. If anyone had to see them, I was glad it was Nicky. When she was sure I was finished, she let go, letting me raise my salt-stiff face from her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” she repeated for the fourth time in as many minutes. “I should find Scott before he wakes up and gets grumpy.” It was an invitation to laugh at Scott and I obliged weakly. “You okay for right now?”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
The arm around my shoulders squeezed. “It’s fine. You’ll see. It’ll work out.”
My smile was much weaker than hers. What I wouldn’t give for a little bit of that calm optimism. It could even go out in public.
Turned out she was right, at least about Amie and Alec. Amie and I shared a tray of brownies (the regular kind) later that day, and no one has the energy to fight when they have a stomach full of rich chocolate and beer. I attempted to apologize. She just handed me an open bottle without looking at me and I obediently drank.
Thankfully, the soporific effects didn’t seem to be wearing off. Amie was usually upfront about her anger and so far, so good. Alec was holed up with Dev, mole men with a Wii. I’m pretty sure they slept in their makeshift basement hobbit hole.
For the two days we had left, the only things near my mouth were homemade brownies, Coronas accompanied by one dried out wedge of lime, and (only twice) the smooth, almost damp, brown paper of a joint that had seen the insides of too many lips. Cleo was thoroughly stoned and Amie got very drunk and watched two seasons of Sex an
d the City in two days. Too scared of what I would do with too many inhibitions gone, I drank three beers the entire rest of the time we were there. So far, alcohol and I weren’t mixing very well.
I still wasn’t completely sure Nicky had been right about Cleo and Dev. Cleo was the only girl who dared venture into ManLand, partly because of her Guitar Hero and Wii boxing prowess. I didn’t know what else she did down there, but it couldn’t matter. My friends were in short supply. The luxury of getting mad at her for things she might or might not have done wasn’t one I thought I had then.
Dev and I didn’t talk for the rest of the weekend, successfully avoiding each other within our small shared space. The only time I saw him was conveniently the only time I was really stoned, when my only desire was food and my only urge was to lie on my back and not move. That lethargy was well worth a couple (hundred) brain cells.
Cleo had been right again. It did get better after the first time.
18.
The endorphin rush, a product of the sweat beading my body and soaking through my shirt, the burn in my muscles, the pounding of my feet along the side of the quiet rural highway, was the best part of the first week back from Cleo’s. Though we had, somehow, all made it back to school in one piece, there had been forty-two messages from my mom and all of our drama waiting back at Icarian. I spent at least an hour of reassuring Mom that the only thing I’d done all weekend was watch Disney movies. Then I had quite literally hit the ground running. Burying myself in work I didn’t have to do was the easiest way to stay sane, and the swim coach had mandated afternoon runs to prepare for our season.
Floating on an all-natural high of hot sweat in the cool air, I could forget that the only time I saw Dev was Acting. We sat on opposite ends of the room and I tried not to watch him flirt with freshmen or care that, once again, it was just me and the techies and backdrops that were being painted gray in preparation for the fall play. He didn’t look at me.
I hated that Alec was ignoring me. It only helped a little that it wasn’t, according to Amie, because she had told him to, but because he didn’t want rumors connecting me with the breakup. Cleo thought he just hated being shot down, and was going to take advantage of his newly attained upperclassman status to prey on the freshmen.
Just to put a cherry on top, Josie had been complaining to Clemens about the vocabulary my speakers emitted whenever I was in the room. When she eventually just stopped coming back to our room, I assumed that she had moved in permanently with the resident Bible Study group. This only made Clemens more earnest in her attempts at a roommate reconciliation somewhat less likely than the zombie apocalypse.
All of that was drowned out by the pounding bass of headphones vibrating at the highest decibel level possible. Thursday was a day for gangsta rap, even more jarring with the skeletal stumps of brown in the fields inches from my feet. It probably made me deaf but I was so far past caring.
The endorphins stuck around long enough to get me back to campus. Then, every dark head with a dark green senior varsity jacket shot my high down another level. Just like always, I was back at zero before I made it to the shower.
That was the first Saturday I wanted, more than anything, to stay in and hide, pressing my body into the running man imprints of my mattress. Facing Dev was not high on my list of things to do. Given the inevitable, namely Cleo’s determination because there was actually something interesting on campus, I had to look good. Or at least as close as I ever got. Two hours with Cleo’s curling iron and my makeup left me looking something that, if I squinted and turned to a certain angle, could maybe pass for a Glamour Do. It didn’t matter what I thought anyway; the clock was the final arbiter this time, and I pinched my feet into too-high heels to follow Cleo and Amie out the door.
There was a dance that night, a Halloween-themed fundraiser for one of the many do-good organizations on campus that tried to make a meaningful “impact.” Maybe I was just a cynic, but I didn’t see how fifty dollars was impacting much of anything. At least they weren’t making cookies.
I gave them my dollar anyway, walking in the doors of what was usually the gym, now converted into a temporary dance floor. Only a few people wore costumes, since normal options would have gotten us written up for dress code violations. I didn’t miss it; I had never gotten the nurse thing. Teachers prowled the edges of the already growing throng of moving bodies.
This time, Cleo and Amie pulled me into the group of dancers, our bodies moving, hips grinding the air, an invitation to some willing body to fill the unoccupied space. With the three of us dancing together, the space was filled faster than I thought. I wasn’t surprised when Cleo’s eyes, outlined in heavy black, reeled in a football player, or when a theatre kid with strands of hair falling over his eyes began to move his skinny hips against Amie. I almost jumped when hands grabbed my hips. Turning around, I found a guy, Ryan, who was in a couple of my classes, gangly and unevenly muscled. I thought I’d heard that he ran track and he’d been dating a girl in Amie’s dorm until a couple weeks ago. He also played trumpet in the school band at assemblies.
Usually people don’t talk while they’re dancing, rendered mute by the bass. Usually, I liked the silent communication of muscles and movement, the lack of pressure to say something witty. This guy poured into my half-deafened ears the sob story of how his girlfriend had dumped him for her roommate before we had danced to three songs.
I had no idea if it was true, and it made him look more than a little pathetic, but either way he was begging for a rebound. To be perfectly honest, so was I.
I saw Dev on my way out a side door, standing to the side, talking to Scott and Nicky. Their arms were around each other’s waists, even leaving room for Jesus (as a baby, anyway). And they looked like one of the posters for abstinence that the Christian Faith group at my old school had put up in the locker rooms. Dev had his empty hands in his pockets.
Ryan grabbed my hand and pulled. For a second, Dev’s eyes burned hot on the back of my neck. Hypocritical asshole. I straightened my neck and shoulders. But while my head might have been raised, my eyes stayed fixed on the symmetrical linoleum under my feet.
It turned out that Ryan was an okay kisser. There was no awkward fumbling of sweaty hands, no drooling. Making out against the back of the post office was nice. But with every kiss, I pressed closer, kissed harder, pushed my body against his until I was hardly even touching the brick behind my back, looking for a hitch in my breathing, a lurch in my stomach that I couldn’t find. I’d expected Raging Bull and found myself on the kiddy coaster.
We were behind the post office for a while, before Ryan decided that he should get back to the dance, in case his friends were looking for him. Can’t say I was too disappointed. Tugging hemlines and wiping my face off in the shadows, I followed him, the sound of my heels’ sharp staccato stalking me with their false confidence. The backs of my calves burned, pulling with every step.
My eyes trolled the room when I stepped back in. Alec was dancing with a freshman I recognized vaguely, but not enough to match a name to the rococo face. Amie was barely visible behind a dim mass of bodies, rolling like the dolphins that inspired myths of sea serpents, and Nicky and Scott were dancing with, predictably, each other. Even grinding on a dance floor, they somehow looked sweet. Cleo had taken their place with Dev on the edge of the dance floor. Jealousy made my stomach turn more than my impromptu lip-lock had. Too bad it was in a completely different way. His lips hovered near her ear, her hand rested comfortably on his arm. I wanted to hate her. Instead, I began to slide into the mass of bodies, hovering on the edge for a while before I pushed through into the hot, sweaty dancers. If at first you don’t succeed, might as well keep looking.
19.
When Cleo found me after curfew, I tried to spin bullshit excuses about headaches, exhaustion and sore feet. She ignored me
“Dev’s been talking my ear off all night.” She didn’t look at me, facing her wardrobe as she threw her loose shirt over he
r head and started to peel off her very skinny jeans. Her shoulder blades flexed above the blue bra as she threw her jeans on the bed. “About you and I-80.”
“Do I look like I care?” Pretending nonchalance, I turned my back and started to take off my shirt.
Cleo didn’t even bother replying. Acting had made no apparent improvements.
“What’s I-80 anyway?” I hadn’t been near the highway since Evan turned the car off a week ago.
A smile spread over Cleo’s face. “That’s right, you wouldn’t know this story. His freshman year, Ryan told some chick to call his dick I-80, because it was so big it could stretch across three states. It stuck—even if he apparently doesn’t live up to it. Although you’d know better than me.”
It was impossible not to laugh as my face heated up. Only I would go out to find a rebound and find the only thing worse than nothing: the guy with the most embarrassing nickname on campus.
Cleo was still smiling, the corner of her mouth turned up just a little. If she had laughed, it would have been at me: Ryan for sure, but a little bit at me, too. My laughter faded and I was back to angry.
I hated her. A lot if she had really hooked up with Dev. A little more for telling me Ryan’s embarrassing nickname or for knowing it in the first place. Mostly, I just hated her for talking to him all night and standing with her shoulders back and her head high. But I couldn’t hate her. I needed her. And, for some strange reason, I trusted her, more than almost anyone else. We were friends, I hoped, even if I was so jealous that it hurt sometimes.
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