Kissing In Cars

by Sara Ney

  And Weston, that big lummox of an idiot, just stands there trying to come up with something to say. Now, I'll be the first to admit he was doing pretty good there for a little bit, fending off Stacy's subtle advances by being a complete dick. But here's what I don't understand: why did he get all weird and defensive when she asked if I was his girlfriend? It's like, what the hell, dude - get over it! She was just asking a question. We're not getting married tomorrow for pities sake - we just went on a one date and we've been flirting for a few weeks.

  Big deal.

  Immediately I'm glad to be female - how terrible would it be not to have any rational thoughts going through that thick head? And I swear to you, it's taken every ounce of self-control that I have not to whip out my cell phone and text my brother, so he can come beat the crap out of Weston for embarrassing me like this.

  I dig deep within myself to force out a laugh, but it comes out low and broken. Which is exactly how I feel. Borrowing one of Jenna's favorite words, I mockingly taunt, "Duh Stacy - Do you think I want to be tied down by a guy who has no life other than hockey? Please, even I'm not that desperate."

  Apparently, that's not enough for Jenna, and she nudges me with her elbow. But since I'm not taking her cue, she steps forward dramatically. "You asshole! You big, dumb asshole. I trusted you!"

  Dear lord. Seriously Jenna?

  "Who the hell do you think you are, Weston McGrath, huh? Standing there, looking all hot - Er, I mean, not giving a shit about Molly's feelings. Well, let me tell you something pal, you are the one losing out here. And Stacy, if you're gonna be a two-faced, at least make sure one of them is pretty."

  The whole time Jenna is ranting on (besides wanting to both laugh and cry at the same time) my eyes are locked on Weston's, and I looked for any sign that he regrets his words or that he is going to rescind them.

  "Jenna, stop," I say, putting my hand on her arm, because she's acting like a dog with rabies. Either that or she's trying to win an Academy Award for Best Dramatic Scene. Because we have an audience, Weston hasn't moved a muscle, and I shake my head gently before saying, "You know... all those times you stand up to people - those jerks you call your friends - now you won't stand and put up a little fight for me? The worst part is I really thought we were friends."

  Then, to really drive my point home and to piss him off, I add, "Looks like my brother was right about you."

  I turn just in time to see his eyes flash and his nostrils flare as he stares after me.

  He's either pissed off - or turned on - and all I can think is good.

  But I still want to vomit.

  WESTON

  Yes.

  Yes, I am a fucking idiot for letting her walk off - are you satisfied?

  As Molly walks away, her small sassy friend in tow, Stacy sighs beside me and crosses both arms over her flat chest. "Well. That was only slightly awkward."

  "Why are you still standing here?" I ask rudely, grabbing my books and slamming my locker shut. "If I were you, I would walk away before I do something we're both going to regret."

  I start walking towards the math wing.

  Undaunted and stepping in line with my brisk pace, Stacy is not taking the hint and lets out a short little laugh. "You're not blaming me for your fuck up back there, are you? Ugh, such a typical guy thing to do. That scene back there," she gestures over her shoulder. "That was entirely your fault."

  I stop dead in my tracks and grab her by the arm. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? If you hadn't have pissed me off and pushed all my buttons, I wouldn't have lost my temper."

  Her eyebrow shoots up. Slowly she says, "So... let me get this straight. I ask you if Molly's your girlfriend.... Anndd because I've already pissed you off, you get mad and yell that she'll never be your - oh wait. How exactly did you put it? She'll never be your 'damn girlfriend. Do I have it right?"

  "Jesus Christ you're a pain in the ass." I can feel my temper rising again, and now we're not alone anymore in the hallway. People are moving from one class to another, or to the lunchroom for fourth period.

  "Don't you get it? Like, it doesn't matter if I'm the reason you were mad. Did you mean it? Do you really not care?"

  I don't answer. Instead, I stand staring off down the long corridor.

  "Answer me." Stacy persists. "Because seriously? If you love her that was a super shitty thing to do."

  This gets my attention. "Oh yeah? What about you - aren't you supposed to be her friend?" Sarcasm drips off my tongue.

  Stacy shrugs. "Eh. Not really. I just basically sit at her lunch table listening to her and Jenna hold court like they own the place. But whatever." She tosses her long hair over her shoulder, and bumps me in the hip. "So. You better figure it out. "

  An understatement if ever there was one.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  MOLLY

  "Could you please not talk to me again? It's for a school project." - Maddie to Brian Bossner after their first and only date.

  Normally, I am not one to dwell.

  I don't pout.

  I don't wallow in self-pity.

  But there most certainly have been a few occasions when I have made exceptions:

  1. The time Erica Pederson cheated off my math test in 5th grade and I got in trouble for it. To this day I still can't walk by her in the hall without curling my lip.

  2.The time my Nan made me a pig costume for Halloween and my parents forced me to wear it... and I was TWELVE.

  3.The time Jenna drew a mustache on my face with Sharpie during a sleepover and it wouldn't come off no matter how hard I scrubbed. We had family pictures the next day, and I was grounded for a week.

  4.Just for dramatic effect, I'm going to repeat the fact that my parents made me wear a pig costume out in public when I was twelve, which we all know if a pivotal point in a young girls life. I could easily have been traumatized by this...

  The first thing I want to do, oddly enough, is call my brother. The girly, prideful part of me seriously wants Matthew to come home and kick Weston's ass. Maybe rough him up a bit.

  Or at least threaten to.

  I think that might make me feel better. Right? Ugh, who am I trying to kid? It would make me feel awful because I don't hate the guy.

  I love him.

  All the way home, Jenna sits in the passenger seat of the Jeep, and she hasn't said much (which we all know is so not like her) but I can definitely hear her muttering under her breath about 'all men are creeps' and 'she should have seen this coming from a guy so hot he could melt ice cream from his hotness.'

  Yeah, riveting stuff.

  I adjust my seat and shift gears, tuning her out and listening to the sound of my engine and the wind as we cruise down Maple Street, through town, then out onto the country road that leads to my house.

  Finally, unable to stand it (because I know Jenna is just dying to unleash on me), I say "So. Spill. Tell me what you're really thinking." I take a side long look at her, and she's twirling her blonde hair between her neon pink finger tips. The shiny silver thumb ring she's wearing catches the sun, and at first she shakes her head like she's got nothing to say.

  But I know better, and so I wait.

  "I just don't understand it." Jenna turns her body so she's shifted in her seat, facing me. "Why is he doing this? I thought you had this all locked up. Instead, he's being a douche, just like typical guy."

  I tap on the steering wheel and nod. "Well... I guess it just wasn't enough." My words come out just barely above a whisper, sort of raspy.

  "Okay, whatever Molly. He can't be one way when you're alone then act like a total dick when he's in public. 'F' that shit." The wind whips around us and Jenna watches me for a few seconds before adding. "So... what are you going to do if he calls?"

  I laugh almost bitterly. "He won't call. He's never called."

  "Okay, what are you going to do if he texts."

  Good question. "I have no idea."

  "Well you better figure it out, becau
se if I know guys - and I do know guys - he is totally going to come crawling back, Molly. And when he does, I want you to be prepared." She flops back in the passenger seat with a loud sigh. "Ugh. This sucks. You didn't even get laid."

  A short burst of nervous laughter comes out of my mouth as a response to her outrageous comment. "Like that was my whole objective. You are such a pig!"

  Uh, yeah - like the sex thing didn't totally cross my mind.

  "I'm serious Molly, you totally got robbed."

  "I wasn't... with him so I could get a piece of him Jenna. I was with him because I genuinely like him. And I thought he liked me." I say this so quietly I'm not sure she hears me.

  She reaches over to pat the hand that's resting on the gearshift, and I know she understands.

  ***

  The rest of the afternoon drags on. I'm sitting at the counter in the kitchen with my Algebra book out when my mom bustles in, a brown paper bag of groceries under each of her arms. She gives me a side glance, sets the bags down, and turns around with a "Hey."

  "Hey back," I say with a forced smile. Mom looks at me for a minute, studying me closely as only a mom will do. I can tell she's trying to figure me out; Am I crabby? Am I sad? Am I just busy with homework?

  "Hmm...." She mutters, slightly narrowing her eyes and tilting her head. I swear, if she were an animal, she'd be a predator the way she's eyeballing me. Finally, she slaps her hands on the counter in front of me. "Okay, what's wrong? Tell your mother. And don't bother saying nothing, because we both know it's a lie."

  What is she, a mind reader? Sheesh.

  I bit my lip and debate, avoiding eye contact.

  "It's that McGrath boy isn't it?" my mom leans in close. "What did he do?"

  My head snaps up. "Nothing!" I practically shout, a little too enthusiastically to be believable. Great. If there's one thing more irresistible to a parent, it's denial, so I dial it down a notch. "Technically he didn't do anything."

  "So, it's more a case of what he didn't do?" Now she's leaning across the counter on her elbows, the groceries behind her already forgotten.

  Gee, I hope nothing in those bags are frozen.

  Again, I debate about how much to tell my mom, knowing that she's going to tell my dad, and then he'll probably say something to Matthew - because honestly, those two are the worst when it comes to gossip. And what girl needs her whole family knowing the details of her love life going up in flames? I hesitate. "Um..."

  My mom waits patiently, not saying a word, which is the worst because now I know she's committed to finding out what's going on.

  Silent, but deadly.

  In an attempt to ignore her and avoid any discussion, I click the button on the side of my phone to check for messages, even though I know there isn't one: the indicator light isn't flashing. Heaving out the longest, loudest sigh ever, I set it back down on the counter and push it back and forth on the granite while my mom stares me down.

  "All right. It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," she finally relents, turning slowly towards the twin paper bags and taking out the first few items. Are her shoulders slumped, or is that just my imagination?

  Ugh, I want to scream! Why does she do this?!

  Now I feel terrible. Guilty even.

  I sigh again, and blow a few stray hairs out of my eyes. "Fine. I'll tell you. But you cannot say anything to dad." My mom flies around and her elbows are immediately back on the counter and she enthusiastically nods and promises her lips are sealed (I'll believe that one when I see it).

  Finally taking a deep breath, I let it all out, starting from the very beginning...

  WESTON

  At the same time across town, arriving home after a shitty afternoon practice, I bust through the laundry room door and let my hockey gear fall to the ground with a clamorous 'thud' and it unceremoniously hits the wall. I kick my athletic flip flops off, and throw my hoodie onto a wall hook.

  It misses and lands in a heap on the floor.

  Wincing when I accidentally smash my shoulder on the doorjamb, I'm rubbing it as I walk into the kitchen, surprised to see my dad standing at the refrigerator. He looks up from digging. "What the hell's with all the ruckus? If you put a dent in the drywall from banging around all your shit, mom's going to be pissed."

  "What are you doing home?" I ask, ignoring his statement. I swing open a cupboard door to grab a glass, filling it with the orange juice my dad has set out on the counter.

  "Mom has a dentist appointment so I grabbed Kendall from school." He looks me over before continuing. "How was practice?"

  "Fine. Same shit different day." Downing the OJ, I'm irritated and he can tell.

  "Well that's the winning attitude your mom and I like to see." He rips open a yogurt and throws the top in the trash. "What crawled up your ass?"

  Instead of answering, I refill my glass and take another swig.

  "Are you going to tell me what happened at practice, or do we have to stand here all day bullshitting each other?"

  "Jeez, does everyone have to ride my nuts?" My dad just stares at me undeterred. He isn't going to let this go. I slouch against the counter, letting my body sag from exhaustion. "It was just a scrimmage. But you know, it was with Whitnall and they can be real bastards, so we spent the whole damn game fending off high-sticks and, of course as usual Danberry picked a few fights after someone checked him into the rails."

  Again, Dad stares at me. "So I'm gonna ask you again: what is your real problem? And don't tell me it was practice. Is it more shit with that Wakefield girl? Because you know better than to go mopping around this house like a goddamn pussy because you let some girl get into your head, I'm telling you that right now."

  I slam down my glass thankful it doesn't break, and storm out of the kitchen.

  "Don't you walk away from me, god dammit. Get your ass back here now so we can talk about this." My dad bellows, his deep baritone vibrating through first floor of the house. From upstairs I can hear a bedroom door open, and Kendall's head appears from around the banister railing.

  "Oooh, oooh, you are in troublllleeee...." She sings in a loud whisper. I roll my eyes, pivoting to stalk back into the kitchen for a confrontation.

  The temptation to punch a wall is overwhelming, but instead I lean lazily against the counter, crossing my arms, and projecting an 'I don't give a shit what you're about to say' attitude.

  My dad points an index finger at me. "Look, I don't give a shit if you're going to date or not (I snort when he says this) but once you let it affect your school work or your game, you're done."

  Now I'm rolling my eyes.

  "Don't fucking stand there and roll your eyes at me, and don't tell me this girl hasn't gotten in your head. Since when do you come home throwing shit around the house and being disrespectful? Huh?"

  "Big deal if I tossed my shit down. I had a shitty day, what do you care?"

  My dad studies me for a while without responding, and it finally makes me so uncomfortable I cross and uncross my arms a few times while I'm standing there in defense-mode.

  My dad continues. "Now you're going to stand there and ask why I care? Who do you think paid for all those hockey lessons and ran you to practice? Do you think that was a goddamn cake walk?" he pauses. "Now, without getting all pissed off, tell me what's really going on with you." He leans back against the fridge and crosses his arms so he's mirroring me, and I can't help but feel like I'm looking into my own future. I actually find myself wondering if someday I'll be lecturing my own kid about the same stupid crap.

  Running my palm down the front of my face, I have no actual idea where to start. So I say, "This actually has nothing to do with..." Oh Christ, Why is it so hard to say her name? "Molly. It mostly has to do with, I don't know. Other people giving me shit about her. Hockey. School." Dad is nodding his head slowly, and not saying anything, so I take this as a good sign and continue. "So. I always have all these girls after me, right, which always did drive me crazy - so nothing new there. But
now that I've gone out with someone and we really hit it off... and all these other girls haven't gone away...and my friends are such assholes. It's just..." I let out a loud, frustrated "Gruuuhhh!" which actually comes out sounding like a grunt and a scream.

  "Wes, are you and Molly having sex?"

  "What?! No. Why would you ask that? When she was here did she look like the type of girl that would just spread 'em for anyone? Jeez."

  "Son, I hate to break it to you, but no girl looks like the type when they're half soaking wet. Unless of course they're wearing a swim suit."

  "We are not having sex."

  "Well then, maybe that's your damn problem," my dad grins while he rubs the stubble on his chin. He pushes himself off the fridge and checks his watch. "Look, date Molly or don't date her - but once you start getting off track..." he runs his hand across his throat in a 'you're cut off' motion. "And for God's sake don't let anyone else influence you - unless it's your Mom or I." He laughs at his own joke. "Oh, and Weston? Stop being such a little prick around here. You're driving us nuts." He grabs his keys off the counter and walks into the living room to bellow up the stairs. "Kendall, let's get rolling. You have soccer in twenty."

  And that folks, is about as warm and fuzzy as it gets with Brian McGrath. He and Kendall leave, and I'm still standing in the kitchen in the same spot where he left me. I run a hand over my face, just as my stomach growls.

  Resigned, I sigh loudly and dig my cell out of the back pocket of my cargo shorts, and text the only person I can think of that will be around.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  MOLLY

  "What you put up with, you end up with." - Mrs. Wakefield

  I am starving.

  And pathetically, I am at the one place where I shouldn't be. Not only that, I'm alone. Completely and utterly alone. I couldn't even convince Jenna to take pity on me enough to come along. That traitor.

  She tossed me over for Alex, who has a band concert tonight.

  Yeah, that's right, you heard me correctly.

  A band concert.