It’s the official last week of summer, and I’ve spent the majority of it at the orthopedic surgeon’s office getting a thigh-high cast strapped to my leg. Yes, it hurts like hell—and, no, the drugs they gave me didn’t work worth a crap. But they did, however, manage to turn my bowels into cement just like my mother prophesied, and now the toilet has become my archenemy. Yes, that piece of shitty misery is how I’ve spent these final precious hours of my summer vacation—begging my body to loosen my waste so I can properly sit without moaning. I cannot wait to write down every last bowel obstructive detail tomorrow in English. This will go down as a classic how I spent my summer essay. Not that I’d seriously put pen to paper regarding the intestinal debacle. Something like this is best swept under the rug—or rather, flushed down the toilet. I’m pretty sure people are far more interested in what Kelly Masterson is wearing rather than how constipated the girl her boyfriend mowed down with his truck is. Life goes on, and it just so happens that at Glen I’m as insignificant as one of the freckles on my nose.
My mother took the first three days off and tried to give me a sponge bath, sprinkling her Jean Nate over my body as if she were baptizing me and dousing my hair with her little pink jar of Dippity-do. Ben was so worried. He kept begging to find things he could do for me, so I finally caved and told him to go down to the Warehouse and listen to OMDs “Enola Gay” and crack that mystery for me.
Jennifer and Heather have been here each and every day, righting my mother’s wrong, spraying down my hair with Sun-In, and watching reruns of The Brady Bunch on my family’s crummy black and white TV in the den while trying to pretend these last few days haven’t suck just as bad for them as they have for me.
Heather brought over her tape player and has been pounding us with the Smiths, the Clash, the Sex Pistols, the Ramones, and Squeeze like they were a prescription to cure this malady that had overtaken the final breath of summer—in truth, I can listen to “Black Coffee in Bed” all day long.
Jennifer, however, brought over a bunch of records. She’s a die-hard vinyl girl. I pull them out one by one and pet their glossy covers, take in their inky scents, her Go-Go’s collection—Beauty and the Beat, Vacation, Talk Show, her ode to Duran Duran—Duran Duran, Rio, Seven and the Ragged Tiger. She even threw in an oldie from Rick Springfield, Working Class Dog. I’m shocked we haven’t worn that record out by now. We’ve listened to “Jessie’s Girl” millions of times. But mostly that’s because Jen is obsessed with Jessie Fox, and she rewords the lyrics to make sense of her incurable fascination with the aforementioned manwhore of Glen Heights High School. Most everyone has gone around with Jessie. He gives all his revolving door girlfriends “hickey necklaces,” and once he discards the poor girls, they are automatically relegated to the slut pile. Nobody said life was fair. But then, after having Jessie’s lips on your neck for an hour straight, who the hell cares about fair?
Jennifer snaps up her prized Duran Duran album. “I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I’ll never buy a cassette tape in my life. When you get a record, it actually feels like you have something.”
The only record player in my house is embedded in my father’s six-foot long stereo—a leftover relic from the ’70s that looks somewhat like an overgrown coffee table. He just put in a brand new diamond tip needle, so it’s still in pretty good working condition.
We listen to music until two o’clock before taking our requisite General Hospital break for an hour.
“In my next life, I’m coming back as a Quartermaine,” I bleat, still secretly wishing they’d bring Blackie Parrish back on the show—aka John Stamos, whose poster Heather gave me last spring from her store bought issue of Tiger Beat.
“Not me.” Heather hikes her black granny boots over the arm of the couch. “I’m coming back as a Cassadine.” She claws at the air with her blood red sharpened fingernails. Heather is a cute blonde punk who can wield her wit like the sharpest of blades. Nobody comes anywhere near her sarcastic superpowers. I aspire to be her when I grow up.
“Forget General Hospital.” Jennifer jumps up and turns the Beauty and the Beat album onto side B. “Santa Barbara is where it’s at. Joe and Kelly forever.”
It’s true. Santa Barbara just started last month, and the three of us are already sucked in deep. We waste the day away listening to music before moving the depressing party to my bedroom.
The three of us are holed up in my room for the rest of the night, me with my Glo Worm doll tucked faithfully in my arm. Just because I’m a junior now doesn’t mean I’ve rejected its luminescent comfort while dealing with the biggest medical malady of my life.
Heather tosses me the View-Master, and I squint into it, looking at the old film of the creature from Frankenstein as the angry villagers attack him. It’s my favorite disc next to the Tron set Jennifer bought me two years ago on my birthday. I didn’t see the movie, but I feel like I have after clicking through the colorful scenes a thousand times. I’m not sure why I cling so tightly to my childhood, but I like it. Something about all of my old things surrounding me makes me feel safe.
We’ve logged some serious hours pouring over back issues of Heather’s old Tiger Beat. She even let me have the newest Rob Lowe pullout. I have a serious Matt Dillon crush at the moment, but Michelle Bates of the Beaver Brigade Bates—also known as Kelly Masterson’s demonic sidekick—has threatened to kick the ass of every single girl at our school if we so much express an ounce of desire whatsoever in Mr. Dillon’s direction. She’s pretty much claimed Matt for herself. Nary a locker has a poster of him plastered to it, save for hers. I have a Ralph Macchio cutout from last month’s issue of Young Miss that I’m dying to get up in mine. I fell in love with Ralph when the three of us went to see The Karate Kid last June. But it all sounds like too much trouble now that I’ve been relegated to stilts. I’ll probably just put Ralph right next to my oversized lip-gloss-stained Matt Dillon poster, right here in my room. There’s no way Michelle is going to tell me what to do in my own house. Of course, my bedroom door is plastered with Rob as well. I do have a rather strong affinity for Mr. Lowe, and those hot glowing eyes—which by the way are eerily reminiscent of Joel’s.
I click the View-Master to the next frame. “He’s basically a misunderstood stupid jock,” I say, clicking through the disc at record speed.
“Joel Effing Miller?” Jennifer’s jaw goes slack. “It’s about time you see the light.” To say Joel has landed on both of my best friends’ shit lists is an understatement.
“The creature from Frankenstein, smartass.” I toss the tiny red toy back to the floor from whence it came. Only my Glo Worm and the View-Master have been spared from the donation pile over the years. The last two relics of my childhood are both present and accounted for in my constipated time of need.
“Same difference.” Jen shrugs. “That boy is a douchebag for not even bothering to say hello after he knocked you on your ass. He’s lucky your father doesn’t knife him in a dark alley.”
“Please.” I peg her in the hair with my Glo Worm, and it ricochets off the teased tower with a soft bounce. “My father wouldn’t knife a steak.” Okay, maybe a steak, but still.
“She’s right. He could have like sent flowers or something. You should like totally sue.” Heather nods at her ridiculous idea, and the feathered roach clip she has tucked into her hair flies around her face. Her makeup is wild today, with stripes fanning up from her eyes. Heather has mastered the art of layering her eye shadow and feathering it out past her brow line. She looks awesome all of the time, as if she’s going out to a club. The only wild thing I’ve ever done with makeup is wear electric blue eyeliner. She’s sort of punk that way, though, and her clothes are way more suggestive than anything either Jen or I would wear. I wish I could dress like she does, but I’m pretty sure my parents would shoot me. “People sue every day for really stupid stuff, and this is like something big. You can’t cheer, Mel. You’re like basically screwed.”
“Nice.” I toss a pillow
at her. Obviously, throwing things at my two best friends is the only satisfying entertainment at the moment. They’re right, though. After seeing him at the hospital, Joel didn’t really make an effort to see how I was doing. I had this whole fantasy worked out in my head, where he would suddenly feel the need to worship at my smelly feet—falling madly in love with yours truly and publicly and humiliatingly dumping fake Kelly Masterson in front of the entire student body.
I let out a heavy sigh. Sometimes, my wild imagination works against me.
“I’m not worried about Joel.” Lie. “I need to worry about working on that essay if I ever want to see my work in print.” Teen magazine has a contest going where you can send in an article, and if the editors like it, you’ll get published. It’s been my dream to be a writer all my life, and being published in Teen would be the equivalent of being in a bookstore for me. Writers are my rock stars.
“Melissa!” My mother’s voice booms from down the hall. “Telephone! It’s a b-o-y!”
“What?” I scramble to get to my crutches, and both Heather and Jen help me hobble down the hall to the kitchen where Ben cradles the receiver. The cord is kinked up in knots, but if I stretch it as far as it will go, I can almost make it back to my room.
Jen makes a face. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she snipes, bitter, because for one, she knows which boy I’m secretly hoping it is. “It’s probably just Peter. Amy said he was really worried about you.”
“Right,” I acquiesce to this logical thinking. I hate that Jen and Heather have to witness the embarrassing way my mother lingers in the corner, the way she announced to the neighbors that an actual b-o-y is miraculously calling me. But mostly, I hate that Jen is right. It’s probably just Peter. Peter would call because Peter is nice. I bet if he ran a girl over, he’d at least have the decency to swing by and see if she’s still breathing—post hospital, that is. But I suppose it’s best Joel didn’t take any heroic measures. God knows with the way my body likes to embarrass me with stray odors, just the sight of Joel would have loosened my insides enough to dislodge a week’s worth of rot in my gut. I’d take smelly feet instead of a flatulent situation any day.
Ben jumps in front of me, taunting me with the phone in his hand. “It’s a b-o-y!”
“Shut up, Ben.”
Mom gives us the slit throat sign, her way of saying don’t even start. “Do not tell your brother to shut up, Melissa!”
Ben bends over and shakes his bottom. “Moded corroded your booty exploded!”
“Kill me,” I whisper, taking the phone from him. “Hello?” I sigh into the receiver, a little more exasperated than necessary. My leg throbs like crazy from the simple act of being vertical, and I’ve just spent the last few hours shitting my brains out, thanks to my mother’s private stash of laxatives. My mother suggested a brown prairie skirt be the first ensemble I wear to school tomorrow. And sadly, she was not kidding.
“Hi—um—is this, uh, Melissa?” The husky voice on the other end clears his throat. I think I recognize that deep velvet rasp. In fact, I distinctly recognize it from exactly a week ago.
My body spikes with heat as I give both Jen and Heather an uneasy look. I’d spoken to Peter on the phone a dozen times last year when we both had Mrs. McCarthy for social studies, and we partnered on a report on the industrialization of third world countries. I know for a fact this deep, mysterious, hot, freaking voice does not belong to Peter.
I swallow so hard it’s audible. “This is she.” This is she? Can I sound any more uptight? God! I’m so lame! Maybe I can pretend to be my annoying younger sister and fake my way out of this newfound embarrassment. Only I don’t have an annoying younger sister. I have an annoying older sister who would gladly kick my ass, cast or not, should I pretend to be her in any incarnation.
My finger absentmindedly picks at the wallpaper, a fruit basket pattern that repeats throughout the kitchen on a loop. My father blames his budding, yet fictitious insanity on this very print. I think it’s really pretty cool. It’s a conservative look that will last forever. Some guys just don’t get style.
“Hi.” The voice on the other end breathes into the phone so loud it sounds like white noise. “This is Joel.”
My heart stops. My mouth drops open as I point to the phone.
Joel! I mouth to both Jen and Heather, and the two of them break out into a fit of giggles until I slap them silly and twist myself in the cord in an effort to turn around.
“Look, I wanted to know how you planned on getting to school tomorrow.”
“Oh.” It feels as if I’m falling to the ground again, getting ready to take a big old bite out of planet Earth. Joel wants to know how I’m getting to school tomorrow. More importantly, Joel Effing Miller has my phone number! “Actually, um—I walk—”
“You walk?” He doesn’t waste a second getting good and pissed at the thought of me hightailing it anywhere. It doesn’t surprise me. There’s not a single kid who lives on the Hill that believes feet were meant for hoofing a person for any significant distance that expands beyond the couch to the fridge. The Glen kids all have shiny new cars to get them wherever it is they need to go—mostly that involves the Galleria. But what I was going to tell him is, that I usually walk halfway and Jen picks me up, but tomorrow, and thereafter, she’ll simply make the trek over. Dad already said we would split the gas money.
“It’s not as bad as you think.” I glance back at Jen and Heather, who are glowing a brilliant shock of pink as they continue their silent giggle-fest.
“It’s bad. Why don’t you give me your address? I’ll give you a ride.”
My heart throbs its way right up my throat. I wrap my hand around the cord so tight my fingers puff up blood red.
I rattle off my address, and we say a brief goodbye. I hand the phone to Heather, and she hangs it up for me, her face mirroring the shock in mine.
“He’s picking me up.” The words rattle from me, numb. It’s like he’s backed into me all over again—this time with his kind gesture.
We let out a collective shriek that has my father rattling his newspaper, both amused and frightened.
My stomach squeezes with anxiety over the thought of sitting in a car with Joel Effing Miller for longer than five minutes.
“Damn right, he’s picking you up.” Dad thumps his beer over the table. “Tell him not to mow anyone down on his way over, would you?”
“He’s not mowing anyone down.”
Ben walks in, his face still burnt a bright red from all those afternoon band rehearsals. “Of course, he’s not. He’s already met his quota.” He stiffens his arms and does his best imitation of a robot. “Danger, Will Robinson! Danger, Will Robinson! He’s going to finish you off. You sure you want this dumb jock peddling you around?”
“I’m positive.” I hobble back down the hall.
“In that case, it was nice knowing you, sis!” he shouts after me, and I choose to ignore the growing consensus that Joel is anything but an intelligent being.
“People make mistakes!” I shout back while landing onto my bed.
“Yeah, like good ones.” Jen clutches at her chest. Finally, she’s starting to see the Joel Miller light. “What are you wearing tomorrow? First day outfits are like always the toughest to settle on.” She opens the door to my closet and starts plucking out clothes.
And I’m glad he called while both she and Heather were here, or it would have taken forever for me to convince them it was real.
“Get the jean miniskirt and the black and white checkered top.” I had planned on wearing it anyway long before my leg decided it needed a concrete leg warmer to keep it company for the next three months.
“Love it.” Heather helps rip the tags off. “Wear your jellies. You’ll want your feet to be comfortable.”
“Grab the pink ones with glitter. The black ones make my feet look like they’ve been caught in a net.”
“Let’s get your backpack together.” Jen works hard loading the bright yellow D
olt with my Hello Kitty pencil case that I’ve carted around since elementary school. She holds it up as if to ask a question, and I nod, forcing her to jam it to the bottom of my bag. “You need to grow up, Malinowski. Especially if you’re going to be accepting rides from football players.”
Heather dives onto the bed by my feet. “A football player who happens to be a senior.”
I choose to ignore these hard facts mostly because the thought of Joel, a football god, who happens to be a senior, carting me around anywhere is enough to set off my anxiety, and I haven’t chewed my nails in the last two years. I don’t want to start now.
“I’ve got three new Pee Chees in my desk and a Trapper Keeper my mom just bought.” I flick my finger toward the tiny white drawer.
“Cool.” Jen helps fish a stack of loose-leafed paper from my supplies and zips my backpack up. “You’re ready to rock and roll—in the back of his truck.” She waggles her brows.
“Be quiet. I’m not rolling in the back of anybody’s truck. Besides, he has a girlfriend.”
Heather gives her blonde cotton candy hair a sharp tug. “If she so much as looks at you crooked, I’m prepared to kick some ass. You know that can of Aqua Net I lug around doubles as mace. She’ll never be able to identify her attacker.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” As much as I know she’s teasing, the harsh reality is that I may have to take her up on it. Last spring, Kelly slapped Stephanie Bateman for flirting with Joel right there on Barbie Doll Lane (the lamest name ever for anything, but that’s where the plastic people lunch, and so logically, it’s the only name to describe the narrow covered hall).
“And we’re not quite done.” Heather fishes something out of her purse. “You can have my Kissing Potion.” She hands me the tiny lip-gloss with its shiny gold tip. “It’s cherry flavor—you know how boys love those cherries.”
Melt With You Page 5