Crash Test Love

by Ted Michael

  “Uh, okay,” I reply.

  “Were you in love?” London asks me, bringing the conversation back to reality.

  It’s a good question. I liked Ben. He made me laugh. We enjoyed the same movies and listened to (basically) the same music. He was handsome and I had fun hooking up with him. I think he felt the same way about me. But is that love? Isn’t love something … more?

  “Yes,” I say, because it sounds more dramatic than I don’t know or Could you be more specific? And even if it wasn’t love, it still hurts that we’re not together, to know he doesn’t want me anymore. I do miss him.

  London pats my hand. “It’s a good thing we found you when we did. We’ve been watching you, you know.”

  “You have?”

  “I don’t know what the girls were like at your last school, or if you had, like, a lot of friends”—London glances at my shoes, and I wonder if she can tell how many friends I had by the kind of shoes I wear—“but at East Shore we’re, like, way important.”

  I’m not sure what the proper response is, so I say, “You guys seem really sweet.”

  They laugh. “We’re definitely not sweet,” says Jessica. “But we take care of each other. We’ve all been through what you’re going through with Ben.”

  “Which is exactly why we don’t date high school guys,” London says. “Ever. It’s a rule.”

  This explains why I haven’t seen anyone of the male persuasion attached to their (slim) hips. “A rule?”

  “It’s like this, Garrett: high school guys are boys. They are totally selfish and immature. They will break your heart into a million pieces and then pick up all of the pieces and cut you with them. College guys, on the other hand”—London widens her eyes—“are men. You know?”

  I don’t know. I’ve never dated anyone in college, nor do I have the desire to. “Well, it’s really cool of you to invite me to have lunch with you.”

  “We know,” says London, twisting open a bottle of water. I’m too self-conscious to eat my sandwich in front of these girls; instead, I try convincing myself I’m not hungry. It works, but barely.

  “Don’t get used to it,” Jessica says.

  Oh.

  “That’s not a threat or anything,” London says calmly. “Well, okay, it is, but it’s not a physical threat.”

  “Yeah, we’re not going to, like, break your kneecaps with a baseball bat or anything!” Jyllian says, laughing a crazy hyena kind of laugh.

  “Should I be scared?” I ask.

  London raises her eyebrows. “Of us?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Here’s the deal, Garrett,” Jessica says. “We’ve been friends since seventh grade.”

  “We used to be friends with another girl named Jennifer,” says Jyllian, “but … we’re not anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, because I’m uncomfortable.

  “Don’t be,” says London, waving her hand dismissively. “She was mad trashy. Anyway, you seem like you’d fit in well with us. Public school can be rough, especially because we’re going to graduate this year. Hanging out with us would do wonders for your social life, which, we’re guessing, is pretty nonexistent.”

  Truthfully, these girls don’t seem like the kind of people I would be friends with if I had my choice. I think about my best friend back in Chicago, Amy, who would literally have convulsions if she ever saw me with girls who had a group nickname. But Amy isn’t here now. I am. And so far, the J Squad are the only ones who seem remotely interested in having me around.

  Now, I’m not totally naïve—I’ve seen enough movies to know that:

  High School + Pretty Girls = Bad News

  The popular clique never makes for the best friends. That’s just not how it works. But let’s face it: I moved halfway across the country for senior year. What’s the likelihood I’ll make any real friends?

  “That sounds great,” I say.

  London smirks. “Oh, sweetie. It’s not that easy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can’t just become one of us right away,” Jyllian scoffs. “I mean, that’s not how friendship works.”

  “It’s not?”

  “It’s not,” Jessica says knowingly. “You have to earn it. For now, you can be our friend on a trial basis.”

  “What that means,” London says, “is that you can hang out with us before, during, and after school, and on the weekends until the end of October.”

  “What happens at the end of October?” I ask.

  “Destiny Monroe’s Sweet Sixteen,” Jyllian says. “It’s being filmed for an episode of MTV’s My Super Sweet Sixteen and it’s going to be epic. Like, so lavish.”

  “Lavish,” Jyllian says, “is the opposite of rusty. Just FYI.”

  “How do I fit in?” I ask.

  “You don’t,” London says. “Yet. Do you see that guy?” She points into the courtyard where Henry and his friends are throwing a tennis ball against one of the brick walls.

  “Yeah.”

  “His name is Henry Arlington,” Jessica says. “He’s by far the sexiest guy at East Shore—”

  “On all of Long Island,” Jyllian interjects. “And Long Island is, like … long. It looks like a fish.”

  “Thanks for that brilliant insight,” London says. “Anyway, Henry is totally edible but a major prick. He thinks he’s better than everyone. Even us.”

  I’m about to ask if any of them have dated him, but I hold back. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “If you can get Henry to publicly acknowledge you as his girlfriend and take you, as his date, to Destiny Monroe’s Sweet Sixteen,” London say, “you can officially join the J Squad.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “You can’t hang out with us anymore, and we’ll make your life at East Shore a living hell. And Garrett? We can do that.”

  She is so serious it makes me want to laugh. (I don’t, though.) Do they know about Henry and me? Not that anything has ever happened between us. He won’t even look at me.

  “Once you’re at the party,” London says, “you have to dump him on camera in front of everyone. It’ll prove to us that you’re above dating high school boys and it will be the ultimate payback.”

  “Payback for what?” I ask.

  Jyllian and Jessica exchange glances. London ignores them and continues: “Henry is a heartbreaker. He’s hurt more girls than you can imagine. He deserves to know what that feels like for once.”

  “No offense,” I say, “but that’s assuming I could even get him to date me, let alone like me enough so he would actually be upset when I dump him.”

  London appears unfazed. “Right.”

  I gulp. What London is proposing is actually, well, cruel. And while Henry did blow me off for coffee, he didn’t ruin my life. I don’t know what he’s done to deserve such malice.

  “I’m not sure I can do that,” I say. “Henry seems … nice. Nice enough, at least. No offense.”

  Jessica fakes gagging. “He’s about as nice as getting a huge pimple on your forehead right before you’re competing in a Teen Miss Long Island Sound pageant and losing out to a girl from Great Neck with tacky extensions and inappropriate tan lines.” She lets out a tiny burp. “Or whatever.”

  “I guess it’s true, then,” Jyllian says, turning to London.

  “I guess,” London agrees.

  “What’s true?” I ask.

  “We heard that you and Henry hooked up at a party before school started.” London grabs her purse, as if she’s about to leave. “What you don’t know is that he never hooks up with the same girl twice. So if you think you’re gonna be, like, an item or something … I’d seriously reconsider.”

  I’m stunned. “You heard what?”

  “You mean you didn’t hook up with him?” Jyllian asks.

  “Absolutely not,” I tell them, omitting the fact that I probably would have if he hadn’t left the party so quickly. “Who did you hear that from?”

  Lond
on rests her purse on the table. “Everyone’s talking about it. But I heard it from Duke. And there’s only one person he could have heard it from.”

  I don’t want to believe that Henry lied to his friends about us getting together. “Why would he lie about that?”

  Jessica puts her arm around me. “Maybe he wants people to think you’re a slut.”

  I cringe. This happened to me once before, when I was a freshman at my old school. This senior named Mark and I were talking at a house party, and we hit it off. The next day, however, everyone at Mercer thought we’d had sex. Turns out he was a total asshole and spread rumors about me. It took months until people stopped thinking I was easy. To this day, I still despise him. I can’t believe Henry falls in the same ranks. He seemed … different.

  “This is what Henry does,” London says, pushing Jessica out of the way, placing her hand on my shoulder. “He deserves to be punished.”

  I reconsider the J Squad’s offer. The positives of this arrangement:

  Instant popularity

  A secure group of friends—at least for the year

  Getting back at Henry for giving me a reputation at East Shore before I had time to establish one myself

  The negatives:

  Spending time with Henry (He lied to people about us hooking up and had the nerve to blow me off earlier!)

  Spending time with the J Squad (They seem kinda fake and slightly insane.)

  Compromising my morals (Do I even have morals?)

  I realize that trying to get Henry to be my boyfriend just so I can hang out with the J Squad and eventually dump him is wrong. It’s “Mean” (John Mellencamp, 2008). But Henry hasn’t exactly been nice to me, and it’s not like I want to actually date him. I don’t want a boyfriend. I want friends. And isn’t this what these girls are offering? Friendship? Even if it’s completely artificial? Does that mean it can’t potentially grow into something … more?

  The bell rings; I cannot believe forty-five minutes have passed so quickly.

  “You have the weekend to think about it,” says London. “If you’re not interested, we’ll leave you alone. No harm done. If you are interested, well”—she slips me a napkin with her phone number written on it—“that’s another story. Have a nice day, Garrett.”

  I watch the J Squad leave, and I’m not the only one. The entire cafeteria observes their exit. I close my eyes and picture myself with them. I am surprised at how easily the image comes.

  Then I open my eyes and they are gone. Everyone’s attention is back to his or her respective table. No one is watching me.

  At home, my mother is dancing around the kitchen table; freshly brewed coffee and chocolate-covered graham crackers are waiting for me.

  “What’s all this for?”

  “Oh, just something I cooked up,” she says, swiveling her hips and jingling her bracelets in the air.

  “You didn’t cook anything. The coffee is from Dunkin’ Donuts and the graham crackers are from … I don’t know. The supermarket.”

  “You’re always so concerned with details, Garrett,” Mom says, continuing to shimmy. “That’s why you can never keep a boyfriend. Well, that and you’re a total pushover.”

  “Mom!”

  “It’s true,” she says, kissing my forehead.

  “You don’t have to be mean about it,” I say. “And I am not a pushover.”

  “If you say so, sweetie.”

  My mother, by the way, is the closest thing I have to a best friend besides Amy. We have a very casual relationship despite her being a total kook. “Name one time I was a pushover.”

  “Just one? Fine. Andrew Carrington.”

  I shoot her a dirty look. Andrew Carrington was my first high school romance. We dated for six months toward the end of ninth grade (he was a senior), during which he introduced me to many “bad” things that I did simply because he asked me to.

  Andrew, on beer: “It’s good for you.”

  Andrew, on pot: “It’s good for you.”

  Andrew, on letting him feel me up: “I think one of your boobs is bigger than the other. I should probably check to make sure.”

  I told my mom everything we did partly because I felt guilty and partly because I had no one else to tell.

  “Low blow. I was fifteen.”

  “That’s only one example, honey. I love you, but when it comes to boys you sort of lose control.”

  MADONNA LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD WHEN I THINK ABOUT SOME OF MY PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS

  “Waiting for your call baby night and day, I’m fed up, I’m tired of waiting on you.”—Hung Up

  “Papa don’t preach, I’m in trouble deep.”

  —Papa Don’t Preach

  “Like a virgin, touched for the very first time”

  —Like a Virgin

  I am slightly aggravated only because she’s right. “It’s a good thing I’m done with boys, then.”

  My mother feigns shock. “Since when?”

  “Since today,” I tell her, picturing Henry and then Ben. “I’m through with them. Forever.”

  “Forever?”

  I think about it. “Well, until college.”

  That gets a laugh out of her. “Okay, Garrett. Let’s see how long that lasts, hmm?”

  Upstairs, I take out my guitar and sit on the edge of my bed. I’m no great musician, but I love the feel of my fingers on the strings, the sound of changing chords. If I had a killer voice or a thousand melodies in my head, I’d want to be a singer-songwriter, like Joni Mitchell or Ani DiFranco or Tift Merritt. I have written some lyrics, but they’re more melodramatic than meaningful.

  I love all kinds of music, really. Old-fashioned rock and roll, country, bluegrass, and—of course—Top 40 pop. As long as I can hum along and forget my troubles for a little while, I’m good. My favorite songs are love songs. Happy ones for when I’m happy, sad ones for when I’m sad. Listening to a song where the singer has gone through the same stuff I’m going through makes me feel like someone, somewhere, understands me—and if other people have experienced heartbreak, surely mine can’t be that bad.

  When you’ve been dumped as many times as I have, the initial sting tends to dissipate quickly. I used to cry for weeks and weeks over boys—over not being wanted anymore, over what we could have been but never had the chance to be. But that slowly faded, until a relationship would end and I’d move forward, only to be smacked with grief when I least expected it, the kind of pain that attacks you from behind and doesn’t let go.

  This makes me sound like some kind of relationship whore. I’m not—not really. I’ve only had five real boyfriends.

  (Ex-) Boyfriend #1: Johnny Rosenfeld

  Year we dated: Eighth grade

  Looks: Sort of cute; not pimply

  Really into: The Dave Matthews Band

  First thing he ever said to me: “You’re so funny.”

  Last thing he ever said to me: “You cry a lot.”

  (Ex-) Boyfriend #2: Andrew Carrington

  Year we dated: Ninth grade

  Looks: Sexxxy

  Really into: Himself

  First thing he ever said to me: “You’re, like, really hot.”

  Last thing he ever said to me: “Can you get your own ride home?”

  (Ex-) Boyfriend #3: Dan Girwager

  Year we dated: Tenth grade

  Looks: Hot nerd

  Really into: Getting good grades

  First thing he ever said to me: “You like F. Scott Fitzgerald too?”

  Last thing he ever said to me: “You’re just really …

  different than I am. And not in a good way.”

  (Ex-) Boyfriend #4: Michael Brown

  Year we dated: Tenth grade (second half)

  Looks: B-list movie star–ish

  Really into: His band

  First thing he ever said to me: “I’ve never met anyone like you, Garrett.”

  Last thing he ever said to me: “Please stop calling my house.”

 
(Ex-) Boyfriend #5: Ben Harrison

  Year we dated: Eleventh grade plus the summer

  Looks: Boy next door

  Really into: Basketball

  First thing he ever said to me: “Is anyone sitting here?”

  Last thing he ever said to me: ?

  I don’t know the last thing Ben will ever say to me. I think about how many hours I’ve spent crying over him. I can’t go through that again with another guy. Then I think about Henry lying to his friends about us hooking up, and what Mark did to me years ago. I realize the J Squad is right: high school guys really are boys. How could Henry start that rumor with no regard for my feelings? And even if he didn’t start it—if Nigel or Duke did—he should have been mature enough to reveal the truth. Instead, he’d rather let people think I’m another tally on his scoreboard.

  Well, screw that. The J Squad may be a little over the top, but they definitely have the right idea. Someone like Henry does need to know what it feels like to be hurt. And if anyone’s an expert on getting dumped, it’s me—why shouldn’t I be the one to teach him a lesson?

  Seducing Henry will be a challenge, sure, but I can do it. There’s no way I’ll develop real feelings for a guy I know is a player from the start. Even though it will seem to the average East Shore outsider like we’re dating, it’ll all be a game—a game in which I make the rules. If my heart isn’t on the line, there’s no way I can possibly get hurt. And if I can’t get hurt, what’s there to lose? Plus, having the J Squad in my life would certainly help me avoid falling for anyone else. Even my mother doesn’t think I can go without a (real) boyfriend. It’s time, I decide, to prove her wrong. To prove them all wrong. To make boys like Henry and Ben and Mark and [insert practically every high school guy in existence] realize what it feels like to be dumped, to be crushed, to be broken.