by Whitney G.
3) He once saw me naked at a pool party when we were eighteen and begged me—fucking begged me, to put my clothes back on. ASAP. So, yeah. He’s not attracted to me either. Can you promise not to make any accusations about the two of us now?”
Of course, I was sure that scheduling a sit down with a potential girlfriend would lead to more issues instead of alleviating them, so I just went along for the train wrecks—hoping he would one day find someone who wasn’t a psycho.
“Hey, Ari?” Carter waved his hand in front of my face minutes later.
“What?”
“Do you plan on getting out of the car tonight? He opened my door. “Or have you decided that you’d rather handle your pussy with your fingers for the rest of the summer instead?”
I rolled my eyes and got out, following him inside of Margaritaville.
I ordered the weakest beer they had to offer and surveyed the room. “If this whole casual sex guy thing doesn’t work, do you think I’ll find my one hundred-percent guy before I go off to Cleveland?”
“I highly doubt it.” He smiled, leaning back against the wood. “You have three months until then, and you make guys wait for at least eight before telling them you’ve changed your mind.”
“I’m being serious.” I punched his shoulder. “It would be great to meet a nice, down to earth guy and feel like everything is perfect and right at once, you know? To have all of those right vibes and feelings upfront, so I wouldn’t even have to worry about how it’ll turn out in the long run.”
“You’re talking about insta-love?”
“I’m talking about love at first sight.”
“That shit doesn’t exist” he said. “Any relationship built solely on instant attraction is a recipe for failure. Trust me, I’m the prototype.”
“You’re the prototype for being a man-whore.” I sipped my beer. “It’s not the same thing.”
“If I was a man-whore, I wouldn’t have had six girlfriends over the past two years. Six, Ari.”
“Six girlfriends, five one night stands, four “There’s some girl in my bed and I don’t know her name” mornings, three “Holy fuck, that sex was terrible” nights, and one—”
“Partridge in a pear tree?”
“No. One ‘Please, Ari, come and get me.’” But that was a very close guess.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping count…”
“Only because you make it too damn easy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He rolled his eyes. “Hey, look over there.” He pointed with his straw. “What about that guy? He looks like he’d be into a few nights with you.”
I spotted the guy he was talking about: He was dressed in a short sleeved white shirt and khakis that complemented his beige shoes.
“He’s cute…” I looked him over again. “I don’t think he’s my type, though.”
“He’s more than your type. He looks like he hasn’t fucked anyone in years.”
I laughed. “No, thanks. What about that guy?” I pointed to a guy dressed in all blue.
“I thought you hated sneaker-heads.”
My eyes roamed down to his shoes and I shook my head. After dating a sneaker-head, I knew those were the type of exclusive shoes that could only be worn by one.
“Oh, wait a minute…” Carter said, smiling. “Looks like you have an admirer. Look to your left.”
I slowly turned around and spotted a guy in a black shirt and jeans smiling at me. He tilted his head to the side, as if he was trying to figure out the relationship between me and Carter.
I immediately scooted away and the guy smiled, shooting me a short wave.
“Go talk to him,” Carter said.
“Shhh! Stop talking to me! He might think we’re together…”
“He won’t if you go talk to him, Ari. Jesus…”
I hesitated, still looking at the guy, and the next thing I felt was Carter pushing me out of my seat.
“Go.” He shooed me away. “It’s not like you’re making me look appealing to anyone either.”
I shook my head at him and walked toward the guy in the black shirt, blushing as I stepped closer. He looked ten times better up close.
“Hi…” He smiled a set of perfect pearly whites.
“Hi…”
“I’m sorry for staring,” he said smoothly. “Did your boyfriend send you over here to tell me to stop?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Glad to hear that.” He smiled again and extended his hand. “I’m Chris.”
“Arizona.”
“Nice to meet you…” He gently caressed my knuckles with his fingers. “I’m actually only here to take a few of my drunk friends home, but…I’d love to call you tomorrow and maybe meet up somewhere this week? Somewhere quiet and private?”
I nodded, slightly speechless at the way his simple touch was making me feel.
“Can I have your number, Arizona?” He slowly let my hand go and pulled his phone out of his pocket.
“It’s 555-9076…” I managed to pull my phone out without taking my eyes off his. “Yours?”
“The number that’s currently calling you.” He grinned as my phone rang with the unknown number. “I’ll definitely call you tomorrow.” He looked me up and down as he stepped back. “It was very nice meeting you.”
“Nice meeting you, too.” I stood rooted to the ground until he disappeared into the crowd, and then I made my way back over to the bench.
“So?” Carter signaled to the bartender to close his tab. “How’d it go?”
“Good, really good. We only spoke a few words to each other, but he’s going to call me tomorrow.” I felt like a giddy little girl. “I literally felt something when he touched me—something strong.”
“It’s a pretty bad sign if he’s already given you an STD.”
“You are so terrible!” I laughed. “Did you find any future victims while I was gone?”
“Within the span of two minutes? No, but I realized we need to get you a few more dates tonight if we’re going to guarantee that you get laid at some point this summer.” He set a tip on the counter and clasped my hand, pulling me through the crowd and outside. “We need to go to a few more bars.”
“What? Why? I just got a guy, a guy who has already promised to call me tomorrow and made me feel a genuine spark when he only touched my hand. Did you not hear any of what I said back there?”
“That was one guy, Ari.” He shook his head. “One. Who knows if he’ll really call you tomorrow? You trust him just because he said he would?”
“Well, yeah…”
“So, you’ll believe anything a complete stranger says to you?”
“There was a spark, Carter…A genuine he-is-definitely-going-to-call-me spark.”
“You need at least five other options.” He unlocked the doors to his car and motioned for me to get in. “That’s the biggest problem you have now. You need to actually date around and stop pinning all your hopes on the first guy that you supposedly feel a spark with.”
“I don’t always do that…I at least wait until he kisses me first.” I laughed. “I’m a pretty good judge of kisses, you know. I can tell a lot about a guy from the way he uses his mouth.”
“I’m sure you can.” He revved up the car and sped down a few blocks toward a more popular bar. “You have stars in your eyes right now over a potential phone call. I’d hate to see what you look like after you get kissed.”
“I’ll record it one day and send you the video.”
“Please don’t.” He looked over at me, laughing as he found a parking spot. “If it’s anything like you looked after meeting that guy in there, I never want to know. Now, get out of the car before you start staring into space, so I can show you how to get exactly what your pussy needs.”
“Really, though? Have I ever told you how deep you are?”
“No.” He smiled as he got out of the car. “But that’s only because you and I have never fucked…”
F
ifth Grade
Dear Carter,
I don’t care what you say about Dawson Meade the 3rd. He will be my first kiss and he will NOT care about my braces. He will fall in love with me and ask me to be his girlfriend. And then you will be jealous because you will still not know what it fills like to be kissed.
I’ll let you know how it goes after school.
Sincerely kissed,
Arizona
Dear Arizona,
I do not care about your first kiss, but you should know that Dawson is lame and he will kiss anyone. I saw him kissing hisself in the bathroom mirror last week. Trust me, he will care about your braces. They are still not pretty.
And I will not be jealous because I’m getting my first kiss from Rachel Ryan today. She said we will do it like the French.
I will let YOU know how it goes after school.
Sincerely FIRST kissed,
Carter
Arizona balled up my note and rolled her eyes at me as the bell rang.
I closed my notebook and followed her to her locker, where we always met after school.
“Are you ever going to get those braces out of your mouth, Ari?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I don’t want to hear you cry when no one but Dawson wants to be your boyfriend…It’s because of your braces.”
I’d thought they couldn’t get any worse, but sometimes she stuck colored rubber bands in them so she could eat. Sometimes I told her she should just starve.
“Did you and Rachel pick a meet up spot?” she asked.
“Yeah, we’re going to meet at the tree outside the gym. What about you and Dawson?”
“We’re going to do it in the parking lot behind the football team sign,” she said. “Do you really think he’ll care about my braces?”
“Depends….Do you really think Rachel will care about my hair?”
“What’s wrong with your hair?”
“Last week, you told me it was itchy.”
“It was itchy.” She closed her locker. “Because you fell asleep on my shoulder.”
“Oh yeah…” I remembered. We’d both got detention after school last week for passing notes during science class. And, as usual, whenever we got sent there together, I used her shoulder as a pillow.
“Ari, do you think we should…” I paused. “Do you think we should…”
“Do I think we should what?”
“Like…Since we’re both getting kissed today, do you think we should test out the kiss first? On each other? That way we can be honest and fix whatever needs to be fixed?”
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing…” She let out a deep breath. “If we do that, then we both won’t be so nervous when it’s time.”
“Okay, cool. Follow me. “I motioned for her to follow me down the hallway. I looked both ways to make sure no one was coming, and then I opened the door to the janitor’s closet and pulled her inside.
She set her books down on a ladder and I locked the door.
“So…” She looked really nervous. “How should we start?”
“Well, first…” I stood in front of her and made sure our shoes were touching. Then I did the thing I always saw my dad do whenever he kissed my mom—tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“And now, we’ll kiss on three.” I cleared my throat. “One…”
She shut her eyes and grabbed my hands.
“Two…”
“Wait! I forgot something!” She pulled a tube of lip gloss out of her pocket and glided it across her lips. “Now, you can count.”
Ugh! Girls…
I rolled my eyes and started over. “Okay, starting again…One…Two…” I shut my eyes and leaned forward. “Three…”
We pressed our lips together and let the seconds pass, waiting. Waiting for something.
It was nothing like the movies. Nothing was happening at all.
“Um…How long are we supposed to stand like this, Carter?” Ari asked, her lips still touching mine.
“I don’t know…Maybe five more seconds?”
“Okay…Cool…”
I softly counted to five and stepped back.
“So…” she said. “Did you notice my braces? Were my lips too glossy?”
“No to the braces, but make sure you put on the gloss before you get to him. How about me? When my forehead touched yours, was it itchy?”
“Nope. It felt normal, but when you kiss Rachel, just count to yourself and not out loud.”
“Got it.” I grabbed her books and handed them to her. I unlocked the door and twisted the doorknob, but it opened before I could push it forward.
“What the!” The school janitor, the man who made us help him clean up sometime during detention, looked back and forth between me and Ari. “You know what? When it comes to the two of you, I don’t even want to know. Get out. Now.”
“We weren’t doing anything!” Ari snapped.
“Then hurry up and get out of my closet before I tell everyone that you did.”
We both rushed out of there and went our separate ways—her to Dawson and me to Rachel for our very first kisses…
Track 4. Sad Beautiful Tragic (4:13)
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the dean of Political Science spoke into the mic, “please welcome our last honoree of the night, Carter James!”
There was a loud applause as I walked onto the small stage and accepted my award—a silver plaque with “Student of the Year,” etched across its front.
Tonight was the private post-graduation ceremony for the top students in my major. For whatever reason, the officials thought it would be a great idea to have it several days after all the other departmental graduations. They also thought it was smart to have it on the roof of a famous hotel, so those of us who got bored could easily stare at the beach in the background and look like we were paying attention.
“Thank you all so much for coming out to honor the top twenty students in our department,” the speaker continued. “We’ll also have you know that each of the students we honored tonight has scored a 177 or higher out of a perfect 180 on the LSAT.”
More applause.
I looked at my watch.
“Help yourself to plenty of the gourmet dessert before you leave, and please be sure to keep in contact with us as you start your exciting careers in the law!”
When another round of applause began, I stood up and headed toward the dessert bar—to say goodbye to the few classmates I actually talked to during undergrad.
“Well, if it isn’t Carter James…” A grey-haired man stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “What an interesting transition you made, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“Superstar athlete to superstar student.” He smiled, looking at my right leg. “It’s too bad you got injured. I think the team definitely would have gone places if you’d never gotten hurt. Supposedly…”
I clenched my fists, somewhat grateful that I was wearing a suit; the fabric was less than forgiving if I needed to punch someone.
The man didn’t wait for a verbal response, he continued talking—confirming what I’m sure every sorry ass fanatic on this campus wondered from time to time. “You don’t think you should’ve gone to another doctor for a second opinion? The doctor you went to wasn’t the best one. The school even offered to send you to New York to get tested. They also offered you rehabilitation, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. Making the Dean’s List every semester and scoring a 177 or higher on the LSAT—”
“I scored a 180.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s impressive, son, but you could’ve gone places. Michael Jordan played in a pivotal playoff game with the flu. Hell, Willis Reed—one of the greatest centers of all time—played with a broken thigh bone. Broken. Plenty of players come back from the type of injury you had, so I just don’t understand why you couldn’t give it a try.”
&nbs
p; “Are you done now?” I kept my fists low.
“What did your parents think about your decision?” He wouldn’t stop. “Did you ever talk to them about it? I’m sure your father would’ve never—”
“Fuck you.” I spat. “You don’t know shit about me, and I don’t care whether you don’t understand a decision I made regarding my own life. Live your own.”
“I’m just saying…”
“You won’t be saying much of anything else if you continue,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “Don’t let this suit fool you.”
He looked at me in utter shock.
“And for the record,” I said, stepping back—giving myself some space, “Michael Jordan was a goddamn professional athlete when he played with the flu, I wasn’t. Yes, Willis Reed was one of the greatest centers of all time, but he retired because he couldn’t stop getting hurt, correct?”
He said nothing—just stared at me, so I walked away. I didn’t bother addressing any of my classmates or stopping by the dessert bar. I needed to get home so I could be with people I actually wanted to be around.
I slipped into my car and turned the music all the way up, trying hard to put that asshole and his opinions out of my mind, but it was no use. Everything began to play in front of me like an antique film reel—frame dissolving into frame.
Five years ago, I didn’t have to think about taking the LSATs or picking an academic track at all; I was being scouted as one of the top high school basketball recruits in the country. I was the “unexpected phenom” and “unbelievable talent” who’d only started playing basketball during my junior year of high school.
From the outside looking in, I really looked like I was passionate about it. I spoke to coaches from colleges all over the country, led my already-talented team to a state championship my senior year, but I was only using the attention as a deflection from my pain. Pain I hid all too well.
I spent extra hours every day at practice because I didn’t want to think about anything, not because I wanted to improve my game. I pretended to be crushed and disappointed when we lost or when I missed a critical shot, but I didn’t really give a damn.