by Schow, Ryan
We take seats along the back wall, pulling two tables together. Chloe and Netty sit on the padded bench seats while me and Brayden slide into the chairs facing them.
Me and Brayden eat the same thing while Netty and Chloe share the Papas Tacos and a bowl of Killer Guacamole. I’ve never seen anyone eat herb and garlic mashed potatoes in a taco before (Papas Tacos), but the way Netty’s raving about it, I’m thinking when we come here next, that’s on my bucket list of uneaten foods.
Brayden curls his nose at the idea of potatoes in a taco, saying tacos without meat are simply un-American. Chloe scoffs at the statement, but doesn’t offer a word to the contrary. I want to tell her this is just Brayden being Brayden, but I don’t.
“So how long have you known each other?” I ask Chloe.
Netty answers for her. “Since we started working together.”
Looking at Chloe, I say, “What exactly do you two do?”
Chloe, who is pretty, but in a tech-nerdy kind of way, finishes chewing her food. She’s smiling because I asked her a question with food in her mouth, but it’s not a lovely smile. Okay, so maybe I did that on purpose. Still, I’m looking at her, appraising her, judging her. My assessment of her isn’t what I expected. With the short haircut, the amethyst eye-shadow beneath stylish rectangular framed glasses, the cupid’s bow of brick red lips and the pale San Francisco skin—how it all works so nicely together—I’m thinking if I was to go lesbo, she’d be a solid choice.
Still, it’s damn near impossible to imagine her and Netty together. Them kissing. Being naked together. Being…intimate. I stifle an involuntary shiver right about the time Chloe starts talking about hers and Netty’s job selling Facebook advertising space in the world of dot com start-ups.
“The pay isn’t stellar yet, but if you play your cards right, you can move into the big leagues in Silicon Valley.”
“Not that I’m terribly anxious to get back to the valley,” Netty says. “I was just thrown out on the tail end of my father’s scandal, so I’m completely content where I’m at. Here, I’m anonymous.”
“For now,” Chloe says, looking into Netty’s eyes. “The past is eventually forgotten. At least, at the rate print media burns through headline stories, your father’s blunders are already distant memories.”
Netty blinks fast, then looks away. She starts shoveling food into her mouth, which is a tell-tale sign she’s hiding something. At least she’s not sexing up my father. That said, I feel momentous relief.
“Slow down, Netty,” I say, “you’ll get indigestion.”
Looking up at me, she sees my expression, the one that says I know she’s up to something, and I have a pretty freaking good idea what it is.
Chloe isn’t a friend, Netty confirms for me by her suspicious actions, she’s a girlfriend.
Netty’s cheeks burn bright red. She keeps shoveling food into her mouth. Chloe just sits there, smiling, enjoying every single bit of it.
The scandalous little minx.
When lunch is over and Chloe starts talking about having to get back to the office, we say our good-byes. I’m pleasant to Chloe and Brayden is overly pleasant. He has a thing for lipstick lesbians, even though this seems like a new thing for Netty. Maybe they haven’t even gone to second base. At least, that’s what this naïve mind of mine chooses to believe.
Then again, it’s not that I have anything against lesbians, I just don’t like the idea of Netty liking another girl more than she likes me. That said, my motivations are purely narcissistic. I give her a hug, and in her ear, I say, “Call me tonight so we can talk about your new girlfriend.”
She straightens up fast, right out of my embrace, but I catch her with grace. I lean in and give her a kiss on her cheek and say, “Not judging.” She smiles and I smile and it’s all terribly awkward.
On the way home, Brayden says, “Well that was all a bit prickly.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m still trying not to have sand in my vagina over this whole fiasco.”
“Dramatic much?” he says.
“We’re best friends,” I say. “I should know if she’s in a relationship. Especially if it involves a woman.”
“Does she know you got naked with your teacher?” he says.
“Good freaking God, Brayden,” I snap. “Really?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well don’t.”
“Friendship is a two way street, is it not?”
“Mind your own business,” I say. He says nothing for awhile, but that’s because we both know he’s right. Still, I can’t relent, so I say, “I’m perfectly comfortable being a hypocrite right now, in case you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“Well there you go then.”
“There I go,” he says, low, but grinning.
Behold, The Righteous Douchebag
1
Over the next few days, things actually start to resemble some semblance of normal, which is to say nothing huge or extraordinary has happened, yet. In the back of my mind, with the way things have been this last year, I’m pretty sure the sky will soon break open and spill dead bullfrogs all over my bright little world.
With his surgery only days away, Brayden can’t stop smiling. He’s been friendly and kind, even courteous to others. Which is weird. He doesn’t cuss much and he hasn’t tried to hit on any of us girls, and this baffles me. I’m still waiting for the hammer to drop. Truthfully, I hardly recognize him. When he gets his nose fixed, his eyelids lifted and his weak chin strengthened, I’m not sure how I’ll feel about him, but with his fit body and his newfound decency, I’m sure he’ll end up looking a lot better, if not a little dangerous. It’s a combination I want for him. Or maybe I’m self-serving. The way I’m looking at Brayden lately, who knows anymore? Maybe that’ll be the thing that pushes us over the edge.
Rebecca’s eyes start to clear. She’s talking more and more, and just yesterday she remembered her last name: Taylor. Rebecca Taylor. What a huge break! At lunch, sitting around the table at home, me, Brayden and Maggie are talking about school, how I chucked vomit all over Cameron’s dorm-room door and how we started this massive food fight, and we practically fall out of our seats when Rebecca starts laughing. Her giggling is soft and charming and, in a word, delightful.
I’m going to miss her when she’s gone.
After lunch, I ask Brayden to put his hacking skills to good use. “We need to find Rebecca’s parents,” I tell him. “Her family needs to know she’s alive.” Usually finding someone is a cinch for Brayden, but I have a feeling this won’t be so easy. Rebecca has no idea where she’s from, neither city nor state, and this leaves Brayden little to go on. Half an hour ago, sitting in my room banging the keys on my laptop, he started with the missing children’s websites. So far, he’s got exactly squat.
Then again, with nearly three hundred thousand children missing each year, it’s like looking for a really small needle in a really large haystack.
The texts to Maggie from the scumbag producer have stopped, but that’s because Maggie’s been going to the studio regularly. She’s been sleeping less and less, and, like Rebecca, she’s been way more talkative. Everything about her expression seems relaxed, which gives me hope.
In the last week, she recorded two new songs, which we listened to in demo-format after dinner on my father’s Gucci sound system. Maggie’s really excited about the songs. We absolutely love them. Watching her, to some degree, is like watching a butterfly finally spreading her wings.
Ever since I found out Netty’s been shacking up with the hot tech nerd we met at lunch, Damien and I have been talking on the phone. He’s even coming up in a few days to stay the night. I’m not sure where this will lead, but my hormones are in freaking overdrive and lately I’ve been having more than a few Fifty Shades of Grey thoughts. For awhile there, I was looking around my room wondering what he could use to tie me up with, and whether or not the binds would hold if the fun between
us got rough. Then I came to my senses and decided I’m not that kind of girl. Not yet anyway. Besides, I will have plenty of time for that kind of thing in my upcoming years, I’m sure.
Sex, I remind myself all too often these days, should be done with someone special under the right circumstances and so far, having a break in the chaotic storms of my new life barely qualifies as “the right circumstances.”
Me and Damien agree to take things slow, to try each other out. I’m going to see how he is as a boyfriend, because as hot as he is, and he’s like “surface of the sun” hot, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know chances are better than fair he’ll screw things up.
Or not, who knows? I’d soooo love to be wrong on this one!
If somehow we find we’re right together, and our first real kiss truly was the start of something special, then maybe I’ll go buy some S&M gear and a Kama Sutra sex guide and we can have that Fifty Shades of Grey romance millions of married woman are talking about these days.
Even though life is finally fairing well, summer doesn’t feel long enough. The way the hours of the day are escaping me, I wonder if I’ll accomplish anything worthwhile at all. But I have to. I mean, I will. There’s finding Rebecca’s birth family (which is an absolute must); making sure Maggie continues to mend the more damaged parts of her soul; re-connecting with Netty because I’m worried I’m losing her as a friend; making sure I have enough money to pay for Brayden’s surgeries, then nurse him back to health when he’s done; and go out on that date with Jacob…who’s at the front door right now.
See? Already my priorities are all wrong.
I agreed to go out with Jacob because I promised I would. In light of everything on my plate, I’m heading to the front door thinking he’s lowest on my list of musts and I should have done this some other time. Plus, here I am, preparing to start a relationship with Damien, and I’m going on a date with my first crush.
What a selfish turd I turned out to be! I tell myself I will be good. That I won’t make out with him or let him feel me up. That we’re just friends. That’s how I clear my guilty conscience.
It doesn’t work.
When I open the front door and see him, with a new haircut, cool jeans and a moderately tight t-shirt, my heart thumps clumsily around in my chest, leaving me short of breath, and a little excited.
“God, you look good,” I hear myself say. I shouldn’t have said it, not like that, but how can I resist?
“There you go stealing my lines,” he says. He manages a breath of his own, lets it out with a charming grin and a nod of immense approval and says, “Abby Swann, if you don’t me mind saying, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
“You can say things like that all you like,” I say, leaning in to kiss him. “And just so you know, flattery will get you just about everywhere.”
2
The night air is warm, airing on the side of hot, which is why I’m wearing a super cute summer dress and why I have my hair pulled into a ponytail. It’s almost eight. The temperature is eighty-sevenish degrees. Eesh! My makeup is light, my deodorant heavy, and it’s still a hot freaking evening. This classic (read: conservative) look isn’t really the look that best defines me, but in this kind of Silicon Valley weather, it’s reasonable enough. The saving grace against wearing such a simple outfit is that my face is beautiful and my body’s on point. I’m not confessing this from a place of vanity, or even arrogance, it’s just that it still surprises me that I look so damn good.
Half the time, in my mind, I’m still that fat girl I left behind. I don’t know why this is such a big problem for me to get past. Maybe it just takes time. Then again, maybe I will always feel like a fat girl masquerading as hot AF.
Dinner is Vietnamese, a lovely restaurant called Tamarine on University and Tasso. The décor is simple yet elegant: heavy mixed woods, heavier draperies, clean lines, calming colors. The only thing that bugs me about this place is I don’t have a fake ID and the Jade Bar inside the restaurant is rumored to have the most amazing Lemongrass Press, which is a cocktail made with Nolet’s Silver Dry Gin, Fever Tree Ginger Beer, Lemongrass syrup and a freshly squeezed lime. All Jacob can talk about is this drink. Then he tells me he doesn’t have a fake ID and I’m like, “What’s the point of fantasizing over this drink neither of us can get?”
“I’m just saying, is all,” he says, and all I’m thinking is, man, boys are dumb!
Behind the bar there is a gorgeous wall made of bamboo encased frosted glass, and the bar’s overhead lighting comes from teardrop shaped crystals hanging from massive chandeliers. I can see why people come here to drink and socialize.
“I need to pee,” Jacob says, snapping me out of my hyper fascination.
“Be sure to wipe front to back,” I say. He fires me a look that isn’t terribly humorous. I f*cking hate it when guys say they have to pee. It sounds so girlish and not cute.
I watch him walk to the bathroom, impressed by his butt and how it looks in jeans when I see a forty-something man coming from the bathroom. He holds the door for Jacob then catches my eye and smiles. I can’t help smiling back. It’s just what happens when hot guys smile at you. You almost have to smile back. He breezes past me and I catch the faintest whiff of his cologne, which smells clean and manly and slightly suggestive. He stops, then turns and comes back.
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you here with that boy?” he says. “The one who just went into the lavatory?”
“I am,” I say, caught off guard.
“Would it be terribly impolite if I ask if you two are…involved?”
“First date,” I say, feeling my lower back suddenly dampening with nervous sweat. I’m looking at this man, who has to be at least fifteen or twenty years older than me, and I’m wondering if he’s being nice or if he’s hitting on me. With these kinds of questions, I’m thinking it’s got to be the latter. Which is flattering, but perhaps a bit inappropriate. I tell myself he’s just being polite, but the slightly veiled, hungry look in his eye tells me this is more than a gentleman’s curiosity.
He withdraws a business card and a pen, then turns the card over and scribbles his number on the back. Smiling, he hands me the card and says, “Whenever you tire of boys, call me and I will enlighten you to the wonders of being with a man.”
I take the card because I don’t know what else to do, and though I’m flattered, the idea of being with someone who is easily twice my age kind of weirds me out.
“I’m seventeen,” I say.
“I was once seventeen,” he says with a boyish grin that makes me feel both thrilled and icky at once. I slide the card into my clutch, quickly, because I don’t want Jacob seeing it and asking about it. Something like this will kill the evening for sure.
He walks off and I can breathe again. Within moments I find myself wondering if I will call the number, and then I think to myself: only a class-A blue-ribbon slut would call, which is why I won’t. I might, though, too.
Closer to the bathrooms there is a trash can. I head to it, fully intent on throwing away this wicked card, and that’s when Jacob comes strolling out of the rest room. I’m thinking, is he a quick-pisser or did he just need to wash his hands? Either way, the business card stays with me, and I take Jacob’s hand in an awkward display. I feel like a retard.
He says, “What’s wrong with you?” and I’m like, “Nothing. I’m just happy we’re doing this, finally.” Jesus, what a terrible, terrible lie. A few minutes later the hostess shows us to our table.
As we take our seats, I see the man who hit on me sitting at the bar sipping a yellow drink and checking his watch. It looks expensive, the drink and the watch. A few minutes later, our eyes meet in the bar’s mirror, and he smiles.
Damn!
I look away fast, my face blistering. Jacob barely notices the way he’s perusing the menu. A few minutes later, movement near the bar catches the corner of my eye and to my absolute horror, it’s Margaret. Freaking Margaret! She heads st
raight for the bar and puts her hand on the man’s shoulder and that’s when I realize the guy who hit on me is Margaret’s boyfriend.
Motherf*cker…he’s the douchebag writer!
Together they stand up. He nods to a member of the staff who escorts them to their table, almost right next to ours! Margaret sees me and she’s all smiles.
She says, “Abby, dear, what on earth are you doing here?” and that’s when Jacob looks at me and says, “You know her?”
“Friend of the family,” I say, lightheaded, but not so much that I can’t maintain my cover. It’s so wonderful not to have to claim Margaret as my mother. Ever since I changed bodies, it’s been the best feeling ever. Margaret formally introduces me to the man who stole her heart and is trying to steal my virginity. Politely, he shakes my hand, his face now reddening with the same kind of heat and the same kind of embarrassment I’m currently feeling.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says.
“Pleased to meet me?” I stammer. “Really?” All the sudden, I’m feeling bitter, maybe nuclear because of all he’s done to ruin our lives. Nasty is what I’ve become. Vindictive is tonight’s main dish. “You say that like we haven’t already met.”
He stumbles over his words and now Margaret’s making that face that says she can’t figure out what the hell is going on. I slide out his card, look at the front, which says only his name with the word “Author” beneath it. Then I hand it to Margaret.
“He wanted me to call him when I got tired of boys and was ready to experience the pleasures of a real man.”
Margaret flips the card over and sees his cell phone number in blue ink. She pauses, taking this all in, then turns and slaps him. Looking at me, she says, “I’m so sorry honey, I’ll see you at home.” Which is weird because we don’t even live with each other. That’s what happens when your world turns upside down. Shit that doesn’t make sense starts pouring from your mouth.
