by Jody Gehrman
I could feel everyone staring at me, and my cheeks went hot. “Geena Sloane.”
“You know what, Geena Sloane? I couldn’t agree with you more.” He started pulling books from his leather bag, all of them tattered and dog-eared. “Look, guys, I’ve got certain rules I’ve got to follow—standard curriculum blah-blah-blah—but if it was up to me, we’d start with this book right here.” He held up a paperback and I squinted, trying to read the title. “On the Road. How many of you have read it?”
Nobody raised a hand.
Mr. Sands clutched at his chest as if he’d been shot. “Get out! Really? Nobody? Tragic! It’s an electric, frenzied ode to restless youth. There’s a guy in it, Dean Moriarty? Think of the craziest friend you ever had, now multiply that by a hundred. Moriarty’s based on this real-life dude, Neal Cassidy . . .”
Mr. Sands went on like that for the rest of the period, his eyes burning with excitement, reeling us in with the dynamic cadence of his velvet voice. I’d heard of the beats before, and this Kerouac guy sounded familiar, but Mr. Sands made me feel like I’d never understand anything about America or freedom or sex or art or holiness until I’d memorized every last syllable of On the Road.
I made up my mind to get it from the library first thing.
Friday, January 9
11:40 P.M.
Amber and I were working the evening shift at Triple Shot Betty’s when a cute little navy blue MG drove up, sputtering exhaust. The mysterious driver in aviator glasses was none other than Mr. Sands; I beat Amber to the window and took his order.
After asking for a double latte with extra foam, he lowered his glasses and squinted at me. The January light was dazzling, and I noticed for the first time that his smoky eyes had flecks of gold in them.
“Hey, aren’t you in my class?”
I grinned shyly. “Yeah.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Geena Sloane.”
“Right, right, Geena. You’re the one who called Melville a terrorist plot.” He chuckled.
“That’s me.” I was flattered that he remembered something I’d said, even if it wasn’t my finest one-liner. English is my place to shine—the one area in life where I consistently kick ass—and I get really into discussions. Around Mr. Sands, though, I’m a little inhibited. His sheer hunkyosity makes me a nervous wreck.
As I brewed Mr. Sands’s latte, Amber took advantage of the vacated window space and leaned onto her elbows, providing him with a tempting view of her freckled cleavage. “So you’re the legendary Mr. Sands.”
I glanced over just in time to see his Adam’s apple jerk in response. “Guilty. And you are . . . ?”
“Amber.”
“Amber. Nice. I like color names.”
She let out a throaty laugh. “I’m pretty colorful.”
“So, what does ‘legendary’ mean, exactly?”
“Oh, come on,” she teased, “you’re the English teacher—you tell me!” She peeked out from under her lashes and added in a husky voice, “You must have a huge . . . vocabulary.”
Um, can anyone say Over the top?
“You’re not in any of my classes, are you?”
Was it my imagination, or did his voice just crack?
“No. . . .” She paused, not meeting his eyes.
Mr. Sands only teaches AP English. Despite Amber’s apparent aspirations as most creative flirt, she barely pulls C’s in basic English, so AP isn’t an option.
I caught a glimpse of her profile and I knew, with a sudden flash of dread, that she’d stumbled on an idea. When Amber gets an idea, look out.
“Actually, I’m a college student.”
I was just delivering his latte and was so caught off guard by the lie that I sucked in too much air, inducing a dramatic coughing fit. Horrified, I hastily deposited the drink at the window and shrank into the shadows, practically hyperventilating. I didn’t want Mr. Sands to worry I’d spray spittle all over his mounds of creamy foam.
“Thanks, Geena,” he called. “Looks perfect.”
I smiled weakly. Don’t mind me, I’m just the spastic espresso wench.
Amber rang him up, though how she could operate the register and shoot such flirty glances simultaneously was a mystery to me. While handing him his change, she cooed, “Would you like our Betty Bargain Card? If you come see us twelve times, the thirteenth will be our treat.” Somehow she managed to infuse the word treat with pornographic undertones.
“Don’t mind if I do, actually.”
It was hard to be sure from where I stood, but it looked like Mr. Sands was blushing.
As he drove away, Amber lingered at the window, craning her neck to watch until he hung a left and disappeared.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “I’m in love.”
This might not seem like a newsflash coming from most girls, but from the mouth of Amber it was shocking. She’s always insisted boys are like bad TV: entertaining if you’ve got nothing better to do, downright pathetic if examined too closely. The one time she did fall for a guy, he betrayed her so brutally, I don’t blame her for becoming an anti-love evangelist. Now she was spinning slowly away from the window, her upturned face full of dreamy innocence, like an ingénue in some cheesy musical about to break into song.
“Who are you and what did you do with my friend Amber?”
She looked at me like she’d completely forgotten I was there. When memory of my existence fully registered, her eyes went wide and she addressed me in a tone of reverence. “You have English with him, don’t you?”
“Yeah . . .”
“Thank God, thank God, thank God!”
“Wait a minute—I don’t like the sound of this . . .”
She seized my hands. “You have to help me! I need to know everything there is to know about him.”
“Because . . . ?”
She blew her hair out of her eyes, exasperated. “Duh! I’m totally into him! You need to do reconnaissance so I can win him.”
“Win him? You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course not.”
I made a face. “He’s way out of your league.”
She looked so hurt, I had to backpedal.
“No—I mean, not—I don’t mean it that way, it’s just—come on, Amber, he’s a teacher. It’s like . . . illegal.”
“You’re telling me a high school teacher can’t date a college girl?”
I blinked. “Well, maybe when you’re in college . . .”
She grinned wickedly. “Didn’t you hear me? I am in college.”
“Ah-hah. . . .”
“Except I’ll need your help.”
I took a step back. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry; it’ll be easy. Just be my eyes and ears. You spend an hour with him five days a week—”
“Fifty minutes.”
She ignored my interruption. “That gives you plenty of time to find out everything about him.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I can just see it: ‘Mr. Sands, when’s our Melville quiz? Oh, and while you’re at it, can you describe your ideal date?’”
“What’s Melville?”
I sighed. “Even if we do manage to convince him you’re in college, if he spots you at school, we’re busted.”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Her face was sly, calculating various scenarios like a general planning an ambush. “All you have to concentrate on right now is information gathering.”
Monday, January 12
8:00 P.M.
Was just putting the final touches on my French homework when I heard the doorbell. Since she said she might stop by, I figured it was Amber. I danced dramatically to the door, singing in a loud, fakey operatic baritone, scraping together scraps of French that made absolument no sense together. “Vous avez déjà vu c’est la vie sacre bleu! Fermez la boooouuuuuu—” I held the note and flung open the door.
It was Ben.
The climactic scene in my Opera of the Mind fizzled abruptly as I
clamped my mouth shut and blushed.
“Hi.” He shoved one hand into the pocket of his jeans and ran the other over his dark hair. I could see he was hiding a smile. “You, uh, rehearsing?”
“Oh, just, you know”—I tapped my chest—“warming up the old pipes.”
“Didn’t know you were a baritone.” The smile was winning now, cracking open in spite of his efforts to squelch it. “I would’ve pegged you as an alto.”
I lifted my chin a little. “I’m versatile. What’s up?”
I knew my tone was too brusque when his expression went suddenly neutral. “Uh, nothing, really, just thought I’d stop by.”
See, this is just way too confusing. I’m always psyched to see Ben, but never knowing when he’ll show up infringes on my freedom to be weird-beyond-reason in the privacy of my own home. Is that even healthy? I have to watch myself all day at school, guarding my image, and now I have to be self-conscious after hours too?
“If it’s a bad time . . .” he began.
I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, come on in.”
He stepped inside.
“Um, you want a soda or something?” I headed toward the kitchen.
“Sure—or maybe just water?”
“Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink!” I don’t know why I said that. Why did I say that? I busied my hands pouring myself some ginger ale and him a glass of water from the filter. We’ve never been completely alone here before—there’s always been an adult lurking somewhere. Now Mom was out with Mungo and wouldn’t be back for hours.
“I went for a great ride today. Took Arnold Drive over to Sonoma Mountain. It’s beautiful up there.”
Ben’s a cyclist—he’s pretty serious about it. I think he clocks like four thousand miles a week or something. I know nothing about bikes.
“Cool,” was all I could think of to say.
The kitchen clock ticked away methodically. The refrigerator hummed. He took a step toward me and our noses were mere centimeters apart. I could feel his breath on my face. We just stayed there for a long moment, the electricity between us surging and crackling with alarming intensity.
“What’s going on with you, Sloane?” His lips grazed mine as he murmured the question.
Every synapse in my body started firing off X-rated messages. Glands and organs I didn’t even know I possessed were throbbing in time with his all-too-audible breathing.
“Nothing,” I mumbled weakly.
“What is it? Am I coming on too strong?” He pressed his nose ever so lightly along my jaw, and then his breath caressed the inside of my ear. I looked down and saw goose bumps spreading from my shoulder to my wrist like an ocean turning to whitecaps under a steady breeze.
I wonder what my ear looks like that close up. Is it delicate and conch-like, or are we talking scary little tarantula hairs? Brain, please shut up now.
“Well, am I?” he asked.
I’d lost track of the conversation. “Are you what?”
“Am I coming on too strong?”
“No.” I hope he didn’t notice my voice cracking.
When his lips finally found mine, I felt myself start to relax and sink into it. There was no need to get all wiggy—this was Ben, my friend, my rival, and okay, yes, my boyfriend. It wasn’t like he was going to push me into having sex with him before I knew what I wanted. I thought of Hero’s observation: You despise feeling out of control. Maybe I just needed to stop trying to control this thing between us. Maybe then I could stop being so weird.
Without warning, I felt his hand slip under my shirt and cup my breast. I flinched. It just seemed so abrupt this time, without the usual slow-paced prelude. The cadence of our kissing changed—it became more urgent, less playful—and all at once I felt like I was being swallowed.
I leaned away from him. “Uh . . .”
His hand didn’t move. It formed an odd, lumpy mass under my shirt. I looked down at it, and so did he.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I just—I don’t know. You startled me.”
He stared into my eyes, and his expression was so intense, so hungry, he almost didn’t look like Ben. “Geena, I’m really into you. You know that, right?”
I may not be all that schooled in sexual matters, but I could feel pretty clear evidence of that pressing against me. “Um . . . yeah. I’m into you too.”
His hand slipped under my bra and he leaned in to kiss my neck. Okay, this was getting a little intense. And that felt good. Really good. Inside my head I was like, Is this happening? Am I going to lose my virginity right here, in my mother’s kitchen, next to the microwave? Shouldn’t we be—I don’t know—closer than this? Shouldn’t I know everything about him—not just his middle name or his GPA, but his darkest secrets too? Shouldn’t he know me better? Because what if we do this and then he gets to know me better and realizes I’m not all that brilliant, I just study harder than most people, and I have a weird mole sprouting hair on my left thigh and pineapple gives me gas? We haven’t even used the L-word yet. Tomorrow morning, when I walk into trig and see him sitting there, talking to Sophie De Luca, will I feel all va-va-voom, or will I freak out that I gave away some crucial part of myself and now I can’t get it back?
“Knock, knock!”
We jerked away from each other, startled, and turned to see Amber doing an about-face in the kitchen doorway.
“Oops,” she said. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt. Everybody decent now?”
I straightened my shirt. “Yeah, everybody’s decent.”
She turned back around and leaned against the counter. “Whattup, disgustingly happy little lovebirds?”
Ben turned away from her and quickly performed some sort of crotch-adjustment. A part of me was bummed about the interruption, but a bigger part was relieved.
Ben made some excuse about trig homework and hightailed it out of there. When he’d left, Amber crossed her arms over her chest and looked at me, one eyebrow quirked in a question.
“What?” I was instantly defensive.
“Last summer you acted like boys had cooties. Now look at you!”
I groaned, thrusting my hands into my hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing! It’s so confusing . . .”
“Looks like you’re figuring it out.”
“I mean, how are you supposed to know when you’re ready?” I started chewing on the end of my braid. I can’t help myself; it’s a nervous tic.
“Oh, come on.” Amber’s tone implied I was being dense. “You two are madly in love. He’s totally cute. What’s there to figure out? Are you going to get on the Pill? You should use a condom, even so. Not that Ben’s diseased or anything, but still—”
“Amber!” I bugged my eyes at her. “We haven’t even said I love you. I’m a little freaked out here. Can you slow down, please?”
She hopped onto the counter. “Okay, lay it on me, babe. What’s freaking you out?”
I paced the kitchen. “What if we do have sex? Then what?”
“I don’t understand the question . . .”
“Come on! How many people in high school stay together for more than a year?”
Her brow furrowed. “I’m not saying you should marry him . . .”
“I know, but say we have sex and then we figure out we’re not that into each other, so we break up. Think of how much harder that’ll be!”
“You’re not that into him?”
“I am into him, but . . . say he gets a glimpse of the real me and runs screaming?”
Amber looked incredulous. “Are you kidding? You’re the bomb! He’d be an idiot if he—”
“Or what if we have sex and he loses interest because the mystery’s gone? Guys do that.”
She considered this carefully. “I don’t think that’s his style. He respects you.”
“Even if we have sex and stay together, then what? Who wants to be with their high school sweetheart forever? Isn’t that small-town loser-ish?” I felt my spirits plumm
eting. I thought of my mom and dad, Leo and Aunt Kathy, all of them thinking they’d be together forever back in the day. Now look at them. Aunt Kathy’s dead, so she got off the hook, but Mom and Dad and Leo are all just stumbling around in the dark, grasping for something solid and finding only air. “Relationships are doomed, any way you look at it. We’re in for a world of pain—it’s like Russian roulette!”
“Jeez.” Amber sighed. “And you say I’m cynical.”
Wednesday, January 14
1:30 P.M.
In history class right now, scribbling in the dark. Ms. Boyle looks like she got run over by a truck—or, more likely, sucked down a few too many G & Ts last night. She popped in some PBS video about Martin Luther King and is now slipping into a coma behind her desk, so I don’t think she’ll mind if I write about what happened today at lunch.
Ben, Amber, PJ, and I were kicking it on the grass, soaking up the freakishly warm midwinter rays. Nearby, the stofers were entertaining a small crowd of acne-riddled sophomores, Dog and George challenging each other to consume various disgusting concoctions while Virg caught it all on film. Luckily, I’d already finished my sandwich; otherwise, the sight of Dog eating a live beetle smothered in catsup might have forced my PB & J into a repeat performance.
I was stretched out on my stomach reading chapter thirteen of On the Road. I wanted to be totally into it, but the truth is, I had to make myself keep reading. I kept looking for the radiant, electrifying prose Mr. Sands always goes on about, but to me it just felt like one long, queasy car ride with no particular destination.
PJ was telling Ben about some quinceñera he DJed last weekend and Amber was listening to her iPod, lounging lazily on her back with her sweatshirt balled up under her head as a makeshift pillow, huge sunglasses covering most of her face. I was getting to the part where Sal Paradise hooks up with this Mexican woman he met on a bus, when Ben came over and lay down straight across from me, his face suddenly inches from mine.
“What are you reading?”
I flipped it over so he could see the cover.
