Give Me Five pd-5

by Meg Cabot

  Michael looked towards them. 'No. What?'

  'Nothing,' I said. I didn't want to cause Michael to blow up at Lilly the way Colin Hanks did when he caught his little sister, Kirsten Dunst, kissing his best friend in the movie Get Over It. Because even though I have never really noticed Michael harbouring protective feelings towards Lilly, I am sure that is only because she has been dating Boris all this time, and Boris is one of Michael's friends and a mouth-breather, besides. I mean, you are not going to get too upset over your little sister going out with a mouth-breathing violinist. A hot, newly unemployed Sherpa, however . . . now that might be a different story.

  And though you wouldn't know it to look at him, Michael is very quick-tempered. I once saw him glare quite formidably at some construction workers who whistled at me and Lilly down on Sixth Ave. when we were coming out of Charlie Mom's.

  The last thing I needed at my party was for a fist fight to break out.

  But Lilly managed to -keep her hands off Jangbu for the next half-hour, during which I attempted to put aside my depression and join in on the fun, especially when everyone started jumping around, doing the Macarena, which Michael had jokingly put in the mix he'd made.

  It's too bad there aren't more dances, other than the Time Warp and the Macarena, that everybody knows. You know how in movies like She's All That and Footloose, everybody starts doing the same dance at the same time? It would be so cool if that would happen sometime in like the cafeteria. Principal Gupta could be on the sound system, reading off the announcements, and suddenly somebody puts on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or whatever and we all start dancing on the tables.

  In olden times, everybody knew the same dances . . . like the minuet, and stuff. Too bad things can't be like olden times.

  Except, of course, I wouldn't want to have wooden teeth or the pox.

  Anyway, things were finally starting to look up, and I was actually having a pretty good time fooling around, when all of a sudden Tina was like, 'Mr G, we're out of Coke!' and Mr G was like, 'How can that be? I bought seven flats of it at the drive-through liquor store this morning.'

  But Tina insisted all the Coke was gone. I found out later she'd hidden it in the baby's room. But whatever. At the time, Mr G honestly thought there was no more Coke.

  'Well, I'll run down to Grand Union and buy more,' he said, putting on his coat and going out.

  That's when Ling Su asked my mom if she could see her slides. Ling Su, being an artist herself, knew exactly the right thing to say to my mother, a fellow artist, even if since she's been pregnant she's had to give up oils and work only in egg tempera.

  No sooner had my mom whisked Ling Su into her bedroom to break out her slides than Tina turned off the music and announced that we would now be playing Seven Minutes in Heaven.

  Everybody looked pretty excited about this - we certainly had never played Seven Minutes in Heaven at the last party we'd all been to, which had been at Shameeka's house. But Mr Taylor, Shameeka's dad, wasn't the type to fall for the 'Out of Coke' or 'Can I see your slides?' thing. He is way strict. He keeps the baseball bat he once hit a home run with in one corner of the room as a 'reminder' to the boys Shameeka dates of just what, exactly, he's capable of, should they get fresh with his daughter.

  So the Seven Minutes in Heaven thing had everybody way stoked. Everybody, that is, except for Michael. Michael is not a big fan of Public Displays of Affection, and it turns out he is even less of a fan of being locked in a closet with his girlfriend. Not, he informed me, after Tina had gigglingly shut the closet door - closing the two of us in with Mom and Mr G's winter coats, the vacuum cleaner, the laundry cart and my wheelie suitcase - that he had anything against being in a dark enclosed space with

  me. It was the fact that, outside the door, everybody was listening that bugged him.

  'Nobody's listening,' I told him. 'See? They turned the music back on.' Which they had.

  But I sort of had to agree with Michael. Seven Minutes in Heaven is a stupid game. I mean, it is one thing to make out with your boyfriend. It is quite another to do it in a closet, with everybody on the other side of the door knowing what you are doing. The ambiance is just not there.

  It was dark in the closet - so dark I couldn't even see my own hand in front of my face, let alone Michael. Plus, it smelt funny. This, I knew, was on account of the vacuum cleaner. It had been a while since anybody - namely, me, since my mom never remembers, and Mr G doesn't understand our vacuum cleaner, on account of it being so old -had emptied the vacuum bag,

  and it was filled to the brim with orange cat fur and the pieces of kitty litter Fat Louie is always tracking across the floor.

  Since it was scented kitty litter, it smelled a little like pine. But not necessarily in a good way.

  'So we really have to stay in here for seven minutes?' Michael wanted to know.

  'I guess,' I said.

  'What if Mr. G gets back and finds us in here?'

  'He'll probably kill you,' I said.

  'Well,' Michael said. 'Then I'd better give you something to remember me by.'

  Then he took me in his arms and started kissing me.

  I have to admit, after that, I kind of started thinking Seven Minutes in Heaven wasn't such a bad game after all. In fact, I sort

  of began to like it. It was nice to be there in the dark, with Michael's body all pressed up to mine, and his tongue in my mouth, and all. I guess because I couldn't see anything, my sense of smell was that much stronger, or something, because I could smell Michael's neck really well. It smelt super nice - way better than the vacuum-cleaner bag. The smell sort of made me want to jump on him. I can't really explain it any other way. But I honestly wanted to jump on Michael.

  Instead of jumping on him, which I didn't think he'd enjoy - nor would it be socially acceptable . . . plus, you know, all the

  coats were sort of impeding our ability to move around a lot - I tore my lips from his, and said, not even thinking about Tina,

  or Uli Derickson, or even what I was doing, but sort of lost in the heat of the moment, 'So, Michael, what is up with the prom? Are we going, or not?'

  To which Michael replied, with a chuckle, as his lips nuzzled my own neck (though I highly doubt he was smelling it), 'The prom? Are you crazy? The prom's even stupider than this game.'

  At which point, I sort of broke our embrace and took a step backwards, right on to Mr. G's hockey stick. Only I didn't care, because, you know, I was so shocked.

  'What do you mean?' I demanded. If it hadn't been so dark, I so would have run my searching gaze across Michael's face, looking for some sign he was joking. As it was, however, I just had to listen really hard.

  'Mia,' Michael said, reaching for me. For somebody who thought Seven Minutes in Heaven was such a stupid game, he seemed to be kind of into it. 'You've got to be kidding. I'm not exactly the prom type.'

  But I slapped his hands away. It was hard, you know, to see them in the dark, but it wasn't like there was much chance of missing. The only other thing in front of me, besides Michael, was coats.

  'What do you mean, you're not the prom type?' I wanted to know. 'You're a Senior. You're graduating. You have to go to

  the prom. Everybody does it.'

  'Yeah,' Michael said. 'Well, everybody does lots of lame stuff. But that doesn't mean I'm going to, too. I mean, come on, Mia. Proms are for the Josh Richters of the world.'

  'Oh, really?' I said, sounding very cold, even to my own ears. But that was probably on account of how super attuned they were to everything, seeing as how I couldn't see. My ears, I mean. 'What, then, do the Michael Moscovitzes of the world do on prom night?'

  'I don't know.' Michael said. 'We could do more of this, if you want.'

  By this, of course, he meant making out in a closet. I did not even credit that with a response.

  'Michael,' I said, in my most princessy voice. 'I'm serious. If you don't plan on going to the prom, just what, exactly, do you intend to do instead?'

 
'I don't know,' Michael said, sounding genuinely baffled by my question. 'Go bowling?'

  BOWLING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MY BOYFRIEND WOULD RATHER GO BOWLING ON HIS PROM NIGHT

  THAN GO TO THE PROM!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Does he not have an ounce of romantic feeling in his body? He must, because he got me that snowflake necklace ... the necklace that I haven't taken off, not even once, since he gave it to me. How can the man who gave me that necklace be the same man who would rather go bowling on his prom night than go to the prom?

  He must have sensed that I was not taking kindly to this news, since he went, 'Mia, come on. Admit it. The prom is the

  corniest thing in the world. I mean, you spend a ton of money on some rented penguin suit you can't even get comfortable in, then spend a ton more money on dinner somewhere fancy that probably isn't half as good as Number One Noodle Son, then you go and stand around in some gymnasium—'

  'Maxim's,' I corrected him. 'Your Senior Prom is taking place at Maxim's.'

  'Whatever,' Michael said. 'So you go and eat stale cookies and dance to really, really bad music with a bunch of people you can't stand and who you never want to see again—'

  'Like me, you mean?' I was practically crying, I was so hurt. 'You never want to see me again? Is that it? You're just going to graduate and go off to college and forget all about me?'

  'Mia,' Michael said, in quite a different tone of voice. 'Of course not. I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about people

  like .. . well, like Josh and those guys. You know that. What's the matter with you?'

  But I couldn't tell Michael what was the matter with me. Because what was the matter with me was that my eyes had filled up with tears and my throat had closed up and I'm not sure but I think my nose had started to run. Because all of a sudden I realized that my boyfriend had no intention of asking me to the prom. Not because he was going to ask someone more popular instead, or anything. Like Andrew McCarthy in Pretty in Pink. But because my boyfriend, Michael Moscovitz, the person I loved most in the whole world (with the exception of my cat), the man to whom I had pledged my heart for all eternity, had absolutely no interest at all in attending HIS OWN SENIOR PROM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  I really can't say what would have happened next if Boris hadn't suddenly ripped the closet door open and yelled, 'Time's up!' Maybe Michael would have heard me sniffling and realized I was crying and asked me why. And then, after he'd drawn me tenderly into his arms, I might have told him in a broken voice, while resting my head against his manly chest.

  And then he might have sweetly kissed the top of my head and murmured, 'Oh, my darling, I didn't know,' and sworn then

  and there that he would do anything, anything in the world, to see my doe eyes shine again, and that if I wanted to go to the prom, well then by God, we'd go to the prom.

  Only that's so not what happened. What happened instead was that Michael blinked at all the sudden light, and held up an

  arm to shield his eyes, and so never even saw that my own eyes were tear-filled and that my nose might possibly have been running . . . although this would have been horribly unprincesslike and probably didn't even happen.

  Besides, I nearly forgot my grief, I was so astounded by what happened next. And that was that Lilly went, 'My turn! My turn!'

  And everyone got out of her way as she went barrelling towards the closet. . .

  Only the hand she reached for - the man whom she chose to accompany her for her Seven Minutes in Heaven -was not the pale, soft hand of the violin virtuoso with whom, for the past eight months, Lilly had been sharing furtive French kisses and Sunday morning dim sum. The hand Lilly reached for was not one belonging to Boris Pelkowski, mouth-breather and sweater tucker-inner. No, the hand Lilly reached for belonged to none other than Jangbu Pinasa, the hot Sherpa busboy.

  Stunned silence roared through the room - well, except for the wailing of the Sahara Hotnights on the stereo - as Lilly thrust

  a startled Jangbu into my hall coat closet, then quickly went in after him. We all stood there, blinking at the closed door, not knowing quite what to do.

  At least, I didn't know what to do. I looked over at Tina, and I could tell by the shocked expression on her face that she

  didn't know what to do, either.

  Michael, on the other hand, seemed to know what to do. He laid a sympathetic hand on Boris's shoulder and said, 'Tough break, man,' then went and grabbed a handful of Cheetos.

  TOUGH BREAK, MAN?????? That is what boys say to one another when they see that their friend's heart has just been ripped from his chest and tossed upon the floor?

  I couldn't believe Michael could be so cavalier. I mean, what about the whole Colin Hanks thing? Why wasn't he tearing that closet door open, hauling Jangbu Pinasa out of it, and beating him to a bloody pulp? I mean, Lilly was his little sister, for God's sake. Didn't he have an ounce of protective feeling towards her?

  Completely forgetting about my despair over the whole prom thing - I think the shock of seeing Lilly's eagerness to lock lips with someone other than her boyfriend had numbed my senses - I followed Michael to the refreshment table and said, 'That's it? That's all you're going to do?' He looked at me questioningly. About what?' About your sister!' I cried. And Jangbu!' 'What do you want me to do about it?' Michael asked. 'Haul him out and hit him?' 'Well,' I said. 'Yes!'

  'Why?' Michael drank some 7-Up, since there wasn't any Coke. 'I don't care who my sister locks herself into the closet with.

  If it were you, then I'd hit the guy. But it's not you, it's Lilly. Lilly, as I believe she's amply proved over the years, can take care of herself.' He held a bowl out towards me. 'Cheeto?'

  Cheetos! Who could think of food at a time like this?

  'No, thank you,' I said. 'But aren't you at all worried that Lilly's—' I broke off, uncertain how to continue. Michael helped me out.

  'Been swept off her feet by the guy's rugged Sherpa good looks?' Michael shook his head. 'Looked to me like if anybody is being taken advantage of, it's Jangbu. The poor guy doesn't seem to know what hit him.'

  'B-but. . .' I stammered. 'But what about Boris?' Michael looked over at Boris, who had slumped down on to the futon couch, his head cradled in his hands. Tina had rushed over to him and was trying to offer sisterly balm to his wounded feelings by telling him that Lilly was probably only showing Jangbu what the inside of a real American coat closet looked like. Even I

  didn't think she sounded very convincing, and I am very easily convinced by almost anything. For instance, in convocations where we are forced to listen to the debate team, I almost always agree with whichever team is talking at the moment, no matter what they're saying.

  'Boris'll get over it,' Michael said, and reached for the chips and dip.

  I don't understand boys. I really don't. I mean, if it had been MY little sister in the closet with Jangbu, I would have been

  furious with rage. And if it had been MY Senior Prom, I'd have been falling all over myself in an effort to secure tickets before they were all gone.

  But that's me, I guess.

  Anyway, before any of us had a chance to do anything more, the front door to the Loft opened and Mr. G came in, carrying bags of more Coke.

  'I'm home,' Mr G called, putting the bags down and starting to take off his windbreaker. 'I picked up some ice, too. I figured we might be running out by now . . .'

  Mr G's voice trailed off. That's because he'd opened the hall closet door to put away his coat and found Lilly and Jangbu in there, making out.

  Well, that was the end of my party. Mr. Gianini is no Mr Taylor, but he's still pretty strict. Also, being a high-school teacher

  and all, he is not unfamiliar with games like Seven Minutes in Heaven. Lilly's excuse - that she and Jangbu had gotten locked into the closet together accidentally didn't exactly fly with him. Mr. G said he thought it was time for everybody to go home. Then he got Hans, my limo driver, who we'd arranged beforehand to take everybody home afte
r the party, to make sure that when he dropped off Lilly and Michael, Jangbu didn't go inside with them, and that Lilly went all the way into her building, up the elevator and everything, so she didn't try to sneak down and meet Jangbu later, like at Blimpie's or whatever.

  And now I am lying here, a broken shell of a girl . . . fifteen years old, and yet so much older in so many ways. Because I

  know now what it is like to see all of your hopes and dreams crushed beneath the soulless heel of despair. I saw it in Boris's eyes, as he watched Lilly and Jangbu emerge from that closet, looking flushed and sweaty, Lilly actually tugging on the bottom of her shirt (I cannot believe Lilly got to second base before I did. And with a guy she'd known for a mere twenty-four hours, as well - not to mention the fact that she did it in MY hallway closet).

  But Boris's eyes weren't the only ones registering despair tonight. My own have a distinctly hollow look to them. I noticed tonight as I was brushing my teeth before bed. It is no mystery why, of course. My eyes have a haunted look to them because