How to Make Out

by Brianna Shrum

  “Random.”

  “No, like, what if I started a blog, like a paid thing?” I sit up, and fiddle with the edge of the blanket so it rests just past my knees. Drew purses his lips and looks away. I let go of it and it slides back down my thighs and settles at my waist. “Like, a how-to thing. People say I’m a good tutor.” People. By people, I mean one person ever. “People could send in questions and stuff and I’ll answer for a dollar or something.”

  “Workin’ for dolla’ bills. I never thought I’d see the day,” he teases, shaking his head in fake disgust.

  “Seriously though. It could maybe earn me something.”

  “Why don’t you just pick up a part-time job? Bunch of places at the mall are hiring.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t have a car, which would be kind of a major pain. Plus taxes? If I can do it this way, it’d be easier, I think.”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  He relaxes again, so I lie back on him and focus on the TV.

  I wake up in his bed, which is only surprising because I had no idea I’d fallen asleep. It’s early, and it’s Saturday, so I feel no need to rush next door to my house. It’s not like Dad or Stacey will care, since I’m here more often than home. Instead, I tiptoe over to his computer, shaking my head at myself. This does not mean I’m going for sure.

  But I start typing anyway: How to Do Long Division.

  2. How to Deal with Your Best Friend’s Extremely Awkward Mother

  I hit PUBLISH just as Drew wakes. He sits up, bed creaking slightly, and scruffs his hair, smiling sleepily. “Hey there, beautiful. So, was last night as good for you as it was for me?”

  I spin around slowly in the office chair and roll my eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

  He laughs and throws his feet over the side of the bed, body conspicuously absent of clothes.

  “Hey,” I say, indignant. “How come I have to hide my legs under the covers, but you can walk around the room in nothing but your boxers?”

  “Three reasons.” He heads into the bathroom and turns on the faucet. He’s quiet for a second and emerges with his dark hair wet and dripping, rubbing a towel on his head. That so does not count for a shower, but I’m pretty sure in boy world, it does.

  “One,” he starts, rummaging through his closet, “this is my room. My rules.” Fair enough. “Two, you’re breaking the rules anyway, and I’m pretty sure I can actually see your underwear from here. No, no, don’t get up.”

  I flush and switch positions as quickly as possible. He pulls a clean shirt over his head, which is actually slightly regrettable. I’m not about to get involved with him, but his chest was sculpted by the gods.

  “And three, I could stand in front of you, modeling in my underwear all day, and never once would it cross your mind that you wanted to sleep with me. Bad. So bad you could taste it. ’Cause you’re not in love with me.” He says this all in a matter-of-fact way. It’s so out in the open by now that that’s the only way he could say it.

  I swallow hard, looking away, and search the area around the desk for a blanket.

  “And you definitely wouldn’t be beating yourself up ’cause you couldn’t stop imagining me naked.”

  My fingers find a thin cover and tug it up over my lap. Blood rushes to my cheeks.

  He grins. “You’re totally imagining me naked now, aren’t you?”

  I cough and shake my head. But now I am. It’s like if someone says, “Don’t think of a duck!” What’s the first thing you think of? A duck.

  He spins around slowly and holds him arms out, wiry muscles flexing. “Like what you see up there?” He taps his head.

  “Drew!” I shriek. I wad up the blanket and throw it at his chest.

  He catches it and heads over to the computer, pulling up the other chair right beside me.

  “Come on, you know you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not going to jump you the second you show a little leg.”

  “I know.” I smile at him, feeling a little thrum in my chest I really do not want to feel, and then turn back to the computer screen.

  “What do we have here?” he says, leaning over my shoulder.

  “Nothing. Just a blog. Like we were talking about.”

  “So you’re going then? To New York?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe. I’m not committing to anything, though.”

  He clenches his jaw for just a fraction of an instant, then smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. You and your commitment issues.”

  I stiffen, but my pulse spikes. Focus on the computer screen.

  He clears his throat. “So. How to Do Long Division.”

  “Yeah,” I say, glad for the broken silence, but also feeling sheepish for some reason.

  “Don’t be embarrassed. You have a pretty good numbery explanation there. I’m just wondering how you plan to make money from it.”

  “Well, I figured it out this morning. I think my dad could probably cover a few hundred bucks. And fund-raising, that’ll cover another few hundred. With spending money and everything, I think I’ll need about $2500. And I have, like, seven months to do it.” I quickly add, “You know. If I decide to go.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Okay. And how is a free blog going to get you there?”

  “I thought I’d leave it free for a little while, just answering questions from top Google searches and stuff. And putting up paid ads, of course. Then, when it gets a little more popular, I’ll open it up to questions people can ask. But before the question goes up on the blog, they have to pay for it. And everyone else has to pay to access the answer.”

  “So, like all the free sites out there. Except you have to pay money.”

  I narrow my eyes. “No. I’m advertising that every answer comes from a certified expert.”

  He laughs. “Can you do that?”

  I shrug. “I figure, why not? I’ll just become an expert on whatever, and it’ll be true.”

  “Huh. Might as well give it a shot.”

  I turn his chair to face mine. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  He furrows his brow. “Why not?”

  “Because, the success of this whole thing depends on anonymity. Right now, I’m invisible. I’m not a loser, I’m not popular. I’m just … there. No one wants to pay for advice from me. I’m invisible in a lame way. I need to be invisible in, like, a Gossip Girl way.”

  “Okay, I got you. I vow my silence. Pinkie swear. Or should we do this in blood?”

  I arch a brow. “I’m surprised you didn’t want to seal it with a kiss.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything, but since you suggested it …” He leans forward and I slam my hand into his chest, knocking him backward. The chair flips over with a crash and he falls out of it into a small pile of dirty laundry.

  My eyes go wide and I clasp my hands behind my back.

  “So, that’s how you like it then,” Drew rasps. He just lies there for a second, blinking slowly.

  I get out of the chair and reach out to him. “Uh, sorry. Don’t know my own strength, and all that.”

  “Apparently.” He takes my hand. As I’m attempting to pull him up, the door to his room opens. The smell of boy and Chinese food is instantly overpowered by cologne, alcohol, and strong perfume. All left over from last night, I presume. Drew’s usually-put-together mom is a mess of unbrushed hair and smudged eyeliner.

  “What is going on in—” She stops and smiles politely at me, giving me an obvious once-over. I’m even more conscious now that it looks like I’ve got nothing on under Drew’s T-shirt. “Drew,” she says, “you should put a tie on the door or something.”

  I don’t think my skin has ever been a darker shade of crimson. “Hey, Ms. Calloway.”

  “Renley. Always good to see you.”

  The silence is palpable. And awkward. Even Drew isn’t totally comfortable, which is an anomaly. He’s staring at her, nose just slightly wrinkled, usually bright eyes embarrassed. And pissed. I wonder if he
notices the hickey just above her left boob.

  Ms. Calloway clears her throat and looks away. “Well then, I’ll just, um, leave you to it.”

  She backs out and shuts the door quietly. Drew puffs out an embarrassed sigh and shakes his head, hard.

  I glance at him. “Does she really not care if you have girls in here?”

  He coughs. “Did you not see the giant hickey or smell that frat boy cologne? She doesn’t have room to talk even if she did. And no. You know that.”

  I do. Still, it seems like it needs some sort of comment.

  He smiles, then, wiping the ragey embarrassment from his face. “In all honesty,” he says, almost laughing, “I think she’d be more concerned if she thought we weren’t screwing.”

  “That is so messed up.”

  He shrugs and hands me my dirty clothes from yesterday. I take them into his bathroom and shut the door behind me. Few boundaries I refuse to cross in front of him, and actually getting naked is one of them. When I come out in my own crumpled clothes, he takes back his shirt and Random Girl’s shorts.

  “You probably ought to get back home before your dad gets pissed.”

  “Oh yeah, I’m terrified.”

  He grins. But he’s right; I do need to go. Not because of my dad. Ever since he cheated on my mom (like five years ago) and they got divorced, he’s got Divorced Dad Guilt about everything and lets me do literally whatever I want. With whomever I want. I’m sure he thinks Drew and I are sleeping together. But he never says a word about it, and my guess is he never will.

  “I do need to go, though,” I say.

  “Yeah. I have some things I need to do anyway.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I have a hot date later.”

  I look slowly around the room. “And you’re expecting her to come in here?”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to here?” he says, a little half-grin on his face.

  “Well. You should … clean up. At least spray some air freshener or something. And hide those shorts.”

  “I do not need tips from you on how to get laid, little Renley. But thank you for the advice.” He pushes me out the door and I half-smile, half-purse my lips.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say, shaking my head.

  “See ya. And if you come over tonight, text me first. But I doubt she’ll be here past ten.”

  I close his door behind me and sneak out into the foyer. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to sneak; his mom has already seen us and assumed the worst, like, three hundred times. Still. It’s weird.

  “Renley?”

  FATALITY.

  “Hey, Ms. Calloway. Just heading out.”

  “Well, before you leave, take these.” She drops several handfuls of something into my palms, and I don’t even want to know what they are. Except I do know. They’re condoms. A crap ton of condoms.

  “Um.” I have nothing else to say. What are you supposed to say when you’re standing with your best friend’s mom, in the middle of the kitchen, and hordes of likely flavored, neon-colored condoms are pouring from your hands?

  “Don’t be embarrassed. Just take them.”

  Ugh. Yeah. She was definitely playing the cougar role last night. Frat boy body spray is assaulting my nostrils.

  I try to hold my breath. But I have to say something, because the bizarre I’m the cool mom conspiratorial look she’s giving me is almost worse than the cologne. “Okay. I’m just not sure how else to say this, but I am not sleeping with your son.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Oh, honey. I wasn’t born yesterday. Don’t worry about it. Just take them. Be safe.”

  I’m not sure if I should look at her face or at the ground, or at all the latex in my hands. So I just look frantically among all three.

  “But I’m really, honestly, not. I swear. I’m a vir—”

  “Just take them, sweetie. Your secret is safe with me.” She winks, which makes it all infinitely worse. I turn around, eyelids glued open, and make a move stiffly toward the door. Drew walks in, takes one look at my birth control–laden hands, and chokes on nothing. He brushes past me, bee-lining for his mom (but takes a condom as he walks past), and I open the door and let it slam behind me.

  “MOM,” I hear, muffled behind the door.

  “What?” she says.

  Seconds later, I get a text from him.

  Dude. I don’t even.

  I write back,

  It’s fine. I’ll just, like, make balloons or something.

  White balloons? Lovely party.

  They’re all multicolored. And flavored.

  Stop sending words. You’re talking about my MOM’S condoms.

  The screen darkens and I laugh, then head inside.

  3. How to Do a Waterfall Braid

  “Hey, Leelee,” my dad says as I walk through the door. He’s called me that since I was little. It’s stupid, but I kind of love it.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Drew’s.”

  He forces a smile, like he always does after I spend the night next door. And he avoids looking at my face, like always. It’s tough, I suppose, thinking your daughter is whoring it up with her hot, man-slut neighbor. I shift my weight back and forth, wondering for a split second if he’ll say anything. If maybe, for once in the last five years, he’ll Dad up and ground me or take my phone or something.

  “Well,” he says, voice stilted and clearly uncomfortable, “I’m, uh, glad you had fun with your friend.”

  He looks back toward the kitchen for a split second and takes a sip from his coffee mug, and I allow myself one head shake. One head shake of annoyance, and I don’t even know why. Having the ability to go punishment-free on everything is a superpower, not a nuisance. But right now, it feels like one anyway.

  He looks back at me (not at my eyes; he’s avoiding those quite expertly), and his gaze flicks down to my hands. My hands, which are overflowing with condoms.

  Oh no. Panic mode. What do I do with these? Can I tell him they’re tiny candy packets? Hide them in my pockets? I hate Drew’s mom. I hate her so much.

  Dad spits out his coffee, like people only really do in the movies, and just stares.

  “Wh—what are those?”

  “Uh.”

  He gets up from the table and sets down his coffee.

  “Renley, what are those?”

  “Dad, I—” and I stop. Part of me wants to defend myself. To tell him I’ve never kissed Drew (fifth grade not included), let alone slept with him. Or anyone else, for that matter. To tell him Ms. Calloway is crazy and wouldn’t let me leave until she’d buried me in a mountain of birth control. But the other part … the other part wants to lie. “They’re condoms, Dad.”

  His jaw drops. There’s nothing but silence, silence we can both really feel, for two minutes, minimum. And I’m the one who breaks it.

  “What do you think I do at his house when I stay over?”

  “I … I, uh …”

  “Do you think we just sit there, watching movies all night and braiding each other’s hair?”

  “Renley—”

  “I’m not eleven anymore, Dad.”

  His eyes dart around the room, at every single thing but me. And I just stand there, clutching the condoms. When he finally speaks, it’s quiet. And tired. “You’re right. You’re not a child anymore. And … I’m sorry.”

  I bark out a laugh. “You’re sorry.”

  “Of course I am. You’re old enough to make your own decisions. And at least you’re being safe.”

  I don’t even know what to say to that. So I don’t.

  “He does have a lot of girls going in and out of there, Leelee. You need to be careful.”

  The door creaks open as I turn and start up the stairs.

  “Hi, Leelee!” Stacey says brightly. “We missed you last night!”

  I hate it when she calls me that. I ignore her and walk faster, disappearing into my room. I have no
idea why I’m so pissed. I just am. I slam the door behind me (yet another thing my dad will refuse to punish me for) and whip out my phone.

  Dad saw your mom’s … gifts to me.

  Was he pissed?

  He didn’t care. At all.

  I feel kind of stupid about the whole thing now. About getting angry about my dad not ever getting angry. Why does it matter if my dad doesn’t care about my fake sexual habits? The phone buzzes.

  Well, you know, my mom wants me to put a tie on the door so she knows if I’m hooking up w/ someone lol

  lol parents

  I set the phone down on the computer desk, running a hand through my hair to chill myself out, and log in to my blog. Five views. Not breaking any records.

  What else do I even know how to do, aside from math? I start typing in the search engine. How to … How to Boil Eggs? Really? There’s no way that’s the fourth highest search. Whatever, I can do that. One of the few things I can cook.

  1. Add salt to water.

  2. Add eggs to cold water.

  3. Bring to boil.

  4. Boil for 9 minutes.

  5. Eat.

  And find a way to make that interesting. Add a couple gifs, maybe.

  PUBLISH.

  I blink at the archive. “How to Do Long Division.” “How to Hard Boil Eggs.” This is the most boring blog on the face of ever. I scroll through some more search engine stuff for a while. “How to Do a Waterfall Braid.” Interesting.

  I plop myself in front of the mirror with several YouTube videos playing at once. Over, under, over, under. And nothing that resembles anything. I try many times (quite unsuccessfully) and by the end of this whole venture, my hair resembles the nest of a small bird.

  I scramble for a hairbrush, trying to decide whether I need to deep-condition my hair first, or if that will just make it worse.

  Someone knocks at my door. “Come in.”

  “Hi, honey.”

  “Hey.”

  Dad comes and sits on my bed. I ignore him and continue searching for a brush. Somehow, when he’s here, I’m mad again.

  “New hairstyle?”

  “Ha. Kind of.”

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks, fiddling with his watch. Dad still wears a watch, even though he has a smartphone that can tell him the time in every time zone in the world.