Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

“You,” she says, so quiet I can barely hear her.

  “A hundred dollars a week,” he says. “She needs to learn to be a responsible adult.”

  “I understand where you’re coming from,” she says, her voice quivering. I’ve never heard my mom go to bat for me like this. “But why don’t we have her put that money aside for college? She’s going to need so many things—”

  “This conversation’s over.”

  “But—”

  “Get the fuck out of my face, Jean. I’ve had a long day.”

  There’s the sound of a cupboard slamming and ice falling into a glass. I lean against the garage door and close my eyes. Why can’t I have one day, just one day without The Giant stomping all over my life?

  I force myself up the walkway. There’s a cold wind and it blows through the big tree in our front yard, the bare branches shaking like angry fists. I pull open the door and walk inside. The Giant is sitting on the couch now, watching golf. Mom is in the kitchen, doing dishes. She turns around when I come in.

  “How was it?” she asks. The smile on her face doesn’t reach her eyes.

  “Great. It was really fun. Thanks for letting me go.”

  “There’s a little something for you on your bed,” she says. “It’s not much, but…”

  “Thanks.”

  I’m a little dazed, numb. Does The Giant really expect me to start paying rent? Once the next show starts, I’ll be working less than usual. I won’t even make four hundred dollars a month.

  I head into my room, suddenly exhausted. I wish it were this morning again, with you waking me up so we could go have an adventure.

  My birthday present from my mom is in a bag with flowers on it. It’s the one we reuse time and again. I can’t remember who got it first—I think Gram put Mom’s birthday gift in it a few years ago. Inside is a dark green sweater, almost the exact color of my eyes, soft, with wooden buttons. It’s funny—I always feel like my mom doesn’t get me, but every present from her is perfect. It strikes me that my mom might know me better than I realize. I try it on. It’s cozy, with the sleeves going a little past my wrists. I set the sweater aside, then get ready for bed. My mom pokes her head in as I’m turning down the covers.

  “Does it fit?” she asks, glancing at where the sweater lies over my desk chair.

  I nod. “It’s really pretty. Thank you.”

  She looks like she wants to say something else, but then just shakes her head.

  “I’m so glad you had a good birthday. I’m sorry we couldn’t do more for it.”

  The Giant had nixed our ideas for a party, reminding us that he wasn’t made of money and that it didn’t grow on trees.

  “Mom,” I say, just as she’s about to shut the door. Her eyes slide to mine. “I heard you guys talking. About the money.”

  She sighs. “Shit. I didn’t want to tell you on your birthday. I’m so sorry—there wasn’t much I could do.”

  “I know. Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  After she closes the door, I collapse onto my bed and call you.

  “Hey,” you say, soft. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

  I tell you what The Giant said and you are livid.

  “What the fuck is wrong with him?” you growl.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  We talk for a few minutes, but I’m falling asleep, so I tell you I’ll call back in the morning. What feels like minutes later, my phone starts vibrating. Two a.m. It’s you.

  “Open your window, baby.”

  “What?”

  “I’m outside.”

  I sit up, disoriented. Sure enough, I see you peering through the window. I carefully slide it up and you crawl inside, then pull me into your arms. I melt into you.

  “They’ll kill me if they find you in here,” I murmur.

  “They’ve been asleep for hours,” you say, just above a whisper. “It’ll be fine.”

  I take your hand and pull you toward the bed and we get tangled up in each other for a good long while, skin against skin, our lips locked. We have to be careful because my bed creaks. We touch and hold and kiss in silence, the only sounds a gasp, a sigh, a quiet groan. When I come, you press your palm against my lips because it feels so good and for a second I forget we’re not alone in your house or your backseat and I can’t help but cry out. You roll off of me and pull me against you. I breathe you in: Irish Spring soap and your boy smell. Your hair is a wild mess and it makes me immeasurably happy to run my hands through it.

  “I’ll always take care of you,” you whisper. “Always.”

  When I wake up in the morning, you’re gone. There’s an envelope propped against my alarm clock. Inside are four hundred-dollar bills. And a note.

  Rent for November. Fuck The Giant. I love you.

  TWENTY-THREE

  This is how I love you best:

  You’re onstage, flinging your body around as your pick cuts across your strings. You and your electric guitar dance a wild, ecstatic round and then your mouth is against the mic and you’re singing about us, about what it feels like to make love to me, and it’s too dark for anyone to see me blush and I’m proud and embarrassed all at once.

  Closer, closer I want inside

  You’re the place where I can hide

  Steamy windows, my backseat

  You’re all mine, my love so sweet

  This is one of Evergreen’s most popular songs. It’s got a sexy bass beat, drums that make hips shake, and you sing it like one long suppressed moan. Your guitar comes in every few seconds, like it just can’t help itself. It reminds me of the way you’ll suddenly lean over and kiss me full on the lips when I’m mid-sentence.

  “God, he’s so hot,” a girl near me says to her friend.

  I smile to myself. This is fun, getting to be the girlfriend in your world. I should have made a T-shirt: Gavin’s Girl.

  Kyle—the ride you arranged, breaking your own rule about me being alone with a member of the male species—looks over at the salivating girls near us and cracks up.

  “Girl fight! Girl fight! Girl fight!” he chants.

  I laugh. “Shut up.”

  “Better watch your man, Grace,” he teases. “Those girls look like they came to play.”

  I listen to the songs, listen to how much you love me. When your eyes search for me in the crowd and you smile a secret smile just for me, all the crap my parents put us through is suddenly worth it.

  “This next song,” you say, “is for my beautiful girl, Grace. Can I get a Fuck yeah for my girlfriend?”

  The entire room swoons and yells, Fuck yeah! I shake my head, laughing, almost crying because can you be any more wonderful? Your eyes never leave mine as you sing. It’s like we’re the only people in the room. In the world.

  Your skin against mine

  Let go and let love

  Let go and let love

  Let me be your anthem, baby

  Let me be your song

  The crowd sings along, your fan base getting bigger every day. All of a sudden it becomes real, the fact that you might actually become a legit rock star. Girls will ask you to sign their boobs with a Sharpie. I push the thought away and sing along, too. Almost all the songs are about us, and I wonder if anyone outside the band realizes it. Kyle must. I can’t tell what he thinks about them, though. What picture do your words paint? What he and Nat have is so tame compared to us. It’s sweet, innocent. We’re anything but.

  You have a few more songs left in your set, some I’ve never heard. They’re about being exhausted, sad beyond belief, horny. They’re about confusion and love and the sense that something’s not quite right. Ryan’s bass feels like a heartbeat—frenetic, stressed. Dave’s drums remind me of you hitting your hand against the steering wheel when you’re angry, throwing shit around in your room when you’re jealous. I start to come down off the high of your nicer songs but then you play the sweetest one of all, a lullaby you wrote for my toughest nights at home. When you finish, I blow
you a kiss and you catch it with a smile, grabbing it out of the air and putting it in your pocket. It’s something you’ve always done with me and the familiarity of it puts me at ease. We are still Us.

  I check my phone—it’s almost two. I’m praying my mom doesn’t come into my room for some reason. Watch: with my luck, the house will catch on fire tonight. I can just picture the look on The Giant’s face when he realizes the body sleeping under the covers of my bed is a series of perfectly shaped pillows.

  You guys do a rendition of the Beatles’ “Happiness Is a Warm Gun” as your last song and it’s breathtaking and scary. You sing the words with such longing—I can almost see you willing the gun into your hands. I hate this song. It makes me think of you and that bathtub filled with your blood. The first time I used the guest bathroom in your house, I couldn’t stop staring at the tub. I couldn’t believe it wasn’t stained. I couldn’t reconcile what had happened in it with the fruity shampoos and bars of soap.

  The last note of the song fades into the audience’s loving roar and then you’re done. Wild applause. Every girl in this room wants you. I worry that I don’t look cool enough, deserving enough. I’ve got bloodred lips. A short skirt. Heels. A tight T-shirt. It’s all for you.

  The club you’re playing in is like a big black-box theater. There’s a bar all along one side where I get a Coke with Kyle while we wait for you and the band to break down your stuff. There are posters on the wall—Pearl Jam, the Arctic Monkeys, Modest Mouse. Everyone here is older than me and I wonder if I stick out. This is your world, but it doesn’t have a place for me. Not yet.

  Arms around my waist, sweaty hair against my neck. You, you, you. I turn and wrap my arms around your neck and press myself against you.

  “You were fucking brilliant,” I say. Gush.

  Right now, you are the Gavin Davis, the boy I loved from afar. Unattainable and yet here I am, with my tongue in your mouth. I’m never like this. You love it. Your arms tighten around my waist and I feel you go hard and I don’t care that everyone’s watching us.

  I kinda want them to.

  Kyle coughs. “Um. Guys. This is very romantic and all, but—”

  “Jealous?” you say, only half kidding.

  Normally this would bug me, but I like you territorial tonight. I like you sweaty and sneering at anyone who comes too close to me.

  Kyle laughs, uncomfortable. “Uh … whatever, man.”

  You let go of me and wrap an arm around his neck.

  “I love you, brother—I’m just giving you shit.”

  I watch as you accept hugs and congratulations and free drinks. The words to your songs thrum through me, some of them at odds with you being the life of the party:

  Mud up to my neck, swimming in dirt, gotta get outta here

  You cut me to pieces, you spin me around, you push me off a cliff and smile as I go down

  Lay down, close my eyes, think of all the ways I can die.

  How can the same guy who wrote these songs be the Gavin who’s clearly having the time of his life? I can’t keep up. But then there are your other songs, the ones that take my hands and spin me around until I’m delirious:

  God, I want her so bad, she’s mine, she’s mine, all mine

  Kiss me again, tell me you love me, hold me close and don’t let go

  She’s perfect, gets better every day. Love her, don’t care what they say.

  “We’re going to Denny’s,” you say, grabbing my hand. You turn to Kyle. “You in?”

  “No, man, I gotta bail. Good show,” he says. He salutes me, then heads out to the parking lot.

  “Gavin Fucking Davis,” says a girl in a tiny black dress and knee-high boots. She wraps her arms around you, her fingers lingering as they slide around your waist. “You are such a rock star.”

  I like that you don’t hug her back and as soon as she lets go, you reach for my hand.

  “Thanks, Kim.” You nod to me. “This is my girlfriend, Grace.”

  Her honey-brown eyes go to me and a slight frown turns down her lips.

  “Hey,” she says. “Gavin and I are in the same freshman comp class.”

  “Cool,” I say, a clear dismissal. Then I turn to you and tug on your hand. “We have coffee and greasy food waiting for us.”

  “Right. See you later, Kim,” you say, letting me pull you away.

  We go to Denny’s and you keep your arm around me the whole time, making sure I don’t feel left out with the band and their girlfriends. Then we go to your house, sneaking past your parents’ room.

  You open your old-school record player and put the Beatles on—Abbey Road. “Because” comes on and you take me in your arms and dance me around the room as you sing along.

  “Love is all, love is you.”

  We collapse onto your bed and it is a perfect moment, just breath and lips and the feel of your body against mine.

  For a little while, we are infinite.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Halfway through my shift at the Honey Pot I’m dripping sweat. It’s Black Friday and instead of decorating the tiny tree in my bedroom or eating Thanksgiving leftovers, I’ve been stuck here all day, fueling shoppers. As soon as there isn’t a line, I’m whipping through the notecards I made for my AP World History test on Monday. We’ve moved on from the medieval plagues to the Renaissance. I love seeing the cause and effect, the way dots connect over long spans of time. This happened because of that. Like us. If you hadn’t tried to kill yourself, we wouldn’t be together right now. It’s weird thinking you had to go through that pain for us to fall in love.

  You saunter up during a lull in the evening, when people are hungry for dinner, standing outside Hot Dog On A Stick (winner of the worst uniforms ever).

  “Hello, beautiful,” you say.

  I look up and grin, already scooping up oatmeal raisin cookies into a bag for you.

  “What brings you here?” I ask, feigning surprise.

  “Oh … you know. I was just in the area.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “What a coincidence.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Matt,” I call into the back as I take off my apron covered in dough, “I’m going for my fifteen. Can you man the store?”

  “Only if you bring me back a hot dog on a stick,” he calls.

  “She’ll be too busy,” you snap, and grab my hand, pulling me away from the shop.

  “Gav, that was rude,” I say.

  “Do you know he checks out your ass when you take the cookies out of the oven?”

  I smile and bust out some Rent in my not-so-great voice. “They say that I have the best ass below Fourteenth Street, is it true?”

  “This isn’t a joke, Grace. If I see it again, I’m gonna have to do something.”

  I almost laugh. “Do something? What is this, West Side Story? Baby. I’m sure you’re just imagining—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, then take it as a compliment. I mean, you want a girlfriend with a nice ass, right?”

  You don’t say anything. You just frown and lead us toward some benches in the center of the mall near the huge Christmas display. I decide to drop it, which is what I decide most of the time now when you get overly jealous. I don’t want to ruin the few minutes we have with petty fighting. There are only a few pockets of time we can carve out for each other during the week. Things with your band are ramping up and you’re playing shows a few times a week now on top of your full class load and your job at Guitar Center. I have my insane workload from my classes and the Honey Pot, not to mention my chores and babysitting, and whatever else my mom and The Giant decide to throw my way.

  “It feels so good out here,” I say as I plop down. Working at the Honey Pot is like being in a furnace. The oven never stops running.

  You nod, distracted. You fiddle with your car keys, won’t look at me.

  “What’s up?” I quickly scan through the day—I can’t think of anything I’ve done to piss you off. I try not to feel anxious, to ac
knowledge the cold knot in my stomach.

  You readjust your fedora, then look down, clasping and unclasping your hands. Whenever you got all antsy like this, I know something’s wrong. God, I get enough shit at home. Why can’t things be simple with you? Nat and Kyle never fight. They just have fun and are cute and normal.

  “Someone posted a picture of the scene you did with Kyle in class,” you say. “I saw it this morning.”

  “Oh yeah? I think we did pretty good. I mean, you can’t go wrong with Barefoot in the Park—”

  You snort. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “Huh?”

  I play dumb, but I know what you’re talking about. My face warms and I turn my gaze from you to Santa and his elves. A little girl is sobbing on his lap and one of the elves is doing a silly dance to get the kid to smile. Why does no one care that she’s miserable and wants to get off that creepy dude’s lap?

  “How was it? Was he good?”

  “Gavin. No. Nothing’s going on. We tried it with a stage kiss and everyone said it looked too fake. Even Nat, and she’s his girlfriend.”

  You look up, your eyes pushing against mine. “Doing a kissing scene with one of my best friends—that’s kind of slutty, don’t you think?”

  My eyes widen. “What?” I whisper.

  “Slutty,” you repeat. “Which makes you … a slut. Right? You have a boyfriend, in case you forgot.”

  Slut. The word jabs into me, hard and fast. I sit there for a minute, my eyes on the shiny Christmas ornaments that hang from the ceiling, the fake snow in the store windows. Slut. Bing Crosby’s singing about a white Christmas and there’s a sale at the Gap and I can’t believe this just happened. I can’t.

  “How could you say that to me?” I whisper, my voice trembling.

  You look away, the faintest bit of shame in your eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I’m fucking tired and I saw Matt looking at you and … it’s just too much, Grace. I’m losing it.”

  “I have to go,” I say.

  You nod, lips set in a thin line. “As usual.”

  I throw up my hands in frustration. “It’s my job. I can’t leave Matt stranded there.”