by Ted Michael
DUKE
P.S., Henry. Screw you.
Duke shakes his head and stomps out of the kitchen. Nigel follows him. This is not good.
Two hours later, I leave my house. Dad’s watching TV—I doubt he’ll realize I’m gone.
I drive around aimlessly for a while, feeling sorry for myself. I’m sick over what happened with Garrett. I feel terrible about how I treated Duke and Nigel, who would do anything for me. Eventually, I find myself outside the Jericho Terrace, where I’ve crashed a fair amount of Sweet Sixteens. It’s just getting dark; the entire building glitters with light.
I pull into the parking lot across the street and open my trunk. Inside is a spare suit (plus a shirt, tie, and dress shoes) for emergencies such as this. I don’t know if any Sweet Sixteens are happening, but there must be a party I can sneak into. Maybe it’ll make me feel better to dance, to get lost in a crowd. That used to make me so happy. Only now I wonder if I was ever really happy, or if I was just fooling myself.
I sneak in through one of the service entrances, navigating the familiar turns until I’m in the lobby. I find the bathroom and go into one of the stalls, take out a flask I filled up with vodka before I left, and swallow. It burns. Then I splash some water on my face and emerge as though I’m just another partygoer.
No one even notices me.
I find myself in one of the larger halls, which is packed with tables and food and people, all in their fancy clothes, grooving on the dance floor. The DJ is loud and the lights are dim. This place is perfect. I have no idea what kind of party it is; everyone looks slightly older than me. Maybe it’s a wedding. I close my eyes and start to move. I haven’t really eaten anything today, and the alcohol hits me pretty fast.
My feet are moving so quickly I can’t feel the ground. I’m starting to sweat through my shirt. I need a break. I blink a few times, searching for a bar, and finally see one in the corner. I want some water to cool me down, to help me think straight.
I ask for a glass with ice and down it in a second. I ask for another, and finish that one too. I’m about to ask for a third when I feel a tap on my shoulder. Busted. I turn around, trying to think of an explanation for why I’m there, and see someone I do not expect to see.
LONDON
Henry?
ME
Mmm?
LONDON
What are you doing here?
What is she doing here? Maybe she’ll just go away.
LONDON (cont.)
Are you okay?
ME
I’m super. Stellar. How are you?
LONDON
I thought you only crashed Sweet Sixteens.
ME
I’m trying to, uh, broaden my horizons.
LONDON
In fact … I heard you didn’t crash any parties anymore.
I’m too drunk to figure out what she’s implying, but it probably has something to do with Garrett. The last person I want to think about right now.
I shake my head and start to walk away.
ME
See ya.
LONDON
Henry, wait—
She grabs my arm. I wobble for a second and she pulls my other arm, dragging me closer. Her perfume is so strong I have trouble breathing.
LONDON (cont.)
We don’t talk anymore, and that makes me sad. Don’t you think it’s fate, running into each other here? I’ve missed you.
It’s not fate. It’s a party. And I might cry, because I’m pretty sure that the only girl I’ve ever really liked doesn’t want to be with me.
But I don’t say any of those things, and before I realize what’s happening London has pressed her lips to mine. I try to pull away but her grip is strong. Also, it doesn’t feel half bad.
LONDON (cont.)
I forgot what a good kisser you are.
ME
Listen, London, I can’t—
LONDON
Don’t be silly. Come on. I know a spot where we can be … alone.
I have to make a decision, only my head is spinning and Garrett has made me feel so undesirable that maybe it wouldn’t hurt to spend some time with someone who actually wants to be with me, even for just a moment.
Before I have time to stop myself from doing something I know I will regret, she takes my hand. I follow her. I am breaking the Crasher Code. I am breaking the trust I have built with Duke and Nigel. I am breaking the trust I have so quickly yet diligently built with Garrett. But screw it—right now I just don’t care.
GARRETT
“You look beautiful,” my mother says, running a brush through my hair.
I’m sitting in front of my mirror. Mom hunts through her makeup box and pulls out a tube of mascara. “Are you excited about the party?”
Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen. The night the past two months have been leading up to. Excited? No. Terrified? Hell yes.
“I guess,” I say.
“I’m looking forward to meeting this mysterious date of yours,” Mom says. My parents have been fishing for details over the past couple of days, and I’ve given them very little to go on—just a name, really. “Henry.”
The mention of his name makes me dizzy. We’ve barely spoken all week, since the night I slept over at his house but didn’t sleep with him. Our conversations have been superficial and weird, both of us skirting around the issue of where, exactly, this relationship is heading. If it even is a relationship. Which it’s not. Not really.
I wish I could tell him that I didn’t sleep with him because, when he apologized for the rumor, I realized just how he serious he is about me, and how much I really do like him. And with that realization came an incredible amount of sadness. If I follow through with the original plan and break things off at Destiny’s party, I will destroy him, and that is no longer what I want. But if I don’t, I’ll have failed to achieve my own goal: to find happiness and strength without a boy in my life (which, truthfully, is a more arduous journey than I expected).
Not to mention, the J Squad will eat me alive.
“So, are you two an official couple?” Mom asks as she attempts to lengthen my lashes. “I thought you were swearing off boys until college.”
“I am,” I say, sighing. “I mean, I was. I mean … it’s complicated.”
Mom laughs. “Relationships are always complicated, Garrett.”
“Yeah, but this one is especially murky.”
She moves on to the eye shadow, the eyeliner, the lip liner, the lipstick, the blush, and the powder. I usually go for a more natural appearance, but I must admit, the woman’s got talent. When I look in the mirror I barely recognize myself.
“Why don’t you explain it to me?” Mom asks. “I’m a good listener.”
She is, it’s true. What am I supposed to say, though? The major reason why I put this plan into motion in the first place was to teach Henry a lesson. Only, it’s clear to me that he’s already learned one—more than one, maybe. So can I really go ahead with doing what I promised the J Squad I’d do? And now that Henry has been completely honest with me, isn’t it my turn to be honest with him?
I lean back on my bed, resting my head against the wall. I want to tell my mother what’s been going on, to have conversations like we used to have back in Chicago, before we moved and my life got so “Screwed Up” (Ludacris, 2003). But what will she think of me?
“You know you can tell me anything,” Mom says, resting a hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on? You can leave out the dirty parts if you want.”
I force a smile. “Okay.” I take a deep breath and start from the beginning: me and Henry and the J Squad and the bet and Amy and Ben and Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen. It sounds more like the plot of a ridiculous teen movie than anyone’s actual life.
“Wow,” she says once I’m finished. “Just … wow.”
“I know.”
My mother looks away, toward the window in my room. I can only imagine what she’s thinking, whether she is judging me or not. “W
hy didn’t you tell me any of this before?” she asks.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve. Besides, using Henry isn’t something I’m particularly proud of. Not anymore, at least. I wasn’t exactly shouting it from the rooftops.”
Mom comes over and sits next to me. “Honey, look. Every strong relationship is built on trust. And it seems like you and Henry have a very shaky foundation.”
She’s right.
“But really, Garrett, there’s only one thing that matters. Do you love him?”
It’s not the question I’m expecting—especially from my mother. “What?”
“Henry. All else aside. Do you love him?”
“I mean, I—”
“It’s a simple question, Garrett, with a simple answer. Yes or no. Do you love him?”
It is a simple question. And even though I never intended to feel this way about him, even though I’ve tried to fight my feelings and follow through with my initial plan, even though the last thing I want right now is another boyfriend, there is a very simple answer: “Yes.”
“Then you have to tell him,” she says. “Tell him everything and hope that he forgives you.”
“I still don’t want to be with him, though. He’s a great guy and a wonderful friend, but that’s it.”
Mom challenges me with her eyebrows.
“Oh, fine,” I say. “And he’d probably be the best boyfriend ever. At another point in time he would have been ideal. But everything I wanted when we moved here—to be alone for once, to figure out who I am—I still want. I’ll be eighteen in a few months, and college isn’t that far away. It’s time to focus on me.”
“Then tell him that, too,” Mom says. “But talk to him. You owe him that much. You’re never going to be strong by making someone else weak.”
Why did it take my mother to make me see just how flawed this plan was from the get-go? Why did I ever think that hurting Henry would make me feel “Better” (Regina Spektor, 2006)? I could make Henry fall for me and then dump him a million times and it would never erase the scars from my past relationships.
How could I have been so naïve?
Mom leans over and rubs my shoulders. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Garrett. You need to make the right decision for you. I’ll support you either way.”
Just then, I hear honking. I peek through the blinds in my room and see a white stretch limo idling in my driveway.
“That’s my ride,” I say. “I guess I should go.”
“Honey!” my dad calls from downstairs. “They’re here!”
I walk carefully downstairs (I cannot afford to fall on my face and accidentally rip this dress) and Mom follows me. Dad is waiting by the front door, camera in hand. Henry is standing there too, in a tux that makes him look more gorgeous than any one person should be allowed to look.
“Picture time!” says Dad. “Come on, Garrett, stand right here next to your boyfriend.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say before I can stop myself. The two of them look at me oddly. I stand next to Henry. He awkwardly slides his arm around me. “Okay. We’re ready.”
“Erm, smile!” says Dad. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”
We take a few pictures, and Henry gives me a corsage that matches my dress. “Thanks,” I say.
“You look …”
“Nice?”
“More than nice,” he says. “Stunning.”
“Well, we should go,” I say, waving goodbye to my parents and dragging Henry outside.
“Bye!” Mom yells. “Dance the night away!”
“You really do look beautiful,” Henry whispers in my ear. His breath is warm against my neck. I’m tempted to kiss him but I don’t.
“Look, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“What is it?” he asks.
Before I can say anything further, London sticks her head out of the sunroof and screams, “Come on!”
“Just a minute,” I answer.
“Now! We can’t miss the red carpet entrance, and we’re already five minutes late!”
I glance at Henry. “I Hate This Part” (the Pussycat Dolls, 2008). Our conversation will have to wait.
The limo is only for the J Squad and their dates (plus me and Henry). Jessica is taking a guy named Frank, who’s on the football team at Hofstra, and Jyllian is going with this guy named Aaron, who uses a lot of hair gel. London is going with a Spanish-looking boy I have never met before, who’s apparently a sophomore at NYU.
“Garrett, this is Juan,” London says with a hand flourish. “Juan, this is Garrett.”
“Hola,” he says. His hair is long and wavy. “Eres muy bonita.”
“No, you are!” I say. “I mean, whatever.”
“Juan is from Madrid,” London says, dabbing her chin with a Neutrogena blotting sheet. “Isn’t that romantic?”
“Eres mi princesa,” Juan says, giving London a kiss.
She pushes him away and rolls her eyes. “Everyone ready to get this party started?” she asks. “They’re not allowed to stock the limo with alcohol because we’re under eighteen, but my parents agreed that’s totally unfair, so they gave me a few bottles of these.” She points to what I assume is expensive champagne. “Henry, would you like to do the honor?”
“Uh, sure,” he says, looking incredibly uncomfortable. He unwraps the foil on one of the bottles and pops the cork. It shoots across the inside of the limo and everyone laughs. Plastic glasses are passed around; London raises hers to make a toast. “To us!” she says giddily.
“To us!” everyone replies.
I look around with fresh eyes at the girls I have been trying to impress. Did they ever really like me? Were they actually going to honor their promise? Do I even really care? Is being their friend more important than telling the truth? Than surrounding myself with people who are actually, well, good-hearted?
Really, though, who am I to say who’s good and who’s not? I thought Amy was good and look at what she did: got with my ex-boyfriend the moment I left town. And I think I’m a good person, sure, but look at what I did—what I’m doing—to Henry, and for what?
“Garrett,” someone says, “you’re not drinking.”
I stare at the bubbly liquid in my glass. I feel Henry’s arm around me. I know I have a serious decision to make tonight. “I’m suddenly not thirsty.”
Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen is being held in a mansion on the water in Sands Point. It’s ridiculously decadent (or, as the J Squad would say, lavish). There’s a stable and a tennis court and a pool with a waterfall. Halloween is in full effect: there are carved pumpkins with tiny lights inside them that line the driveway. Everything looks gothic and spooky. An actual red carpet is outside the front door; cameramen and photographers are everywhere. The lights are blinding.
“This is intense,” Henry says as we exit the limo. He grabs my hand; his touch startles me. There is so much I have to tell him.
“I feel like I’m in a movie,” Jyllian says, taking it all in.
“Really? Because I feel like I’m at Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen,” London says dryly.
“Well, I feel like I’m in a fashion shoot for Cosmo or something,” Jessica says, reaching into her purse and pulling out a Japanese fan.
Once we reach the carpet, people start taking pictures; I have to admit the whole thing is incredibly surreal. The J Squad make a few funny poses, and I grab Henry’s arm and kick my leg up for the goof.
“Listen, Henry, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah,” he says, grabbing my hand again. “I have to tell you something too. You wanna go first?”
“Guys,” London says, coming up from behind and draping her arms around us. “We must see if we can score a drink from the bartender.” She turns to Henry. “You’re pretty good in that department, aren’t you, Arlington?”
“I guess.”
“I’m just going to borrow your boyfriend here for a hot second,” London says, flashing me a grin and
pulling Henry inside. Over her shoulder, she yells: “Be right back!”
Ugh.
I stand on the red carpet as people rush past me. Kids from school wave hello and kiss me on the cheek, legitimately happy to see me. Is this what I’ll be giving up if I tell Henry why I started hanging out with him in the first place? Will I miss this? But what really is there to miss: a bunch of people who only started paying attention to me once I fell in with the J Squad?
DESTINY’S CHILD LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD WHILE I CONTEMPLATE WHETHER TO TELL THE TRUTH AND RISK LOSING EVERYTHING
“I’m a survivor.”— Survivor
“I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly.”
—Bootylicious
“Nasty, put your clothes on, I told ya.”
—Nasty Girl
I don’t have a coat on, and it’s kind of cold. I hear the click of cameras and the voices of people readying for Destiny’s entrance (which will, apparently, be via helicopter), but if I close my eyes all I can see is Henry.
Someone taps me on the shoulder. “What are you doing?”
I turn around and Jessica is laughing while her date tickles her. “Nothing,” I say.
“Well, come on, then! Let’s party!”
“Yeehaw!” Jyllian screams, throwing her arms in the air.
I pray this night doesn’t end in complete and irrevocable disaster.
HENRY
INT.—DESTINY MONROE’S SWEET SIXTEEN, SATURDAY NIGHT
There’s nothing like being inside a mansion when a television show is being filmed. Every room is filled with white-hot lights and dozens of crew members dressed in black. Cameramen pace back and forth, testing angles and making sure there are clear, well-marked paths between rooms. I imagine I’m on the set of a high-budget feature film (as opposed to reality TV). The thought makes me smile.
