by Antony John
“Kayla, I’m so sorry about this, but—”
Kayla’s cellphone starts buzzing and she rips it from her pocket, flicking open the screen in one deft movement.
“Oh shit,” she cries, just loud enough for everyone in the theater to hear.
“What is it?”
She looks at me, aghast. “My little sister’s been kidnapped.”
Okay, I have to admit I didn’t see that one coming.
“I h-have to g-go,” she gasps, standing awkwardly and grabbing her bag.
“Of course. God, I’m so sorry, Kayla, I really am. I hope she shows up soon.”
I hope she shows up soon? Did I really just say that? What a retard.
“Yeah, sure,” she grunts, looking at me like I’m a retard.
And then she’s gone, and it’s 8:29. I can’t believe my luck. I make a mental note to thank Kayla’s sister if she’s found alive.
After a few seconds I exit the theater, emerging slowly in case Taylor is already waiting outside. The foyer is bustling, and it takes me a moment to see her standing beside a larger-than-life cardboard cutout of an anonymous superhero who’s “KICKING BUTT ON JUNE 17!” The superhero is flanked by a couple of diminutive but largely naked women, which makes it even more impressive that Taylor commands my complete attention. Her shiny red hair ripples over the shoulders of a flowing, dark green dress, and a heavy silver chain and pendant gracefully adorn her neck. It’s an outfit that would really suit Abby.
“Hi, Taylor,” I call out as I zip across the foyer.
“Oh, hi, Kevin.” She pauses, a puzzled expression etched on her face. “You’ll never guess who I just saw running out of here.”
“Who?”
“Kayla. And she looked kind of freaked out.”
“Really? That’s too bad.”
“Yeah. I hope she’s okay.”
Just in case she’s thinking of continuing her inquiry further, I cough a couple of times to distract her.
“Are you okay? Do you have a cold?”
I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing. So what do you want to see?”
Taylor studies the list of movies and groans. “Geez, I hate May.”
“Huh?”
“May—I hate it. It’s when they start wheeling out all the made-for-morons blockbusters.”
Nothing would make Taylor happier than to see the theater infested with a plague of costume dramas and Shakespeare adaptations. After all, she has her thespian reputation to uphold.
“Um, does anything appeal to you?”
She shakes her head and her hair shimmers like a Pantene commercial. “Not really. Actually, I’d kind of prefer to just hang out and talk. Maybe go get coffee. Would that be okay?”
Downer. Coffee shops aren’t as conducive to groping as darkened movie theaters, so I’m not sure this plan is acceptable. But then I look at Taylor and say, “Yeah, sure,” because she’s just that hot. And at least this way I get seen with her in public.
Her favorite independent coffee shop is a couple blocks away in what used to be a church. Signs welcome us to the Buzz Shack, where stained-glass windows alternate with garish wall-hangings spouting slogans like “Jesus Supports Fair Trade Coffee” and “How Would Jesus Caffeinate?” Taylor notices me staring at them.
“Really get you thinking, don’t they?” she says.
“Huh? Oh yeah. Definitely.”
I look around and realize she’s laughing at me, but not in an unfriendly way.
“I’m kidding, Kevin. I’m not even sure I’d read them until now.”
I smile back. “So how do you think Jesus would caffeinate?”
She pauses to give the question due consideration. “I think he’d have to go at least a double latte—you know, to keep up the pep—and I guess he’d want iced, because it was pretty hot from what I hear.”
When we reach the front of the line I order an iced double latte and Taylor has a giggling fit. When she can’t gather herself after a few seconds, I go ahead and order the same thing for her. I tell the guy at the cash register, “It’s what Jesus would want her to drink,” and she loses it again.
While we wait for the barista to obsess over our drinks, I steal a glance at Taylor—she is, quite simply, stunning.
“I love your dress,” I say, kind of hoping it sounds like a suave line.
“Thanks,” she purrs. “I made it myself.”
“What? No way!”
“Absolutely. I make a lot of my own clothes. Cheaper than a boutique, and you know they’re going to fit.”
“That’s amazing.”
I take a minute to study her dress. It’s really impressive—not only does it fit her in ways I immediately appreciated, but it also lends a flow to her every movement. It even complements her hair color perfectly.
“I don’t pretend to know anything about dresses, Taylor, but I’d have to say that you’ve got real talent.”
She smiles and plays with her pendant. “Then we have something in common, don’t we?”
“Oh yeah?” I really hope she’s referring to my kissing technique.
“Yeah. Don’t be modest. Everyone knows you’re quite the accomplished flutist.”
Ah, the flute—my partner in crime, and harbinger of doom when it comes to relationships. I hope she doesn’t notice my shoulders slumping.
When we receive our lattes, Taylor invites me to pick a table, so I choose the one furthest away from the counter. It’s quieter and seems a more likely venue for making out, even though there’s a fresco of Jesus crucified just above our heads. When she sees it, Taylor opens her eyes super-wide and knits her thin eyebrows melodramatically, and I laugh again even though it feels a little weird with Jesus staring down at me.
“Does that come naturally,” I ask, “or do you have to practice regularly?”
“What, the eyebrows? Oh yeah, an hour a day every day. My dad always told me: Taylor, master your eyebrows and the rest of acting will fall into place. And he’s right. Acting’s nothing but a series of well-timed eyebrow twitches.”
She says everything so earnestly that it’s almost possible to believe she means it. But then she breaks into a smile and her face lights up, and I want to kiss her really badly.
“So what about you, Kevin? Do you have to practice the flute as much as I practice my eyebrows?”
Ugh. There it is again—the flute. Not a good omen.
“Not really. Every now and then.”
“Really? I mean, I heard your senior recital last semester. I thought it was incredible.”
“You did?”
“Absolutely. I knew you were gifted, but I had no idea you were that good. Is it true you got an instrumental scholarship to Brookbank University?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Nothing like that,” I say, surprised at how easily the lie slips out.
Taylor looks confused. “Oh, I guess I heard wrong … So do you still play in that pop group?”
“Huh? … Oh, the quartet. Yeah, but it’s nothing much—”
“I thought you guys were really good last year. You know, when you played at the school fundraiser. You had real chemistry. Are you and Abby … close?”
Whoa. Tread carefully, Kevin. Spoiler alert!
“We’re friends, that’s all.”
“Hmmm, that’s fortunate.”
For a moment we just look at each other, but then we start kissing for no other reason than we both know it’s going to happen eventually, so we may as well get on with it. Taylor kisses delicately, so I revert to Paige mode for optimum results.
After a couple of minutes she pulls back, a sultry smile teasing the corners of her mouth. She points to a fresco on the opposite wall, depicting a nursing virgin Mary.
“I wonder
if she was a 34C-25-35?”
I swallow hard. “Is that what you are?”
She turns back around to face me. “Uh-oh, I kind of let that one slip out, didn’t I!”
“It’s okay,” I assure her. Because, well, it is okay.
“Yeah, but … ” She looks away.
We sit in silence for a while. Occasionally I lean forward optimistically, but she doesn’t seem to pick up on my body language; maybe her internal translator is malfunctioning or something. Eventually the silence becomes oppressive, so I say the first thing that comes into my head:
“What happened to you and Zach?”
She looks surprised, but recovers quickly. “A few weeks ago he started acting weird, saying he couldn’t really commit anymore. He was a real jerk about it, so I broke up with him.”
“Um, yeah. So why’d you go out with him, anyhow?”
“Do we have to talk about Zach?”
No, we don’t. Now that I’ve discovered her measurements, my only interest is in confirming those measurements through the medium of my own two hands. But because this concerns Zach, my self-esteem won’t let me leave it alone.
“You must have seen something in him to date him for almost a year.”
“Zach can be generous.”
“That’s it?”
She narrows her eyes. “You really want to know? Fine. I dated him because his dad is an orthodontist, and I got free dental work while we were dating. Satisfied now?”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m totally serious.” She sighs. “I needed orthodontic work and my family couldn’t afford it. Why do you think I make my own clothes?”
I shake my head vacantly.
“Look, I’m the oldest of six kids and my dad’s a carpenter, so cosmetic dentistry comes way down the list for us. But I was told that if I’m ever going to have a future as an actress, I kind of needed to have the work done, even though I hate it that crap like that might actually matter.”
I check out her teeth. They’re definitely white and straight, although I still think the price may have been a little steep.
“Well, you have beautiful teeth now,” I assure her. “But I thought you were beautiful before you had any work done.”
Taylor smiles coyly. “Kevin Mopsely, I do declare you’ve made me blush,” she drawls in what I think is an impersonation of Scarlett from Gone with the Wind.
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not.
“Quite all right … You probably think I’m a complete slut for using Zach, don’t you?”
“No way. I think you’re a saint for putting up with him all year.”
“That’s nice, but I don’t think Zach would see it that way if he knew.” Her eyes grow wide again. “You won’t tell him, will you? Promise.”
“I promise I won’t tell him, although I think he’d say it was worth it anyway. I mean, he got to date Taylor Carson for most of senior year.”
Taylor looks surprised. “Thanks for saying that.”
“It’s true.”
We avoid eye contact as we slurp the last few drops of our lattes.
“You know, you’re a really good listener,” she says.
“A better listener than kisser?” I ask provocatively.
“Yeah, a better listener.” Naaaah. Incorrect response. Try again. “And that’s a really good thing. Anyone can learn to be a good kisser, but not everyone’s a good listener.”
I understand her logic, but it’s not quite in line with my aspirations.
“I’m serious, Kevin,” she adds, watching my face. “Give me a listener over a kisser any day.”
“Okay.”
Taylor glances at her watch. “Look, I’ve still got some homework to do, so I’d better be going.”
“Yeah, sure.”
She leans across the table and plants a kiss on my cheek. It says we’re friends, nothing more. Which is exactly what I’ve come to expect from dates. Until now it hasn’t even bothered me that much. But as she stands up, I feel a pang of regret.
And then she sits back down, stares off into the distance, and shakes her head.
“Why are you with them, Kevin? Brandon and Zach and all the others. They’re jerks, you know. And you’re not.”
“They’re not really jerks.”
She gives a hollow laugh. “Wow. The lies we tell to get what we want.”
“What, like me being a good listener?”
“No, Kevin,” she snaps. “Like you pretending they’re good guys.”
“They are.”
“Sure they are. And I’m a 34C-25-35.”
“Oh, so you’re not?”
“No, I’m not.”
Suddenly Taylor sounds quite angry, and I’m not entirely sure why. She tugs at the shoulders of her dress, like she feels exposed and wants to cover up.
“Those are the measurements that the fashion magazines want me to have, but the only way I’ll ever get there is if I eat one stick of celery a day and get breast implants.” She looks exasperated. “If you really want to know, I’m a 34B-28-38. And if that’s all you see when you look at me then go ahead and use the numbers, ’cause I’m not willing to play this game anymore.”
I don’t like the way this conversation is going.
“But … you’re beautiful,” I say smoothly, hoping she doesn’t really know what I suspect she knows. “Anyway, I don’t care about your measurements.”
She shakes her head angrily. “Then why are you putting us all through this, huh? Why are you making us so defensive about our bodies?”
It’s like I’m listening to my mom. Why couldn’t we have ended this a few minutes ago?
“What are you talking about, Taylor?”
“Oh, drop the innocent act. We all know you’re the one compiling the Book of Busts. Why do you think you’ve had so many dates the past two weeks?”
Oh crap. This is bad. And she’s not done yet.
“And just so you know,” she fumes, “after every date you’ve been on we compare notes so we can get our numbers to you with as little kissing and groping as possible. And we try to make suggestions to you so the next girl who goes out with you doesn’t have to put up with you sticking your tongue straight down her throat, like you did with Paige. Or mashing her breasts, like you did with Jessica.”
Oh geez. This is horrible. And she’s still not done.
“You don’t feel any guilt at all, do you? None of you do. A month ago I was comfortable with my body. But then Zach started acting weird, and you began compiling this book, and suddenly I’m worried that my tits are too small and my waist is too large. I can’t even eat lunch in the cafeteria anymore because I’m paranoid that people are watching me, thinking I eat too much. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“I’m sorry,” I say simply.
“No, you’re not. But you should be. Because you haven’t just made us hate ourselves, you’ve made us hate you as well … For some reason, I didn’t think you’d sell out so cheaply.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we all know who you are, Kevin. You’re supposed to be one of the smartest boys in our class, and you’re the best musician any of us has ever known. I wasn’t the only girl at your recital, and all of us thought you were amazing. If you’d ever bothered to speak to us we’d have told you so to your face. But you never did. And the worst thing is, you actually think we’ll like you more now that you’re acting like a complete jerk.” She gesticulates wildly with her hands, reverting to cheerleader mode. “Oh yeah, that’s cute, that’s endearing. Please, sign me up for a boyfriend like that!”
“You had a boyfriend like that, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Yes, I did. But not because I wanted to. An
d I know that makes me slutty, and I hate that, but Zach deserved nothing better. At least that’s what I thought. But now I’m starting to think he actually did deserve to be treated better than you.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “And how do you figure that?”
“Because he’s too stupid to know any better. He’s too ignorant to be kind and gentle and thoughtful. And so are all those other Neanderthals you’re hanging out with. But you know better than them. You’re not ignorant. And in my opinion, that makes you a thousand times worse than they are.”
Taylor storms off before I can utter a word in my defense. Which is probably just as well, because I’m not sure I have one.
23
Truce?” says Abby, twisting her mouth into a smile.
We’ve just finished a really polished rendition of “California Dreamin’” and she’s using the positive vibe to break the ice. I look around, but Nathan and Caitlin have already snuck away to make out.
“Look, Kev, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time last week. I guess it’s none of my business who you hang out with. I only said it because I think you’re better than those guys.”
I watch her closely to gauge whether she and Taylor are in league together, but I don’t think so. Besides, Abby would probably never talk to me again if she knew I’d kissed four girls in seven days. I can hardly blame her.
“Yo, Kev. Did you hear what I said?”
“Oh yeah …” I try to remember what she just said— something about me being a good guy. “I mean, yeah, thanks.”
“So are we good?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” I assure her.
“So we’re on for Saturday?”
“Saturday?”
“You know … third Saturday of the month.” She waits expectantly for me to fill in the rest. I fail. “It’s curry night, you dope. Crazy British tradition featuring blindingly spicy food and strongly alcoholic beer.”
“Oh, of course. Yeah, we’re definitely on.”
“Great. Is your mom still sticking to her don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy on the booze?”
“I think so.”
“Well, cheers to that.” She raises her hand in mock toast.
