by Jody Gehrman
“Geena, what if I can’t do this?”
“Do what?”
“This!” She shook her ruined skirt in the air.
“Get dressed?”
“No, date! I haven’t done this since I was your age.”
“Mom, I hardly think this is the time or place.” My patience was nearly spent.
“What do I wear?” she whined. “I spent two days deciding on this outfit.”
I eyed the blue thong. “Apparently.”
She slapped my arm and dashed for the bedroom. I listened to the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood floor. But they stopped. Very suddenly. Bad sign.
“Hi, Ben,” she said. “I was just . . . oh, never mind.”
I cringed and peeked around the corner in time to see her practically diving for the bedroom door. And then she was gone.
Geriatric types should definitely be denied access to Victoria’s Secret catalogs.
Ben looked at me. “Um . . .”
“Yeah. Don’t even ask. You want to blow this joint?”
“Geena, why was your mom—?”
“What did I just say?”
“Don’t ask.”
“And what are you doing?”
He hung his head. “Asking.”
“So you want to go?”
He gestured at the front porch. “Wouldn’t that be kind of rude?”
“It’s not like we’re going on a double date!”
“You didn’t even get him his beer.”
He was right, of course. Which totally irked me. “Fine. We’ll babysit the elderly for two more minutes. Then we’re out of here.”
“Fair enough.”
I popped back into the kitchen, opened a Corona, poured it into a glass, polished off the two sips that wouldn’t quite fit, and followed Ben back out to the front porch. Poor Mungo looked baffled as he hunched over on the swing, shivering in his thin cotton sweater.
“Here’s your beer,” I said. “You want to come in?”
He took the glass from me, his expression grateful if still a little perplexed, and followed us back inside, this time to the living room. I was just about to announce that Ben and I had to take off when Mom swept into the room laughing a laugh I’d never heard come out of anyone, let alone my own mother. She made her entrance wearing caramel-colored suede jeans and a white blouse so sheer, you could see her lace-trimmed cami underneath. As she glided in on her high-heeled boots, she emitted this giggle that was sweet and light as little clouds of powdered sugar.
Mungo had barely sat down; he sprang up again, reaching out to take her hands. I could tell right then he was totally into her. He just had that look, you know? Not like a wolfish leer—more like Marry me, radiant goddess. I wasn’t prepared for that.
All at once I needed to escape. It was just way too confusing seeing my primary caregiver first in a thong, and then being worshipped by a pink-faced Mungo. My parents have only been divorced a little over a year, and in that time they’ve gone from virtually sexless beings who maybe went for a peck on the cheek now and then to raging pheromone factories. Isn’t this supposed to be my time to horrify them with my burgeoning sexuality?
“We’ve gotta go.” I grabbed Ben’s hand and bolted for the door. Mom and Mungo called their good-byes, but faintly, like they weren’t really sorry to see the last of us.
After getting safely strapped into Ben’s old Volvo and headed for the movies, I said, “You know the problem with parents today?”
He smirked. “I’ve got a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“All those drugs they took in the eighties convinced them they’re capable of time travel.”
“Time travel?” Ben sprayed the window with wiper fluid and the blades struggled to chase each other across the glass.
“They think they can just wave their arms and be teenagers—without acne or a curfew. It’s revolting.”
“If you say so, Sloane.”
That kind of made me mad. I mean, did he agree, or not? Obviously not—people never say “If you say so” when they actually mean it. “So you think I’m being stupid?”
“Not at all.” He looked alarmed, which mollified me slightly.
“But you don’t agree with my theory.”
He considered. “My parents definitely have no illusions about time travel.”
“Not all parents!” I blew my hair out of my eyes. “I didn’t say all—”
“But I wish they did,” he said. “It would make things a lot more interesting.”
“Ha!” I shook my head. “You have no idea.”
Wednesday, December 24
10:20 P.M.
Okay—can I just say?—this is so not cool. It’s one thing to be from a broken home. I’ve already got that strike against me, but half of America does too, so whatever. What’s unforgivable is being subjected to Christmas Eve with your divorced parents and their—eww! Dare I even write the word?—lovers.
How damaged am I by this evening?
Very, very damaged.
First, I want to report that things are moving way too fast on the Mom and Mungo front. If I went from hardly knowing a guy to inviting him over for important family functions within the span of four days, Mom would sit me down for a little tête-à-tête about the dangers of “rushing things,” I guarantee it. Apparently, these rules don’t apply to the over-forty set. She and the Mungo act like they’ve been together for decades rather than hours.
And then, buoyed by her victory over a loveless future—or maybe just giddy because she’s finally getting some—Mom decided at the last second to invite Dad and Jen over for dinner. Never mind that I was perfectly happy having two Christmases, one here, and another at Uncle Leo’s with Dad. Now, purely for my benefit, I get to spend Christmas Eve with both of my parents at once—oh, and also with their respective sex partners.
Joy to the world.
I knew the emotional scarring was about to begin the second we all gathered around the dining room table. Jen sat so close to Dad she might as well have been in his lap, and her form-fitting dress revealed cleavage about as subtle as a blow to the head. Mungo looked even more eraser-pink than usual; was it my imagination, or did his gaze keep drifting to Jen’s décolletage? Quelle disgusting! Mom and Dad haven’t been in the same room for more than ten minutes since the divorce, so they were both edgy and smiling way too wide. As we picked at Mom’s barely edible soufflé and ambitious-but-weird spinach and pomegranate salad, the small talk about the winter weather in our respective parts of the world petered out, and we found ourselves adrift in a queasy silence.
I don’t know what made me feel responsible for taking action. It so wasn’t my fault that this was happening! Somehow, though, with the twisted logic that is family drama, I felt obligated to resurrect the conversation.
“Hey, remember that Christmas we spent at Orion and Jackie’s house?” Orion and Jackie were these family friends from my parents’ hippie days. They grew pot in their back-yard and drove a station wagon plastered in bumper stickers that said things like “Visualize Whirled Peas.”
Mom shot a sideways glance at Dad. “Sure. You were what—eight?”
“Uh-huh. Remember how they had that big party with all the nudists?”
Everyone laughed, a little too loudly, as if the very thought of nudists was inherently hilarious.
When the braying died down, Jen looked expectantly at Dad, who cleared his throat. “They weren’t actually nudists, Geena, they just liked—”
“To take off their clothes,” Mom interjected.
“And remember how I ate like three pot brownies?”
Suddenly the mild chuckles dive-bombed into dead silence.
“You ate marijuana?” Jen asked, her smile going twitchy, her glance darting to Mom. “When you were eight?”
Mom smoothed her hair. “She didn’t really—”
“Not on purpose or anything,” I clarified. “There was just this plate of brownies on the coffee table and I was like, ‘Hey, those lo
ok yummy!’ The next thing I knew I was walking around the house going, ‘I’m dreaming, Mommy! I’m dreaming!’ ”
“They were very mild,” Dad said, frowning. “She—it was nothing.”
Mom’s grin looked painful. “Dan was supposed to be watching her. Guess that’s what happens when you assume Daddy’s in charge.”
Jen and Mungo both swiveled around to glare at Dad like he’d sprouted horns.
“Oh, if I recall correctly, I was supposed to watch her because you couldn’t take your eyes off that guitarist—what was his name? Something asinine, Woody or Wolfgang—”
“Wyatt. His name was Wyatt.”
“Riiiiight.” Dad nodded, then looked toward the ceiling as if Wyatt’s face were floating there. “Wyatt the Mick Jagger wannabe.”
How had this gone so horribly askew? In my mind it was an amusing, fluffy little anecdote to fill up the blank space where normal conversation should have been. Suddenly, we were waltzing down Bad Memory Lane.
The doorbell rang, and I sprang from my seat. “I’ll get it!” I didn’t care if it was a Jehovah’s Witness working overtime; I had to escape the messy avalanche I’d started.
It was Ben. He had on a gray hat and a wool sweater with his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. His cheeks were rosy from the cold and his dark eyes sparkled in the dim porch light. I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my life.
“Oh, my God,” I said, pulling him inside. “You’re psychic. Did you pick up on my SOS?”
“What is it? Family trouble?”
“Totally! Why me? Come in here a second, help me get out of this.”
We went into the dining room, where each of the adults treated Ben to their own unique brand of Christmas cheer: Mom fawned, Dad glowered, Mungo joked, and Jen flirted. I endured this to the best of my ability, announced we’d be in my room with an innocence that implied we planned to play Chinese checkers there, grabbed Ben’s hand, and disappeared before anyone could argue.
Ben’s been in my room on exactly two other occasions during the five months we’ve been dating. Most of our time together has been spent in public places: school, the movies, football games, that sort of thing. The few times we’ve been alone in my room, things have gotten a little . . . sweaty. It was exhilarating, but also slightly terrifying. The further we got, the more I felt this weird vertigo, you know, like climbing higher and higher until you’re scared to look down, but all the same you can feel the yawning drop below and it makes you dizzy.
As much as I like Ben, I’m not totally sure about going all the way. Maybe it’s the STD warnings Mom’s been feeding me since I was old enough to shave. Maybe it’s just that having sex for the first time is a really big deal. It’s not like I was raised with fear of hell or anything—I don’t believe God takes an active interest in my hymen—it’s just that the first time is so . . . irreversible. Whenever I try to picture it with Ben, I just feel overwhelmingly naked. Okay, obviously naked, yes, but what I mean is naked naked. Like sometimes, right before he kisses me, he stares so deeply into my eyes, I’m afraid he can see every last secret, right down to the most perverted micro-thought that ever flashed through the very back of my mind. It’s kind of how I imagine Lois Lane feels when Superman looks at her with his X-ray eyes.
“Why are they doing that?” Ben asked as he shrugged off his messenger bag and sat down on my bed.
“What?”
“Your parents. Why are they having dinner with their . . . dates?”
I shook my head. “God only knows. The elderly live in a world of their own.”
“Come here.” He held out a hand. I slipped my fingers inside his and let him pull me toward him.
Next thing I knew I was in his lap, breathing in his damp wool smell. He looked into my eyes and our lips touched—just barely at first. Then he cupped the back of my head and pulled me closer, deepening the kiss. I flattened my palm against his cheek and the cold of his skin contrasted nicely with the hot, wet interior of his mouth.
We sank back against the bed, breathing faster now. God, things sure do accelerate rapidly when we’re alone. It’s probably a good thing we’ve only been in my room a couple of times; give us a bed and a little privacy, we’re suddenly on a freight train racing straight for Devirginization City.
Am I unnaturally obsessed with my own virginity? It’s not like I intend to wait until marriage or anything. I just want to be sure. Is that so wrong? Sure about what, exactly, I don’t know. Will the clouds part as a ray of sunlight illuminates the divine being meant to be my first? I doubt it.
“You okay?” Ben pulled away slightly and studied me.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You just look sort of . . . worried, is all.”
I propped myself up on one elbow and shook my head. “No. I’m good.”
“You’re wondering what I got you, huh?” He flashed a mischievous grin.
“For Christmas?”
“No, for Easter! Yes, for Christmas.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I’m a little curious, sure.”
He sat up, dug into his messenger bag, and produced a shiny silver box with a big red velvet bow. I could tell by the size and shape of it he’d gotten me clothing of some sort. That made me nervous right away. I’m just not an easy girl to shop for. I know what I like, but nobody—not my friends or parents, certainly not a guy—has ever been able to crack the mysterious code of my taste. Clothing is especially nerve-racking, because even if I fake enthusiasm, the giver knows pretty quickly that they missed the mark when I bury said item in the darkest corner of my closet.
“Go on,” he said, nudging me, “open it.”
My palms began to sweat as I untied the bow. As I lifted the lid off the box, the smell of new clothing wafted up. I peeled back the layers of translucent tissue paper and fished out a filmy red camisole. As I held it up before me, I saw the little black silhouette of a skater chick silk screened onto the breast. She looked like me! Seriously, with braids and everything.
“Oh my God. Did Amber do that?” It had her style written all over it—sort of tattoo-parlor-meets-anime.
“Yeah.” He grinned. “She designed it for me. You like?”
“How could I not?”
“But wait.” His eyes sparkled with impish glee. “There’s more.”
I dug a little deeper into the folds of tissue paper and pulled out matching panties. The style was sort of . . . what do you call it? Brazilian? I mean, it wasn’t a thong, but it was way more skimpy and up-your-butt than I usually go for.
“Wow,” I croaked.
Ben glanced at my bedroom door. “Maybe you should try them on.”
I just looked at him.
He shrugged, all innocence. “I mean, you know, to be sure they fit.”
No way was I going to prance around my room like a lingerie model when either of my parental units (or aspiring-units—ack!) could barge in at any second. Even if we were the only ones in the house, I still wouldn’t relish the prospect. Not that I’m fat or anything, but I’m also not so proud of my bootie that I’m willing to bare three-quarters of it with the lights on.
“Or not,” Ben added, sensing my discomfort.
“Maybe some other time.”
“Do you like it, though? I asked Sophie what I should get you, and she said no girl can resist lingerie.”
I bristled. “You asked Sophie?”
“Uh-huh.”
The thought of Ben talking to Sophie about underwear made my stomach feel all sour and my throat feel chalky. What the hell was he doing asking her? No girl can resist lingerie, huh? Did I even like lingerie? Was something wrong with me?
Ben brushed his knuckles along my jaw. “What’s going on, Sloane?”
“Nothing. I was just wondering why you didn’t ask Amber. I mean, she designed it, right?”
“She made the decal, but I picked out what to put it on—I mean, Sophie helped me pick it out.”
“Did you two go shopping?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. It was no big deal.”
No big deal?! I wanted to scream. I could feel my head getting ready to explode. Somehow, I kept breathing until the urge to hyperventilate passed. The last thing I wanted was to act like a possessive, insecure, sniveling girlfriend. With supreme self-control, I folded the panties, put them back in the box, and wrapped my arms around his neck.
“They’re great. Seriously. Thank you so much.”
He looked at me sideways. “Yeah? You don’t have to say that just to be nice . . .”
“I’m not.” I flashed for a second on Ben and Sophie walking hand in hand at the mall, but I stomped on that thought too. “Really.”
“Cool. I’m glad you like it.”
“Okay, time for your present.” I got up, opened my underwear drawer, and pulled out a smallish box wrapped in blue paper dotted with tiny elves.
“What is it?”
“Hello! Open it and find out.”
He pulled the paper off slowly. Inside was a collector’s edition of Frankenstein, one of his favorite books, and a CD I burned full of songs that make me think of him. I’d made my own label for the CD; it was a picture of us last summer, around the time we first got together. It seemed dangerously cheesy—so much so that I almost chickened out at the last second—but I wanted my gift to be personal, not just a thing. Also, I looked pretty hot in the picture, so that countered the cheese factor in a big way.
“Very cool,” he said, studying the CD first, then the book. “Awesome. Thank you.”
I felt all shy again, suddenly. “You’re welcome.”
He leaned over and kissed me. Then he kissed me again. And again.
I found myself reaching for him, running my hands through his hair, tasting his lips, and all thoughts of Sophie dissolved.
Sort of.
Thursday, January 1
11:15 A.M.
Amber’s been forced to celebrate the new year with her mom in Lake County, and Ben went skiing with his parents up at Lake Tahoe. Since Hero’s boyfriend, Claudio, lives in Italy and she’s not quite obscenely rich enough to charter a plane there on a whim, she and I spent an uneventful holiday at her house watching girlie movies, painting our toenails, and pigging out on the awesome crepes their chef Elodie prepared. Hero’s house on Moon Mountain is about twenty times the size of our place and she’s got hi-def TV on a massive plasma screen, so obviously we decided to kick it there. Once we’d ODed on crepes and settled in to watch Step Up 2, Uncle Leo came in, all dressed up in a gray flannel suit, smelling of expensive aftershave.
