“Right,” I say. I take a bite of my Taco Supreme and look over at her. She’s barely touched her food. Plus, she keeps giving me all these one-word answers. I grope for something to say that will force her to engage in conversation with me.
“So,” I say. “Tell me about your parents.”
“My parents?” she asks.
“Yeah. Why you don’t have the same last name as them, if and how they’re involved in the whole drug trafficking scheme, any neuroses they may have, if you hate them, etc.”
“It’s really not that scandalous,” she says. “So if I tell you, it may ruin the whole thing. Maybe I should keep it a secret, so you’ll think I’m mysterious and engaging.”
“I already think you’re mysterious and engaging,” I say, taking a sip of my soda.
“You do?” She turns to me, and the sun shining through my windshield hits her hair and illuminates her face. She smiles. “Why?”
“Why what?” I say. Suddenly I feel weird. For the first time, I realize I’m in a car with a girl. Not only that, but it’s just hit me that Courtney’s fucking hot. Not hot in the way Madison is, with her revealing clothes and huge amounts of lipstick, but hot in the sense of…I don’t know. Just hot. An overall package of hotness.
“Why am I mysterious and engaging?” she asks, sounding exasperated.
“Oh,” I say. “Because you ignored me in math today. And no one ever ignores me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Right. No one ever ignores you.”
“Well,” I say, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. “Sometimes girls do ignore me. But it’s only because they want me to think they’re ignoring me, so that I’ll want them.”
“Maybe they’re ignoring you because they don’t want you.” She shrugs. “Maybe they’re just weirded out by the fact that you’ve basically ignored them for four years of high school, and then started randomly taking them to drive-thrus and diners at weird times.”
“Except I don’t usually take girls to random drive-thrus and diners at weird times.”
“Where do you usually take them?” She’s smiling at me now, and I smile back.
“The backseat,” I joke, and the smile vanishes from her face. “Whoa,” I say, “just kidding.” This girl is such a hardass. “Lighten up, Court.”
She takes a small bite of her taco and stares out the window.
“So,” I say. “Your parents? What’s the deal?”
“My dad isn’t my biological father,” she says, shrugging. “He adopted me last year, but I just decided to keep my last name. Didn’t want to have to go through the hassle of changing it, but I might at some point.”
“That’s cool,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask about my parents and what the deal is with them. No way we need to get into the fact that my mom is screwing around on my dad. “Is your dad a good guy?”
“Yeah,” she says. “He’s great. He’s been married to my mom since I was three, so I don’t really know anything else, you know?”
“Cool.” I take the last bite of my taco and throw the balled-up wrapper back into the empty bag. “So what should we do now, Court?”
“Why do you keep calling me ‘Court’?” she asks.
“Because,” I say, shrugging. “It’s my new pet name for you.”
“As opposed to your old pet name?”
“Yeah, my old pet name,” I say, miming that I’m texting someone on a phone. “‘Weird Text Girl.’” It’s a gamble, but it pays off. She reaches over and pushes me playfully, and I block her hand. I realize again how good she smells, and I swallow. No way I’m going to start hooking up with Courtney McSweeney. That’s just insane.
“Are you flirting with me?” I ask.
“No.” She looks shocked and moves back to her side of the car. “Not even.”
“You totally were.”
“Sweetie,” she says, turning to look at me. “If I was flirting with you, you’d know it.”
She raises her eyebrows at me, and I realize she’s probably telling the truth. If she were flirting with me, I’d probably know it. I’m also really, really turned on.
An hour later, we’re in the DVD section at Barnes & Noble, debating whether or not Laguna Beach is a good TV show. I somehow conned her into coming into the bookstore with me, which wasn’t that hard since it’s right next door to Taco Bell.
“They’re like talking mannequins,” Courtney says, shaking her head. “I have no idea how you could remotely be interested in this show.”
“I didn’t say I was interested in it,” I say, rolling my eyes. This is a lie. I watch it all the time.
“What night of the week is it on?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
“Wednesday,” I recite without thinking. She smiles smugly.
“That doesn’t mean anything!” I protest. She slides the DVD of Laguna back onto the shelf and turns around.
“Whatever.” She shrugs and starts walking toward the Action/Adventure movies.
“Everyone knows Laguna Beach is on Wednesday nights! All you have to do is turn on MTV for half a second. There’s commercials on all the time.”
“Fine,” she says again, shrugging.
“And so what if I watch it?” I say, “It is what it is.”
“Ridiculous is what it is. They’re like pod people.”
“Okay,” I say, switching tactics. “Did you watch The OC?”
“Totally different,” she says.
“Oh my God, not even!” I say. “It’s the same thing. Only one is written for television, and one is reality TV.”
“The OC is completely different,” she says. “Because even though the characters are rich and materialistic, they at least have intelligent conversations. They have issues. Dilemmas. Debates!”
Hmm. She has a point. I’m trying to think of a good Laguna debate that didn’t involve the Kristin Cavallari/Nick Lachey situation in the media. My cell phone rings before I can think of one, and I pull it out of my pocket.
It’s B. J. I hesitate. It’s probably rude to answer it, but Courtney’s not going to want to hang out with me forever, so it’s a good bet that at some point, I’m going to need to head over to B. J.’s to avoid going home. In which case answering the phone is going to be in my best interest.
“Do you mind if I take this?” I ask. “It’s kind of important.”
“No problem,” she says, turning back to the movies. She kneels down to get a look at something on the bottom shelf, and the back of her shirt rises up, showing her back. I swallow.
“Whaddup?” I say, flipping my phone open and walking a few feet away from Courtney.
“Dude, shit is going down,” B. J. says, sounding like shit really is going down.
“What is it?”
“So I just got out of the gym, right?” B. J. stays after with the football team every day to work out, so I’m assuming that’s what he’s referring to.
“Yeah,” I say.
“So when I leave the school, there’s Jocelyn, in the parking lot with Krista Crause and Tia Biddlecome.”
“Okay,” I say, already starting to become bored with this story. I’m a little bitter about B. J.’s whole hookup with Jocelyn, since after I got him coffee the other night and drove him home, he ended up going to Jeremy’s party anyway. So while I was catching my mom cheating on my dad and acting insane about Courtney McSweeney, B. J. was out partying without me. I try to catch a glimpse of Courtney’s bare back again by glancing around the display of Star Wars DVDs. She’s still leaning. She has a nice ass. I wonder what kind of underwear she wears, if it’s a thong, or maybe those boy shorts. Something lacy, maybe.
“And she ignores me!” B. J. says. Courtney leans over farther. Her shirt slides farther up her back. I try to figure out how close I need to be to get the best view without her actually hearing my conversation. Is it insane to be having these thoughts about her? Probably. I mean, I’m supposed to be kicking it to Madison. It’s just that Courtney’s fun to be around. She
takes my mind off all the shit that’s going on at home. Which is good.
“Hello?!” B. J. asks on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Jocelyn ignored you.”
“I can’t believe it!” he says. “That’s fucked up, dude.”
“Girls are fucked up,” I say, shrugging. “Do you like her?”
“Not anymore,” he says, not sounding like he means it. “Not if she’s going to act like a shit.”
“She’s messing with you,” I say. “Just ignore her right back.”
“But I don’t want to fucking ignore her,” B. J. says. “I want to hook up with her again!”
“I know,” I say, sighing. “But if she’s going to play it all cool, the last thing you want is to come off as Psycho Obsessed Asshole.”
A Barnes & Noble employee, a young guy in a green apron with pierced ears almost bumps into me. “Sorry,” I say.
“Where are you?” B. J. asks suspiciously.
“At the bookstore.”
“The bookstore? What the fuck for?”
“I’m, uh, looking at books,” I say. “And I should get back to it. Let me call you later.”
“Who are you with?” B. J. asks.
Fuck. “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to infuse my voice with as much innocence as possible. He sighs.
“Who. Are. You. There. With.”
“I’m by myself,” I lie. Why did I just lie? I hate lying. I don’t believe in lying. Lying only gets you in trouble. Manipulating situations is one thing, but lying is another. My theory (especially with girls), is that if you don’t lie, you can’t be held responsible for anything bad that goes down.
Case in point: When I hooked up with Jana Freeze last summer. I told her I didn’t want a girlfriend, and that I was going to be hooking up with other people. She got all pissed off when I kissed Michelle Tessiro the weekend after. But really, it wasn’t my fault. Because she knew the deal, and she chose to put herself in that situation.
I know I sound like a slut. But I’m really not.
“You’re by yourself?” B. J. asks incredulously. “What the fuck for?”
“I told you,” I say, trying not to lose my patience, since it’s really my fault for lying to him. “I’m looking at books.”
“Dude, that’s some fucked-up shit,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m with Courtney McSweeney.”
“Courtney McSweeney?” B. J. asks, as if I’ve just announced I’m out on a date with Mischa Barton. “What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing it’s true.
“Whatever,” B. J. says. “Can you maybe ask her about Jocelyn for me?”
“Ask her what about Jocelyn?”
“Ask her what the deal is. They’re friends.” He sighs as if he can’t believe my obvious ridiculousness at not getting the plan. Which is really worrisome to me, because if B. J. is saying something I’m not understanding, that means my head is completely fucked up.
“Okay,” I agree.
“But don’t let her know I want to know,” he instructs.
“Of course not.” I don’t point out that expecting me to ask a girl I hardly know about how her friend feels about B. J. without actually telling her why I want to know is going to be a pretty hard thing to do.
“Lata.” B. J. clicks off before I can make plans with him for later. Shit.
Courtney comes around the corner, carrying Laguna Beach Season One on DVD. She holds it up and smiles at me. “Maybe I’ll give it a second chance.”
“You should,” I say, grabbing the blue DVD case out of her hand and checking out the back. What’s not to like about this show? Hot girls. Hookups. Who needs intelligent conversations and debates? It all boils down to wanting one another, anyway. So people should just hook up and get it over with.
“So…” she says, taking it back from me. “I should probably get home.”
“Oh,” I say, kind of surprised. Girls don’t usually end dates with me. Not that this is really a date. It’s more like a hang out. I follow her up to the cash register, where she purchases the Laguna Beach DVDs. Definitely not a date. Because if it were a date, I’d be paying. And we’d be hooking up. And that is definitely not going to happen.
Half an hour later, we’re kissing in my car.
the trip jordan
Day One, 12:36 p.m.
I’m heading toward the bathroom to see what’s taking Courtney so long when I see her lean over and throw up all over the floor. It’s pretty nasty, a bunch of brown chunks and green liquid. I knew that sausage calzone didn’t look right.
“Court,” I say, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot, and then leans over and heaves again. I take her cell phone out of her hand, hang up on whoever it is she was talking to without bothering to say anything, and lead Courtney past the line of waiting women (who are all staring—have they never seen anyone upchuck before?) and into the women’s bathroom.
“Jordan,” she says, leaning against my shoulder. “You can’t come into the girls’ bathroom.”
Four women at the sink are gaping at me openly. “It’s okay,” I say to them. “I’m just helping my friend. She’s not feeling so well.”
“We’re not friends,” Courtney says, and then throws up again into one of the sinks against the wall. It’s not the best move, saying the guy who’s taking care of you isn’t your friend, but I let it slide since she’s obviously in distress. I pull her hair back from her face.
“Do you have a hair tie?” I ask her, ignoring the stares of the woman at the sinks. What is their problem? Do they not see that she’s sick? You’d think they’d be rallying around me, excited I was so obviously concerned that I would risk a trip into the women’s bathroom. Maybe it’s a new kind of crime, guys pretending they’re friends with random girls who get sick at rest stops, so that they can sneak into women’s bathrooms and get a peek at…I look around. At middle-aged women washing their hands.
Courtney hands me her bag, and I riffle through it, looking for a hair tie. Makeup, notebook, mirror…why do girls need so much stuff? I pull Courtney’s hair back from her face, trying to gather it in a ponytail. Her skin feels smooth against my hands.
“Let me do it,” Courtney says, taking the hair tie away from me. Her fingers brush against mine, and my heart rate speeds up again. God, I want her so bad.
She pulls her hair back, then leans over the sink again and gives one final, silent heave. I rub her back until her body stops shaking.
“You okay?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. She’s gripping the sides of the sink so hard that her knuckles are turning white. “I’m okay. I just hate throwing up.”
“Will you be okay in here for a second by yourself? I’ll go get you a bottle of water.”
“Okay,” she says, not really sounding like she means it. I look around the bathroom. The floors are dirty and there are random paper towels and toilet paper strewn around the floor. It smells like exactly what you’d think a thruway rest stop bathroom would smell like.
“Actually,” I say. “Why don’t you just come with me? We’ll get you some water, and then you can sit in the back of my truck. Some air might make you feel better.”
“Okay,” she agrees, and starts walking shakily toward the door of the restroom. I go to put my arm around her like before, but she shrugs me off. “I’m fine.”
Ten minutes later, she’s sitting with her feet hanging over the side of my open truck back, sipping water slowly, and looking a little bit better, although really pale.
“I should call Jocelyn back,” she says. “I was talking to her when I started throwing up.”
I feel relieved that she wasn’t talking to Lloyd, which is completely ridiculous. Courtney and I are over, and no matter how much I still want to be with her, it’s not going to happen. And she deserves someone who’s going to make her happy. If Lloyd does that for her, I re
ally am cool with it.
My phone starts ringing in my pocket, and I check the caller ID. Courtney’s dad. The fucker will not leave me alone. Every five minutes with him.
“I’m gonna take this,” I tell Court. “Are you going to be okay for a few minutes?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll call Jocelyn back so she doesn’t worry.”
I walk safely out of Courtney’s earshot, and then open my phone. “What?” I say. He may have gotten me to break up with Courtney, but as far as I’m concerned, the power he has over me stops there. Well, that’s not exactly true. Because he keeps calling me.
“That’s not a nice way to answer the phone, Jordan,” he says, sounding cheerful.
“Yeah, well, I’m not in exactly the nicest mood right now,” I say.
“Oh, and why’s that?” he asks, sounding amused.
“Because you keep calling me.”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was going okay,” he says. “That the trip was proceeding safely.”
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say, not mentioning the fact that Courtney just spent ten minutes throwing up into a sink.
“Jordan, you know I’m not trying to be a dick about this,” he says, sighing.
“Yeah, spare me,” I say, watching Courtney from where I’m standing. She looks really small and really pale.
“I’m not,” Mr. Brewster says. “I just want Courtney to be happy, and I really think this is the best way to go about it. And Jordan, I think you know that telling Courtney what happened really isn’t going to serve any real purpose.”
Other than to make her hate me, I think to myself. And it’s true. If I told Courtney what I knew, she would hate me even more than she does now. And having her hate me because she thinks I dumped her for another girl is much better than having her hate me because of what I know.
“Well, you don’t have to worry,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“Thanks,” Mr. Brewster says. “I really do appreciate it, Jordan. And I am going to tell Courtney. But on my own time.”
Two-Way Street Page 8
