Crash Test Love (9 page)

Jyl ian, from what I can tel , is a lit le minx. Guys are pret y much al she talks about. I nd this interesting because her stories are obviously exaggerated, if not entirely ctional. I can’t tel if Jyl ian is a pathological liar or if she’s one of those girls who simply exists in a completely di erent reality than everyone else.

Her latest piece of news? She met one of the guys from High School Musical at a restaurant in the city the weekend before and they hooked up in the women’s bathroom.

“That should tel you something about him,” London says, laughing. We’re walking around the Roosevelt Field Mal after school; there’s not that much to do on Long Island, after al , and the mal is as good a place as any to see and be seen. I never went to a mal back in Chicago. If I needed something—a new pair of jeans, a fancy pair of underwear, a calculator—I would go to individual stores. In a civilized city. The suburbs are just so

… “Crazy” (Patsy Cline, 1961).

We’re hardly the only young people here. The entire mal (the food court in particular) is l ed with kids from local high schools, London tel s me as we walk. It’s Monday after school. I looked for Henry during the day, but I think he was absent. “A lot of the Hofstra kids come here on the weekends.” She stops to adjust her bra. “Remember, Garret : col ege guys. They’re the ones who are boyfriend material.” I avoid her gaze.

“I could have a boyfriend if I wanted one,” Jyl ian says to no one in particular. She has a thick scarf wrapped around her neck even though it’s not cold at al . “Mil ions of them. I don’t want one, of course. I like being single. I need my freedom.”

“Sure you do,” says Jessica.

“If I had a boyfriend,” Jyl ian says, “I couldn’t have hooked up with that guy last weekend. And it was amazing, ladies. He sang to me. Like, his ri ng was out of control. So lavish. And he said he could probably get me a part in the next HSM movie.” She averts her eyes, staring into the window of J.Crew. “Not that I even want a part in the next movie. God.”

“Any Ben updates?” London asks. I like London the most of the three because she’s bitchy and fun and knows how to keep a conversation going.

She does ask a lot of questions, though.

“I haven’t cal ed him in a while,” I say, at empting to be casual about the whole thing. After al , “Love Is a Losing Game” (Amy Winehouse, 2007). “I guess it’s real y over.”

“Good. Don’t cal him,” London says, “and don’t text him. De nitely don’t e-mail him. And if he does contact you, don’t respond. With these kinds of things, no communication is the only way to go. Cold turkey. That’s how you’l get over him.”

“I stopped going to his Facebook page,” I say, “which has been a total blessing. Not seeing his status updates or his pictures has made me much less upset.”

“That’s a major step in the right direction,” Jessica says.

“‘Ignorance is bliss,’” Jyl ian says, air-quoting with her ngers. “Whoever said that was a genius.” We al get Diet Cokes at McDonald’s and sit down at one of the food court’s many plastic tables.

“Enough about Ben,” Jessica says once we’re set led. “Tel us al about Henry.”

“Everything,” London echoes. “Every lit le detail.”

“Wel ,” I say, thinking how to spin this so that my pursuit of Henry sounds interesting. “He’s training me at the Huntington Cinemas, and—”

“That place is gross, by the way,” Jyl ian says, playing with her straw. “I went there once to see some random movie and sat on a piece of gum.

It ruined this vintage skirt I loved. So rusty.”

I’m slightly o ended that Jyl ian cal ed the cinema gross, but I let it slide.

“What’s it like working with him?” London asks. “Does he irt with you?”

No. I think he hates me, but I also think maybe he likes me, and I can’t concentrate on anything or anyone else when he’s near me. “A lit le,” I say.Jessica giggles. “Does he lurve you yet?”

“Not yet,” I admit.

“Why not?” London asks. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched, and her expression makes her cheekbones appear even more angular than they

“Why not?” London asks. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched, and her expression makes her cheekbones appear even more angular than they actual y are.

“I mean, I’m get ing there,” I say. “I just don’t want to come on too strong, you know? It’s al in the timing.”

“True,” London says, “but you don’t have much time. Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen is barely a month away.”

“He invited me out,” I say quickly, before I can think of a di erent, lesser lie. I don’t want the J Squad to think I’m failing. I don’t want them to cut me loose.

“On a date?”

“Yep,” I say.

London looks skeptical. “Where to?”

“OMG,” Jyl ian squeals, “is he hiring a limo service to take you into the city to one of those hole-in-the-wal restaurants in Lit le Italy and then to see Mamma Mia?”

“Um, no,” I tel her.

“Oh. Too bad.”

“He asked me over to … his house. To watch a movie.”

Al three of them look shocked. Intrigued. De nitely impressed.

“No shit,” Jessica says. “When?”

I shrug as if it’s No Big Deal. “Next weekend. After work.”

(Note to self: Secure invitation to Henry’s house next weekend after work.)

“I don’t think any girl from school has ever been over to his house,” Jyl ian says, “wel , except for—”

“I’m get ing a stress headache,” London says, massaging her temples. “I need to go home and lie down.” I drop Jyl ian o rst, then Jessica. Young Love’s Too Young to Fight It is in the CD player.

“So,” London says as I pul up to her house. The way the light from the street l s the car gives her an ethereal look, as if she’s slightly more than human. I am both excited and terri ed by the prospect of her friendship.

“So.”

“I can’t believe Henry asked you over.”

“I know. Me either.”

“It’s a real y big deal, you know.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she says. The way her voice resonates makes me feel like nothing in the world is more important than my going over to Henry’s house next weekend. I start to get nervous.

“Good, I guess.”

London gives me a smile as though it were a present. “You real y might get him to go out with you, Garret . Kudos.” I think this is supposed to be a compliment, but it makes me uneasy. “Did you think that I wouldn’t be able to?”

“Just make sure you get him to take you to Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen,” London says. “Nobody likes a failure.” Then she kisses me once on each cheek. “And be careful. Thanks for the ride.”

I want to ask why I should be careful but, before I can, she’s gone.

I avoid my parents and head straight to my room. They’re curled up on the sofa in our den watching TV. If I say hel o, they’l want me to hang out with them, and I’m not in the mood. I don’t feel like being the third wheel with a loving couple, even if that couple is my parents. Actual y, even more so because they’re my parents. Gross.

My room is in various stages of unpacked. There are stil boxes ful of books and trinkets and pictures. Some—not al —of my clothes are folded away. The only thing perfectly in place is my CD col ection, which I’ve arranged and sorted alphabetical y. While most people buy their music on iTunes (or download it il egal y), I like having something to hold in my hand. I also have a bunch of vocal selections I can sort of play on the guitar; mostly, I read through the lyrics of my favorite songs the way some people ip through magazines.

I take out my cel phone and dial Amy back in Chicago. With the time di erence, she should just be get ing home from school. It goes straight to voice mail. I leave this message: “Hey, stranger. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. What gives? I hope school is fun, but not too fun, and that you miss me every day and cry yourself to sleep at night because you can’t live without me. You bet er have a kick-ass reason for not get ing back to me, okay? Cal me.”

When I hang up I think, That was pathetic, but that’s the thing about best friends—you’re al owed to sound pathetic because they love you unconditional y. Or at least, they’re supposed to.

I check my e-mail (one from my English teacher about our Hamlet assignment and one advertising penile enlargement surgery) and watch an episode of 30 Rock on Hulu. Then my thoughts turn to Ben and “The Day We Fel Apart” (Kel y Clarkson, 2009). I real y did think that I would hear from him by now. That he would miss me enough to cal . How could I have been so wrong?

When I close my eyes, I see him. Ben. Lying on my bed. His hair is disheveled and his eyes are sleepy and his lips are opened slightly. His shirt is crumpled on the oor and his chest seems like this enormous wal of muscle and esh; I rest my head there and let my hands travel across his stomach. It’s the end of June. School is over for the year and my parents are away for the weekend; they have speci cal y asked me not to have any guests over, but Ben is not a guest (even though I am sure they would disagree). Ben is my boyfriend. Ben is “My Superman” (Santogold, 2008).

“What are you thinking about?” he asks me. His ngers hesitate slightly when they reach the material of my bra, then crawl like spiders across the black cot on.

“You,” I say. He moves on top of me, resting his weight on his elbows, and kisses me, soft, lovely kisses on my lips and earlobes and neck. When I touch him I imagine that this is what it feels like to place your hand in a re. I am burning.

I touch him I imagine that this is what it feels like to place your hand in a re. I am burning.

Paolo Nutini is singing on my computer, and my iTunes is playing a light show; the colors bounce o Ben in muted reds and blues and greens and yel ows. I close my eyes to savor this moment, these few seconds of stil ness before the inevitable what comes next, only when I open them I no longer see Ben. I see Henry. His strong arms are around me. His beautiful eyes are staring right into mine.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him.

“What do you think?” He leans forward to kiss me—

“Garret ! Are you in there?”

My mother’s voice wakes me, and I realize I’m in my bed. Alone. I look at my clock—it’s not even eight p.m.

“I didn’t know you were home,” she says after I open the bedroom door. She is holding a tiny bot le of scented lotion from Bath & Body Works and the latest Teen Vogue. “Want me to give you a hand massage and gossip about underage celebrities?”

“Uh, maybe later.”

She looks disappointed. “Okay, sweetie. I’l be downstairs, probably doing Downward Facing Dog.” She leaves, and I am livid with my subconscious for al owing Henry to invade my memory. How dare he. I don’t love Henry. I love Ben. Wel , I used to. Now … who knows. But I certainly don’t want to get naked with Henry Arlington anytime soon. That much I know for sure.

I need to step up my game. Prove to the J Squad that I can seduce Henry without fal ing for him, and prove to myself that I can be the one in control, the one who doesn’t get hurt. I’l start by securing an invitation to his house for next weekend. It wil happen. I simply need to gure out how.

PINK LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD AS I FIGURE OUT A PLAN

“I’m comin’ up so you better get this party started.”

—Get the Party Started

“I hope I don’t end up in jail.”—Tonight’s the Night

“Nine, eight, seven, six, ve, four, three, two, one, fun.”—Funhouse

I have an idea. I go downstairs to my father’s study; he’s also stil in the middle of unpacking, but has stu ed his bookshelves with his favorite books (on lm studies) and DVDs. I may not particularly care about the Greatest Movies of Al Time, but Henry does, and that’s how I’m going to get him. And I am going to get him. Just wait and see.

The next morning, at school, Henry stops at my locker.

“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a red polo shirt and a tight pair of khakis. He looks good.

“Hey,” I say back, surprised that he’s paying at ention to me. I glance around for the J Squad, hoping they’re watching.

“Just saying hel o and not ignoring you.” The way he says it makes me remember our conversation over the weekend at work.

“Thanks,” I say. “Are you feeling bet er?”

“Hmm?”

“Yesterday. You were out sick, right?”

“You noticed?”

I’m suddenly embarrassed. I want him to think I’m interested in him—that’s the whole point, of course—but not that I fol ow his every move. “It was oddly silent,” I say. “Not a single girl cried al day, so I gured you weren’t around.” He laughs, and I can tel that was the right answer.

“Wel ,” he says, smiling, “see you later, Garret .”

I watch him leave, walking slowly down the senior hal way.

Henry said hel o to me, and I made him laugh.

Game on.