Maine Squeeze (46 page)

“No, I don't think so,” I said. I started building an anthill of raw sugar on the table.

“Listen to us. Dave's seeing someone else. So should you,” Beth said.

“I can't,” I said. “I told you guys, I don't want a relationship this year. I'm not looking for a boyfriend.”

“Come on. Don't be silly.” Jane tossed a stirrer at me. “You said that in the heat of the moment—”

“Ahem, you have it in writing,” I said. “I wouldn't have written it down if I didn't mean it. That's why I'm vice president with the Tom, that's why—”

“Courtney, come on. It was funny when you said it,” Beth said. “Remember? We laughed about it. I told you about the advantage of flings, remember?”

“It wasn't funny to me,” I said. “I was completely serious. Look, you guys. I appreciate what you're saying. But could we just complain about Dave and not talk about me? Because I'm not changing my mind. I never change my mind once it's made up. Can I have a sip of your latte?”

Beth and Jane looked at each other.

“What?” I said.

“Oh, um, nothing. Here.” Beth pushed her cup toward me.

“So do you want to eat lunch together?” Grant asked me today.

Unbelievable! I glared at Grant. He
knew
. He had to know. And he never mentioned a word to me about Dave seeing someone new! And I was supposed to be nice to him? And he expected me to wait until he got his lunch, then eat a mustard sandwich, and suffer through his sympathetic looks and I-knew-before-you sighs?

“I can't believe you,” I said. “I thought you were like … my friend. Sort of.”

“I am. Sort of,” Grant said.

What? Was he my friend, or wasn't he? “With the emphasis on the sort of,” I said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“I don't know. Like I told you a hundred times, Grant, I don't understand guys. Especially you!” I said.

“What are you talking about? What did I do?” Grant asked.

I glared at him. I was seething. All that overly dramatic stuff because I felt so incredibly humiliated and he had a part in all this. Then I said something I probably shouldn't have.

“So now I know why your nickname is Lake Superior.”

He stared at me like he'd never heard that before.

“It's because you're so like … gray and vast and
cold
. You sink ships. You don't care about anyone!” Then I stormed off down the hall. Then I realized I forgot my courier bag, which was in the student council office. I hate not being able to exit when I want to.

I ran up the stairs. Tom was sitting at his desk, being presidential. He was writing checks to pay for the New Year's party we're planning—we need to make deposits on all this stuff.

“Courtney, I thought you left,” he said.

“I wish,” I said.

“Where are you going again?” he asked.

“Nebraska,” I said. “I told you ten times—”

“Where in Neb—” he started to say.

“Yeah, well,
bye
!” I ran out of there before he could talk to me about the fun vacation he had planned.

Thank God it's Thanksgiving (is that redundant or what) vacation. I really really really really need to get out of here and away from all these jerks!

This will probably be illegible. I am writing with ice-cold hands—and gloves on. So is Bryan, in a notebook. He won't show me what, though. I asked and he got all snippy about it.

“You're not keeping a
journal
, are you?” I asked.

“Shut up,” he said. “Anyway, if you can, why can't I?”

I don't know. He just can't.

We're sitting in the Taurus. We're stuck. The Bull is not going anywhere. And there is a certain contingent in the car right now who think this is all my fault: Bryan, Mom, and Oscar.

Never mind that there's a severe blizzard happening. That the road is closed now. The problem is that we skidded off the road because I was going too fast for the conditions and also I was thinking too much about Dave and last Thanksgiving and Dave and this Thanksgiving and what I was doing with my life, and how he was seeing someone new but that didn't upset me as much as my fight with Grant, but why did I have to keep thinking about Grant, plus I kept eating jelly bean after jelly bean, I was on quite the sugar rush.

Next thing I knew there was this 18-wheeler in front of me and I swerved to miss it and I went off the road in this long skid and thwacked into a snowbank. There's a billboard for a Motel 6 in the distance, but no Motel 6. We're way too far from anywhere to walk, as if we could. Lots of other cars are stranded, too—when the blowing snow lets up, it's going to be
hours
before anyone comes for us.

Mom is surprisingly calm considering that we're going to miss the pie schedule.

“Courtney? More cheddar?” she just asked me, holding out a giant bag. Mom's excessive planning comes in handy because of the stockpile in the cooler.

“Mom. No,” I said. “I don't want any cubed cheese. Can I have a carrot?”

Bryan's crunching on wheat wafers. “If we had a cell phone, this wouldn't be happening.”

I can't believe he had the guts to just say that!

Mom's arm is twitching where it's resting on the back of the seat. “We'll be
fine
. All those other people with cell phones can call
for
us. All right?”

Bryan isn't having any of it. “No one's going to call. They can't even see us, Mom. The snow is covering our car!”

“Well then, get out and brush it off,” Mom just said. “Make sure you uncover the tailpipe.”

We're running the heater once every half hour. When you get stranded in a blizzard you have to remember to clear the tailpipe or you'll die. Either way it feels like we could die, though, if you want to know the truth.

Bryan's trying to open the door, but it's nearly frozen shut. The wind is blowing so strongly that ice is forming on the inside of the windows. Bryan wrote HELP ME in the frosted glass with his finger. The cranberries in the trunk are definitely frozen, and I don't want to even think about “all the breads for the meal” that I spent hours baking last night.

“I'll take Oscar,” Bryan just said. “He probably needs to go.” We gave him a glass of snow about an hour ago. I'm watching the two of them. Bryan is kicking the tailpipe so hard it might fall off. Mom's arm is still twitching. Oscar raised his leg and it seems frozen in that position.

Uh-oh. There he goes!

No one's going to believe this. I don't believe this. I'm writing this in the bathroom, for one thing. That's pretty strange. But I didn't want to turn the light on and wake Grandma, and I can't sleep, and every other room is taken.

So here's what ended up happening this afternoon after I jumped out of the car to save Oscar from running away (and let's face it, he wasn't scared this time—he was just sick of being in the car, like we were—and decided to strike out for freedom).

First of all, the snow was too deep. Oscar's legs got stuck. Bryan and I picked him up and put him back in the car. Then we started clearing off the car. Bryan took the sides and top; I was clearing off the back. It seemed silly to clear snow off the bumper stickers, but hey—if you're going to be stranded, why not give people a political message to read while they creep by, going 20
MPH
, totally ignoring your plight?

I was brushing off the T
RUTH OR
D
AIRY
—F
RESH FROM THE
F
ARM AND
G
ARDEN
! sticker when all of a sudden this new, souped-up black pickup with gigantic snow tires pulled up behind our car. Someone was coming to help us! I was so excited.

Then who gets out of the truck? TOM DELANEY.

“What are you doing here?” I think I asked. A really dumb question. I know.

“Driving to North Platte to see my dad for Thanksgiving. Wow. This is wild, huh? You guys stuck?”

“Why did you stop?” I asked. “I mean—”

“I saw you,” Tom said. “Plus I recognized your car. You have that Truth or Dairy sticker. And that tofu sticker. You have to be the only one in Nebraska right now with that sticker. Where are you going?”

“To visit our grandparents,” I said. “And the Von Dragen cousins. Remember?”

“Oh, you're going to the V.D. homestead.” Tom smiled.

“Ha-ha,” I said as I glared at him.

“Chill, Courtney. I'll help you move the car.”

We tried, but the Bull wouldn't budge. Plus we only had a couple of ounces of gas left. So then Tom ends up offering to take us all to the Von Dragens. We can go back and get the car after the storm, he says.

So then the only problem is how we're all going to fit. If we're going to fit. We all had to sit up front, even Oscar. Good thing Mom is so tiny. But they made me sit next to Tom. I was crammed against the gearshift. A wet and thawing Oscar was lying across Bryan's and Mom's laps. All our luggage was in the back, under one of those black plastic truck boxes.

I thought of how Beth said the hailstorm was a sign that I
shouldn't
get to Boulder and reconnect with Dave. So then was this a sign that I was supposed to hook up with Tom? I'd have to call Beth.

We got to my grandparents' four hours after we were supposed to be there. Because of the snowstorm, everyone was worried sick about us, and it was a big party when we finally arrived. We kept thanking Tom—me, Mom, Grandpa. Grandma made him drink three hot chocolates. He tried to leave, but everyone insisted he stay for dinner—it was all hot (and overcooked, I was thinking) and what was one more place setting for the boy who'd saved our lives, etc. etc. etc.

“Thanks for everything, but I should really get going,” Tom said at about nine o'clock. “My dad's expecting me, so—”

“Don't be ridiculous. In this weather? You're staying the night,” Grandpa declared.

“But it's only fifty miles—”

“Do you know how many people's last words have been ‘It's only fifty miles'?” Grandpa asked. “Listen, son, I've seen more accidents on this stretch of road than world wars.”

I thought to myself, two? More than two? Because I think Tom can take his chances. The thought of him staying here is really bizarre. But I didn't want him to get into an accident, and the snow really hasn't let up yet. So he's sleeping downstairs on the sleeper sofa.

I was trying to fall asleep, but then I realized what I thought was a stomachache from Grandpa's pre-Thanksgiving meal—Cornish game hens, “a little warm-up for the big bird!” he said (no wonder he and Grandma sleep in separate beds)—wasn't going away, and was in fact another kind of ache altogether.

So now I'm sitting in the bathroom, looking at a box of tampons that for some reason has all of the warnings in French.

Question: Why does Grandma still have these and how old are they? Wouldn't she have gone through “the change” about 20 or 40 years ago?

Question: Do tampons expire?

The box is warning me of
Syndrome de Choc Toxique
.

Why does
death
sound good in French? Like an exclusive all-night dance club.

Question: Why would anyone ever want to go to www.tampax.com? And what links would it have? I sort of don't want to know.

Dear www.tampax.com: Are you there, God? It's me, [email protected].

There are a bunch of prescription bottles in here, stacked like cans at the supermarket. All my grandparents'.

Don't let me get old.

And don't let me write in my journal in the bathroom again. Extremely depressing.

Oh God. I thought I'd noticed this weird vibe with Grandma and Grandpa. Like maybe they were a lot more interested in each other than Mom said. So I was in the bathroom for a little while, so I was contemplating the Tampax box. Did they think I wasn't coming back?

I walked back into the bedroom and they were like … making out. On the bed. Completely oblivious! Completely about to have sex! Grandma's needs
completely
being met.

So I ran downstairs, totally freaked out. And I ran right into the sleeper sofa and toppled onto the Tom, knocking my shins really hard against the metal frame, and falling onto him.

He opened his eyes and said in this Austin Powers voice, “Hello, hello, what do we have here?”

I only took a second to see whether he had as much chest hair as Austin Powers. His chest was bare. And tan, like he went to a salon and had a fake bake.

I leapt off him immediately after that and sat on the recliner. It was so embarrassing, how could I tell him? But I told him. My grandfather would probably be his idol now, but what the heck. I said how it was weird because they hadn't slept together in a long time, and they actually had been sort of cold to each other the last time I saw them.