A Girl Named Digit (4 page)

And, as if by magic, there he was in all of his hunky glory standing next to me. If only we could freeze this moment: He smiled at me with his huge green eyes and wide gorgeous mouth. His tan cheekbones were speckled with exactly eleven freckles, five on one side and six on the other. It was an imbalance I was willing to overlook. I’d seen him before, of course, a thousand times, acting goofy in the lunch line or grabbing some kid’s hat in the hall. But I’d never been so close to him that I could fully appreciate how gorgeous he was. And he liked me. At that moment I knew what it felt like to be a regular girl. I knew what it was like to be boy crazy and knew that I’d want to go home and call someone to discuss in detail every aspect of his hair, his shoulders, and his lips. This feeling of teenage nirvana lasted for exactly thirty seconds, because then he spoke.

“Hey.” That was his opening line.

I countered with, “Hi.” Okay, I’m a beginner.

“I don’t see you around the keg that much.”

I answered truthfully, “I’m not really a big drinker.”

“That’s cool. You wanna get high?” I was at a crossroads here. Every cell of my body told me that this guy was an idiot. Except for my lips, which really wanted to see if we could get him to shut up and try again. That getting-high comment could have been a really subtle effort at irony, right?

“No thanks, I’m fine.” I was really out of stuff to say.

Tish jumped in to save me. “Did you ever get Little Evan to finish his fourth beer bong?” I assumed she was speaking at some frequency that only he could understand, because he lit up.

“Dude! I forgot!” And he was back in the living room, gathering his friends. He scooped up a passed-out kid who I assumed was Little Evan off of the couch, carried him over his shoulder and out the front door, and deposited him head-down in the garbage can on the curb. He came back inside laughing, high-fiving everyone. I kept my eyes on the pair of sneakers peeking out the top of the garbage can outside, hoping for movement.

Kat actually squealed with delight. “Oh my God, Farrah, you are so lucky.”

He strolled back over to us, victorious. I had to ask, “What was that all about?”

“That kid’s in my geometry class, and I told him to hand over his report on all those ingenious rocks. He wouldn’t, so I told him if I ever saw him out, I’d make him do four beer bongs. He didn’t finish, so he got tossed.”

Ingenious? I don’t think so. “Do you mean geology?” I just couldn’t let this go. I wanted to give him every chance to show he had the IQ of someone who had only been partially deprived of air at birth.
Come on, say something normal and show me your teeth again, and this will all be okay.

Out of nowhere, he busted out with, “Wanna go outside?”

No. “Sure.”

He turned and headed for the sliding-glass door. Was I supposed to follow? The Fab Four were staring at me, eyes wide, frantically motioning for me to head outside and claim my prize. They all looked so happy for me; I couldn’t reconcile it with the dread I felt.

Kat gave me a little push. “Go!”

I took a deep breath and turned toward the sliding-glass door, just as it was slamming shut behind Drew. “See, he doesn’t want me to go out there. Let’s just hang out in here for a while.”

“Please, Farrah. You’re not going out there just because he didn’t hold the door for you? This isn’t, like, the twenty-first century or something.” That was Veronica. I’d long since given up on even responding to stuff like that with her. Was it really my job to explain what century we were in? So, against all of my better judgment and stamping out the last ember of my self-respect, I walked slowly to the glass door and opened it myself.

Drew was sitting on the steps of the deck, again looking like the guy on the cover of a romance novel. His hair was light brown with flecks of blond from a steady diet of surfing and volleyball. His tan arms motioned to me to sit next to him.
Jeez, Farrah. What’s not to like?

I did as I was told and sat down, repeatedly smoothing my jeans over my knees to calm myself. I knew we were here for either conversation or kissing. One I’d done before, the other I had not. But I figured he’d probably been engaged in a lot more lip locks than heated debates, so we were evenly matched. I’d just completed the final alignment of the denim on my legs when he spoke.

“Your hair smells good.”

“Thanks. It’s shampoo.” I was starting to hope we’d both be better at kissing than conversation.

I turned my head to redeem myself, maybe to elaborate on my thoughts about shampoo and the variety of scents there are to choose from, and he swooped in like an eagle grabbing an unsuspecting squirrel with its talons. Except that the eagle approached with something even more horrifying, a giant tongue. I didn’t move while he literally pressed his face against mine and shoved his tongue in my mouth. Strangely, it was so much more like eating liver and onions than I’d even imagined. I processed a series of thoughts:
If this is what kissing is supposed to be, then they are doing it all wrong on
The Bachelor;
apparently neither of us is good at conversation
or
kissing; I think he might have had pesto for lunch.

That last thought was what really motivated me to pull away and express my distaste for him, the disrespectful way he was treating me, and the whole business of casual hookups. I said, “I feel sick.” I stood up, a little shaky from having tasted pesto-flavored liver, and backed up the steps toward the glass doors. As soon as I slid them open, the smell of beer and feet and smoke hit me. Everyone turned to see who was coming in, and just as soon as all eyes were on me, I threw up.

Here’s the weirdest part of the story: Drew came in behind me and put his arm around me and my barf-splattered shirt. He shouted to the disgusted crowd: “This girl can PARRRRR-TYYYYYY!” As if a prophet had appeared to explain to them the true meaning of the situation, they all cheered with relief. My head spun as I heard tidbits from the crowd: “She must have hit the beer pong early. Awesome!” Idiots.

And that’s how I got the reputation as Party Girl, the beer-drinking, lampshade-wearing lush of my time. For a while I downplayed it but never really denied it to anyone. I mean, I meant to, but I have to admit that I liked the identity it gave me, or just that it gave me any identity at all. I’d transformed into this girl with a dark side and a reputation, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to trade it for being the girl who really, really doesn’t like pesto. From then on my reputation had a little spike of whiskey to it, no matter that people rarely saw me drink again.

When I finally fell asleep, I was completely disgusted with myself. Was this really my life? I couldn’t go so far as to call myself a terrorist, but I was probably an accomplice. I had the information necessary to stop this bombing and just didn’t see it in time.

Mr. Schulte called Friday morning to see if I was okay. He assumed I’d known someone traveling at JFK that day. I told him I was okay but just freaked out by the state of the world.

Which really wasn’t a lie. How is it possible that some pinhead kid gets to sit behind a desk and decide whose information was useful to save people’s lives? If it was going to be Bennett vs. the Bombers, I wasn’t sure I wanted to watch the rest of the game.

I impressed myself by making it downstairs for breakfast on Friday. I really had no appetite, so I sat and stared at my juice for a while, carefully adjusting the glass so it was in the exact center of my plate.

Danny walked in, drank my juice in one gulp, and sat down. “What’s wrong with you now?” he asked me. The funny thing about Danny is that there is never anything wrong with him. He exists with such ease that it is almost an art form. He moves easily in and out of any group, making friends and cracking jokes like he’s sprinkling pixie dust around. It’s that easy. He can take up any sport or pop into any club and is usually fully embraced. Though he doesn’t really care if he isn’t. If his magic didn’t work equally well on me, I’d probably hate his guts.

On the downside, he has the unbelievably annoying habit of playing the ukulele at all hours of the day and night. I’ve advised him more than once that girls like guys who play the guitar but probably fear guys who play the ukulele. His response is always the same, like he doesn’t get what I’m trying to tell him: “But I like to play the ukulele.” So that’s what he does. I don’t know why I bother—he is the last person in the world who needs my advice.

On this particular morning, I had no patience for his company. “I’m fine. Just realizing what a total waste I am.”

He got up and shoved three pancakes in his mouth. “I could have told you that, Digit. See ya.” And off he went. No brains, no headaches.

I screwed around all morning on Friday, making myself crazy by reading everything on the Internet about the attack. I tried to find a link between terrorists and beach hookups. Nothing there but sand. Finally I went to the show’s website. I followed about a thousand links to the local station that carries it and got myself an address. What else could I do? My head pounded, my heart ached, and I really wanted to sleep that night. I needed to know what was up.

I sent my mom a text lying that I was feeling better and going to school. I raced to my car, hoping I could move fast enough to avoid changing my mind. I drove to Anaheim in heavy traffic, following a Buick Sedan that said:
I’M NOT SUFFERING FROM INSANITY—I
’
M ENJOYING EVERY MINUTE OF IT!
Lucky guy. It took me an hour and a half to get to the Anaheim exit, but the address for the television studio was only minutes away. I pulled into the partially underground parking garage, barely comforted by the bits of natural light that came in through the concrete windows. I sat in my car for a few minutes, tired and hungry: What the hell was I doing there? Any normal person would have backed up and gone home. But I knew that if I ever wanted to sleep well again, I had to go in there and find out what was going on. Looking back, I think I secretly hoped that whatever I found in there would be completely innocuous, that they’d describe a puzzle contest the station was running. Maybe I’d won, and the prize was a total absolution of my conscience and an iTunes gift card. Wouldn’t that be nice? I went inside.

The lady at the reception desk adjusted her wig a little too far to the left. “May I help you, dear?”

“Yes. I am here about your Tuesday night programming.”

A well-dressed guy in his thirties came out into the reception area and started flipping through the in-box. He had black curly hair and a serious unibrow.

“Yes, dear, I know the show that all you girls like,” she said.

“Well, I was wondering, is this the station that broadcasts it all over the country or just locally?” I was trying unsuccessfully to sound casual.

The man looked up. “We broadcast in seventeen markets around the country.”

My nervousness quickly progressed from profuse sweating to diarrhea of the mouth. “Oh, okay. So you put up the station identification logo at the bottom right corner and, um, everything else on the screen, like the other numbers and stuff?”

His eyes narrowed and he took the tiniest step closer to me. “What did you say?”

Abort! I realized at that moment that I had gone totally mad. I was standing here in Anaheim on a wild hunch, chasing a theory that even my math-obsessed dad didn’t like. Best-case scenario: We’d forget about this. Worst case: I was standing in front of a terrorist and had just shown my hand.

“Oh my God,” I said in my best Fab Four voice. “I, like, love that show and was wondering if you were going to continue for another season because my friends and I are going to have, like, a huge party at the end of this season, and we really want to have something to, like, look forward to in the fall?”

“We don’t decide if the show stays on,” he said, stepping closer still, eyes intense as if he were memorizing my face.

“Okay, then, thanks!” I backed into the door before I actually turned and got through it, then ran all the way down the stairs to the parking garage to my car. I got in, locked the doors, backed into a Dumpster, and raced out of there.

I turned up the radio and started to laugh. Maybe I needed to try harder to fit in and really keep Digit in the closet. Maybe I should just go full force and make Drew Bailey my boyfriend and stay drunk until graduation. Maybe I should start wearing black eyeliner and get really skinny. Or maybe . . . maybe that car is following me way too closely.

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw him. The creepy guy from the station in a white Chevrolet.
He knows I know,
I thought,
and I’m history.
My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in big-time and so did my accelerator. I didn’t really have a plan but was hoping something was going to appear to guide me. Maybe a big sign saying: “Safe haven, stop here, no bad guys allowed.” Maybe a police station? That was the best thing I could think of, but the only police station I knew of was in Beverly Hills. I saw the entrance to the 405 freeway and got on, heading north.

Creepy was right on my tail. I accelerated as well as I could in my 1988 Volvo wagon. You can say a lot about the Swedes and their great love of safety. But speed? Not so much. I eventually got up to sixty-five mph, and Creepy had no trouble staying right with me.

When the exit for Wilshire Boulevard came into sight, I started talking out loud, like I was the GPS lady. “Farrah, take this exit, you will drive two miles down Wilshire and make a left on Cañon Drive just after you pass Tiffany’s. You will make a left on Santa Monica Boulevard. You will be fine.”

I took the Wilshire Boulevard exit, driving way too fast to have time to think when the exit split into a choice of two smaller ramps: Wilshire West or Wilshire East? In three seconds I had these thoughts: Is Beverly Hills east or west? West is toward the water, and the Westside is considered the fancy part of town; Beverly Hills = fancy, therefore it must be west. Well, give the little lady a lovely parting gift (and maybe a break since I’ve only been driving for a year) because that answer is INCORRECT.