Those Girls (10 page)

A
s a quasi-nonpracticing Jew, I found winter break to be a pretty lonely time. Drew and Veronica had spiraled into coupledom, Mollie’s family was all in town, and the guys in the band celebrated Christmas like normal people, so there wasn’t much for me to do but lie on my bed, listen to Radiohead, and think about how cold and lonely the world could be. I’d been doing this for a few days when Josh knocked on my door and asked if I wanted to get high in the garage; I said okay.

“So, what’s wrong, big sister?” he asked as he packed his little bowl that I’d bought for him on South Street the week after he got caught with weed in his sock drawer. “You’ve become a complete cliché of teen angst, and I need you to cheer up and be a bitch again, because I’m bored without someone to spar with.”

I laughed and took the first hit when he offered it to me. “I’m sorry, little brother,” I said as I coughed, then patted him on the shoulder. “The holidays are just shitty and depressing. All my friends have boyfriends.”

“You’re the lead singer in an awesome band,” he said, forcing a smile. “That’s so much cooler than having a boyfriend!”

“Gee, you’re right.… Lucky me.” I perched on a box full of our dad’s old albums and patted the box next to me. He obliged and plopped down.

“I mean, think about it.…” He took a long inhale. “Would you really want to date Sam? The greatest jerk-off in Crawford history? Or Drew, who is, like, practically related to us?”

I looked at my lap. “No.”

“Cheer up, Al.” He handed me back the bowl. “I know it seems like having a boyfriend is a big deal, but what you have is actually going to make you way happier in life. You’re just in high school. You’ll be talented for way longer than they’ll have shitty boyfriends.”

I looked at Josh and laughed. “When did you get so wise, little one? Aren’t I the older sister?”

He patted me on the back and laughed, too. “I’ve always considered myself wise beyond my years.” He exhaled and blew smoke rings, like I’d taught him to do.

“Nice rings,” I said.

“See, there are still some things to learn from you.”

“Do you think Dad’s really gonna come visit after Christmas?” I asked.

“Nope,” he said, still holding smoke in his throat, and handing me back the bowl.

The garage door started to rumble. We looked at each other in panic, waved the smoke around, and stumbled over each other as we ran back inside.

FERNANDO AND I HAD
kissed four times since our kiss on Halloween: three times after practice and one time we went to a movie and made out in his car when he dropped me off.

I was acutely self-aware when I was around him, always looking at myself through his eyes—trying to figure out how he saw me; what he was thinking about what I was wearing; how I was standing; how I was singing, playing, acting, coughing, laughing; and what he thought that all meant. He knew so little about me, saw such a small part of my life. I was curious as to the conclusions he drew about the little glimpses I chose to give him. It was exhausting. I was trying to enjoy it, but I couldn’t. I just kept waiting to fuck it up, for him to get bored or annoyed or grossed out, or to find out that he lost a bet or something. I knew it was only a matter of time before it all went away and things went back to the way they were. Me, Alex, the bud, boyless—that was the way of the universe—me having a quasi-boyfriend/boy I sometimes made out with had to be throwing off the whole balance of the cosmos. Somewhere in the world, the sun had to be rising at night and puppies were dying and red meant go and green meant stop. Something had been thrown off, and surely there were going to be repercussions.

Every time we kissed, there was a solid chance that it would never happen again and order would be restored. I kept waiting for him to initiate some sort of
what are we
conversation, or to acknowledge with actual spoken words that we were something more than buddies and bandmates, and that I could start
to assume we’d kiss every time we saw each other, but he didn’t. We never actually spoke of our rendezvous, just the band, the weather, music, what we did that weekend. It was like starting from zero every time. Every time we kissed I was surprised, like it was the first time, like it happened by accident. How many times did we have to kiss before it was expected that we would?

I wondered if this was how it always was with these things or if this was just how it was with me, if I was doing something wrong and screwing this up, perpetuating my own self-fulfilling prophecy. Like, when did Mollie and Sam start actually dating and telling people they were boyfriend and girlfriend? I couldn’t remember. She met him at some party at the ’Zu that I wasn’t invited to, told me she actually spoke to the famous Sam Fuchs, but that he was an asshole and Veronica threw herself at him. Next thing I knew, he asked her to homecoming, they went to homecoming, and then they were boyfriend and girlfriend. That was probably normal. This was probably not normal. The fact that we didn’t kiss or touch or flirt or act like we were anything more than friends in front of Ned and Pete (except for that first time at Battle of the Bands, which I’m pretty sure they didn’t even see) probably meant that he was embarrassed by our “relationship” and didn’t want them to know about it. Didn’t want anyone to. I guessed I was fine with that. Better to have a secret make-out buddy than no make-out buddy at all. Plus, it was something for me to talk about (and slightly/grossly exaggerate) when Drew talked about Veronica.

The night of our last practice before the holidays, Fernando and I walked out to our cars together. That happened only sometimes. Sometimes he stayed at the Farbers’ after practice to write with Ned. Sometimes when we walked out together, he kissed me; sometimes we just hugged good-bye and smiled at each other knowingly. I pretended both were totally cool and normal and neither action on his part resulted in either glee or disappointment on mine.

It was bitterly bitingly freezing cold, and my heart beat sharp and hard, wondering which way it would go that night. The naked trees stood petrified against the white ground and navy sky, and our slow clouds of breath seemed to be the only thing warm enough to move in the silent, frozen world.

I opened my car door, and the sound echoed against the cavernous night.

“Well, good practice tonight. See you tomorrow?” I stuttered through chattering teeth.

The sleeves of my puffy jacket crunched and shushed as he rubbed his mittened hands up and down them in the silence of the snow.

“Your songs are really good, Alex. I can’t wait to sing them.” His teeth knocked, too, and the words blended together on his thick tongue.

I smiled.

“Really?” I said. “They’re not stupid?” My teeth chattered some more, feeling like foreign objects behind my numb lips. If this was pre-make-out nonsense talk, I wondered how long
it was required to last before we could just cut to the chase, because it was fucking freezing.

When he leaned in to kiss me, I couldn’t even feel his lips on mine. He pulled back and smiled. I smiled back.

“What’re you doing for New Year’s?” he asked.

Suddenly, an unexpected warmth.

“Not sure yet.”

“Well, let’s do something,” he said. His mouth was now purple and he was still clasping my puffy jacket sleeves. I breathed hot and wet into my wool scarf.

“Okay,” I said. I wasn’t sure if this was my chance to ask if this meant that we were dating and if this meant that we could kiss in front of the other guys in the band and my friends and at midnight on New Year’s—if I could tell people I had a boyfriend, if I could tell Drew I had a boyfriend, if Drew, Veronica, Sam, Mollie, Fernando, and I could start going on triple dates.

“Okay,” he said. “Get home safely.”

“Okay,” I said, and I got into my car. Face still frozen in a smile, I called Mollie to ask her what she thought the New Year’s thing meant.

B
y Christmas vacation, Drew was, like, officially my boyfriend. Me, with an actual boyfriend—I had no idea how I’d pulled that off. All of a sudden it was December and we were holding hands in public, going to winter formals together, and making New Year’s plans. Yay, Veronica! Merry Christmas to you.

My New Year’s resolution was to stop sleeping with Sam. Yeah, it had happened only a few times, but I knew even once was too many. I don’t even know why I kept doing it. I tried not to think about it, and honestly it had worked. I was amazingly talented at talking myself into things. And he was so hot. How could I have said no to a chance to bone-dance with Sam Fuchs? Thirteen-year-old Veronica never would have forgiven me. And Mollie was such a self-righteous bitch; it’s not like she was even making it hard for me to not feel guilty.

The first time after that time at my party was when we were having a cigarette outside Alex’s Halloween concert and neither of us had a lighter, so he somehow talked me into going to his car to get one. Getting a lighter from his car quickly escalated
to doing it in the backseat. I don’t even remember how he got me to agree. I don’t even know why I wasn’t totally weirded out when we both had to get into the backseat to look for the lighter in the first place. I know I said no at first. (I wasn’t positive I had at my party, but I know I did the second time.) Maybe it was because of the football uniform. Maybe it was because of that night freshman year when Steph Black told me he was going to ask me to homecoming, but then he mysteriously asked Mollie instead. I heard later it was because Mollie had told Steph that I had chlamydia (which I totally freakin’ didn’t—it was just a yeast infection). Maybe it was what a bitch Mollie had been to me lately. Whatever it was, it was wrong, but it’s not like I was getting any from Drew, which was starting to concern me a little.

When Drew and I first started hooking up, he tried and I told him I thought we should wait, because I was trying to be all
new boyfriendy wholesome
Veronica and that’s what Mollie told me I was supposed to do. He, of course, being Drew, stopped immediately and said he was happy to take it slow. But it had been three months since then, and I was starting to worry that he wasn’t even interested anymore. He knew me now so that probably ruined it—he didn’t think I was hot anymore or something. He never tried again. They always try again. You always say,
No, I can’t
, and they say,
Aw, baby, but I want you so badly
, and you say,
No, I shouldn’t
, and they say,
Oh, come on
, and you give in and that’s how it’s done.
No
never means no.
No
means try a little harder, right?

For the first time in my life, I was in town for Christmas
vacation. My dad had basically relocated to the Far East, and my mom and I were supposed to go to St. Barts like we normally do, but then she invited Roger, the greaseball trainer with too many rings and too much chest hair who she met freakin’ online. I told her I’d rather kill myself than go away with her and Roger, and she said fine, then don’t come. So, I didn’t. So fuck her.

So Drew invited me to his house for Christmas Eve. I’d never met a boy’s family before. Not even, like, a guy friend’s family. I’d maybe seen a mom or dad in passing at a Bar Mitzvah or Sweet Sixteen or something, but I had never actually sat down and had a meal and conversation with the parents of a member of the opposite sex. Marcia, his mother, was a hefty little nugget who ran around in kitten heels and a flour-covered Santa apron. She waddled on a constant loop between the dogs, the kids, and her husband, filling and refilling water bowls, cheese plates, and scotch glasses. She kept telling me how much she loved my outfit and how glad she was that I wouldn’t have to spend Christmas alone.

Drew’s dad was really tall, like him. I’d never seen him before that night, just heard how creepy he was from Alex. He didn’t say much now that he was here, just sat in the corner, reading a paper and drinking scotch. His only movements were looking up from his paper, crossing and recrossing his legs, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and jerking his chin toward his wife when he was ready for a refill. Drew had two little sisters; one gave me a lot of stink eyes and I got a lot of
Do you know Alex? Can you play the song from
The Little
Mermaid
on the piano, because Alex can, and she always does that when she comes over
from the other.

I’m not really a little kid person, so I wandered into the kitchen and asked if I could help with anything. His mom told me not to worry, and to go play with the girls, but I sidled up to her and started chopping onions anyway.

“Oh my!” she said. “You’re like a professional!”

I’d learned the right way to chop onions from all my time watching Food Network. My knife skills had really improved, and I was excited that she even noticed. I beamed a little from the compliment. She asked me if I’d check on the stuffing, which I did happily.

“I actually made a stuffing like this a few weeks ago,” I said as I took a little taste and put it back in the oven.

“Really?” she said mid–potato mash. “You make stuffing?”

I laughed a little; I guess that probably sounded sort of weird. What kind of sixteen-year-old makes stuffing in her spare time? But it had been Thanksgiving, and all that food on TV looked so good, and I knew that I was never going to get to eat a Thanksgiving dinner unless I made it myself. “I watch a lot of Food Network,” I said. “And eventually, you can only watch so much delicious food before needing to eat it!”

She let out a belly laugh. “Good for you!” she said.

“But you know what’s really good in stuffing that you’d never think?”

She shook her head.

“Apples!”

“Apples?” she asked. “Red or green?”

“I used green. I think red would be a little too sweet, but it would also probably work to the same effect. If all you have is red, just maybe add a little lemon juice to cut the sweetness with some acidity.”

She put the potato masher down and looked at me with wide eyes. “Sweetheart, that sounds delicious. I think we have some green apples in the crisper in the bottom drawer of the fridge. You lead the way?” And she handed me an apron.

I tied it around my waist, opened the fridge, and counted out four apples. I asked her if she had a paring knife, and cored them all in one fluid motion, the way Ina Garten does it. She stood behind me, watching and asking questions; I felt like I was hosting my own cooking show.

“What other tips do you have?”

“You really wanna know?” I asked as I slid the apple cores into her garbage disposal.

“Of course!” she said as she went back to mashing her potatoes.

I gestured over to her potatoes and said, “The key to potatoes? More butter.”

She laughed again, and said, “With a figure like yours, you eat real butter?”

“Oh please!” I said. “I don’t believe in imitations. I don’t buy fake purses, and I won’t use fake butter. In my experience, when you think you’ve added enough butter… double it.”

She laughed wholeheartedly.

Drew popped his head in. “What’re you girls doing in here?”

“Drew, you didn’t tell me Veronica’s a gourmet chef!” She
patted me on the shoulder and gave me a squeeze in that motherly comforting and prideful way that no mother had squeezed me before.

I looked over at Drew and shrugged, unable to fight the hard smile my face had been frozen in since the last time I’d remembered to think about my face.

“She’s a natural,” he said, and he came over and kissed me on the cheek. His mom giggled.

“Okay, so what’s next?” she asked.

“I’m just going to add the chopped apples to the mix and put it back in the oven,” I said.

“Is it bad that everything’s already been cooking and we’re adding them late?”

“Actually, it’s totally better to add them now, because if they cook too long they’ll caramelize and get soft, and the whole beauty of this apple thing is to give an otherwise ball of mushy stuffing a little texture and crunch, you know?”

Drew and his mom sat back, crossed their arms, and just watched me as I stirred the apples into the mixture and added some seasoning. Drew scratched his head and smiled at me in a way he never did, almost like his smile when he sat back and watched Alex when she was onstage. He was making me feel like I was doing something awesome, even though all I was doing was stirring apples. And it was a strange feeling, because his mom was also watching, so I couldn’t bend over or flip my hair or do what I normally do when I know a boy is watching me, but he was watching me anyway, and smiling anyway.

“Okay!” I said as I wiped my hands on my apron. “Ten to fifteen more minutes, and we’ll be ready to eat!”

“Veronica,” Marcia said as she stood up and cleaned her glasses, “next year, you’re coming over at noon and running the show!”

Drew smiled and winked at me, and I blushed a little.

Once we sat down, I’m pretty sure I handled my end of the conversation. His mom asked me where I wanted to go to college and what I planned to study. As if anyone actually
planned
to study in college. I told her I thought I better get my SATs back before I got my heart set on anything. She asked if I’d thought about going to culinary school; I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. She started bragging about Drew’s writing and asked if I’d ever read anything he’d written. I told her I hadn’t, then asked Drew if I could. He said, “Thanks a lot, Mom,” and she smiled lovingly and went back to the potatoes.

All in all, the meal was a success and I felt like they liked me, even his dad, despite the fact that he never really talked to me. They all hugged me and said it was nice to
finally
meet me. I still couldn’t believe that I’d gotten so lucky. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve this, but I had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for it. Look at me with this great, smart guy, proud to stand by me with his great, loving, totally functional family. I wanted to call my mom and tell her how proud of me she should be for being someone’s real, in public, in front of your parents, girlfriend. Though I doubted she’d believe it.

After dinner, Drew took me home and came inside to hang out for a little like he usually did.

“So, when am I going to get to read one of your stories?” I asked, turning on the TV.
Love Actually
was on again. My favorite.

“You really want to?” he said, extending his bony arm around me.

“Of course! Have you written anything about me?” I asked, then started to really wonder what he’d say if he did.

He laughed. “Not yet,” he said, and kissed my head, “but I might.”

We sat there for a while, watching the movie, my shoulder hooked underneath his. But I’d had enough of Hugh Grant’s shenanigans, so I turned around to make out. He smiled and kissed me back, like he always did.

I climbed on top of him, took my shirt off, and kissed him again. This time harder, my hands clasping his skull, hoping my aggression would ignite his. I pushed him back so he was lying down and put his hands on my boobs. I leaned down and kissed him again and could feel that he was hard. So he did want me. So what was the problem?

“Do you want to?” I asked. For the first time in my life.

“Do you?” he replied.

I sat up, still straddling him. “Well, only if you do!”

He propped himself up on his elbows and put his hand on my thigh. “Of course I do.”

I smiled, pushed him back down, and continued kissing him. He ran his hands up and down my back, but still made no attempt to take off my bra or anything. Was he that lazy? Was I going to have to do all the work?

“Veronica,” he said mid-kiss. I ignored him, figuring he was going to say something cheesy and romantic or something that I’d have to try to not be totally turned off by. “Veronica,” he said again, and pulled away. “You know that this is my first time, right?”

I sat up on him, still wearing my festive red Christmas bra. He was no longer hard.

I did know. I’d asked Alex months ago. I wasn’t sure what to say. Was I supposed to care? Was this supposed to change anything? Was there, like, a special blessing or something he wanted me to say? I’d lost my virginity on a dare.

“Oh,” I said. “Do you not want me to be your first?”

He sat up, too, his legs still extended straight on the couch; I was still sitting on them.

“No. I do!” He paused. “I just… I’m worried I’ll be bad or disappoint you or something.”

I smiled. He looked so scared sitting there, all wide-eyed and pale and shaking. I told him not to worry, that we all had first times and that I was honored to be his. That I’d hold his V card near and dear to my heart, treasure it always. He asked if I had condoms. I did, but I had never actually had a guy not bring his own. I got one from my upstairs bathroom and came back to find him still sitting upright with his legs extended in the exact position I’d left him. He asked if he could be on top. I said sure.

So we resituated on the couch and saddled up. We started kissing, and once I felt him get hard again, I grabbed the back of his sweater and pulled it over his head. He lost his balance
and fell on me, leaving me with a mouth full of wool and an eye full of elbow. Once the sweater was off he said sorry. We kissed some more. Eventually, he slid my tights down to my knees and my skirt up and undid his pants. He wiggled them down to his ankles and lay back on top of me. I felt his heart beating on my still-bra-clad chest. His normally sweet, gentle kisses were now all over my face and neck, and his wet, meatball breath was right on my ear.

“You’re doing great,” I said. I even threw in a little moan to let him know that I was enjoying myself, which I was, in a way.

He didn’t reply, just pumped away, and asked me if
I liked that
, which he must have heard in a porn or something. As soon as I could tell him that I did, it was done.

“Well,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

And then he fell asleep on my shoulder.