Firsts (30 page)

A wave of hushed voices crackles through the room. I can only imagine what they’re saying. I resist the urge to hide my head between my knees and curl into a ball.

“I ask that you please kindly keep your thoughts to yourself. If you have questions, our guest speaker will be more than happy to answer them.”

The guest speaker, a fat little man whose hands are probably much sweatier than my own, drones on about appropriate conduct, the importance of respecting each other, and how achieving personal space within an environment helps it to run smoothly for everyone. It’s Common Sense 101.

“Now, we have a video that we would like you to watch. It’s only a few minutes long, but I think it gets the point across.” He awkwardly steps out of the way of the projector. I stifle a yawn. The only thing worse than speakers at school assemblies are speakers who insist on playing dated videos from the eighties, featuring actors with horrible hair and even worse wardrobes spouting some bullshit we already know.

For a few seconds there’s no picture on the big screen. It’s just white.

“Terrible fucking video!” someone yells out, taking advantage of the fact that we’re in the dark.

A couple other people start talking, egged on by whoever had the nerve to shout at one of Principal Goldfarb’s assemblies. Until an image comes on the screen that shuts everybody up.

Faye, blowing a kiss and waving at the camera, same as she did to me yesterday after school. But that’s where the similarities end. Because when the camera pans out from her face, she’s wearing nothing but lacy panties, with her hair covering her breasts.

“Are you sure nobody’s going to see this? Because I don’t want to ruin my reputation and all. It’s a new school. I really want people to like me.”

“This is the best way to get people to like you.” I hear Zach’s voice before I see him come up behind Faye on the screen. He puts his hands on her hips and pushes her hair to the side.

I stop breathing and dig my nails into Faye’s hand.

“I’m just a nice virgin,” she says. “Go easy on me.” She puts her elbows on a table, probably the same table the camera is on. Her facial expression changes from a smile to shock, and the picture rattles a bit. Zach presses against her from behind, pushing her head almost against the camera.

The room erupts into yells and cheers and shouts. Shoes scuff on the gym floor. I can only imagine Principal Goldfarb and the other teachers groping in the dark, trying to find their way to the audio-video room to turn off the equipment. Somebody in the crowd screams.

“What are you doing?” I say, dropping Faye’s hand. “That can’t be real. You two aren’t a couple. You said nothing was going on.” I trusted her that nothing was going on.

Faye picks my hand up and drags it into her lap. She makes my fingers stop moving, makes my hand stay pressed against hers.

“Trust me—we’re not a couple,” she whispers in my ear. “But for that moment in time, we were something more.”

I know my jaw is hanging open, but I don’t care. I shouldn’t be angry—I have no right to be angry—but I want it to stop. I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to see this, not after the way Zach held me in my bed last night. I know they did this for me, to take the attention away from me—to make an even bigger scandal. I think back to what I told Faye yesterday.
How many words is a video worth?
I guess she took it literally.

But watching Faye and Zach on that screen, doing a very convincing job of pretending to like each other, I wish they hadn’t done this. They should have just left me for the wolves.

I take a deep breath to steady myself. I wonder if this is how Jeremy Roth’s girlfriend felt when she saw me wrapped around her boyfriend. I imagine her reaction. She probably checked her e-mail that morning, expecting nothing that would ruin her life, and got the link to the website instead. Maybe she clicked on it out of curiosity. Maybe she even had plans with Jeremy that night. Plans that I ruined.

Faye on screen is wrapping her knees around Zach’s chest. His hands are behind her back, pulling her against him. I want to turn away, but I keep watching, transfixed. This must be a joke. This can’t be happening. I try to squeeze my eyes shut, but they stay open, like anyone’s would when something truly terrible happens.

“You’re blocking the money shot, man!” A guy in the crowd yells, followed by a chorus of boos.

And just like that, the screen goes blank again. Somebody flips on a light switch. And with the lights comes complete silence.

“Oh my God,” I mutter under my breath, afraid if I say it too loud it might become too real. “You guys made a sex tape.”

Faye clutches my hand. “I know it was drastic,” she says. “But it had to be. And now your fifteen minutes are over.”

36

I wait for Faye and Zach after school, but after an hour and a half of pacing back and forth down the hallway in front of Principal Goldfarb’s office, it’s obvious they might never come out. Questions race through my mind like ticker tape. What were they thinking? What if they get suspended, or worse, expelled? What if they ruined their lives, all because they wanted to do me a solid? And, more selfishly, what does it mean that they slept together?

Eventually I get in the Jeep and drive toward home by myself, after leaving them each about ten texts, which they may or may not ever get to read, depending on what exquisite forms of torture Principal Goldfarb has in store for them. I plan to go straight home with no detours, but I find myself driving past Angela’s house instead. Maybe I’m emboldened by Faye and Zach’s very public display of bravery. Maybe I just miss my best friend. Maybe both. I still can’t stop thinking about her, about how Charlie plans to spend this very weekend with her. Time is running out.

I don’t work up the courage to knock on her door, but I do leave the envelope in her mailbox. It’s addressed simply—Angela Hirsch in blocky capitals. It doesn’t look like my printing, which was the whole point. I don’t want Charlie to find it and rip it up, or worse, read it himself. I never want Charlie to see the insides of that envelope. I never want anyone except Angela to see what I wrote.

After I leave the letter in the mailbox, I park down the road and wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Part of me just wants to see Angela, to know she’s okay. Every minute that passes means the weekend is that much closer, a thought that fills me with dread.

On impulse, I pull out my phone and dial her number before I can chicken out. The phone rings and rings and eventually goes to voice mail, but I can’t think of a message to leave so I say nothing and hang up.

I’m about to start the Jeep and drive away when a car pulls into the driveway. Charlie gets out of the driver’s door and stretches his arms overhead, a gesture that makes me instinctively clamp my own arms around my chest. I hate how just the sight of him makes my whole body shake.

I don’t want to watch, but I do. He walks around to Angela’s side and opens the door for her. I can’t see his face, but I know the expression on it. That smirk, the smile that says
I get everything I want, eventually.

But Angela doesn’t get out of the car and kiss him. She slams the door shut, trapping him outside. They’re fighting. I lurch forward against the steering wheel, hoping for a better view. They’re fighting, the day before their anniversary weekend. Maybe they won’t be celebrating after all.

Charlie gestures for her to roll the window down, then he goes back around to the driver’s side. I can’t see what’s going on in the car without pulling up for a closer look, and I’m not about to do that. If Angela saw me now, that might propel her to go through with something she doesn’t want to do because she’s mad at me, because she thinks I betrayed her.

And if Charlie saw me now, I don’t even want to know what he might do.

My phone vibrates on the dashboard. I jump in my seat and press it to my ear. It must be Faye or Zach, finally set loose from Principal Goldfarb’s office.

“What happened?” I half whisper into the phone, forgetting that Angela and Charlie are nowhere near close enough to hear me.

“What happened? You’ve been avoiding me all week, and now it’s coming to a head. Dinner’s in half an hour, and you’d better be at the house.” Kim’s voice floods my ear, and it’s her angry voice, the one she reserves for people who seriously piss her off. She hasn’t used this tone with me in a long time. Even when I try to get a reaction out of her, she still doesn’t get angry. But this time, when I don’t want her wrath, I don’t know what I did to deserve it.

“I don’t remember having dinner plans,” I say coolly, keeping my eyes on Charlie’s car.

“That’s because you have conveniently been preoccupied this whole week,” Kim says. “You could have checked the messages I left you, or the note in the kitchen.”

“What’s the big damned deal? Sorry if I didn’t see some stupid Post-it note. It’s been a busy week.” My voice is laced with anger, but worst of all are the tears behind it. I want to scream at Kim. I want to blame her for letting Charlie be our gardener and for letting him dig into our lives. My life.

“You’re coming home for dinner,” Kim says. Now she sounds preoccupied, like she’s doing her nails and talking to me at the same time.

“Since when have we ever made dinner plans? Usually I eat alone.” I think of Faye and her spaghetti and the way her eyes lit up when I ate the whole plate.

“We’re having a special guest tonight.” Kim sighs. “Your father.”

I grip the phone, wanting to yell into it but too exhausted to bother arguing with Kim. I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. A week ago they were groping on the porch, and now my dad is coming over for dinner.

Kim takes my silence as tacit consent. “Come home, Mercedes.”

I throw my phone in my purse and start up the Jeep. Angela and Charlie are still in the darkened car. Whatever they’re doing in there, I can’t wait around to find out.

When I walk in the door, Kim is a flurry of activity. She’s wearing about eight pounds of diamonds around her neck and a black cocktail dress with matching high heels. She looks like someone ready to go on a fancy date with somebody she wants to spend a lot of money on her.

“Do I look okay?” she asks me as she stands in front of the fridge and fluffs her hair. This is definitely not normal Kim behavior. She
never
asks if she looks okay. She’s nervous. I swallow the comment I was about to make about seeing her with my dad on the porch the other night.

“You better go upstairs and change,” Kim says, giving me a once-over that ends with a frown.

“What’s wrong with what I have on?” I say, crossing my arms. I know I’m giving her a hard time, but I shouldn’t have to dress up to impress someone who hasn’t been around to deserve it.

“Just put on a dress, Mercedes. Make yourself presentable.”

I stomp upstairs and take off the jeans I’m wearing. I replace them with sweatpants and smirk at myself in the mirror. This will show Kim. Then I take the sweatpants off and put on a skirt and top and brush my hair. Dammit. I don’t want my dad to think I’m a slob. I apply a dab of lip balm and spritz myself with perfume. Maybe Kim’s antsy energy rubbed off on me, a mixture of nerves and excitement. My dad left us in his fast car so many years ago. Will I even recognize the person who walks through the door?

When the doorbell rings, I leave my room and watch from the landing as my dad comes in and gives Kim a peck on the cheek. They don’t make eye contact, which must mean they’re sleeping together again and don’t want me to know it. Not making eye contact is the most obvious sign of all.

From my vantage point, I can see the top of my dad’s head. He has a bald spot at the back that wasn’t there the last time I saw him, and his hair is considerably grayer. Other than that, he’s exactly as I remember, right down to the suit that’s just a bit too snug around his beginning of a potbelly.

Kim clears her throat, which is either her signal to my dad that I’m in the room or her signal to me that I should come downstairs. I walk down the stairs on shaky legs and grip the banister for support. My dad is watching me, almost like he’s seeing me for the first time. For some reason I start thinking I’m in a movie and this is my prom and my perfectly normal, loving parents are at the bottom of the staircase, waiting to see me off. My throat’s dry and my palms are sweaty on the railing. I hope my dad doesn’t want to shake my hand, because he’ll know how sweaty it is. But he won’t shake my hand. He’ll hug me. Except he’s staring at me like he doesn’t know who I am, which I guess is true. So much has happened to me that he has no idea about. My dad was always good at knowing when something was bothering me.
Penny for your thoughts, kiddo
, he used to say when I was seven and stressed out about some stupid seven-year-old problem. I wonder if he can still read me. Now it would take him a lot more than a penny to know what’s on my mind.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, we stand in front of each other. I wipe my palms on my skirt, just in case he does decide to shake my hand. But he just gives me a funny smile instead and inches forward, like he’s asking for permission to touch me. I like that he doesn’t just expect me to want to be hugged. He’s respectful of boundaries. I step forward and drape my arms loosely around his shoulders.

I don’t know what I expect from the hug. I guess I’m waiting for him to pull me in and try to apologize for being missing in action for a good chunk of my life. But he just gives me a little squeeze and pats me on the back. I can feel the heat from his hand through my shirt. He’s nervous, too.

When we pull away, he holds me by the arms and shakes his head. “You look so much like your mother,” he says. I bite my tongue. I want to tell him that our looks are where the similarities end, but I don’t want to spoil the moment when it barely started.

Kim hired a catering company to make dinner. When the three of us sit down at the dining room table, it becomes blatantly clear just how uncomfortable my dad feels in the house he used to live in. He makes little comments about the renovations Kim has had done—the ones on the house, not on her body, although I’m sure he has noticed those, too. “Great paint color,” he says, along with “You finally got that hardwood floor you wanted.” I keep my mouth shut until he makes a comment that sucks away my appetite completely.