by Jody Gehrman
I told myself, Just go over there. What’s the big deal? Somehow, though, I couldn’t move my feet. All I could do was cower in the doorway, an icy cold dread creeping inch by inch up my spine like mercury rising slowly in a thermometer.
2:20 P.M.
In English class now, listening to Mr. Sands go on about Allen Ginsberg and his famous poem Howl. He read us part of it, but he says if he reads the whole thing he’ll probably get fired. We’re supposed to be finishing Moby-Dick this week, and then we’re going to start The Stranger, but no matter what we’re reading, Mr. Sands always finds a way to bring it back to his beloved beats.
Honestly, to me Howl just sounds like a bunch of words strung together. I keep slogging through On the Road, but I still don’t really get what Mr. Sands is so excited about. I miss Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre—give me a crazy chick in the attic and I’m good to go. These poems that careen wildly from one image to another and novels where the heroes just drive around kind of make me sleepy and carsick.
Well, if this Howl stuff is what he’s into, I’m going to give it a try. For Amber’s sake. If I’m really going to help her with that MySpace message, I should make it good, right? I mean, how hard can it be? Just start stringing words together, right?
I saw the best minds of my English class destroyed by their hysterical desire to sound like some drugged-out dude with a beard.
Okay, that’s not good. We’re not going for parody here. Start over.
I saw you outside the Floating World
In your T-shirt faded to threadbare sunshine
Your hair a nimbus of light
And in your eyes of molten moss
A thousand fractured reflections of my dreams drifted slowly.
Too much of a love poem already—good-bye Howl, hello Harlequin. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing very romantic about the beats. That’s why it’s so hard to use them as a blue-print for how to seduce your English teacher.
Oh, God. Mr. Sands just called on me, and I had no idea what he was asking. How horrifying! I better put this away before he confiscates it, forcing me to commit seppuku right here with my number two pencil.
7:45 P.M.
Rain lashed against the windows as Amber sat on my bed, impatiently drumming her fingers on my laptop.
“G! We’ve been sitting here for over an hour. How hard can it be to write one little MySpace message?”
I looked up from where I sat hunched over a notebook on my floor, surrounded by beat poem printouts, Kerouac books, and crumpled wads of paper. I’d already been through ten stabs at poems, each more miserable and ridiculous than the last. I was starting to think that a totally lame “Thanks for the add!” comment on his page would have to do, when suddenly Amber clutched the screen.
“Oh my God! It’s him! He just sent me a message!”
“Seriously?” I jumped up from the floor and dove beside her on the bed, devouring the words on the screen.
Hi, Amber. Are you by any chance the girl from the coffee shack—the one with a cat named Sal Paradise?
“He’s online right now! What do I say?” She bugged her eyes at me and a vein at her temple throbbed like it might burst.
“Here.” I reached over and scooped the Mac off her lap, pulling it onto mine, then hit reply.
That’s me. Sorry about Sal; he’s a little too much like his namesake—always restless. Is your dog anything like Dean Moriarty? If so, I bet he’s got illegitimate puppies stashed all over the neighborhood.
Before I could second-guess myself, I hit SEND.
“Wait, who’s Dean Moriarty again?” Amber asked.
“Just a little Kerou-wackiness.” I felt giddy, thinking of him reading my words.
In just a few minutes, a new message came through, and I clicked on it hungrily. Amber squeezed my arm so tightly she cut off the circulation.
LOL. Fortunately, my Moriarty is fixed, so he doesn’t have that problem. I should have named him Ginsberg, since he definitely knows how to Howl—ha, ha! I see from your profile you’re taking a year off from Brown. How’s that going?
Amber closed her eyes in ecstasy. “Oh, my God. It’s happening. It’s happening!”
I typed as quickly as I could.
It’s okay. Slow-noma is a little dull, though. I miss talking about books and plays and good films with people who actually THINK.
After I hit SEND, there was a longish pause. I worried I’d gone too far—did that seem too elitist? Worse yet, did he think I was fishing for an invitation?
Amber chewed on a fingernail. “What’s taking so long?”
Just then, another message came through, and we both leaned closer to the screen, hardly breathing.
I know exactly what you mean. I left Berkeley so I could work on my dissertation in peace, but I’m going a little nuts. It’s all wine-obsessed yuppies and their yabies up here.
My fingers flew across the keyboard.
What are yabies?
His reply came quickly.
Yabies=Yuppie babies. I just made that up!
LOL, I wrote.
I’m subbing at the high school, so I teach the yabies, and let me tell you, they’re about as intellectual as a bag of hammers.
Ouch! I wanted to ask him about Geena Sloane’s recent essay on Melville—didn’t it show startling academic promise? Wasn’t her thesis daring, her conclusion incendiary?
Amber clutched my arm again. “Can you get him to ask me out?”
I thought for a few seconds before typing my response.
You poor thing! I went to SVHS, so I know what you’re talking about. I’m so starved for good conversation, I’ve taken to chatting on MySpace . . .
I hit SEND. We sat there, staring at the screen, for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, his message came through.
Maybe we should get together for coffee sometime.
Amber screamed so loudly, my mom’s footsteps came pounding and she pushed open the door without knocking.
“What’s wrong?” she panted. “What happened?”
Oh, nothing, Mom, we’re just seducing our English teacher. Go back to making out with your Scottish soccer champ. “Nothing. Just working on an essay.”
She raised an eyebrow at that, but since there was no blood or hypodermic needles visible, she shut the door and presumably returned to Mungo-land.
Yeah, I typed. That would be cool.
Are you free Sunday afternoon? he replied.
Amber flopped facedown on the bed this time and screamed into a pillow.
“Should I take that as a yes?” I asked her.
She squirmed back up into a sitting position. “I get off at four.”
Is four fifteen okay? I typed.
Perfect. Four fifteen at La Plaza, then?
Sounds good.
After we logged off, I put the laptop on the floor and joined Amber in a hyphy little jump-a-thon. We bounced up and down on my bed until our heads grazed the ceiling and our giggles got so manic that my mom appeared in my doorway again.
“Still working on that essay?” she asked dryly.
“Yep,” I said.
“I’m in love!” Amber blurted out.
Mungo appeared behind Mom then, wrapping his arms around her waist; they stood there watching us with wry little smiles and I knew that if she weren’t so smitten, she’d be scolding us about destroying the bedsprings.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Mungo said in his funny accent. “Couple a girls in love? That spells trouble.”
I knew he was right, especially since it’s not entirely clear who’s in love with whom.
Friday, January 23
6:20 P.M.
Dad called tonight and we talked for about twenty minutes. I think he might be a little wigged about Mom and Mungo. When he asked where she was and I said out, he asked who with and I told him. He got all quiet then.
“Are they spending a lot of time together?” he asked finally.
“Does ‘attached
at the hip’ mean anything to you?”
He made this kind of funny sound, something between a cough and a sigh. “You think they’re . . . serious?”
“I guess.” On the surface, I felt pretty calm, but somewhere in the back of my brain, sirens were going off. If there’s one thing offspring should never have to do, it’s inform one parental unit about the sex life of the other.
Luckily, he changed the subject before we moseyed too far down that road. “Listen, I’m going to be up there in a couple weeks for work. Will you be around?”
We filled the rest of the conversation with logistics—figuring out when we’d get together, what we’d do, that sort of stuff. With Dad, there has to be some sort of activity planned, a minor event; otherwise the awkward pauses get too, well, awkward. He didn’t mention bringing Jen with him, for which I am eternally grateful. A few Jen-free hours with Dad might be just what I need.
Sunday, January 25
1:20 A.M.
Mom was out on a date with Mungo tonight, so Ben brought over a movie—Something of the Something-Something Zombies—and we kicked it on the couch with a bowl of popcorn.
How are you supposed to know what kind of kisser you are? I mean, I know he’s good, but I’ve got no idea how I rate. If it’s good for me, does that mean it’s good for him? I could write a five-page paper on the softness of his lips, the cinnamon scent of his breath, the crazy heat that swirls through me like static electricity inside a dryer when he nibbles on my bottom lip—that stuff I’m sure about. But I’ve got absolutely no clue how it feels on his end. It’s like listening to your own voice while you’re talking, or imagining your face without a mirror—impossible.
I guess since he keeps on kissing me I’m not a total failure at it; he’s never pulled away in horror or gagged or anything. But then, aren’t guys so perpetually sex-starved that making out with a slab of tuna would still be better than getting no action at all?
We’d been going at it since the opening credits, and I was vaguely aware of a zombie apocalypse shaping up on screen, when slowly—so slowly that I barely noticed it at first—Ben’s hand floated up from his lap and touched my breast with such tentative hesitation that he might have been testing the voltage of an electric fence. I couldn’t help it; I laughed right into his mouth.
“What?” he pulled back and looked at me, his eyebrows all akimbo.
“Nothing, I just—nothing.”
“Now you’ve got to tell me, or I’ll be paranoid.”
“It’s just—you can—” I tripped over my half-formed thoughts. My lips tingled from all the kissing.
Now he laughed. “Thanks. That explains everything.”
“No, I just meant, you don’t have to be so . . .” I glanced down at my chest, then back up at his face. “. . . tentative.”
He squinted at me like I was an equation he was trying to solve. “Last time I was here—in the kitchen? I got the feeling you were kind of weirded out.”
“Really?” Of course he was right, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to admit it.
“I don’t want to rush things.” He ran his knuckles lightly along my cheekbone. “What’s the hurry?”
Suddenly it felt like the perfect time to ask him something I’d been wondering about for a while. “Ben, can I ask you a question?”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Have you—are you . . . what I mean is . . .”
He chuckled. “Am I a virgin?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty much.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “I don’t think it’s a ‘pretty much’ kind of thing. It’s more a yes or a no.”
“Okay, then yes, I’m a virgin. I mean I’ve done . . . stuff . . . but never that.”
I could feel my face going tight. As far as I knew, Ben had never had a girlfriend before—at least, nobody at SVHS. “Who did you do ‘stuff’ with?”
He leaned back against the couch and sighed. Uh-oh. I could feel something inside me—maybe my heart—plummeting like a kamikaze. I just knew I wasn’t going to like what was coming. I wanted to yank the question back and shove it down my throat so he’d never have to answer.
“Don’t trip on this, okay?” His dark eyes pleaded with me. “It’s really not a big deal.”
I just nodded, not trusting my voice.
“You know how Sophie’s parents are friends with my parents?”
I nodded again, unable to look at him now.
“Well, about a year ago our families spent Christmas break together? Up in Tahoe?”
He was turning every statement into a question. Why was he doing that? I dug my fingernails into my arm, urging myself not to cry.
“Sophie’s family has a place up there? Anyway, we messed around, but it was totally a one-time thing, I swear. I’m not interested in her at all.”
Annoyingly, I felt that stinging tingle in my nose that always happens right before I cry. “So that’s why she’s always flirting with you.”
“No—really, we’re just friends. She’s like that with everyone.”
“Uh-huh.” I stood up.
“Geena, please.”
“I’m fine.” I stepped away from him. “I just have to pee.”
I locked myself in the bathroom and stared into the mirror. Who was I kidding? I could never compete with Sophie De Luca. She’d already done “stuff” with Ben—more than we’d done, obviously. A barrage of images sloshed through my brain, all of them queasy-making.
Why was Ben even with me? I thought about that for a moment. He didn’t know she would move back here. By the time she did, we’d already gotten together, and he’s too nice of a guy to dump me just because he wants some other girl. She’s caviar and I’m Cheez Whiz, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell me that.
“Geena?” Ben knocked softly at the door. “You okay?”
He totally pities me. Must not be pitiful. A tear leaked out and I swiped at it, irritated at my lack of self-control. “Yeah. Be out in a second.”
I heard his footsteps heading back toward the living room.
After a few minutes I pulled myself together and went out there again. As soon as I sat beside him on the couch, I jabbed at the remote control before he could ask me anything. I knew if we started talking about it again I’d break down, and that was something I simply couldn’t afford.
8:40 P.M.
Amber and I worked the zombie shift this morning—get there at six, open at six thirty. Brutal. Ben went home last night around one, and the measly four hours of sleep I’d managed to catch just weren’t enough. The morning took on a surreal, underwater quality. Even my double mocha wasn’t enough to cut through the blurry delirium. Amber, on the other hand, was wide-awake. Usually she’s wicked cranky when we get there, but this morning she was so psyched about her pending coffee date with Mr. Sands, she couldn’t stop talking.
“Isn’t he cute? God, he’s so adorable!” She opened her wallet again and toyed with the plastic photo holder. She’d actually printed out a little picture of him from MySpace and tucked it in there, which I find kind of mortifying. Amber’s really cool under normal circumstances, but when it comes to Mr. Sands she’s just this side of psycho.
“Yeah,” I said flatly. “He’s cute.”
She chewed on the straw in her iced latte. “I’m freaking out. I mean, what if he asks me something about—what’s it called again?”
“On the Road?”
“Yeah, that. What do I say?”
“I doubt he’ll quiz you.” I didn’t want to say it out loud, but frankly I was pretty worried too. Just about anything Mr. Sands might want to talk about posed a threat to Amber’s credibility. She’s supposed to be taking a year off from Brown. It’s pretty hard for a girl who’s never read anything more intellectual than the juicy parts in Valley of the Dolls to fob herself off as an Ivy League Lit Major.
“Maybe you should just steer the conversation away from books,” I said. “Tell him about your sick mom or something.”
“My sick—?” She looked puzzled, then remembered. “Oh, right, my sick mom. That’s a real turn-on.”
“At least you won’t sound stupid.”
A look of hurt flashed across her face, and I instantly regretted my choice of words.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
She chewed the straw again. “No, you’re right. I’m going to look like an idiot. This is crazy! What were we thinking? I can’t go!”
“Amber!” I put my hands on her shoulders. “Look at me. You’re bright and funny and beautiful. What more could he ask for?”
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Okay. I can do this.”
“Of course you can.”
We heard a car driving into the parking lot. The motor coughed and then, as if conjured by our thoughts, Mr. Sands’s head appeared, framed perfectly in the window. He had on mirrored sunglasses and as he turned to us, smiling, I felt my heart go all hummingbird-fluttery. I expected Amber to catapult toward him, bubbling over with cleavage and giggles; instead she just stared, eyes wide, unmoving.
Seeing she wasn’t budging, I hurried over and slid open the window. He looked so good there in the morning sunlight, bundled up against the cool air in a navy blue pea coat. He propped his sunglasses up on his head and his gray eyes seemed extra-piercing.
“Can I . . . um . . . help you?” I managed.
“Morning, Geena.”
“Hi.” Hearing him say my name made my stomach turn over.
“Happy Sunday.”
“Yeah,” was my incredibly urbane and witty response.
“Hi, Amber.” He waved at her. “How you doing?”
“Okay,” she croaked.
After an awkward pause he asked, “Are one of you lovely baristas thinking about taking my order?”
“Oh. Right.” I flashed a look at Amber to see if she wanted to, but she seemed paralyzed, so I took charge. “What would you like?”
