“Why didn’t Van take you?” This is probably one of those questions I’m not supposed to ask, but I’m asking anyway.
She doesn’t look at me, but slings her bag over her shoulder as she starts walking. “He won’t talk to me. Not since . . . his party. I tried calling him. Left a note in his locker. He won’t even look at me.”
I am so glad I didn’t hook up with Van. Even if it wasn’t really my choice, I’m still glad. How can he treat her this way? Even though she completely sucks?
I assume Bizza wants some sort of sympathetic response, but just because I’m thinking it doesn’t mean I have to say anything. All I do say is, “How are we getting to the clinic?”
“Bus. I can pay if you want.” Oh really, Bizza, how freakin’ generous of you! Seeing as how I wouldn’t even be taking this bus if you didn’t require my services. My blood is boiling, and I’m trying to remember why I’m doing this in the first place. We were once good friends, so that should count for something, I guess. If I were in this situation, I would want a friend with me, too. But probably not Bizza. And would I even get myself into this situation? I try to turn my brain on low thinking so I don’t have to argue with myself the entire trip to the clinic. Just because we were once best friends, does that mean we always have to be?
It’s strange taking the bus in the suburbs. I’ve only done it one other time in my life, when my mom’s car was in the shop and my dad was out of town. I thought it was fun back then—putting the money into the slot, hanging on to the pole so I didn’t fall when the bus driver overaccelerated, and pulling the cord to make the bus stop. It could have been just as fun today, except for the crappy company and our final destination.
I find a two-seater while Bizza drops coins into the money machine. The windows help me avoid any possible small talk with Bizza, and I watch the familiar strip malls and car dealerships swish by. About ten minutes pass when Bizza says, “We’re the next stop.” She looks down at directions printed off the computer. Ding! I pull the cord with an inner smile of delight. I wonder if that stops being fun if you take the bus every day. I don’t think it could.
The clinic is packed, and I consider if Bizza even has an appointment. There’s no way I’m waiting around for the next available doctor and missing my prep time for Dungeons and Dragons at Henry’s house tonight. Bizza stands just inside the doors, looking around in a panic at the various lines, signs, and waiting areas. I follow her gaze to a sign that says WOMEN’S CLINIC. She doesn’t bother to say anything, just assumes I’ll follow her, and I’m about to say something pissy when I see the fear on her face.
We wait in a short line leading up to a window. I watch the circus of screaming babies and children in the vast waiting room. They should bring us here on a field trip as a form of birth control. How could anyone get pregnant after watching this chaotic freak show?
Bizza is handed a clipboard of forms to fill out, and we take a seat next to the divider that separates the women’s clinic from the pediatric clinic. It doesn’t stop the sounds of howling babies from the “room” next door. I don’t know why Bizza needs me here—she isn’t looking at me or talking to me or asking me important medical questions that I can’t answer. I pull out my worn copy of Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging and start reading from the beginning. I’m actually on page sixty-six as of the last read-through, but who knows how long I’ll be waiting here. I might as well make maximum use of the book. There are magazines spilling all over the place, but I hate to touch magazines in doctor’s offices. Just in case.
I’m half reading, half watching Bizza as she hands her clipboard and fat doctor’s office pen to the woman behind the counter. I can’t hear what the woman says, but I hear Bizza loud and clear when she asks, “Can my friend come with me?” She looks back in my direction with pleading eyes. I can see the woman behind the glass form the word “no,” along with some other words that I have no chance of lip-reading. Bizza stares at me like a doll whose eyes have been left in the extremely awake position. I feel for her and mouth, “You’ll be okay.” She mouths exaggeratedly, “What?” And I mouth again, “You’ll be okay.” And she shrugs her hands and shoulders up, like she still can’t hear me. Before I can try again, a nurse appears beside her to take her back into the great medical unknown. The only supportive gesture I can think of that she can understand in such a short amount of time is to give her a thumbs-up. It’s not exactly appropriate, but it seems to help a little as she produces the tiniest of thankful smiles. I hunker down in my plastic seat and prepare for the long wait, but Bizza appears ten minutes later, looking way relieved.
“They think I’m right about the gonorrhea, but it was so nothing. There were no needles. It was like a swab, sort of like a strep test. And the nurse said I’ll probably only have to go on antibiotics, so no shot or anything. I have to wait to see a doctor still, but isn’t that great?”
Shocked pause.
Deep breath.
Explosion.
“Great? What the frick is so great about this? You sucked a guy off—a guy I liked—who won’t even talk to you anymore. He gave you a sexually transmitted disease because you were too friggin’ ‘in the moment’ to use a condom, not to mention the fact that the only thing you got out of your bedroom visit with Van was gonorrhea! Was it good for you, Bizza? Was it worth trading your best friend for an asshole and some antibiotics?”
Stammering, Bizza tries to speak. “I only meant—”
“You only meant that this is great for you. ’Cause all that ever matters is what’s great for you.”
“I thought we were cool, Jess. I thought that’s why you came with me.”
“No. We are not cool. I came with you because part of me hated being mad at you. But you know what? I could give two and a half shits whether or not we’re cool or if you think I’m cool, period. I’m done with this whole cool thing. You can keep on shaving your head and giving assholes blow jobs and then basking in the glow of antibiotic glee you seem to be enjoying, but I have better places to be. Maybe even dragons to slay.” I dramatically stomp away, welcoming the glances of curious waiting room spectators.
I don’t know if what I said will even sink a tiny bit into her inflated head, but I’m happy I had the chance to say it. Maybe deep down I knew that was the real reason I agreed to go with Bizza to the clinic. I needed to be cured of something, too.
chapter 27
I CALL BARRETT FROM MY CELL AFTER walking a good six blocks away from the clinic. I doubt that Bizza would follow me, partly because I think she’s too self-absorbed to chase after anyone (except Van, and look at the nice parting gift she received), but mostly because she’s still waiting to see a doctor. Luckily Barrett isn’t working today, and he arrives fifteen minutes later with Chloe Romano riding shotgun.
When I called Barrett, all I told him was that I needed a ride and I would explain when he picked me up. Now I’m in his car, and I can’t decide what to tell him. His questions are driving me nuts. “Are you okay? Did something happen? You’re not prostituting yourself on street corners, are you?” He sounds almost serious, and I don’t want him to worry (or keep asking me creepy questions).
“I was at the clinic,” I start.
“The clinic?!” He freaks. “Were you having an abortion?”
I know it’s not funny, but he is so out of control with panic that I bust out laughing. “God—no! Barrett, I wasn’t there for me. . . .” Chloe strokes the back of Barrett’s shaved head to calm him, and my heart jumps a little to see how much she really likes him.
“Shit—you scared me, Jess. You better not be having sex.”
“You’re such the role model of virginity, Barrett. And even if I was, it would be none of your business.”
“Like hell it wouldn’t.”
He sounds like Dad. “Okay, I’ll be sure to call you the next time I even get close.”
“So why were you at the clinic, if you don’t mind my nosiness?” Chloe interrupts, and I’m happy
to get out of the brotherly sex talk.
“Well, let’s just say an ex-friend of mine got a little present from an ex-friend of Barrett’s.” I don’t know why I just don’t tell them straight out. I guess I feel like it’s not my story to tell.
“Bizza?” Barrett guesses. I nod at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Van?” Barrett says Van’s name through his teeth, and I kind of wish that we could pull over, or at least hit a stoplight so Barrett doesn’t take this out on his driving. I nod again.
“So it’s true,” Chloe says. “I heard it from Jenna Grouse in the locker room, who said a friend of hers from Hillcrest used to go out with Van and thought that’s where she got it, but he wouldn’t talk to her, and—”
Barrett interrupts, “Got what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” Chloe snaps at Barrett. “Ask me nicely, and maybe I’ll tell you.” Chloe winks back at me, and I make a feeble attempt to wink back (I really have to practice my winks in a mirror). Barrett takes a deep breath, taps his fingers on the steering wheel, and comes up with, “Dearest Chloe, please, do tell, what the hell Van gave to this girl?”
“Why, Dear Barrett, I believe he gave her gonorrhea,” she says in a noble voice. But that doesn’t take the sting out of the air.
“And he gave it to Bizza,” he demands an answer from me.
“I’m pretty sure. I didn’t stay around long enough for the lab results.” Barrett slams his hand on the horn, and both Chloe and I jump. A guy in the car in front of us gives us the finger out his window.
“Bare, chill out. You act like he did this to Jessie.” She resumes her calming neck stroke.
“It could have been,” he says quietly. “She liked him.” Even if he is looking back at me in the rearview, I can’t look at him. Maybe I would have been just as stupid as Bizza if I’d had the chance. Although hopefully the thought of Krispy Kremes would have stopped me.
“What we need to do now is make sure that Van doesn’t do this to anyone else. You’re going to have to talk to him, Barrett.” Chloe sounds so grown-up when she says this, I don’t see how Barrett can argue.
We’re stopped at a stop sign, and Barrett leans his head forward into the steering wheel. “Shit,” he says.
We sit at the stop sign for several minutes. Chloe continues with her neck stroking. They both seem pretty calm when Barrett starts to drive again. I, on the other hand, am building up some serious anger. Why is it that Van is allowed to do this to so many people and get away with it? Barrett may get him to go to the doctor or tell the million and a half girls he infected, but that’s not enough for me. He may have hurt Bizza, but he hurt me, too. How many years of my life did I waste crushing on a total dick? What would Imalthia the fighter do?
chapter 28
I TRY MY BEST TO SHAKE THE cruddy, confused feeling I have about Van and Bizza. It’s 5:30, and I only have a little over an hour to figure out how it is one dresses for her very first Dungeons and Dragons adventure at the house of my dream nerd. I know, I know, enough with the nerd label already. It’s just—if I take away the label, does that make me officially one of them? If I hadn’t been in such denial over the past week, I could have found some fabric covered in knights or dragons (or dungeons, I suppose, but I don’t know if that would translate well onto fabric). My closet is filled with crazy skirts and plain tops, but nothing looks right for the occasion. I want to just look like the normal me—not too dressed up, not trying too hard. Maybe just to show what a non-big deal it is, I’ll wear something totally casual. It’s Friday night, but it’s just Friday night at someone’s house. So it’s not technically going-out where I have to wear going out clothes. Am I overthinking this?
I opt for my Lucky sweatpants so I don’t waste any of my school skirts (yes, the same sweatpants I mentioned earlier that Bizza and I bought), and one of my soft Lucky T-shirts, red with a giant coy fish on it. It’s obviously one of the least fancy outfits I could have chosen, but I do look good in red. And besides, who am I trying to impress? (Brain, don’t answer Henry.)
I walk downstairs and realize I don’t have a plan for getting to Henry’s house. I just assumed that Mom or Dad would drive me, but they left a note on the kitchen table that they’ve gone out to dinner with some friends. That leaves Barrett. And that means I kind of have to tell him where I’m going.
Barrett has always been the one person in my life who taught me it’s okay not to try and be like everyone else, but it always kind of felt like BS coming from someone so good-looking and smart, who just automatically knew how and where he fit in. I watch him from the kitchen doorway, sitting on the couch with Chloe Romano, one of the most popular girls in school, if not the free world, her legs draped over his lap. It was so easy for him to go from the King of the Punks to the Homecoming King (metaphorically, at this point, but it could happen) in a matter of weeks. But one thing he’s never going to be is a geek. How will he feel about his kid sister turning into one?
I prepare for the worst, arm myself with defensiveness, and head over to the couch. Barrett and Chloe are nibbling on each other’s various upper body parts, and I have to interrupt with an “ahem.”
“Hey, Jess, I hope you don’t mind if Chloe and I take over the TV. We rented some movies. You’re welcome to watch, of course,” which means I’m welcome to say that I’m happy spending the rest of the night in my bedroom trying to avoid seeing whatever Chloe and Barrett are doing to each other on the couch.
“Actually, I’m going out tonight. Well, going to someone’s house. I didn’t realize Mom and Dad weren’t going to be home. Do you think you can give me a ride?” I hope that their interest in each other eclipses any interest they might have in what I’m doing tonight, but no such luck.
“Whose house? Not Bizza’s, I hope.” It’s amazing how my family is so openly Bizza bashing these days.
“No. Just some guy from school. Name’s Henry.”
“A guy? Is this a date? Should I be giving you a lecture right now, young lady?” Barrett is overtly trying to impress Chloe with his protective-big-brother performance.
“Leave her alone, Barrett. Jessie’s old enough to handle these things.” I like that Chloe sticks up for me (and that I no longer think of her as Chloe Romano), but she’s got the wrong idea.
“No, it’s not like that. I’m going to his house, but there will be other people there.”
“Is this a party? Should I give the alcohol lecture?” This is getting annoying.
“It’s not a party!” I yell, frustrated.
“An orgy, then? Please say it’s not an orgy.”
“Barrett, the fact that you’re even thinking about me going to an orgy tells me we’re done talking about this. Can you please just drive me? The sooner we leave, the sooner you and Chloe can defile the couch.”
“True.” Barrett pauses, then lifts Chloe’s legs off his and onto the floor. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yep.”
“And that’s what you’re wearing?” Barrett eyes my sloppy ensemble.
“Yes, it is,” I say indignantly.
He leans over to Chloe and says in a fake whisper, “Definitely not an orgy.” Chloe shoves his shoulder, and we head off for the car.
Barrett blasts some late-eighties punk on the stereo, and I’m happy to see Chloe bobbing her head along next to him. It’s good to see that he hasn’t dropped everything from his old identity, and it’s also nice how Chloe seems to embrace it. I tap Barrett’s shoulder and yell into his ear every time he needs to turn, and eventually we end up in front of Henry’s house just a little harder of hearing than we were before we left.
With the music this loud and Barrett and Chloe making googley eyes at each other, I’m almost free when who should come strolling up the driveway but Dottie Bell, hunched under her enormous backpack. The weight of the pack gives her a particularly slow and awkward walk, and I cringe that she had to look so nerdy when my brother and Chloe are watching. I bolt out of t
he car and yell, “I’ll call you when I want to come home!” but I don’t know if they hear it over the music. They for sure don’t read my lips, because all eyes are on Dottie.
I don’t want to look back for fear of seeing Barrett and Chloe peeing themselves with laughter, but my curiosity and optimism make me do it. It’s so dark, though, that I’m not sure what it is I’m seeing. They’re definitely not doubled over in hysterics, but I swear I can see incredulous, openmouthed stares. Or is that just a reflection? Before I can figure it out, the car starts to move.
Dottie turns at the sound of Barrett’s car driving off, and she looks at me with an intrigued smile. “Jessie,” she says in her relaxed way, “all right. Help me with this, would you?” Dottie carefully lowers her backpack to the ground and unzips to reveal two two-liters of pop, a stack of hardcover books, and a purple velvet pouch. I pick up the two-liters because I’m afraid that if I touch the books I’ll be breaking some Dungeons and Dragons code about handling the Dungeon Master’s things. Even though Dottie has on the same cutesy clothes she did at school today (green corduroy overalls, a T-shirt, and red cowboy boots), she has a look on her face that says not to mess with her. Truthfully, it’s a little scary, and I try to prepare myself for what lies behind Henry’s front door.
Amazingly enough, what lies behind Henry’s front door is Henry, looking kind of adorable with his curls hanging over his Slurpee blue eyes, a plain black T-shirt, and . . . jeans that reach his shoes? He catches my gaze at his longer pants and says into my ear as Dottie and I walk in, “I went shopping after school without my mom. It was a little traumatic, I’d like you to know. Inseam measuring should be illegal.”
“Was it worth it?” I ask.
Dottie leaves the foyer to greet her friends in the dining room with a resounding, “Cower before me, bitches! The DM has arrived!”
Henry looks at me with impenetrable eye contact and says, “You tell me.” I catch my breath a little and break his gaze. His new jeans cover a good portion of his big white gym shoes, and I have an argument with my brain about how the way he looks shouldn’t even matter, but he looks surprisingly good, sans the shoes, and I should stop being so judgmental, and . . .
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