by Jody Gehrman
I swear, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Sure.” He patted his car affectionately. “Old Bessie here’s got plenty of room. Who will it be then? You and Ben?”
“No.” I suddenly missed Ben something terrible. “Amber and me.”
Amber came over with his drinks, all charm and steaming cups. She put lids on them carefully and handed them over. “That would be great if we could hitch a ride.”
“No problem!” He took the drinks from her and handed me a ten. “Keep the change. See you girls tonight.”
“Big tipper!” Amber said approvingly. “Your ‘mum’ has decent taste.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He seems pretty cool.”
“You don’t sound that happy about it.”
I shrugged. “Could be worse. At least we get to see the Aqua Nets tonight.”
Jeremy’s CD was still playing, and Amber bobbed her head to the bass beat. For now, that was all the encouragement I required. Phase One of Operation Forget Rex has officially begun.
Sunday, February 1
2:00 A.M.
How am I supposed to get Amber off crack when the crack shows up everywhere? Really, how annoying is that? We’d been at the Raven for like five minutes when guess who walked in the door? You got it: Mr. Sands.
Operation Forget Rex went from All Systems Go to Abort! Abort! in record time.
Okay, on the semi-bright side, he wasn’t alone. This was good in that it forced Amber to keep her distance, but bad in terms of my master plan. Nothing sends a girl’s obsessive instincts into overdrive like spotting said obsession with another girl. In this case, the other “girl” came as a total shock to both of us.
Mr. Sands was on a date. With Ms. Boyle.
Ms. Boyle, our history teacher! Ms. Boyle, who’s at least thirty, never wears a bra, and is famous for her hairy armpits, which make their debut each spring in sleeveless blouses and continue to haunt the classroom until summer. Ms. Boyle, whose walls are plastered with posters of Malcolm X and Bob Dylan and huge handmade banners on recycled paper with Day-Glo letters screaming slogans like BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD! That Ms. Boyle.
How had this happened?
In a funny way (not funny like ha-ha, but funny like twisted) I felt just as spurned as Amber—maybe more so. By showing up with Ms. Boyle on his arm, Mr. Sands was apparently saying he’d take this frizzy-haired neo-hippie over us. After all we’d done to woo him, all our slaving away on MySpace and reading his favorite books, how could he just leave us in the dust for a woman who’s about as sexy as a slab of tofu?
“There they are.” Amber poked my side for like the thousandth time. “My God, what is she wearing?”
“Stop looking!” I hollered over the music. “You’re being way too obvious.”
Instead of gazing adoringly at Jeremy working the frets of his Stratocaster, Amber kept craning her neck to catch sight of Mr. Sands and Ms. Boyle. I’ll admit, I gave in to the urge to peek a few times myself. They showed no signs of spotting us the whole night. In a last-ditch effort to resurrect my original purpose, I tried to shift Amber’s attention away from their date-in-progress and back up onto the stage.
“Jeremy just looked at you when he sang that line! Did you see that? He looked right at you.”
“He just put his hand on her waist.” Predictably, she ignored my efforts entirely. “Gross!”
Basically, our conversation turned into a series of non sequiturs.
“That song was so sweet,” I’d say. “You think Jeremy wrote that one?”
“Oh, God,” she’d reply, “look at her hair. You think she’s ever heard of conditioner?”
“Jeremy looks so cute tonight. I love that little streak of blue in his bangs.”
“She’s a vegetarian. You can tell just by looking at her.”
“Amber! Jeremy just smiled right at you!”
“How can he even think about kissing her? She’s got no lips!”
You get the picture.
By the time we caught a ride with Mom and Mungo back to Sonoma, I was exhausted, Amber was depressed, and Operation Forget Rex was in tatters. We filled the backseat of Mungo’s Volvo with an acrid silence.
“What’s the matter?” Mom asked, twisting around in the passenger seat to survey our glum expressions. “Wasn’t the band any good?”
“They were great.” Even I could tell my tone was more suited to a funeral than a concert.
“So what’s the problem?” She looked concerned.
“No problem.”
“What about you, Amber?” Mom persisted. “Did you have fun?”
Amber kept her gaze out the window. “Yeah,” she said flatly. “A blast.”
“Was it that ‘emo’ music, then?” Mungo asked brightly, studying us in the rearview mirror.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” It came out snippier than I meant it to.
“‘Emo’ is quite gloomy, right?”
“Sort of,” I said. “I guess.”
“Well, then, you’re just getting into the mood of it, right?” He turned to Mom. “I read about it in Newsweek.”
Mom looked suitably impressed at how hip her date was.
Meanwhile, Amber and I slipped into an ever deeper funk in the backseat.
3:00 P.M.
Amber and I started the morning shift at TSB today in grumpy, morose silence. I tried to cheer her up by popping Jeremy’s CD into the player, but I think it just reminded us both of the hideous Boyle-and-Sands sighting last night.
“Maybe they’re a good couple.” It was useless to bring up anything else, so I decided we might as well talk about it.
Amber scoffed. “How do you figure?”
“They’re both like . . . anachronistic.”
“In English, please?”
“Sorry. SAT word. They’re both stuck in another time. Ms. Boyle’s all into the sixties and Mr. Sands is more like the fifties.”
“Rex is nothing like her. She’s an anemic string bean with bad hair.”
“I agree, they’re not well matched in terms of attractiveness.”
“Plus she’s way too old for him!”
“Amber, the age difference between them is less than you and him.”
“So? The older woman thing never works out.” She folded her arms. “She’ll just feel dried up and ancient. Correction: more dried up and ancient than she already is. You see it all the time in People.”
We both heard the growl of that distinctive old motor simultaneously, and we turned to the window as one. Oh, God, just when I’m trying to get her off the junk, her drug of choice shows up again. Mr. Sands grinned lazily from behind the wheel of his MG, mirrored sunglasses confronting us with our shocked faces in miniature.
“Turn it off,” Amber ordered, nodding at the boom box.
Reluctantly, I did as I was told.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “What’s up?”
I tried to look busy wiping down the espresso machine, but I couldn’t keep from eavesdropping even if I tried.
“Gorgeous day, huh?” I heard him say.
It was a gorgeous day—I had to give him that. The sun hadn’t yet climbed higher than the treetops, but already you could see it would be one of those freakishly beautiful winter days in Sonoma County, when the hills are bright green and everything—the houses, the oaks, even the curls of morning fog—are luminous with the promise of spring.
“Yeah,” Amber said. “Pretty.”
“I’m thinking about going for a drive later—maybe check out Glen Ellen, see Jack London’s house.” He propped his sunglasses up onto his head.
“He a friend of yours?”
I cringed. Oh, God. They went together like aged scotch and Spam.
Mr. Sands hesitated, then let out a wry chuckle. “Yeah, Amber, he’s a friend of mine. God, you’re so deadpan sometimes, you kill me.”
Amber just giggled uneasily.
Mr. Sands glanced at me. “Geena, could I get a double latte?”
“Sure.” I was grateful for something to do, though I didn’t want to miss their conversation while I steamed the milk.
“I read your blog.” He dropped his volume slightly. I edged a little closer as I measured out the espresso. One night last week when I couldn’t sleep, I posted an old paper I wrote about Wuthering Heights to Amber’s MySpace page. It was stupid, I know, but I wanted Mr. Sands to read it. I needed to know if it was as brilliant as I thought it was. “Okay, don’t laugh, but I’ve read it seven times. You’re really a good writer.”
My heart thundered. He spoke to Amber, but his words sailed through her to me. My blog! He’d read it seven times! I saw him in the dead of night, flipping on a bedside lamp, booting up his laptop to read it one more time. He’d sucked meaning from my syntax, whispered whole sentences aloud so he could taste each syllable on his tongue. The intimacy gave me goose bumps.
“Extraordinary intelligence paired with razor-sharp wit. That’s a very dangerous combination.” His voice dipped low, confiding; it went husky around the edges.
I felt seriously dizzy, as if our tiny espresso shack had transformed into an elevator. I gripped the steam wand for stability.
“I’m glad you think so,” Amber returned.
“You made me see Heathcliff in a new light.”
“Ha,” Amber said. “Yeah. Well.”
I had to steam his milk then—there was no getting around it. I did it as quickly as possible so as not to miss a single word about my writing or Heathcliff or anything else. By the time I’d finished, though, they weren’t saying anything, just smiling at each other, their eyes locked, messages firing back and forth between them with rapid-fire intensity.
“Double latte,” I said, handing it out the window to him.
He still didn’t stop staring at Amber as he took it from me and handed over a five. I got him his change. Any happiness his compliments had stirred now turned to dust inside me. Their dreamy staring contest made me feel like a gnat buzzing just beyond their field of vision.
Finally he slipped his sunglasses back on and put the car into gear. “Call me sometime.”
“Okay.” The word came out sort of strangled, like she couldn’t quite get enough air in her lungs.
As he drove off I made a point of not looking at her; I cleaned the espresso machine with an attention to detail I usually lack.
Amber erupted in a quick, explosive scream that set my teeth on edge.
“Do you have to do that?” I turned toward her, holding up a hand as if that could shield me from the sound.
“Did you hear that? Oh my God!”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s great.”
“He likes me, G! He really, really likes me.”
Okay, I could have pointed out that he liked her blog, which was written by me. I could have reminded her that just last night we’d seen him with Ms. Boyle. I could have said any number of things that would have killed her buzz, but I didn’t. All I said was, “Yeah.”
Inside, though, I was thinking, When will this madness end?
Monday, February 2
11:10 P.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Confuse-o-Rama
Hero,
Okay, so far, February is looking sketchy at best. Ben’s ignoring me, Amber’s still obsessed with Mr. Sands, and I’m terminally confused. Ever since Ben told me he and Sophie messed around, things have been off kilter. You know what I mean? It’s like a little wedge has been driven between us—just a splinter, really, but I think it might be getting infected. Instead of figuring out how to fix it, though, I get more and more distracted by this zany situation with Amber and Mr. Sands. It’s so hopeless. I try to convince her to focus on someone else—namely, the adorable sophomore who’s insanely in love with her—but every time I try to help, I end up more confused.
Geena
-------------------------------------------------------------
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: RE: Confuse-o-Rama
Geebs,
Ben’s ignoring you? Come on Cuz, this is me you’re talking to. Ben wouldn’t do that unless you’d given him plenty of reason to. I’m not trying to be disloyal, I’m just pointing out that occasionally you can be a little pigheaded and you don’t always notice the signals you’re sending. Think back: Did you offend him? And what’s all this about Sophie? Are you punishing him for a little dalliance that happened before he was even your boyfriend? That hardly seems fair. I know this might come off as harsh, G, and I don’t mean it that way. I’d just hate to see you screw things up with Ben. Be honest with yourself and with him. Try not to let your boy-hostile tendencies win out over common sense.
Kisses,
Hero
Tuesday, February 3
7:20 P.M.
Gods of Tuesday, I bow down to your glory! Also, special thanks to the gods of Volvos, the gods of Cheetos, and the gods of February rain.
Today started out sucky but turned out fabu. Throughout all our classes, Ben stuck to his lukewarm routine. His ability to ignore me without totally ignoring me was astounding. By the time the final bell rang, I knew I couldn’t take it another second. I marched over to his locker and stood there with my hands on my hips. He just kept on loading books into his messenger bag, which infuriated me.
“What’s going on? Why are you acting like I don’t exist?” Sure, I may have started this ignoring-each-other trend on accident, but that didn’t mean I had to put up with constant neglect, did it?
He turned to me, surprised. “Sorry?”
“Don’t give me that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you’ve got no idea what I’m talking about,” I sneered. “You know and I know that you’ve been ignoring me. I just want to understand why.”
Sophie sauntered over to her locker just then and smiled at Ben sympathetically.
“And you,” I said to her, shocked at my own assertiveness, “can stop grinning like that, okay?”
“Well, excuse me.” She flicked her eyes to Ben. “I didn’t realize happiness was a crime.”
“Happiness isn’t the problem. It’s your smugness I take issue with.”
Ben slammed his locker shut, slung his bag over his shoulder, and guided me away from Sophie firmly. I thrummed under his touch; the combination of adrenaline and his arm around my shoulder made for a potent, fizzy cocktail in my bloodstream.
“You have your stuff?” Ben asked.
“Uh—my—?” I stammered.
“You need anything from your locker?”
“No. I’m good.”
He guided me out to the parking lot, never removing his arm from my shoulder. There was something so confident about the way he led me to his car. A part of me felt intimidated, but mostly it was just sexy.
He opened the passenger door for me, slammed it once I’d gotten in, then climbed into the driver’s seat. Then he put the car into gear and tore out of the parking lot before the intersection could get all congested with other eager escapees.
“Uh, where are we going?”
“Anywhere. I don’t care. We need to talk.”
We drove north in silence. When the houses thinned out he took a side road west through the vineyards. Finally he pulled over, and we found ourselves staring out the windshield at a small cottage surrounded by rows and rows of spindly, bare vines. A gentle rain started pattering on the roof of his Volvo. He turned off the motor and we just listened to the rhythm of the drops.
“I’ve been ignoring you because you’ve been ignoring me.”
I shot him a surprised glance. “Really? I started this?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know that, Sloane! You and Amber are so caught up in your own little world, it’s like I don’t even exist.”
“She sort of needed my help,” I said, staring at my lap.
“With what? What was so
important that you had to stop returning my calls?” A muscle in his jaw pulsed. He looked mad.
I couldn’t tell him about Mr. Sands, obviously. “She’s just been kind of high-maintenance lately.” That sounded weak, even to me.
“If you don’t want to be with me, just say so.”
“I do—I—want to—but—”
“Real convincing there, Sloane.” He gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.
“No, listen—I’m serious! I want to be with you.”
“Then why do I get the feeling you don’t?”
“Because I’m not used to this!”
He looked at me. “Not used to what?”
“To being a . . . girlfriend.”
“You say it like it’s a disease.” His expression softened a little—the trace of a smile tugged at his mouth, though he resisted.
“I’ve never been with anyone,” I told him. “It’s all new to me.”
“So are you saying you’re not ready for a relationship?”
“No. I’m ready. I think I’m ready now. Maybe I wasn’t before.” I paused. “I miss you.”
He seemed about to reach for me, but he stopped himself, as if remembering something.
“What?” I asked. “What are you thinking?”
He studied me. “Does this have anything to do with what I told you about me and Sophie?”
Just hearing him say her name made me feel a little sick. I didn’t want to think about her right now. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He leaned slightly toward me, making me look him in the eye. “I’m not interested in her like that. You know that, right?”
Did I know that? Not really. It’s pretty hard to believe. I mean, she’s everything I’m not: sophisticated, smooth, gorgeous. How could Ben not be tempted? “You really don’t want to be with her?”
“Of course not.” He brushed a strand of hair away from my face. “I want to be with you.”
