“I wasn’t talking about your tits.” He holds up his hands defensively, eyes definitely glued to that area.
“Then to what were you referring?” I glare.
“I was talking about your ass.” He shrugs with an attempted charming smile.
Bam! As natural as a sneeze and just as lightning fast, I pop Adam in the nose with a closed fist. It hurts like fuck and makes a repulsive crunch. I’m in shock. He’s in shock. Blood trickles from his nose, and I’m struck by how satisfying it all feels.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, then recant. “No, I’m not. You’re a sleazebag. You totally deserved that.”
“You did,” a voice sounds from behind me. It’s Luke. “Remind me never to talk about your ass,” he winks, and adds, “Which I can almost see, by the way.”
I give him a perturbed look, and he says to Adam, “Let me take you to first aid. They might have to remove your hat. Can you handle it?”
I’m strangely energized for the rest of the morning. Does that make me a psychopath? Hitting Adam was sweet. Gratifying. I needed that.
Maybe I should take a boxing class.
The morning is so busy, I quickly forget about the incident until I enter the cafeteria at lunchtime. There’s Adam with a cut on the top of his nose and two swollen, silvery purple eyes. I sit down next to him. We look at each other guiltily. “Sorry I looked at your ass,” he offers.
“Sorry I hurt you. I’m not sorry I hit you, though. Just sorry it hurt. I guess.” People nearby giggle at my semblance of an apology.
“Truce?” he asks, hand extended.
“Unless you say something again. And I’m not shaking your hand right before I eat lunch. I don’t know where it’s been.”
“Fair enough.”
Conversation disperses throughout the table, and I’m able to eat in peace for about five seconds until Luke asks, “Hang after work?” He smiles an inviting smile, and I feel for him. He has no idea I don’t want to be his un-girlfriend anymore. Still, I’m not ready to speak to Lish and I would really like to work on the wall.
“I’m going to paint if you want to join me,” I offer, trying not to inject even a drop of innuendo into my words or intonations.
“Cool,” he nods, and I’m comfortable with his tone.
Luke and I walk back to our rides together. He reaches for my hand lackadaisically, and I hold his like a reflex. It’s not a bad feeling, having my small hand intertwined with his large one, and for a second I pretend we’re a blissfully happy couple. Then Luke whispers, “I’ve refilled my wallet,” kisses me on the cheek, and walks back to the Ghoster.
He’s talking about condoms.
He wants more, and I don’t feel particularly right about that if I don’t have strong feelings for the guy. Sure, if we were both all casual, it could be okay. But he had to send all those corny texts and then, glug, say those three little words. There is nothing casual about I love you.
I shudder to myself as I relieve Chaitu. He’s been training on all the rides, since a lot of us may not be back next summer.
At least I don’t think I will. The plan is that I’ll be in Australia. Or maybe moved on to a new country, a new park by then. Gold Reef City in Johannesburg, South Africa, sounds entertaining. Who doesn’t love an old-timey gold-mining experience?
I really should buy that plane ticket. What’s stopping me? Is it fear of the unknown or fear that I’m fighting an impossible war of fate versus free will?
I work my stomach up into a tizzy and ask Chaitu if he can hang around while I run to the bathroom.
I hate feeling out of control. This is the antithesis of the person I want to be. Why else would I fight so hard against the Empties? Because I want autonomy in my life. And here I am, wussing out about Australia, waffling over what to do about Luke, and totally jonesing to look up more info on Hendrix Cutter.
My MTB scar itches, and I grunt, “Fuck off,” at it.
I’m not in control. I’m a total mess.
I mechanically slog my way though the rest of the afternoon. At closing Luke meets me at the lockers where I’m reading a text from Lish.
Ready to talk yet? Everything’s going to be okay.
I huff at my phone and throw it into my bag.
“Everything all right?” Luke asks.
“Not really.” Before I have to explain myself, I ask, “You want to get something to eat?”
“Yeah. You up for Mexican?”
“If you are,” I say, not to be coy but because I have no idea what I want to eat. I have no idea what I want at all anymore.
Luke doesn’t make things easier at dinner. “I’ve been thinking about Australia,” he says, and I prepare for battle. Albeit, a battle I’m not sure I even know how to fight anymore. He continues, “I think you should go.” I freeze midbite on my burrito.
“Really?” I ask. “What changed your mind?”
“We’re young, right? We should do all the things we want now. Things we can’t do when we’re older?” I’m intrigued. Luke has never sounded so analytical.
“Because I am not so sure we do have a choice,” he admits.
“What do you mean?” I unravel my burrito, then attempt to reroll it, causing lettuce, beans, and cheese spill everywhere.
“Well, you know the other night?” he asks, and I raise an eyebrow in question. He leans forward in discretion. “When we fucked on the ride?”
I cover my mouth with a laugh at the bluntness of his description and instantly regret it when refried beans smear my lips. “Yeah,” I say, wiping my mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. “I remember.”
“I’m not sure if you heard me. God, this is weird.” Luke closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. “I said I love you when we, you know, finished,” he mumbles.
“Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t hear.” I replace the napkin in my lap, mostly just shreds of brown stains, hoping to cover the lie in my expression. I don’t feel great about it, but I reconsider when Luke says,
“I hope this doesn’t offend you, but I don’t think I meant it.”
Even though I freaked when I heard it, enough to throw me into a rusty river, it still sucks to hear my un-boyfriend say he doesn’t love me.
Make up your mind, Agatha!
“Um, ouch, maybe?” I try to make light.
“Not that I don’t like you a lot, and I really like what we did on the boats.” Luke bugs his eyes to emphasize how much he liked it. I feel my cheeks warm. Will I ever regain control of this vessel?
“I’ve been trying really hard not to be obsessed with Scarlett.” I wince at the reference to his MTB by only her first name. “That’s why I said I love you and sent all those romantic texts.”
“Oh. So that’s what those were supposed to be,” I realize.
“And most of my body is totally into you … except for this fucking Name, which won’t stop itching me. I think it gets worse after we have sex, truthfully, but my brain is like, Look Scarlett up, man. Get to know her. She’s your MTB. It’s driving me insane.”
It pains me to admit that I’m kind of where he is. I so want to be the cool girl, grabbing life by the balls and doing what I want with whomever I want.
When I don’t say anything, Luke says, “You think I’m an asshole.”
“No!” I correct him. “I don’t. I totally get it. I wish I didn’t.”
“So you’ve been thinking about this Hendrix guy?” he asks with a twinge of jealousy in his voice. That I like.
“Unfortunately,” I sigh.
“Have you seen a picture of him?” he asks.
“Not yet. I’ve been trying my damnedest to avoid it. How about you? Have you looked up Scarlett?”
“Yeah,” he says, and a warm smile grows on his face. It’s not a smile he’s given me before, and I know it’s not meant for or about me in the least. It’s both sweet and chilling at the same time.
“And?” I prod because I need to know. Not because I care what Luke thinks of his Empty; because I
want to know if I’m involuntarily on the same path.
“You really want to know?” he asks.
“Sure.” I shrug nonchalantly, belying the burrito churning in my gut.
“She’s supercute. She’s a redhead!” He’s giddy as he describes her. “Freckles.”
“Have you talked to her?” I question from the edge of my seat.
“No.” He shakes his head. “It felt like it would be cheating on her. I mean, with you.”
“Even though we aren’t technically boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“I know. But I also thought that once I talked to her, you and I would have to stop…” He trails off.
“Boning on carny rides?” I complete his sentence.
“Yeah. That.”
“Probably,” I agree, crossing my arms in observance of this bizarre creature who at once is “breaking up” with me because he has potentially discovered his soul mate but can’t quite cut the cord because his penis would temporarily be sad. Now seems as good a time as any to give some much-needed schooling.
“So what should we do?” Luke asks seriously.
“As long as we’re being honest,” I say, flicking my burrito carcass with a fork. “There is something you should know. About the sexy times.” Luke looks on intently because, of course, this part is important. “This will be helpful for your darling Scarlett, too. When a girl is obviously enjoying herself in the sexington department, don’t stop to get a condom and then automatically switch to the intercourse segment of the show. It’s pretty much a guarantee that you’re going to come no matter what. A lot of girls, me included, can’t easily have orgasms during sex. Always ask if she’s ready, so she’s not left hanging. Or at least until you figure out what works.”
“I left you hanging?” He’s mortified. And definitely oblivious.
“Dangling like a participle.”
“I don’t even know what that means, but, man, I feel like a dickstone. I thought you were into it.”
“I was. Just not as much as you were. It takes me a lot longer for a buildup to turn into a gusher. That sounded weird.”
“I’m feeling you. Although not enough, apparently. I guess I didn’t realize you needed more time.” He futzes with his napkin.
“Yeah. Sometimes, when I’m by myself, I make up entire sagas with the Tenth Doctor just to get to that point.”
“When you’re by yourself?” Luke asks naively and far too intrigued.
“You really do have a lot to learn before you turn into Scarlett Dresden’s knight in shining armor.”
“Are you going to teach all of this to Hendrix Cutter?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
This discussion has gone off the rails. Sex with Hendrix Cutter? I am not equipped to consider such a scenario at this juncture. “If you ever want to have sex with me again, we should probably stop talking about our Empties,” I suggest.
“So do you want to keep doing it?” The obvious answer is no, but the defiant little shit in me who likes to do things to spite the universe can’t get the word out.
“Why don’t we go paint, and see how it goes?” I answer and stand up to use the bathroom.
I gently lay toilet paper on the seat in the festively decorated bathroom. It is there I discover that, for better or worse, I actually do have my period. In these damn tiny shorts, too. I fold up some toilet paper and place it into my undies as a makeshift pad. After I wipe and flush, I check the bathroom for a tampon machine. A handwritten sign reading OUT OF ORDER is taped to the gray box on the wall.
Back at the table, I inform Luke, “I’m going to have to take a rain check on tonight.”
“You okay?” he asks.
“Full disclosure: I got my period,” I inform him.
He mulls this information over and announces, “I don’t mind if you don’t.”
I’m impressed at this fact, but there is nothing sexy to me during this time of the month unless it involves me and two men named Ben and Jerry.
“I’m not really feelin’ it,” I say.
“Then I guess it’s just me and my hand tonight,” Luke declares, pulling back from the table and standing up. I side-eye him. “What? I thought we were talking about self-pleasuring now.”
“I do see a little why you get along so well with Adam,” I note.
“My true colors are coming out. You scared?”
“More like relieved,” I admit. “I better get home before I bleed all over my hot pants.”
“Maybe we should tone down the honest talk a wee bit.”
“Probably,” I concur.
My shorts make it home unscathed, and once I’m changed and padded I know what I should do.
I text Lish.
Can you talk now?
CHAPTER 33
Talking to a pregnant Lish feels like talking to a Lish who has been abducted by aliens, probed, and returned to tell the tale; it’s still the same person, essentially, but there’s stuff going on inside her that I am not nor will I ever be privy to. Even Travis has a one-up on me on this front; there are literally pieces of him growing inside her.
How does anyone let themselves get pregnant when it sounds this sci-fi?
I am still completely freaked out, repulsed, and maybe even a modicum of jealous. Not of being pregnant, obviously, but of this solidified “future” that Lish has carved out so quickly for herself with Travis. That has never been my goal, to settle down straight out of high school, but it sure looks convenient when I watch it from my jumbled vantage point.
Lish already knows who she will (theoretically) love for the rest of her life. He feels the same way about her. They’re ready to put a ring on this piece, and her body is ready to have babies. Now all they have to do is live their lives. So easy!
And boring.
And predictable.
And vanilla, but not like that good kind of vanilla ice cream that surprises you because it has so much flavor. More like vanilla soft-serve sugar-free frozen yogurt.
I want my life to be mint chocolate chip. And Moose Tracks. And birthday-cake ice cream. All piled high onto a chocolate-dipped waffle cone and covered in rainbow sprinkles. Where my Ben and Jerry at?
Before I call Lish, I jot down some points of what I want to say, so I don’t go off on a tangent-slash-diatribe.
• Hey, Lish, still pregnant?
• Is the baby kicking yet?
• Is it a boy or a girl?
• If it’s a girl, consider naming it after me.
• If it’s a boy, you can still name him after me. How about Angus? No, I didn’t say Anus.
• When are you getting married?
• Will I be your maid of honor?
• If so, please choose a bridesmaid dress that allows for a sturdy bra.
• Where will you live?
• Will you still go to college?
• How will you survive?
• You’re going to be homeless with a new baby!
I stop writing. This list is not going well. My goal was to be interested and supportive, but I think this is more irrational and apocalyptic. I decide to fake it till I make it and call her via Viddle.
“Hi, Aggy,” Lish sounds warm as she answers, a close-up view of her face filling her phone screen. I envision the rest of her reclining against Travis, rubbing her gigantic belly. I realize this is crazy because she is all of one-month pregnant, but this is pretty much the first pregnancy I will ever live through and it’s semitraumatic for but-a-wee eighteen-year-old like me.
“Hi, Lish” I pronounce robotically. A stellar start.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Good,” I offer. “And you?”
“I’m okay,” she answers. Shit. Is this where I’m supposed to begin the questioning? The concern? The prenatal vitamins talk? Lish, ever the grown-up, helps move the awkwardness off to the side. “I threw up four times today.”
“Yuck. Because of the…” I tilt my phone toward the general vici
nity of my stomach.
“Yeah. It’s morning sickness, which is a bullshit name since it’s been an all-day puke-a-thon.”
“Maybe you have the stomach flu?” I suggest, and a morsel of my stupid brain hopes that this is all just a big misunderstanding and she is not, indeed, pregnant.
“I don’t think so. After I puke, I want to eat a lot. Microwave hot dogs are the end. Weirdly, eating makes my stomach feel better. I’m going to gain seven hundred pounds before the baby is born.”
Well, there it is. My body chills, as though a spirit passes through me.
I have so many questions. A lot of them start with Why???, but I know that’s too accusatory. I try the Hows, which have more of an interested connotation.
“How are you going to manage school and a baby?” I ask.
Lish looks down guiltily. “Travis and I decided I’m going to move to Louisville, so he can still go to school and we can be near his family. We’re going to live with his parents, actually.” She looks at the camera with a teeth-gritting smile.
The worst part of Viddles is that Lish can see my face.
After I scoop my dropped chin off the floor, I attempt to gather my thoughts enough so I don’t go off the rails. It’s impossible, though, so I do the only thing I can think of. “My mom’s calling me. Can I call you back?”
Her expression, and the fact that she’s been my best friend for more than a decade, lets me know that she’s not buying my bullshit. That doesn’t stop me from hanging up.
God, my stomach hurts. Why would anyone voluntarily put a baby in there if it makes you throw up all the time?
I’m close to throwing up myself as I walk into the upstairs hallway and yank down on the string to open the attic stairway.
“Uncle Jim?” I call. “Can I talk to you?”
“Sure,” he yells back. “Come on up.”
I rarely make the sojourn to my uncle’s office. He’s always busy, and I hate to interrupt if Savannah Merlot is in process. Plus, the retractable stairs are precarious and petrifying. I don’t know how he carries hot beverages up and down.
His office is simply decorated with a lot of furniture that looks like it’s from Ikea but is most likely from a high-end Scandinavian furniture store. Savannah Merlot likes a splurge. Two complementary-patterned cushy chairs surround a stereo, and the whole room is lit by day from a skylight. There are also numerous lamps for when the skylight isn’t bright enough or when Uncle Jim is having an all-night writing session to meet a deadline. If he didn’t work up here, I would love to make it my bedroom. Not that I’ll be here much longer.
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