Lovestruck Summer

by Melissa Walker

  81 reruns of The Bachelor on TV, which has become my nightly routine. I shrug. Maybe I’ll try to get her to open up a little more at work. Right now, I’ve got something else on my mind. I walk over to Sebastian and help him stack his albums into a plastic carrying crate. “How do you fi t these on your Vespa?”I ask. He laughs. “I don’t,”he says. “The owner lets me lock them up in the offi ce here since it’s my steady gig.”“That’s convenient,”I say, completely dis- tracted. Must get him to kiss me. I send a please- smooch-me vibe in his direction. We walk to the offi ce and I follow him in through the locked door. He kicks it shut behind me, and as soon as he puts down the heavy crate, he spins around and grabs my waist. I almost drop my crate on the fl oor, but he shifts it from my hands to the desk and before I know it, we’re kissing. And I don’t mean the kind of kissing that is light and sporadic—I mean the kind that is full-on, deeply passionate, melt-me- in-your-arms making out. My vibe worked! His hands are now on my hips and he pushes

  82 me back against the metal desk in the corner. I sit on top of it, wrapping my legs easily around his waist. I’ve made out with guys before—I even had a six-month-long relationship in elev- enth grade, and that guy convinced me to sleep with him before I realized he was bad news—but Sebastian is by far the hottest guy I’ve ever kissed. The band outside, My Almost Life, is playing a song called “Sweet and Lowdown”and I know I’ll have to buy their CD so I can remember this moment. After twenty minutes stuck together, a knock on the door makes us both freeze in place. Sebastian moves quickly to the other side of the room as I hop off the desk and straighten my shirt. A guy named Mel walks in. At least, I think his name is Mel. He’s wearing one of those bowling-league shirts with a name tag sewn onto it—but maybe he’s just being ironic. “Hey, Seb,”he says to Sebastian. “Sorry to interrupt.”He fl ashes one of those annoy- ing Heh-heh smiles that macho guys give to each other, and Sebastian looks down. There’s a long pause and I realize Sebastian

  83 isn’t going to rescue us from this situation. “That’s okay,”I say, slightly irked that I’m the one who has to ease the awkwardness. “We were just locking up some albums.”Then I grab Sebastian’s arm and rush out of Mel’s offi ce. We walk past the bar and burst through the doors and out into the parking lot. One of the things I am not loving about Texas is how bursting through doors leads to instant heat as opposed to refreshing coolness. It’s like that in North Carolina too, but not as intense. I start to sweat. “Thanks,”he says. “I got a little overcome in there.”“It’s okay,”I say, shaking off my irritation at having to save us from the awkwardness and taking his soft hand up to my face. “I liked it.”“So, I can call you this weekend?”asks Sebastian. “You’d better,”I say, moving in for one last taste of his lips. I’m in a bold mood. Even though I spent the last month of school plotting my Austin summer and exactly how I would get the perfect, music-fi lled, indie boyfriend . . . I didn’t really think it would work. I watch Sebastian get

  84 on his Vespa and drive off. He gives me a one- handed wave and I do a little dance on the side- walk—a happy shimmy. Then I go back inside to buy My Almost Life’s CD—I need that song. When I get home, I immediately change my profi le song on MySpace to “Sweet and Lowdown,”post the photo of me and Sebastian on Facebook, and then leave a note on Raina’s wall telling her to check it out. The next morning, I log in to Facebook again. The note Raina left says one word: “Supreme.”

  85 Chapter 9 By Tuesday night, not only has the elation that caused me to do the happy shimmy disappeared, but my usually stable confidence is also waver- ing. Sebastian has not called. It’s been four days since our makeout session, not that I’m count- ing. In an attempt to not be like the ladies on The Bachelor, with whom I am intimately famil- iar after living with Penny, I haven’t really expressed my disappointment to anyone. Well, unless you count Monday, when I responded to Jade’s question about Sebastian by saying, “Guys are losers.”She smiled sympathetically and said, “He’ll call.”But he hasn’t. And here I sit on Tuesday night in my pajamas with Penny, waiting to see if Brad from Season 11 is going to propose. “This one is a shocker!”says Penny, hugging

  86 Miss Tiara tightly in her arms. The fact that my cousin can watch this show multiple times amazes me. I’m not gonna lie and say that I’m not semi-interested in the outcome now that I’ve followed these women and their slow-talking Texan bachelor for an entire sea- son’s worth of episodes, but I certainly won’t be watching the show again once I already know who “wins.”There’s a knock and the door swings open. Penny hits PAUSE so we don’t miss a minute of the pre-rose-ceremony limo confessions. “Hey, ladies.”Russ walks in, wearing a tight green shirt and dirty-looking jeans. I turn back to the TV. “Scooch,”he says, moving me from my com- fortable corner spot on the couch—excuse me, my bed—and into the crowded center. “What are we watching?”“Season eleven,”says Penny. “I hear this is a good one!”says Russ, slap- ping my leg. I look up at him with a sneer, but he smiles back at me. “I can tell this is your kind of show, Priscilla.”

  87 I’m in such a bad mood about Sebastian not calling that I’m not sure I can deal with Russ’s infuriating behavior tonight. I fold my arms over my chest and stare at the TV. Ten minutes later, Brad-the-Texan breaks up with both bachelorettes. “What a crock!”I shout. “Seriously!”says Russ. “What the H?”I’ve noticed with some amusement that Russ never curses. He even uses a euphemism for H-E-L-L. “You guys!”shouts Penny, ready to defend her favorite show. “He was honest! He didn’t fi nd true love and so he couldn’t commit to anyone. It was very noble.”“Bull,”says Russ, again censoring himself. “You go on the show, you propose. Rules are rules.”“Agreed,”I say. “Well, that’s a surprising word coming out of your mouth,”says Russ, knocking me on the shoulder. I shrug. When he’s right, he’s right. “So, do you ladies want to go out tonight?”

  88 he asks. “Cornfl ower Blue is playing at the Cactus.”“Let’s go!”says Penny, pushing Miss Tiara off her lap. “We’re in our pajamas,”I say grumpily. I don’t know Cornfl ower Blue but they sound like an old country band. “Oh, Quinn, snap out of your funk,”says Penny, ruffl ing my hair as she walks behind the couch and upstairs to change into a sorority shirt and a tight skirt, no doubt. “Is there a reason why you’re especially moody tonight?”asks Russ. “No,”I say, picking at the blanket that’s across my lap. “Is something up with your friend the DJ?”he asks. “No!”I shout, throwing off the blanket and standing up. “Good!”he says. “So put on some clothes and let’s go have fun.”I don’t want to go, but I don’t see a way to get out of it now. I stomp to the downstairs half bathroom and slide on my jean shorts. Then I slip a bra under my pajama T-shirt and run my

  89 fi ngers through my hair. I may go out, but I’m sure as H not going to try too hard if I’m just with Russ and Penny. At the Cactus, I immediately realize I was right about the music. It’s way country. But I stand in the crowd, just to show Russ that I’m open- minded. Even though I hate country music. After the third song, I’m getting restless. That’s when Russ leans over and whispers in my ear. “This song is one that Fats Domino did in 1958,”he says. “If you listen, you can hear the soul infl uence, too. Cornfl ower Blue does it really differently, but it’s iconic.”“Hmm,”I say, listening more to the lyrics and realizing that I do recognize the words a little. The leaning-over-to-whisper thing keeps happening. As each song plays, Russ feels the need to give me some context. I don’t really mind—it makes the music more bearable. The last song the band plays is “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”UB40 did a cover of it in the nineties, but I know it’s originally an Elvis song.

  90 When Russ leans over to give me another history lesson, I turn to face him. “This one I know,”I say. “I’m glad to hear that,”he says. “And as a reward for having such in-depth musical knowl- edge of a song that everyone in the world should be familiar with . . . may I have this dance?”“Hmm, let me think. Insulting me and then asking me to dance . . .”I say, narrowi
ng my eyes at his smug face. “No.”I turn my back to him. He taps my shoulder. “Pretty please, Priscilla?”he asks, holding out his arms. “No way,”I say. “Quinn?”he asks. Against my better judgment, I turn to him. The smugness is gone, and he has a look of sin- cere hope. I feel my heart melt a tiny bit. “Oh, fi ne,”I say. When I give in, Russ instantly envelops me with his arms, which feel even stronger than they look. He actually knows how to dance—it’s like we’re doing some ballroom steps or something, and the way he puts pressure on my back helps me know where to move and how to stay in step

  91 with him. I feel like we’re gliding. “You’re good,”I say, looking up at him. “When I’m dancing with the right person,”he says, smiling back. I blush. I actually blush. What is up with me tonight? And how is it that Russ, who always makes me feel slightly off balance, is suddenly making me feel perfectly at ease?

  92 Chapter 10 I wake up Wednesday morning determined to change my profile playlist and take down the snapshot of me and Sebastian. Until I check my phone. There’s a text from him that says, Mother’s tonight? I have to ask Penny to fi nd out that he doesn’t want me to meet his parents—Mother’s is this legendary vegetarian spot. It’s like guys have this sixth sense about when you’re about to erase them from your life, and they just keep you holding on. Pick me up at 7, I text back to him, along with Penny’s address. Then I lie down on my pillow and stare up at the ceiling. Last night when I got home, I down- loaded that song—“Can’t Help Falling in Love.”It’s an old song, but it sounds nice in a southern

  93 twang like the band had last night. Cornfl ower Blue sang it a little more quickly than the Elvis version, and that made dancing to it kind of fun. I smile to myself and sigh as I put in my head- phones to listen to it—just once—before I start my day. After one—okay, two—listens, I get up to dress and take Miss Tiara for a quick walk around the condo complex. She doesn’t like going very far, which is convenient since being out in the fi ve-hundred-degree weather doesn’t agree with me either. It looks like it’s going to rain today, though, which might cool things off. Just as I get back to the door, the sky opens up and it starts to pour. I stumble inside quickly, holding Miss Tiara under my arm so a drop doesn’t touch her—she’s incredibly particular about getting wet. Penny says she insists on bubble baths, and somehow I believe that. I’ve come to accept the myths of Miss Tiara’s life without question. I look up and see that Chrissy is sitting in the living room holding the DVD of Made of Honor. “Patrick Dempsey in a wedding mooovie,”

  94 she says in a singsong voice. “I doubt there could be anything better for a rainy summer day.”I’ve found lots of ways to occupy my Tuesday-through-Friday lulls—driving through town, meeting up with Jade for lunch from the taco truck, sitting on campus and dreaming about college, reading (four books so far, thank you very much!)—but watching romantic com- edies with Chrissy isn’t high on my list. She tends to do it at least three afternoons a week. I hesitate, but this Patrick Dempsey vehicle is a new one, at least. “I’ll pop some popcorn,”I say, heading into the kitchen to hunt for Orville Redenbacher. Chrissy fascinates me. She’s your typical sorority girl, but she really is that way. I guess I always thought the giddiness, the bubbly behavior, and the never-ending concern about boob saggage were fake, but Chrissy is as genu- ine as I am. She’s just a different person. I notice that her legs are all banged up under her skirt, and I almost ask her about the bruises, but I don’t want to seem nosy. Still, I get the feeling there’s a lot I don’t know about her. By the end of the movie she’s crying with happy tears and

  95 I’m crying with tears of relief that it’s over. Okay, I’m not really crying. But she is. And I’m truly glad we’re done here. “That was sooo sweet,”she says, sniffl ing. “Yes, and totally unpredictable,”I say sar- castically. She nods earnestly and grabs a tissue from the coffee table to blow her nose. When she asks if I want to watch Bridget Jones’s Diary (again), I tell her I have some work to do and go upstairs to Miss Tiara’s room with my laptop. As I stalk people from my high school on Facebook, the sound of Chrissy’s laughter at Renee Zellweger’s über-hilarious antics echoes downstairs. By the time seven o’clock rolls around, I’m so ready for Sebastian’s double-honk, and I fi nally hear it outside. Not that I’m going to let him off the hook easily—he deserves some chastising. I swing a leg over the back of the Vespa, and feel a thrill rush through me. It’s a moment when I’m allowed to be close to him, to pull his lanky frame into me and lean my head on his shoulder. I intend to enjoy it. As we park at Mother’s, I force myself back

  96 into slightly mad mode. I get off the bike and shake my hair out, seductively but distantly. I’m still upset that he didn’t call when he said he would. And that doesn’t make me a bachelor- ette, just someone who appreciates an honest guy. At our corner table, the over-iced waters have already left little pools of wetness. I push a napkin under my glass and concentrate on soaking it up. “I did this great show on Sunday,”says Sebastian excitedly. He starts to arrange the salt and pepper shakers on the edge of the table. “Let’s say this is the DJ booth and it’s, like, fi ve feet higher than the dance fl oor.”He moves his place mat to the center of the table to repre- sent the dance fl oor. “There were tons of people and it was like I was above them,”he says. “I was handing down musical knowledge.”“Cool,”I say, sipping my chilly water. When the server comes to take our order, Sebastian is in the middle of his “here’s what I played”rant, and he shoos her away with his hand without looking up.

  97 “Sorry,”I say to her. “Can we have fi ve more minutes?”She smiles and walks back to the kitchen. Sebastian pauses his story, but he looks annoyed. “Are you mad or something?”he asks, sud- denly tuning into me. “You’re not even listening.”“You didn’t call,”I say. I believe in being direct about these things. “I texted you this morning,”he says. “You said ‘over the weekend,’”I remind him, feeling frustrated with myself for sound- ing like a nag. But really, when a person says he’ll call after a kiss like that, you expect him to call. I even considered opening Penny’s copy of He’s Just Not That Into You on Sunday night, but thankfully, I restrained myself. “I had shows,”says Sebastian. “I didn’t mean to let you down or anything.”I glance up and see his sexy dark hair fall over his eyes. He looks sorry. “It’s okay,”I say. “It’s not a big deal.”It isn’t, right? I’m just being needy. It must be the Tri-Pi vibes at the condo getting to me. I am cool, I am not going to be nitpicky about when he calls. So

  98 I encourage him to go on. “Tell me more about your show,”I say. And he does. He shares the set list, the infl u- ences he considered mixing, the still-unreleased Long Armed Stapler album he worked on, how he spun Pauper Palace, the Flaming Squirrels, and Courtship in a gloriously underground compilation that fi nished off with “Love That Red”by Art Girls Gone Bad. After dinner, we hit an outdoor venue, where the band is set up next to a rickety picket fence, and we keep talking songs. Sebastian tells me that country music isn’t all bad—just mostly—and I tell him about the Top 40 world, which claims the lives of great indie bands all too often. “I hate hearing silly girls prattle on about how much they love one of my favorite under- ground bands after they hear one song on an epi- sode of some lame CW series,”I say. He nods in agreement. “Right on.”Sebastian hasn’t ever listened to Top 40, he says, and he doesn’t even own a TV. Which is probably why he doesn’t get it when I describe the girl in front of us as “someone you’d see on

  99 The Bachelor.”But I don’t mind. I love listening to him, and this is the type of indie-music-nerd conversation I’ve dreamed of having with someone other than Raina. . . . With a hot guy, perhaps. And here he is. Right in front of me. When he hits the bathroom, though, I real- ize I’m humming to myself. Ugh! Why can’t I get “Can’t Help Falling in Love”out of my mind? I blame it on my lack of iron today—next time I’ll ask Sebastian to take me to a place that serves both steak and tofu. When he drops me off at home after mid- night, we share a long kiss, a
nd I imagine how cool we must look, making out on a Vespa in the moonlight. Who cares what Russ said? I love this Euro bike. When I get inside, I sneak into the half bathroom and dial Raina. I don’t want to wake up Penny, because I remember that she has some crazy bonding excursion with soror- ity members—sorry, sisters—early tomorrow morning. A ropes course or a trust-fall trip or something like that. Is it bad that I only half listen to her? “Raina,”I loud-whisper. “Sebastian just left.”

  100 “And?”she squeals excitedly, not unlike the girls on The Bachelor. “He’s brilliant,”I say. “He knows everything about music—tons of songs that I don’t even know yet but can’t wait to download—he took me to a fantastic outdoor show tonight by this band called The Page Jumpers, and he seems really into me.”“How are the kisses?”she asks, getting right down to business. “Still hot?”“Yes,”I say, thinking about the ten-minute make-out session we had outside the condo. “Too bad Miss Tiara would crowd my sleepover!”We both laugh. “It sounds so perfect, Quinn,”says Raina. “Is there anything remotely unper- fect about your summer?”“Just Penny’s sorority obsession,”I say. “Oh, and this neighbor cowboy-wannabe who thinks he’s really cool. He won’t stop calling me Priscilla.”“Drag,”says Raina. “But still, deal-able if you’ve got Sebastian to play with.”I laugh. “What’s going on there?”I ask, not wanting to be that self-involved friend. “I’m just stuck working at the movie theater