This is the reason I had my no-dating-until-college rule in the first place. To think I was tempted to break it for Jared!
MONDAY MORNING WHEN HE says hi, I say “hello” in a casual, careless way, then look away. Later in the day, I get to art class early and put my books down on the desk at the back, which is always free. When I spot him coming in, I look down at my sketch, refusing to look at him. I can feel his eyes on me for a few heartbeats as he glances from me to the desk in confusion, but then he goes to the usual desk.
When class starts, I focus on Gerstad, who’s talking about painting with watercolors. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jared glance back a couple of times. At one point my gaze flits over his, and—bam!—our eyes lock. I see his eyes crinkle at the corners with a friendly look, an innocent look. What nerve. I roll my eyes, showing him that he just doesn’t get it. He frowns and turns back to his work.
Well, one thing’s for sure: he knows I’m upset now. And if he’s too clueless to figure out why, that’s fine with me.
The truth is, I don’t really want to punish him. I’m not a vengeful person, really I’m not. I just want to get away from him. Being so near him every day, so near to his cologne and sexy veined forearms, is no way to get over him. It’s best if I keep my distance. It would be even better if I didn’t have to see him so much, but I’ll have to deal with him for the rest of the semester. If I get lucky, we won’t have classes together next semester.
Class passes by a lot slower without Jared to chat with. He doesn’t glance my way, not even once. I tell myself I’m glad. And yet part of me wants him to come and talk to me, anyway. Part of me wants a Jared fix.
I wonder if this is what drug addiction is like. You want it even though it’s killing you. It would be a great concept for a blog, come to think of it: How Lust is a Drug. I push the thought aside. There will be no more blogging.
eleven
“DOWNWARD FACING DOG, everyone. Now, hold it in place and breathe. Then slowly raise your head.”
I wonder why yoga moves have such strange names. As I raise my head, I wonder why, no matter where I put my yoga mat, my face always ends up mortifyingly close to some woman’s spandex-clad butt.
Uh-oh, there it is: the intrusion of thought. Vanessa the instructor says yoga is a form of meditation that should help us distance ourselves from the unhealthy patterns of our thoughts. Which is why I’m taking yoga in the first place. I’m sick of sitting at home ruminating over my mistakes. I’ve been doing that for two weeks, and it’s not working for me. I’m looking for inner peace. Mental stillness. But I can’t find it. In fact, whenever I try to still my thoughts, they go out of control and I find myself wondering about odd things, like whether the spandex-clad woman in front of me is wearing underwear.
“Focus on the breath, everyone.”
I do. Focus on the breath. Breathe in, breathe out. Do not think of: how I ruined Viv’s life, how Jared is a jerk, how I really shouldn’t have feelings for him at all, and how feeling depressed is causing me to overeat, making my already tight yoga pants even tighter.
I’m not sure that yoga is for me. It’s too introspective. It reminds me how far away I am from zen, nirvana or whatever that blissful state of being is called. It’s probably unnatural for someone my age to seek inner peace, anyway; isn’t feeling angst a natural part of being a teen?
“Michaela? Do you remember the sun salute?”
Everyone turns to look at me. I hate being singled out. School is bad enough for that, but yoga class? Maybe Vanessa sees me for the fake I am. She knows there’s no yogi inside me. Well, it must be easy for her to achieve inner peace, being as perfect and blonde as she is. Talk about catty thoughts. Yoga class obviously brings out the worst in me.
When the class is finished, I decide to use the treadmill. I’ve read that vigorous exercise releases endorphins in the brain and lessens depression, so I might as well give it a go. Unfortunately, I have a strained relationship with treadmills, since I’m always nervous about falling off. Running without going anywhere can’t be natural. I start steadily, gradually ramping it up until my fast walk becomes a slow jog. I feel sweat break out on my forehead, so I must be burning calories. I take it up a notch.
And jog. And jog some more. Damn, this is boring. At least at Tracey’s gym, they have TVs in front of you. Here, in place of TVs, the front of the room is lined with mirrors. I have a clear view of the people on the exercise bikes behind me, and the guys pumping iron at the back, sporting wife-beaters and tattoos.
Even though I’m incredibly bored, I’m running at a good pace, and sweating more now. Something in the mirror catches my eye, a familiar figure with red hair. Oh my God, it’s Evgeney, and he’s doing bicep curls!
My steps falter, and I have to grab the bar to save myself from being swept off the treadmill. I reduce the speed and try to catch my breath. Evgeney works out at the Y? Unbelievable. I never would’ve pictured it in a million years.
I wonder if…
Of course not. The Oracle never explicitly said a guy should go to the gym. I did say that being strong and masculine was important, though. Is that why he’s here?
I should stop thinking about it. I can’t attribute Evgeney’s fitness routine to the Oracle’s advice. He could’ve been coming here for months, for all I know.
Still, it’s cool to see. Maybe I’m not the only one trying to get my life together.
I just hope Evgeney is better at it than I am.
THAT SAME NIGHT, on the other side of town, Tracey is making a very stupid mistake. She stays late at work only to have Scott knocking on her cubicle.
“Hey, Trace.”
He’s looking überhandsome in a suit he probably can’t afford, from what Tracey remembers of his credit card statements. His tie is dangling loose in a rather sexy way. Tracey’s always had a weakness for GQ poses, and he knows it.
“Working late again?” Scott asks, leaning on the side of her desk.
Her eyes are focused on the computer screen. “We’ve got a major project due soon.”
“Where are the guys? They all bailed on you?”
“I’m the P.M. for this one. If anyone’s going to work late, it should be me.”
“P.M., huh? You’ve moved up in the ranks. I knew Cornheiser would recognize your talent. I’m proud of you, Trace.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you eaten yet? Let’s go to Citarella. I’m in the mood for spicy sausage penne.”
Of course, sausage penne is her favorite. And she hasn’t eaten since lunch, which makes the thought of food extremely tempting.
Don’t go with him! says a voice in the back of her mind. A voice that sounds remarkably like her sister, the Oracle.
It’s just dinner, she argues.
It’s never just dinner. He’s trying to rope you back in. Resist! Resist!
You’re right. I know I shouldn’t. But I don’t care. I’m tired and hungry and I’m sure he’s buying.
What? You’re going to let yourself be bought?
You know I don’t mean it that way. Enough, Kayla!
“Sure, why not? I’m starved.”
Tracey tells me all this in an e-mail, not a phone call, obviously because she’s afraid to hear my reaction. She didn’t go home with him last night, she “got to know him again, as friends” which, to me, is almost as bad. I’ve only met Scott a few times but his type is universal. He’s a bad guy (the dreaded opposite of a good guy). Tracey doesn’t agree because she can see through his cocky exterior to the vulnerable boy beneath. Well, fine, if bad means being a serial killer or a scammer of the elderly then, no, he’s not a bad guy. But messing with a girl’s head and heart makes him a bad boyfriend.
I press Reply.
Dear Trace,
Letting Scott back into your life is a mistake.
I know you’re saying you want to be his friend, but you have enough friends already and so does he. If you want a new friend, why make it someone who’s alread
y messed you around? Is that a good starting point for a friendship?
Look, I know I often use demonic metaphors when I refer to him, but I don’t really think he’s evil. I just think he’s screwed up and I’m worried he’ll wind up hurting you again.
Trace, I know how much you like to take care of people. But don’t worry: if you don’t take care of Scott, some other unfortunate soul will!
I believe this friendship thing is Scott’s way of regaining your trust. Eventually it will lead to something more, and you’ll be in the same situation you were in before. Please don’t let that happen. There is a great guy out there for you—I can feel it! You’ve just got to be patient.
Love, Kayla
Even as I press Send, I know my words won’t make any difference. Tracey, a typical Taurus, only listens to what she wants to hear. I can only hope that Tracey makes the right decision in the end. She’s older than me, and there’s so much more at stake. If she lets Scott in, the worst could happen: they could get married.
But how can she resist temptation when her other recent prospects were a slutty salsa instructor and a guy obsessed with his dog? Compared to them, Scott must look fairly normal.
“I DON’T THINK WE SHOULD go to the dance,” I say, making one last attempt at getting out of this. “We should stay home in solidarity with Viv.”
My friends roll their eyes. I didn’t really expect I could convince them to hang out at Ryan’s instead of going to the Halloween dance, but I thought I’d try. I just know it won’t be a good time. Saturn is still square Jupiter, so I can’t expect anything but lameness (at best) or trouble (at worst).
“Gimme a break,” Amy says. “Viv hates dances, anyway. She wouldn’t be going even if she weren’t grounded.”
Good point, I concede silently.
Sharese nods. “And what would we do if we decided not to go—give out candy with Ryan’s parents? As if!”
“Fine, I’ll go, but…I haven’t thought about a costume.”
“Of course you haven’t,” Ryan says with a grin I don’t trust. “You never do. That’s why we brought some extras for you.”
“I’m not going as a prostitute. No way.”
Ryan cackles. “Why would you think I’d dress you up as a prostitute? A sexy fairy is far more fun.”
I stare at him. “A sexy fairy?”
“Yes, a fairy with a little spice. It’s an easy costume. Between Amy’s pink wig and Sharese’s tutu, you’ll be fine.”
“Did you say tutu?”
Sharese opens a huge garbage bag and pulls out the feathery white tutu. “I haven’t worn it for a few years, but it should fit you.” She holds it up to my waist.
“I’ve got the lace cami and nylons.” Amy tosses them my way. “It’s going to be a fabulous costume. Maybe I should’ve gone with the sexy fairy idea.”
Ryan glares at her. “Don’t you dare back out of being Cleopatra. I looked up how to do your makeup and everything.”
“I’m not backing out, don’t worry. Chad’s wearing a toga, too. I wish I had an asp.”
“Ta-dah!” Ryan pulls a fake snake out of a drawer. “It’s my sister’s. I’ve got an idea. You could slide it down your shirt and have the asp’s head peeking out of your cleavage.”
“That’s awesome!” Amy slides it in, pointing the asp’s head to her breast. “Cool! Wait—let’s put some makeup on my boob to make it look like I’ve been bitten. Sharese, where’s your red lipstick?”
“Right here, but I’ve got red lip liner, too—it’ll work even better. Who wants to draw it?”
Ryan grabs the lip liner. “I will!”
I shake my head, smiling. My friends get ridiculously excited by Halloween and by school dances—put them together and they go wild. I’m ambivalent about Halloween. I have lots of memories of freezing my butt off trick-or-treating, and going to school in cheesy, thrown-together costumes. School dances are usually okay, but I’ve never enjoyed the standing-by-the-wall part when slow dances come on. I mean, I can only dance with Ryan so many times, and he has to make the rounds among all of us. Why can’t the DJs do what they do at most clubs and keep the music upbeat the whole time? If people want to dance together, they’ll dance to fast songs.
By the time my friends are done with me, I have to admit, they’ve done a good job. Between the poofy tutu and lacy cami, I’ve got a cute, sexy getup, though it shows off more of my legs than I’d normally show. Good thing Mom and Erland won’t be seeing me before I go. As for the wig, it’s a glossy ice-pink bob and it sets off the costume. My makeup is pale and powdery except for false eyelashes and shiny pink lips. For shoes, I’m wearing Sharese’s old ballet slippers, which are a size too big, but I’ll manage.
Amy and Ryan look awesome as Cleopatra and Julius Caesar (Chad will join them as Mark Antony), and Sharese is in head-to-toe red as a little devil, complete with horns, tail and pitchfork.
We’re ready way too early, so we pump up the music in Ryan’s bedroom and snap some pictures. Chad picks us up at eight-thirty and we pile into the car, a tangled mess of wings and horns and wreaths. When we arrive at the dance, the parking lot is almost full, but Chad kindly drops us off at the door before going to park.
Thank God I brought a coat, because we have to wait outside for fifteen minutes before we get in, and my legs are freezing under the tutu, my knees knocking together like chattering teeth. Female security guards give us a pat down and check our bags—as if we’d be stupid enough to smuggle booze into a dance. Anyone who wants to drink does it before the dance, not during.
Once we get through Security, we check our coats and head into the hot, crowded gym, sliding into the mix of dancers alongside some people we know. As I start dancing, I immediately spot Jared and Brooke, and wish I hadn’t. Brooke is Miss New York, her hair twirled on top of her head, a sparkling blue dress hugging her curves and a Miss New York sash over her shoulder, not to mention a tiara. Jared’s wearing an old-fashioned suit and top hat. Half of his face is covered in a gross, mottled mask. Jekyll and Hyde. How fitting.
Jared tears off his mask, accidentally knocking off his top hat. He picks it up, then rakes a hand through his hair, scowling. I can see in that scowl that he’s hot, annoyed and feeling like a dork. I can’t help but laugh.
Which, of course, is when he sees me. His eyes widen as if he can’t believe it’s me. I know I look silly, but he doesn’t need to stare like that. A group of people block our vision, which is just as well.
The next song is upbeat, and the dancers pick up the pace. Suddenly people are moving back and creating a circle. No way I’m getting in the middle. I see Brooke and her friends, Miss New Jersey, Miss California and Miss Hawaii, strut into the middle and start dancing with one another sensually, trying to turn on all the guys. I glimpse Jared, who doesn’t look impressed. It’s not that he looks angry, exactly. He just looks bored.
Sharese grabs my arm, turning my attention back to the circle. Evgeney has joined the girls in the middle, thrusting himself into the melee. He’s dressed as a werewolf in heavy fur from head to toe, but his head and face are uncovered, his red hair spiked with sweat or gel. The girls don’t seem to know how to deal with this sudden invasion, so they just go with it. And Evgeney is taking full advantage, bucking against them like a horny bull.
Sharese claps and hoots. “That guy’s got balls!”
He sure does. Evgeney goes from dancing with the girls to taking over the show, calling upon a treasure trove of dance moves the likes of which I’ve never seen. He’s pushing his arms out in front of him as if he’s doing push-ups, while his legs are doing some sort of grapevine, or country music line dance. Then his arms are swinging in front of him like he’s erasing a chalkboard with both hands, then they’re flailing from side to side as if he’s grabbing groceries off shelves and dropping them into a shopping cart, then he’s leaping all over the place like a gazelle in Madame Butterfly. It’s pure awesomeness, and we’re all crying with laughter. Evgeney looks around
and grins. I guess that was his intention, to entertain us. Then he leaps back into the crowd, and the circles closes.
“Evgeney rocks!” Ryan shouts. “He stole their thunder!” We all agree, wiping our tears.
The song changes, and we’re bouncing to some hip-hop. I spot Declan McCall and his football buddies jumping around like crazy people. At least Evgeney meant to be entertaining—I think Declan and his friends are just overenthusiastic. I realize it’s a double standard; girls can bop all over the dance floor and be called cute, but guys, on the other hand, should keep the bopping under control if they’re not to endanger their masculinity. I mean, some guys—like Chad—can dance naturally without looking like an idiot. Ryan can, too. But Declan McCall and his friends obviously can’t. They’re hopping around like Mexican jumping beans and thrusting out their arms as if they’re boxing with imaginary opponents. Weird.
When the flow of the dance floor brings our group closer to theirs, I can smell the alcohol on them. I wonder how they got in reeking like that, or whether they managed to smuggle it in. I wish I could write a blog for Declan and his friends about how not to look dumb at a school dance. I’m all for people expressing themselves through dance, but this is ridiculous. And then an elbow hits my ribs. “Ow!”
“Sorry, Kayla,” Declan says, breathing booze in my direction.
He knows my name? Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; we’ve spent the past ten years or so going to school together. But I’ve never been a part of the cult of personality that has surrounded Declan; he was always a golden boy, ever since he was a kid, and I’m not into golden boys. I’m into… I will so not look over at Jared.
I feel hands grab my hips, and I realize that Declan is dancing with me. Judging by the looks on my friends’ faces, I’ve scored. Scored what I don’t know, but who cares? No one needs to know that Declan is too drunk to find someone else or that I can smell his beer breath. It doesn’t smell bad, actually, mixed with his minty mouthwash.
The Oracle of Dating Page 11