“My brother!” I hissed, pulling away. Kissing in public was one thing, but kissing in front of my little brother? Well, that was something else entirely.
Jack smirked and pulled up a chair. He sat down and dug a hand into his jeans pocket. “Here,” he said, holding up a couple of condoms. “You might want these.”
“Why do you have condoms?” I asked Jack, sitting back upright and smoothing out my hair.
“Why wouldn’t I?” He took a swig from the vodka bottle. “No glove, no love.” Jack tossed the condoms to me.
Suddenly I was starving and a little queasy. I had been drinking on an empty stomach. “Unless this is edible, I don’t want it,” I said.
Alissa took out her camera. Or maybe she’d had it out the whole time. I was too drunk to tell. “Put it in your mouth. Pretend it’s food,” she said, cracking up as if she’d just told a really, really good joke.
“That is so funny. Yeah, Becky, do it!” Kim added.
So I did.
It wasn’t that I was nervous about sex itself; I was just nervous about being naked in front of someone else. Because after you had sex, when you were just going about your normal, clothed life, there that other person would be. And he would have seen you without your clothes on; he would know what you looked like underneath that dress.
And there was something intrinsically terrifying about that.
So when I had woken up minus my shirt and next to Aaron, I had been nervous.
Although my memories of that evening took a few days to resurface, eventually they did. I was pleased to discover that I hadn’t had sex with Aaron. I had come pretty close, though. Aaron and I had been sitting side by side on one of the twin beds in my room, our backs up against the headboard, surfing channels on the television. Alissa had decided suddenly that she had to have an ice cream sundae, and Courtney and Kim had accompanied her downstairs to instruct the kitchen—under no circumstances were there to be any nuts on top of the whipped cream.
“My feet hurt,” Aaron had said, wriggling the toes within his white socks.
“Mine, too,” I’d said, emphasizing the patent leather heels that I hadn’t removed when we had sat down on the bed, simply because I thought they made my legs look longer, and Aaron hadn’t noticed them yet.
Aaron had looked down toward my feet, nodded, and looked back up at the TV. A few minutes later, he had clicked the OFF button on the TV remote and turned his head toward me.
“You’re beautiful,” he had slurred. Even though he was drunk, the compliment meant a lot to me. Aaron’s lips had met mine as he’d leaned in toward me, pushing his hand down on the bed for leverage. His eyes were closed even before our lips had made contact. Once we were touching, I’d closed mine but then proceeded to open them again, just to make sure that Aaron’s were still closed. He’d put his arms around me and kissed me, his hand wandering to the small of my back. My insides had felt fluttery and my sense of control had faded—in a good way, for once. But that, too, might have been because of the alcohol. Aaron had reached up my back to unzip the dress. I knew where his hand was headed, but when it had touched my back, a shiver had shot down my spine and my arms had fallen to my sides.
“Okay?” Aaron had asked.
“Yeah.” I’d nodded, looking up at him. His hair was rumpled and his cheeks were flushed. It was moments like these when I couldn’t believe I was actually going out with him. I’d felt weightless and giddy. He was unzipping my dress, pulling it all the way down past my waist. I was nervous, afraid that Aaron wouldn’t like what he saw. That extra fat right below my belly button, my none-too-large breasts, everything. But Aaron, kissing my neck and then downward, had just taken a breath, looked up at me, and said, “Beautiful.” I had relaxed into him, enjoying his touch and my light-headedness. We’d fooled around until we were both too tired to kiss. I’d fallen asleep in his arms.
We both slept in that twin bed, and I had felt entirely at peace. The warmth of Aaron’s body behind mine protected me. I was desired. I was happy.
Facebook Wars
Taylor had posted some pictures from my party, too. Aaron told me about them over the phone.
I balanced the phone on my ear and leaned forward to type Taylor’s name into the search box. Sure enough, she had a new album up, entitled “Tipsy.” Most of the pictures were ones that Taylor’s father had taken, before we were all drunk, while we still had the capability to smile like normal people. The best picture was of Taylor and her dad. Taylor’s dress looked pretty (albeit out of place), and the color saturation on her dad’s salmon-colored pants was intense. They were both smiling. I scrolled down the page to leave a comment on the photo: Adorable.
“This picture of Taylor and her dad is pretty cute,” I told Aaron, still balancing the phone on my shoulder.
“You mean the one where he looks gay?”
I gulped and grabbed onto the phone. “Don’t say that,” I said.
“Why not? It’s funny.”
“Not really,” I said.
“Whatever, Miss Serious.”
“I have to go.”
Aaron didn’t know, I reasoned. He was a guy—a lot of guys called things “gay,” no matter how inappropriate it might be. He had no idea. He didn’t know that Taylor’s dad actually was gay. I threw the phone across my bed and pressed the COMMENT button on Facebook. I was just glad that Aaron had made the “gay” comment to me, not to Taylor.
The next day at school, I was careful to be extra nice to Taylor. I thought being nice might make up for the fact that, unbeknownst to her, Aaron had been such a jerk.
But then it all went to shit. After school, I received an e-mail from Taylor. The e-mail had no subject and had only one line in it. Your boyfriend is a jackass, it read. I switched into my instant messenger application and searched for Taylor’s screen name in my buddy list. She was online, so I sent her a message. I asked why she thought my boyfriend was a jackass, and did she understand that I didn’t really appreciate her calling him a jackass?
Check Facebook, she told me. Then you’ll understand. And thanks for blabbing.
What? I went to her page and saw that Aaron had left a comment on the photo of Taylor and her father.
It read: Your dad looks so gay in this picture.
“Shit,” I said to my empty room.
I didn’t say anything, I wrote to Taylor. He doesn’t know. If he knew, he’d never have said that.
Maybe, Taylor wrote back.
Can I tell him? I asked.
NO.
Why? I messaged back. Taylor had said that it wasn’t a secret; so why couldn’t I tell Aaron?
Because I said so. Because he wouldn’t get it.
I should have said something to Aaron. I should have done something to stop it. I should have, I would have, I could have. But I didn’t. Instead, I just ignored Aaron and his calls while the online drama exploded.
Everything happened over the Internet—no phone calls, no face-to-face meetings, just uncensored, online viciousness. That’s the problem with the Internet. Online, people have the courage to say things they would never dare say to someone’s face. Typing sort of takes away responsibility for the situation; you are detached from what you’re writing—the computer screen acts as a buffer.
June would say that this is why I like to write so much—because when I write something down, I automatically become one step removed from the incident. But this is different. I just keep a journal and write papers from the viewpoints of different countries.
I don’t go around harassing my girlfriend’s friend online.
The problem was that Aaron didn’t know about Taylor’s dad. He was obnoxious, sure, but everything he said was made worse by the fact that Taylor’s dad actually was gay.
Over the next few days, Taylor and Aaron had an increasingly heated online conversation, all of which was published on Facebook for hundreds of people to see. Because I was the first person to comment on the photo, I received an e-mail notificati
on any time someone else commented on it. And because my e-mail came to my phone, which I never turned off—even during the school day, when cell phones were strictly off-limits—I was constantly in the loop. Although, more than once, I wished that I wasn’t. Taylor’s first message was a very calm response to Aaron, chastising him for believing that political incorrectness was “cool.”
Then the trouble started. My phone buzzed in math class the next day. Aaron had responded to Taylor’s message. I didn’t mean to imply that he looked gay—as in bad—but rather that he looked gay—as in homosexual. Therefore, it is entirely politically correct, he wrote. I winced as I read through the post. We all know he isn’t gay, so quit making a big deal about it.
Wrong. So wrong.
It just got worse and worse until it finally hit a low, and this message popped up:
Say sorry, you self-righteous do-gooder freak. What the hell is your problem? Obviously, you’re wrong. Oh—and it’s pissing me off that you’re singling me out (and Becky, too, I assume) simply for a comment. I don’t like you, and I don’t think she does either. Give me a break. Seriously, what is your problem? I say that a stupid picture looks gay and you go crazy? Get a life. And quit harassing me.
By the weekend, the first day of the MUN Conference, Taylor and I had stopped speaking. I knew that, if I wanted to be a good friend, I should have commented on the photo on Facebook to say that Aaron was a jerk. But I didn’t—I couldn’t.
Every time I saw Taylor begin to walk toward me in the hallway, I would swing my tote bag over my shoulder, turn around, and walk in the opposite direction. I could have just told her that what Aaron said wasn’t true—that I did like her—but I was too scared that Aaron might get mad at me, and that I might be forced to choose between the Trinity and Taylor.
Diplomacy
That weekend, when the Whitbread MUN team met up at UC Berkeley to walk to opening ceremonies, I ignored Taylor, and she ignored me.
“So,” I told Alissa and Courtney, “my friend Joey Michaels is going to be here today. He’s really nice. You’ll like him, I think. Courtney, he’s in our committee.”
Mr. Elwright, juggling a pile of binders and name tags, shot me a look and cocked his head to Kim.
“Kim, what are you wearing?” I asked while passing out agendas to the team.
Kim smiled. “Western business attire! Isn’t this outfit so cute? I love pretending to be a businessperson!” Kim was wearing a skintight leopard-print skirt matched with a cut-down-to-there V-neck sweater. And unlike me, she had boobs to show off.
I, too, had spent extra time getting ready that morning. Underneath my white button-down and tank top, I had on a lacy orange push-up bra and, underneath my pinstripe pants, a matching thong. I wondered how Aaron would react when he saw them.
“Okay,” I told the group, “we’ll meet back in the dining hall for dinner, after our committee sessions. Good luck. I know you’ll be great.”
My committee was meeting in a large lecture hall. The session hadn’t started yet, so kids in business wear chatted with each other; some even tried to jump the gun and begin making allies. I scanned the room and found Joey and Aaron sitting toward the middle. I made my way over to say hello.
“You ready for this?” I said, smiling playfully. The Stratfield boys were representing South Africa, so I anticipated that they could be counted on to ally with us, Uganda.
“You’re going down,” Aaron said, smiling.
I smiled back, trying to hide a slight uneasiness at his tough words.
“There are approximately 1.7 million AIDS orphans in Uganda, and over 11 million AIDS orphans in all of sub-Saharan Africa. This is not just Uganda’s issue. This is a global issue. We need to increase HIV/AIDS awareness and education in order to prevent the increased transmission of the disease as well as to decrease the stigma surrounding AIDS orphans in Uganda, and in Africa as a whole. Please join us and sign Resolution A–1.”
Amid applause, I made my way back to my seat in the third row. “That was great!” Courtney said. “You didn’t look nervous at all. And you made eye contact with people. Mr. Elwright said that’s important.”
Iceland, a dark-haired boy with a popped collar, poked my back. “Notes for you,” he said. In Model United Nations, note passing is an official form of communication. Countries can form allies and work on resolutions through notes (as well as gossip and flirt). I had sent a note to South Africa saying, J and A—want to be a sponsor of our resolution? Uganda.
Now, I received their reply. In Aaron’s handwriting was Nope. We’re doing our own resolution. May the best team win. My stomach dropped. Why were they doing this? South Africa, as a country, supported our stance on AIDS education. It would be better for both of us to write one resolution, not two, because that way, other countries wouldn’t have to choose between two very similar resolutions. I twisted my head to Joey and Aaron and held my hands up, eyebrows wrinkled. Joey shrugged his shoulders and pointed to Aaron. I scowled. Sure, this was a competition, and not every team could win, but the core of this conference was supposed to be diplomacy.
South Africa was a few countries after Uganda on the speakers list, so, a few minutes later, Joey and Aaron walked up to the podium to speak. Joey began by introducing South Africa’s stance on the issue of AIDS awareness.
Courtney elbowed me. “Is that Joey?” I nodded. She crinkled her eyebrows, examining him. “I mean, I guess he’s okay-looking, but his Western business attire is so awkward. Plus, he looks like he’s totally nervous.” I just shrugged.
After a minute or two, Joey stepped back, and Aaron took the microphone. “Everyone here should sign onto Resolution A–2, not A–1. Our resolution is going to be so much better than theirs. Besides, who would you rather have on your side, Uganda or South Africa? Uganda’s all talk and no action.” Aaron flashed a winning smile. I felt my insides churning. Why was he doing this? Was he being deliberately mean to me? Joey shot me a sympathetic look as he walked back to his seat, but I looked away.
Once their speech was over, I shot my hand and my placard into the air, hoping to be called on as one of the country responses. After each speech, two countries were allowed to make comments. I waved my placard wildly in the air. I must have looked desperate. Courtney tugged at my sleeve. “Relax,” she told me. But I couldn’t. I was called on to be the second comment, and, shaking, I made my way to the front of the room.
I wanted to win this, I really did. But I didn’t want to have to play dirty. “I would like to invite you all, including South Africa, to join in signing Resolution A–1. I believe that a merger of the two resolutions would best serve the interests of the United Nations and create a more forceful resolution.” And that was when I knocked down the podium. I widened my eyes in shock as the podium, microphone and all, toppled onto the ground. A high-pitched squeak reverberated through the room, causing people to clamp their hands over their ears. I just wanted to disappear. One of the committee chairs was shaking her head. There was no way I was going to win this now.
After dinner that night, the Whitbread and Stratfield teams mingled in the dining hall, discussing the day’s events. I stood with Kim and Alissa, who were regaling me with tales of the notes they had received. Taylor was talking with Joey, and Courtney was chatting with Aaron.
“Is that Joey?” Alissa asked, gesturing her head toward him. “You know, the one who’s talking with her?”
I nodded.
“Oh. He looks like kind of a geek. No offense.”
I nodded again. I didn’t understand. Why did people—Aaron in particular—have to be such jerks? I caught Taylor’s eye. She shot me a cold, almost nasty look. Shit, I thought. I really screwed things up with her.
Later, Aaron snuck into my hotel room while Courtney was in Kim and Alissa’s room. “Hey,” he said, closing the door quietly behind him. He was still wearing his button-down and khakis, but the shirt was wrinkled and unbuttoned at the top. He looked hot. This was the moment I had been wa
iting for, the moment when I would show off my new lingerie. But it wasn’t right. I crossed my arms over my chest, self-consciously. He climbed onto the bed and pressed his mouth against mine, but I gathered up my willpower and pushed him away.
“Why did you do that today, in committee? You humiliated me—my country—for no reason! We’re allies, Aaron. In the real world, at least. And what’s more, you’re my boyfriend! You’re supposed to be nice to me, not mean.” My voice was rising.
“Geez. Overreact much?” He seemed to think this was a joke because he then grabbed hold of my mouth once more. Once more, I pulled away. I had started standing up for myself, and I wasn’t going to stop.
“And what you said to Taylor was wrong. You told her I agreed with you, but I don’t.”
“Oh, so Miss Public Speaker didn’t even have the guts to tell Taylor herself, huh? I guess that just goes to show how brave you are. Or maybe it’s because you only like doing the popular thing?”
I shoved him away. This was getting nasty.
“Leave,” I said. “Just leave.”
“You guys are the perfect couple,” Courtney told me later, while we brushed our teeth in the bathroom. “It’s just a rough patch.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t so sure about that. Aaron had sent me a text message after he left, telling me that we needed to talk. I knew that could be code for only one thing.
Part of me wanted to break up with him, but most of me didn’t. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to find another boyfriend, and I was afraid that the Trinity wouldn’t like me as much without him.
I was getting into bed when the phone rang. “Hey,” Aaron said, his voice warm.
“Hey,” I replied, and suddenly it seemed like, maybe, everything would be okay.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t break up with you. Why should I stay in a relationship with you? Tell me how important I am to you.”
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