Promiscuous
Page 18
I've finally realized that I need him, and that fact—more than anything—scares the shit out of me.
What's even worse than needing Grant, is wanting him.
And wishing...hoping he wants me, too.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Four days until prom…and counting.
The next day at school, Becca breaks down crying in gym class.
Ms. Tailor actually lets her sit out of dodge ball, she feels so sorry for her. Even though I’m happy to see Becca start to lose it, I can't help but fume about how deeply unfair that is. I could be bleeding from my eyeballs and Ms. Tailor wouldn't let me sit out of a single athletic activity.
The fact that people can still find it in their hearts to feel sorry for Becca, after everything she’s done, after all the pain she’s caused, it makes me sick. I can’t understand it, can’t believe it. The word ‘unfair’ has always been kind of like a theme in my life, but now more than ever it seems like someone is playing a sick cosmic joke.
As the week drags on, it only gets worse. My diabolical plan has backfired epically. The guys of the senior class might have thought it was hilarious, but the girls have all decided that it was some guy's sexist joke, and they are not amused. They rally around Becca, and some bitch even makes buttons that say ‘Vote for Inner Beauty.’
What the fuck is that even supposed to mean? And more importantly, where in the hell were those feminist cunts when that half-naked picture of Margot was circulating? Where was the feminine outrage and girl-power solidarity then?
By Thursday, I'm starting to feel seriously desperate again.
What if this doesn't work? What if Becca wins anyway, and nothing changes, and no one learns anything from this whole, stupid ordeal? What if I’ve jeopardized my relationship with Grant for nothing?
I need a backup plan. Maybe I'll just say ‘to hell with it’ and cut her brake lines. Or maybe I can find a way to rig a bucket of pig's blood above the stage in the gym, just in case. Thanks to my new position in Leadership, I have access. That’s one fringe benefit to being stuck on the damn decorations committee, at least. I could always cheat again, and try not to get caught. But if I do get caught dropping fake ballots into the voting box, in the middle of prom…I can bet my ass that Principal Shoemaker will expel me on the spot.
I start to wish I could bring Margot into the planning process, because I know she’d be creative enough to come up with something better than lighting Becca on fire during her acceptance speech. But I can tell by the way she talks, by the wistful look in her eyes, she’s not strong enough yet. Somewhere, deep down, she’s still holding onto hope that she can starve herself into being ‘enough’ for people like Becca. She’s still so afraid of rocking the boat. Of burning bridges she shouldn’t have ever wanted to cross in the first place.
Why does she care so much about these people? Why can’t she just let them go?
Almost every time I visit, Margot asks me if people are talking about her. I tell her they aren’t, that everyone has forgotten all about the half-naked picture. And as far as I can tell, it seems to be true. Which only makes the whole episode that much more pointless and worthy of rage, because they chewed her up and spat her out, then moved onto the next target, like she was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
Which is exactly what they’ll do to me, the second Grant dumps me. I’ll go back to being a cautionary tale, the constant butt of a double-edged joke. Unless I can make it to graduation, somehow. Then, I’ll be able to just…disappear. The best I can hope for is that no one will remember me, or talk about me, after I’m gone.
But I’m not going to give Becca Foster that luxury. She doesn’t get to just walk away from four years of committing social atrocities against her fellow students, against Margot. Not without paying some kind of price. Not while I have breath left in my body.
And yet, something stops me from going full kamikaze, and just pulling the trigger on mutually-assured destruction. It seemed like such a simple plan when I had nothing to lose. But now I have Grant, and no matter how many times I tell myself his patience is going to run out, or he’s going to see through to the ugliness inside me and recoil in disgust…any day now…but he doesn’t.
So I just keep putting off the plan, telling myself it’ll wait for just one more day. Just a few more hours filled with Grant’s warm, welcoming smiles. Just a couple more kisses. Just a few more minutes of feeling safe.
Then I’ll show Becca Foster what it’s like to be sorry.
###
Before I know it, it’s Friday, the day before prom. And I’ve almost run out of time.
Most of the students enrolled in Leadership are supposed to report to the gym right after school, to help Mr. Dodge and some of the other teachers decorate. Grant is in charge of the tickets, so he's excused from the decorating committee. But he offers to come along and help set up the gym anyway, because he's Grant.
When he shows up at my house after school, I'm ready and dressed for a long afternoon of slave labor. I've even broken Keely’s most sacred rule, and brought back my infamous red Converse shoes. I figure they're already covered in obscenities, what's the harm if a little bit of paint gets added to the mix?
“Hey Grant, I’m almost ready, just let me get my….”
But when I see the way Grant looks at me, I'm immediately nervous. He pauses, with one hand on my screen door, just...taking me in. The look on his face is unreadable, for once.
Today, I'm wearing denim cutoff shorts that used to be my mom's, and an old black t-shirt with The Beatles logo on it. My hair is in a loose braid, instead of all curled and preppy looking. But I've still got on the damn lipstick.
At least it matches my shoes. And the red and black prom decorations. Which is more than I can say for Becca Foster’s stupid pink dress.
I back up a step, reaching behind me to swipe my keys off the table, but Grant still hasn’t moved.
Seriously, why is he staring at me like that? Do I have lipstick on my teeth?
Suddenly, I'm struck by a barrage of mutinous, girly thoughts. What if Grant only likes the new, fake version of me? What if the cool new hairstyle and leather jacket and frilly skirts are the only reason he's willing to be seen with me?
“Is your mom home?” Grant’s question seems to come out of left field, and it throws me off balance. His voice sounds clipped, almost businesslike. His face is unreadable.
Fear of loss tightens my gut.
Oh, no. He’s going to dump me. Right here, right now. I really do have the worst luck in the world. One more day, and it would’ve been over.
I swallow, and try not to look as scared as I feel. “No, she left for work a few hours ago.”
Grant nods, like he’s calculating. “Good.”
Just like that, he's on me.
Pushing me back through the open door, he slides his hands down to my hips and lifts me onto the back of the couch. Out of pure instinct, I wrap my legs around him. For some reason, I'm not scared by his sudden intensity. I’m delighted by it. I welcome it, fiercely and without question. Instead of pushing away, I'm pulling against him with both arms and legs, bringing him closer.
This time, his kisses are far from nice. And I love it. In fact, I can't seem to get enough of it. In my mind, there’s no such thing as too much of Grant Blue.
His hands skim under my t-shirt, and his thumbs trace the waistband of my shorts before sliding around to knead my lower back. Suddenly, I have this burning need to know what his skin feels like, too. I slip my fingers under the hem of his sweater, exploring the ridges of his stomach.
Every inch of him is so smooth and warm and firm. I want to feel all of it. I urge his shirt upwards, and he breaks loose just long enough to pull it off, over his head, the way only someone with great coordination can.
Shirtless, he's even more perfect than ever. I can't stand it. I run my hands over him, over and over. His arms, his chest, his back—my fingers explore him greedily, always wanting more.
Not a problem, I can do that.
I start to undress myself for him. For the first time in my life, I want someone to see me naked. I want to be touched. I want to do more than I’ve ever done. Go further. Maybe even all the way.
What the hell, why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I’ve got dreams of wedding night purity or a reputation to protect. No, this moment has nothing to do with what other people think.
This moment is mine. I'm choosing this. And choosing feels better than I ever thought it could.
But just before my t-shirt can clear my boobs, he stops me.
“Tash, wait.”
“What?” I’m panting, confused. “Why?”
He's breathing hard too, but he’s always had more control than me. Or anyone I’ve ever met. He closes his eyes and takes a step back.
“God, I can't do this.”
Oh, please. Please don’t let this be a religious thing. I swear to God, if that’s his excuse, I will run out of here now and burn down the first church I see.
Huffing in frustrated disbelief, I pull my shirt back down and slide off the couch. My landing is not graceful.
“What do you mean? You can't do what?”
“I'm sorry.” He turns away and picks his shirt up off the floor. Pulls it on, with his back to me.
“Grant, I don't understand what you mean.”
He turns to me, taking both of my hands in his. “Listen, Tash. I really like you, okay?”
I nod and grit my teeth, because I feel a ‘but’ coming, and I’m pretty sure whatever comes after it is going to hurt like a son of a bitch.
“The thing is, I’m thinking of doing this pre-med thing over the summer, instead of the internship with the mayor. I guess my dad has a friend at Duke, and they let a couple of Freshmen in to study anatomy over the summer. It’s this deal I made….” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, the details aren’t important. It’s just a compromise between me and my dad. But I’d have to leave in June, right after graduation. And I just feel like…it wouldn’t be fair to start something now. I don’t want you to think I’m….”
“What?” My calm façade crumbles under the weight of his perfect, logical excuses. I can feel my old, angry self bubbling up through the cracks, spilling through my body, consuming me. Of course, that Tash never really left. All this has been a lie, a twisted social experiment gone wrong. Tigers can't change their stripes. Gay isn't something you catch. And skanks like me can't just become nice, dateable girls overnight.
The words rise to my throat like bile, and I spit them out, in Grant's direction.
“Say it. Go ahead. Finish the goddamn sentence. You don't want me to think you're only trying to fuck me, like everyone else supposedly has.”
His eyebrows slam together. “No, that's not what I meant at all.”
But it's too late. I can see the guilt written all over his face. It's an emotion I've suddenly become quite familiar with.
“Wow! Oh my God!” I laugh, because it feels so much easier, so much more natural than crying. I'm so stupid. “You’re even fooling yourself with this whole nice guy routine. Seriously, you are really fucking good. You should eighty-six the whole med school thing and consider getting into method acting. The pay is absolute shit, or so Margot tells me. I’m sure your dad would love that.”
“Tash....”
I don't want to hear the word ‘sorry,’ ever again. Not from him. I shake my head. I take a step forward, advancing on him like I did that first time in the quad.
My hand closes around the bulge in his jeans before he can react. It’s pretty damn obvious that he’s ready to start something. Just not with me, apparently.
“You were saying?”
For a long second, we just stand there, staring at each other. With his junk in my hand. If there ever was an ultimate point of no return, I just crossed it.
In that moment, on some deep and very damaged level, I feel vindicated. Triumphant, almost. Because I’ve been right this entire time. He can lie to my face if he wants. But I know what he's really motivated by. I know what he sees in me now. I should've figured it out sooner. It’s so obvious, really.
Grant Blue loves to solve complex problems like me. But he’s also an over-achiever. He’s not just in it for the sex, he’s in it for the conquest—the challenge. He wanted to make me worship him first.
Why else would he bother to spend this much time with me, and make me like him this much, if he already knew it couldn’t go any further than the summer?
He’s in for a rude awakening though, because I am a problem that can’t be solved. My angry, fucked up interior will never change. I can pretend all I want, but I'll always be this damaged enigma. The girl who refuses to admit defeat, even though she’s spent her life being defeated. The girl who lost her virginity at the age of nine to some asshole named Christopher, before she even really knew what virginity was. For me, pain is like gasoline. Hate is like coming home. So why not embrace it? My soul is fundamentally stained, and I can never wash that out.
Eat your fucking heart out, Dorian Grey.
Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I let my hand drop.
“Get out.” I spit the words into his face through gritted teeth.
And he does. Because Grant is a nice guy, who does what he's told.
And I'm a dirty, nasty, slutty bitch who's finally decided to stop hiding her true colors, or trying to pretend I’m something I’m not.
Part IV: “Bitch”
At this point in my story, I imagine you’re asking yourself a great deal of ‘why’ questions.
Such as: ‘Why can’t Tash just get over her issues and trust people, already?’ Or, ‘Why would she go to such great lengths, give up everything she has worked for, and have this miraculous Cinderella-like transformation, just to throw it all away in the end, and revert back to the embittered, petulant, trailer trash skank-a-tron she was in the beginning?’
To answer your first question, I’d like to invite you to please pull your head out of your ass.
Seriously, try letting go of your own, totally subjective view of the world, for one hot minute, and realize that I did not grow up in the same reality you did. I don’t care if you were born in the exact same trailer park, or if you went to the exact same school as me. Your experiences are not my experiences. Your thoughts and feelings and reactions are not the same as mine.
True, we’re all human. True, we all bleed if you prick us. But we all hurt in different ways. We all deal with our pain using personal, and at times, totally incomprehensible methods.
And secondly, about that whole Cinderella thing. Let’s discuss that for a moment, shall we?
One of the earliest derivations of the Cinderella myth was the folk tale of ‘Aschenputtel,’ which was set down by the Brothers Grimm. (And let me assure you, a more aptly-named pair of Germans has yet to be found, because those guys were some grim-ass mother fuckers. If you took the time to add up the amount of characters they’ve decapitated, tortured or disemboweled over the years, I’m pretty sure you’d end up with a higher body count than the entire Saw franchise. But I digress.)
In the original story, Aschenputtel—aka ‘Ash,’ because I’m too lazy to keep trying to spell that train wreck of a name—had this ‘Wishing Tree’ she used to cry on, which was planted over the grave of her dead mother. Every time something in her life was bothering her, little Ash would go tell her sob story to mommy deadest, and a magical white bird would appear and chuck things at her. Things she needed, like a pretty dress to go to the prom—or the royal ball, whatever. When she shows up at the ball, obviously Ash is looking pretty fine. But it still takes her three entire nights of dancing with the prince, and sneaking away from him at midnight, before he finally decides he’s had enough of her ‘dance and dash’ bullshit.
So what does this rather resourceful prince do? He smears the palace steps with tar—Home Alone style. And this time, when Ash runs away, she loses her shoe.
You’d think this would be the end of the story, right? Prince finds shoe, follows it to maiden, bah-dah-bing, bah-dah-boom. But nope. It takes this douche bag several months of searching, after which he gets duped—not once, but twice—by Ash’s evil stepsisters, who are so obsessed with landing a boyfriend that they actually cut off their own extremities to fit into this magical, prince-catching shoe.
In fact, the only reason the prince doesn’t accidentally go off and marry one of the step sisters, is because he happens to ride past the Wishing Tree every time with his new ‘future bride,’ and the magical white bird clues him in to the deception all like, ‘Hey fuck face, you’ve got the wrong girl!’
Anyway, after failing to recognize his so-called beloved twice, the prince goes back to Ash’s house and rolls up like, ‘Meh, I’m tired of riding around. You got any other eligible bitches up in this joint?’
And Ash’s dad—who is also apparently kind of a douche—kind of shrugs and goes, ‘Oh yeah we’ve got this kitchen girl in the back. She’s kind of dirty, though.’ (Keep in mind, this asshole is fully aware that he’s talking about his own daughter at this point.)
So the prince says something like, ‘Oh well, a girl is a girl, bring her out anyway. Yawn.’
That’s when Aschenputtel washes her face off and comes into the front room. But the prince still doesn’t recognize her. In fact, it’s not until she puts the disgusting, blood-covered shoe back on that he looks up and goes, ‘Oh, it’s you! You’re the one I’ve been looking for all this time! Ugh, finally! Let’s get married and stuff.’
And this is the story we tell to thousands upon thousands of little girls every day, to teach them about life.