Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  You look back at her, frowning at the scowl on her face. “Um…?”

  “You just cursed,” I say to Nat, smirking. She calls cursing the “height of uncouthness”—the fact that she uses words like uncouth is part of why she’s my best friend.

  “This calls for it,” Nat says, sitting up. She smooths her hair and turns to Lys. “It might be time to do that thing we’ve been talking about.”

  Lys nods, serious. “Yep. The time has definitely come.”

  They get up and cross the room.

  “You,” Nat says, grabbing you by the arm, “are coming with us.”

  “I am?” you say.

  “Yep.” Lys crosses her arms. She manages to look intimidating despite the Alice in Wonderland–style dress she’s wearing, complete with white tights and her signature platform sneakers. “We want to know what your intentions are toward our best friend.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh my god, you guys.”

  Okay, but seriously, what are your intentions? Because this sneaking-around thing is getting old. But I’m too afraid to say that. I don’t want to scare you away.

  “I assure you they’re honorable,” you say.

  “Uh-huh,” Nat says. She starts pulling you out of the room.

  “You guys!” I say. “Stop being dumbasses.”

  “You’ll thank us later,” Lys calls over her shoulder.

  You look back at me. “If you don’t see me by the end of lunch, call the police.”

  You flash me that half smile (so sexy) and then you’re out of the room.

  The bell rings half an hour later and you still aren’t back. A tiny knot of worry twists inside my chest—I hope my friends aren’t screwing this up for me. Whatever this is. I start heading toward English when someone grabs my hand—you—without breaking your stride.

  “You survived?” I say.

  You’re holding my hand in public. This is a good thing. They must not have freaked you out too badly.

  “I did,” you say. “Though they threatened to cut off my balls if I break your heart.”

  “That sounds like them.”

  You laugh. “Those girls do not fuck around.”

  “I don’t know if I even want to know what you guys talked about.”

  “Let’s just say that they were satisfied with my answers.”

  You pull me out of the stream of students, to the deserted area around the science building. No one is around. Your lips are on mine in seconds. You gently push me up against the wall and slide your tongue in my mouth while your hands slip under the hem of my shirt. I press against you and you moan, the sound vibrating in my mouth as you deepen the kiss. The bell rings but I don’t care. I’m not even afraid of getting caught.

  “God, I want you,” you murmur as your lips move to my neck. I shiver. I think I want you just as much. More. I’ve never wanted someone like this. I feel a little crazy—I have to force myself not to slide my hand down your pants. I can feel you smile against my skin and then you pull away and give me a sneaky look.

  “What?” I say, breathless.

  You take both my hands and squeeze them. “I have a surprise for you. Tonight.”

  I bite my lip, uncertain. “I don’t know, Gav. I can’t keep sneaking out. If my parents catch me, I’m dead. They’re not like your parents. My life will seriously be in jeopardy.”

  You and your parents are a perfect unit of three. They adore you, give you lots of freedom. The last time I was at your house, your dad sat down at the piano and started playing Lady Gaga tunes and then your mom insisted we have a dance party. These aren’t the kind of people who ground their kid for the rest of his life. You don’t have invisible dust and a giant. You can’t even comprehend what that’s like.

  “Please,” you say, begging in that sexy way of yours, chin down, eyes intense, mouth set in the tiniest pout.

  “You’re taking advantage of me,” I tease. “You know I’m a sucker for The Look.”

  “Is that a yes?” you ask, eyes lighting up.

  “It’s not a no.” I sigh. “This surprise can’t happen during business hours?”

  You shake your head. “Hell no. My surprises happen only during rock-star hours. We open at midnight sharp.”

  It doesn’t occur to me to be annoyed that you don’t seem to care what the consequences of your surprises are or that you don’t hear my distress. This is you, building your castles in the sky, whisking me away from The Giant, from my mom. After years of being trapped inside my house, I’m finally being rescued. In fairy tales, the princess doesn’t tell her knight in shining armor that he came at a bad time.

  I don’t see how good you are at manipulating me with your pretty looks and your teasing and your slight but insistent pushing. It will take me months not to fall for that shit. Every. Single. Time. Right now, I just see you.

  And I can’t stop looking.

  “Aren’t you sort of regretting falling for someone with an eleven o’clock curfew? And psychotic parents?”

  “Nah. Gives me more to write about,” you say.

  “I don’t get it,” I whisper.

  “Get what?”

  “You could have any girl in this school—some of the guys, too. Why me?”

  You tilt your head, studying my face.

  “You get me,” you say. “Nobody gets me like you do.” You lean your forehead against mine. “It doesn’t hurt that you’re the sexiest girl in school.”

  I snort. “I was with you up until sexiest.”

  “Wait.” You pull away. “Do you seriously not see what I do?”

  A blush creeps up my neck, reaching for my cheeks, red ivy that spreads the longer you stare at me.

  “Gavin. That’s…” I throw up my hands. “Just patently untrue.”

  “You think this because of your fucked-up parents. They don’t appreciate you. They don’t see you.”

  I look away, considering. I remember how last year’s Christmas card picture didn’t have me in it. Mom said she couldn’t find a good one of all of us, so it was one of just her, The Giant, and Sam.

  “I don’t know,” I say softly.

  “I do. You’re fucking perfect.” You put your finger under my chin and turn me so that we’re face-to-face again. “I mean it.”

  I spend the rest of sixth period with my mouth on yours and we don’t stop kissing until the bell rings.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” you murmur.

  I smile, drunk on you. “This better be good.”

  You grin. “Oh, it is.”

  TWELVE

  There’s a soft knock on my window.

  I’ve been waiting for it. I slip out of bed, fully clothed in my skimpiest sundress, now that it’s May and the nights are warmer. I wave and you smile, tipping your hat like a proper gentleman.

  I hesitate at the door, listening hard. Silence. I look at the window, almost ready to call it off, but you’re already gone, waiting by the sliding glass door for me, no doubt. We’ve done this almost every night since you kissed me, so we have a system in place.

  Is he worth it? Beth asked on the phone when I told her about all the sneaking out.

  Are you worth getting in trouble for? Are you worth maybe being grounded for the rest of my life?

  Yeah, I said. I think he is.

  Nobody could possibly understand how you and I feel about each other, how deep this goes. It didn’t take long for you to become the most important person in my life. The most important thing. I don’t tell anyone this, especially not you, but I’m pretty sure you’re my soul mate. I like to imagine us old together, our hands gnarled and veined and spotty and still clutching at each other. I like to think that you won’t be able to stop looking at me, even when you’re wearing bifocals and have cataracts.

  I slip out of the room and tiptoe down the carpeted hallway, careful to step over the places that squeak.

  “Where are we going this time?” I whisper once you and I are clear of the house.

  Your eyes slide
to mine as your lips turn up. “You’ll see.”

  We zigzag down the street, jumping from shadow to shadow. It becomes a game—who can jump the farthest? Five minutes later, we’re in front of the school. You pull me toward the thick, dark shadows clustered near the library just before a cop car goes by. In our empty suburb, it’s not unusual for cops to stop pretty much any young-looking person after ten p.m. That’s when a notice goes up on the news: It’s ten p.m. Do you know where your children are?

  I almost sob with fear—I don’t even want to begin contemplating the punishment I’d have if I were caught. I’m pushing my luck, I know it.

  “Gav, maybe we shouldn’t…”

  “Almost there,” you whisper, squeezing my hand.

  I pull back, shake my head. “Seriously, you have no idea how bad it could be for me.”

  “What are you afraid of?” you ask, running a finger along my jaw.

  “Everything.” Being with you is like being in free fall, with no place to land in sight.

  “Which is exactly why we need to do this,” you say as you plant a kiss on my forehead. “You won’t regret it.”

  I wish I could be brave like you. I wish I had an adventurer’s heart. I stand still for a few breaths, thinking. Is he worth it?

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “That’s my girl.”

  My girl.

  I shiver, grinning as you lead me to the outdoor amphitheater.

  There’s a nearly full moon tonight and it bathes the campus in silvery light. Without all the students and general chaos, the school becomes mysterious, magical even. I feel like I could be directing a scene from Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’d put you in the amphitheater downstage right, where the moonlight’s the brightest. You tug me toward it.

  “Okay, stay right there,” you say, letting go of me.

  You walk deeper into the amphitheater and pull your guitar from a dark corner—the acoustic you named Rosa.

  If I were directing us, I’d have me scoot farther downstage so that my back isn’t facing the audience. Cue soft lighting—cream and blue on you and me with the rest of the stage staying dark. This is so good it should be on Broadway.

  Gavin and Grace stare at each other across the stage. She crosses her arms, hugs herself, suddenly shy. He smiles as he moves closer.

  GAVIN

  (strums guitar, singing, a wailing acoustic vocalization similar to Jack White):

  White walls

  Black heart

  My mind breaking

  itself apart

  Crumpled paper

  Dark blue ink

  Words from her heart

  That bring me from the brink

  The edge of sanity

  The losing season

  Gotta love you, honey

  Don’t need no reason

  Soft kisses

  Warm hands

  She’s putting me

  Back together again

  Her words are glue

  She gets me through

  Her eyes inspire

  Reignite my fire

  Soft kisses

  Warm hands

  She’s putting me

  Back together again

  So tell me, baby

  Tell me true

  Do I make you feel

  Brand-new too?

  Take my hand

  Let’s do this now

  Be together

  I don’t care how

  The edge of sanity

  The losing season

  Gotta love you, honey

  Don’t need no reason

  The edge of sanity

  The losing season

  Gotta love you, honey

  Don’t need no reason

  Don’t need no reason

  GAVIN

  (Stops playing. He takes the last few steps across the stage, sets his guitar on the ground, then falls to his knees):

  Grace. Be my girlfriend.

  Grace starts crying and Gavin stands, picking her up. He spins and she leans her head back, laughing.

  GAVIN

  (whispers against her lips):

  Tell me this was worth the risk of getting caught.

  She tilts back his fedora and presses her lips against his.

  GRACE:

  It was worth the risk.

  UNIDENTIFIED VOICE:

  Hey!

  GAVIN:

  Fuck.

  He sets Grace down and they run hand in hand off the stage as a security guard shines his flashlight on them. They race through campus, past the library and the cafeteria. When they reach Gavin’s car, Grace lies on the hood, laughing.

  * * *

  SO WE ARE officially together.

  I’m not over the moon, I’m on the moon. It’s surreal, this happiness. I’m scared the universe will notice and take you away from me. Because it isn’t fair, how good I feel.

  I have no idea the sacrifices that are ahead of me. I’m so clueless, Gavin. So fucking clueless.

  “Hey,” you murmur, “I gotta ask you something.”

  We’re sitting in your car—it’s only been a couple hours since you sang your song to me, but the sky is already getting light. I’ll need to go soon.

  I kiss your nose. “Okay.”

  “Now that we’re together, I think we should share, like, what we’ve done with other people.”

  It takes me a minute to figure out what you’re saying.

  “You mean … physical stuff?”

  You nod. “We should just get it out of the way, you know?”

  We’re each in our own seats, lying on our sides, hands intertwined across the parking brake.

  “I don’t know, Gav.…”

  Your grip tightens. “I mean, it’s not like you’ve done that much … right?”

  I can hear the slight tinge of panic in your voice. I shake my head.

  “No, not really.”

  “Okay, then, so…” When I don’t say anything, you sit up a little. “I want us to be able to tell each other everything. You know?”

  I think about my mom and The Giant, about all the secrets they have; all of The Giant’s don’t-tell-your-mom’s and Mom’s what-Roy-doesn’t-know-won’t-hurt-him’s. I don’t want to be like them. Ever.

  “It’s no big deal,” you say. You hold up my hand and kiss it. “I’ll go first.”

  You tell me about Summer. How you did everything but have sex. I’m shocked that you’re a virgin. I never would have guessed.

  “Why didn’t you?” I ask. “Have sex, I mean?”

  You play with your keys, eyes on them.

  “She’s religious. And … it just never felt right.” Your eyes slide to mine. “So…”

  I take a breath and tell you about the three boys I’ve kissed. About the older boy whose hands I let under my shirt, down my pants, way back in eighth grade.

  You go pale. “Did you … do anything to him?”

  This beautiful, perfect night is suddenly ruined. I can see the war inside you. It plays across your eyes. You’re wondering if you actually want to be with me. Maybe you’ll dump me before first period. That’s only four hours from now.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  I tell you how I’d never seen a penis before, how I’d held it in my hand. Look what you do to me, the older boy had said.

  “I’ll fucking kill him,” you mutter.

  “Gav. He’s, like, far away.”

  “How do you know?” you ask. “Do you guys keep in touch?”

  “No. God, no. It was a summer fling. Camp.” I reach out and squeeze your hand. “It was a long time ago. Forever ago.”

  I suddenly feel guilty, like I cheated on you. You won’t look at me and you feel miles away, like what I’d done with those guys has put up a wall between us. I feel dirty, ruined. I wonder if you think I’m a slut. Without warning, I burst into tears.

  You glance at me, stricken. “Grace! Oh my god, I’m sorry. Shhhh.” You pull me over to you so that I’m sitting in
your lap. “Don’t cry, baby,” you whisper. “All this shit’s over now. It’s just me and you. That’s all that matters.”

  “But I can tell how grossed out you are by me,” I sob.

  “Grossed out?”

  “Because, like, I’ve done stuff with other guys.”

  You smooth back my hair. “I’m not grossed out. I’m angry. And not at you. I just hate the thought of anyone but me touching you like that.”

  I look up and you gently kiss me, soft and sweet. When you pull away, you lean your forehead against mine and you say the words that seal my fate for the next year:

  “God, I love you.”

  My mouth opens and a soft gasp escapes my lips. “Don’t say it if you don’t … I mean, you don’t have to make me feel better.”

  “Grace. I. Love. You. Got it?”

  Your ice-blue eyes are dark with feeling, tears brimming. In this light, you’re all charcoal lines and velvet shadows. Something inside me breaks open and the words fall out.

  “I love you, too.” I smile. “I mean, duh.”

  That’s how the worst year of my life starts—in a Mustang with steamed-up windows, with a beautiful boy who cries.

  THIRTEEN

  I used to dream that I’d been switched at birth. For years I had a fantasy that I was the daughter of a Greek shipping magnate or the princess of a small but wealthy country. Maybe a young heiress—a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller—had me as a teen and I’d been left in the hospital and the woman I call my mother and the man I call my father didn’t realize I wasn’t theirs or maybe or maybe or maybe …

  My grandfather was a jock. My mother was a jock. My sister was a jock. Football, tennis, volleyball. Long, lean muscles, eyes on the scoreboard, that’s them. Me? Soft and bendy, dreamy, eyes on the stars, head in the clouds.

  I am the one who doesn’t fit.

  There are no intellectuals in my family. No crazy aunts who live in Europe and paint. No father who once dabbled in jazz. Here, where I live, there are no ivory towers. Nobody using words like serendipity or existentialism. Nobody wears flowy scarves or reads Brecht or has a ring they bought in Barcelona. Nobody’s been in a band, in a play, in a pas de deux.