by Laura Hopper
I’m ready when Brett arrives. And by ready, I mean that I’m dressed, my teeth are brushed, and my debate notes are neatly assembled in my binder. But I don’t feel as ready as I have for previous tournaments. I usually do nothing the night before a debate but prepare notes, go over arguments, and practice closing statements. Last night I was eating gelato and making out on my doorstep until past midnight. I think I’m starting to lose focus.
“What did you do last night?” Brett wants to know. “I thought we could FaceTime and practice for today.”
“Dinner with my dad.” I hear the words leave my lips and I realize that I sound like a child of divorce. I hate the way it sounds.
“That’s it?” He knows me so well.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean I was trying you at ten thirty. You and your dad have a late night on the town?”
Am I supposed to tell Brett where I was and what I was doing? I’m not sure where to draw the line between honesty and privacy.
“Came home and went to bed.” Wow, I just lied to Brett.
He seems suspicious, but he lets it go. Guys are so much simpler than girls.
We arrive at the high school and enter the auditorium to register. These mornings are always frantic. Team members are keyed up, going over their outlines, making last-minute notes, and checking their computers for new findings that support their arguments. Those who are unprepared (I never knew what that felt like until today) ask to see their teammates’ research to scan for missing information. I sit down at a table and try to lock in on my outlines for a quick cram session before round one begins. I should be thinking about immigration, peer pressure, and gun control, but instead I’m thinking about gelato, Peachy Keen smoothies, and Luke’s soft, sweet lips. This debate is going to go horribly wrong, and yet I’m fighting to keep a smile from creeping across my face.
The first round of the tournament, we are debating the topic The negative effects of peer pressure outweigh the positive ones. I am the first speaker for the proposition side. I stand up and wait for the judge to signal that he’s ready to begin.
“Our peers have a huge influence on us. We are impacted in ways that make us adopt their thinking, their behavior, and their lifestyle, which is, in effect, the definition of peer pressure. It can be argued that there are indeed positive effects of peer pressure. But, Judge, the negative impact is far weightier. Teenagers are susceptible to both negative and positive peer pressure, but in my arguments, I will explain and prove that the negative effects far outweigh the positive.”
I’m not in my groove. I don’t feel rehearsed or proficient, the way I usually do. I am glancing at my notes, instead of my usual tactic: laser vision directed at the judge. I’m getting sweaty, and my hands are shaking more than usual.
“Teenagers are simply not experienced or mature enough to differentiate between good and bad. They need to be taught the difference. They need to be educated about and protected against the negative and harmful effects of peer pressure. The solution, Judge, is not in isolating these adolescents from peers, but instead in teaching them to make good choices now and throughout their lives.”
Somehow, I fill up the full five-minute time allotted and finish my opening statements. I’m so glad it’s over, but I’m supremely unhappy with my performance. Brett totally steps up. He reinforces my arguments, adding new information and examples. He delivers them with a hammer and takes our opponents down in refuting all of their points. The rest of the day goes similarly. Our team does well, fifth place, but I don’t get my usual high speaker points, and I walk away without a personal trophy.
Brett and I are quiet for the first ten minutes of the ride home. Finally, he can’t stand it.
“What’s going on with you?” he demands.
“What do you mean?”
“Janey, how long have we known each other? You think I can’t tell when something’s up?”
“Everything’s fine. Really.” The words just come out. I ask myself why I’m lying to Brett. Why I don’t just tell him: I went out with Luke Hallstrom, I am beyond crazy for him, I spent last night kissing him instead of preparing for this tournament, and my priorities are entirely out of whack. I am going to have to come clean to Brett sooner rather than later. I know he’d like to be in a relationship with someone, and I’m afraid he’ll feel abandoned. Brett and I are sort of a team. We have each other when we have no one else. The problem is that Brett has unrealistic expectations about the girl he’s waiting for: She has to be a genius, have a body that stops traffic, and of course find him one hundred percent irresistible.
Also, Brett always says the senior sporty boys are douchey. He never specifically called Luke a douche, but it’s clear he thinks that group of guys has no substance. The truth is that Brett has never even had a conversation with any of them.
I ponder all of this in my head and contemplate coming clean, but I’ve already denied being distracted, and now it’s too late for honesty. We downshift into talk about Danielle and Charlie. Brett wants to know all the places they’ve had sex. I try not to betray Danielle’s confidence, so I only share the widely known information.
“Let’s see. I know they did it in her dad’s car while it was in the garage and her parents were watching a movie upstairs.”
“Yeah, I know that one. Where else?”
I feel I have to give him something to make up for the fact that I’ve withheld details about myself.
“They did it after school in the multipurpose room.”
“No way! How’d they manage that?” he asks.
“Most of the teachers had left for the day. The door was unlocked, so they snuck in, locked the door, and went to town on a table,” I say.
“Nasty! That room will never be the same.”
“I know, right?”
Chapter Twelve
Sunday morning. So nice to sleep late without having to worry about rushing to school or a debate tournament. After blinking the sleep from my eyes, I roll over and check my phone. The first thing I see is that it’s 10:50 a.m. The second thing I notice is that I have texts from Danielle and Sloan, but none from Luke. No contact from him since Friday night. Is that bad? What does that mean? I wonder what he did Saturday night. Is it even any of my business? Do I wait for him to text me? I’m still not sure how this is supposed to work.
The texts from Danielle and Sloan tell me to get my butt out of bed and meet them in La Jolla for coffee and shopping. I brush my teeth and throw on some sweats. My mom has left a note under my door: Went to the farmers’ market, let me know if you want anything. Tacos tonight?
When I walk up to the Living Room, Danielle and Sloan are sitting outside sipping decaf soy lattes. Mine is waiting for me. A giant cinnamon roll sits in the center of the table, three forks stabbed into its gooey frosting.
Danielle looks great, beautifully put together in skinny jeans, flats, and a cashmere sweater. Sloan, on the other hand, looks like she’s been hit by a truck. She’s wearing big dark sunglasses, a sure sign that she’s not wearing any makeup. Her oversized La Jolla High sweatshirt and leggings could easily have served as last night’s pajamas.
“Rough night?” I ask Sloan as I sit down.
“Ugh,” she grunts in response.
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I went with my sister to the party on Pearl. I heard it was going to be fun. It was nuts. So many hot guys.”
“Just how many are we talking about?” I ask with interest.
“Well, two worth mentioning.”
Danielle nearly chokes on her foam. “E.B., you hooked up with two guys last night?”
“I did,” Sloan says.
“Details,” I prod.
“The first guy, I think his name is Tony . . .” Danielle and I laugh out loud because Sloan is uncertain of the name of the guy she hooked up with a mere twelve hours ago.
“Go on.”
“He was so freakin’ cute. We were hanging out, but his f
riends wanted to leave, so I walked him out and we just started kissing like crazy. Then he left. So what was I supposed to do, mourn him? No way. I started dancing and this hot guy with a nose ring was dancing near me. We kept looking at each other until we were dancing together, and the next thing you know, DFMO.”
“What is DFMO?” Danielle asks.
Sloan sighs as if it’s the most obvious thing, “Dance Floor Make-Out.”
“How does that even happen?” I still feel like a stranger in these waters.
“It just happens,” Sloan says.
“It happens to E.B.,” Danielle adds.
“So, we hung out till three a.m. When I’m with my sister, my parents don’t sweat the curfew. Now I’m really wishing this wasn’t decaf,” she says as she lifts her drink to take a sip.
“Just trying to hold you to your New Year’s resolution,” Danielle teases her.
We finish our breakfast of champions and walk around the corner to our favorite boutique, the Pink Zone. I always gravitate to the part of the store that has plain T-shirts and tank tops, basics in soft cotton that serve my everyday needs.
Today, I migrate over to a rack with dressier items, things I wouldn’t normally wear. I pick up a black sleeveless blouse with a deep V-neck and near-sheer fabric. Dare I? Somewhere in the back of my head, a voice cautions me, You haven’t even heard from him in two days. I choose to ignore that voice and instead make myself concentrate on the doorstep kissing that made me weak in the knees.
I picture wearing the black top with jeans and wedges and wonder if I can pull it off. It’s worth a try; after all, it’s on sale, and I still have Christmas money burning a hole in my pocket.
Sloan finds me at the counter. She does a double-take when she sees my purchase.
“Someone’s got some explaining to do.” Sloan picks up the blouse and calls across the store, “Hey, Danielle, check out what our girl is buying. Looks like we missed a memo.”
Danielle comes running over to us. She takes a look at the shirt, then gives me a long look up and down, taking in my sweats, flip-flops, and messy ponytail.
“What’s up?” Danielle asks.
“Nothing,” I answer. But I let out a little giggle that definitely gives away that something is indeed up.
“Does this have anything to do with Luke Hallstrom?” Sloan homes right in on it.
“Maybe,” I say, almost laughing.
I buy the shirt and the girls pull me outside onto a bench.
“Start from the beginning,” instructs Danielle.
“And don’t leave anything out,” adds Sloan.
I am ready to share, so I tell them everything. Every moment, the feel of his lips and of his hands in my hair. Talking about it makes it feel real. And I really want this to be real. Both Danielle and Sloan are listening like it’s the best story they’ve ever heard.
“Wait, how long was the first kiss?” Danielle interrupts.
“I don’t know, like maybe two full minutes.”
“Did he shove his whole tongue in your mouth?” Sloan asks. “Or did he lightly tease you with it, pulling it in and out?” Sloan always wants the details.
“All I know is that I was melting the entire time.”
“I’m melting just listening to this,” Danielle says.
“I can’t freakin’ believe we’re talking about Luke freakin’ Hallstrom!” Sloan screams.
The screaming and squealing continue on the street corner for the next hour and a half, before Danielle gets serious.
“Are you going to have sex with him?”
“What the heck, Danielle? I don’t even know if he likes me. He’s probably dating three other girls at the same time.”
“He’s not,” Sloan says. “He and Amanda ended things before college. She took someone else to her sorority formal. He hooked up with Lily Patterson after homecoming, but I think he went home alone after Miles’s birthday party.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask, incredulous.
“I know things,” Sloan says with a shrug.
“Nevertheless, I think it’s a little soon to talk about having sex with him. I don’t want this to be a hookup. I think I really like him,” I say.
“It’s never too soon to talk about it. The first time you have sex needs to be planned. You need to be prepared, both mentally and physically, you know what I mean?” Danielle says.
“Danielle, she’s not an idiot,” Sloan says.
“I know she’s not an idiot, Sloan, but there are things she might not think of. Things I didn’t think of my first time that would have been helpful.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Well,” Danielle starts, “this isn’t a hookup. You really like him, so you should take it super slow, make sure he’s into you and not just the sex.”
Sloan, who was leaning into the conversation, sits back as though to take herself out of it. Sloan knows a lot about hookups, but Danielle has experience with being in a serious relationship.
“You need to know it’s coming. Don’t let him surprise you or talk you into doing it before you’re ready. In fact, the first two or three times he tries, you should say no. He’ll respect you for that. When you’re ready you should come with protection so he knows you’re cool with it. That will turn him on.”
Danielle goes on and on, the ultimate expert on a committed, sexual relationship. Throughout the conversation, Sloan continues to retreat. She can’t offer much advice on sex, boyfriends, and taking things slowly.
I ask a bunch of laughable questions about logistics, logistics I assume Sloan probably knows just as well as Danielle.
“How will I know when I’m ready?”
“Are we supposed to talk about being exclusive?”
“How do I give a hand job?”
“Do I take my own clothes off, or does he undress me?”
The beautiful thing about having such good friends and feeling so comfortable with them is that I don’t have to worry if I sound stupid or naive; I can just get the answers I need.
“Have you guys been texting since you saw him Friday night?” Danielle wants to know.
“No,” I say.
“There’s been no contact?” Sloan asks, seemingly surprised.
“No, nothing,” I say. Now I’m getting even more paranoid. Does that mean something? “I was at the debate all day yesterday, and then came home and crashed.”
“You’ll probably hear from him today, but don’t text him. Let him come to you,” Sloan chimes in, but she’s a little quieter now, more low-key. Ever since Danielle’s lesson on how to be in a relationship, something in Sloan has changed. The sparkly enthusiasm she shared earlier is gone. She doesn’t seem excited for me. Am I supposed to feel guilty or apologetic about this thing with Luke, whatever it is? Does this fall in the category of sisters before misters? I wish I could ask Sloan these questions.
Chapter Thirteen
Luke looks especially cute at track today. I mean, he always looks cute, but today he’s wearing a red Nike Dri-FIT shirt that sort of hugs his body, and he’s still holding on to that tan from Mexico. Maybe I’m just so into him that he keeps getting better- and better-looking. Or maybe I just didn’t look closely enough before.
He’s the only one in the high jump area when I finish my last set of hurdles. It’s getting dark out, and most people are finished and have either left or are making their way from the track to the locker rooms.
I’m not sure if I should approach him or not. I start stretching as a means of stalling. A long series of calf and quad stretches, followed by a full sequence of back stretches. Still no eye contact from Luke. He seems entirely focused on his high jumps. I’m beginning to think that whatever happened between us is now officially over. I slowly start the dreaded walk back to the locker room. One step. Two. Two and a half. Three.
“Peachy Keen, where’re you off to?”
Music to my ears. My heart jumps. I turn around, feigning curiosity, as if to see who in
the world might be calling me Peachy Keen.
“I’m finished. Headed home,” I say.
“Come over here,” Luke says.
I make every effort to walk, not run, in his direction. Coach Chow and the rest of the team are leaving the field as I head over to the high jump mat. We are the only two left.
“I missed you,” he says.
What is the right response? I just stand here, looking at him, smiling like a dork.
“What, you’ve got nothing to say to me?” he teases. “You didn’t miss me, too? You don’t want to tell me how happy you were that today was Monday so you could come to school and see me?”
Now I continue with the silence, not because I can’t think of a witty response (although, truthfully, I can’t), but because I’m interested in what else he’s going to say. I keep staring at him, wanting to hear more.
“What is this, the silent treatment?” He walks over, scoops me up, and plops me down on the mat. I didn’t see that coming. I start to laugh. He lies down next to me, almost over me, and stares into my eyes, his face inches away. I do a quick look around to make sure that we are absolutely alone on the field.
“Sorry we haven’t talked. My brother was in town this weekend.”
“That’s okay,” I say, relief calming my every paranoid nerve.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, looking at me with that winning smile.
“I did,” I say quietly.
“I gotta say, Peachy Keen, I’m not sure I believe you,” he says.
“I missed you,” I say with conviction.
“How much?” he asks.
“Tons.”
“That’s more like it,” he says and leans closer, putting his lips over mine in the deepest, sexiest kiss that ever happened. He continues to kiss me, his tongue exploring my whole mouth. He pulls away slightly and delicately licks my lips.
“Mmm, you taste good.”