Ink is Thicker Than Water (Entangled Teen)

by Spalding, Amy

  And, anyway, I like having thoughts of Oliver basically all to myself. (I’ll pretend the only other person who knows something’s going on isn’t my mother, since that kind of ruins it being some kind of sexy secret.)

  “Your hair looks amazing, I meant to mention earlier,” Kaitlyn says. “Your mom?”

  “Yeah, and thanks. She did better than usual this time.”

  “Imagine how cute you’d look if you wore a shirt without a hole in it,” she says, and I start to get offended, but the truth is that I bought this T-shirt from a vintage shop in University City, and it does have a tiny hole where the right sleeve connects to the rest of the shirt.

  After dropping Kaitlyn off, I head to The Family Ink, since I need to be in the neighborhood anyway. The shop is pretty slow, so I do my homework while sitting with Mom as she works on designs. She lets Jimmy go home early, so I keep an eye on the door like if I seem attentive enough, I still have a chance at getting a job here. The next time the door opens, I jump up and walk to the front desk. It isn’t a customer, though; it’s Adelaide.

  “What time is it? Am I late?”

  “I’m early, and I figured I could find you here.”

  “Hi, there.” Mom jumps up and smiles at Adelaide. “We’ve met, haven’t we?”

  “You did my boyfriend’s tattoo,” Adelaide says. “The passage from The Fellowship of the Ring, if you remember.”

  “Oh man.” Russell grins up at her. “I wanted to do that one so bad, love those books. Mel’s better at text, though, couldn’t steal it from her.”

  “It still looks great,” Adelaide says. “Byron loves it so much.”

  “I loved doing it,” Mom says. “Kellie, have a good time, baby. Be home by ten, okay?”

  I’m allotted three full hours with Adelaide plus time to get home? “Fine.”

  I get my laptop bag and my backpack from the back room and follow Adelaide outside and down the sidewalk. Her black Mary Jane heels click the entire way; it sounds like some invisible grown-up is chasing us.

  “How did you know I’d be at the shop?” I ask, the first thing I can think to say. For as all-powerful as Adelaide is during classes or newspaper, she’s almost annoyingly quiet now. I really doubt, despite our theoretical differences in social status at school (am I really that less geeky than Adelaide?), that she wants anything more to do with me than I do with her.

  “I assumed you would be. You mentioned the other day you spent a lot of time at your mom’s shop, and I figured out from your email address what the shop was.”

  “Oh. So your boyfriend got a tattoo from my mom?” It’s an even dumber question than the first. Clearly this matter has already been cleared up.

  “It’s in her portfolio, so I’m sure you’ve seen it.”

  “Mom’s done a lot of text work,” I say. “Maybe.”

  “It’s the only quote from Fellowship of the Ring, I’m sure.”

  I decide not to mention that I don’t read nerd. “Then I guess I’ve seen it. Where does your boyfriend go to school?”

  “Wash U,” she says, which is the nickname for Washington University, the most smarty-pants school in town. Of course she dates someone from there. “Do you want coffee? My treat. My parents give me tons of cash for no reason.”

  Coffee feels like a thing I’m not mature enough for yet, but I let her buy me a hot cocoa. She orders one of those crazy drinks, a two-percent Tahitian-vanilla half-caf four-shot bone-dry cappuccino. I could never work at a coffee shop because orders like that make me roll my eyes more than a little.

  “So this shouldn’t be too hard,” Adelaide says once we’ve collected our drinks and settled in a booth upstairs. “Let’s come up with five to ten things you’ve been thinking about Ticknor lately, and—”

  “Listen, I’m not like you. I know you’re really passionate about all this stuff, but that’s just not me. This whole thing was a mistake, Jennifer shouldn’t have—”

  “So were you ‘really passionate’—” Oh my God she is actually using air quotes—“about cafeteria food? Or the Mark Twain paper Jennifer let me read? Or did you just write good pieces?”

  Okay, so she has me there. But I’m kind of sick of talking about it already. “So where were you volunteering tonight?”

  “Planned Parenthood,” she says. “Five to ten things, Kellie.”

  “Maybe this comes easy for you, but I haven’t been working on a paper. I don’t just think in lists.”

  “Fair.” Adelaide takes out her computer. “You want to do this, though, right?”

  “Definitely.” It’s weird saying it out loud to her, for different reasons than I’ve avoided telling everyone else. I’m not worried Adelaide will think it’s weird I suddenly care about stuff; I’m worried Adelaide thinks my wanting to do this isn’t the greatest of ideas. “I thought it could be fun, but I’m just not sure I can be good at it.”

  “You just have to get used to thinking in a different way.”

  “Hey, Kellie,” says a very familiar voice.

  I look up with a start and promptly knock my hot cocoa all over my laptop. Adelaide and Oliver spring into Laptop Protection Mode, Oliver hoisting it into the air and Adelaide producing a bunch of napkins with which to contain the spill. How did I go five months without seeing Oliver at all and then randomly run into him twice in less than a week?

  “Looks like it’s okay.” He takes a napkin from Adelaide and dabs at the keys. “Mine’s survived worse.”

  “Hi,” Adelaide says to him. “We met at the protest downtown the other week, remember?”

  “Yeah, my friend sent me a link to your story on it, too, nicely done.” He isn’t watching Adelaide, though; he is watching me. “You look busy.”

  “We’re brainstorming,” Adelaide says.

  Is this what qualifies as a cock-block?

  “I wouldn’t dare interrupt that,” he says. “But I’ll be here for a while; stop by my table if you finish up. Cool?”

  I nod, wondering what the rules are for someone you once completely rejected in such a stupid, embarrassing way. Can you still kiss him? Five months later?

  Adelaide watches me as Oliver walks back to the table he’s sharing with a few guys and girls. “What’s up with you guys?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right,” she says. “Okay, back to work.”

  “Five ideas and I’m talking to him.”

  Adelaide agrees, and it’s sad what a motivator that is. But maybe it’s more than that, because by the time I mention the new No Laptops Policy, I also think about the dress code changes, the unending rumors of school uniforms (even though obviously none of the administration at Ticknor will ever squash our individuality or self-esteem that way), my suspicion that the focus on a supportive, noncompetitive environment will land us all in college with too many hippie ideals and not enough real-world skills, and the whole fertilizer situation. I probably could have thought of even more ideas, unbelievably, but I’ve technically fulfilled my obligations for the night. Time to stop by Oliver’s table.

  “This is a good start,” Adelaide says. It’s nice to hear. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you.” I pack up my laptop and hesitate for only a moment. Oliver watches me as I make my way over, but unlike the day we met, when his intentions were so clear and readable, I have no idea what he’s feeling right now. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He gets up, waves to his group. “See you guys later.”

  I didn’t mean for him to leave his friends or for us to leave completely, but I sort of tag along with him until we’re outside. “Do you come here a lot?”

  “Are you hitting on me?” He laughs, to my horror. “‘Come here often?’ ‘What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?’”

  Oh, we’re joking around. “‘Your place or mine?’” That is really the first thing that flies out of my mouth? What is wrong with me?

  “I thought about calling you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, leans back against th
e brick building. Lanky guys leaning is something I don’t really get sick of looking at. “But I didn’t know how you’d feel about—”

  “I was in a weird place that night,” I say, not because I actually had been, but it seems like the kind of thing normal mature people in relationships say. I probably got it from some premium-cable show. “I’m sorry if I—”

  “I’m sorry if I…” He looks up from the ground, grins as he runs a hand through his slightly shaggy red hair. Even though he and Dexter look nearly like twins, their smiles aren’t alike at all. Dexter’s is often too broad or too mischievous to be genuine, but Oliver’s radiates nothing but. His brown eyes are calm as if nothing could shake him, and when I look into them, I feel like their calming power extends to me. Whether or not it’s a good thing, I find it hard not to trust him. “We should hang out again. I actually was about to head out, got a paper due tomorrow and I’m still a few hundred words short. You need a ride?”

  I shake my head. “I’m parked just down there.” Jerk my thumb back to indicate. Oliver takes it as a hint, and maybe subconsciously it was one, so he walks me over, and right before I’m about to get in, he’s right there. He leans in, his breath warm on my face in the cool evening, and I know we’re going to kiss again.

  It’s weird to me how it’s natural and not at all at once. My feet automatically go into tiptoe mode (Oliver must be over six feet tall), and my body leans into him, but also his chin bumps my face and our hands knock into each other’s as we try to cling or grope or whatever is going to happen right here in the tiny not-dark-enough parking lot behind The Family Ink. The ocean, I think. Gentle, warm, pulling me in, dragging me under. Kissing him is still like the ocean.

  “I’ll call you.” He sort of ushers me into my car. “Your stepdad’s got a really clear view of us right now.”

  “Oh, crap.” I buckle in and wait for him to step back so I can slam the door. Russell is indeed at the back window, probably about to lock up for the night, and he’s grinning and laughing, and all of a sudden I wish for nothing more than for him to never, ever sway from Mom’s no-gossip rules.

  Way back in May, on Memorial Day, Dexter and Oliver’s parents threw this huge barbecue for what seemed like their entire subdivision, and—probably to Sara’s horror—they’d invited all of us, not just her. Sara’s not a jerk in any way, but her image doesn’t really line up with her tattoo artist mother and stepfather chasing after a screaming kid dressed up in swim trunks and a Batman mask/cape combo. Maybe it’s some genetic default or either too much or not enough therapy, but I’ve just never been able to get embarrassed about my weirdo family.

  I’d been helping hold Finn down so Mom could slather him with sunscreen when I noticed that this lanky red-haired guy—I knew he had to be Dexter’s brother—was definitely noticing me. I didn’t actually have much experience with guys, but I knew this guy was into me just from the way his gaze lingered.

  Once Finn was safe from harmful UV rays, I’d walked over to the guy and made some dumb joke about pool parties being inappropriate for the true spirit of Memorial Day except for maybe the Navy. He’d laughed, while I accepted that this tall, cute, laughing guy was interested.

  I’d found out he was indeed Dexter’s brother, was one year older than Dexter (and therefore two years older than me), and was about to start his freshman year at St. Louis University as a philosophy major. We hadn’t spent the whole day together, just kept finding reasons to run into each other again and again. When Mom and Russell were ready to go, I convinced them I was hanging out with Sara and Dexter and would just catch a ride home with them later.

  Luckily in the crowd Sara hadn’t noticed I’d stayed or that Oliver found me yet again and led me inside to his room. We actually talked for a long time—school, music, our siblings’ shared brand of perfection—before he kissed me, this really perfect heart-stopping kiss. And it just kind of continued; one kiss became the next, and—I mean, we were in his room, there was a bed there!—before long we were out of our clothes, and it hit me that it was going to happen: I was going to have sex with this guy I barely knew at a frigging Memorial Day barbecue. I started thinking of all these weird things—like that maybe Sara and Dexter would walk in, or that he had these really crisp, clean sheets and was I going to bleed on them or something? —and I wasn’t exactly old-fashioned but didn’t I want to wait to do this with someone who was my boyfriend or I’d at least met before?

  And this is the thing. Oliver isn’t one of those guys you hear about who is pushy—it was as much me as him. So I knew I could have just told him I wanted to cool off, and he would have understood. But I also kept thinking of how I’d never found the thought of sex scary, and I never understood those people who held out because of fear or morals or whatever else, and I felt like a big, stupid hypocrite. I didn’t want to be nervous about this. I didn’t want to want to stop. So I shut my mouth, and I helped Oliver scour the room for a condom, hoping we wouldn’t find one. I mean, rooms weren’t just automatically stocked with condoms, were they? But he did find one, and I wondered: if someone just has condoms on hand, does that mean he does this a lot?

  I didn’t say anything, though, and Oliver climbed on top of me and it happened.

  No, not sex.

  “Um,” I said, my voice this mangled, hysterical, crazy sound.

  “Yeah?”

  I didn’t just burst into tears. It was a volcano of tears. Sobbing, shaking, more of the crazy, hysterical sound.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I should have just said no. I should have just said the truth, which was something like, This all went too fast, and I need to back up, and I’m not ready to lose my virginity to a guy I don’t really know, and you’re so nice so can we just kiss some more and also I’ve talked about sex a ton, and I was positive when it happened for me I’d be ready, and I hate that I guess I’m not as brave as I think I am.

  But I’d said nothing. For awhile. And then, finally, “I have to—I have to go.”

  “Okay…?” He’d gotten up so I could get up, and stood there, totally naked, while I’d scrambled around the room reconstructing my outfit. “Listen, I’m sorry if—”

  This was when I should have told him how it wasn’t his fault and how he was such a great kisser and maybe if we ramped up to this, I’d like to have sex with him at some other time. But, again, none of what mattered came out.

  “I have to go,” I’d said again. “If Sara finds out I was here—”

  “Do you want a ride?”

  I’d thought of my other options: finding Sara and making a lame excuse, calling Kaitlyn and making a lame excuse, calling Mom and making a lame excuse. “Is that okay?”

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  We were completely quiet in his car, the only sound the album on the stereo, The Beatles’ Revolver, which had made me want to cry even more because it was my favorite album by my favorite band. I had just run away from sex with a guy who was currently listening to my favorite album.

  Since it happened—or, technically, not happened—I’d gone back and forth on whether or not I ever wanted to see him again. On one hand, there was a guy I really liked who actually seemed to like me back. On the other lay disaster and humiliation. Maybe it was best the decision got made for me last week in the diner. Now that I’d seen him again, I didn’t want to go back, and it was funny how already I just knew he didn’t, either.

  Sara is walking into the house as I am, and I have this weird panic that she’d been with Dexter and he somehow knew about Oliver. Though, A) how? and B) at this point would that really matter?

  “Hey. You’re out late,” I say. “Were you hanging out with Dexter?”

  She eyes me strangely, which she should, because I’d blurted out those few sentences in a crazy tone. “Are you okay?”

  “I was kissing this guy.” Even if I’m not ready for her to know it’s her boyfriend’s brother, I’m ready for her to know something. Guys don’t have to be the one t
opic we never really cover. I won’t require her to give me Dexter details, but I should probably not be working through this alone.

  “It’s sort of complicated,” I add, even though it’s a sentence I probably picked up from frigging Facebook and not from my own feelings at all.

  “Is it someone you don’t want to be kissing?” Sara flips through the mail on the front table. There are always at least four pieces of correspondence from various universities awaiting her. “Or shouldn’t be kissing?”

  “What do you mean, ‘shouldn’t be’?”

  “Someone who’s otherwise attached? I don’t know, Kell, you’re the one who said it was complicated.”

  “I mean, when you started going out with Dexter, was it just like some normal thing?” As far as I knew, Sara and Dexter were suddenly together with no apparent stressing or awkwardness beforehand.

  “I don’t really know what you mean.” She walks into the kitchen, and I follow her while she gets a glass of water. “Seriously, Kell, you look a little freaked out.”

  I hate that I can’t find the right words, and for once she doesn’t exactly seem anxious to help me. “Never mind.”

  “If you’re not completely falling apart, I have to go to my room,” she says. “I have so much homework to finish, and I should have been asleep ten minutes ago. I’m sorry.”

  “Since when do you stay out so late with Dexter on school nights?” I try to affect some goofy, grown-up tone. Why knowing something isn’t funny is never enough to keep me from saying it is quite the mystery.

  “I wasn’t out with Dexter,” she says. “I met with Camille again.”

  “Oh.” I wonder if that’s weird or not. I guess not. “Cool. Did you have fun?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I did. See you tomorrow.”

  “Sara?”

  She stops but doesn’t turn. “What is it? Are you completely falling apart? It’s all right if you are, you know. You can tell me.”