Bad Romance

by Heather Demetrios

  “NOPE,” Lys says. “Tell him how you feel.”

  “I don’t want to do this,” I say. I shove a chip into my mouth, then another.

  Lys gives an overdramatic sigh. “You’re hopeless.”

  “I’m gonna put up curtains.”

  Nat reaches across the table and grips my hand. “We love you. Why are you so crazy?”

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  But I do. All of this—the fighting, the tears, breaking Gideon’s heart—will have been for nothing if we don’t at least try to see what life would be like when I graduate. How many times have I pictured myself being able to go to all your shows, to the after-parties, without having to worry about parents or curfews? How many times have you fantasized about waking up next to me, meeting me for lunch between classes? You have an illness and you’re trying to get better. Maybe if we found the right meds, the right therapist …

  Breaking up with you is too hard right now. Going away with my friends, doing senior year activities—even planning on flying solo for prom since you have a show that night—all that stuff I can do.

  UCLA has a huge, sprawling campus in Westwood, a trendy part of LA. We find parking on a palm-lined street, then make our way to Beth’s Spanish-style apartment, which is located five minutes from campus.

  Music blares out of an apartment on the ground floor and a guy in nothing but board shorts saunters out and lights up a joint, right there in front of us.

  “Ladies,” he says, tipping an imaginary cap.

  Nat stares in shock while Lys giggles uncontrollably as she heads for the stairs.

  “I can’t take them anywhere,” I say to the guy with a small smile.

  He grins as he holds the joint out to me. “You want?”

  I shake my head, quick. It’s the first time I’ve ever been offered a smoke. I only know the smell because of the few parties I’ve gone to with you.

  “She’s in high school,” Natalie says with her customary disapproving tone. She looks like a camp counselor in her khaki shorts and polo shirt.

  I kick her shin.

  The guy nods, unfazed. “Sucks.”

  “You got that right,” I say.

  Nat pulls me up the stairs after Lys. “Oh my gosh, that druggie was totally flirting with you,” she says.

  “Right?” I grin and shake my hips. “Off the market, but I still got it.”

  “Oh, brother.”

  Sprouting wings begins with a tingle that spreads across your chest, then your whole body, all the way around to your back. It doesn’t hurt at all.

  Beth opens the door on the first knock. She and I scream simultaneously and jump around.

  “Your hair is blue!” I screech.

  “I know!” she yells back.

  My sister’s place is my dream apartment. White Christmas lights line the inside windows and the furniture is all really modern stuff from Ikea that screams We are young and broke, but cool. She and her roommates have draped the walls with colorful sarongs and hung Chinese lanterns throughout.

  What follows is pretty much the best weekend of my life. There’s an impromptu bonfire on the beach, a doughnut run at two a.m., mornings spent drinking coffee, and thrift-store shopping. We check out nearby USC and I can’t stop talking about the great French program there with a study-abroad option and how their drama school is one of the best in the country. I buy a sweatshirt and pose for a picture in front of Tommy Trojan, the USC mascot, and try not to think about how I’m going to manage to pay my tuition.

  “Okay, little sis, I gotta ask,” Beth begins. We’re sitting on a blanket on the beach, watching Nat and Lys splash around in the frigid Pacific. “Why are you still with Gavin? I know I tell you to break up with him all the time, but seriously: break up with him. You’re obviously miserable. You’ve, like, lost weight and have crack-whore eyes.”

  “Thanks for the confidence booster,” I say.

  “Anytime.”

  I lean my head on Beth’s shoulder and she wraps an arm around me.

  “I’m trying to break up with him,” I say. “I promise. I really am.”

  Beth shifts and brings her hands to my shoulders so that we’re face-to-face.

  “The only reason you should stay with someone is because you make each other happy. Any other reason is bullshit.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t get it, Beth—he almost died. The doctor said it was pure luck he made it. If we break up, who knows what he’ll do? I couldn’t live with myself if he—”

  She throws up her hands. “Your job is not to keep Gavin Davis alive. That’s his job.”

  I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

  “Like I told you before: you’re turning into Mom,” she says. “Can’t you see that? Gavin is your Giant. Your man is abusive and dangerous and one hundred percent insane. And you just take it.”

  Tears fill my eyes. “This is some seriously tough love you’re dishing out.”

  She shrugs. “I love you. And this shit has got to stop.”

  I don’t call you to check in. I don’t even think about you, other than that talk with Beth. I imagine what my life in LA would be like, talking to cute, shirtless boys who live downstairs, meeting up with friends on the quad between classes. I picture getting on a plane bound for Paris, taking classes at La Sorbonne.

  We’re standing in line for cookies at Diddy Riese, this famous place near UCLA, and Nat hooks her arm with mine.

  “I haven’t seen you this happy in a year,” she says.

  “I know,” I admit.

  Other than with Gideon, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard my stomach hurt. I can’t remember not freaking out that you’d see me having a conversation with another guy. I haven’t looked over my shoulder once, worrying that you’re around to catch me doing something that will piss you off.

  This trip does something to me. It gives me a peek into the future. This is what life could be like without you.

  It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, it’s not bad at all.

  THIRTY-NINE

  You are so mad that I decided to go to prom without you. You refused to go because you’re twenty and I’m not going to a fucking high school dance and I refused to not go.

  “Fine,” you say. “Go find that little fucker in his tux—”

  “Gavin, like I’ve told you a million times, if I wanted to cheat on you, I could have. So what does it matter if I go to prom and he’s there?”

  “You’ll dance with him, for one.”

  “No, I won’t, because he has his own date. Her name is Susan and—”

  “So the only reason you wouldn’t dance with him is because he has a date.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “Look, I don’t want to argue anymore. I’m just saying, shit happens on prom night and that’s why I want to keep you close, okay?” You look down at me, slightly paternal. “I’m sorry if I’m not comfortable with the possibility of my girlfriend screwing some guy because she had too much to drink and he looked good in his tux.”

  “I only drank that one time!” I yell.

  “At HIS house,” you say. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that. Your first time should have been with me.”

  “I’m well aware of the fact that I have a boyfriend and that means something to me, like not screwing other guys on prom night. Jesus, Gavin!”

  “Are you really gonna do this?” you say, quiet.

  “It’s my senior prom. You’re welcome to come. If not, I’m going without you.”

  You stare at me, dumbfounded, then jump into your car, a new Dodge Challenger that your parents surprised you with when you got out of Birch Grove. You’re lucky they didn’t suspend your license after the DUI you received when you woke up in the hospital.

  “Find your own way home,” you say before peeling off.

  I wait until you’re out of sight and then I jump up, a fist in the ai
r. I did it. I fucking DID IT!

  I walk the two miles home from the Pot, grinning the whole time.

  * * *

  NOW I’M POSING with my best friends and Lys’s girlfriend, Jessie, grinning for the photographer. We’re standing in a little chorus line, holding one another’s waists. He takes the picture when we’re all mid-laugh.

  “I love that the photographer thinks you guys are lesbians, too,” Lys says when we’re done. “Best group photo ever.”

  I give Nat a big smacking kiss on the cheek. She’s the best prom date a girl could ask for. I was planning on flying solo, but Kyle got the stomach flu at the last minute, so Nat and I decided to be each other’s dates.

  The four of us move away from the prom backdrop. The theme is Arabian Nights, so it looks like we’re on the set of Aladdin. Star-shaped lanterns hang over the dance floor and there are pretty cutouts of elegant windows surrounding the room. The hotel ballroom is packed.

  A slow song comes on and we all go onto the dance floor. Nat and I do a tango while Jessie and Lys get all cute and cuddly.

  “I love that they met on our Oregon trip,” says Nat, with a nod to our friends.

  “Yeah,” I say, soft. Thinking about that trip always hurts a little.

  Perfect timing: I catch sight of Gideon near the refreshments table and my heart lurches. As if he can sense me, he turns his head and his eyes find mine.

  “Who are you—” Nat says, turning around. “Oh.”

  I give a little wave, then look away. I don’t know if he waves back.

  “You should talk to him,” Nat says. “Clear the air, you know?”

  I shake my head. “I treated him like such shit.”

  “So go over there and say you’re sorry.”

  “Empire State of Mind” comes on, and just hearing the lyrics makes my eyes fill with tears: In New York, these streets will make you feel brand-new, these lights will inspire you. Nat wraps her arms around me.

  “I’m sorry about NYU,” she says.

  “Me too.”

  I should never have let you push me into not applying.

  “It’s my own damn fault,” I mutter.

  “Yeah. But it still sucks,” she says. Nat pulls away. “Bright side: we’ll be in the same state!”

  I nod. “It’ll be great—we can pretend to hate each other during football games.”

  Apparently, USC and Cal have it in for each other.

  The night passes in a blur of laughter and dancing and feet hurting. By the end I’m barefoot and sweaty and happy. You’ve called me seven times and I’ve only answered twice.

  “Is he there?” is the first thing you say to me when I pick up.

  “Yes. Literally across the room, as far away from me as possible. Happy?”

  I hang up on you and don’t respond to the text you send me a few minutes later.

  I’m sorry. I love you.

  A slow song comes on and I’m about to sit down when someone grabs my hand. I turn around. My heart stops.

  Gideon.

  “May I dance with your date?” he asks Natalie, who’s sitting with her feet propped up on another chair, drinking punch.

  She grins. “By all means.”

  He looks at me, his eyes asking permission, and I nod. It feels so good to have my hand in his again.

  The song is Adele’s “Someone Like You” because the universe likes messing with me like that.

  Never mind I’ll find someone like you, I wish nothing but the best for you too …

  Gideon leads me to the center of the floor, then takes my arms and drapes them around his neck. His hands slide around my waist. His cheek rests against mine.

  “I’ve been working up the courage to do this all night, you know,” he says softly.

  I smile. “You have?”

  “Uh-huh. Mostly, I was worried about getting jumped with a baseball bat afterward. But then I decided it’d be worth it.”

  I lean back a little so I can look at him. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

  “I know.” He pushes up his glasses and then his grip around my waist tightens. “Let me guess: he didn’t want to come to a high school dance.”

  “Bingo.” I laugh, and its bitterness surprises even me.

  “You know what I’m gonna say, right?”

  I smile, remembering our little ritual before sixth period.

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  He mouths the words: break up with him.

  “I will. I feel like … really close to doing it.”

  Gideon gives me a pitying look. “That’s great.”

  I hate that he doesn’t believe me. I want him to know I’m going to do it for real this time. I want to know that I’m going to do it for real this time.

  “Wanna make a bet?” I ask.

  “Okay. What’s the bet?”

  “If I break up with him by graduation … you have to write me an email every week this summer.”

  “And if you don’t break up with him?”

  “Um … what do you want?”

  “You still have to be friends with me,” he says.

  “Deal.” I glance over to where his date is chatting with a group of girls. “Susan okay with you not dancing with her?” I ask. He seems happy, which is good. What he deserves.

  “She’s not like Gavin,” Gideon says. “She trusts me.”

  I nod. “That’s good.”

  “It is.”

  We don’t talk much after that. It feels like everything we can say has been said. When the song ends, Gideon keeps his arms around me and gives me one of his wonderful bear hugs.

  “Good luck, friend,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  Nat, Lys, Jessie, and I stay until the very end, dancing as a group to Katy Perry’s “Part of Me.”

  “It’s your song, bitch!” Lys yells over the music.

  I double cross my fingers and hold them up as we shout the lyrics: This is the part of me that you’re never gonna ever take away from me, no!

  At the end, we all fall into one another for a group hug. We have sweet perfumed sweat and smeared makeup and dresses that are too long, but we don’t care because this is our night and, for once, I didn’t let you ruin it.

  “Proud of you,” Nat whispers in my ear as we make our way to the car.

  I sling an arm around her shoulder. “By graduation,” I say.

  “I’ve got your back.”

  I smile. “I know. You’ve had it the whole time.”

  “Damn straight,” she says.

  “You cursed!”

  Her eyes twinkle. “Fuck him.”

  Lys turns around and grins. “Fuck yeah fuck him!”

  We laugh and laugh and laugh.

  And they’re right: Fuck you, Gavin.

  * * *

  EVERY YEAR THE senior classes of schools all over California get to go to Disneyland after hours. For this one night, the park is all ours. Nat, Lys, Peter, Kyle, and I go on every ride at least once, take pictures with characters wearing graduation robes, and eat way too much overpriced food. We don’t leave until the sky lightens and by the time we get back to Birch Grove, I’m exhausted—that overcaffeinated kind where you’re so tired you can’t sleep.

  I’m so surprised when you show up at school to give me a ride home that I don’t protest. But instead of taking me home, we go to your apartment, even though I say I don’t want to. You’re pushing and I’m too tired, so as soon as we get there I immediately collapse on the bed and fall asleep. As soon as I wake up, I’m going to break up with you.

  Sometime later, I jerk awake. You’re spooning me, one hand inside my underwear. Your finger moves inside me. Up, down, up, down. I can feel your erection through my thin T-shirt, your quick breaths against my ear.

  “What the fuck?” I say, pushing you off me.

  Your eyes narrow. “You liked it.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  That half smile of yours flits across your face. “Trust me, I can tell yo
u liked it.”

  I feel … violated.

  I watch you sleep at night

  Wonder what you dream

  “Gavin, that’s … I mean…”

  There are no words. Disneyland suddenly seems like it happened years ago. Now this is what I’ll remember: not the fun I had with my friends, but the after—you, touching me without permission. Getting off on getting away with it.

  “You’re my girlfriend,” you say. “Since when do you not want me touching you? You’re acting like I’m some kind of … kind of creep or something. Jesus Christ.”

  “Well, maybe you are! I mean—”

  I stop as something shifts in your expression. I can’t quite put my finger on it, except … malice. That’s what I see. Just like that night you first told me you hated me. And I am suddenly hyperaware of the fact that I’m alone in an apartment with a boy much stronger than me. A boy who looks like he wants to hurt me.

  Calm him down, a panicked voice inside me says.

  I’m suddenly terrified as you crawl closer to me, push me against the pillows.

  “Tell me you love me,” you whisper, your eyes turning to slate. You straddle me and pull off your shirt, then lean down, your lips barely brushing mine. “Grace. Tell me. Or I swear to fucking God I will go hang myself in that bathroom.”

  I start to shake. Your eyes burn into mine as your hands curl around my wrists and pin me to the bed.

  “I … I love you.”

  You pull at my pants. Slip them down. This isn’t happening. It’s not. It’s not.

  “Gavin, no, please…”

  “Tell me you want me,” you growl. I flinch. “Grace.”

  “I wa-want you.”

  You take my hand and put it on your belt. I close my eyes and pretend you’re Gideon. I pretend I’m somewhere else, far away from this apartment and you and your heart beating against my skin.

  Let me go, I want to scream. Please let me go.

  You are not gentle.

  After, I take a shower, holding my fist to my mouth so the sobs won’t echo off the tiles. I’m so fucking scared. I pray you won’t have another go at me. If you do, I’ll shatter.

  You pull open the glass shower door and step inside, smiling as you dunk your head under the stream of water. You’re acting like everything is fine, like what happened in your bed was us making love. I become Contrite and Subservient Female. You ask me to wash your back. I do. Then you turn around and watch as I wash you off me. The soap travels from my breasts to my hips, my thighs, my feet. Finally, it goes down the drain. I stay in the shower long after you get out. I wait until the water runs cold. Until all of you is gone.