by Amy Sparling
I don't even know what to do when school is out. It's tempting to try to talk things out with Elisa, but I don't. I mean, what's the fucking point? We'll just end up fighting and all the screaming in the parking lot would give more fuel to the cheerleaders and all the other assholes who are rooting for me to fail.
I stay about ten feet behind Elisa as we shuffle out of the classroom, down the hall and out into the parking lot. I guess Claire is still taking her home these days.
I notice the blond before anything else.
Sarah is in the parking lot, leaning against the driver's side door of my truck. Her hair has been transformed into the whitest shade of blond, and it whips back and forth in the wind, giving me glimpses of her sly smile.
"What are you doing here?" I ask when I'm close enough for her to hear me.
"Oh you know," she says, reaching out her arms and hugging me tightly around my neck. "I live right next door, so I thought I'd surprise you."
"Congrats, you surprised me."
Her fingers trace circles on the back of my neck, and my hands are around her waist and I'm overcome with the urge to make out. I lean down to kiss her. Her lips taste like smoke, but who fucking cares. She presses into me, pulling me closer, and we kiss deeper and longer leaning on my truck for support.
"You wanna go get ice cream?" she asks, when we finally pull apart. Her tongue slides across her top lip while she's smiling. It's hot.
Cars are driving all around us, zooming down the aisles trying to get off campus as soon as possible so they can go home and enjoy their teenage life. Not worry about babies. Not worry about ex-girlfriends. I feel shitty inside. Like a monster. But at this moment, I don't want to think about what I should have said or done. I just want to be one of those normal teenagers.
"Yeah. Let's get ice cream."
Chapter 19
I head to the cycle shop on Tuesday after school to pick up my paycheck from last week. Mark is there and even though he owns the shop, he seems out of his element because he's never actually behind the counter. The guy loves to schmooze almost as much as he loves paying us to do all his work while he sits at home watching football.
"It's weird seeing you behind the counter," I say, opening the filing cabinet where our paychecks are kept.
"It is weird, which is why I want to offer you more hours," he says.
The envelope with my name on it is the only one left in here. I grab it and shove it in my pocket. No need to look at it, my sixteen hours always produce the same amount. "What kind of hours? I'm not out of school yet."
"Just after school, as soon as you can get here. Two or three days a week would be great. Now that it's summer, business is really picking up."
I glance around the shop. All three mechanics are working on bikes, and the merchandise part of the store is packed. Mostly dads with their sons whose smiles stretch from ear to ear as they beg for new helmets and boots and shit that's all entirely overpriced.
"Yeah, that sounds good," I say. "Basketball is over, so I don't have anything else to do."
"Great. What about that girlfriend of yours? Will she get pissed that you're working more?"
It isn't a funny question, but I laugh anyway. "We broke up."
The laughter piques his interest. "Why's that funny?"
"I have no idea," I say. It's nice to have one person on this earth that doesn't know about the pregnancy. Then I salute him goodbye and dash out the swinging glass door that chimes upon my exit.
My cell phone starts ringing on the drive home. Some dumb as hell pop song gets louder with each passing second. Sarah's number flashes on the caller ID. And now I know what she was doing with my phone the other night.
"You're dead." I say, answering the phone. She laughs. "It's the newest hit single from that Disney Channel star. The one you said looked like the biggest twelve-year-old whore you've ever seen."
"Well I hope you don't call me ever again, because that song was just awful."
"Sucks to be you, because I plan on calling every single day." A sort of déjà vu jolt hits me. I'm reminded of Elisa, but in an opposite way. She would never call me two days in a row – she had always said if I cared about her, I'd call her first, which I always did anyhow. Sarah and Elisa are so incredibly opposite.
My stomach flopped over.
Sarah paid no attention to the silence. "What are you doing tonight, boy?"
"Well I'm not gonna do my math homework, because it's stupid. So I guess I'll be watching TV until I pass out." I say, turning into my driveway. I don't want to walk inside my house still talking to Sarah because mom would ask who I'm talking to. And I'm not prepared to lie.
"You should come to the bar with us tonight," she says.
"You forget I'm only eighteen." I have three more years. Three years is far away.
"So what, just sneak in."
"I'm not sneaking into a bar. They have bouncers and shit." I cut off the engine and open my door to let in cool air.
"Stop being lame. Do you know how many guys your age would kill to go to the bar with me?"
"It's not lame, it's smart. I can't sneak into a bar. Can't they call the cops on me just for trying? Come on, Sarah. You know I can't."
"Fine, I'll just have to call someone else." She sighs into the phone, like I should feel sorry for her. But I don't feel a damn thing except annoyance.
"Fine, do that."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"You're so cute, Jeremy." Her laughter makes my blood boil. We get off the phone and as soon as I slide my cell into my pocket, I get out of my truck and slam the door. Hard.
She begs and pleads to hang out with me, then treats me like a kid when I can't legally go with her. It's fucking infuriating.
I go to bed pissed off about Sarah.
I dream about Elisa.
The next day after school, I head to my truck and find a note under the windshield. Elisa wasn't in class today so I expect to see her handwriting instead of Sarah's.
You missed out last night. But I'll make it up to you tonight. Movie at my house… you don't have to be 21 to get in. xoxoxoxoxoxo
I whip out my phone and shoot her a text asking if I can come over after work. She says yes, along with one of those text symbols for a heart.
Work is busy but it keeps me occupied until closing time. I clock out lightening fast and head straight to Sarah's house. Her car is the only one in the driveway.
I feel like a peasant knocking on the gates of a castle as I stand in the grand entry of Sarah's behemoth of a house. The front door is actually two doors, elaborately decorated woodcarvings with glass windows. I knock again.
She scampers up to the door and puts her face to the glass. She mouths the words, "Go to the side door," and points to the left. I walk around the house and meet her at a side entrance. She gives me a brief tour of the house and I feel like I've stepped into one of those house decorating TV shows. There is not a drop of dirt or untidiness anywhere, but I guess that's to be expected from a house this nice.
Sarah takes my hand and pulls me up the staircase and down a long hallway to her room. The lights are off except for a strand of clear Christmas lights stuck to one wall with red thumbtacks.
The door clicks shut behind us. She twists the lock on the doorknob, giving me a mischievous grin.
"Whoa, am I getting kidnapped here?" I ask, holding back a big goofy grin.
She pounces on me. Literally – wraps her arms around my neck, and her legs too and soon I'm holding her up and walking to her bed. Straining under both of our weight, I lay her down on the mattress. Her legs let go, but her arms pull me closer as she kisses my lips then my neck.
I go in for a kiss and she stops me by grabbing my face in her hands. I'm just inches away from her, still hovering over her on the bed. "This will be more fun with the sailor," she says, her eyes flickering in the twinkle lights above us.
"Sailor?" I ask. Playfully, she pushes me off her and rolls off the bed, land
ing on the floor with grace. She digs under her bed. She must stash a ton of collectibles under there because as she rummages, the clinking of glass on glass fills the room.
"Sailor Jerry," she says, eyes wide with excitement as she finally retrieves what she had been looking for. A half-empty bottle of liquor shakes in front of my face. "It's ninety-proof. This shit is the fucking bomb."
Unscrewing the lid, she puts the bottle to her mouth and gulps. Her pretty face contorts when she swallows. She shudders, and then coughs. My hard-on disappears because it's totally not sexy.
"Your turn." She shoves the bottle into my lap. Not wanting to look like a pansy in front of a girl, I bring the bottle to my lips. The rim is gooey from her lip gloss and it reminds me that we should be making out right now instead of drinking. She scoots closer to me on the bed, sits back on her heels. She's watching me – and although it smells like flaming stale urine from Death himself, I take a huge gulp and swallow.
It burns, and hurts, and my eyeballs feel like they're going to pop out. I gasp for air and it only makes the burning worse. I hand her the bottle and she takes another swig, and then laughs at my incompetence as a man.
"Take another shot." She holds the bottle out to me. The brownish clear liquid sloshes around inside and that's enough to make me throw up.
"I can't drink anymore, that shit is gross."
"Oh come on, it's no fun being sober." She takes another long ass gulp and I stare at her throat in disbelief, wondering how the strong liquor hasn't melted it away yet.
"Despite your very flawed logic, it is actually possible to have fun while sober." A dozen photo-esque images of Elisa and I having fun whiz through my mind.
She throws her head back, laughing. "Oh god, Jeremy. You sound like an adult. Now drink up."
So I take another sip, feel my throat burn again, cough and gag again.
And then she does it.
And then it's my turn.
Again.
And again.
We watch movies until two in the morning.
And now my head is woozy and we're both talking a mile a minute and we're laughing too and none of it registers with me, but it's still funny anyway. The handful of beers I've had in my life have never made me feel like this. I feel good. Happy. And every other euphoric word that means the same thing.
She pushes me, and I fall backward on the bed. Then, swaying under the weight of the alcohol, she climbs on top of me and draws circles on my chest with her finger. My head falls back into the plush pillow that smells like lavender. I see two of every twinkling light above my head. It is pretty.
Sarah's lifting up my shirt and kissing my neck now, and I don't know when this started but suddenly, I don't ever want it to end. Her hands climb down to my belt. She unfastens my belt.
"Whoa." My head pops up, looking at her. "What are you doing?"
"Oh I think you know what I'm doing." Biting her bottom lip, she tugs at the button on my jeans and it pops open.
My heart starts to pound out of sync. Or maybe that's just the alcohol making everything seem double. "I don't have any condoms," I say, gauging her reaction, I guess as if to see that this is really happening.
"We don't need them, you can just pull out."
"No," I mumble, grabbing her wrists and sliding them away from my crotch.
"No?" She laughs. "You're hilarious." Her hands slide back down my body.
"No." I grab her hands again and shake my head, but not too fast, because I'm already dizzy.
"This is clown shoes!" she says, voice getting higher with each word. "It's fucking clown shoes, Jeremy."
She jumps off me and stalks across the room, arms crossed in front of her chest. But I just push myself up on the bed and shrug in a way that lets her know I don't care what she thinks.
"Sorry, but no." I never thought I would say no to a beautiful girl for anything. Hold her purse? Yes. Making out? Hell yes. Buying her tampons? Yes. Fucking yes. Anything for a beautiful girl. But my mouth had said no, and I'm not going to take it back now. There has to be some reason the universe made me say it, probably to save me from even further paternal doom.
As much as I wanted sex, I didn't want it with Sarah nearly as bad as I had wanted it with Elisa. With Elisa and me, it was romantic. With Sarah – it's just sex.
And I want it.
But I can't do it.
I just can't.
When I get to school the next morning, I have a hard time staying awake in class. The teacher is going on about King Henry VIII's first wife and then his second wife and then his third. I think he has more than that, but I lose focus when she makes her second lame ass joke about history that I can't laugh at because I never pay attention in this class.
By fourth period, I'm a zombie. And not in the fun way of just being a reanimated corpse, but in the shitty way of someone who only slept three hours last night. I spend the entire class laying in the crack-triangle of my bent elbow. Luckily, Mrs. Hernandez doesn't give me any shit about it. And then the bell rings and everyone rushes to the door before I've gathered the energy to stand up. Mrs. Hernandez calls my name.
I look over at her. "Yes ma'am?"
Her eyes survey the classroom and she's silent until the last person has left, then she motions for me to come to her desk. I'm too tired to worry about what she's going to tell me.
"I have some of Elisa's graded assignments, I was hoping you could give them to her. I know she was anxious to see how she did on the Shakespeare essay."
Taken aback at the strange request, I rub my eyes hoping to bring some sense to my situation. "Um, okay I guess."
Her eyes search my face, confused. "You two are still dating right?" she seems so concerned about it that I just kind of nod my head so I don't disappoint her.
"Well maybe you could try to talk some sense into her, hmm?"
"What, did she get a bad grade?" I ask. "Can't you just give these to her tomorrow?"
Her face falls in utter confusion, and she looks at the papers in her hand then back at me as if making sure she's talking to the right person. "Jeremy, I can't give them to her tomorrow, she dropped out of school."
Chapter 20
Sarah comes over after school. Although I didn't invite her, my parents are out of town all week so I didn't object when Sarah met me in the school parking lot and said, "Let's hang out at your place."
I let her in through the front door, even though no one ever uses it because Mom keeps it dust-free and elegant. But I figure it'll look more impressive to Sarah than dragging her in through the garage entrance.
But what am I thinking? Her mansion of a house makes my house look like a peasant's shack no matter which door I use.
Sarah holds on to my elbow and cuddles close to me as we walk inside, totally oblivious to our surroundings. Her grip on my arm gets tighter as she pulls up on her toes to whisper in my ear. "Take me to your bedroom."
"Obviously," I reply. She punches me in the arm, hard enough that it hurts. "Shut up."
When we get in my room, I turn on the TV and sit at my computer desk. She gracefully falls to my bed and pulls a pillow under her. I pretend to be incredibly interested in the TV guide, scrolling through each channel individually. Taking up as much time as possible.
Wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.
I don't want to hang out with Sarah because all she wants is to have sex with me. Or drink. Or have sex with me while drunk. I don't want any of that. A year ago, I wanted that. But now, I feel like shouting from the rooftops, warning every teenage guy in the world. Sex is not worth it.
Sarah rolls over in my bed and looks at the ceiling. "Glow in the dark stars? What are you, five?"
"I actually love those stars," I say. Elisa and I stuck them up there months ago. Sarah sticks out her tongue and blows a raspberry. I wonder if she'll notice that right above where my head lays at night, the letters J and E form their own little galaxies of sticker stars. Her phone rings and she rolls over to
answer it. I watch a basketball game on TV.
Because she's in my room, not because I'm eavesdropping, I listen to her conversation. I try to guess what the person on the other end of the line is saying. It isn't long before I realize she's probably talking to a guy. Oddly enough, it's relieving.
Still on the phone, she gets up from my bed and starts meandering around my room, stopping at the Hooter's calendar on my wall. Her finger traces the days, going over where I've written basketball games and occasionally a number that represents the balance in my bank account. She doesn't know that though. She says goodbye to the mysterious guy on the phone and turns to me, finger resting on today's date.
"Thirty-six? What does that mean?" she asks. My mouth opens as I struggle for words to say. Then I'm saved by the vibration of her cell phone as she turns her attention back to it and starts to reply to the text message. Back when Elisa and I were still together, she had numbered every week of her pregnancy on my calendar after giving me some lecture about how my calendar was treating women as objects.
My head falls to the desk as I take in the news that today is thirty-six weeks. It doesn't seem like it should be that far. If Sarah flips the page, she'll see the baby's due date marked incredibly big on May nineteenth.
I pray that she won't.
But she does.
"Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, oh. Shit." She looks back at me and I shrug.
"I didn't write that," I say. I'm an asshole. Saying I didn't write it doesn't exactly make me less of a party in the situation.
"You still talk to her?" she asks.
"Not really." My eyes flicker to the floor, avoiding her gaze.
She walks to my bed and sits at the edge. From my computer chair, our knees are almost touching. "I like you Jeremy. You're cool."
"Thanks?"
"You're kinda lame, I guess, because you don't party," she says, trailing off.
"What's your point?"
Her eyes dart over to the calendar and then back at me. "I just don't think I can do this anymore."