Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  Okay, but that’s six months away.

  My parents won’t let me be in a relationship.

  So lie to them. It seems to work for all the other lovers in the world.

  Romeo and Juliet—not so much.

  They’re a cautionary tale. I promise I won’t drink poison if you’re banished to Mantua.

  I promise I won’t be dumb enough to believe you would drink real poison.

  So, we’re good. Next reason?

  “Are you sexting him?” Lys asks.

  I blush. “No. I don’t sext.”

  “Yet,” Lys says.

  “I think a boy is coming between us,” Nat says. “Chicks before … well, you know.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not either/or. I love you guys, you know that.”

  “Imma bring this waaaaay back,” Lys says before she starts in on the Spice Girls. “If you wanna be my lover, you gotta get with my friends … Make it last forever, friendship never ends.” Nat joins her, dancing in her seat as she drives.

  They’re singing the Spice Girls in here.

  Damn. That’s rough.

  When Lys is done she takes her bows in the backseat, then leans forward and plants a wet kiss on my cheek. I’m pretty sure her sparkle lipstick is all over me.

  “We just don’t want Gavin to steal you from us,” she says.

  “And we don’t want you to be someone’s rebound,” Nat adds. She and Lys exchange a look and I realize this is something else they’ve discussed.

  “Dude, what is up with you guys talking about all this shit behind my back?”

  That word—rebound. I hate it. Every time it sneaks into my mind, I push it away, but here it is, right back where it wants to be, front and center.

  “We’re not talking shit,” Lys says. “We just, you know, we love you. Some guys are grenades, you know?”

  “He’s not a grenade,” I snap.

  “But he is maybe possibly kind of on the rebound,” Nat says, her warm brown eyes settling on me as we wait at a stoplight. There’s no judgment there, nothing but love. My best friends are just trying to have my back—something you will one day hate them for.

  “Maybe,” I say. “I mean, maybe that’s how this started or whatever. But now … You guys, this is … special. Like, so totally the real thing.”

  “Just keep in mind that the dude has some unresolved issues,” Lys says. “And it’s not your job to fix them.”

  I turn around. “You’re starting to sound too much like a professional psychologist.”

  She beams. “Thank you.”

  I’m a rebound. Is that it?

  You take too long to answer and something inside me starts to crack. But then:

  Sorry, Kyle was trying to steal my phone. You are NOT a rebound. Trust me.

  But maybe Nat and Lys are right. Maybe we should be slowing down.

  What’s the real reason?

  I’m running out of answers.

  So …

  So.

  I lean back and sigh. “Boys are weird.”

  “Now that,” Nat says as she turns onto my street, “is something we can agree on.”

  “Also, you owe me ten bucks,” Lys says.

  I turn around. “For what?”

  “I seem to recall you and I making a bet. I said Gav would fall for you.…”

  I grin. “That is one bet I’m happy to lose.”

  I call my sister as soon as I’m home.

  “My sistah! What’s up?” she says, not drunk but on her way. I can hear voices and music in the background—dorm life, my dream.

  “Tell me the truth,” I say, “am I a rebound?”

  “With Gavin?”

  “Who else?”

  “The truth? Yeah, probably,” she says. “Look, I don’t know Gavin personally, but he seems like a tragic teen if ever there was one.”

  “What’s a tragic teen?”

  “Like, tragic, you know. Emo shit.”

  I roll my eyes. “First of all, Gav hates emo—”

  “What I’m saying is that the dude is Shakespearean. And don’t get excited, because I don’t mean that in a good way,” she says. “People who try to commit suicide have issues. Is he on meds?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, that’s super personal. I can’t just ask him.”

  “Um. Yeah, you can. If this guy wants to be with you, you need some guarantees that he’s not gonna get all Byron on your ass.”

  I decide this isn’t a good time to tell her that I sort of love Byron.

  “I want to be with him,” I say.

  “Well, duh,” she says. “He’s a super-hot rocker guy. Maybe you should talk to Summer—find out what happened with them. Wait. Hold on.” She pulls the phone away from her and I hear muffled conversation, then, “Dude, I gotta go. Just … follow your heart but keep your eyes open. ’Kay?”

  “Okay. Love you, Bets.”

  “Love you, Gracie.”

  Before I go to bed, I get one more text from you:

  It’s 11:11, make a wish.

  I wish for you.

  NINE

  I am in love with your parents.

  I’m practically shaking with nerves when I walk up to your front door, worried they’ll think my pink Doc Martens and Princess Leia buns are weird, but it’s too late to go home and change into a normal girl. I’m wearing a lacy babydoll dress I know you like and my jean jacket and black tights with tiny pink hearts that I got on sale at Target. I can hear piano music and the clanging of pots and pans and as soon as I knock, your dog, Frances, starts barking. I wonder if she can smell the fear on me.

  You open the door, your hair still wet from your shower. You look me up and down and then shake your head.

  “How am I supposed to not jump you during dinner?” you murmur and I laugh. I’ve never been jumped before. I now have a new life goal.

  “I have a feeling your parents wouldn’t approve of that.”

  You usher me inside and I instantly feel at home. Your house is like those children’s books where the animals live in trees or underground or whatever and everything is cozy and safe. There are overstuffed chairs and pretty paintings on the walls and thick woven rugs on the hardwood floors. It smells like lasagna and I love how there’s a sweater lying over the back of one chair and a half-finished game of chess on the living room table. Your backpack is leaning against the couch and there’s a stack of magazines on an end table. It’s delightfully messy. Frances bounds toward me, very keen to be paid attention to, so I get on my knees and scratch her Labrador ears and let her lick me.

  “Ah, here she is,” your dad says as he stops playing the upright piano in the living room. He stands—he’s very tall, your dad, but you look just like him—and, instead of holding a hand out to me, he pulls me into a bear hug.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Davis,” I say, flushing.

  “You too, sweetheart.” He glances at you. “I don’t know what you see in this hooligan.”

  I laugh. “Oh, he’s not so bad, once you get to know him.”

  You beam. “I told you she was perfect,” you say, and now I’m speechless.

  Your mom bustles out of the kitchen wearing a Kiss the cook! apron.

  “Grace! I hope Frances didn’t slobber all over you.”

  “Just the right amount,” I say.

  She also gives me a hug. “Aren’t you adorable? Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll let Gavin give you the tour.”

  Your house is my dream of what a house could be like. On one wall is one of those sepia-tinted photographs of you all dressed in Western gear, the kind you can get at Disneyland. You guys have a whole bookshelf filled with board games. There’s dust—oh, heavenly dust!—and ratty old toys of Frances’s lying around. Another shelf filled with books—mystery and sci-fi and fantasy. Outside is a pool and I love that there are weeds and that your patio furniture has seen better days. It’s clear your mom doesn’t make you spend hours scrubbing and weeding and sweeping.

&nbs
p; “And here,” you say, pushing open the door to your bedroom, “is where all the magic happens.”

  You have four guitars—one acoustic and three electric. A poster of Jimi Hendrix and, of course, Nirvana. A kittens calendar that the guys bought you as a joke gift last Christmas. It’s still on January even though it’s April. You don’t have a lot of books on your bookshelf, but you do have The Alchemist. I pick it up. There’s a folded piece of notebook paper inside.

  “Favorite book?”

  You blush a little. “My parents gave it to me when I was … after … you know.”

  “Oh.” Fuck. Now what do I say?

  You cross to me and take the book out of my hands and flip to a dog-eared page, then hand me the book.

  “I thought of you when I read this,” you say, pointing to an underlined passage.

  You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it’s better to listen to what it has to say.

  “That’s beautiful.” I want to know so badly what your heart told you. I want to know why these words made you think of me.

  You nod and hold up the piece of paper.

  “Not as beautiful as this.”

  “What is it?”

  You smile, soft, and hand me the paper. I open it up. And see my own writing.

  I understand …

  I know right now it seems like …

  You matter, even if you think you don’t …

  You are the most talented person I’ve ever …

  My letter. The paper soft and wrinkled, like it’s been read hundreds of times.

  I swallow. “I was so afraid you’d think I was a total freak for writing this.”

  “Not even close. You know, my parents wanted me to stay out of school an extra week, but I couldn’t. I had to see you.”

  I look at you and my heart is like a diver, waiting to jump. “Really?”

  You lean your forehead against mine. “Really.”

  “Gavin! Grace! Dinner!” your mom calls.

  You take my hand and lead me to the dining room, which is more like a breakfast nook off the kitchen. A huge tray of lasagna sits in the center of the table, with a salad and bread.

  “I hope you’re hungry, Grace, because I made enough to feed ten of you,” your mom says.

  “This looks delicious—thank you so much.”

  You squeeze my hand and then we sit down. Dinner with your family is how I’ve always imagined a family dinner could be. Instead of The Giant criticizing my mom’s cooking or interrupting me every time I try to speak, there’s laughter and good conversation, where the adults actually listen to what you have to say. Your dad calls your mom a kitchen goddess and you heartily agree. She keeps doing TV mom stuff like trying to put more food on your plate and running her hands through your hair.

  “How much time do you two have before you have to get to the theater?” your mom asks.

  It’s hard to believe we only have two more performances of the show. Time flies, I guess.

  You glance at the cuckoo clock on the wall (your family has a cuckoo clock—how cute is that?).

  “A couple hours,” you say. “Ish. Grace has to get there earlier than me. I just have to look pretty and remember a few things—she’s doing all the real work.” You wink at me and I hope your parents can’t tell what a turn-on that is for me.

  “So, Grace, Gavin tells us you’re pretty much running the show these days,” your dad says.

  “Yeah. It’s kind of amazing. But the cast makes it easy—they’re all super great.”

  “You excited about this cast party tomorrow night?” your mom asks. “Kyle’s mom told me she’s going all out.”

  And just like that, the warm fuzzy feeling I’ve been nursing is gone.

  “I’m actually … grounded.” I can feel how red my face is getting and this is so freaking awkward. “So I’m just, you know, going home after the show.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” your mom says.

  “It’s okay,” I lie.

  “Ask her what she did,” you say, and you don’t even bother to hide the anger in your voice.

  “Gav…,” I say, soft. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine.” You set down your fork, shaking your head, and I love you for how pissed off you are on my behalf. “She’s grounded because she forgot to turn on the dishwasher. The dishwasher.”

  Your dad cocks his head to the side, as though he’s trying to figure out a difficult trig problem.

  “Er … what?” he says.

  “My thoughts exactly,” you say. “She’s been working her ass off on this play and—”

  “Gav. It’s not a big deal,” I say. I turn to your parents, hoping they don’t decide to keep you away from me because of my crazy family. “My mom needed some of the dishes to make something for this event she was doing for her makeup company. So, you know … she was almost late because she had to hand-wash the … anyway, it’s fine.”

  When I told you at lunch, you didn’t buy my it’s-no-big-deal rap then, either. God, you already know me so well. You don’t have to pretend with me, you said. This fucking sucks and your mom is being a psycho, end of story. I am so afraid that my family is going to scare you off.

  “Well.” Your mom stands up. “It’s obvious that the only thing we can do now is eat sundaes.”

  You turn to me and smile. “This is how my family deals with a crisis.”

  We eat sundaes piled high with whipped cream and fudge and cherries. Your mom tells me a little bit about how it was for her growing up. Her parents were strict, too.

  “Aaron got me through it, though,” she says, putting her head on your dad’s shoulder.

  “Wait, you guys were high school sweethearts?” I say.

  “Disgusting, isn’t it?” your dad says with a wink.

  We hang out with your parents for another hour and it’s not lame or boring at all. They’re funny and kind and when it’s time for me to go, your mom wraps her arms around me and I realize I can’t remember the last time my mom hugged me. Tears prick my eyes and I blink them away quick before anyone can see.

  “It’ll be okay, Grace,” your mom whispers. “If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”

  I feel safe here. There is so much love in this house. No one here cries themselves to sleep at night or wonders what would happen if they stuffed a backpack full of clothes, walked out the door, and never looked back.

  “Do you think your parents would consider adopting me?” I joke as we drive to the theater.

  “Yes, but I can’t allow it—we would be incestuous, it’d be a whole thing,” you say.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I guess that would be pretty gross.”

  “You totally rocked it with them, by the way. I bet I’ll get home and it’ll be all Grace this and Grace that.”

  “Do you guys ever fight or do you get in trouble or anything like that?”

  You shake your head. “Not really. My parents are pretty chill and they respect me. I respect them. It’s all good.”

  “I seriously can’t even imagine that.”

  You’re quiet for a minute. “I wish I could protect you from them,” you say softly.

  I rest my hand over yours. “You do.” I smile. “Whenever we’re together, you help me forget about them. You’re … my happy place.”

  Your lip turns up. “That sounds dirty.”

  I hit your arm. “You know what I mean.”

  You stop at a red light, then pick up my hand and kiss my palm. I hold my breath. Your lips are warm against my skin and goose bumps fly up my arms.

  “You’re my happy place, too.”

  I lean my head on your shoulder like your mom did with your dad and I wonder if that will ever be us, sitting at our dining room table with our teenage kid and the girl who’s in love with him.

  Now I look at that girl who adores you, who thinks she’s safe with you, and I want to scream at her to jump out of that car and run like hell. Because you won’t be her happy place fo
r long.

  TEN

  When I was a kid, my mom would call us the Three Amigos: me, her, and my sister. Every weekend we’d get up on Saturday morning and do something unexpected—we called it our Adventure Day. A bike ride along the beach. A drive through Topanga Canyon, plastic water bottles filled with soda. Walking around the mall. Even though we didn’t have money to buy anything, we got a snack and window-shopped and that was kind of enough.

  There was this one nasty-looking purple house in our neighborhood in LA and every time we drove past it we’d all cry, “Eww, the purple house!” I loved that. We always said the words slowly, with relish. Eww … the … purple … house. We singsonged our delighted disgust in unison. I don’t remember anything about the house except that it was purple—a garish shade, bright, like Halloween decorations in March. It was our thing, part of what made us the Three Amigos. When The Giant came into our lives, he took the purple house away. And Saturday adventures. And smiles. We learned to live without these things. Eyes down, lips shut tight, hands clasped in our laps. We became a flinch, waiting for hands to slap skin, words to cut through bone.

  Beth and I asked WHY WHY WHY and all Mom would say was I love him.

  And I thought: but what about Eww the purple house?

  The Giant’s the one who made us move here, forcing us to leave our family and LA, where there were wonders around every corner. He made us come to the armpit of California, a suburban Our Town between San Francisco and LA. Beth and I got used to waiting on him hand and foot. He said we had to earn our keep.

  In return, he made my sister and me beg. For money, for free time, for a ride to work. He told us we were lucky, we had it easy. “Easy” was him pushing Beth into an eating disorder after she quit playing volleyball. Her body had quickly gone from tomboy to girlish curves and The Giant wasn’t okay with that. She is gorgeous, with long, thick hair and wide hazel eyes. And she has the most beautiful singing voice. And when she laughs, she laughs with her whole body, leaning forward and holding her stomach while she shakes her head. But The Giant only saw a fat girl.

  This was a typical dinner:

  My sister reaches for the butter.

  “You sure you need more of that?” The Giant says with a mocking tone. He gives a pointed look to her stomach.