Sloppy Firsts (31 page)

Bethany pouted. "Itwas a lotoft rouble get-ting outhere atall. Andthis is the thanks I getfort ryingto be the good daughter."

The good daughter. Ha! I don’t know if either of us qualified as the good daughter, but the way she was outbitching herself, I was definitely coming out ahead.

"You know what, Bethany? Do us all a favor and don’t try so hard next time."

"Andwhatis thatsupposedto mean?"

"It means, don’t burden yourself by gracing us with your presence if you’re going to be such a bitch about it."

The insult whizzed right past her. She had already focused on something more important. "Enought alk!" she snapped, waving her diamond-dripping fingers in my face. "We mustgetMother outof theb athroom."

"That’s the first decent thing you’ve said since you’ve been home."

Maybe Bethany isn’t such a monster after all, I thought.Maybe she’s capable of thinking about someone other than herself.

"My makeupis still in there. Id esperately needitfor my vacation."

At that moment, I decided that no matter how much my parents pissed me off—which was sure to be a sizable amount—I would never be like this. Never.

Makeup be damned, my mom stayed in the bathroom until after Bethany and G-Money’s hasty departure. Eventually, I was able to persuade her to come out with the promise of hot cider and a plate of cookies. She slowly opened the door.

"You called your sister a bitch.…"

Great,I thought.Grounded again. Is there no justice in this world?

She jerked her fingers through her hair, as though she were about to rip it out.

"I’m glad you said it before I did."

My mom and I sat in front of the Christmas tree, sipping cider and biting the heads off gingerbread men. We surveyed all the super-pricey presents Bethany and G-Money had given us.

"You know she hired a personal shopper to pick out these gifts," my mom said, rubbing a pink silk robe against her cheek. "She didn’t have time to do it herself."

"That explains why these presents are so perfect," I said, picking up a slick leather journal and fountain pen. "The personal shopper knows us better than she does."

Mom smiled, shook her head, and said, "Why do you have to be so smart?"

"As long as I’m not a smart-ass, right?"

Mom gently brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. "Then you wouldn’t be you."

I held up the journal. It was so shiny that I could see the reflection of my mom and me laughing together on the couch. And even though I know that’s not what wereally look like, it was close enough.

the twenty-eighth

The operator said, "Collect call from Marcus. Do you accept?"

As if I had a choice in the matter.

"I accept."

"Thank you," said the operator and Marcus simultaneously.

"Marcus, where are you?"

"Still in Maine with my brother."

"Why are you calling?"

Was he calling just to chat? Was he calling for no reason at all? Just because … ?

"Mia broke up with me," Marcus said. "This is a first for me."

My head pounded, knowing that this meant things were about to become a lot more complicated. Or easier. Depending on the way you looked at it.

"She did? When?"

"She mailed me a Merry Christmas-I’m-Breaking-Up-with-You card. I’ll read it to you," he said. He cleared his throat. "Dear Marcus. Merry Christmas. I’m breaking up with you. Mia."

"It does not say that."

"You’re right," he said. "But it would be so classic if it did."

"So why did she break up with you?"

"Well, she said it’s because I’m no fun. I don’t drink or drug anymore, so I’m no fun. I go to AA meetings instead of hanging out, so I’m no fun. And I do homework instead of having sex, so I’m no fun. I guess she wanted to break up with me before New Year’s Eve so she could finally have fun."

I was too busy thinking about him doing homework instead of having sex to reply.

"The reason I’m calling is because I need to spend New Year’s Eve with you."

Need. Not want.Need.

"Why?"

"Can’t you hear the devastation in my voice?"

"No," I said. "You sound holly-jolly to me." He really did.

"It’s all an act," he said. "I need to be consoled."

"By who?"

"By who?" he said, insulted. "Byyou , of course."

Ofcourse . Consoled. Consolation prize. Runner-up. Second best. Oh, wait. Not sloppy seconds. Sloppyfirsts .

"So I’ll see you on New Year’s Eve," he said, hanging up before I could refuse.

the twenty-ninth

Reasons Why I Should Not Have Sex with Marcus Flutie

1. I don’t want to ruin my friendship with Hope by telling—or not telling—her.

2. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of fulfilling the "Fall" prophecy.

3. I don’t want to be just another donut—I’d rather be remembered as the one girl hecouldn’t have.

4. I don’t want to destroy this weird whatever relationship we have.

5. I don’t want to end up proving the naysayers right.

6. I don’t want to embarrass myself with my lack of ability.

7. I don’t want him to see my sorry boobage.

8. I don’t want to get pregnant. (This is highly unlikely since I haven’t ovulated in over a year, but knowing my luck I’d get knocked up anyway.)

9. I don’t want to catch some nasty-ass STD that he has possibly contracted from one of his Hoochiest lays.

10. I don’t want to get caught because no way my last name will save me.

Reasons Why I Should Have Sex with Marcus Flutie

1. I want to. Oh, God, do I want to.

the thirty-first

So it was settled. New Year’s Eve was Devirginization Day. D-Day.

I even had the perfect outfit. The anti-homecoming dress. Just one long unzip down the middle and I was ready for action. In theory, that is.

"I told you you’d have a reason to wear that," said my mom, popping her head into the bathroom as I wiped off the mascara I had just jabbed onto my cheek. "Who is this boy you’re going out with?"

"He’s just a friend from my classes, Mom." I hoped she didn’t notice how badly my hands were shaking.

"Does this friend have a name?"

I hesitated. I’d already lied about our destination—a party at Scotty’s house—and I didn’t want to push my luck. If I didn’t tell her, she’d torture me until I did.

"His name is Marcus," I said, reapplying the lip gloss I had already chewed off. "Marcus Flutie."

"Marcus …" She tapped her finger to her forehead. "Marcus Flutie. How do I know that name?"

She probably recognized it from the police blotter.

"He’s really smart, possibly a genius," I said. "Maybe you know him from that."

"Is he smarter than you?" she asked.

Is he smarter than me?I wondered. "Maybe," I decided.

"He’d better be if he’s going to have a shot," she said.

Then the doorbell rang. The finger pushing that doorbell belonged to Marcus Flutie. Marcus Flutie was ringing my doorbell just as if he were any other boy. I thought for sure he’d honk and wait in the driveway. But he was actually going to meet and greet my parents. Jesus Christ. This really couldn’t be happening. I fumbled my hairbrush into the toilet.

"I’ve never seen you this nervous before," my mom said, reaching under the sink to pull out a pair of rubber gloves so she could fish it out.

I’d never decided to have sex before.

I went to the top of the landing and saw Marcus shaking hands with my dad. I felt like I was wearing a cast again—on both legs this time. I couldn’t move. My mother nudged me from behind and I almost tumbled head-over-ass down the staircase. As I gripped the railing, and gingerly took each step, I prayed Marcus wouldn’t ask one of his bizarre questions before I got to the bottom:Mr. Darling, did you know that the Japanese have a word to describe the hysterical belief that one’s penis is shrinking?

"Jessica!" my dad exclaimed, as though the last time he’d seen me had been on the back of a milk carton.

Marcus looked me up and down.

"Ain’t you jus’ darlin’?"he drawled, exactly like the first time in the principal’s office last year. So long ago.

"She is, isn’t she?" my mom said, not getting the joke. "I told her she was!"

I think I got out theth of thanks through my stifled giggles, but the other letters got stuck in my throat.

Good-byes are a blur. The next thing I knew, Marcus and I were in the Caddie.

"Your parents love me," he said. "They obviously don’t know who I am."

"Obviously," I said.

Marcus popped in an eight-track. It took a few seconds of snare drum and bass to figure out what it was.

"This isKind of Blue ," I said.

"Yes."

"Hy said it wasthe essential jazz recording," I said.

"Hy was right," Marcus said.

"I hate that she was right," I said. "It would be so much easier to hate her if she were wrong about everything."

I listened to the music, wondering how and where my devirginization would take place. Would we go back to his house? To mine? My parents were going to a party, but their return time was unpredictable. How about right here in his car? The Caddie had a big enough backseat.…

"Aren’t you even curious about where we’re going tonight?" He didn’t wait for my answer. "Well, tonight, I’m going to take you on a tour. A tour of what I like to call The Five Wonders of Pineville, the strangest landmarks our town has to offer."

I snorted. "There are five? I find that hard to believe."

He turned the car into an abandoned parking lot. "Behold," he said, waving his arm with a flourish. "The Champagne of Propane."

The Champagne of Propane is a twenty-five-foot high cement structure in the shape of a wine bottle. When we were kids, it advertised a liquor store. But when the liquor store became a gas station, the clever owners repainted the label, tweaking it to suit their needs.

"You probably pass by the Champagne of Propane every day of your life," he said. "From the road, it’s kind of tacky. But have you ever looked at it up close before?"

I admitted that I hadn’t.

"It’s been painted over so many times that each color that chips or wears away reveals a whole new layer of color. Modern art."

He pointed to a section where green popped through pink, speckled with aqua, flecked with red. He was right. Inch by inch, it was kind of pretty.

"I know how much you hate Pineville," he said. "I thought tonight I’d show you what you miss when you don’t look hard enough."

For the next hour, we visited the other "Wonders" of the town in which we were both born and raised: the fiberglass purple dinosaur inexplicably erected outside Magic Carpets and Remnants that predates Barney by about twenty years and has been beheaded by out-of-control automobiles no less than six times; Der Wunder Wiener, the tiny hot-dog-shaped shop-on-wheels that has been parked across the street from the abandoned Woolworth’s for as long as we remember, yet never seems to have any customers. After the fourth Wonder—the white Volkswagen Beetle perched on top of the roof of Augie’s Auto Parts—I got a bit anxious about, well, getting the action going. Especially when Marcus made a right at the light at the entrance to my development.

"Are you taking me home?"

"Not quite."

He drove past my house (no lights on) and slowed down when we got to the kiddie park. The one I used to run to in the middle of the night.

"And this," he said, "is the park that time forgot. It’s the only one in town that hasn’t been Disneyfied or Pokémonized. It’s exactly the same as it was when we were in elementary school. The tire swings, the monkey bars, the merry-go-round. It’s all exactly the same."

The park is one of my favorite places. I loved that he brought me here. It made me want to tell him things.

"I used to run here in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep."

"Really?"

I pointed up at the leafless tree. "I’d hop on a swing and try to hit the branches with my feet," I said, feeling bold enough to look Marcus right in the eye. "It was just a game I used to play."

"A game."

"Yes." I tried, and failed, to suppress a smile. "Now I talk to you instead."

Marcus stuffed his hands into his front pockets. He suddenly looked incredibly uncomfortable, as though he wishedhe could climb inside his pants and hide.

Then, without saying anything, he ran toward the merry-go-round. I followed and sat down inside the big red circle in the middle. Bull’s-eye. Marcus hopped on and sat Indian style, facing me. The wind inched the merry-go-round in circles, but I felt like I was spinning out of control.

"I made my first New Year’s resolution," he said.