Firsts

by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn

  Toby laughs, until he realizes I’m serious. And the more serious I get, the more relaxed he gets. He lets go of his notebook and follows my instructions. His attention isn’t focused on writing and remembering things, just listening to each direction. He obediently shakes the glue solution and adds food coloring and makes the borax solution without flinching. By the time we end up with small plastic bags full of sticky globs, Toby looks like he’s actually having fun. I watch him stretch the putty and rub it between his fingers.

  “It kind of makes sense,” he says. “The chemical properties of the putty change because of the amounts of the ingredients we used.” He shrugs. “Right?”

  “Right,” I say, breaking into a smile. It worked.

  “Thanks, Mercedes,” he says. “You really saved my life.”

  I freeze midmotion, with my hand gripped around a wad of putty. You really saved my life. Somebody else said those very words to me not so long ago, after I helped him. Evan Brown.

  I don’t want to think about Evan right now. I busy myself cleaning up the mess on the counter before Kim gets home and thinks I’m in the process of building a bomb or something. Toby looks genuinely grateful when he leaves, and there’s something familiar building in my chest. Pride. The same pride I used to feel when somebody left my bedroom. But this is better. This is, in chemistry terms, an undiluted solution. Not a temporary high, but something better. There’s no residual doubt, no lingering what-ifs.

  I don’t know if I’m proud of Toby or of myself, or both. And if I’m proud of myself, it might be the very first time.

  20

  After the kitchen is clean, I know I should start my home economics assignment, the one I haven’t even chosen a topic for yet. But instead of opening my textbook, I open an old photo album instead. It’s filled with pictures of me and Angela. A few from the time we told her parents we were going to the grade-nine dance but really went to get burgers and milkshakes instead. A bunch from two summers ago at the beach, when Angela was afraid to go in the water because she was convinced a shark was going to grab her leg. One from the time we went camping and tried unsuccessfully to pitch a tent because Angela forgot the instruction manual at home.

  In all of the pictures, we’re smiling, laughing, carefree. And it makes me realize that nothing has been that way lately. We’re both more serious, more withdrawn. Every time I look at Angela, she’s distracted, like she’s miles away. And maybe she would say the same thing about me.

  I try to justify what Charlie told me. That he’s planning a surprise, that he just wants Angela to come out of her shell. But that’s the thing about Angela. She has always had a shell. It’s her armor, the protective barrier to guard her softness. It’s part of her. And if I know that, Charlie should, too.

  I promised him I would keep his plans a secret, and I meant it. But my loyalty is to my best friend.

  So I put the photo album away and grab my keys to the Jeep and pull out of the driveway, making one quick stop before ringing Angela’s doorbell.

  When she opens the door, she looks surprised to see me, which makes me feel awful. I used to drop by unannounced all the time. But not anymore.

  “Mercy,” she says, pulling the door open. “What’s up?”

  I shrug, hopping from one foot to the other, hoping she can’t sense my nervousness.

  “I was studying and got hungry,” I say, holding out the plastic bag I’m carrying. “And it’s been awhile since we did this, don’t you think?”

  Her face breaks into a smile when she looks in the bag. “Chocolate chips,” she says. “You know, I could use a study break, too.”

  I follow her into the kitchen and hop onto one of the barstools at the counter. I watch her pull out a cookie sheet, one that doesn’t bear the burnt residue of our previous cookie-making efforts like the ones in Kim’s kitchen.

  “Let’s do it right this time,” she says, and that makes me feel even guiltier because I want to make everything right. My friendship with Angela. The distance between us.

  “Well, following the recipe is a start,” I say. “Don’t turn the oven up too high. That’s what ruined it last time.”

  I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking, that last time was a long time ago.

  “Let’s not forget the brown sugar, either,” she says. “And you got vanilla extract. This is totally going to end well.”

  By the time we start measuring ingredients and mixing them together in a giant bowl, I have all but forgotten my actual reason for coming here. It feels like old times, talking and laughing as we eat more of the chocolate chips than we put in the batter, Angela chastising me for making the blobs of dough on the cookie sheet too big.

  After the first batch goes in the oven, the kitchen counter is a mess of flour and sugar granules, and Angela’s face is pink and shiny as she sets the timer for ten minutes. I don’t want to bring Charlie up. I don’t want anything to ruin this.

  But I know it’s now or never.

  “So, how are things going with Charlie?” I ask, licking batter off the back of a spoon.

  Angela takes off her oven mitts and slumps over the counter. “Good, I guess.” She cocks her head quizzically. “Why?”

  I put the spoon down and sit up straight. “I don’t know,” I say, and the rest of the words dissolve like sugar on my tongue. Because we went lingerie shopping for you last night. He picked out this white lacy thing that you’d hate and he has some big plan and I’m really worried.

  Angela raises an eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinking,” she says, and I wish for once she did, because that would make this a whole lot easier.

  “What?” I ask.

  She stares at her hands, where she is rolling a bit of leftover dough between her fingers. “You’re thinking about what I said in your bedroom, about how I was confused. But I’m not anymore.”

  My heart thuds erratically. “You’re not?”

  She shakes her head and wisps of hair fall out from behind her ears. “No, I’ve made up my mind. I’m not sleeping with Charlie until we get married. No matter what.”

  “Does he know that?” I blurt out.

  She looks up. “Well, I haven’t said anything, but he’ll just have to understand. I always said I’d wait, and I’m not changing my mind.”

  I grip the counter with my fingertips. I wish I could just be relieved, but I’m scared. Scared of how Charlie will react when Angela doesn’t want to put that lingerie on.

  “That’s good,” I say. “I mean, sex is a big deal. You can’t go back, once it happens. So you have to be totally sure.”

  “Like you were with Luke,” she says, and I nod quickly without meeting her eyes. A silent lie but maybe the biggest one I have ever told.

  “Charlie’s planning something,” I say weakly. “For your anniversary. I don’t know what exactly, but he has some big romantic thing planned. He asked for my help. I just didn’t want you to be surprised.”

  I don’t know how Angela will react to that, and this is why it’s so hard telling the truth. People don’t have a standard reaction. People aren’t a chemistry experiment you can tinker with until the proportions are just right.

  People are terrifying that way.

  “Thank you,” she says, touching my wrist lightly. “You know how much I hate surprises. At least if I know one’s coming, I can prepare myself.”

  When I glance up, she’s smiling and I almost want to laugh because it’s true. Angela does hate surprises. She hated the surprise birthday party her parents threw for her when she turned sixteen and she hates surprise endings in movies and she hates pop quizzes even more than the rest of us. Everyone who knows Angela knows that.

  Charlie should know that.

  After a few more minutes, the timer starts to beep, and Angela spins around and opens the oven.

  “Don’t get too excited, but these look really promising!” she says. “Quick—pass me the oven mitts before they burn.”

  After putting the cookie
sheet on a cooling rack, Angela plucks one cookie off and breaks it in half.

  “Here goes nothing,” she says, passing one half to me.

  We bite into them at the exact same time and stare at each other, both waiting for a reaction.

  “They’re perfect,” Angela says, nodding repeatedly. “After all this time, we finally got it right.”

  I manage a smile. We finally got it right.

  Maybe I finally got it right, too.

  21

  “You’re wearing that? To the dance? How do you expect a guy to look at you, let alone want to see you again?” Kim cocks her hip and smirks. I stare at her, in her too-tight top and too-low jeans, and wish I could wring her too-lifted neck.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I say, dropping my arms to my sides. I had hoped Kim would be home before I left, but now I’m really wishing she wasn’t.

  “What’s wrong with it? You look like a tomboy. Those jeans are so … baggy.” She says baggy like it’s the most despicable word in the whole English language. To Kim, it probably is. Baggy pants, baggy eyes—anything baggy is the enemy.

  “Maybe I am a tomboy,” I say, plucking a ChapStick from the pocket of my baggy pants and applying it. Kim hates ChapStick almost as much as baggy pants, because ChapStick does not make a statement.

  “You have such a nice figure, honey. That no-carb diet really suits you.” She leans forward and smooths my hair down. “You should show it off.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Kim,” I say, fighting the urge to tell her all about the giant plate of pasta I ate at Faye’s. To add to the look of sheer horror on her face, I grab a hoodie instead of my usual leather jacket and delight in the fact that her eyebrows move a fraction farther than I thought her Botox would allow.

  “Don’t get too drunk,” she shouts after me. “Call me if you need a ride.”

  “But it’s Friday night,” I holler back at her from the driveway. “Won’t you be drunk in an hour?”

  Angela doesn’t say anything about my outfit when I show up at the dance, just like I knew she wouldn’t. Sweet, considerate Angela. I feel a swell of affection toward her.

  “I got you a glass of punch,” she shouts over the music. “It’s not alcoholic. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m more worried that it’s not,” I say, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s waving through the thickening crowd at somebody wearing all black with one of those ridiculous fedoras that everyone at Milton High has started donning lately.

  It’s Charlie. When I see that it’s him, I’m glad I wore a hoodie and old jeans. Is it my imagination, or is he staring at me like he knows what I look like without clothes on? I guess he practically does. I raise my hand to my cheek, where he touched it yesterday. I suddenly want to tell Angela about that. But what would I say, that her boyfriend’s hand happened to graze my face? Maybe I made the whole thing up in my head.

  “This DJ is sick,” is all he says. Angela nods excitedly. I don’t say anything because I think the DJ is terrible. I’m not thinking about the music anyway. I know Charlie and Angela have their big anniversary coming up, and mental pictures of Angela in the white negligee keep creeping into my head. Except in my mental pictures she is trying to hide.

  Angela wants to dance. She has mastered that whole “dance like nobody’s watching” cliché, complete with overemphatic moves that aren’t at all in sync with the rhythm. I sway back and forth, focusing on my feet, very aware of all the people who might be in this crowded gym at this very moment, people I don’t want to make eye contact with. Particularly guys who came into my bedroom for their first time. When I started with the virgins, one of my rules was to not make appearances at student events, especially ones where alcohol may be involved. People get mouthy when they’re drunk and say things they regret the next morning. But I’m apparently breaking my own rules all over the place this week.

  “I’m glad your horizontal moves are better than these,” a low voice says directly into my ear. Zach. My stomach does a little flip and I realize I’m glad he is here and I’m glad he is alone. I whip around so we’re face-to-face.

  “Shut up,” I say. “I never said I was a good dancer.”

  He reaches out like he wants to touch me but tucks his hands behind his back instead. “Look, there’s something I should tell you,” he begins, but whatever he is saying gets drowned out by the pulsating music.

  I lean in to hear the rest, close enough to feel the sweat through his shirt. But he pushes me back. I cock my head in confusion. “What’s going on, Zach?” I yell.

  He says one word. Only one syllable. I don’t hear it, but I see how his mouth forms it.

  Faye. And when I turn around, she’s behind me, dancing with her eyes closed, snaking her arms in the air. Yesterday by the water fountain, Zach wanted to tell me something and I wouldn’t listen.

  I wonder if it would have stung any less.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Faye says when she opens her eyes. She shimmies closer to me, until our faces are almost touching. “I hope you don’t mind. I was going to ask, but I didn’t see you yesterday.”

  “Mind what?” I shout over the music that seems to be getting louder, the whole gym pulsating.

  “That Zach asked me to the dance.”

  I nod repeatedly, some sort of hybrid of nodding and bobbing my head to the beat. I glance over at Zach. He’s staring right at me with his hands tucked deep in his pockets, the one person not dancing. I think back to what he said on our last lunch date. I can’t wait around for you forever. I guess he meant it, but forever came a lot sooner than I thought.

  “Why should I mind?” I yell, tearing my eyes away from him. “I don’t like Zach. Zach doesn’t like me. We’re not even friends.”

  Suddenly she grabs my wrist, pulls me out of the circle of bodies, through other circles of bodies, until we’re out of the gym, where she pushes her hair off her forehead and fans her face with her hand.

  “I needed a breather,” she says when we spill into the hall. “It’s way too hot in there.”

  “You’re still yelling,” I say.

  “Sorry,” she says, lowering her voice. “But yeah, Zach asked me after school. I said yes because nobody else asked me.” She leans over the water fountain, holding her hair in one hand. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I wonder if Zach knew he was going to ask Faye before I even turned him down. It’s hard to think of Faye as somebody’s consolation prize. I don’t know if I should be flattered or shocked, but I don’t feel either. I just want to leave, since it’s too late to rewind time to change my mind about coming in the first place. Or to rewind time and accept Zach’s offer. The thing is, I don’t know if I’m more upset about Zach wanting to go with Faye, or Faye wanting to go with Zach. It’s too confusing to think about in a place this full of people.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” Faye says. Her hand is suddenly on my wrist, cool and steady. “Because you don’t look like it’s okay.”

  I stare at her hand, her thin fingers encircled by chunky turquoise rings. I wonder what it would be like to hold that hand. “It’s fine,” I say, forcing my mouth into a smile. “But this dance kind of sucks.”

  She wipes her mouth. “Kind of? This is hopping compared to my old school. The fact that you guys have actual punch at a dance is so retro. I thought that only happened in the movies.”

  “That punch could definitely use some spiking,” I say, even though I wouldn’t drink the punch either way, alcoholic or not, knowing how many idiot freshmen have probably spit in it by now.

  “Lucky for us, I brought provisions,” Faye says. “I did learn a thing or two from my old school.” She grabs my hand and marches me down the hallway to a girls’ bathroom, which is filled with freshmen jockeying for mirror space to apply lipstick and eyeliner. But Faye doesn’t want mirror space. She pulls me right into a stall with her, which probably garners some strange looks.

  “Vodka behind the toilet,” she says as she unearths a flask and sit
s cross-legged on the floor. “Works every time. Nobody checks back there.”

  “Shouldn’t you be with your date?” I say nervously, crouching down beside her. Faye takes a few calculated sips and holds the mickey out for me. I haven’t drunk hard liquor since my first year of high school, when it was my only distraction from everything going on. I used alcohol to center myself, because it was the only thing that worked back then. I suppose now’s as good a time as any to find out if it’ll still work.

  I take the mickey and press it to my lips, then tilt it down my throat. It burns going down and almost makes me gag. I forgot how unpleasant taking shots is, especially when the vodka is cheap and hasn’t been chilled in the freezer. At least Kim taught me some important life lessons.

  “Nah, I needed a break from him. He’s sweet but so touchy-feely. I don’t like that. You know?” She takes another sip of the vodka and puckers her lips.

  I nod. I do know. I’ve told Zach multiple times that he needs to check his “affectionate tendencies” at the door. I lost track of the times he tried to wrap me in a hug behind my locker door or “accidentally” brush my hand during chemistry. But if anyone should be receptive of that kind of touching, it’s Faye, who always seems to have her hand on my wrist or her arm around my shoulder, and I have only known her for two weeks.

  “I like this better,” she says, leaning against the wall and stretching her legs out.

  “What? Hanging out in the bathroom with me?”

  She shrugs and her mouth twitches into a little smile, which turns into a grimace when she takes another shot.

  “School dances have such a forced festive feeling, like everyone has to act a certain way. When you’re in the bathroom, that’s when shit gets real.”

  I sputter on my next shot of vodka and almost spit it out. “Shit gets real. Literally.” I start to laugh, harder than I have laughed in a very long time. At first, Faye looks at me with a bewildered expression, then starts to laugh, too, and the whole bathroom is filled with our laughter, my regular one and her seal-bark one.

  “You cackle like a hyena,” she says, which just makes me laugh harder, until there are tears in my eyes.