Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
“What the fuck, Grace?” you say.
I am so confused.
“What? Why are you so pissed off?”
“I saw you—sitting on his lap, fucking dancing with him like you’re about to have sex.”
“Wait, this is about Peter?”
If you weren’t so upset it’d be funny. Peter, who’s basically been like a brother to me ever since I met him. Peter, whose wardrobe consists of free promotional T-shirts. Peter, who has serious acne problems and talks with his mouth full. And you, Gavin Davis, are jealous of him?
“Yes,” you explode. “It’s about Peter. About the fact that my fucking girlfriend is going behind my back—”
“Whoa, Gav.” I take a step closer to you, put my hands on your shoulders. “Peter is just a friend. And I wasn’t going behind your back. I had no idea you were in town. Plus, I didn’t know about this party until, like, a few hours ago.”
You shrug me off, then cross to the other side of the room, hands on your hips, eyes on the floor.
“I don’t know if I can do this, Grace.”
The words cut deep. You have no way of knowing this, but that’s exactly what my father said to my mom before he walked out the door for good.
It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
“Gavin.” My voice breaks. In just a few weeks, you’ve become my center. The thought of having to face The Giant and my mom without you there to sing me to sleep at night or kiss the tears away threatens to gut me. “I’m … I’m so crazy in love with you. This … it’s nothing. Nothing.”
Your eyes go to mine then, softening a little. “It didn’t look like it downstairs.”
I hesitate, then cross the room and take one of your hands. You don’t pull away.
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” I say. You’re right to be upset. If I’d seen you dancing like that with another girl I would have lost my shit. God, I am so bad at being a girlfriend. “Honestly, it really was nothing.”
You sigh, your eyes on our hands. “Summer would do stuff just to torture me,” you say. “I have no idea why. It was all this … power shit with her. Like, she’d flirt with guys right in front of me. And she’d lie to me about where she was going. One time I caught her at the mall, hanging out with this guy from her math class. She said they were just friends, but…” You shake your head. “That’s not what it looked like.”
I have to ask the question that nobody seems to be able to answer.
“Is that why you guys broke up?”
Your hand tightens around mine. “I found out she’d been having these, like, nightly calls with him—the guy from the mall. When I confronted her about it, she just … went crazy. Said all this shit to me and I just couldn’t take it. By the time I got home I felt … worthless. Hopeless. And I—”
Your voice is shaking and you look away, clear your throat. This is the closest we’ve ever gotten to talking about that night.
“I’m such a fucking pussy,” you mutter.
“Hey,” I whisper. I gently place my hand on your cheek and turn your face back toward mine. “I will never hurt you like that.”
You don’t say anything and I wrap my arms around you and you are paper thin, so fragile. I realize that there will be days when I’ll have to be strong enough for both of us. You hug me back, tight.
“I will never hurt you like that,” I repeat.
“Okay,” you say softly.
You let go and sit on the bed, then draw me onto your lap.
“It drives me crazy when I see other guys touching you,” you say.
I love how possessive you are. You want me all to yourself. At home, I think they’d get down on their knees and praise Jesus if I disappeared.
“When do other guys touch me?” You give me a look. “Okay, I mean, other than with Peter tonight.”
“They hug you, like, all the time.”
“As friends!”
“I just … Can we have a rule? Like, no touching someone of the opposite sex?”
“You don’t trust me,” I say, my voice flat.
“I do. It’s them I don’t trust, okay? I know they think you’re hot. You have no idea what a turn-on you are.”
I blush. “Gav…”
“I’m serious.” You tuck my hair behind my ear. “Just promise me. No touching.”
I can’t think when we’re this close. When you smell so good and look at me with those bedroom eyes.
“I mean, if it’s that important to you…”
“It is.”
You reach into your pocket and hand me something wrapped in tissue paper.
“I got you something at this store near my grandma’s house,” you say.
I smile. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
You brush your nose against mine. “I love getting you things.”
I unwrap the tissue paper and inside is a silver bracelet fashioned into an infinity sign.
“Because,” you say, tracing the bracelet, “that’s how long I want to be with you.”
I slip it on, then pull you to me. I tell you how much I love it—love you—with my lips and hands, with the fast beating of my heart, with everything in me.
“I’m ready,” you murmur against my collarbone. “Whenever you are.”
I pull away for a second, my eyes on yours. “Is it okay if I’m not ready yet?”
“Of course.” You smile. “I don’t think you’ll be able to resist me for long.”
I laugh. “Probably not.”
We go back downstairs and you grab a beer. In a matter of minutes, someone is putting a guitar in your hands. I curl up on the couch next to you as you play whatever people request. A few weeks ago, I would have been just another admirer at the party, standing in the semicircle around you. I love how, every now and then, you lean over and kiss me, not caring that we’re in front of everyone.
I don’t know it now, but this will be one of my happiest memories of us. It’s before the screaming and crying, before the guilt trips and the uncomfortable silences. Before I stopped wanting to be the girl you kissed.
FIFTEEN
“Doritos are essential to life,” you say.
We’re at the grocery store, picking up snacks for a movie night at your house. Your mom and my mom have both accepted that we’re together even though your parents really didn’t want you dating again so soon after your last breakup. It sucks, though, because my mom’s imposed all these rules about how often we can see each other and your mom watches us like a hawk. She likes me and everything but will not, under any circumstances, allow another girl to break your heart. It scares me, your mom said to me once, when you were in the bathroom, how much you two already love each other.
Mom thinks the whole high school/college thing will only end in tears. She doesn’t like that I want to spend so much time with you.
You’re in high school, she says. You shouldn’t be this focused on one boy. But I think about how happy your parents are. They met in high school. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to take love advice from my mom. She married my dad and The Giant. Enough said.
My mom says we’re only allowed to see each other three times a week and, even if you come over for five minutes to bring me a Pepsi Freeze, that counts as one of the times. My mom’s a fascist dictator, but you and I are strategic. We’re so good that the military should hire us. I invite you over for dinner each week and you make Mom laugh, love on Sam (you call him Little Dude, which makes him ecstatic), help with the dishes. You’re cordial with The Giant, but mostly try not to get on his bad side (which is hella easy to do, as you well know). Mom’s gonna cave and le
t me see more of you. I know she is.
Later, I will realize that she should have stuck to her guns—it would have saved me a hell of a lot of heartbreak. I will come to realize my mom and I are both suckers, perpetually won over by male charm and our own loneliness. She and I, we dig our own graves. Then we lie down in them, cross our arms, and wait for boys to pour dirt over us.
“I hate Doritos,” I say as you throw the worst flavor—spicy nacho—into the shopping cart.
You stare at me, aghast. “Tell me you’re joking.”
“I’m not. Sorry.”
You shake your head, aggrieved. “Wow. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this before. I don’t know if you and I are gonna work out.…”
I laugh and you toss a second bag into the cart, daring me to protest, then grab my hand as Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud” comes on over the store speakers.
“And, darling, I will be loving you ’til we’re seventy…”
“What are you doing?” I squeal as we proceed to tango up and down the aisle.
“Dancing. Duh.”
You twirl me and I laugh, but I also can’t help but notice that everyone in the chips aisle is looking at us. Not bad looks, but still looking. My face heats up and I keep my head down. This is exactly why you’re an actor and I’m not—I can’t stand people looking at me.
When the song stops, you plant a kiss on my cheek. “You’re totally mortified right now, aren’t you?”
I nod and you turn to our fellow customers. “Thank you!” you say, with a sweeping bow. “We’ll be here all night.”
“Oh my gosh.” I drag you out of the aisle.
“Come on,” you say, laughing, “was that so bad?”
I take stock. Was it? You’re the most uninhibited person I know. Other people might think I am, too, because I’m a theatre nerd, but they’d be dead wrong. I worry suddenly that I might be a disappointment to you. Summer doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her, but me—I care. I care a lot.
“Yeah, it was bad,” I admit. “I think. Yes. I don’t like people watching me.”
“I’m going to keep that in mind.” You don’t say that like, Okay, I won’t push you. You say it like we’re about to embark on a grand experiment. An adventure of epic proportions.
A few days later, it begins.
Prom is a few weeks away and everyone’s talking about it. I’m not certain you’ll ask me because you told me you might not go at all. The prom is for seniors only and nearly all of your closest friends are juniors like me.
But then I get the first clue on Friday morning, handed to me by Kyle on a small square of notebook paper. I know it’s from you because your handwriting has already become very familiar to me. You like passing me little notes throughout the day—I have a cigar box full of them at home.
On one side of the paper Kyle hands me is the word WILL. On the other side, a directive:
Walk like a penguin to the library. Someone will give you the next clue upon your arrival.
“Is he serious?” I ask Kyle.
He grins. “I don’t know what it says, I just know Gavin’s watching you.”
I look around, but there’s no sign of you. How often does this happen, me looking around, wondering if you’re watching? In less than a year, I won’t be looking around with hope. I’ll be scared. Paranoid. I’ll see conspiracies in kisses, ulterior motives in hugs.
“I can’t believe he’s making me do this,” I mutter under my breath.
I know you’re asking me to prom. I mean, come on, the first clue is WILL. And instead of flowers or maybe a song—hey, you’re a rock star, why not a song?—I get walking like a goddamn penguin.
The school is crawling with students. The library is on the other side of campus. Knowing you’re watching makes me feel even more self-conscious. I’m going to look like an idiot in front of the one person I’m desperate to impress.
I take out my ponytail and try to hide my face with my hair. I stare at the ground and begin to walk like a penguin, waddling from side to side like Charlie Chaplin.
Penguins aren’t very fast. By the time I get to the library I’m sweating and my face is ten shades of red.
Peter is standing beside the glass double doors and he starts guffawing—a real stage laugh—when he sees me making my way painfully toward him. Of all people, you chose the prick of our group to witness my penguinness.
“Oh my god, this is priceless!” he yells, following me with his phone. Great, now he’ll post a video of my humiliation for all the world to see.
I just shake my head and pray no one got a good look at my face.
Peter hands me the next piece of paper, but only after I beg in a Mr. Penguin voice, which he informs me is very high and snooty sounding. From the next clue, I can tell you’re going to make me work for it. YOU.
Crawl on all fours and bark like a dog in the drama room during lunch. Someone will give you the next clue.
By the time I make it to the drama room, my stomach is a knot of nerves. I’m not sure if I should be angry at you or not. You know how introverted I am. But you’re always telling me I need to learn how to live on the wild side. I wish I could be more like you: stick my head out a car window with the wind rushing over my face, yell Shakespearean monologues on the football field during P.E.
But that’s just not me. Am I not good enough as I am?
I throw my backpack down and get on all fours. There’s always, I think, room for improvement.
“What the hell are you doing?” Lys asks.
“You don’t even want to know,” I say.
I crawl. I bark.
I want to cry.
Nat looks murderous. “This is so stupid,” she says to no one in particular.
Ryan rushes to me. Leans down. He grins, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of sympathy he can’t quite tamp down.
“Clue number three,” your bassist says softly.
Is there pity in his eyes? I can’t even tell at this point. I’ve only been looking into your eyes for so long now, learning their language. I don’t realize that I’ve begun seeing myself this way—through your eyes. Only through your eyes.
I open the paper: GO.
Sing the national anthem outside your sixth-period classroom. Someone will give you the next clue.
I do it. I do all the things and by the end of the day, I want to change my name and move to Guatemala—get as far away from here as I can. It’s worth it, I tell myself, when you walk up to my last class with the final word in your hand. You whip out your guitar and suddenly all the guys are with you—the band, whoever’s around—and you’re singing a punk version of “My Girl.”
When you’re done and half the school is applauding the impromptu concert, you wrap your arms around me, tight.
“I’m so proud of you for doing all that crazy shit. You must really love me. I was afraid you’d give up.”
I hide my face in your neck, still mortified. “Were you, like, testing me?”
“I wouldn’t say testing.…” You grin. “But you passed.”
“Gavin!”
“Don’t be mad, I love you! We’re going to prom!” You kiss me before I can say anything else.
With your lips on mine, your song still in my ears, I forget that I never said yes, that all of it—the dance, us—was a foregone conclusion. You told me to be your girlfriend. You didn’t wait for me to answer about prom. I gave you my heart on a silver fucking platter and you ate it, piece by bloody piece.
* * *
YOU HAND THE policeman your ID. Again.
We’re not even to the dance yet.
“You were swerving a bit there, son. Have you been drinking?”
My face goes beet red and I sink into my prom dress, which you insisted on picking out. (“I know what looks best on you. Besides,” you added with a devilish smile, “I need to make sure it’s easy to take off.”) You wouldn’t let me buy it, either. I guess you’d overheard me telling the girls I
’d have to work extra shifts at the Pot to cover prom. It’s a gown that goes all the way to my feet—you said the super-tight and short ones were for skanks who wanted to make their boyfriends jealous. Depending on the light, it shimmers pink, tangerine, gold. I want to hide underneath it, turn it into a fort. My hand strays to the necklace you gave me: intertwining ribbons threaded with beads that match my dress.
“No, I haven’t been drinking, sir. I swear on my mom’s life,” you say. “My girlfriend was … um…”
I lean toward the window and give the officer the most charming smile I have in my arsenal.
“I was kissing him,” I say. “On the cheek only, but it totally distracted him. I’m so sorry. I promise it won’t happen again.”
The officer frowns as he takes in your tux and my fancy updo.
“Prom night?” he asks.
You nod. “I’m a senior. At RHS. And … a totally responsible virgin.”
The officer laughs. “All right,” he says. He hands you back your license. “You two be safe now.” He fixes us both with a stare. “And stay virgins.”
“This is the kind of story we’ll tell our grandkids someday,” you say as you pull back onto the road.
I raise my eyebrows. “Our?”
The corner of your lip turns up. “I’m thinking we’ll have ten.”
I go all warm and gooey inside. You want to be with me forever, don’t you?
* * *
THE DANCE IS magic. You are a perfect gentleman. In every photo I look happier than I’ve ever been—I’m always mid-laugh or grinning or kissing your cheek. During slow songs you sing softly in my ear; during fast dances you pull me close.
“How did you do it?” you ask.
“Do what?”
“Be the most beautiful girl here.”
Something about you in a tux makes me want to do a striptease for you right there on the dance floor. I love how you lose the bow tie almost immediately, how the top two buttons are undone. And your sleeves, rolled up to the elbow so I can see the muscles in your forearms from all that guitar practice. Oh, and the way you carry your coat slung over your shoulder, one finger holding it up like an eighties movie star. Perfection.
Bad Romance Page 11