by Ryan Gebhart
She relaxes her stance. “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Have you seen it?”
“No. But I know the general premise: Snow White meets up with some dwarfs to kill the Queen.”
Laughing, she says, “That’s not how it goes. You should come by and watch it with me. It’s a classic.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I’ll see it someday.”
Wait a minute. Did she just ask me to come over to her house?
It’s like someone stabbed my chest with a syringe full of adrenaline.
Short on breath, I get out, “You mean, like, right now?”
She places her hair behind her ear. “Unless you have a curfew, or something else planned.”
I have no idea what I said or did to make her want to hang out. Maybe she’s got a crush on me I never knew about. Maybe she thinks the world’s about to end tonight and she’s looking for some action one last time. Or maybe I was right, that aliens are some kind of aphrodisiac, because never in my life has the opposite sex shown this much interest in me.
Don’t overthink this. All she asked is if I wanted to come over to watch a movie.
I say, “No, I’m free.”
Shugar lost his virginity when he was fifteen with a girl named Becca Lynn German. The story goes that he met her on a family trip to South Padre Island, and his parents had no idea their vacation coincided with spring break. Becca was a college freshman from Houston, and Shugar told her he was seventeen. She had a handle of Kamchatka Vodka; he had a box of Capri Suns. They waded out together after dark and he told her he couldn’t walk back to shore with a hard-on, and apparently that was a good enough argument for her.
Andy hasn’t lost his virginity yet, which I’m sure would surprise a lot of people, because all these girls were creaming over him when he played his acoustic at the Battle of the Bands in September. He says he’s going to wait until the right one comes along, but blow jobs are still fair game.
So I’m turning eighteen in about two weeks, and I’m a virgin on all levels — hands, mouth, vag — and now I’m heading to Jennifer Novak’s house. Maybe this is the night I’ll get my own story to share.
I walk one foot in front of the other on the curb on River Road, holding my hands out like a high-wire artist. I say, “I could walk the whole way like this without falling off once.”
She’s messaging someone with her free hand, her face illuminated.
I say, “How far is it to your house?”
She’s probably talking to another guy, which . . . no, that’s none of my business.
Maybe I should pretend like I’m talking to someone too. I get my phone, turn it in my hands a few times, then put it away, because that’s a stupid idea. I say with a little laugh, “God, I’d kill for a Segway right about now.” I’d kill for a response from her, too.
River Road turns into East Broadway. My buzz is wearing off, and I can’t stand her silence.
I say, “Walking is for losers, y’know?”
She smiles — whether it’s from what I said or what the person she’s texting said is anyone’s guess.
We reach an intersection in uptown Maumee. There isn’t any traffic, just the traffic lights blinking yellow and a couple stumbling from the Village Idiot, laughing and smoking and not being awkward with each other at all.
I can see how this would be a peaceful night for some: the stars are out despite the city lights, the temperature has gotta be pushing seventy, and there’s a potentially friendly species of aliens that just made contact with us. But there’s no peace for me. I’m walking with a hot girl back to her home, and it’s exhausting trying to act this casual.
I push the button for the crosswalk. As we wait for the red hand to turn into the walking man, Jenny puts her phone away and softly takes my hand. She breathes deep and shudders as she exhales, though it’s not cold out.
Her house is off-white and two stories and older-looking. It reminds me a lot of my house and was probably designed by the same architect. The porch light is on. An overgrown maple tree has lifted and broken apart the sidewalk. No one’s bothered to rake the leaves, so the lawn is carpeted with orange and yellow and brown.
Inside, everything is clean and put away, except for a two-player game of Yahtzee on the dining table. There’s audience laughter from Saturday Night Live, where they’re doing some skit involving aliens playing baseball. Elementary school art projects and family pictures crowd the mantle above the granite fireplace — Jenny and her parents and her brother get older the farther right you go.
A sink shuts off and a guy with a buzz cut appears from the kitchen holding a bottle of beer, oblivious of the water stain on the bottom of his polo that makes it look like he pissed himself.
“How was the alien party?” he asks with a sincere smile.
Jenny places her staff by the coat rack and says, “It was fun. People were painting aliens on each other, and they had a Slip’N Slide. This is my friend Derek. He’s in my Spanish class.”
“Hello, Mr. Novak,” I say politely, but what is he thinking of me? That I’m just some asshole trying to hook up with his daughter?
I am just some asshole trying to hook up with his daughter.
“Hey there, Tiger,” he says, and shakes my hand. He’s making me feel so welcome, the fact that he’s already given me a nickname. “The name’s Joel. So, were they playing the Centaurian songs at this party?”
“I don’t think they did,” Jenny says, then looks at me. “Did they?”
“Not that I recall.”
Joel says, “You see, we should’ve been the hosts. If I was throwing an alien party, it only makes sense to play their music.”
I say, “I totally agree with that.”
“Maybe we could’ve made some kind of alien-themed cocktail, too.” He looks at Jenny inquisitively. “What do you think they would drink at a party?”
She gives a baffled little laugh. “I . . . haven’t really thought about it.”
I say, “I bet you they probably just drink beer.”
He raises his bottle and clinks it with an imaginary one. “It’s an amazing time we live in. They’ll be talking about today for centuries to come: the day we were contacted by aliens. Who knows what’s going to happen next.”
Jenny shrugs. “We’re gonna watch a movie.”
He says, “I wonder what they look like. Do you think they look like us?”
She says, “I’m not sure. Maybe we’ll find out soon enough.”
Jenny opens a door in the living room that leads to the basement, and on the wall there’s one of those old-people stair lifts, like from the commercials during The Price Is Right. It leads downstairs on a metal guide rail.
“No way,” I say. I’ve never seen one of these in person. “Can I . . . I mean, do you mind? Does it work?”
She shrugs, unimpressed that the most awesome thing is in her house. It’s got a seat belt and everything. “Be my guest.”
I buckle up, press Down, and the electric motor whirs to life. I slowly descend. I want to ask her why they have this, but I can barely make words. This could probably be the greatest moment of my life, and I’m fighting back the giddiest of smiles.
The stair lift silences at the landing of the finished basement, which appears to be her bedroom and also the laundry room. There’s a tumbling sound and the clinking of a loose quarter or a zipper in the dryer, and the entire room smells inviting and warm. They use Morning Mist fabric softener, I can tell.
Oh, my God. On top of a card table covered in a checkered tablecloth, there’s a snow-cone machine that’s like industrial grade and worthy of the big leagues. Beside it, there are six different bottles of syrup and a stack of paper cones.
I’ve wanted a snow-cone machine ever since Mom took me to my first Texas Longhorns baseball game back when we lived in Austin. Easy access to snow cones was the main reason I looked forward to going, to be honest.
In the uncarpeted half of the basement by the washer and dryer, there’s a stack
of blank white T-shirts, a silk-screen printing press, and half-empty containers of dye on top of newspapers. Hanging from the walls are two-by-two green screens with designs for T-shirts. One is for the shirt she’s wearing right now. Another is for an NBA team, but NBA stands for “National Bark Association.” It includes a silhouette of a group of dogs with a caption that says: “The Houston Red Rockets.”
She’s a T-shirt designer and I had no idea.
I say, “I remember when you wore that NBA shirt to school last week. I totally thought you bought it off of Etsy. It looked legit.”
“Thanks. Right now I’m only printing monochromatic designs. Eventually I plan on getting the equipment to make them in full color.”
“I’ve printed pictures onto shirts before. All you need is an iron and some transfer paper. You can get them at Michaels.”
“The quality with that stuff isn’t the greatest. Ideally, what I’d like to do is print an actual photo of dogs wearing jerseys, but I haven’t gotten around to making jerseys custom-fitted for dogs or getting five dogs together and having them pose on a basketball court.”
“You could use my dog. She’s chill. And my friend Andy Zimmerman has a ten-year-old golden who’s really obedient. I’m sure we could find three more dogs. Do you have a dog?”
“We have a cat. His name’s Rufus.”
I already knew that from her Instagram, but I casually say, “Throw him in too. He’d be, like, the ringer.”
“You think the school would let us stage a photo shoot with a bunch of animals in the gym?”
I shrug. “You know, I’ve thought of a few T-shirt ideas.”
“Oh yeah?”
“One’s for this cereal I made up called Pancake Krunch and the tagline reads: ‘Pancakes? For breakfast?’ and there’d be a picture of a cartoon kid with a totally shocked face.”
She busts up laughing, then leans into me the way she leaned into Kyle, triggering a rise in goose bumps and other things. “That’s the stupidest thing.”
I turn away to adjust my pants. “Yeah, that’s the joke, kind of.”
I open a manila folder on her desk. Inside, there’s what looks like a small screenplay. The title page says:
Monkey Business
Episode 1: The Pilot
By Alex Novak and Jennifer Novak
I say, “What’s this? You’re making a movie too?”
“Hey, I didn’t say you could go snooping through my stuff.”
“Sorry. So, what’s it about?”
“Eh, it would take forever to explain.” She gestures with her head for me to come over. “I want to put on Snow White.”
Jenny sits on the end of the couch, her legs folded and her bare feet tucked beneath her ass. I only give a fleeting glance, because I’ve learned my lesson about staring. She sighs as she uses her phone to search through the movie choices on her TV, as if she’s totally unaware just how amazing all this is. I mean, she writes scripts and designs her own T-shirts. I’ve written fantasy stories and I thought about making a shirt one time. She’s kind of a dork. We have more in common than I ever knew. Does she see that too?
I sit at the opposite end of the couch, and as the Disney castle appears, I laugh.
She looks at me. “Hmmm?”
“Oh, it’s just that across the planet tonight, people are probably watching movies about aliens and we’re watching Snow White. It seemed kinda funny to me.”
“What do you think about the Centaurians?”
“Haven’t really processed it yet. Seems cool. I’m just hoping school will be canceled Monday.”
“You didn’t do your homework for Señor Hafemann?”
“You mean, Señor Sexy.”
“What?” she says with a confused smirk.
“Don’t you remember on the first day of school when he gave us a lesson on how to salsa dance? Dude’s got moves.”
She leans closer to me, placing her hand on the middle couch cushion, and her eyes bug out. “Oh, my God. I was the one who had to dance with him, remember?”
How could I forget the subtle, stylized gyration to Señor’s hips or the way Jenny couldn’t stop laughing and her cheeks went red? When she went back to her desk, her hair was shrouding her face.
I say, “I think he’s a hottie. You should go for it.”
“You’re funny.”
“I know.” At some point I should probably throw her a lighthearted insult, like how Shugar trained me to talk to girls. But instead I say, “I think you’re way funnier. I mean, I never would have thought of the Houston Red Rockets. That’s . . . that’s just genius.”
“Thanks.”
The Magic Mirror is telling the Queen that Snow White is the fairest in the land, and Jenny yawns. Maybe she’s not looking to hook up tonight, and honestly that’s a huge relief. We’re just two people from Hafemann’s class watching a movie together.
She says, “So, do you still swim?”
“No. Well, I mean, I still can swim. Me, Mark, and Andy got bored with it, I guess. And I hated all the pressure my mom put on me, even though all we were doing was swimming back and forth. I never saw the reason for her screaming so much. We weren’t even on a real team.”
“I was sad when you guys quit.” Which is surprising because I always figured that she never thought twice about me back then. “What do you do now?”
I don’t think smoking up counts as an extracurricular, so I say, “I might try out for the tennis team in the spring.” The thought never occurred to me until this moment.
For no real reason that I can see, we both go quiet. Ten minutes into the movie she shifts a little, then unabashedly scooches over until her head is against my shoulder, then sighs as she gets comfortable and snuggly, like this is a thing we’ve been doing for years. I casually inhale the scent of her shampoo — pomegranate, maybe — and I have to respond to her advances, so I kiss her on the part in her hair.
She makes a throaty sound like she’s fighting back a laugh. “What the fuck was that?”
“Uh . . .”
Sprawled out on the couch, she extends her arm out and wraps it around my waist, the back of her wrist millimeters away from feeling the tip of my wiener through my pants.
She says, “You know, I’ve always thought you were kinda cute.”
I pull back a little, and she looks up at me, and it’s hard to tell, but I think she’s glad that I’m here with her.
God, I hope she doesn’t notice my boner or how fast my heart is pounding. If I hook up with her now, then we’ll never be friends; we’ll never be anything. She’ll just be the girl I lost one — or several — of my virginities to.
“What’s up?” I manage to get out, and then force a smile. “You don’t . . . think the world’s about to end, do you? I mean, why else would you be . . . ?”
She gets up like she’s about to leave, but she stands between my legs, thinking of her next move.
She puts her hair behind her ears, then straddles me.
Whoa.
Her smile is so sweet, and her breath smells faintly like beer. She places her hands on my shoulders, her hair spilling in front of my face, and she’s casually grinding me. Now there’s no hiding just how into her I am.
“I thought you wanted to watch the movie.” What if I disappoint her? She’s probably really good at sex. She probably knows exactly what she wants, where she likes to be touched and kissed. And I’m going to spooge all over the basement in one awkward convulsion.
“You know. I’m — I’m a . . .” And my face gets warm. I can’t say it. It’s a stupid thing to say. But she deserves to know the truth.
She leans back, giving me a sincere and reassuring smile, and maybe I won’t have to go through with this. As Snow White and her animal friends find a cottage in the woods, I say, “I mean, we can do whatever, but —” My throat tightens.
I want to say maybe we should slow it down. I’ve never been in a relationship before, and with all that we have in common, I can see my
self having one with her. The world’s not going to end tonight, and we have time to figure out this new world together, where we now know we’re not alone in the universe.
What the hell has happened? How did we end up here, her hand feeling the bulge in my pants?
“You’re a virgin,” she says with a studious, narrowed look. “Never would have guessed it. How far have you gone?”
It was with Corina Metts spring semester of my junior year. We were in her bedroom and she was helping me study for our pre-calc exam because I was really bad at math and she was really good.
I say, “I went over the top.”
“I like you, Derek. Let’s have some fun. We can do whatever you’re comfortable with.”
I gather all the shreds of confidence that I have to say this: “What do you want to do?”
Jenny places my hand against her boob and . . . this is exactly where I belong. Like I could make a boobfront home with a big backyard, and I could be by these boobs for the rest of my life in a rocking chair with a tall glass of iced lemonade. I must be the luckiest guy in the universe.
Now she’s gently biting my bottom lip, and her hands are firmly on my belt buckle. Can she still be my new best friend even if we hook up?
It doesn’t matter. There’s a beautiful girl sliding off my pants, and now there’s no going back.
Snow White is singing “Whistle While You Work” with the animals, and as I pull off her jeans, I whistle along in key.
I kiss her neck.
The birds sing.
She gives me a condom from her desk and I lose my virginity.
She moves with me and bites me like she wants to eat my cheeks and jaw. I can’t tell if I’m doing it right because I’m basically just sitting there, but she’s not saying anything or correcting me. I’m overflowing with feelings I’ve never experienced and I don’t understand them but I want to more than anything. Maybe we should change positions —
— aaaand I’m done.
My head falls into her chest and every nerve in my body is tingling from the orgasm, but it’s accompanied by an overwhelming feeling of guilt. I want to apologize. I want to cry. She’s helping me clean up, trying to make me feel normal, but she’s not saying anything because I was horrible. She’ll be laughing her ass off when she tells her friends about how I couldn’t even last three minutes.
