by Mindy Raf
“Unghh, yeah right. And what would be the point?”
“I could help you study, for real this time. You need to get your grade up to, what? At least a B, right?”
“Yeah to be eligible for Italy, but Mr. Bayer’s not just going to let me—”
“No, see, I was actually talking to him this morning about some of the students who aren’t doing so well.”
“Oh. And … ?”
“I mean, obviously I can’t just give you special treatment, but I made a case for some others too who might just need some more … attention and—”
“Did you get Bayer to waive that grade? Can I really retake it?”
“Well, he usually only allows study makeups or extra credit for anything below a C minus”—Marcus’s smile is getting wider and wider as he talks—“but I got him to include you too so, yes, you can retake it.”
“That’s great, thank you!” I reach out, giving Marcus a hug, which I don’t even realize I’m doing until my arms are already around his neck.
“You’re welcome,” he breathes out, right into my ear, and I smell that fancy soap again.
“Wait!” he says as I start to pull back. “I think you’re stuck.”
“What? Oh, sorry!” Some of my newly texturized hair is caught in that sliver of a space where the stems of his glasses meet the frames. “Should I um …” I shift a little to the left and feel my hair pull on my scalp. “Ow!”
“Wait, wait, maybe if we, ah …” Marcus gingerly takes off his glasses and leans away, just a little bit, though, since we’re still connected.
“I don’t want to just pull it,” he says.
“Yes, no please, don’t ruin my perfect hair.” I grimace-laugh. Marcus cracks a small smile.
“There!” I say, grabbing the strands near the end and yanking them free. Then I step back a little, realizing that although we were no longer attached, I was still standing close.
“So …” Marcus picks out the severed strands and puts his glasses back on. “Anyway, we can find a time to study soon if you …” And then he’s looking over my head at the door. “Hangry,” Marcus says, and the tone of his voice changes to its hello, good-bye, nice to see you mode.
“Oh,” Blake says, looking at Marcus now. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”
“No!” we both kind of say at the same time.
“I was just leaving.” Marcus nods at me, looks at Blake, and then slowly makes his way to the door.
“So hey.” Blake walks over to my table and stands, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other, not saying anything else.
“Hey. So you’re talking to me now? I exist?” I ask, surprised at my sudden nerve.
“No. I mean yeah. Crap.” He drops his backpack on the table. “Um … listen … Izzy … Izzy …” He repeats my name like it’s his word at the spelling bee.
“Yes?”
“I know … I should have called or something after the museum, and then I was totally thrown when I saw you at the party. I mean I knew I would see you. I just … I don’t know what I was thinking—it was like I was brain dead or something. And I … well … anyway I [mumble, mumble, mumble],” he says, his voice lowering so far, I can’t make out anything.
“What?”
“I got you something,” he says a little louder, quickly reaching into his backpack to pull out a book, which he sets on the table like he’s serving me dinner.
I look down and see Roriago Revealed.
“They sell them in the gift shop. I tried to get it signed, but she wouldn’t … stop playing Mad Catter, so … There’s pictures in it too,” he adds.
I glance up at his face. “Wow, thanks,” I say, taking the book and flipping through it. And then Blake asks if we can go somewhere to talk that’s not right in the middle of the studio.
“Where?” I ask as I start to put away my supplies.
“Follow me,” he says.
I carefully, and somewhat reluctantly, cover up my map and follow him out of the studio.
CHAPTER 17
I shouldn’t have opened my mouth.
I should be back at the library right now. But I’m not. I’m not anywhere near the library. I’m all the way across the school in the Rap Room. The Rap Room, the place where kids are supposed to go to “rap out their problems” with our guidance counselor, Mr. Seel. But Mr. Seel is out for the afternoon. Instead I’m here. With Blake. Alone.
We’re sitting on the Rap Room futon surrounded by plush pillows. There are posters on the badly painted orange walls with pictures of kids hanging out and doing what all teenagers do: picking up litter at state parks, ladling soup into bowls at homeless shelters, volunteering at nursing homes. There’s also one of those charts, where you’re supposed to indicate how you feel based on how sad or happy the cartoon faces look. They’re numbered from ten down. Number ten is a smiley face with stars for eyes and number one is a frowny face with moons for eyes and lots of tears.
“This place is supposed to be locked when Mr. Seel is out, but it’s always open,” Blake is telling me, picking up one of the pillows and tossing it quickly back and forth in his hands.
“Cool …” I’m trying not to lean too far back on the couch so my head won’t touch the pillows, which probably haven’t been washed since 1982. I read this article once about a really deadly fungus—the kind that lives in dirty pillows—called Asparagus Fume or something, I forget the exact name, but it killed all these people. Okay, the people the fungus killed were already suffering from leukemia, but I don’t want to take any chances.
“So listen, I’m … I want to just say …” Blake stands up and starts to circle the floor, erratically picking up Rap Room objects, carrying them with him as he circles, and then randomly putting them down again. “… I’m sorry about the way the day ended on Saturday. I totally … I feel like, I made you uncomfortable. And … you know, I guess I was pissed at myself, just for being … because I like you. I like you a lot. That’s the thing. I do. So … that’s why this whole thing just totally sucks, you know?”
“Wait—what whole thing? You mean—”
“No I meant … me just messing it all up.” He falls back onto the couch, not looking at me.
“You didn’t mess it all up.”
“I didn’t?” he asks.
“No.” I turn toward him, putting my hand on his arm, stopping him from compulsively zipping the futon cover open and closed. “I mean, I was a little uncomfortable, yeah, but not because of … well, not because of you. Just because it was so, you know, public. You didn’t mess it all up.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“And I’m sorry about the party. I didn’t mean to ignore you. And I feel so crappy about that. I really should have just … spoke!”
“Yeah, that would have been a natural thing to do.” I smile.
“Okay so … good,” he says, finally smiling a little, and then he moves the pillow between us over to the other side of the couch. Which I guess is good, because that looked like the dirtiest of the bunch. But I don’t have the chance to think about pillow fungus for much longer because Blake and I are kissing now. It’s that nice, soft, organ-annihilating kissing that make my insides get slushy. Then Blake gently pulls my face into his, deepening the kiss, both his hands on the back of my neck. His lips taste like peppermint and French toast. Which is a surprisingly amazing combination.
Finally, he pulls away a little, and I can see his chest moving up and down, like he’s breathing really hard.
“You smell good,” he says quietly.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, realizing I’m breathing hard myself. “My mom uses lavender-scented detergent.” Why? Why did I just say that? But Blake laughs, and then he gets this resolute look on his face, like the way those action guys do in the movies right before they decide to parachute out of the plane or leap from one building to the next. Then he leans in to kiss me again and, whoa. This is a powerful kiss. So powerful, it pus
hes me back against all the fungus-filled pillows so that I’m practically lying down.
“Is this okay?” he asks, pulling away a little and looking at me.
I manage to get out an “Um, uh-huh” before he’s kissing me again. And now I don’t know what to do. I’ve never kissed anyone like this, lying down, before. Where do I put my hands? Should I leave them at my sides? Should I touch his hair? Am I still doing this right? Is it bad to think this much when you’re kissing someone lying down? Does everyone think this much when they’re kissing someone lying down? No, definitely not. Miss S. is right, I think too much. I need to enjoy this. I need to relax. Yes, I need to relax. Maybe I just need to relax my lips. Yes. Okay Izzy, take a deep breath … aaaaand …
Just as I let my lips soften, Blake opens his mouth.
Gah!
When two people kiss in a movie, both of them open their mouths at the same time. Then they shift their faces to either side simultaneously in a very romantic and sexy kind of way. But Blake and I don’t open our mouths at the same time and shift our faces to either side in a romantic and sexy kind of way. No, my neuron receptors aren’t working or something and so my mouth doesn’t get the message from my brain in time. So when Blake opens his mouth, I keep mine shut, and for what seems like an ungodly length of time, Blake Hangry FRENCH KISSES MY FACE!
He finally pulls away and smiles at me. I sit up and discreetly attempt to wipe my saliva-covered face. I want to tell him that I think maybe we should go to class. I don’t want to get Miss S. in trouble. Plus I don’t want to get face-Frenched again. But I also don’t want him to think I’m a prude or no fun. Before I can decide, Blake leans toward me again, this time falling on top of me with both of his outstretched hands landing on my breasts!
I sit up immediately, getting DIA flashbacks.
“Sorry, is that … is that not okay?” Blake has a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“No I … I just don’t want someone to come in,” I say. “Public spaces and all that.” I laugh weakly.
“Oh. No, no, it’s okay,” he says, shaking his head back and forth. “The door’s locked.”
“Oh,” I say, “okay, well—” And I want to say more, maybe even get up, but I’m having so many thoughts, it’s like I’m physically unable to give orders to my body parts.
And then we’re kissing again, and I’m flat on my back again. And then, I don’t know if I do it or if he forces it open, but my mouth opens up and my tongue just, kind of, naturally starts moving around. And, oh my God, Blake’s hands are underneath my sweater. When did this happen? Oh my God, he’s squeezing. He’s squeezing both of my breasts over my Lola’s Lingerie, double D, grandma bra! He’s squeezing and squeezing—and not in a romantic and sexy kind of way either. More like the way a clown squeezes his nose to make it honk. Before I can stop him, he pulls my sweater up and over my head, but he doesn’t take it all the way off.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, I’m lying down on the Rap Room futon—absorbing deadly fungus spores—with my thick wool sweater pulled tight up over my head while Blake Hangry is … Gah! Removing one of my boobs from my bra cup?! I’m trapped underneath my sweater. I’m trapped, and I’m not getting enough fresh oxygen. And I’m sweating now. I’m sweating in my sweater. I need to get up, but I can’t. Why can’t I get up? I feel like every move I make is in slow motion and every move Blake makes is in fast forward. I need to do something, quick. And then I remember this TV special I saw where this lady took a self-defense class and the teacher said when a “non-armed man” is attacking you to just start screaming and drooling and writhing around like you’re having a seizure. Should I fake a seizure? No, I can’t fake a seizure. And it’s not like Blake is attacking me. I can get up if I want to. Wait, can I? No! I can’t get up. I can’t get up! He’s got one of my shoulders pinned down. It’s not my neuron receptors that have me trapped, it’s the weight of Blake’s body.
I’m really starting to squirm now. I move my legs around. I attempt to sit up. But he doesn’t even notice. Or maybe he thinks I’m writhing in pleasure. Oh my God. I open my eyes and quickly close them again—the fuzzies from my sweater feel like they’re scratching my corneas. Oh God, I’m going to be the first girl to suffocate and go blind while making out with a guy in her high school guidance room. Wait, I feel his weight lift off me for a moment. I spring up, pulling my sweater down from my head. I see Blake on his cell phone. What? He’s on his cell phone?!
“Hey!” he says, quickly looking up from his phone. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I just … my brother just texted me about going to one of his practices at State and I wanted to let him know right away that I could because he has to put me on this list … anyway, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he repeats, shoving his phone back in his pocket.
“Listen,” I say, sounding as frustrated as I feel, and trying to shift my body in a way that gets my boob back in my bra. And just as I give up and start to reach my hands in to adjust myself, Blake, who I now notice is actually sweating a lot more than I am right now, puts his arms around my waist.
“No listen—” I start, and then feel him attempting to unhook my bra. “Hey!” I push him back.
“What? What’s wrong?”
I stare at him. “We should go to class.” I reach for my bag off the floor.
“Oh, okay,” he laughs and then leans all his weight on me again, trying to pull my sweater back up and tugging at my bra hooks. I try to push myself up, but he’s draped over me and I can’t move.
“Stop!” I say, squirming frantically, feeling the itchy futon on my back. And that’s when I start kicking. I kick and kick and end up kicking Blake hard in the groin. He falls to the floor with a moan. I sit up, pull my sweater down again, and somehow manage to shout, “I said stop! God!”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t hear you.” He’s clutching himself where I kicked him. “You didn’t have to flip out on me! Jesus, are you trying to kill me?” he says, but not looking angry, just kind of confused, and totally embarrassed lying down there on the floor. And then I start to feel a little confused and embarrassed myself.
“No,” I say, “I’m not trying to kill you, I just … I just wanted to go to class and—”
“Oh. I thought … you were kidding about that.”
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“Okay. Well … I didn’t hear you say stop before,” he says, getting up, and then spits out really fast, “I’m sorry, I just, I thought you liked me and it would be okay if … I’m just, I’m just kind of confused here.”
“I do like you,” I say, starting to feel bad that I kicked him so hard. What is wrong with me? “I’m sorry. Maybe … maybe I overreacted,” I say uncertainly.
“No, no, no, it’s okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. I didn’t … It’s my fault. This is totally and completely my fault. I’m …” He pushes his hair out of his face, making it stand up in sweaty points. “I’m such an asshole. God.” He picks up his backpack like he wants to throw it across the room. “I’m such a total and complete jerk-douche asshole. I’m sorry, Izzy.”
“No, no … I’m just— You just— I didn’t—” But I can’t finish because I don’t know what I am or how I feel.
Blake is rubbing the bridge of his nose with both his middle fingers. “Let’s just get to class.”
“Yes,” I say, helping him reassemble the room, and trying to reassemble myself at the same time. I follow Blake outside, closing the Rap Room door behind me, when I hear him say, “Crap!”
I turn around to find him face-to-face with Pam.
“Izzy!” she says, looking more frazzled than usual. I wait for her to tell us that she’s taking us to Mrs. Preston’s office and reporting us for skipping class and then looking at me with crushing disappointment and telling me that she’ll have to call Mom.
“We were just—” Blake says, but Pam interrupts, her eyes on me.
“I just went looking for you in the library. When you weren’t there, I thought
maybe you went looking for me, that Allissa had already gotten ahold of you.”
I blink at her. “What?” I ask, and watch as Blake slinks around the corner and out of sight.
And then Pam tells me about my mom.
CHAPTER 18
I have negative energy.
“Who put the bop in the bop shoo wop shoo wop? Who put the ram in the rama lama ling dong?”
I don’t know, and I don’t care, and I really don’t feel like listening to Oldies 104.3 right now because it just makes my already aching head feel worse. But this is Pam’s car and Pam’s radio, so I guess I have no choice.
“So … how you doing? You okay?” Pam turns to me and lets out a long breath when we’re stopped at a red light.
I nod. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay then”—Pam starts digging around in her purse—“still waiting to hear back from Mrs. B. Here, eat a granola bar.” She pulls a bunch out and drops them on the seat between us one by one. “I got cranberry, chocolate chip, peanut butter, apple cinnamon …” I grab a chocolate chip and hold it in my lap. She waits for me to unwrap and take a bite and then says, “So, if you promise me you won’t skip class again to be with your boyfriend, I won’t tell your mom about today. Deal?”
I almost choke. “Uh-huh.”
Tell my mom about today? How are you going to tell her anything? Who knows if she’s even coherent. All we know is that she passed out at a meeting at Mrs. Burk’s house. What does that mean, passed out? I’ve messed things up so much with Mom. She’s still so angry with me. And, oh God, the mental snapshot she has of me—that terrible mental snapshot of her irresponsible disappointment of a daughter looking all disheveled and wearing a Meredith Brightwell nafka top after sneaking out to go to a stupid frat party. What if it’s permanent? What if that’s the last way she sees me?
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to squeeze my thoughts away, then foggily turn toward the sound of Pam’s voice. She’s on her cell now, talking a mile a minute.
“So what you’re saying is that Linda passed out, but then she got up again?” Pam is talking to Mrs. Burk, I’m assuming. I turn the radio down and Pam puts Mrs. B. on speaker. It’s a little hard to understand her—the speaker is fuzzy and it sounds like she’s got a Werther’s Original in her mouth—but it’s better than nothing.
