by T. Torrest
I leaned out the doorway and scanned my eyes across the living room for Pickford. It didn’t take long to find him as he was a full head taller than the rest of the kids in the room. “Yep. There he is alright. I’ll call him over so you can smooch him. Hey Pick!”
Lisa threw her hand over my mouth, saying, “Shut up, you retard!” and dragged me back behind the kitchen wall.
She still had a hold on my mouth, so I licked her palm.
She pulled away quickly, wiping her hand on her jeans. “Ewww! You’re so gross! What’s your damage, anyway?”
“Um, okay, Heather. Did you just seriously ask me what my damage is?” I cracked up, then added, “That’s what you get for trying to smother me with your freakish paws.”
Lisa held a hand in front of her face, inspecting it for flaws, saying, “Maybe they’re not dainty, but they’re not freakish. You’re the freak.”
“You are.”
“You are, Jerk.”
“Don’t call me Jerk, Oven Mitts.”
“Don’t call me Oven Mitts, Janis Joplin.”
“Yeah, well, up your nose with a rubber hose.”
“Ha! Up your ass with a piece of glass. You’d love it.”
“Yeah? Well, you love Pickford Redy.”
Lisa stopped laughing and looked at me wide-eyed. “Shit. Yeah, I totally do,” which cracked me up all over again.
* * *
Most of the time, the purposes of a high school party were to socialize, drink and hook up. The latter of which I was reminded of while waiting in line for the bathroom as Coop Benedict tried to stick his tongue in my ear.
Cooper and I had been close friends for like, ever. He was really cute and we’d gone out a few times, but we’d realized we weren’t destined to be the next Bruce and Demi. Sometimes, we’d get drunk and make out, but that night, he was just too drunk and I wasn’t digging his sloppy proposition.
Thankfully, Sargento came out of the bathroom just then and I told Coop he could get in there ahead of me.
He wobbled on his feet for a second and said, “Why don’t we both go in?”
I told him no, that was alright.
He put a hand against the door frame and slurred his next words. “C’mon, Layla. You looso hot in that hibbie shirt. Come in w’ me.”
And then, like I knew he would, he started singing.
I’ll give you one guess what song it was.
“Oh, for crying out loud, Coop. Just take your damn turn in the bathroom so I can get in there. I really gotta pee!”
He finally gave up and closed the door behind him, adjusting the lyrics and singing loudly, “Lay-la... She’s really gotta pee! Lay-la...”
Just as I was shaking my head at that, Trip appeared around the corner. I’d spent the past few hours avoiding him and Tess like the plague. I just didn’t think I could handle seeing them being shmoopy all night.
“This the line?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s the songbird in the can?”
“That would be Cooper Benedict.”
Trip could hear the altered version of my song and asked, “How many times has someone sung that to you?”
“If I had a nickel.”
That made him laugh.
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, crossed his arms and nodded at me. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you when I first saw you out there. You look really different with your hair like that.”
I didn’t know if “different” was a good or a bad thing. I resisted the urge to check my flat hair in the hall mirror and took a sip of my drink instead. I’d had more than a handful of conversations with Trip already, but I still felt nervous talking to him, wanting to make a good impression, even though I knew it was really stupid to develop a crush on a guy that nine hundred other girls were practically in love with, too. A guy that dated older, beautiful and more experienced girls like Tess Valletti. A guy that was only talking to me at that moment because I happened to be standing there at the time. In my head, I knew this. In my stomach, the butterflies did not.
“So... How are you liking your first Norman party?”
Trip jammed his fists into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. “It’s cool. Everyone’s being really cool.”
“It must be hard to constantly have to go through the trouble of making new friends just to up and leave them all the time.”
“Yeah, you’d think so. But I keep in touch with a few of them. Every now and then, I’ll hitch a ride on the jet with my father when he goes to check on his properties and we get to hang out. Me and my friends, I mean- not my father.”
There was a bite to his last sentence, but I figured he was just trying to make sure I didn’t think he spent his free time hanging out with his dad or something like that. Remembering his family owned hotels, I said, “Well, at least you always have a place to stay!”
He chuckled and said, “Yeah, that’s true. I normally get my own suite... and room service doesn’t suck.”
That sounded so grownup and worldly to me. I couldn’t imagine hopping on a plane whenever I wanted and staying in my own hotel room. The only time I’d ever been on a plane was flying coach to Disneyworld where I was crammed into a double room at the Ramada with my father and brother for a whole week. Jeez, I remember thinking that was so cool!
Trip brushed by me and gave a knock on the bathroom door. “What the hell is taking him so damn long?”
When he got no response, he knocked again. “Yo, Coop! Whadja drown in there?”
Still no answer.
Trip gave me a concerned look before trying the knob. It was locked. “Coop! Hey, Coop, open up.” Bambambam!
Nothing.
We both started to worry. Trip took a step back and I half-expected him to pull a Cops and kick down the door. But he thought better of it and instead ran his fingers along the top of the door frame, coming down with a key. He jabbed it into the doorknob and within seconds, we were in.
There was Coop, on his hands and knees, with his face hovered over the bowl. He gave a groan and Trip breathed a heavy sigh. “Dude! We thought you were dying in here!”
Coop barely lifted his head. “I am. I’m dying. Ohhh...”
It sounds kind of mean, but we both started laughing. I think we were probably just relieved that Coop was okay. Besides, he did look pretty pathetic.
Trip crossed his arms over his chest and asked, “Alright, so what are we supposed to do with this sorry bastard?”
“Do you want to lay him down in one of the back bedrooms and then try to find out who his ride is?”
“Good idea.”
Trip leaned down behind Coop, put his arms around his chest and heaved him to his feet.
“Wait,” I said. “You think he’s, you know... empty?”
Trip peeked over Coop’s shoulder into the bowl. “Yeah, I think so. From the looks of it, the only thing he’s got left in here are his kidneys.”
“Ohhh. No, man. I puked out my kinees. Ohhh...”
I closed my eyes and flushed the toilet while Trip maneuvered Cooper out the door. Between the two of us, we were able to zombie-walk him down the hall into Mr. and Mrs. Rymer’s bedroom and get him flopped across the huge four-poster bed where he instantly fell asleep. He was lying on his back snoring away when I suddenly realized that save for a comatose third party, I was practically alone- in a bedroom- with Trip.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to put himself together after the ordeal, looking at me as if he was just realizing the same thing.
Like an idiot, I said, “Um... I still need to use the bathroom,” and darted off into the adjoining master bath.
When I came out, the last thing I expected to see was Trip still there, hunched over Coop with a black Sharpie marker.
I peeked over his shoulder to check out his handiwork: Coop was sporting a new handlebar moustache and unibrow.
I clamped my hand over my mouth and chastised the artist. “You’re awf
ul.”
Trip capped the marker and tossed it on the nightstand. “No, I’m funny. Awful would have been if I used the razor.”
I had to agree with him.
We were both standing there, looking down at Coop- passed out and scribbled on- when Trip asked, “He your boyfriend?”
I stammered out, “Uh, no. God no. Why’d you think that?”
Trip raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know... Maybe because I saw him tonsils-deep in your ear a few minutes ago and yet he still has his balls.”
Crud. He saw that?
I don’t know where he got the impression that I was some kind of Amazon who would rip the scrotum off of an over-amorous seventeen-year-old boy, but maybe he falls into that group of every non-Italian outside of the tri-state area who thinks all Jersey girls are mafia princesses.
Just for the record? We’re not.
I ignored his “tough-chick” assessment and blurted out, “So, where’s Tess?”
Duh.
“She had another party to get to. Why?” His lips curled into a smirk after he said that and it was all I could do not to jump his bones.
“Oh, no reason. I just haven’t seen her. Hey, um, did you start that report for Mason’s class yet?”
That made him smile, probably because I’m the only girl to ever find herself alone in a room with Trip Wilmington who decided to use the opportunity to discuss homework.
But he answered my stupid question anyway. “No. You?”
“No.”
Then he said, “You think maybe we should work together on it?”
And I know I answered, “Yeah, sure. That’d be okay.” But I know I was thinking something more like, Yes! Of course! That’d be awesome!
“Great. I figure a girl’s perspective would be really helpful on it, you know? I never understand what the hell Shakespeare is talking about but girls always seem to get it. All that love story crap.”
“Crap? It’s not crap, it’s Shakespeare for godsakes!... How can you say that?”
“Look. Just because some dude wrote stories a million years ago doesn’t mean he’s not open to some criticism. What’s so great about him anyway?”
“Well, for starters, he’s Shakespeare. Trip, are you serious? He wrote stuff like nobody’d ever read before.”
“Big deal. Nobody’d ever written anything before. It was probably cake to become famous back then.”
I rolled my eyes but realized he had a point. “You’re nuts. Let’s just go find Coop’s ride.”
We were still smiling as we began the search for Coop’s designated driver. Working as a team, first by taking care of our drunken friend, then by playing detective together, was actually a lot of fun.
It was weird, the way I was starting to feel comfortable around Trip. I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that he was still gorgeous and how it was completely unsettling, but he also had this... way about him. He just had this way of making people around him want more. Want to know him, figure him out, be around him. I couldn’t describe it at the time, but I suppose what I was recognizing, even way back then, was his Star Quality.
If such a thing exists, then Trip Wilmington had it in spades.
Chapter 9
OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS
The following Monday was my first day of work at Totally Videos. I scoped the store for Martin, the twenty-one-year-old, pasty and pimply afternoon manager who, obviously impressed with my non-existent resume and sub-par interviewing skills, called me on Sunday to offer me a job.
He was behind the counter when I walked over, gave him my best salute and said, “Hola, Señor Martino. Yo soy Layla Warren. Yo trabajo aquí.”
I suppose I should mention here that Martin is not Latino at all, and I, obviously, only had the most rudimentary understanding of the Spanish language even after two years of having taken it as an elective.
Martin looked at me as if he was sure I’d suffered a major head injury on my way to work that day, but proceeded to ask one of the other “associates” to mind the store while he dealt with me.
First on the agenda was to take me into the back office so he could print me up a new nametag. While it was running through the laminator, he went to a storage locker and grabbed me a navy blue vest. Along with my khaki pants and light blue Oxford (would my body never escape from a button-down shirt?), I was to wear my vest “at all times”.
“Even when I’m not here?” I joked as I put it on.
Martin didn’t get it. “Uh, no. Just while you’re working your shift.”
Detract one point for the sarcastic new employee.
I didn’t really think it was necessary for Martin to actually pin my nametag on my vest himself. I mean, I have arms and all. But I figured that was the closest his hands had actually ever been to a real live boob before, so I didn’t make a big deal about it. Hell, why not give the poor kid a thrill? Besides, if I even dared to make a joke (which he wouldn’t have gotten anyway), he’d have probably blushed twelve different shades of red before passing out from embarrassment.
We left the office and Martin gave me a quick tutorial on the register before showing me around the store. Most of my “training” was pretty ridiculous and unnecessary.
Here’s a sample conversation:
Martin: “Okay, see the wall, here? This is where we keep our New Releases.”
Me: “Oh, you mean you keep the new releases along the wall under the HUGE SIGN that says ‘New Releases’?”
Martin (not registering my sarcasm): “Yes, that’s right. A new release is any video that has come into the store recently. Mostly, it’s the category for movies that are less than a year old.”
Me (bored): “Uh-huh.”
Martin: “So let’s give you a pop quiz. Say I’m a customer-”
Me: “You’re a customer.”
Martin (seriously): “Uh, yes. I’m a customer and I ask you where I can find Lethal Weapon. What do you do?”
Me: “Call the cops?”
Martin (finally realizing that I was screwing with him): “C’mon, Layla. You need to know this.”
Me: Martin, look. Don’t worry about it. It’s pretty self-explanatory. I know how to read and I’m sure I’ll be able to steer any customers in the right direction.” And then, to toss him a bone and make him feel all managerial, I added, “What I really need is another lesson on the register. Think you could go over that again with me?”
This made Martin puff up a little with authority. “Sure, no problem.”
He spent a good twenty minutes going over checkout with me and I knew I should have been hanging on his every instruction so as not to look like a big dummy later on. But instead, I became mesmerized by the patterns of zits on his cheek. I was mentally connecting the dots to form The Big Dipper... and that’s when Trip walked in... with Tess.
They didn’t see me as they giggled over some private joke on their way over to the Comedy section.
I was planning on busying myself behind the counter checking in the pile of returned videos, but Martin asked me to set up a cardboard display of Back to the Future Part III instead. I took the stack of cutouts from him and sat down in the middle of the store to put it together.
So it was in the midst of attaching a “Coming Soon” sign to Christopher Lloyd’s kneecap when I heard Trip say, “Hey, Layla! There you are.”
I put down my project and tried to look surprised to see him. Had Tess not been standing right there, I would have thrown out a flirty line like, “Why, were you looking for me?” but I figured it probably wouldn’t have gone over too well in front of the girlfriend.
Instead, I went for, “Hey, Trip. Hi, Tess. Renting a video?”
DUH.
They both said, “Yeah,” and Trip added, “So, I guess you got the job. Cool.”
I tucked a strand of hair back into my banana clip and countered, “It’s really not, but thanks.”
Trip smiled as Tess checked her watch. He said, “No, it’s cool. Working here’s gotta be bett
er than my dad’s office. Are you guys hiring?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Here?”
“Yeah, why not?”
I shot a quick look at Tess, but she didn’t seem to have any opinion on the matter. “Umm, let me check.”
I mentally crossed my fingers as I went into the office to ask Martin. I made a huge point not to mention that the potential employee was a friend of mine and simply said, “Some guy out there was asking about a job opening?” Martin didn’t say whether they were looking for more help or not, but dug out an application for Trip to fill out.
Tess wandered around the candy display looking bored as Trip met me at the front counter to fill out the form. He had his license out- copying the numbers onto his application- and that’s when I saw it.
Terrence C. Wilmington III’s middle name was Chester.
Chester! This was just too good. But I made the decision to keep it to myself for the time being. It was awesome enough just having the inside scoop on him, knowing something NO ONE else knew about the infamous Trip Wilmington, so I didn’t want to call him out on it right away. As trivial as it was, his middle name was something only he and I knew about. Even though he was unaware of it, there was some tiny little unspoken bond between us now, some inherent bit of information that even Tess Valletti wasn’t privy to. It was like I had a piece of him all to myself.
It took me a couple tries, but I was finally able to get the register working properly. I scanned their chosen movie (Spinal Tap- nice) as I asked, “Are you sure you want to work here? I’ve only been here for two hours and I’m ready to quit.”
Trip didn’t look up from his writing. “Baby, that’s half the reason I’m applying here. You need me.”
I rolled my eyes, but he didn’t see. I leaned way over the counter and whispered my best horror-movie warning, “Ruuun.”
Trip laughed as he signed his name to the bottom of the page. “Too late now, sweetheart. Here you go.”
He handed me the completed application, which I put in a top drawer for safekeeping. “You’re sealing your fate here, you realize that, don’t you?”
