The Album: Book One

by Pullo, Ashley

  “Take your fucking shorts off,” she commands.

  Shit. She’s amazing.

  “I’ll take them off when you finger your pussy,” I retort.

  She wiggles onto the desk and smiles. I cross my arms and shake my head. She opens her legs and blows me a kiss, but I respond with a dissatisfied sigh. She glides her hand down her stomach and into the black cotton.

  I remove my shorts.

  “Now, let me see all of you,” she says.

  “Put your fingers in your mouth,” I reply.

  She spreads her legs further and removes her hand, slowly taking it to her nipple. I shrug my shoulders. She pinches her nipple and smiles in delight. I start to reach down for my shorts. She thrusts two fingers in her mouth and sucks dramatically.

  I lower my boxers.

  “Holy shit! Fuck me,” she says.

  “Suck me,” I demand.

  She throws back her head in laughter then hops off the desk. Her mouth curls into a lustful pout as she walks toward me – but our encounter is playful and spontaneous, not dramatic. She pauses to lower her panties to her ankles, causing me to chuckle at my involuntary weakness – I would let her do anything.

  With her eyes green and hungry, she asks, “What’s your name?”

  Her hand moves from my erection to rest delicately on my hip. I feel her tracing my scar, so I thrust my fingers inside her and watch her shudder in pleasure.

  “Adam,” I say as something crashes outside the room. Her head whips toward the door at the sound of screaming and cheering further down the hall.

  Oh shit! Fight!

  The cops!

  Where’s my bong?

  Who’s that?

  “Oh fuck, what’s going on?” She quickly puts on her skirt and fidgets with her bra strap. I pull up my boxers and pick up my shorts, and then help her clasp the hooks of her bra.

  “We should stay here,” I suggest.

  I zip my shorts and grab my t-shirt – she frantically looks for her shirt. “I can’t! This is my house – I’m responsible for that shit out there.”

  I toss her the shirt and sit on the couch to put on my sneakers. “I thought this was Dylan’s house,” I say.

  “Yeah. Dylan is my little brother – do you have everything?” She looks confused and flustered but not as baffled as I’m feeling.

  I was wrong.

  She opens the door and looks back at me. “Next time,” she says as she runs toward the living room. I follow behind her and immediately get pushed into a pile of angry drunks.

  Knuckles slam against my stomach and my reflexes force me to pound someone’s face. Blood splatters onto my shirt and I’m pretty confident I broke the fucker’s nose. My stomach is throbbing, but I’m able to grab onto a chair and stand myself up . . . only to be kicked in the back by a combat boot.

  “Cops!” Someone screams.

  “Scatter!” I yell.

  I limp toward the front door, using my upper body to block all the assholes in my way. I elbow one guy in the neck and then dart past the mob of screaming girls. Tango is fifty yards in front of me, hanging onto his shorts and waddling to the car. There’s no sign of Jeff, but he knows where we parked, and I have yet to see an actual police car.

  When I reach my car, Tango scurries to the bushes with his pants around his knees and hurls. Leaning against the driver’s door, I check my beeper and wait for him to finish.

  “Yo, man, that Gold Schlager was ripe. I think E.T. curled up in my stomach and died.”

  “Tango, you dumbass, get in the car!” I laugh.

  “Shotgun,” he yells. He runs around to the other side and jumps in the front seat. I look down the sidewalk toward the house and there’s still no sign of Jeff.

  “Hey,” I say opening my door. “What happened in there?”

  “It was wicked dope – our man Jeff beat the shit out of some guy that was roughin’ up a girl.”

  “No shit? All right, you stay here – I’m going back to look for him. And if you’re going to blow chunks, open the goddamn door.”

  I make my way back to the house, passing stoned stragglers without a care in the world, and a group of girls puking on the curb – victims of the tainted Gold Schlager nonetheless. When I reach the house, Jeff is hunkered on the porch with a bag of ice taped to his hand and blood dripping from his knee.

  “Yo, Jeff!”

  He raises his head and smiles proudly. “Ad-am,” he stammers, lowering his head again.

  “Here, I got you another bag of ice.” Her bare feet slap against the brick steps as she hands the bag to Jeff. I clear my throat as she notices me.

  I smile. She smiles

  She winks. I wink.

  And that’s that. My first taste of the unexpected returns to her house never to be seen again. A perceptive mistake – a misinterpretation. And it will forever be the moment that began my pursuit to find the girl that makes me smile.

  “C’mon man, let’s get you home.” I wrap my arms underneath Jeff’s armpits and lift him from the stairs. He hangs on to my waist as we stumble down the sidewalk to the only car with New York plates.

  12:45 a.m.

  “Jeff, that was awesome, bro,” Tango shouts while punching the air. “Buffalo boys be representin’! Ah shit, let’s get some food! Taco Bell – pintos and cheese,” he sings.

  “I don’t want Taco Bell,” Jeff finally mutters. “We have to go to Tim Horton’s. They have the best donuts.”

  “I agree with Jeff – and I’m driving. Hockey player’s donuts it is.”

  We drive a few miles into the actual city and find a shopping center with a Tim Horton’s. Dad used to drive across the border when I was kid to bring me and my kid brother donuts for our birthdays. It was a treat. Not the donuts – a dad that cared so much.

  “Yo, Adam – where were you all night?” Jeff leans forward between the driver and passenger seats and stares at my profile.

  “Screwing some chick in a closet. Tongue ring and a big ass.” I simulate slapping a big ass above the steering wheel and Tango roars with laughter.

  “Whatever, bro. I saw you with two trolls – just admit it.”

  We pull into the parking lot next to a lone Honda and climb out of my car like drug addicts looking for a fix. Tango always looks like shit, but Jeff is limping in agony and my back is killing me. I duck back into the car to find my stash of aspirin as the guys head into the fluorescent-lit sugar factory.

  “What exactly am I looking at, Nat?”

  “It’s a psychic! Let’s go!”

  The aspirin isn’t in the glove box, but my cracked shin guard from the State Cup falls to the floor. I look under my seat and find the library copy of Ulysses I lost my junior year . . . but no aspirin. Just looking for the fucking aspirin is giving me a back spasm of high school memories, so I give up and go inside.

  Tango and Jeff are at the counter arguing with the young cashier, so I politely step up to correct the situation. “What’s the problem guys? Are we not here to taste the best donuts in North America?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Yes, we are here to eat the best donuts in North America, but apparently, two girls came in here earlier and bought all the fucking TimBits.” Tango motions to the empty display racks while Jeff bends over the counter grabbing his stomach.

  I glance back at the door and then at Tango. “Fucking hosers.”

  Natalie

  “In my dreams it’s never quite as it seems.

  Cause you’re a dream to me.”

  ~Dreams, CRANBERRIES

  September 16, 2002

  Greenwich, Connecticut

  I HAVE EXACTLY TWO HOURS to learn French. I’m such a twit for putting proficiency in the romance languages as part of my skill set. But shit, what kind of employer even looks at the bottom of a résumé? Frankly, my francophone slang is neither romantic nor proficient, and there’s no freaking way I know how to create a MS Power Point.

  When the secretary to the Vice President of the French
Institute called to schedule my interview, she ended the conversation with five minutes of frou-frou French, from which I gathered they were very excited to have a Canadian liaison, or she was a fan of the movie Dangerous Liaisons. Fuck. I mean, Putain!

  I need this job, plain and simple. Je besoin de . . . ? Oh yeah, clair et simple. There, I nailed it. Maybe I should have paid more attention in my university classes instead of nursing violent hangovers of trashcan punch. Or, maybe my advisor could have told me that honesty on a résumé is an integral part of employment, instead of picking at her cuticles during my career advisement. I’m honest, well blunt is more like it, but I filter my most of my daily conversation. Je m’en fou.

  “Natalie?” Mom’s voice resembles the annoying chirp of a Disney fairy godmother, sweet but ineffective.

  She knocks on the door, but I remain silent. Even if I don’t answer, like if I’m busy in my room slitting my wrists or masturbating, she’ll continue talking.

  “Natalie, sweetie? What time is your interview? Your father will be happy to drive you to the City! Or we could take the train and then go shopping! Natalie?”

  Zut!

  I pick up my high school cheerleading megaphone and answer her back in a deep, raspy chant. “The interview is in Midtown at two. I can manage. Go Mustangs!”

  Okay Nat, concentrate. French, French, French cuffs, French fries, French perfume, French liqueur, French manicure. Focus you nitwit! Ah ha, I spot my bootleg copy of Amélie and pop it in my VHS player . . . I can watch it without the subtitles and at least be in the ooh la la mindset.

  Mmm, the narrator’s voice is so sexy. French men really know how to make their words vibrate into a tingly pitch. A guy could totally recite some Sartre between my thighs and I would probably blow an orgasmic gasket.

  I like Audrey Tautou’s haircut, very chic and European, and she totally has the cheekbones for it. My cheekbones are bite-size apples and my face is round; long hair definitely works best for me.

  I swivel around on my little vanity stool circa 1990s Teen furniture and study my features in the mirror. I have a nice tan from lounging around the pool all summer and my hair has gorgeous streaks of gold. My eyes turn aqua when I’m tan, and will never be as green as the rest of my family, but they are still quite an asset.

  I twist my hair into a low bun but decide against the librarian ’do and opt to flat-iron my massive waves of hair. The faint sound of my parents mumbling downstairs about my jobless predicament is getting old. Mom always defending my right to be an independent woman searching for my own way, and Dad pretending to oppose her, but secretly dishing out whatever I ask for. They have been horribly annoying lately, treating me like a cranky teenager, but they’ve also been supportive in my quest for the perfect Manhattan job. In fact, my folks are pretty cool. I’m lucky to have a quirky yet compassionate relationship with Judy and Dave. I only hope I can make them proud someday, but what I really hope is that Mom remembered to buy me a box of Special K with the tiny strawberries.

  It’s my dream to live in Manhattan like Samantha Jones, planning large parties and speaking for the ill-spoken. One would think with an unfiltered mouth like mine that I would be the last person to represent fuckups, but I actually excel at remedying in propos (there’s some fucking French) behavior. I’m dying to live Downtown with all the sexy single men, spending my evenings in fancy restaurants and my weekends exploring the more cultured hot spots. I want to find the man of my dreams and live in a loft and take cooking classes and buy expensive shoes and be mistaken for a model and be on the cover of Forbes and party with some rock stars and basically be the entire compilation of Sex in the City. But until then, I’m rooted in Sucksville, Connecticut, with a plethora of Polo shirts and tennis clubs at my disposal.

  Fils de salope!

  I hurry to my closet and search for the most frenchy thing I own, whatever the hell that means . . . or maybe I could dress as a mime and pretend to be mute! Alas, the dark purple pencil skirt and cream chiffon tank will have to do. If it wasn’t a blazing September day, I would wear my zigzag-patterned stockings, but this weather demands the bare minimum in clothing. I layer on some pearls and perfume, and grab my small alligator clutch with the matching pumps. A small dab of lip gloss and a little mascara and I’m all set for my Translation Inquisition.

  Tiptoeing down the flight of stairs with my pumps in hand, I fail to escape the “go get ’ems” by my optimistic parents.

  Mom opens her arms for a hug, and exclaims, “Natalie, you look beautiful! We are so proud of you! Today is your day to shine! Always smile and be gracious!” Oh for Christ sake, she needs to pull back on her Oprah-isms.

  “Nat, what your mother is trying to say – no matter what happens, you always have a place here with us and a job waiting for you at the office.” Dad shoves his hands in his pockets and grits his teeth.

  Hilarious, I’m not quite cut out for commodities and such. Or working for my dad. Or living with my parents. Or shooting the shit with my mom.

  I plaster on a fake smile and say, “Guys, I will find a job and be outta here in a few months. Trust me. Now, where are my boxes of schoolbooks?” I dash to the kitchen to grab a Diet Snapple from the refrigerator and study the Metro North train schedule pinned to the memo board. “Shit, holy fuck, I need to be on the train in ten minutes!”

  “Language, Natalie!” Mom shakes her head and scrunches her nose. Even though my mom has never been south of the Mason-Dixon, she firmly believes I could be the next debutante of Savannah if I watched my vulgar mouth.

  Dad scurries to the garage, fondling for his keys. “I’ll drive you, the boxes are in the garage. Let’s go, Nat!” I chase behind him, ignoring mom’s plight for another hug and rummage through the first dusty box. Anatomy, Philosophy, some shitty paperbacks, yes! I find something en français!

  “Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go!” I plop down in the passenger seat and instantly adjust the air-conditioning in my direction, hogging the frigid coolness of the entire car.

  “Natalie, I’m not backing out until you buckle up.”

  Merde! Vas te faire foutre!

  “Fine. I’m buckled, now drive!” I snap in the seatbelt and put on my sunglasses. It’s exactly a four minute drive to the station, but there’s no doubt Dad will chat me up until all the energy is sucked right out of me.

  Dad thumps his fingers on the steering wheel and asks, “Have you talked to Chloe? I’m sure I could convince Marty to let her stay with us. You girls could be women of the night in New York City.” He smiles goofily, not understanding what he just implied.

  “Women of the night are hookers, but you’re probably right, Uncle Marty would totally be cool with his daughter and niece running a brothel.”

  I glance out the window at the Greenwich mansions disguised as unpretentious cottages. Family homes, mainly, because there are absolutely no single men in this town, only married men looking to bang the hot Canadian.

  When we moved to Connecticut, it wasn’t really a big deal at the time because I was going to college and I would never really call this place my home. I have maybe two girlfriends and they’re both bitches. Last summer I had the misfortune of dating a guy in the neighborhood, and holy shit, he was so boring with all his talk of golf and his constant need for me to pet his cock. I have to get out of here soon or one of those wood-shingled mini-mansions will be my coffin.

  Dad laughs at his mistake and quickly adds to his comment. “I meant to say that you and Chloe could have a lot of fun together. Tell me, what would you be doing at this company? Do you want me to fire some questions at you?” Luckily, I see the entrance to the station and simply find it easier to flash him a smile and pat his leg.

  “Dad, I will get a job.” But what I really want is a life.

  He turns into the small parking lot fit for a movie set as I put on my pumps. Dad stops as close as possible to the ticket booth with the car idling. I grab my book and tea and delicately exit into the sweatfest of commuter hell.
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  “Natalie, you’ll be great. Call us when you leave.” Dad reaches toward my door and gives me a thumbs-up. I blush as a young kid passes by and returns Dad’s fatherly gesture with a middle finger. He’s like thirteen, but seriously?

  “Eh, nique ta mere, you little jerk,” I yell after him. I lean into the car and smile at Dad. “Thank you for . . . everything.” After shutting the door, I head to the ticket booth and purchase my roundtrip golden ticket for a whopping fifteen dollars. Climbing the platform to my destiny, I say a silent prayer.

  “Cute.” A sexy voice with a hint of boyish charm interrupts my concentration. I’m pretty sure there were only five people waiting for the train, so which asshole marked me as someone that wants to chat? I look up to see who’s disturbing my French cram session, and holy fuck, my panties may drop by telepathy.

  The stats: sandy brown hair long enough to form a little flip near his ears, smoldering navy eyes, bitable pink lips, slight shadow on his rigid jaw, thick neck . . . keep going, broad shoulders, fitted shirt, hairless chest . . . lower, muscular thighs, bulge in his crotch . . . look at his hand, ding, ding, ding, NO RING! This guy doesn’t know it, but he’s been the muse of most of my private sexual pleasure.

  “Sorry?” I say, wondering if that one comment was a pick-up line.

  “Your book.” He motions to Le Petit Prince resting in my lap. I mean come on, it was the first thing I grabbed and now it’s going to be my ruin.

  “Oh. Just a little light reading for the train.” I smile, hoping he catches my sarcasm.

  “Right. I have a couple Dr. Seuss books in my bag, but I still haven’t mastered the comings and goings of Dick and Jane.” His smirk is full of arrogance as his knee brushes against mine. “You look vaguely familiar, Greenwich High?” He tilts his head trying to place me, and I predict that he will be placing me beneath him in the near future.