Kiss And Blog (10 page)

“Listen, I’m planning to cut out pretty soon, and meet up with some people, and I was wondering if maybe you’d want to come along?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his cup, waiting for a response.

Do I wanna come along? Is he kidding?
But then I gaze across the room at my dad, my shoulders sinking when I realize I’ll have to clear it with him first.

“Go ahead, ask your old man.” Easton nods. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Then he smiles at me, and I smile at him, and when I gaze at my dad, I hope that it’s true.

“So, where we going?” I ask, walking beside him, and wondering if this could actually be considered a date. I mean, not that I’ve ever been on one before, but it seems like all of the symptoms are present and accounted for. Like, I’m going to a party with this amazingly cute guy, who, believe it or not, actually wants to be with me. So it seems like that should definitely count, right?

“Friend of mine’s having a little gathering, I thought we’d stop by and check it out,” he says, before leading me into this really modern-looking building that houses the most amazing loft I’ve ever seen (and that includes TV, movies, and pictures in magazines).

I gaze around at the floor-to-ceiling windows, the walls covered in large, abstract, original works of art, and a roomful of kids so cool and beautiful I feel like I’ve stepped into a
Teen Vogue
photo shoot. Then I gaze down at my new, black, bubble hem dress and hope that it’s really as cool as I think.

”Come on,” Easton says, grabbing my hand and leading me into the designated den area. “Let me introduce you around.”

Okay, so here’s the short list of things I’ve never done before:

1.   Gone to a party with a hot guy.

2.   Gone to a party where there were no adult chaper-ones.

3.   Sipped anything stronger than a double espresso.

4.   Kissed a guy as cute as Easton. (Or any guy for that matter.)

And if things went well, I was hoping tonight I could start a new list.

So, I’m sitting on this really low, supermodern, circular sofa, and Easton is so close to me that his leg is actually overlapping on mine (which, believe me, is pretty much all I can think about). And I’m just sitting there like Switzerland (you know, all neutral), while Easton gets in this heated debate with some guy called Gin (though I’m not sure why, since Gin is actually drinking a beer) about some book that I’ve never even read, much less heard of. Which is pretty amazing when I think about all the books I’ve devoured. And as I listen to them argue back and forth, I’m starting to realize that not only are these kids cooler than me, richer than me, more beautiful than me, more informed than me, but apparently, they’re also way smarter than me.

“Anyway, books are irrelevant. The twenty-first century is all about blogging,” Gin says, shaking his head and sipping Pilsner Urquell straight from the bottle.

But apparently, Easton’s not buying it, since he rolls his eyes, and goes, “Bullshit. Blogging’s just a bunch of assholes
with a keyboard and an opinion. Hyped-up fare that works hard at blurring the boundaries between actual news and completely biased perspective. And, at its very worst, it’s just more rumor-mongering tabloid crap.” He shakes his head and sips from his red plastic party cup.

I just sit there, sipping my drink, but not saying a word. Partly because I can’t risk having them think I’m stupid by opening my mouth and removing all doubt, and partly because I cannot believe that people my age actually
talk like this.
I mean, I’ve been sitting here for what surely must be at least a half hour now, and already they’ve touched on the war in Iraq, the likelihood of the first female president and who it will be, and have now moved on to Big Media. I mean, don’t these people realize that Jessica left Nick, Brad ditched Jen, and Paris will no longer speak to Nicole?

“That’s the point. It’s all about perspective, which is the same thing any writer does. Except with blogging you get the immediate gratification of making your views instantly available, in real time, for free.”

Immediate gratification. . . that’s what I need,
I think, taking two quick, yet substantial, sips of my Bacardi and Coke. I mean, I like to write, so maybe I should start a blog. I could write about being a lunchtime loser and call it, “The View from Table C.” Or I could write about life in the It town for the non-It girl and call it, “Laguna Beach: The Painfully Real O. C.”

“That’s total crap! Blogs will never replace the novel. Because in the end, people still want their tactile experience. You cannot curl up in front of a nice roaring fire, with a cup of hot cocoa, and your shiny, cold, Apple iBook. It’s just not the same experience,” Easton says, shaking his head and finishing his drink, as Gin, the heated debater, just laughs and walks away.

I look at Easton and think how I could really get used to living like this. You know, hanging out in other people’s amazing lofts, with a group of young, cool, smart people who talk about interesting things, and where I’d enjoy an exciting, hip
life that I could totally blog about in my spare time. Let’s face it, it definitely beats the sad and empty lunch table I’ve got waiting for me back home.

“What’re you thinking?” Easton asks, leaning toward me, looking at me in a way that I originally thought I wanted him to, only now I’m not so sure.

“Um, nothing,” I say, shrugging nervously, not quite willing to share my latest New York blogger fantasy with him.

Then he slides his hand into his pocket, pulls it back out, and opens his palm. And as I stare at the medium-sized joint, just lying there in his hand, I realize I’ve just added a fifth to my list.

I watch as he grabs a small box of matches, lights up the end, and takes a substantial drag before passing it to me. And as I hold it between my fingers, I think about how, for pretty much the last five years of my life, everyone from school administrators with their awkward auditorium talks, to TV celebrities starring in public service announcements, to even my very own, well-meaning (yet ultimately hypocritical if you count those brownies they used to bake that Autumn and I weren’t, under any circumstances, ever allowed to eat) parents, have been doing their best to coach me for just this very moment. And even though their advice was all slightly different, the message behind it was always the same—
just
don’t
do it!
Like the world’s most negative Nike ad.

So it’s not like I haven’t been well versed and overrehearsed in how I’m supposed to handle such a moment. I mean, over and over again I’ve been told to just smile demurely, shake my head, and take a pass. But even after knowing all that, despite all that well-meaning antidrug message-mongering, I still place it right between my lips as I proceed to mimic every single thing I saw Easton just do.

Only I don’t really inhale.

In fact, I don’t inhale at all. I just totally fake like I did, and then I shyly turn away from him, so that I can politely release a
fake cloud of invisible, nonexistent, imaginary smoke. But as I pass it back, I make sure to cough just a little, so everything will appear completely legit, so he’ll never guess that I’m a virgin.

After he takes a few more hits, I take one final fake one, then he stubs it out, drops it into a heavy crystal ashtray, leans in, and starts kissing me. And even though I admit that I’ve never actually done this before either, there’s just no way I’m faking it. So I lean in, too, wrapping my arms around his neck, and concentrating on kissing him back, just like I practiced on my hand for the last three years, hoping I’m pulling this off even half as well as I did with the whole pot-smoking thing.

And even though it’s not nearly as romantic as I’d expected, and even though there’s absolutely no trace of that completely swoony feeling I was sure I would experience if I was ever lucky enough to kiss a guy as hot as Easton, that doesn’t mean it’s not nice. But just when I think I’m really getting the hang of it, he pulls away, grabs both our cups, and heads for the bar to make a refill run. While I remain on the couch, feeling simultaneously dazed and elated, thinking how I can’t wait to share that with Sloane.

But then I remember how I can’t exactly do that anymore, since we’re no longer friends. And how that’s pretty much the reason why I came here in the first place.

So then I gaze around the room at all these amazing people with names like India Pink and Calla Lily (which definitely makes me feel better about my own weird name), and I think,
Screw Sloane.
And screw those stupid, superficial, synthetic cheerleader clones too. I mean, they may be cool in their zip code, but in this one? Not so much.

And when Easton returns and hands me my drink, I take a sip, smiling when I realize I can now start a new list.

I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow Easton is on top of me, kissing the side of my neck and moving his hips in a way
that simulates something I’ve definitely never done before. And when I turn my head to the side, I open my eyes, and peer all around, and from what I can see in this dim, shadowy light, we’re definitely not the only ones doing this.

So I focus back on Easton, trying to concentrate on just kissing him, but my head feels so weird, and my brain feels so soggy, then all of a sudden the whole room starts spinning around and around like when you’re on that Mad Tea Party ride at Disneyland. So I squeeze my eyes shut, and make my body go all stiff, hoping that will somehow slow it all down, or even make it stop. And then I feel Easton’s hand creeping its way inside the top part of my dress, and even though I’d already decided I’d
maybe
let him do that if he tried, now that it’s actually happening, I’m thinking maybe not.

And then,
oh, my God,
I feel that sudden, unmistakable, unstoppable urge to vomit. And I know I have like maybe ten seconds to get out of here before I blow.

Frantically, I push Easton off, so hard that he falls to the floor and goes, “Hey!” Then I get up and bolt for the door, crushing a few stray limbs along the way, but with no time to apologize.

Then with my hand clamped firmly over my mouth, knowing that I cannot, under any circumstances, projectile vomit anywhere inside this trillion-dollar loft, I head straight through the door and onto the street where it’s all fair game. And I lean into some bushes and just stay like that, heaving and puking ‘til there’s nothing left.

When I’m finally empty, I just stand there, all hunched over, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, feeling helpless, shaky, and humiliated as hell. And then Easton arrives with my purse in his hand, going, “Are you okay?” While looking at me with so much concern, it makes me feel even worse.

I just nod, even though I think it’s probably pretty obvious that I’m not.

And he says, “Here, let me take you home.”

But I shake my head and avoid his eyes. “Just get me a cab,” I mumble, gazing down at the ground, amazed at how the trip from “cool” to “loser” was a lot quicker than I would’ve thought.

He hails a taxi, and gets me safely inside, and when he closes the door between us, he goes, “Uh, you’re not gonna mention any of this to your dad, are you?”

But the cab pulls away from the curb before I can answer.

Nine

Even though I didn’t exactly tell my dad, it’s not like he didn’t know. I mean, remember the band, the Billboard hit, and the whole rock star thing? Well, trust me, I couldn’t have fooled him if I tried.

So the next morning, by the time I finally make it into the kitchen, there’s a big bottle of water along with two extra- strength aspirins, waiting patiently beside my coffee.

“So how bad was it?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his folded in half newspaper.

But I just shrug, and drop my head in my hands. Because even though I have no other hangover stories to judge it by, I’m definitely convinced that it’s probably pretty bad.

“Should I have stopped you?” he asks, gazing at me with concern.

I swear that’s how he parents. Like everything is this thoroughly considered, nonpartisan, fairly voted on, democratic decision. And when it doesn’t work out? Well, that’s when it
becomes “a learning experience.” So obviously, it’s pretty tough to get in trouble around here.

I just look at him and shrug. “In retrospect? Maybe,” I tell him.

But he just laughs. “So?” He looks at me, waiting for all the dirty details.

Oh, yeah, that’s the other part of his parenting, he likes to be kept well-informed and in the loop. So full disclosure is the price you pay for not being put on restriction.

“Two Bacardi and Cokes, half a beer, and like, two or three pretend hits of pot,” I confess. “But that’s it. Scout’s honor,” I say, raising my right hand as though I’m solemnly swearing.

He just looks at me, eyebrows raised.

“What can I say? You raised a lightweight.” I shrug. “Oh, yeah, and then I deposited all of it in the bushes right outside of the most amazing loft you’ve ever seen.”

“You’re way better off, trust me,” he says, nodding his head while taking a swig of iced coffee.

“Funny, I don’t feel better off.” I shrug. “I mean, I have red eyes, dry mouth, a raging headache, a bad case of embarrassment, a world of regret, and a pretty heavy dose of much humbled humiliation.”

“And Easton?” He looks at me, waiting.

“He’s totally terrified that I’ll tell you,” I say, swallowing the aspirin, followed by a hearty chug of mineral water chaser.

“And did you learn anything?” he asks, still looking at me.

“Believe me, I learned plenty,” I assure him, grabbing the
New York Post
and searching for Page Six.

The rest of the day was pretty low-key. Partly because of my delicate condition, and partly because it was our last day together so we just wanted to be mellow. So after taking a leisurely stroll through the park, we went to a matinee, and then headed to one of my dad’s favorite haunts to enjoy an early
dinner. And even though I was still fending off a few residual shakes, I was mostly just thinking about how great it was to hang with my dad, one-on-one for a change, and not have to share him with Autumn, or one of his many girlfriends.