Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  I ache—I mean literally ache—for the streets of New York City, Paris at night, Moscow in winter, like Lara and Dr. Zhivago. I long for cobblestones, mist curling around gaslit streetlamps, kissing in the rain. These are things I can’t find in Birch Grove and so I magic them into being, gathering everything that is Other around me, like a hen with her chicks. I listen to Mendelssohn’s Venetian gondola song in the dark, the only light a few candles. It makes me cry, this song. It makes me yearn for a time and place I know nothing about. I close my eyes and I am there. I read poetry, my eyes hungrily scanning the lines, heart beating in iambic pentameter: Now is the winter of our discontent.

  When I feel trapped, afraid, lonely, I only have to look up at the sky and think: this is what people in Morocco look at when they see the sky. And India, Thailand, South Africa. Korea and Chile and Italy. The world, I remind myself, is mine, if only I have the courage to grasp it when the opportunity is given to me. I know there is that within me, I know not what it is, but that it is in me. Walt Whitman said that way back when because he’s the man and a prophet and he gets what it feels like to be me so hard.

  This is my secret self. The part of me I hold as delicately as a violet plucked from a meadow. It is the me who lies awake in bed late at night and imagines what Verona is like, what it would be like to say, Be but sworn my love and I will no longer be a Capulet. It is the me who takes French, dreaming of trips to Paris: Je m’appelle Grace. J’ai dix-sept ans. Je veux le monde.

  The first time you hurt me was when you took this secret self and squashed it between your thumb and index finger like a bug. You didn’t mean to, but that was how it felt.

  We are sitting beside your pool, legs dangling in the water. It’s the middle of May: spring. New beginnings. The sun is setting, the warmth of the day an exhale. You are the sun to me, shining so bright I can only look at you sideways. I allow myself to think that maybe I am your moon—luminescent, enigmatic—until:

  “You’re not very deep.” You say these cutting words thoughtfully, to yourself, almost as though you’re surprised. They hit me somewhere below my ribs.

  Inside: I’m Broken Girl Blown to Smithereens: explosions, not the good kind—a blitz, unexpected, flattening anything in me that had dared to stand up around you. Just as I’d suspected, I’m not artistic enough to be on Gavin Davis’s arm.

  Outside: I’m Dull-Witted Girlfriend, a shrug of a girl; heat screams up my cheeks and I look away, toward the shallow end of the pool. Shallow.

  I think of the dictionary app on my phone that I have to use all the time when I’m reading stuff like The Master and Margarita or The Awakening. Or that one time when I missed sophomoric on a vocab quiz. And how I totally don’t get why girls love Jane Austen. You’re right: I’m not deep.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

  The words hurt, but The Giant has been telling me the same thing for years, except he uses synonyms: thick, dumbass, use your fucking head, Grace.

  And Mom: Ivy League? Honey, be realistic.

  I didn’t know how to pronounce respite. I read it in a book, I can’t remember which one, and I confess I thought it was res-PITE, not RES-pit. I knew it generally meant “a break from something that isn’t all that great and that you’d like to get away from in some way,” as in I’d like a respite from my entire fucking life, but I’d never heard the word out loud. My family doesn’t generally use SAT-level vocabulary, except when my mom tells me that the things I do are asinine or that I’m being obtuse. I didn’t know the difference between an epiphany and an epitome, not for a long time. I learn words when I read and so I do this nearly every day, pronouncing things wrong. When someone points it out, it makes me feel stupid. Like I’m wearing a dunce cap while everyone else is wearing fedoras and berets. Can you believe they used to make kids wear those? Hey, Stupid. Put this shit on your head while we laugh at how dumb you are.

  That’s what’s happening right now. I feel naked. It was no trouble for you to blast through the armor I wear with everyone else, the shield I spent years building out of my hurt and confusion. You have the power to hurt me so bad, Gavin. Like in Spring Awakening: O, I’m gonna be wounded … O, you’re gonna be my bruise. Maybe the only way you really know you love someone is if they can break you with a single sentence.

  You look down at the songs you’ve written in your ever-present black leather journal, the ones I didn’t understand when you read them to me a minute ago. This disappointed you—here you are, trying to share your heart, the essence of you, and your girlfriend—the one person who should understand—doesn’t. I don’t measure up. This disappoints me, too. I thought I’d be able to get the words that you’d dragged up from your soul. But I don’t know what they mean.

  You sigh and try again:

  Me, alone

  You, twisting around bloody

  roses

  Eugenics

  Euphoria

  Eucharist

  What’s eugenics? And a bloody rose—does that mean I’m, like, attacking you with thorns? What did I do wrong? Or is this about Summer?

  This is me, then: not the brightest bulb. Not the sharpest knife.

  You take my hands and look into my eyes. I’m trying really hard not to cry because I know guys hate it when girls cry, but the tears spill over.

  “Fuck,” you say. “Baby, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean … like, you took it the wrong—”

  You wrap your arms around me and pull me closer. “I just meant we’re different and that I like that,” you whisper. “I can’t tell you how good you are to me, for me.”

  “How can I be good for you if I don’t understand your songs?” I mumble. I’m crying into the ROCKSTAR shirt I bought you and it smells faintly of baby powder. I close my eyes.

  “What I need is someone who is there for me no matter what,” you say. “I need someone dependable.”

  This doesn’t make me feel better. It’s like saying I’m a Volvo or something. I don’t want to be dependable. I want to be a Ferrari—sleek and fast and sexy as hell. You lean back and run your hands through my hair, gentle. I wanted to get it cut like Lys’s, but you told me no, you love it this way. I should have cut it, Gav. I should have done whatever the fuck I wanted to. But I didn’t, did I?

  “We fit. Like … a puzzle. You know?” you say.

  I thought I was the one that didn’t fit anywhere, but maybe with you that can change. Maybe.

  “But…” I look at you, helpless. “The opposite of deep is shallow. Do you think I’m some ditzy, pea-brained—”

  “I didn’t mean deep as in … like that. I meant…” You frown and look away for a moment. Take off your fedora and run your hand through your hair. “You’re perfect, Grace. That’s what my dumb ass was trying to say. I meant that you’re not, like, a tortured person. You’re good and sweet and that fucked-up shit doesn’t make sense to you because it’s fucked up.” Your eyes mist over. “I’m fucked up.”

  “Gavin—”

  “No, I am. I mean, what kind of guy tells the girl he’s in love with something like that? I don’t deserve you.”

  You deserve someone better. That’s the problem. I can’t imagine ever earning my place by your side.

  You stand up and reach out your hand.

  I take it, wordless, and follow you to a corner of the backyard your parents can’t see from the sliding glass door. You sit down in the grass and pull me on top of you, my legs on either side of your hips. By the time you’re done with me, I don’t know which way is up, only that I want more, more, more. I forget that you don’t think I’m deep and I forget the hurt inside me. You kiss it all away.

  FOURTEEN

  I can’t stop thinking about what you said. For a week it bothers me, needling under my skin. You’re not very deep. You ask me what’s wrong and I say, Nothing, I’m fine. Smile, smile. And I am. Except when I’m not.

  I find myself watching every word I say to you, wondering what they say about me. I look for disappointment in
your eyes, get nervous whenever you play me a new song. I’ve been walking on eggshells for a week. You’re up north this weekend visiting your grandparents, so I spend Saturday with the girls, secretly relieved to have a little break from you. A break from the me I am with you.

  “It’s time for some broke girls’ food,” Nat says as she pulls into the Wendy’s drive-through. She glances at me. “Dollar menu?”

  “Is there any other kind? Fries and chili for me,” I say. “And a Frosty.”

  “Lys?” she asks.

  “Same.”

  She makes the order and we pool our money together, then head toward Lys’s house, which is in a fancy development a few miles outside of town.

  “Are you still a virgin?” Lys suddenly asks, leaning forward. “Inquisitive minds want to know.”

  “Oh my god, where did that come from?” I say.

  “Come on, like we weren’t gonna ask,” Nat says.

  “Yes. Still a virgin.”

  “I thought he would have deflowered you by now,” Lys says. “I mean, when he and Summer were together, it was obvious he was hot for her, but with you he’s like … obsessed.”

  I smile. “Good.”

  Last night you insisted that we fall asleep together, so we set up our phones on FaceTime. I was the first to fall asleep. When I woke up in the morning, you were curled on your side, your hair falling over your eyes. Shirtless. You’re pretty adorable when you’re sleeping.

  I glance at Nat. “Speaking of obsessed boys … what’s up with you and Kyle?”

  “Yeah, dude. He’s gotten super touchy-feely with you lately,” Lys says.

  Nat can’t keep the smile off her face. “We … may have made out last night.”

  Cue screaming. “WHAT? Details now,” I say.

  “Okay, when I say made out I don’t mean like the way you probably make out with Gavin. We kissed. For a while. That’s it,” Nat says.

  “Tongue?” Lys asks, clinical.

  Nat goes beet red. “Yes. A little.”

  “What does Jesus have to say about this?” I tease.

  Nat sticks her tongue out at me. “I didn’t consult him.”

  “I want someone to make out with!” Lys falls back against her seat dramatically.

  I reach back and squeeze her hand. “She’s out there somewhere.”

  “Yeah. Like Antarctica,” Lys mutters.

  When we get to Lys’s we change into our swimsuits and go sit in her Jacuzzi.

  “You okay?” Nat asks.

  I was zoning out, going back through the conversation I’d had with you on the phone this morning, wondering if I’d said something stupid.

  “What? Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, sinking farther into the water.

  “No you’re not,” Lys says. She cocks her head to the side, studying me. “What’s up?”

  I don’t want to be disloyal to you, but I have to get this off my chest.

  “Gav … he said something last week that … I mean, it’s nothing, but—do you guys think I’m deep?”

  “Deep?” Nat says.

  “Like, can I be philosophical or, I don’t know, deep. You know?”

  Nat narrows her eyes. “What exactly did Gavin say to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Lys points at me. “Liar.”

  I slip farther into the Jacuzzi, the water bubbling all around me.

  “He … said I wasn’t deep.”

  “What. The. Fuck?” Lys says. “Are you serious?”

  “He didn’t mean it in, like, a bad way.”

  Nat shakes her head. “There’s no good way to mean it. How could he say that to you?”

  I shouldn’t have said anything. “Guys, don’t make a big deal out of this. Seriously, he just … misspoke.”

  “Don’t make excuses for him,” Lys says. “That was a dick thing to say.”

  I know they’re right. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s not like we can change the past. And I know you’d take back the words if you could.

  Nat reaches underwater for my hand. “You’re one of the deepest people I know. He’s an idiot. A hot idiot, but still an idiot. I mean, you freaking read War and Peace for fun and, like, listen to NPR podcasts. Yesterday you said you wanted to direct a Brecht play and then explained The Communist Manifesto to me.”

  “And you can quote Leaves of Grass and tell classical composers apart,” Lys said. “Remember when we were in Macy’s and you were all, I love Vivaldi!”

  I smile a little. “I remember because you gave me shit for it.”

  “Girl, that’s because you’re a bougie motherfucker and I love you.”

  Nat’s phone buzzes and she dries her hand on a towel before reaching for it.

  “Peter’s parents are gone for the weekend and he’s having people over tonight. Are we going?” she says.

  “Who’s gonna be there?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I’m guessing the whole drama crew.”

  Lys nods. “Let’s do it.” She glances at me. “This one needs to let loose.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. My phone buzzes and I glance at it, then smile.

  “What?” Nat says.

  I hold up my phone so they can see. It’s a picture of your grandparents and underneath you’ve typed, This will be us in eighty years.

  Lys pretends to vomit. “What did I say?” she says. “He is totally obsessed with you.”

  “I still can’t get over the fact that I got Gavin Davis. How the hell did that happen?”

  Nat frowns. “The real question is, how was he so lucky to get you?”

  * * *

  PETER’S HOUSE IS in the country, about fifteen minutes outside of town, a sprawling ranch-style home on a couple of acres of land. When we get there all the lights are on in the house and the music is just short of blaring.

  “If my parents find out I’m here, they’ll kill me,” I say.

  “What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Lys says, adjusting the pink wig she’s wearing. “How do I look?”

  “Fabulous,” I say. “Me?”

  I’m wearing 1950s capri pants, ballet flats, and a 1940s blouse.

  “Very Audrey Hepburn,” Nat says.

  Lys leans forward. “I’d just like to point out that Nat’s wearing her sexiest dress.”

  It’s still conservative—J. Crew, neat and tidy—but it hugs her Cuban hips and booty.

  “That has Kyle written all over it,” I say.

  Nat turns pink. “It’s not too short?”

  I pat her on the arm. “It’s just short enough.”

  There are maybe fifty people here and I know most of them—fellow drama geeks, choir kids, and random friends from school. For just a minute I stand in the doorway, basking in the glow of being a normal teenager. For once I’m not spending Saturday night babysitting Sam or doing chores.

  “Hey, you guys made it!” Kyle says when he catches sight of us. He’s wearing a top hat and his bow tie, signature Kyle party wear. “Drinks are in the kitchen.” He turns to Nat. “Can we…”

  “You two go make out. We’ll see you later.” Lys grabs my hand and pulls me away, both of us giggling at the shocked look on Nat’s face.

  The kitchen counter is covered with bottles of liquor and a nearby cooler is filled with beer. I grab a Coke while Lys mixes herself what looks like a particularly stiff drink involving tequila and Sprite.

  We head into the living room, where an impromptu dance-off has started, drama geeks against choir nerds.

  Peter catches sight of us and waves us over. “These little choir fuckers are kicking our asses. I hope you guys have some moves up your sleeves.”

  Lys hands me her cup as Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” starts playing. “I’m on it.”

  I squeeze onto the couch, half sitting on Peter’s lap as Lys struts onto the floor and proceeds to kill it. I had no idea she had the whole dance memorized. I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. She steps back to let the choir girl who’s challenging her go for it,
but Peter just shakes his head.

  “No contest,” he shouts. “This one’s ours.” Peter holds up his phone. “Selfie time!” He and I press our cheeks together and smile. “Posting this shit right now. Caption? Hot Motherfuckers.”

  I laugh. “Nice.”

  Lys comes over to us, doing the running man. “Don’t hate me cuz I’m awesome,” she says, sweat dripping down the sides of her face.

  I laugh, handing back her drink. “That was hella hot.”

  She grabs it and takes a big swig. “Your turn.”

  I set down my drink and pretend to do some serious stretching. “Baby Got Back” comes on and I throw myself onto the dance floor. Peter comes with me and we bust out our best moves—something between disco and hip-hop. We look like total idiots, shaking our asses, trying to go as low as we can to the floor without falling over. Peter pretends to spank me and I look scandalized. Just as we go to sit back down, I see you. You’re standing in the ring of people that had been watching the dance-off, staring at me.

  “Gavin!”

  I run to you but when I throw my arms around you, you don’t hug me back. I don’t notice, not right away, because I’m still buzzing from dancing and a night away from The Giant.

  “I had no idea you were back in town!” I murmur against your cheek. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I pull back, grabbing hold of one of your hands. Did I ever tell you how much I used to love your hands? Strong, thin guitar-playing fingers that fold over mine, that twirl locks of my hair, that caress me in all kinds of goose-bump-inducing ways. I didn’t know then that those hands would hurt me. I was so used to you touching me like I was made of glass—so careful, so gentle.

  “I thought you were spending the night at Lys’s,” you say. Now I can hear the accusation in your voice, but I still don’t know why you’re so upset.

  “I was. But then Kyle told Nat that Peter was having a party. What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong?” you growl.

  I’ve never seen you pissed off before. It throws me, this other Gavin, his mouth an angry slash, eyes cold. This Gavin who looks at me, furious.

  “Gav, I—”

  You grab my hand and pull me away, upstairs. You, Kyle, and Peter practically live at one another’s houses—you’re as comfortable here as if it were your own. You go into what must be Peter’s parents’ room and shut the door. A small bedside lamp is on beside a king bed. The room is decorated with country kitsch—wooden hearts and little plaques with Bible verses on them. A stenciled quote covers the wall above the bed—I wish I’d paid more attention to it: