by Jody Gehrman
“The whole beach house thing, I guess.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh my God, that was awful. At your house? Your mom looked pissed.”
“Yeah,” was all I said.
“What’s the big deal with Ben, though? So you can’t go to the coast. Why should you guys fight over that?”
“I should have told him earlier, that’s all.”
“Hello! Didn’t I say that?”
“Yes, you told me so; yes, I screwed up; yes, I suck.” I put my hand on one hip. “Happy now?”
“Jeez, don’t get mad at me.”
“I’m not.” I blew my hair out of my eyes in frustration. “But this whole thing is turning into a major nightmare.”
Just then the door swung open and Ben came out. He caught the last part of my sentence and I saw the little muscle in his jaw throb again.
“Alrighty, then,” Amber said, spinning toward the door. “I’m outta here.”
When she’d gone, Ben and I stared out at the rain, not speaking. It was like we’d lost a common language. I thought of pulling out his valentine and handing it over, an olive branch, a white flag, but it felt all wrong. I wanted to give it to him not as an apology, but as an offering—something separate from this mess.
Ben stuffed his hands into his pockets. Still staring out at the rain, he said, “I just don’t get why you lied to me.”
“I don’t know . . . It didn’t seem that important.” I knew this was weak, but it was all I could manage.
“It was important to me. I wanted tonight to be . . . really great.”
“What, you, me, and Sophie?” I made a sound in my throat. I should have apologized, I knew that, but a dark anger welled up inside me, poisoning my words. “How romantic!”
“What do you have against her? She likes you.”
“Ha!”
“Except you get so weird around her.” He hazarded a glance at me now. “You’re not yourself when she’s in the room.”
God! Was he being intentionally moronic? “She’s totally after you! Can you seriously not see that?”
“Sloane, I told you a million times, we’re just old friends.”
“Friends with benefits?”
He massaged his forehead. “Just that one time in Tahoe. It was nothing. I swear to God, Geena, I don’t even think about her like that.”
I looked away. “If you say so.”
“What about you and Doctor Hipster?” He turned on me abruptly, his tone harsh. “I see how you look at him in English. You think that doesn’t bug me?”
“I—Wait a second—”
“And you tell Amber more than you ever tell me! It’s like you two are the couple, not us.”
“Amber’s my best—”
“Friend,” he finished. “I know. But the point is, you open up with her, and you don’t with me. Maybe at first you did, but not lately. You treat me like an enemy.”
My mind spun in circles. Was he right about me being more open with Amber than I was with him? I couldn’t even speak. I knew if I did I’d say something stupid or incriminating.
“Tonight was supposed to be . . . I don’t know, not this,” he said. “And now you can’t even come to Bodega.”
My temper flared again. “Okay, let me ask you this: Why does staying at Bodega matter so much? Has my virgin expiration date expired?”
He recoiled. “What? That’s what you think?”
“Oh, come on, Ben! What else were we going to do out there? Study for the SATs?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You know, maybe this isn’t working.”
My stomach dropped. I felt like I might throw up. When I thought I could speak without a quiver in my voice I said, “What do you mean?”
“I mean you don’t seem that into it.”
“Into what, exactly?”
“Into me.” He glanced at me quickly, and I thought I saw tears shining in his eyes.
I pulled at a strand of hair and started chewing on it. A part of me wanted to fling myself into his arms and wail that he was wrong, that I’m totally into him, that the thought of breaking up makes my heart contract with terror and misery. The other part of me wondered if he was right. If I’m so into him, why do I lust after Mr. Sands? Why did I risk upsetting him with this stupid lie? Why do I open up more easily with Amber than I do with him? Either I’m not that into him, or I’m just really, really bad at being a girlfriend. Both possibilities led to the same dreary, dead-end conclusion: It wasn’t working.
I took a deep breath. “Are you saying you want to break up?”
The silence stretched on for so long, I almost repeated the question, but finally he said, “Maybe that’s the best thing. Before things get—you know—ugly.”
I felt that tingly pressure in my head, a warning that I’d be crying any second. Once that happened I knew every last shred of my dignity would dissolve. I had to escape.
The door opened and Sophie leaned out, her sequins sparkling in the streetlight. “Ben-e-dict!” she sang in a tipsy voice.
“Give us a minute,” Ben told her roughly.
“Oops! So sorry.” She headed back inside, but I heard her say to someone in a confidential tone, “They’re having a talk.”
All my sadness turned into a flood of rage, suddenly. I felt it pulsing inside my veins, coursing through my system. “Well, I won’t take up more of your time.”
“Geena—” He reached for me, but I shrugged him off.
“Here.” I pulled his card from my pocket and started to shred it. I tore it into smaller and smaller pieces, then tossed them at him like a fistful of confetti. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Benedict!”
With that I ran out into the rain.
Walking home, my dress got totally soaked and clung to my skin like a layer of Saran Wrap. Luckily, the dance was only about five blocks from my house. Halfway home, though, I got so sick of my cheap, uncomfortable girlie shoes that I kicked them off and left them in the gutter. I knew it was wasteful, but they were ruined anyway. It’s not like I’d ever wear them again.
Only when I’d made it safely inside and stood panting in the dimly lit foyer did I allow myself to let loose. The strangled sob that escaped my lips was so wretched, I hardly knew it was coming from me.
Right away, Mom appeared in a lavender nightgown I’d never seen before. She hugged me tightly, and when the worst of my racking sobs had passed, she gripped my shoulders and pulled away so she could study me. “What happened, pumpkin?”
I looked at her. The expression she wore was solemn and knowing. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just shook my head.
She took in my wet dress and muddy, bare feet. “Did somebody hurt you?”
I knew what she was asking. She didn’t mean Did Ben Bettaglia tear your heart out and stomp it into a bloody pulp? She meant Did someone give you date rape drugs and have his way with you? I shook my head again.
She pulled me to her and stroked my hair. “Love is hard, isn’t it?”
I just nodded.
“I know,” she whispered into my part. “I know.”
2:40 A.M.
I feel a little bit better now, but not much. I took a hot shower and told Mom the basics over a cup of hot chocolate. She dished out a lackluster scolding for the Bodega thing; I could tell her heart wasn’t in it, though. She’d have to be pretty hard-hearted to skewer me just for thinking about staying out all night. I hadn’t actually done it, after all. Laughing until dawn, running through the moonlit dunes, drinking from a silver flask—those were things girls like Sophie De Luca did. Apparently, I’m the sort of girl who kicks her shoes into the gutter and drags her sorry ass home before midnight.
Amber came into my room about ten minutes after I’d turned out the light. I could hear her taking off her dress, mumbling curses at her ruined stockings, and then I knew she was putting on the big, threadbare Rocky Horror Picture Show T-shirt she always sleeps in.
“G?” She sat on my bed in the dark. “You
awake?”
I thought about feigning sleep, but decided that was dumb. I rolled over to face her. “Yeah.”
She turned on the bedside lamp. “You’ve been crying. Poor thing.”
Her unexpected sympathy made me feel like sobbing again, but I swallowed the urge and forced a little smile. I’d already used up my patheticness quota for the day. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah, I guess, but what happened to you? Ben told me you broke up.”
I just nodded. Hearing it like that made it seem more official—more final. More horrible, if that was possible.
“He borrowed Sophie’s car and went looking for you.”
“He did?” I propped my head up with one hand.
She nodded. “He was really upset. Sophie tried to talk him into going out to the coast, but he got a ride home with one of the stofers instead. I don’t think anyone went out there, in the end. PJ had to drive me, Sophie, and Jeremy home. She got a little wasted.”
“Did she do anything stupid?” I asked hopefully.
“She almost tripped. No wonder, though—those stilettos were total stilts!” She peered at me carefully. “What happened? Why did you guys break up?”
I flopped back against my pillow. “I don’t know. I guess we just don’t communicate very well.”
“Okay, that’s way too vague. Spill.”
“I’m serious,” I told her. “There’s no specific reason. We just bickered about the coast thing and Sophie, and he accused me of not being that into him.”
“Who actually said, ‘Let’s break up’?”
“He did.”
She shook her head. “I can’t believe that. This is the guy who had me design a Geena Sloane logo so he could give you one-of-a-kind underwear! He’s crazy about you.”
“Not anymore.” I felt myself wanting to cry again, so I covered it with a hard little laugh. “Maybe it was the eyebrows.”
“I’m sorry, G.” She squeezed my shoulder.
I changed the subject. “You and Jeremy were so cute together.”
“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “He’s fun, but we’re not like that.”
“Did he kiss you?”
“No! Of course not. You know I’m all about Rex. I can’t lead Jeremy on—that would be cruel.”
“Yeah,” I said, disappointed. “I guess.”
She’s passed out on the futon now and I’m finally getting sleepy. God, what a night. I’ve started to text Ben five or six times, but haven’t actually managed to hit SEND on any of my pathetic attempts. Really, what am I going to say? Even if I knew what I wanted to tell him, I doubt I could express it in a text message.
Happy Valentine’s Day to me.
4:45 P.M.
It’s been raining for like twenty hours straight. Thank God. I don’t think I could handle one of those sparkly, exhilarating, cloudless winter days that makes everyone want to fly a kite or climb the nearest mountain. No, instead Black Sunday dawned in a downpour.
Amber, Mom, and I rented five movies, all of them lightweight enough to vanish from my memory bank even as the final credits rolled—celluloid cotton candy. Normally, Mom prefers meandering BBC-type films with lots of eyebrow acting by less-than-attractive people. This morning, though, she took one look at my puffy, bloodshot eyes and immediately launched a campaign to cheer me up. She sent Mungo home with a kiss and gathered us together on the couch.
“Today this house is a Boy-Free Zone,” she pronounced.
“Right on.” Amber likes my mom. No doubt she wishes her mom would declare their house a boy-free zone now and then, instead of dragging home one loser after another.
Mom went on decisively. “For the next twelve hours we’ll exercise our right to watch endless chick flicks, eat mounds of popcorn, drink gallons of hot chocolate, apply senseless beauty products, and generally behave like shallow idiots.”
She put an arm around me, and I managed a gloomy little smile.
So, that’s what we did. I have to admit, Mom’s prescription beat the long hours of phone-staring, e-mail-checking, and diary-scribbling I would have indulged in if left to my own devices. Not that I stayed away from those temptations entirely. Ben didn’t make any effort to communicate, though, and our Boy-Free Zone remained pure. When we ordered a pizza, Amber asked the guy on the phone to please send a female delivery person if possible. We lived like nuns—well, if nuns wore pajamas all day, snarfed extra-large pepperoni pizzas, and worshiped Adam Brody, that is.
We were popping our fourth bowl of popcorn when Amber showed signs of romantic-comedy-induced delirium. Out of nowhere, she asked Mom, “Are you and Mungo going to get married?”
“It’s not in our immediate plans.” Mom looked sort of skittish, and snuck a glance at me. “Maybe someday, but not right now.”
“That’s cool. I don’t really believe in marriage anyway,” Amber said.
Mom put a bowl of butter into the microwave. “What do you mean?”
“It seems so naive. One person for the rest of your life? I don’t think human beings are made for that.”
When the microwave beeped, Mom took the butter out and drizzled it over the popcorn, looking thoughtful. “I think it’s about finding the right person. With the wrong guy, marriage can be a nightmare. With the right one, though, it could be great.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing,” I said. “How can you tell the right guy from the wrong guy?”
Amber looked all dreamy, and I could tell she was thinking of Mr. Sands. “You just know.”
“Wait, I thought you didn’t believe in marriage!” I said.
“Marriage, no. Love, yes.”
I couldn’t help but think it was ridiculous for Amber to say she’s in love with Mr. Sands. I mean, really! The guy couldn’t be more wrong for her. Jeremy, on the other hand, is perfect, but she totally overlooks him. Is that just human nature? Do we always gravitate toward the fantasy guy over the flesh-and-blood human being?
“There’s a lot that goes into finding the right person,” Mom said. “It’s not just about attraction. You have to fit, you know? Not just your personalities, but your lifestyles, the things you like to do—everything. Not that you have to be the same person, but it’s more complicated than just finding someone you think is sexy.”
I didn’t want to think about Ben, but I couldn’t help it. Did we fit? If we did, how had things gotten so messed up? I remember thinking last night that he and Sophie looked more like a couple than he and I ever had. They were both so gorgeous and elegant. Maybe that was just me being insecure, though. Maybe if I believed in myself more, we could fit again. Now I’ve totally blown it, though, leaving him wide open for Sophie to dig her claws in.
“Mungo, for example. He has to fit with our family—I can’t just think about how I feel.” Mom’s words jolted me out of my morbid shame spiral.
I looked over and her eyes locked on mine. “What do you mean?”
“If you really didn’t like him, it wouldn’t be a perfect fit. How could I marry someone you despise?”
Amber laughed, but it was a hard, unhappy sound. “Wish my mom thought like that. Not that she ever marries the ass-wipes—sorry, Mrs. Sloan, the jerks—she hooks up with. I hate every one of them, but she doesn’t care.”
It hadn’t really occurred to me that Mom was worried about me liking Mungo. I mean, yeah, I guess it makes sense when I stop to consider, but I hadn’t thought it through.
“Don’t worry,” I said to Mom. “Mungo’s cool. So far. Of course, he’s still on probation.”
“That’s right,” Amber said. “Make him work for it.”
Monday, February 16
8:20 P.M.
Okay, worst Monday ever? Try this on for size:1. Wake up with massive zit in third eye position. We’re talking deep, painful furuncle (SAT word—useful!).
2. Skate to school, spot BB near front entrance, attempt an ollie in the parking lot, land in scummy puddle and go through entire day with slimy socks.
3. Endure every class with assigned seats watching SDL passing notes to BB.
4. During one class without assigned seats, hold breath wondering if BB will sit nearby. Feel like heart is being carved out with X-Acto knives as BB chooses seat near SDL instead.
5. Consider faking brain damage to get transferred out of the AP track.
6. After sixth period, run into BB near lockers. Literally. Apologize profusely for damage to his nose.
7. Try not to cry when said collision does nothing to end conversational stalemate.
I realize I’m not the only girl in the history of the world to endure a Monday after a Saturday night breakup. Probably at this very moment there are millions of us sitting in our rooms, crying into our cookie dough ice cream, fighting the urge to text the ex. All the same, it sucks.
So when Amber interrupted my ice cream therapy session with an excited gasp, I was all ears.
“We have to go! We have to!” She spun around in the desk chair and looked at me, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed.
“Go where?”
“Open mike, this Saturday, downtown. Please? Please say you’ll go?”
“Why? What’s the big deal?”
She flung herself onto my bed so she was right beside me. “Rex is reading his poetry! It’s a chance to see into his soul!”
Yeah, I thought, and possibly make out with him in the parking lot afterward. I didn’t want to be snarky, though. She looked so happy and exhilarated. Is it a doomed mission? Sure. But when has that ever stopped us?
“Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll go.”
She broke into a grin so radiant, it lit up her whole face. “G, you know you’re the best friend ever?”
“Yeah,” I grumbled. “So I hear.”
Tuesday, February 17
7:50 P.M.
Peace in Amberland never lasts long. At Triple Shot Betty’s this afternoon, she was in full-on viper mode. Beware the caffeinated beast.
