Tainted Love (A Totally '80s Romance 2)

by Addison Moore

  “Why are you in my face?”

  “Why are you being rude to me?” He frowns as if this genuinely vexed him.

  “Like, you care?” I hold back the laugh bubbling in my throat while struggling to keep my body from exploding with heat. I hate that he has that effect on me.

  He shrugs as if trying to figure this out himself. “Maybe I do.”

  A stilted silence passes us by as our eyes lock on one another a moment too long.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t.” I lean in, my heart races unnaturally the closer my face edges toward his. Russell James is carved to perfection, and a part of me wants to sit and stare the entire livelong day. “In fact, maybe you should turn around before your little girlfriend finds out you’re speaking to another vagina and has your balls on a spit before nutrition.”

  “Balls on a spit?” he mutters mostly to himself as he winces. “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  I twirl my finger through the air, indicating for him to spin the hell around, and he’s slow to comply. The rest of homeroom ebbs by while I get lost staring into the back of Russell James’s hair, and for once I’m thankful to God for that sample of Teen Spirit deodorant I received in the mail because I’m sweating like a freaking horse in heat. Again, stupid stupid hormones.

  Shiny new Beamer, car phone, pager, right zip code, Russell James has it all, and now he has one more thing I deeply regret—my attention.

  First period pretty much sucks because none of my friends are in it. Second period, however, fiction writing for beginners with Mr. Sardona, lands both Melissa and Jennifer seated next to me as well as Amy Brineman, our good friend who spent the summer pining for her boyfriend Peter who recently left for NYU. I’m so excited to have all of my best friends in the very same room that it takes a moment to notice what Jennifer is pointing at with her nose every few seconds. I turn to find a familiar dimpled football player waving from the desk in front of me, and the Princess of the Peninsula, Amanda herself, taking the seat beside him.

  Great—just when this class was penciling out to be my favorite.

  Mr. Sardona takes the stage and introduces himself and the premise of the class, which is obvious from the name itself. He’s a stubby man about my height, a little on the goofy side with dark hair and glasses, a shirt with a sweater over it, and a tie all buried under his suit jacket. It’s so hot and stuffy in here that at any moment I expect him to pass out.

  I pull out my Pee Chee covered with my I Want My MTV sticker plastered across the center. Most of the kids who go to Glen—and I’m including the San Ramos kids in this scholastic equation—start the new school year with brand new everything. Melissa is sporting a brand new Trapper Keeper with hearts and rainbows. Jennifer has one with puffy clouds stamped over a light blue sky. Russell has a Pee Chee like me, but, unlike mine, his is crisp and new, still virginal, its unblemished peachy state with nary a band’s name scrawled across the surface. Mine, however, is not just the only one I have, but it’s the only one I’ve had since I began Glen three years ago. It’s a discard of Melissa’s, and I’ve made it work over the years with a roll of Scotch tape. If I’m living proof of anything, it’s that you don’t need that much in life if you want to eek by.

  “Assignments.” Mr. Sardona gives a tight smile, and I’m wondering if he’ll live up to his nickname of Mr. Sadistic. I swear, the only person who has ever said a nice thing about the man is Melissa, and she’s pretty much Miss Mary Sunshine all the time, which explains why I’m suddenly regretting signing up for the class to begin with. “I would like each of you to give me a glimpse into your life this first week. Each morning we’ll start off with an entry in our journal. Today’s topic—how I spent my summer vacation.”

  “Wow,” I whisper over to Melissa and Jen. “This guy drips with creativity.”

  Russell turns around and sheds a lopsided grin. Just one look at that boy’s crooked smile, my stomach goes off like a bomb, and I’m suddenly pissed at my traitorous body.

  I sink in my seat and pen an entire paper of how I spent my summer abroad in France. After all, this is a fiction class.

  Nutrition is spent basking on the senior lawn with every other senior in school, and, before that fifteen minutes of respite are over, just about everyone disbands to their usual haunts, seeing that no one actually wants to roll around on freshly cut grass.

  Third period is boring as shit, but as soon as fourth period arrives, I’m the first one in the door. I’ve always wanted to take yearbook, and it’s always been too full, so, when I got my schedule in the mail, I was thrilled to black-and-white-photographic-pieces that I finally managed to squeeze into the mythical quasi-film class. Glen doesn’t have any real art classes, so this is as far as I get when it comes to unleashing my creativity. I’m slowly piecing together a portfolio of my sketches and drawings. I’ve spent hours painting pictures of Debbie Harry, the lead singer of Blondie, with acrylics. I have five or six different pieces in primary colors à la Andy Warhol. Artists have always sort of been my rock stars, that and authors. Melissa and Jennifer have slowly bled me their Sweet Valley High books, but I get my meat and potato reads from the library. I used to love cruising around Crown Books for hours, until Slam got a job there, and we started to be more off-again than on-again. Now I’m a B. Dalton and Walden books girl all the way.

  Speaking of Slam, he called twice this weekend, wanting to know what was going on with us, but I refused to speak with him. I guess it’s time to shore up that loose end so I can really get into senior year without any baggage.

  I run my hand over a model of an oversized camera sitting on the teacher’s desk. It was clear in the class description that we were expected to bring our own cameras—that we should save the receipts for film, and we’d be reimbursed for at least eight rolls. The closest I’ve ever come to having my own camera was my father’s old Polaroid, until Jill and Julie used it as a base to their papier-mâché volcano a few years back. I’m hoping there will be at least one school-issued piece of equipment I can get my hands on. If not, I’ll be happy to work on the guts of the yearbook, but still, a camera of my very own, even if it is on loan, would be pretty awesome.

  The desks are all oversized and tall, the kind you find at an architect’s office with two stools per station. It’s a wide and long room with a built-in darkroom in the back and a string of overly exposed pictures draping down the center of the cavernous space as if revealing their photographic sins to the class as penance.

  “Gag me with a spoon. It’s the clepto,” a female voice giggles, and I find Amanda and Tess seated at the desk behind me, each holding a matching bottle of Evian water.

  Bottled water. I shake my head at the sight. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever shell out money for a glass of something that drips free from a spigot.

  Tess leans in toward her snobby counterpart. “Like I can totally insta-barf when I look at that hair.” She retches for effect. “It’s grody to the max.”

  I lean in and snarl. “You know what’s grody to the max? The way you chop up the King’s English!”

  Before they can further butcher another word, their mouths drop open, and I follow their gaze to a tall brick of a football player who makes his way over and settles in the seat next to me. Russell James.

  “It’s starting to feel like you’re stalking me.” I face the front, and he scoots in, pulling out a notebook and a pen like the diligent student he’s pretending to be.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

  “In your dreams, James. In your disgusting wet dreams.”

  The bell rings as students pour in from every orifice, and Mr. Preston, a pudgy stalwart man with a pushed-in nose and tiny eyes that are eerily magnified behind his Coke bottle lenses, starts in with a well-rehearsed soliloquy.

  “This is the best of times. This is the worst of times—and here in yearbook class, we have the privilege to record them all for time and eternity.”

  Russell pus
hes out a tiny laugh while tapping over the table with a pewter ring he wears on his thumb. A ring. I almost want to roll my eyes at the future Yuppie of Wall Street, but a better glimpse of it reveals the image of a heavily carved dragon’s face embossed into the front. Hmm, it almost looks cool. I finger my own ring, cheap costume jewelry I bought at Newberry’s, fake gold with a green glass heart set in the center.

  “I’d like for each of you to team up!” Mr. Preston yelps from the front. “Choose a partner in crime with which you’ll be asked to contribute a portion of the yearbook. Choose a theme for your pages. We’ll dole out the details throughout the upcoming weeks.” The class breaks out in a buzz as people quickly switch seats and partner up. Amanda wastes no time in popping her ugly mug next to mine.

  “Like, move on, dingleberry. This seat is mine.” She snaps her gum for effect, and I forget to laugh.

  “Like, no thank you.” I don’t bother hiding the fact I’m mocking her. “This seat is actually mine. If you want to dry hump your boy toy, you’ll have to put a gold leash on him and drag him off with you. I believe I was here first.”

  “I’m staying.” Russell cocks his head in a surprise twist of defiance. “Heather’s my partner.” He shrugs at the Preppy Princess, and her heavily frosted lips round out in a perfect metallic O.

  I’d contest the fact that I refuse to be his partner, but I’m rather enjoying the look of defeat on her fake face too much at the moment to do it. Amanda scuttles off with her tail tucked between her legs, and this time I do laugh.

  “Very funny, James. Now scat.” I wave over Jeff Oberman, and he struts forward like an obedient puppy.

  “Cool, dudette.” Jeff slaps me a congratulatory five for picking him as my very mellow partner. I’ve known Jeff going on forever. Jeff Oberman has been stoned since the third grade. “That’s like totally tubular.”

  He scoots next to me on the stool, nearly knocking me off, and I can’t help but notice that his breath stinks like cheese. Crap. I can’t handle an entire semester of this, let alone another second. I’m going to hurl all over his gnarly sandy toes. And why the hell is he so sandy anyway?

  It’s just the first day of school, fourth period, and I’ve inadvertently paired myself with a mouth breather.

  An entire year with Jeff and his cheddar cheese breath flashes before my eyes.

  “I can’t do this with you,” I blurt out in a panic as I bump him off my chair with my hip. “You’re essentially Spicoli. I can’t work with Spicoli for the last two semesters of my scholastic career, so you’re out.”

  “Spic—who?” His forehead ingests itself in the folds of a thousand wrinkles. God knows there is nothing more amusing than a puzzled stoner, but my fear of inhaling his bodily manufactured scent of Limburger far exceeds any desire I might have to slap a knee on behalf of his confusion.

  “Spicoli. You know, from the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High? You’ve essentially morphed into him.” It’s true. Jeff wasn’t always so quick with the hash pipe. This strung out, hippy-haired, sandy feet version of him is a relatively recent transformation.

  “No biggie.” Jeff bolts over to his buddy up front, and they’re high-fiving before you know it.

  “I guess that leaves you and me.” Russ knocks his ring on the table again, and I take him in like this with his dress shirt, his annoyingly mint green blazer, those uniform pants of his that scream I’ll be living off Daddy’s trust fund for the next fifty years.

  “I guess it does.” I touch my ring to his. “Wonder Twin powers activate! Shape of a tiger.” I nod for him to finish the thought lest a Hanna-Barbera pox fall on us. “Come on, you have to say ‘form of’… you’re Zan so it has to be a liquid. It can be piss if you want.” I egg him on with a devious smile. “Or vinegar, take your pick.”

  He glances down at our still conjoined rings, my dross touching his silver, and a slow smile starts to spread over his features.

  “Form of New Coke.”

  “Ugh, try again, James. Even the Coca-Cola Company has rejected their new defunct formula.” Even though everyone knows Coke basically rules.

  “All right, Knowles. Form of a bucket of Mountain Dew.” He shrugs. “It’s my favorite.”

  “Mine, too.” We share a small laugh, and something in me relaxes for the first time in weeks.

  It’s nice like this. Senior year is shaping up to be something. A flash goes off in the front of the class, and I’m reminded of the fact I have no camera and no way to get to my first day at my new job without spending another twenty non-existent dollars to get myself a bus pass and perhaps not even enough to buy Russell James a Mountain Dew.

  Flashes go off all across the classroom while students show off their equipment.

  Russell pulls out a gorgeous Canon with a svelte black body equipped with an interchangeable lens. It’s a far cry from the Le Clic Melissa suggested I save up for.

  “Let’s see yours.” He nods toward my backpack.

  I hold open my empty hands. “You’re looking at it.” My face heats hot as the sun. “But I’m getting one.” I’m quick with the lie. “A good one.” And one lie begets the next. I shrink in my seat a little.

  I think it’s time I initiate a quick fix that can take care of both my paparazzi equipment deficiency and my Gonorrhea Ghia transportation needs.

  Senior year is going to shape up to be something all right.

  Dusty Bennett’s cousin, Nate, lives in Lawrence just past the border of San Ramos, where in fact the San Ramos Mall is actually situated. Dusty chose to drive us here in the exact Karmann Ghia I’m willingly selling my soul for. Well, not really my soul, my girl parts, covered in a smooth silky robe as they might be.

  We get out and meet Nate, a tall, lanky guy with a beard that frames his face. There’s something about him that reminds me of my older brother Seth, so the thought of taking naughty pictures in front of him won’t be awkward at all.

  “Step into my office.” He leads us through the garage, only we’re not actually going through. We stop abruptly in front of a large silver umbrella with a lamp underneath it that spews out the light of a thousand suns over a white sheet lining the wall and floor. “Go ahead and change into one of those.” He nods toward a metal rod with three wire hangers each holding up a thin piece of gossamer.

  “What’s this?” I ask, plucking at each one, and my jaw goes slack. Three lace contraptions stare back at me, one white, one red, and one blue. It’s quite a patriotic trio of naughty nighties, and, now I’m wondering if I’m too far from home to actually hoof it. I’m pretty sure I have a quarter rolling around at the bottom of my purse, so I might only have to hoof it to the nearest payphone to call Jennifer to pick me up.

  “That’s what you’re wearing, sweetie.” Nate steps over to a table nearby that holds at least six cameras like the one that Russell has, although I’m betting that none are actually as nice. When you have as much money as Russell’s family, only the best will do. “Pick one out and get dressed,” he barks. “I’ve got another girl coming in fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have an old camera you’re looking to get rid of, do you?”

  “Who wants to know?” He doesn’t look up from polishing his lens.

  “Me.” I’d like to add you moron. “I want you to throw one in for me in exchange for the shoot.”

  Dusty gives me the stink eye because I know for a fact he’s keeping all the cash I would have normally made in exchange for the car he’s getting off his insurance and out of his driveway.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ve got a real piece of crap lying around here somewhere I was just about to chuck. You can have it.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say with all the non-enthusiasm I can muster. I don’t know why I expected anything less than a real piece of crap. Look who I’m dealing with.

  Dusty plucks a white nightie off the rack and thrusts it at me. “It’ll bring out the demon in your eyes.”

  “This is less than a bathing suit!” I
hiss.

  He makes a face and pulls the fabric out until it almost miraculously doubles. “There, just make sure you’re covering yourself in all the right places.” He grimaces while inspecting the spider web he’s trying to squeeze me into. “Leave on your bra and panties. He’s so wasted, he won’t know the difference.”

  I head behind a makeshift curtain and begrudgingly shed my shredded lace tights. Thankfully, I’ve donned my singular pair of white undies and matching lace bra.

  Once I pull and sculpt the white teddy over my bits and pieces, adjust my armload of rubber bracelets, and three rosaries I happen to be wearing, I can’t help but feel a little Madonna-esque as I admire myself in the mirror. I definitely have more clothes on than I did all summer while broiling in the sand in my French cut bikini, so I don’t really see what there is to be ashamed of.

  “Hurry up in there!” Nate gruffs from the other side, and I give the curtain a little kick.

  “Just a sec.” I pull the Russian Red lipstick Jennifer gifted me from my purse and define my full lips like a Kabuki doll. I blow myself one last kiss as I head out to the white-hot light of my infamy and corruption. On the upside, I’m about to earn myself a brand new-to-me Karmann Ghia.

  Here goes nothing.

  A flash goes off in my eyes, destroying both my vision and my innocence all at once.

  The very first place I drive my shiny, albeit truthfully a bit rusty, new car is straight to Jen’s—actually, I swung by Dusty’s to drop him off first. It took twice as long as it should have to get him there because I’m pretty new to this whole stick shift thing. Who knew driving a car in a linear direction could still give you motion sickness?

  But, come to find out, Jennifer isn’t home so I head over to Melissa’s, only to be told rather abruptly by her older, much ruder, sister that she’s at her boyfriend’s house who happened to come home to surprise her because apparently Melissa and Joel simply cannot live without each other.

  I drive my new baby, which I’ve nicknamed—cleverly if I don’t say so myself—I Think I Can all the way up to Glen Heights, and finally jolt and stop my way to the front of Joel Miller’s house. Unfortunately for me, the car doesn’t seem to want to actually do the stopping part because the brakes don’t seem to be working at the moment, and I roll a little further, straight for the shiny black Beamer parked in front of me.