I Never

by Laura Hopper

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Saturday, Danielle, Sloan, and I go shopping and out to lunch. It’s the kind of beautiful San Diego day that we refer to as a sweaters-and-sunglasses day. After lunch at The Promiscuous Fork, we walk around La Jolla, poking into shops. In one store, I come across a beautiful white lace nightgown. It’s short and has spaghetti straps and is practically see-through. It’s somehow both naughty and nice. I take it into the fitting room to try it on. Even as I take off my leggings and sweatshirt, before I even have the nightgown off the hanger, I wonder how and when I would wear it. I slip the nightgown over my head and stare at my reflection.

  There I am. Janey King. Wearing lingerie, of all things. It looks kinda pretty. Maybe even a little sexy. Wow! That’s a new thing for me. I actually think those very words when looking at my own reflection. I like how my chest and arms look. I appreciate my muscular legs, and even my small boobs look cute and perky under the delicate fabric. I picture Luke lying on a bed and me walking into the room wearing this nightgown. I don’t know if it will work that way, but it can’t hurt to have a plan. I look at the price tag. It’s been reduced from a hundred and fifty dollars to seventy-five. Yikes. Seventy-five bucks is still steep. I decide to wait and give it some thought.

  “Not good?” Sloan wants to know as I replace the hanger on the rack.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I say. “Just a little out of my price range. Probably not that practical anyway.”

  “Practical, schmatical,” Sloan says. “We’re talking about your first time. It should be special, and you should feel special.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “I’ll think about it.”

  The three of us continue down the street. More shopping, more talking. We take a break at Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory. We sit at a small table outside with one Oreo-crusted caramel apple to share among us. Sloan tells us all about Ryan Webb, the sophomore she’s been hanging out with. She’s had her eye on him since he started as a freshman and we were sophomores.

  “Is this your first younger guy?” I ask.

  “Yup,” she responds. “And it’s so fun being the older woman. I get to teach him. We haven’t done much, and that part is fun too. Nice to take it slow.”

  “Speaking of taking it slow”—​Danielle turns to me—​“you seem to be getting ready.”

  “Oh?” I say. “How do you figure?”

  “If you’re trying on sexy lingerie, you’re definitely thinking about having sex,” Sloan says.

  “It’s true,” I confess. “I think I’m ready.”

  “You’re smart,” Danielle says. “I wish I had waited until I knew for sure I was ready. I thought it was time and I was supposed to do it, so I just figured I’d get used to it. And yeah, now I’m used to it and I love Charlie, but I felt so uneasy and insecure the night I lost my virginity. That won’t happen for you and Luke. It will be beautiful.”

  “I hope so,” I say nervously.

  “We know you’ll be beautiful,” Sloan says. She gives Danielle a knowing look and reaches into one of her shopping bags.

  “Surprise!” Danielle chirps as Sloan pulls out the white nightgown I tried on.

  I’m stunned. “You guys! That’s crazy! What did you do?”

  “What are friends for?” Sloan says.

  “How did you do this?” I ask.

  “Remember when I said I left my phone in the dressing room?” Sloan asks. I nod, putting the pieces together. “I went back and picked it up for you. It’s an early birthday present from both of us.”

  “Now when Luke peels it off you, you’ll think of us,” Danielle says.

  “Awesome. I’ll be naked with him, thinking of you. What’s wrong with that picture?” We all laugh hysterically. Thank god for best friends.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It’s our first regular season track meet. I’m in the locker room getting pumped. Cate is blasting “Walk This Way” by Run-D.M.C. and all the track girls are singing and dancing while they secure their pony­tails and double-knot their running shoes. I tuck my La Jolla High Track tank top into my shorts and walk out the door with a bunch of other girls. As I make my way to the track, I see that the stands are full. Parents and students from both schools have come to root for their kids and their friends. I’m sure my mom and dad are somewhere out there, but I can’t see them in the crowd. I do see Brett, sitting in the front row. We catch each other’s eye and he gives me a thumbs-up.

  Before my feet even hit the all-weather surface of the track, I feel a strong arm around my shoulders. Luke whispers in my ear, “Go get ’em, Peachy Keen.” He looks so hot in his track uniform, his biceps defined, his legs long and powerful. We walk to the center of the field together, his arm never moving from its perch on my shoulder. I look up into the stands, feeling slightly self-conscious knowing that my parents can see me standing on the grass with a guy’s arm around me. A guy who is a virtual stranger to them.

  I scan each row of bleachers, and I finally see my mom’s floppy hat. She bought it when we first arrived in Cabo and wore it every day of the trip. That thing was everywhere: on the beach, by the pool . . . it even fell off a boat into the ocean. My dad, ever the hero, jumped off the boat to rescue my mother’s nineteen-dollar hat. Just seeing the faded pink in a sea of school-spirit colors sends an unexpected pang through my heart.

  Suddenly, it hits me that Cabo was the last vacation we will ever have as a family. I was so clueless while we basked in the sun and drank virgin strawberry margaritas, entirely unaware of the news I would receive on New Year’s Eve. Even though it was relatively recent, everything was different about my life when my mom wore that hat. I had never kissed Luke. I had never had my skin tingle at the touch of his hand. I had never seen him naked. I had never purchased condoms. I had never thought of myself as beautiful. I had never thought that my family would break apart.

  My mom sees that I have caught sight of her and she gives the smallest of waves, really just a slight movement of two fingers. I wave back even smaller, merely raising my hand to acknowledge her presence. My body feels like it’s sinking into the freshly mown grass of the field.

  “You okay?” Luke asks, removing his arm from around my shoulders and facing me.

  “Yeah,” I say, exhaling deeply as though to expel from my body and mind the medley of sadness, longing, and realization. “I’m going to get some water.” I walk over to the giant Gatorade tanks that are lined up near the benches and pour myself some ice-cold water. I’ve got to shake off the sadness, get my head on straight, and get ready to run my ass off.

  The various track team groups begin to gather in their respective areas. I’m so glad that the 300-meter low hurdles are first. I have stiff competition in a senior from Point Loma. As soon as I hear the gun, I get off to a good start. My dad, who ran track in college, always made me skip to build leg strength and refine my technique. He and I would go out to the track on the weekends and, together, we would skip fifty meters with our knees as high as possible. Then we would rest for one minute and repeat. After ten of these, we were both exhausted and ready for milkshakes.

  As I clear each hurdle, I am careful to look ahead to the next one as opposed to down at my knee, which is a mistake I used to make. In my peripheral vision, I see Point Loma at my side. I run faster. She does, too. As I push to regain the lead, I hear a crash—​she has kicked over a hurdle. I finish strong and take the blue ribbon. I look to the stands to see my parents cheering with enthusiasm. Luke, from the long jump area, gives me a congratulatory nod. I feel invincible.

  I have a slight break before the 4x800 meter relay. I’m the anchor, the last leg, which I love because if we’re behind, I know how to catch up. Cate leads us off. After the first hundred meters, she cuts to the post and takes the lead. Senior Lindsay Caines is our second runner. Lindsay establishes her position in the exchange zone and makes eye contact with Cate as she approaches with the baton. Lindsay is careful not to take off too fast, because she can tell that Ca
te is fading. They get their steps in line and Lindsay gets the stick. Lindsay keeps us in first place, keeping a safe distance ahead of the competition. She runs her two laps with ease, closing in on Marley, our third runner. Marley, her receiving hand up, yells for the stick.

  The key to a good exchange is the arm and hand coordination of both runners. Marley gets the baton and takes off at a good pace. She maintains the lead and approaches me to pass the stick for the final leg. We execute a blind hand-off as I grasp the baton with my right hand and pull it from Marley, who is holding it loosely in her left hand, making the transfer as smooth as silk. I run, and without looking behind me, I get the sense that I am increasing the distance between myself and the other teams, as the sound of their footsteps grows fainter. Before I know it, the finish line is within inches and I cross it, never letting up. My teammates join me and we jump up and down in celebration of our first victory of the season.

  At the end of the meet, La Jolla High has the most ribbons. Luke takes first place in long jump as well as the high jump, and he comes in second place in the triple jump, an event he hates but Chow makes him do. Parents and friends from the stands are now gathering on the track, seeking out the people they came to watch. I see my parents approaching from one direction and Luke making his way across the field from another. Here we go. My mom and dad get to me first.

  “Congrats, babe!” my dad says, giving me a hug. He doesn’t care that I’m sweaty and my uniform is sticking to me. “You looked fantastic out there.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “That was fabulous,” Mom chimes in.

  “Thank you, Mom,” I say, and I lean into her while she kisses my forehead. “We watched Luke, too; he was terrific.”

  My mom’s words are still lingering in the air as Luke approaches. I’m almost positive he heard his name, making me cringe with embarrassment. Why do parents always have the wrong thing to say at exactly the wrong time? Luke, ever the gentleman, pretends he doesn’t know my mom was talking about him.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Nice to see you, Luke.” Dad puts out his hand and Luke partakes in a manly handshake.

  “Mr. King,” Luke says, “how are you?”

  “Please, call me Robert, and this is Karen,” Dad says, welcoming Mom to the conversation.

  “Great to finally meet you, Luke,” my mom says. Finally? Why did she have to say finally? Now Luke might think I’ve been talking to my parents about him for eons. Okay, I’m overthinking again. Standing here with my parents and Luke has me totally on edge. I need to take a deep breath and chill.

  Luke doesn’t seem to notice the details that make me wince. “Nice to meet you, too,” Luke says. “How’d you like the meet? Your daughter was awesome, wasn’t she?”

  Mom and Dad chime in with their biased praise of my performance. Luke eagerly agrees. Then Mom tells Luke how well he did. I am back to overthinking. I worry that it seems like she watched him too carefully. Does he think my creepy mom was stalking him at his track meet? I know I’m being extra sensitive and super paranoid, but I can’t help it. Every word, every sound my parents utter is subject to my intense scrutiny and criticism. I am looking at them through what I imagine to be Luke’s perspective. I want them to say and do everything right.

  Chow calls Luke over to help take the mats into the shed and Luke expertly extricates himself from the conversation with my mom and dad.

  “I’ve gotta go help clean up. See you soon, I hope,” he says and dashes away to fulfill his duties as captain of the track team.

  Mom and Dad, predictably, gush about how nice, polite, handsome, and mature Luke is. I love hearing it. I could stand there for hours and listen to them spout off about the many wonderful attributes of my boyfriend. And they don’t even know the best parts—​how he kisses, how his sweet tongue sticks out when he laughs, how he makes me feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.

  “I’m going to run some errands before I head home. Need anything?” Mom asks.

  “No, I’m good,” I say. She gives me a kiss on the cheek and then says goodbye to my dad, and he gets a similar peck on the cheek. Very polite, like a kiss she would give a friend of the family. I come to the realization that I’ve never seen my parents kiss each other on the cheek. It’s not like they showed a lot of PDA or made out in front of me or anything, but whenever they parted or reunited it was always with a kiss on the lips. Those kisses on the lips are now a thing of the past. I find that these little reminders of how things have changed are constantly taking me by surprise and tugging at my heart.

  After Mom has gone, Dad reaches into his pocket. “I have something for you,” he says. He produces a small wire ring holding two keys. “This one is for the building,” he says, fingering the brass key, “and this one is for my apartment.” He shows me the silver key.

  “Oh. Thanks,” I say.

  “You live there, too, and you can go there whenever you feel like it,” he says. “I have a trip this weekend, so you can hang out there if you want. Don’t sleep there when I’m gone, and make sure your mom knows where you are. But treat it like home. It’s stocked with Frosted Flakes and string cheese.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Have fun.” My dad’s timing is eerie. There’s no hint of knowing to his tone or his expression. He doesn’t nod toward Luke, or wink, or do anything disgusting. He’s simply straightforward and generous, as though he just wants me to be comfortable sharing his new life. I grasp the ring in my hand, feeling the cool metal of the keys, and I feel like everything is falling into place. I’m going to lose my virginity this weekend.

  That night, I’m sitting on my bed studying for an American history test when I hear the faintest of knocks on my bedroom door. I turn down my music.

  “Come in,” I call. My mom walks in timidly.

  “Hi,” she says. “You busy?”

  “Big history test tomorrow on World War II,” I say.

  “I’m sure you’ll do great,” she says. “Can we talk for a minute?”

  “Sure.” Uh-oh. I brace myself for what’s going to come next. She sits on the edge of my bed, moving my laptop and history book to my nightstand. I cautiously await the inquisition.

  “Luke seems great,” she says.

  “Yeah, he is,” I say with a tight smile, anticipating the onslaught of questions.

  “How serious is it?” she wants to know.

  “I don’t know. I like him, he likes me, but we’re not getting married anytime soon, if that’s what you’re asking.” I know damn well that’s not what she’s asking. She knows damn well that I know that’s not what she’s asking.

  “Do you love him?”

  Yes! I love him like crazy! I think of him constantly and am strongly considering having sex with him this weekend in Dad’s peaceful apartment by the beach.

  “Maybe.” Why am I unwilling to open up to her about this? I’ve always shared everything with my mom. She’s easygoing and trusting. She always offers excellent advice. She’s sweet and smart and has never been judgmental or steered me wrong. And yet, I feel dead-set on keeping my Luke story a secret from her . . . for now.

  “It’s easy to see that he loves you, too,” she says. “Remember I only want the best for you. And I love you more than you can imagine.” She strokes my hair.

  “Thanks, Mommy,” I say, my heart melting a bit for a woman whose life is changing just as quickly as mine is.

  “And I’m here for you. Whatever you might need. If you ever want to talk, I’m here to listen.”

  “I love you so much,” I say, and I lean into her and welcome her arms around me. I inhale her familiar smell—​a mix of perfume and cocoa-butter hand lotion—​a smell that, since I was a little girl, has always made me feel safe and at peace. I’m lucky that she cares and that she supports me, and it still feels good to have my mom on my bed next to me, holding me tight. But I also need my independence. Who knows, maybe all those self-possessed girls I notice at track meet
s, in locker rooms, and at debate tournaments also sometimes still need their mommies.

  Chapter Thirty

  On Friday morning I wake up at 6:28 a.m., two minutes before my alarm is set to go off. I have two minutes to lie in bed. Two minutes to think. I don’t have to think. I know. I’m ready.

  Part of my morning ritual is packing my bag for track practice. Running shoes, shorts, jog bra, socks, T-shirt, sweatshirt. This morning I add the white nightgown Sloan and Danielle bought for me. It’s still carefully folded in tissue, deep inside the store’s pink paper bag. Since I brought it home, I have not even opened the bag. I was afraid to get it dirty or misplace the receipt in case I decided to return it. I thought that trying it on or putting it in my underwear or pajama drawer would somehow jinx everything.

  I dig deep into my bathing-suit drawer to fish out the condoms. How many should I bring? One seems foolish—​I’ve heard they can break. Ten is probably too many—​I don’t want to set unrealistic expectations. Five has got to be about right. Five it is. An assortment of the different kinds, so Luke can choose.

  Where is the appropriate place to carry condoms? After much consideration, and a few bad ideas poorly executed, I wrap the five condoms into the crinkly tissue next to the soft white nightgown inside the pink bag. Then I put the pink bag in the bottom of my track duffle, underneath the worn shoes, the yellowed socks, and the gray sweatshirt with the frayed cuffs. Then I grab the keys my dad gave me and tuck them into the side zippered pocket inside the Nike bag.

  I hear Brett honking for me in my driveway. Brett has tried hard to be a supportive friend, even though I can tell it kills him a little to pretend he thinks Luke is good for me. One morning, as Brett and I were walking to class from the parking lot, Luke came up from behind us and grabbed my hand and held it as the three of us walked together.

  “What’s up, man?” Luke asked Brett, friendly as ever.