Tainted Love (A Totally '80s Romance 2)

by Addison Moore

  I think I know just how to make all of my transportation problems go away.

  A deep groan emits from me, although I don’t see what the big deal is.

  They wear less at the beach.

  Russell

  Joel Miller’s backyard fills with bodies until it looks as if all of Glen Heights High has filtered in through the gate. Ozzy’s “Crazy Train” thumps from a boom box sitting on the patio. Joel and I have been huge Ozzy fans for as long as I can remember, so naturally when I hear Ozzy, it reminds me of kicking back with Joel, something that’s about to happen a lot less now that he’s all but packed up and moved into his dorm in downtown Los Angeles.

  “Dude”—I give him a light sock to the arm—“I didn’t know all of SC followed you home.” Joel recently started his freshman semester at USC. He’s opted out of playing ball, said it was never in him. I’m sort of the same. I’m in it for high school, not so much college. Besides, it wouldn’t feel right playing without Joel and Frankie by my side. I know for a fact it won’t this year, even though Jessie is there with me.

  “They didn’t.” He gives a perturbed glance around at the swelling bodies. “Craig’s parents came home early from their vacation, and he asked if he could move it here.”

  “And here they are.” Melissa pops up and plants a kiss on his cheek. Melissa is a pretty cool chick. I’m glad Joel finally got himself out from under Kelly Masterson’s thumb. That was his ex, and a brief regret of my own. After Joel dumped her, I messed around with Kelly myself. I glance behind Melissa and spot her sidekick, Jen. A quick sweep of the vicinity reveals Heather isn’t anywhere in sight.

  I still feel bad about what happened at the mall. I know she thinks Amanda and I accused her of stealing, but we didn’t—at least I didn’t. Amanda swears she didn’t either, but she can be dicey. I wouldn’t put anything past her. Amanda’s mom and my mother are close childhood friends. So, when Amanda got kicked out of Milton for giving her chemistry teacher a blowjob, she quickly signed up to finish out her senior year at Glen. The teacher has tenure, so he didn’t get fired, and apparently he’s not going to prison for stat rape either because Amanda happens to be eighteen.

  Mom begged me to show Amanda around the other day, and that’s exactly what we were doing when we came upon Melissa and her friends. I felt like a bag of shit just standing there watching as Heather was treated like a common criminal. I don’t know why, but I was convinced she was innocent from the start.

  “So, where’s your friend?” I nod over at Mel. Melissa and I have had fun hanging out in Joel’s game room just kicking back trying to beat each other’s scores on Atari.

  “Right here.” She pulls Jennifer Barkley front and center, and I nod up at her.

  “What about your other friend?” I say it a little lower, in the event they think my question is something more than it is.

  “Heather?” Melissa and Jennifer exchange a brief glance. “She’s just hanging out tonight.” She bites her lip while looking nervously to Joel. “She mentioned what happened the other day. It’s sort of a sore spot, so I wouldn’t say anything to her, if you know what I mean.”

  “Got it.” Great. I’m sure they think I’m an ass for watching their best friend almost fry for something she didn’t do. Worse yet, I hope they don’t believe I had anything to do with it.

  Jessie comes by and slaps both Joel and me five. “What’s up?” Both Tess and Rachel ensconce him like bookends, and I cringe because I know which girl isn’t far behind. Jessie has always had one too many girls hanging in the bounds, but the recent Encino addition seems more interested in me than she does Jess.

  “Well, like, hello, handsome.” A cool pair of hands covers my eyes, and I turn to find Amanda already wetting her lips with a promise. I know I can bed Amanda if I wanted to. She’s made it clear as my mother’s pricey crystal that her legs will open for me on demand whenever I wish. “Like, ohmigod, where’s the fucking DJ?” She cackles up a storm, and I can smell the vodka on her breath from where I’m standing.

  It’s not a shocker that Amanda likes to booze it up. Milton is renown for its party atmosphere. Ironic since all those parents put their kids in that pricey school to shelter them from bad influences to begin with, and, here they are, the bad influence themselves.

  Melissa scowls at her. “Like, ohmigod, there is no DJ.” She cuts a quick look to Jen, and I actually feel bad for Amanda. Yes, she can be brash and obnoxious, but we’ve practically grown up together, and, in her defense, she’s been sheltered, so very spoiled rotten that she just doesn’t know how to act around people. It’s a side effect of growing up in a country club full of people ready and willing to meet your every whim. I should know.

  The song ends, and Madonna’s “Material Girl” thumps through the speakers, eliciting a scream from a majority of the female population.

  “We’re doing this!” Jennifer kicks off her heels and starts dragging Melissa toward the center of the yard where a bunch of girls shake their stuff.

  “We’re in.” Tess pulls at Amanda’s arm, but she’s slow to move.

  She steadies her glossy eyes on me a moment. “I wanted to thank you. Your mother told me about the cotillion. You didn’t have to do that.” Her finger outlines the crease of my lip, and I back my head up an inch. “But like I seriously promise I’ll make it worth your while. Practice starts next week!” she shouts as Jessie’s hussies drag her across the yard.

  Joel slaps me over the stomach. “What the hell was that about?”

  “I don’t know, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”

  All night I keep an eye out in the event Heather decides to show up. I don’t know why I feel the incessant urge to apologize to her.

  Maybe it’s because I don’t like it when innocent people are framed for something they didn’t do.

  I glance back in the direction of my house and frown. But sometimes that’s just where the prison bars land.

  I ditch the party early and head back home to find my kid sister Megan and her best friend Tracy (Joel’s little sis) hanging out on the porch painting their toenails.

  “Why aren’t you still there?” Megan’s eyes glow in the direction of Joel’s house as she frowns. She looks like the perfect combination of our parents, both blonde with light green eyes. Any day now I expect her to ask why I stick out like a siren with my black hair, my olive skin, but we’re not there yet, and when we do get there, I’m not so sure how I’m going to react, what I’m going to say. I know for a fact my mother’s go-to response is silence. I’m used to it, though. I’ve got all of my secrets, all of my truths tucked in a shoebox underneath my bed. One day I’ll share them with Megan. Or not.

  “Music’s too loud.”

  “That means you’re too old.” Megan sticks her tongue out at me as I trot by.

  “Probably am.” I give a crooked grin as I head into the house.

  The lights are on in just about every room in this palatial estate. I happen to know we have the biggest, and apparently, the brightest house on the block because I’ve actually ventured into just about all of them. That’s the way my mother likes it, the bigger the better, spare no expense. She devotes all her time to the auxiliary leagues—just about every single one available to her here in Glen Heights while my father works as an attorney for Mason Fitzer, an aerospace company out in El Segundo. Thanks to some enterprising stocks, both he and my mother have done pretty well for themselves, and, if my mother is about anything, it’s about doing pretty well for herself.

  The sound of laughter comes from the back where the newly built media room bleeds out into a portion of the yard. They added it last year and have been purchasing a steady stream of videos ever since to watch on the boxy big screen that acts as the heart of the oversized space. My mother went as far as filling the room with three rows of burgundy Barcaloungers, each equipped with its own cup holder. She swears media rooms will soon be all the rage and had to have the very first one for herself.

/>   I peer in and find Joel’s parents, along with another couple, enjoying a glass of wine while my father cues up the VCR.

  “Russell!” Mom waves me in.

  “Don’t mind me.” I give a polite nod and smile to the crowd before stepping back out.

  “Wait!” Mom trots after me with her heels clicking against the Italian marble flooring. Everything about our home is opulent, embarrassingly so. It’s rare I have anyone over, much to my mother’s chagrin.

  “What’s up?”

  She looks almost giddy, and this worries me on an intrinsic level. Her lips twitch in that way they’re known to when she’s up to something. My mother is pretty, in a motherly way, and I see her face each time I look at Megan.

  “Victoria Prescott is here with her new husband!” Her voice hits that crescendo it’s known to do when she gets overly excited about something. “I’d love for you to say hello to them. It’s been forever. Victoria’s new husband is in charge of a hedge fund firm that specializes in high-yield bonds, and if you play your cards right, you could be staring at an internship come graduation!”

  “I’m not interested in hedge funds. I’m going into law, remember?”

  Her smile wears thin as a razor. “That’s right, just like your father.” She nods toward the media room in the event I forget where this version of my father is. “Now come in and say hello. It’ll only take a second. They won’t bite.”

  “No.” I say it as kind as possible. “And do you know who does bite? Their daughter.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “What’s this cotillion she’s babbling about?”

  Mom pulls back her lips as if trying to sink some bad medicine down her throat. “I promised you’d be her date. There might be a little bit of a commitment, but she’s been through a lot.” She dives straight into pleading. My mother has been through a lot herself, and she certainly knows how to bend me to meet her will. “I promise, I will never commit you to another thing without your permission. But you know how much I love Victoria. She’s had a rough go of it, first with the divorce—what with that rat bastard cheating on her, then having to deal with the fallout of that awful mess with her daughter at Milton. Please, can you just do this one thing for me? I promise, Amanda Prescott is harmless. It’s just one dance, Russell, and a few lessons leading up to the big day. That’s all.”

  I take a deep breath and shake my head. I don’t actually have the balls to refuse my mother anything to her face.

  “How about this”—my mother pulls me deeper down the hall, growing frantic by the moment—“you take Amanda to the cotillion in November, and I’ll take you somewhere the weekend right after.” She tilts her head to the side, speaking that silent code I’ve come to understand so well.

  “You’ll take me?” I wince in disbelief. I know exactly what she’s talking about. It’s something I’ve asked on occasion, only to be met with a quiet shutdown, a hard no, even the threat of Don’t you ever bother to ask again. “This cotillion thing means that much to you, huh?”

  Her entire person brightens as the color comes back to her cheeks.

  “You bet it does. Now that Victoria has moved back to Glen Heights, I’d like to keep my best friend around for a good long while.” She musses up my hair just enough. “Who knows? Maybe I might even gain a daughter-in-law someday.” She gives a little wink. “Thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise.”

  “Will you?” My mother has never yielded to my request before, and it makes me wonder if there’s another reason other than some silly social dance that her best friend’s daughter needs a date to.

  Her mouth opens, and before she can say anything, before she can speak in our silent code once again, a tall blonde who looks hauntingly like an older version of Amanda makes her way over on exaggeratedly tall heels.

  “Little Russell James, is that you?” She lunges at me with all of the velocity her daughter expends. “Good God, no wonder Mandi can’t stop talking about how drop-dead gorgeous you are!” She bumps me with her hip. “If Mandi can’t land you, I might come after you myself!”

  She and my mother share a riotous laugh, and, on that cue, I head up to my room.

  My heart pounds long after I shut the door and lock it. I reach into the drawer under my bed and pull forth that old, ratty shoebox that entombs a secret so big it could blow my family to pieces.

  For so long I’ve had so many questions.

  November can’t get here soon enough.

  2

  Girls on Film

  Heather

  Blue skies welcome us to Glen Heights High, on this, the first official day of our senior year. There’s an electric buzz in the air, even if we are still in the parking lot before the first bell has a chance to ring. The members of the Barbie Brigade zoom in with their matching white VW Cabriolets, sporting their miniskirts, jellies, and huarache sandals for these last few weeks while it’s still warm. Southern California rarely gets a cold snap, but we love to pretend for fashion’s sake come fall.

  We file out of Jennifer’s Suzuki Samurai, and she kills the radio as I refresh my Vanderbilt perfume, thus releasing my splendor of youth as the ad suggests. Melissa has donned her signature Love’s Baby Soft, and Jennifer is wearing just a touch of Coty Musk, a fave of mine, but I’m currently out. The Vanderbilt was a birthday gift from my mother, and I cherish it because I know it was hard won by way of bussing dirty dishes.

  We blared KROQ all the way here and happily sang “The Warrior” at the top of our lungs as if the first day of school were suddenly our favorite day of the year, and it might well pan out to be that way since not a single expectation of this holy year has yet to be shattered. We were running a bit behind this morning because what you wear on the first day sort of dictates the bell curve of your fashion sense for the rest of the year. Jen has opted for a tight-fitting pair of Jordache jeans, thus bucking the miniskirt trend at least for a day, but Melissa isn’t shying away from showing off her long tanned stems. She has a lot to make up for since last year she was pretty much relegated to wearing whatever that cast of hers dictated. As for me, I’ve opted for black tights and a micro mini, which is actually an olive green wool scarf I’ve wrapped around myself with an oversized safety pin securing it to me, and an old black blazer I picked up from the men’s section at the Salvation Army thrift store. My brother, Kurt, says some old man probably died in it, but I couldn’t care less if ten old men died in it because it happens to be my favorite jacket. I pull out my Kissing Potion lip-gloss and refresh my lips.

  A shiny black Beamer pulls in the lot and slips into the spot next to us as Russell James and Amanda Prescott evict themselves from the vehicle. Russ is decked out in his preppy uniform of a button-down shirt, mint green blazer, and khakis, looking every bit the Miami Vice extra, and Amanda meets and exceeds the socialite wannabes’ requirement of slacks, a silk blouse, and pearls. They look more appropriately dressed for a business meeting with Blake Carrington than senior year at Glen Heights.

  My eyes snag on that pricey moniker on the back of his car. You might as well exchange BMW for three solid gold dollar signs—not to mention that coiled antenna off the back that assures everyone he’s equipped with a car phone. I can’t imagine driving a car that nice, let alone having my parents gift me one for my birthday. I know for a fact that’s how Russell procured his preppy mobile because Melissa mentioned it last summer.

  “Like let’s get going.” Melissa threads her arm in mine as Tracy and Rachel catch up to Amanda, and before we know it, we’re subject to an ohmigod! cackle-fest as if they’ve never seen one another before.

  Glen Heights High has an old world appeal, with its brick buildings, its cobbled walkways, and its sprawling senior lawn. The cliques have all resumed their requisite members with the most annoying Barbie Brigade already shouting, “Write me!” on their way to classes. Note passing is an all-season sport that just about everyone partakes in, but it’s the annoying bubble-headed girls who actually see note passing during classes as a
sort of a status symbol. I myself take pride in the fact I can tie a note into the shape of a bowtie. Neither Melissa nor Jen has mastered the fine art, so it’s sort of become my specialty.

  “Like there it is,” Jennifer hums with an undercurrent of excitement as we pause to take in the sacred ground we’ve worked four long years to procure access to (three actually, when you consider the fact ninth grade was technically still junior high for the three of us). “Welcome home, girls. Senior year is ours for the fucking taking.”

  We share a laugh because usually Jennifer is shy to let an expletive fly in the first place.

  The bell rings as we each fan out to the four corners of the earth on our way to homeroom. Russell pops up next to me, uninvited. Russ and I have been in the same homeroom ever since we’ve been at Glen. I’m a San Ramos transfer, so we didn’t have the displeasure in junior high—but he’s a James and I’m a Knowles, so we’ve pretty much been alphabetically destined to suffer through homeroom together from the start.

  His dark brows knit as he looms over me. I can practically feel the heft of his body as his shadow covers me. “Are you still mad at me?”

  I’d frown at him, but then I’d have to acknowledge him to do so.

  “If I were mad at you, that’d mean I actually care.”

  “Burn.” He gets the door for me as we head inside Mr. Hailey’s classroom. Mr. Hailey is a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who pretty much keeps to his self the entire time we’re in here. The only thing he asks is that we keep it down to a dull roar as not to interrupt his reading.

  I slip in a seat near the back, and Russell glides in front of me, twisting around before flashing that dimpled grin.