How to Be Bad

by Lauren Myracle

  “Oh, Maarc-o!” she says to the ceiling. “Vicks says I should jump your bones, but how can I if you’re not here? Where are you, Marco?”

  She is beyond trashed, and so is Vicks, who cracks up.

  I back away before either of them sees me. I should have known they weren’t going to stop at two beers—or in Vicks’s case, even three. What did I think they were doing down here, knitting tea cozies for the elderly?

  My face is hot, and I don’t like how I’m feeling toward them right now. I don’t like them for making me feel like this, all tight and flushed. A buzzkill, as Robbie so kindly put it.

  And yet, I clearly am.

  Equally clear is this: Mel’s sure as heck no angel.

  11

  MEL

  I AM DRUNK.

  Drunk, drunk, drunk. Drunk as a skunk! I am a rhyming drunk. I am holding on to the wallpapered wall because otherwise I will…fall.

  Another rhyme—go, me.

  “Where is sexy Marco?” Vicks asks me from her sprawled position on the sofa. “You should find him.”

  “Yes!” I exclaim. “I should. You stay here.”

  “I think I’m going to stay here,” she says.

  Good idea, I say. I think. I hold on to the wall and feel my way through the party. Are you Marco? Nope. You? Nope. He was here before. But now he’s gone. Gone, gone, gone. Gone as a…prawn?

  “There you are,” I hear.

  “Marco!” I cheer. I grab on to his arm. His hard arm. Hello, muscles. He’s so lying about being unathletic. I lean over to whisper a secret to him. “I need to talk to you in private.”

  “Mel, you’re wobbling. You okay?”

  “I have another secret,” I say, trying to enunciate. “Not about Pilates or moisturizer gloves,” I clarify in case he’s confused.

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I have to show you,” I say. I am going to have sex with Marco. It’s perfect. He is sweet and adorable and we are going to do it.

  Now. While I’m brave. And drunk.

  He likes me. He must.

  The wine coolers have made me much smarter, eh? They’ve made me more like Vicks. Less afraid.

  Bye-bye to Scaredy-cat Mel. Hello to Brave Mel. I love Brave Mel!

  “Are you okay?” he asks me again. He looks concerned. He looks sexy when he’s concerned.

  “I’m wonderful.” I pull him into a room, but it’s a closet.

  “I think you need to lie down,” he says.

  He gets it! “Exactly! We need to lie down.”

  He leads me out of the closet and into a brown bedroom. Brown walls, brown bedspread, brown brown brown. “Your eyes are brown,” I tell him. Then I throw my arms around his neck. “Let’s do it, sexy brown eyes!”

  Brave Mel is invincible. She’s Super Mel. And nothing scares her. Not a bird, not a plane, not the brown-eyed boy. She deserves a cape.

  He somehow untangles himself from my super human grip. “Mel, this isn’t a good idea.”

  “It is!” I flop backward on the bed, and pull him down on top of me.

  He smiles at me for what seems like forever, but then the smile gets a little sad. He looks sexy when he’s sad. He heaves himself back off the bed. “You need to rest, okay? I’m going to get you some water.”

  I kick off my flip-flops. It’s not polite to wear shoes on Robbie’s bed. I sit back up. “I am not going to sleep! You said I could meet your parents!”

  “Yes, but not tonight.” He gently pushes me back down. “Close your eyes. I’ll be right back.”

  La, la, la. Robbie’s room might double as a disco. It’s starting to spin. “Do you like to dance?” I ask, but no one answers.

  Nikki and I used to dance all the time when we were kids. We’d blast Britney and make up our own dance routines that we’d do over and over and get our dad to videotape. Until she got to high school and stopped wanting to hang out with me. Nope. I am not good enough for Nikki. Or Alex. Nope, nope, nope.

  I bet I still remember those routines.

  Arm up, arm down, spin, turn, kick…no, turn.

  “Here you go,” Marco says. Oh, there he is. “Sit up and take a big gulp.”

  I do as I’m told, or try to, but now there’s water on the brown sheets, turning them almost black. “Whoopsies,” I say, and then kiss him.

  Or try to. I might have licked him by accident. I gulp down more water.

  “Now I want you to take a nap,” he says.

  “Are we not going to do it?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Maybe he didn’t hear? “Are we not going to do it?” I ask again, raising my voice.

  “Go to sleep, Mel. I’ll come check on you in a half hour.”

  Oh. I am kind of sleepy.

  He pulls the comforter over my arms and legs and then kisses me on the forehead. Damn! I wasn’t ready for that. I pucker my lips in case he tries again, but I think he’s already closed the door.

  Robbie’s bed is quite comfortable. I wonder if he has a pillow-top mattress? That’s what I have. It’s very good.

  “Can someone get my pillow?” I ask. “It’s in the car!” Maybe I should call Vicks. I take out my phone, and scroll through the measly five numbers I’ve accumulated since I got to Florida. Old Mel was Pa-the-tic. “Vicks?”

  It’s not dialing. I don’t think I’m doing this properly. I wish the phone would stop moving. “Hello? Anyone?”

  No one answers.

  “Let her sleep!” a voice in my dream says.

  “I want out of here.”

  “What’s the problem? Let’s just sleep here.”

  “I’m not sleeping in Robbie’s bed!”

  “So sleep on the floor.”

  “Fine. I will. But Mel sucks.”

  I don’t suck, I want to tell my sister. When did she get a Florida accent?

  “The only reason she got to come on this trip was because she promised to pay for a hotel.”

  “I get points at the Marriott,” I say before rolling over and going back to sleep.

  12

  VICKS

  MY CELL BLEEPS. It’s 1:34 in the morning. A text. From Brady.

  Hey there U. All good here. Stay cool.

  About freakin’ time, I think. And then I think, Stay cool?

  I walk out of Robbie’s bedroom into the empty hallway and press my speed-dial.

  “Stay COOL?” I say when Brady picks up.

  I can’t believe he picked up. He hasn’t picked up since he left for the U.

  “Stay COOL? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Vicks! I didn’t think you’d be up. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “I’m up,” I say. “I’m stayin’ cool.”

  “Okay, you got me. That was lame.”

  “Forget it. What’s new?” I say to Brady, thinking, Don’t cry. Don’t complain. Don’t become a flowery needy girl on him, or he’ll leave.

  “Oh, God.” He sighs.

  “Oh, God, what?”

  “It’s just—it’s different hearing your voice live, on the other end of the phone. Vicks, I miss you so much right now.”

  Then why haven’t you called me? I want to scream. But instead I say, “How come you’re up so late?”

  “I went to a party, but it sucked.”

  “Oh.” What party? I want to know. Who with? “I have practice at 6 A.M. too,” says Brady. “I’m going to be whupped.”

  What party? I want to know. With cheerleaders?

  “Coach runs us really hard,” Brady is saying. “And classes started on Wednesday, so I’ve gotta study too.”

  Why do you have to be secretive? What freaking party?

  “The only morning we get off is Sunday,” he continues. “But the twice-daily workouts do make a difference. You can feel it.”

  Fine.

  “Maybe you should go to sleep then,” I snap, interrupting. “If you’ve got such important things to do.”

  “What? No, I want to talk to you.”<
br />
  So why did you just text me, then? Why did I have to call you? I want to shout. But I rein myself in and say, “Wonderful. So what would you like to talk about?”

  “Nothing. Just talk. Aren’t we talking?”

  “You’re telling me about early-morning football practice. If you call that talking.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “Sure, if you think so,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me about your classes, next? How are they going for you? Do you like your teachers?”

  “Vicks, you sound weird.”

  “No I don’t,” I say, knowing full well that I do, only I can’t make it stop. “Aren’t you going to tell me about your classes? How’s freshman comp?”

  Brady sighs. “Um. I got my in-class essay back with red pen all over it this morning. And I have a quiz already on Monday.”

  “How fascinating. What’s your quiz on?”

  “Um. Intro to Anthropology. Categories of early humans.”

  “Whoop de do.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’m dying to talk about anthropology.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to talk about anthropology.”

  “Oh? I thought you did.” Don’t complain. Don’t cry.

  “Vicks, are you drunk?” Brady asks. “Where are you?”

  I can’t tell him I’m halfway to Miami, ’cause I can’t tell for sure if he’s going to be happy to see me. Can’t bear to hear him say, “Oh, baby, that’s sweet that you’re driving down, but I’ve got football practice twice a day and I’m really busy, and we talked about you coming down to see the game Thanksgiving weekend, so maybe you shouldn’t go to all that trouble.” So I say, “It’s Friday night, Brady. I’m not gonna sit home.”

  “You sound kinda drunk.”

  “So? I’m at a party with Jesse and some guys we met.”

  “What guys?” Brady asks. “And with Jesse? Really? She hates drinking parties.”

  “Well, I’m changing her mind,” I say, ignoring his first question. I can be secretive too.

  “Oh.”

  “It’s kind of a bad time to talk, actually,” I say. Thinking, he doesn’t deserve to get hold of me after midnight anymore. I’m not his puppy; I’m not leaping up and down every time he knocks on my door. If he’s not thinking about me enough to even text me back until now, I’m not going to—

  “Can I call you later?” I say.

  “Aw, come on, Vicks.”

  “We can talk about football and anthropology some more next week.”

  “Baby, I know something is wrong. Tell me.”

  I cannot tell him, I miss you, I’m lost without you, I’m lonely, you’re off meeting other girls, I’m jealous, I need you to call me, I can’t stand being apart if you don’t call me. Because if I say any of that, I’m just going to push him away—and if Brady doesn’t want me, then I’m not going to know who I am. I already don’t know who I am with him gone, with my brothers gone too, and me just rattling around in that big empty house with only my parents, and…

  Three beers and a shot is obviously too much if I’m getting all emotional like this. Reminder to self: Two is your limit. Retain some dignity.

  “What do you mean?” I ask Brady. “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t have time to talk right now. Heart you! Bye!”

  “Vicks—wait!”

  “Yeah?”

  “What guys did you meet? Who’s driving you home?”

  Oh, like he’s not meeting girls every second there at college. “Just some guys. I think a couple of them are lifeguards,” I lie. Because lifeguards are always hot.

  Truth is, I am dying to tell Brady about busting into the museum and celebrating Old Joe and Mel’s beautiful voice and “Al Roker, you are my kin”—which is all the kind of stuff Brady would love. It’s almost like it hasn’t really happened, since I haven’t told him about it. I’ve told him about everything that’s happened to me all year.

  But he’s not really asking me what I’ve been doing. He just doesn’t like the idea that I met some other guys and went to a party with them.

  “Do you have a ride?” Brady wants to know.

  “I think we’re staying over, but yeah. Jesse’s the driver. And you know she never drinks.”

  “What? You’re staying over at the party?”

  He’s probably right to be worried, now that I think of it. It’s a bit of a dumb situation to have gotten into. But no guy who doesn’t call me for two weeks gets to tell me what to do. “Don’t be so possessive.”

  “Vicks, are there people you know there?”

  “You sound like one of my brothers.” Why won’t he say he’s sorry? Why doesn’t he explain why he hasn’t called me?

  “I just don’t want you doing anything stupid,” he says instead. “You should have Jesse take you home. I want you to be okay.”

  Exactly. He just wants me to be okay. He doesn’t want anything to be wrong, ever. Doesn’t want to hear about it, doesn’t want to feel guilty.

  I’m not okay. I’m drunk at a strange party and we can’t leave ’cause Mel’s so trashed she can’t even walk and Marco’s nice but some of these guys are obviously skeevy. I want to say, Brady, drive up and get me. Now.

  Brady, talk me through this dizzy drunk feeling until morning.

  Brady, take care of me.

  But he wants me to be okay without any help from him, and he hasn’t called me, and he’s only sent me two stupid texts and he’s talking about football practice instead of about anything real and he’s probably bonking some cheerleader and that’s why he’s being so weird with me and fake and all, Oh, I’m taking anthropology.

  I can’t go on like this. It’s too lonely, too terrible to check my phone all the time and never hear from him, too sad to live in that empty house and get off work with no one waiting to pick me up and no one to hold my hand during movies and before I even think it through, I blurt, “I don’t think this long-distance thing is working out.”

  “What? It’s only been like a week.”

  How can he not know how long it’s been?

  “It’s been two weeks,” I correct him.

  “Okay, two. It feels like forever, what do I know?” Brady sighs.

  “Well, it’s not working out,” I say, trying to sound strong. “Since you can’t even count or make a phone call.”

  “Vicks!”

  “Let’s just say it’s over,” I tell him. “It’s better that way.”

  “How can you say that?” Brady is nearly shouting.

  Don’t shout at me, you stupid, weird-acting, football anthropology boy. You’re going to make me cry, and I am not going to cry. “You say it just like this,” I tell him. “It’s over.”

  “Vicks, wait!”

  “Over,” I repeat and hang up the phone.

  It rings not three seconds later—Brady again—but I hit “ignore,” then turn it off and shove it in my bag.

  Down in one corner of the backyard Robbie’s folks have an aboveground pool. It’s not big, maybe ten feet across. No one’s in it. People are sitting on the back steps with bottles and the bright dots of cigarettes in their hands. Someone’s lit some citronella candles to keep the mosquitoes away. A girl is sitting on the grass, playing guitar.

  I don’t want to talk to anyone, so I walk over to the pool and dip my hand in. Trail my fingers through. Then I climb the rickety ladder and step into the water wearing my shorts and T-shirt. It’s only slightly cool, and a number of bugs have drowned themselves. They float sadly on the surface.

  I duck under. Wash the heat of anger and humiliation off my face. Try to get away from my thoughts, but they’re spinning through my head, muddled by the beer.

  I was right to dump Brady.

  I was right. I was right. Steve, Joe Jr., Jay, Tully, and Penn—they would all say I was right.

  My brothers—well, except for Penn, he did worship Liza Siegel and never cheated on her even when Tiffy Gonzaga took off her shirt in front of him—but my brothers
showed me again and again that it’s “out of sight, out of mind” with guys. My brothers, as soon as their girls go out of town, they’re flirting with someone else. And probably fooling around, though I don’t know for sure. Yes, fooling around, because Tully started going with that redhead—what was her name, Jewel?—when Katelyn went to summer camp.

  Brady’s at the U, which has a competitive cheerleading squad, for God’s sake. He’s a football player on a major college team surrounded by hot and bouncy blond girls. And older women. And girls who’ve traveled somewhere beyond the Waffle House parking lot in Niceville, one trip to Disney World, and Grandma Shelly’s retirement complex in Aventura. Girls who never smell like fryer grease and never fart and probably shave their whole bodies and never do stupid things to their hair.

  Brady’s a guy. Of course he’s gonna be fooling around on me. I’m better off without him. Right?

  I duck underwater and when I come up, Marco’s standing next to the pool. “There you are,” he says.

  “You were looking for me?”

  “I just wanted to ask you if Mel’s okay.”

  “She’s plastered, but Jesse’s in there with her,” I say.

  He nods. “I didn’t want to barge into the room.”

  “Probably better not to. But thanks for letting us stay.”

  “No problem.” He tilts his head at the pool. “Mind if I get in?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  He’s changed into blue swim shorts and he pulls his T-shirt over his head. The muscles of his chest ripple. “I always come out here when Robbie’s parties get too crazy,” Marco says as he eases himself into the water.

  He’s not big—I probably outweigh him by a few pounds—but his body’s not bad, either. Nice skin. Big eyes like an antelope’s or something. And a good sense of humor. I could tell when he was flirting with Mel in the backseat.

  “Robbie and Jesse had words,” he reports. “That’s the other reason I wanted to check in with you.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say. “She gets uptight when people drink.”

  “No, he was being a jerk. The guy is a maniac sometimes. He doesn’t mean any harm, but he’s always getting girls mad.”