Going Vintage

Going Vintage

Lindsey Leavitt

To Rachel
“Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted …”
(Someday we’ll learn the rest of the lyrics.)

“Losing love is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you’re blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow”
—Paul Simon

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Also by Lindsey Leavitt

Chapter 1

Things I say to distract Jeremy so I can take a break from making out:

1. I need to go to the bathroom
.

2. Oh, did I tell you … (insert funny thing that happened). It has to be genuinely interesting so he doesn’t know that I’m thinking about anything besides This Moment, even though I obviously am, because it’s not like my brain just turns off when we’re kissing. Well, my mom told me once to be careful because guys turn their brains off and certain body parts on, which was so disgusting I’m sorry I brought it up now
.

3. I’m hungry
.

4. One time I actually said I needed a break, and Jeremy took it the wrong way, thinking I meant a break from us, when really things were just getting too hot. He knows I have very clear limits and geographical boundaries, no matter how much the kid persists, which is every time we’re together, which is every day. So you can imagine how tiring that gets. Another thing my mom once said was, when you’re with someone, you give pieces of yourself, and they always kept that piece, or at least a piece of the piece. “Pieces” might have been code for “virginity,” I’m still not sure
.

We finally made up by making out. Which was great, but I actually DID need to use the bathroom, so I had to go back to that excuse as soon as I was sure he didn’t think I was deserting him forever
.

This time, I go with Distraction Number 3, partly because I
am
hungry, but I also used the other excuses twice this week. It seems every week I have to use an excuse more and more to end the kiss-off. And actually, every week I use them less and less.

We’re supposed to be studying in his bedroom. My parents won’t let me have a boy in my bedroom ever, even to study, even if I’m showing off my Major League Baseball bobblehead collection (twenty-three nodding athletes and counting). And they’d issued that rule with parental wisdom, because studying at Jeremy’s is almost always code for making out. Most of the things we say we’re doing are code for making out. It’s not like we’re horndogs—we hang out with his friends some, go to the movies or Anaheim Ducks hockey games, maybe the beach. It’s just that Jeremy seems to really like kissing, and he’s my first bona fide boyfriend, and of the sundry activities I start (and quit), the one that can’t be included on a yearbook page is frankly the most enjoyable. So when we’re alone, we pretty much kiss each other’s faces off.

In a romantic way.

“Really? You’re hungry?” he asks. “Even after Pizza Hut?”

“That was lunchtime.”

“You had two slices.”

“Three.” I pat my stomach. “You’re right. I should be famished by now.”

He swings his legs over the side of his double bed, still covered in a sports comforter from when he was, like, twelve. I sit up and adjust my sweater-vest, purchased at Goodwill last month when I decided my fall wardrobe would be eighties prep, although the itchy argyle and unflatteringly high skirts were making me rethink the collection. Plus, kneesocks did me no favors.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“Chips and salsa with cream cheese, light on the salsa, heavy on the cream cheese. And a glass of milk if you’re using medium or spicier.”

Jeremy smoothes down his dark, floppy hair. Action Hair, I call it. No amount of combing or hair product can achieve the adorableness of Action Hair. And no one can get it like that but me. “I swear, on the weekends you eat more than the entire wrestling team.”

“Four days healthy, three days free. Diet plan of the gods.”

“The gods wouldn’t touch Meat Lover’s pizza. Do you know what’s in a pepperoni?”

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Never.” He reaches over and pinches some skin on my stomach. “You know you’re beautiful. I love every piece of you.”

He smiles lazily, and I want to give up all my pieces right then. I kiss him, even though I was the one who needed a break before. He’s the one who is beautiful, and I love days like this, days where there is no one but us, and we don’t need to talk, because we already know what the other thinks.

It’s another five minutes until he gently pushes me away and says, “Why don’t you start on our paper?”

“You mean
your
paper,” I say. “I’m not even in philosophy.”

“But you’re writing it. So it’s ours now.”

“I’ve always wanted to share a paper with a boy!” I clap my hands. “Can we name him Hunter? Hunter the Paper Boy. Or Boy of Paper, so he’s not confused with paperboy paperboys. I’ll knit him a sweater, show embarrassing baby pictures to his dates, and scream at his soccer games.”

Jeremy stares at me hard. I love when he gives me that look, like all the staring in the world would never unlock my feminine mysteries. “I don’t get you sometimes.”

“
All
the time!” I call after him. So much for feminine mystery.

I hate when I say things that I think are funny but Jeremy doesn’t laugh or understand, and I wonder if something is wrong with me. Sometimes I even text the joke to my little sister, Ginnie, and 84 percent of the time she writes back with a “You’re the funniest person on the planet!” which is a million characters beyond a simple “LOL.” But that could be because she’s my sister. Although Jeremy has been my boyfriend for over a year now, so that should at least warrant a courtesy laugh, right?

To test my theory, I write Ginnie about Hunter, and within a minute she confirms my genius. I love instant gratification. It’s been an hour since I’ve checked my phone, so I have to respond to a few texts. There’s not much to say, just that I’ll write more later because right now I’m with Jeremy. I love writing that. It says that I’m his and he’s mine, and between the lines there is belonging, something I didn’t feel at Orange Park High School until we started dating.

I finally settle into his swivel computer chair and spin myself dizzy. I help with his philosophy and chemistry homework, and he teaches me Spanish and history. He gets better grades than me, but that’s probably more due to effort than intelligence. Don’t tell him I said that.

I click onto his computer to look up essays that could tell me what I’m—sorry,
Jeremy’s
—supposed to think about Kant’s
moral philosophy. Jeremy’s Friendspace profile page is open on his computer. I smile at his image, an action shot of Jeremy grabbing my legs. His cousin Oliver is holding my arms and they’re about to throw me in the pool on my sixteenth birthday last March.

I don’t know much about Oliver, but who does? I think that mysterious aloofness is part of his image. He
was
nice enough to give me a birthday card that night with a twenty-dollar gift card to Outback. Outback? That’s the way to get in good with your cousin’s girl. Jeremy, on the other hand, got me this ruby ring that we saw while I was selling something for my dad to a pawnshop in Santa Ana. I love jewelry with history, even the desperate history of pawns. I run my finger over the ruby, rubbing the memory until it’s warm.

I think about doing something cute—like updating Jeremy’s “What’s Happening?” section to say, “My girlfriend Mallory is a goddess,” but Jeremy’s not a big fan of The Cute. I’m about to click off when I see that he was previously active last night at nine.

Which is … huh.

He was supposed to be playing basketball last night at nine.

It’s not like I’m one of those stalker girlfriends who reads all her boyfriend’s texts or combs through his yearbook signatures for hidden meanings. But right now the truth is not hiding; it’s straight up in my face. And unless he was Friendspacing on the free-throw line, he obviously lied to me.

Why?

I know the answer before I asked the question.

Authentic Life.

It’s this game on Friendspace. You create a character that looks like you, then make virtual friends and get a fake job and furnish your pretend house, making sure your imaginary dog doesn’t pee on your couch. There are options for vacation packages, sports teams, and parenthood. Some levels give the user the opportunity to create fantastical worlds, so if you’ve always wanted to be a warrior goblin princess who likes to shop and compete for the Olympic gold in curling, well, here’s your chance.

Authentic Life is probably more fun than that; I’ve just never gotten into it. Jeremy’s not the only one in “the community”—it’s the new trend with online games, and even celebrities have avatars. Everyone has an Internet vice, so I can understand a few minutes here or there, but Jeremy is on there A Lot. His usage shows up on his Friendspace feed sometimes, and it’s always odd hours—sometimes he’ll slip away when we’re hanging out to go “check e-mail,” but I know it’s this stupid game.

One back click and I come to Jeremy’s Authentic Life world. Although I know he plays this game, I’ve never actually
seen
his site. He’s designed his own black-and-silver background, and pictures of other virtual people and places splatter the page. There he is on his pretend trip to Mount Rushmore, there he is sticking an American flag on the moon, there he is … there he is with a girl. In most of the pictures. BubbleYum. Her avatar has curly red hair and a black kind of corset, and she’s holding a golden lacrosse stick.

She’s even next to Jeremy in his profile picture, holding his hand. Jeremy’s avatar is totally Jeremy—the dark hair, muscled frame. He’s wearing a karate robe with a red dragon, and his handle says TheAmazingAsian.