Divine Vices

by Parkin, Melissa

  “And they bought into that?”

  “Unfortunately, yeah,” said Gwen. “I seriously thought up until I was ten that he was responsible for killing Archibald.”

  “Archibald?”

  “He was an Irish Wolfhound I had growing up. We nicknamed him Baldy, because he had a skin disease that caused severe hair loss,” Gwen affirmed.

  “In other words, it was the ugliest dog you’d ever see,” Ian chimed in.

  “Hey!” Gwen cracked, slapping his arm with the back of her hand. “Who asked you anyway, Harry Potter? For all I know, maybe you did kill him.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility for it if you admit that Stacy was actually right about something for once then,” replied Ian, merrily greeting his pre-victory.

  Gwen simply pursed her lips, not even bothering to contemplate such a notion. Admitting something complimentary about her greatest enemy was one thing she was incapable of doing.

  As much as I tried not to hate anyone, Stacy MacArthur topped my list of most-unfavorable, teetering a fine line between that and despicable. Her bullying was spared from no one, not even if you were a blind, handicapped nun. Thankfully, Stacy had never crossed paths with such an individual, so I guess that could still be left to speculation.

  “Kansas?” piped Gwen, pulling out her compact mirror to check herself out. “That doesn’t even make sense! My hair doesn’t look like that, does it?!”

  Ian and I both struggled to hold back our laughter, seeing Stacy’s main purpose of getting under Gwen’s skin take root.

  “No,” I assured. “Your hair’s fine.”

  That was a complete understatement. Gwen’s hair was far from fine. It was beautiful. She had inherited her flaming red, multihued auburn locks from her mother, and it had natural body and a silky smooth texture. Her hair was the envy of every girl in school, even Stacy MacArthur.

  In fact, everything about Gwen was enviable. She was just short of 5”5 (minus the heels, of course), naturally slender, blessed with just enough curves desired by the opposite sex, and had dark blue eyes she accentuated with smoky makeup.

  I could not declare Gwen Meyer to be my best friend. No, she was more like my partner in crime. She was impulsive and reactionary, daring and direct. Surprisingly, those qualities were the ones that I found myself most desirous over.

  “You’re lucky your hair is so low maintenance,” said Gwen, pointing at my long, black mane. “Mine can never decide what it’s doing.”

  “Yeah, I’ll call in Disaster Relief on your account,” I joked. “FEMA has some cleaning up to do, just above your shoulders.”

  It’s not that I’m tragic looking or anything, but when someone as naturally alluring as Gwen tries to downplay the attractiveness of her appearance, it only makes me scrutinize my own faults all the more. My sister use to do the same thing, and it always put me one step closer to dressing in ponchos and ski masks.

  When we reached my locker, Gwen spent the entire time analyzing herself in the small magnetic-backed mirror I had pinned on the metal door.

  “You both have equally beautiful hair,” said Ian, coming up and roughing his fingers through the top of my head until my face was covered with hair.

  With obscured vision, I grabbed a pair of sunglasses I knew was sitting on the top shelf of my locker and I put them on over the hair. “I know, aren’t I just adorable?” I cracked.

  “Even prettier than Cousin It,” laughed Ian.

  “You should try that look, Gwen. Not many could pull that off, but I think it would do you wonders,” said Stacy, strutting passed us with her posse of wannabe followers.

  “Try holding your hands over your ears. Maybe it’ll help keep what’s left of your brains from spilling out,” I said unexpectedly, brushing the hair off my face.

  Stacy certainly seemed taken aback by my comment as well, since I usually assumed the role of mediator between Gwen and her. She simply gave me a sharp glare and stomped away.

  “Look who’s taken a turn to the dark side,” remarked Gwen. “I like it.”

  “I’ll catch up with you guys,” I said, seeing our English teacher, Miss Tipton, heading into her classroom.

  She didn’t close the door behind her, so I knocked on the doorframe upon arrival.

  “Ah, Cassie,” she said, looking up from her thick rimmed reading glasses and motioning me inside. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  “I was just wondering... you wouldn’t happen to have any extra credit work available, would you?”

  “Is this for you or someone else?”

  “Me.”

  She chuckled. “Cassie, you already have an A.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s just a grade. What I’m more concerned about is my grade point average. If I can raise it with the help of my better subjects, it’ll help cushion my worse ones,” I said, taking a seat on top of a desk in the first row. “AP Bio’s proving to be a bit tricky for me, and you know Mr. Rothenberg’s grading system hardly leaves chance for improvement.”

  “What’s your grade, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Eighty six.”

  She laughed again.

  “I’m serious. I need help. One less than perfect test from him and I’ll be straddling the terrifying lines between a B- and C+.” At this point, my voice had fallen into that of a plea. “Please, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Miss Tipton assured. “If I can think of anything, I’ll let you know. Now, go run along, and try to actually lighten up. Take a chill pill. Kick back your feet. Hang loose. Whatever it is you kids do.”

  “Thank you!” I bounced back up off the desk and nearly did a victory dance when I exited, but since there were more students heading into the building, I decided against it. Last thing I needed was a hideous video of me on YouTube doing the fist pump or moonwalk.

  Upon being dismissed from Miss Tipton, I hastened down the hall to find Ian already waiting for me at my locker.

  “Chop chop, little lady,” he said. “If you don’t get a move on, you’re not gonna beat Mr. Rothenberg to Bio.”

  I slapped my textbook against his arm after dialing in my locker combination. “As Franklin P. Jones would have said, ‘The trouble with being punctual is that nobody's there to appreciate it.’”

  “I love it when you talk like that,” he said cheerfully.

  Ian’s complete acceptance and appreciation for my peculiarities was always welcoming in the morning.

  “You’ll never guess what a little birdie just told me,” piped Gwen, rushing to my side with an exuberant bounce in her step.

  “Probably because no one cares enough to speculate,” replied Ian.

  Gwen returned his remark with one of her signature eye rolls. “Brad wants to ask Cassie to Homecoming.”

  “Like, Oh. My. God!” said Ian mockingly. “Move over Mount Olympus. Gwen Meyer’s discovered the eighth wonder of the world!”

  Amid my chuckling, I managed to ask, “Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

  “You know Brad,” said Gwen insistently. “Brad Stevenson!”

  My unexpressive reaction said it all.

  “My God, come out from under that rock you’re living under and join society!” Gwen exclaimed. “We have P.E. with him. He’s on the baseball team. Medium height, athletic build, has pipes as ripped as Jeremy Renner’s.”

  “Yeah, not ringin’ a bell,” I replied.

  “Follow.”

  Gwen led Ian and me to the west wing hallway that had a long, glass window overlook of the gymnasium. She set her sights out for the stranger in question, and pointed to Brad the second she saw him.

  “Really?” I said.

  “I know, right? Isn’t he a sweet slice of American pie?”

  “Who told you he’s interested?”

  “He did, just now during your little powwow with Miss Tipton.”

  “I’ve never even talked to him.”

  “Well, you’ve still seemed to h
ave left an impression. So?”

  “What?”

  “You want me to introduce the two of you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s cute, and you need a date for Homecoming.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Hold the phone. What aren’t you telling me here? Someone already asked you?!” asked Gwen gleefully. “Was it Will? No, Nate! Or Ben?!”

  “No, no, and hell no,” I declared. “I’m not going to Homecoming.”

  “The hell you’re not. Homecoming is a staple for every teenage girl. It’s a milestone that you’re not missing out on. Only complete outcasts don’t go. If you want to ensure your façade of normalcy, you have to.”

  “As much as it pains me to say this, she does have a point,” Ian denoted. “It’s a necessary evil for surviving the shark infested waters of high school.”

  Gwen began backpedaling towards the stairwell that led to the gym. “So, are you coming?”

  “I’m not going with some random stranger, especially if I’m not interested in him.”

  “You don’t think he’s cute?”

  “I’m not saying he’s unattractive, but he’s not exactly making my pulse race. If I have to be dragged by my hair to this thing, I would prefer to go with someone that I at least like. Saying ‘yes’ to Brad inspires the same indifference as saying ‘yes’ to the cafeteria’s soup of the day. Isn’t the point of Homecoming to have fun and to be with someone you really like?”

  “Excuse me, Bella, but if only the love struck, googly eyed, hopeless romantics went to the dance, then we’d have about as strong of a turnout as our chess team matches. For the female half of the class, it’s about getting dressed up and feeling like a princess for that one night with adorable eye candy on our arms.”

  “While the guys think about nothing other than scoring with their dates after getting them tipsy on spiked punch,” added Ian.

  Gwen instantaneously punched him in the arm.

  “And that’s exactly why I’m not going,” I affirmed.

  There’s no reaction more urgent to correct than that of a woman scorned, so Ian was clearly burdened with having to salvage Gwen’s hopes.

  “Okay,” he said, wrapping an arm safely around me. “If it comes down to it and you can’t think of anyone worth going with, then I will happily accompany you. And I promise not to get you too drunk.”

  “Aww,” I chuckled. “How sweet of you.”

  “No!” exclaimed Gwen.

  “What? I like that idea. If Prince Charming and his stallion don’t ride up, then at least I know that I’ll spend the evening with someone I know I can enjoy being around.”

  “And you’ll look like an even bigger Bi-otch than if you didn’t go at all,” declared Gwen irately.

  “Care to explain?”

  “Based on calculation, you’re gonna wind up turning down at least a handful of offers. Then let’s say you go to the dance with Houdini over here. You’re telling me that won’t drop your high school social rating?”

  “I’m right here, you know,” Ian pointed out.

  “Take it easy. It’s not about you and your social status, mostly,” Gwen confirmed. “Everyone knows the two of you are friends, so when you go, people are going to ask if you’re more than that. Then you’re gonna pull the whole ‘no, we’re just friends’ bit, and it’s gonna make Cassie look like a snob because she rejected perfectly good classmen. They’ll know it won’t be because she was already taken or because she already had her sights set on someone in particular, but because her discarded suitors just weren’t living up to her pretentious standards.”

  “Did I not get some kind of teenager’s survival guide that the rest of you were issued?” I asked. “I’m really not sure if I’ve been living in a cosmic rabbit hole recently, but high school has never had this many rules.”

  “This isn’t about high school. This is the basic system of modern dating,” replied Gwen.

  “Terrific, so for the next two weeks I’m gonna have to dodge every potential suitor,” I moaned.

  “Oh, babe, your naivety sometimes is truly adorable. No, the guys don’t ask the girls until the very week of the dance.”

  “The logic being...? If this is supposed to be about us getting dressed up, then why is there no time given in advance to prepare?”

  “Because, no man wants to come off as needy. If he asks the girl too early, then it gives us females the upper hand. We know he likes us a lot, and possibly too much. So if you’re skeptical about him, then his urgency corroborates further doubts because you don’t want someone clingy. And if you happen to be one of those clingy girls, then this could overwhelm the situation if the guy’s not as into you as you thought. In other words, it’s a man’s worst nightmare. In the meantime, we go out on the prowl for our dream dress and accessories. With our window shopping completed, we can step up to the plate at a moment’s notice with a simple run to the store. Crisis averted.”

  “Averted? That whole logic in itself is a crisis,” I said, already mentally exhausted by Gwen’s rundown.

  “Well, then at least appreciate your dodging-timeline being cut in two.”

  “True.”

  The two-minute warning bell blared overhead, and we parted ways for class.

  Chapter 2

  All American Nightmare

  “At last, we have hope!” declared Gwen, surprising Ian and me from behind as we left first hour.

  “Did we step through a portal that has brought us to the last day of senior year?” asked Ian.

  “Uh, no. I was talking about hope for Cassie,” Gwen replied.

  “Figures. At least one of us has chance at relief,” Ian chuckled.

  “Turns out she’s no longer the newest fish in New Haven’s tank. We just got a transfer, and according to Trish’s account, he’s obscenely gorgeous.”

  “Yeah, not my taste,” I said.

  “What?! You haven’t even seen him.”

  “I don’t need to. Anyone described that way is already bad news. It practically screams narcissistic. Besides, Stacy’s fangs will be into this guy’s neck before I so much as see him.”

  “Just keep an open mind,” Gwen said. “For all you know, he could very well be your white knight for Homecoming.”

  “Doubtful,” said Ian.

  “We’ll see about that soon enough. From what I’ve heard, they’ll be sharing English together.”

  Social networking catapulted the news of this stranger’s existence into the school’s consciousness in the mere matter of the ten minute break between first and second hour. I was running a little late to English, so I was forced to take a vacant seat closer to the front of the classroom. Immediately pulling out my textbook and flipping to our lesson plan for the day, I did what I could to not pay attention to the commotion arising from the rest of the females.

  The room suddenly went quiet, clearly indicating that the stranger in question had arrived. Whether it was from Gwen’s insistency to put myself out there or the simple dread of her developing an unhealthy infatuation as she was privately noted for, I didn’t so much as lift my eyes from the book on my desk to take notice.

  “Class, please help me in welcoming our newest student to New Haven High, Jackson Matthews,” announced Miss Tipton.

  “Hi,” everyone replied in unison as if they were greeting someone at an AA meeting.

  I covered my mouth to hide the laughter that began rising to the surface.

  “As if that salutation wasn’t uncomfortable enough first hour,” the stranger replied with a spark of humor.

  The comment was enough to catch my attention, so I surrendered my eyes to the front of the room. There he stood just over six feet tall, lean yet muscular, dressed all in faded shades of black from his t-shirt, fitted jeans, motorcycle boots, and leather jacket. His penetratingly sharp, icy blue serpentine eyes were all the more accentuated by lashes as long and dark as a cow’s. Obnoxiously perfect bed-head black locks of hair laid tousled
across his forehead, framing a striking face saved for the glossy pages of magazines.

  He was guaranteed to be egotistical and vain, as shallow as a kiddy pool, and right up Stacy’s alley. Staring at someone like him should have come with an indication sign, like “COULD CAUSE RETINA DAMAGE!” or “NEVER GONNA SEE ANY BETTER THIS SIDE OF YOUR TELEVISION SCREEN!” at least. In other words, I dropped any delusional notion that I had a chance with him the very second I refocused my attention back to my textbook. That was that. Thank God. The last thing I needed in my life was a distraction, especially one of overly perfect, um... proportions.

  “You can take a seat in front of Miss Foster, right over there in the front corner,” said Miss Tipton.

  Damn it!

  Sure enough, ten seconds later, GQ’s missing model came and parked a seat in the chair directly ahead of me, sending an annoyingly enticing coastal fragrance my way. Almost every other guy at school wore the same clichéd deodorant, typical to the commercials where young, statuesque women ripped the clothes off of whomever was wearing it. Instead, Jackson’s skin held that sweet lingering aroma of the shore that I missed so dearly from the long summer days I spent at the beach.

  Miss Tipton handed him a shabby, secondhand edition of our English textbook, for all the better copies had been given out at the beginning of the year.

  “Everyone, open up to page one hundred and eighty-six. This will be our introduction to nineteenth century literature, which means...”

  The whole class groaned.

  “Yep, we will be starting a new book, Jane Eyre to be exact. And I know what all of you are thinking, ‘how does a message about the high regard for one’s morality and sexual restraint play any relevance in today’s society?’ Well, I can’t necessarily say that it does,” Miss Tipton affirmed.

  This declaration had at least earned our curiosity.

  “What you wish to take from this is entirely up to you,” she continued. “Being that this is one of my favorite books, I am going to do you all the pleasure by not forcing you to overanalyze every line and phrase in its text. I will not be giving you chapter quizzes and constant vocabulary worksheets, because it is my belief that such dissection can in fact distract the reader from the book’s message.”