Kiss n Tell

by Suzy McCoppin

  That night, the dreaded night of Xander’s party, was the first time I truly had nothing to say. I mean, what could I say? What word adequately describes the piercing humiliation of having Xander Carrington smell your shit? Not just smell: hear, experience. Okay, now take that and throw in the fact that I barfed all over his perfect forearm. And there you are.

  I felt physically immobilized, as if all the power in my body was shutting off, organ by organ, piece by piece. This sounds dramatic, but whatever, it was true, truer than anything else I’d ever felt: I wanted to die. My life was over. Fuck my parents. They’re good people, but they embarrassed the hell out of me most of the time. Fuck my brother. Matty. That idiot. All he ever did was loaf around and play video games and grunt periodically. Fuck Cranbrook Academy and everyone in it, everyone ever associated with it. Fuck the land it was built on.

  Fuck Anais. I know how cold that sounds, but I was thinking it. Even as she ushered me to the toilet, even as she comforted me and told me I had to be strong. Because she told me I had to be strong. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t be strong. I had nothing left.

  All I could do was stare at the sandy sidewalk below me. I could see each grain. I felt the sand on my skin, scratching my Skintimate-smooth kneecaps. I wanted to disappear into the fabric of that street by some freak paranormal accident, vanishing from life as I knew it, and just lie there, silent, immobilized, left alone forever, or at least until Xander stepped on my face while walking the family dog.

  Anais quietly wiped tears from my cheeks. Her mouth was all twisted up and determined; she was biting her lip like she did when she was trying to finish up a chore, or study for a test. I sniffled. There was obviously snot oozing from my nostril, which she politely ignored. Our eyes met. She smiled sadly, but still hopeful. For all the smack I talked about Anais behind her back, for all the times I silently cursed her for being pessimistic, lame, and generally no fun, here she was, smiling in the face of epic humiliation, and I knew it was for my sake and my sake alone. She licked the tip of her thumb and smeared my eyebrows into place. And suddenly, despite the misery coursing through me, I felt completely loved. And I wanted to cry all over again, because I didn’t deserve her.

  “I don’t deserve you,” I sputtered. At that point I had pretty much accepted my complete loss of control over my bodily fluids, so I felt no shame when Anais discreetly wiped my saliva droplets from her chin.

  She smiled. “I know,” she said. I punched her.

  She laughed. “My mom will be here any minute,” she said.

  I nodded.

  We were silent again.

  * * *

  Anais liked silence. On the bus, she’d get all introspective and zen-like. I, on the other hand, behaved like a caged animal in heat after about five minutes of silence in any enclosed space. The thing is, when nothing’s going on around me, when all’s silent and boring, I get to thinking about my life, which pretty much just makes me sad. All the times I’ve ever humiliated myself rotate through my brain like a cruel slideshow. Oh, look: there’s me during the first week of Biology with Xander, when I wore that low-cut shirt to impress him and Odette had asked if I was a boy or a girl; and there’s me spilling my guts to Stella on the lawn after she told me she thought Xander and I would make a really cute couple—only to spread a rumor all over school that I’m a hermaphrodite. And there I am having extreme diarrhea at Xander’s house to a heckling chorus of Cranbrook’s most popular cast of characters.

  It was Saturday night and we were sitting on an empty sidewalk in Beverly Hills, and my life was officially over. There was no way I was going back to that school, to those people who had a firsthand account of one of my grossest bowel movements of all time. I needed a plan. I could transfer, but that would take time. I might be able to play sick in the meantime. Could I pay someone with mono to make out with me? Not exactly how I envisioned my first kiss, but these were desperate times. And it wasn’t like it was ever going to happen the way I had dreamed of.

  I turned to Anais, eyes searching for signs of Pam’s Volvo. “Do you ever think about your first kiss?” I asked.

  She frowned. “I think we both know I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” she said quietly, turning back to the road where an SUV full of attractive twenty-somethings settled at a stop sign, blaring hip-hop from their shiny windows.

  “I mean, the one you want to have,” I urged.

  Anais frowned, shook her head. “I guess I haven’t met anyone worth kissing yet,” she said simply.

  I sighed. “I always thought it would be Xander,” I muttered.

  Anais flashed me a look of disgust. “Seriously?” she asked.

  I nodded numbly. It was so stupid, but for some reason I needed to purge myself of that dream right then and there, on the sidewalk with Anais, a stone’s throw away from my dream man’s mansion.

  She shifted in her seat to face me. “How? How did you think that would ever happen?” she asked, stunned. Then she must have caught a glimpse of the deep well of despair behind my eyes and added softly, “Sorry.”

  I shook my head. “I kind of pictured we’d be at a dance, like Winter Formal or something,” I said. “Someplace, some school event where we both could be and it wouldn’t be weird or anything.” Anais nodded. “I was thinking a dance since then I’d be all dressed up,” I continued. “Maybe I’d get my makeup professionally done at Sephora, I don’t know. I just imagined myself looking my best, but still looking like me, you know?”

  “Like in She’s Out of Control when Tony Danza’s daughter gets her glasses and braces off and is suddenly totally gorgeous, but it kind of makes you feel shallow since clearly she’s been gorgeous all along?”

  “Exactly!” I exclaimed, banging my fist on the ground. “I just thought, because I looked kind of different he’d notice me, or he’d see me differently or something.”

  I held my breath, choking up. Anais leaned forward and touched my cheek. I started to cry.

  “Oh, Vaughn,” she murmured sadly. “Please don’t.”

  Maybe it was the thought of Xander looking at me for once like I was something to be looked at. Maybe it was the realization that this little dream of mine would never, ever come true. Or maybe it just hit me how pathetic even wanting him was in the first place. Him, Xander, the guy who made snide comments about my less-than-Playboy-worthy anatomy. The guy who laughed in my face when I tried to be nice or helpful. The guy who invited me to a party just to poison my drink. This was what I dreamed about? This was what I aspired to?

  I wiped my eyes as Pam finally pulled up, her face seeped in concern.

  “Here she is. You okay?” Anais asked, stroking my hair as I sniffled back even more snot.

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not,” I said, laughing bitterly. Anais smiled sadly and helped me up.

  “Right,” she said softly.

  Pam unlocked the doors and we climbed in; Anais in front and me curled in the back, clutching my sides like the molecules would scatter at any moment, fleeing my reject of a body forever. I won’t lie, a small part of me just wanted to let them go.

  Run. Get out now. Save yourselves.

  6.

  THE OTHER HALF

  Anais

  “I—I don’t understand,” my mom uttered.

  I cringed, massaging my temples, my eyes squeezed shut as she struggled to comprehend what exactly had taken place to make us—well, mainly Vaughn—so traumatized. It was painful, really, how naïve my mother was. I guess high schools in 1983 were all sunshine and roses, at least for her. After all, she would have been one of them. A Stella or an Odette or an Ava.

  “They put prescription medication in your drinks?” She was incredulous, repeatedly snapping her eyes from the road to look at me, to make sure I was telling the truth. I noticed a light turn red on Rodeo while she was staring me down and we careened toward a stopped Range Rover.

  “Mom!” I gasped, motioning to the red light ahead. “Watch the road!”

  She sl
ammed on the breaks, causing Vaughn, who apparently hadn’t had the strength to buckle her seat belt, to tumble to the floor. She moaned. I whipped around to check on her. She didn’t bother to pick herself up. She just lay there on the floor, rocking, gripping her abdomen.

  My mom reached around to pet her. “Vaughn, baby? I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

  Vaughn provided no response other than a prolonged groan. Mom’s face creased with concern.

  I shook my head and whispered, “She’ll be okay.”

  My mom sighed. “In my day it wasn’t like this,” she lamented.

  “Mom,” I said, “Do you really want to do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Do you really want to start sentences with in my day…?”

  She shook her head. “If my shock over the fact that kids have taken to poisoning people makes me sound old, then so be it,” she snapped.

  I guess I saw her point. In fact, it felt good to have someone outraged on my behalf. She glanced at me. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Why?” I shrugged, desperately trying to sound casual as my voice cracked.

  “I’m sorry I encouraged you to go to that party,” she said.

  I turned to her, stunned, tears springing to my eyes. “You didn’t—”

  “I did,” she corrected. “I could tell you didn’t want to go. You were scared. I’m your mother, I know these things. But I guess I thought it was just nerves or insecurity or something.” She paused and took a breath. “I should have listened to you.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” I murmured.

  “I couldn’t have known the extent of it. Only a total sicko would dream up that little scheme,” she said, speeding up to make it through a yellow light. Once safely across the intersection, she reached over and touched my knee. Her hand was cold from resting too close to the AC vent. I flinched a little. “I should have trusted you,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay,” I managed, fully crying now. Sealed in our Volvo, I was relaxed, comfortable. For the first time all night, I could really let go.

  “Anais, you’re the most thoughtful person I know. I just have to learn to accept that sometimes my baby’s instincts are sharper than mine,” she said, smiling warmly.

  “Thanks,” I squeaked.

  I put my head in my hands and let myself cry. Even though I had an amazing mother, a great best friend, and a car to whisk me to shelter—even though I knew I was lucky—it still hurt. It felt confusing and unfair.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” my mom asked carefully.

  I didn’t really know where to begin, or what to say. The Shrew Crew’s wrath always struck me as completely random, and Vaughn and I certainly weren’t their only victims, but this time was different. This seemed strategic. Personal. Like for whatever reason, they honed in on us, sought us out, and executed an incredibly precise attack. I took a deep breath, smudging the tears from under my eyes.

  “I’m going to sound like a total teenager when I say this, but—” I blubbered, willing the words to materialize, “Why us?”

  My mom frowned. It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but I think she took it as one.

  “I can understand not wanting to be friends with me,” I continued hysterically, “I can even understand the occasional snide remark—I don’t like it, but I get it. What I don’t understand is why they would go out of their way to make me miserable. Am I that horrible? What did I do?”

  Vaughn picked herself up off the floor, absently brushing Cheetos crumbs from her caftan.

  She wanted answers, too. Without them, we were left only with ourselves. Left thinking there was something wrong with us.

  My mom gripped the steering wheel, shaking her head ruefully. “You didn’t do anything,” she said numbly. “It’s not you.”

  “Then why?” I urged.

  My mom took a deep breath and glanced at me, wide-eyed. “I used to be popular like them,” she said. I watched her pat under her eyes with her fingertips. Vaughn shifted to the middle seat, resting her arms on either shoulder of the front driver and passenger seats. “I was one of those girls who had it easy.”

  “Were you a bitch?” Vaughn asked, suddenly alert.

  Mom shrugged. “Sometimes, yes.” She laughed nervously.

  “Why?” I pleaded. I grew intensely aware of every tree, every patch of sand, every tiled roof we passed. We only had a few minutes left on Beverly Glen and I wanted to know everything.

  “To make myself seem better, I guess,” she murmured.

  Vaughn frowned, considering this. I remained quiet. My mom was like Vaughn: if you didn’t engage her, she’d get nervous and talk incessantly to fill the silence.

  “The thing is, it’s embarrassing to talk about, but…” She took a breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “When people are always telling you how pretty you are, you get to rely on that. You don’t have to be much else for people to be impressed with you at first,” she said, shaking her head. She seemed ashamed. “But then,” she continued, “especially in school, when teachers are calling on you, and it’s like they’re not even speaking the same language because you haven’t studied a day in your life, you start to feel empty. You realize you’re only capable of getting people to like you, but after that first moment, you have nothing to give. You want to be more, but you’re working on such a deficit, you don’t even know how.”

  She turned right on Ventura Boulevard and I felt my heart skip. I didn’t want her to stop. I wanted her to explain. And I wondered why I hadn’t talked to her about this long ago, when I first started at Cranbrook, and Stella told me I might be pretty if I lost fifteen pounds, and I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or an insult. (As it turns out, the worst insults are often disguised as compliments.) She was feeding me invaluable knowledge about the other half, which made me feel strong. It made me feel like maybe I could defend myself better next time. Like I could rise above it.

  “So, you’re saying Stella and Odette and them are … unhappy?” Vaughn asked, mildly hopeful.

  “They’re just as miserable as everyone else. Maybe more.”

  “How is that possible?” Vaughn protested. “They have everything!”

  “They don’t, Vaughn,” my mom assured her. “Maybe you’re too young to understand this, but money and beauty aren’t satisfying. You get a taste and it’s never enough. There will always be someone richer or prettier to make you feel inadequate.”

  She slowed and turned at the slender palm tree marking our cracked concrete drive, pushed the lever to Park and turned the key, sucking the sound from the car.

  She turned to look at us. “It took me way too long to learn this so I’m telling you now in the hope that you’ll understand and be better off as a result.” Her voice was loud and crisp in the dead air. We nodded diligently. “When your only assets are on the outside, you feel completely empty. Well, you are empty. And sometimes all you can do to fill that void is put someone else down.”

  “Does it work?” Vaughn asked.

  Mom shook her head. “For a second, maybe. But then you just feel worse, because you hurt someone’s feelings and you’re still nothing. The worst thing you could do to those girls,” my mom started, as we hung pathetically on every word, “is succeed.”

  Vaughn frowned. She was not satisfied with that answer. “What? How?” she gasped.

  “Get into a better college on your own than their rich fathers could ever buy them into. Start a career. Fall in love. Real love. And don’t let them make you feel worthless just because they are. They are worthless, girls. Doesn’t matter how big their houses are or how nice their clothes are. They’re worthless.”

  * * *

  Vaughn and I barely spoke that night. We stumbled numbly into my room and turned on Lifetime. A comically terrible original movie called Cyber Seduction: His Secret Life about a guy who gets addicted to Internet porn was playing, but I was too drained to mock it. We watched in silence in the dark, a log of raw cookie do
ugh splayed out on my turquoise duvet between us. Vaughn hardly touched it. I, on the other hand, took violent stabs, shoveling the gooey goodness into my mouth until the guilt was great enough to outweigh my humiliation over the night’s events.

  Vaughn cried intermittently into my pillow, forming a pool of drool and snot and tears, like a sad thought bubble. I didn’t mind. I knew she was still reeling from Xander’s party, from what my mom said in the car. After mom dumped the car keys in her purse, slinging it over her shoulder, her head high, and climbed out of our Volvo, Vaughn and I were silent for a moment, still in the blue-gray light of the moon while crickets wailed in our tiny yard.

  I realized my mom wasn’t just talking about Stella and Odette. She was talking about herself. Not as I knew her, of course, but a distant version of herself, one I’d never met, who some might say deserved to be left for another woman, to be a single mom, to do hair for rich bitches in Beverly Hills. Even though there was something sickeningly comforting about what she said—that Stella Beldon and Odette Abberley could be unhappy—it mostly made me feel worse. I didn’t need revenge. I’d seen enough movies to know that making someone else suffer doesn’t really make you suffer any less. It takes something else. Something more. And maybe I’m still too young to figure that out.

  7.

  THE MORNING AFTER

  Vaughn

  The sun beat down from the narrow windows, nearly burning a hole in my clammy forehead. I didn’t know where I was. I rubbed my eyes and sleep splintered onto my fingertips. The television danced before me, emitting the low, rhythmic hum of punch line and laugh track, punch line and laugh track. It was mocking me! I retrieved the remote from the folds of the duvet and flicked through the channels, checking E! first since it was my favorite. Top 100 Celebrity Weddings. Ugh. I hated when they blocked out entire days to air boring crap like that. There was a Top Chef marathon on Bravo. Real World: New Orleans on MTV. I could care less about either of those. I switched to TBS. Some Julia Roberts movie. I figured it was pleasant enough to ignore, since I felt sorry for myself.