How to Make Out

by Brianna Shrum

  I stare up at the poster of the periodic table on my wall. (I’m aware it is the nerdiest thing on earth.) Focus away from Dad, and on the numbers. Calm. “No.”

  “At Stacey?”

  “No.”

  He sighs heavily. “Listen, I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings or embarrass you earlier. It’s just, since your mom lives six hundred miles away, and is well, you know … I know you don’t get the chance to really talk about this kind of stuff, you know, sex stuff, with anyone. And you’re growing up. You have needs now.”

  “Dad, oh my gosh.”

  “No, hey, it’s fine. I was a teenager once. I understand. And your hormones are going crazy and all you can think about is … jumping someone’s bones.”

  “Seriously. Stop.”

  “I just wanted to let you know that it’s normal. And you’re not a slut or anything. But I need you to know that you could get pregnant if you’re not being safe. Every time. And a boy like Drew is sleeping with a lot of girls. And you could get chlamydia.”

  “Drew does not have chlamydia, okay?”

  I want to crawl … not under my covers. That’s not hidden enough. Into my mattress. That’s where I want to be right now.

  “Well, sweetie, he could, and he wouldn’t know it. Or gonorrhea.”

  All of a sudden, making my dad believe I’m having sex with Drew is not as appealing as it was fifteen minutes ago. He’s not going to punish me for it anyway, or act pissed, even. So what am I enduring this for? “Dad, stop. Seriously. I’m not sleeping with him. Those condoms were from his insane mom, and I’m not. I’m a virgin. I don’t have chlamydia.”

  He sits back a little, looking more uncomfortable, somehow. “Oh. Well. Alright then. But you know you can get STDs from other stuff too. Like—”

  “I know, Dad. Thank you for this talk. I’m sure it’s prevented me from having a wealth of children and contracting a medical journal’s worth of diseases. This has been very meaningful. Please, go downstairs.”

  “Well, if you ever need to talk …”

  “Yes. You will be the first one I call.”

  Now. Since Mom no longer answers her phone for me.

  I practically push him out the door. But then I remember the New York thing.

  “Dad?”

  The look on his face when he turns around is so full of dread, I would laugh if I wasn’t totally mortified, too.

  “The Math Club is going to New York in seven months. And I could use some money for the trip. I’m thinking about going.”

  He breathes out a relieved sigh and the look of terror flees his face. “How much?”

  “The trip is $3,000. But I’m saving most of it myself. I just need to know what you could help with.”

  “I’m not sure, honey. Let me talk to your mom.”

  I shoot him a look. He and Stacey are always trying to pull that. Like just because Mom can’t bring herself to acknowledge me, Stacey is now the woman who birthed me.

  “Stacey,” he corrects himself. “We’ll be able to help you out.” He turns to leave and then takes a step backward. “Is Drew going?”

  I roll my eyes. “Drew’s not into math. I’m going with April.”

  He smiles easily. “Good.” Then he frowns. “New York? Like—”

  “Yes, Dad. Like where Mom lives. I’m staying with her while I’m there.”

  The lie slips easily and strangely off my tongue. I don’t even really know why I said it. But it gets this stunned, punched-in-the-gut reaction from Dad, like maybe he’s going to forbid it. Or have a mild heart attack. It could go either way. Then he leaves on his own and shuts the door.

  My dad thinks you have chlamydia.

  Gross.

  I twirl around in my chair for a while before dialing April’s number. She picks up after one ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Okay. I’m going.”

  “To New York?” she asks, the pitch of her voice rising with every syllable.

  “Yup.” That reaction from Dad cemented it. I’m going.

  She shrieks, and I hold the phone away from my ear, wincing.

  “Oh my gosh. We have to plan out everything. This is going to be so perfect. And so awesome. And so, so … I’m so glad you’re going!”

  I smile into the receiver, though I know she can’t see me.

  “Me too. Can’t wait to take on NYC with you, love.”

  Her older brother makes some obnoxious but muffled sound in the background and she yells something equally uninterpretable. Then there’s a deafening tone in my ear. Disconnected.

  I turn back to YouTube. Now that I’ve said it to April, it’s real. I have to turn this blog into something readable, and if waterfall braids are the way to do that, I’m more than willing to put my hair through some abuse.

  So I twist and twist and twist again. And at the end of the day, I slather a TON of Stacey’s too-tan-for-me foundation on my hands and arms (super-secret disguise precautions) and snap a few pictures of the back of my head. Toss those in Photoshop to darken my hair a couple shades (yeah, a math geek who’s good at computers. Surprise, surprise.), and bam. I’ve got it published.

  And the final nail. I whip out my phone before I can think about it too hard and text Mom. I tell her I’ll be coming up there from Ohio this summer and ask when we can hang out.

  She doesn’t respond right away, but she will this time. I know it.

  4. How to Tie a Tie

  Come over. I hit SEND. Then five seconds later, Wait. You’re not with a girl or anything are you?

  No. All’s quiet over here.

  Bring a tie.

  ;)

  Possibly a dress shirt or something too.

  That’s less fun.

  I flop back on my bed, scrolling through Google and the blog simultaneously. I haven’t made a cent yet, but it’s definitely going way up in views since last week. Guess waterfall braids are much more interesting than long division. “How to Do Cat Eyes.” Ooh. That’s a good one. And I figure if I steal one of Stacey’s cobalt-blue colored contacts and just do uber-close-up shots of, like, one eye at a time, no one will suspect a thing.

  I jump up and head over to my desk, which will have to double as a vanity for now. There’s a mirror behind it, so it counts. I have to own at least one eyeliner pencil. Somewhere.

  I dig through the second drawer, where all the remnants of the makeup I used to care about wearing in the ninth grade have gone to rest. And, eureka. One tiny stub of an eyeliner pencil. It’s old. Possibly not completely hygienic. But it will do what it needs to do, which is, apparently, make me look like a cat.

  I close my right eye and sweep the liner over my top lid. Simple enough. And just keep sweeping. I open it, expecting feline grace and beauty. Instead, I get half-a-Cleopatra. But my hair looks extremely waterfally, and freaking fantastic, so there’s that.

  I close my left eye, despite the failure, and try again. This time, it at least curves upward. But still, decidedly Old World Egyptian, not so much Modern Vixen.

  There’s a light knock on my door.

  “Yeah,” I call.

  Drew walks in. I can’t see him because I’m still focused on the terrible effort I’ve put forth in the makeup department, but I know it’s him.

  “Your hair looks nice,” he says.

  I spin around and smile, and he almost loses it.

  “Whoa, Cher. I was looking for Renley. Clearly, I got the wrong room.”

  I choke on nothing. “I hate you.”

  I spin back around and pick up a Kleenex, wiping furiously at my maimed eyes. It leaves this kind of smudgy residue which actually looks nice, so I leave that and stand.

  “How to Do Cat Eye Makeup,” I explain.

  “You might want to keep working on that before you publish.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  He half grins and sets down the bundle of clothes in his arms.

  “So, the tie. I’m going to assume this has something to do with your blo
g. Either that, or this relationship is going in a very different direction than I thought.”

  I laugh. “The former.”

  He nods. “It is as I feared.” And he sits on the bed next to the dress shirt and tie.

  “I need to learn how to tie a tie.”

  “Easy enough.”

  I pull the tie out of the shirt sleeve and throw it around my neck, just letting it hang there, staring at myself in the mirror. “I have no idea how to go about this.”

  He comes up behind me and reaches around my shoulders, and I refuse to acknowledge the furious jumping of my pulse. “Just watch my fingers.”

  He moves them slowly, step by step, right side over the left, under, right over left again, and under again. After that, he loses me a little. We’re not dating. We’re never dating. But his fingers brushing against my throat, my collarbone, and his arms around mine, his chest pressed against my back—I can’t think.

  “You got that?” he says. His voice is low. Not because he’s trying to be sexy, just because his mouth is so close to my ear. And knowing full well that he is not trying to seduce me makes it even sexier. This is ridiculous.

  “I got the first part. After that, um … I, um …” My voice is cracking like crazy.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine, Drew. This is just not working at all,” I snap, untangling the tie from my neck and throwing it at the bed. I take several steps back, till the edge of my desk is digging into my butt.

  His eyebrows shoot up and he sits back on my bed, running his fingers nervously over the tie. “Uh, okay. Sorry?”

  If he knew how fast my heart was going and the thoughts running through my head at this exact moment, he’d be backing to the other side of the room, too. (Maybe.)

  “It’s not you,” I say, trying not to sound frustrated. “It’s just … maybe I need to figure out how to do this on someone else first. Maybe that’s easier.”

  “Sure. Okay.” He’s still super uncomfortable, fidgeting and awkward, and I feel a rush of guilt.

  I stand up from the desk and take the tie back from him. “Sorry I freaked out a little.”

  “It’s fine.” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, then, “Did you want me to change or something?”

  Oh yeah. The dress shirt. “I don’t know. Is it different with the collar?”

  “Not really. Maybe a little.”

  I nod. “Yeah, you might as well.”

  He peels his shirt over his head and reaches for the dress shirt he brought. Part of me feels uncomfortable at this second, seeing him shirtless. He’s always been hot, but I’d rather not look at him while I’m all, what was it Dad said? Run by hormones? Needing to “jump someone’s bones”?

  That pretty much does it. I laugh out loud, and he just raises an eyebrow, but magically, I can look at his chest again without feeling things I don’t want to feel.

  He closes the shirt button by button, all the way to the top. I loop the tie around his neck and wait.

  “Tuck it under the collar,” he says.

  I stand on my tiptoes so that I can reach around his neck. My chest is pressed against his, and I can see the pulse pounding beneath his jaw. Just like that, my magic bone-jumping solution dies.

  “So the big side is on your left. Cross it over the little side.”

  I do as he says, then cross it under. And repeat.

  “Good. Now, while the big side is still underneath everything, pull it up through the loop at the top. The one around my neck.”

  I pull it through, and my knuckles rest against his throat. I let my hand relax for just a split second, enjoying the feel of his skin on one side of my hand and the silk on the other.

  “Um,” he chokes out, not looking at me. “Uh, you’re going to …” He swallows, and I feel his Adam’s apple move against my hand. “You’re gonna just pull it through the little loop now.”

  His voice is hoarse. And I’m pretty sure if I said anything right now, mine would be, too.

  I move just a little closer to him, and my face is hardly an inch from his jaw. For once, I’m extremely aware of it. I transfer the tie from one hand to the other and pull it through.

  “Then just tighten.”

  I’m not sure if he realizes that his voice has dropped to the point where it’s nothing but a throaty whisper. I try to ignore it and tighten. Too tight.

  His hands fly to his throat, and he loosens the tie quickly. “Not like a noose, R. You don’t want to kill me.” He smirks.

  “Well, not at the moment.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Standing there, in jeans and a dress shirt and a loosened tie, he looks just the right kind of unkempt. Hot. So hot. Maybe this blog post was not exactly worth it.

  “You wanna try again?” he asks.

  No. “Sure.”

  And so we do. Several times, until I can get it looking halfway decent, and the little end doesn’t stick out of the big one. It’s actually looking pretty good.

  “Wanna try one on yourself?” he says.

  “Yeah.” But you’re not touching me this time.

  He loosens the tie from around his neck and undoes the shirt, but leaves the tie on while he strips his shirt off. It would be stupid if he didn’t look like a Hollister ad while he did it. But he takes the thing off eventually and pulls his old T-shirt back on and hands the tie to me. It doesn’t take a ton of effort to convert what I’ve learned to tying my own tie. After another day or two, I can post the blog, I think.

  “Mind if I keep this for a couple days?”

  “Go for it. But don’t wash it or ruin it or anything. Girls go crazy for a tie.” He winks, and the spell is broken. Sometimes I forget that Drew wants to lay everything that moves. And it’s fine. No judgment. But I’ve seen that before, and I know how the story goes when a damaged girl hooks up with a guy who can’t keep it in his pants. And even though a big part of me wants to know what it would feel like to really kiss him, approximately zero part of me wants to end up like my parents. So he’s hot. But not something I want to get involved in. Or will. Ever.

  “Thanks,” I say and flop back on the bed. I flick on the TV and turn to him. “So, Twilight Zone?”

  He slides up to the pillow and throws an arm around me, and just like that, things are back to normal.

  5. How to Get the Entire Math Club to Seriously Doubt Your Numerical Abilities

  If I check my phone enough times, maybe my mom will transform into a legit parent. If I check it enough, maybe the little icon that says READ will disappear, and I’ll discover it just hasn’t been delivered. I check again.

  “Renley,” says April. She snaps in front of my face. “Renley. Hello?”

  I blink dumbly and stare at the white board, working the equation in my head like lightning. “Uh. 6.784. Sorry.”

  April gives me a half-irritated, half-impressed look, and I try to stop fiddling with my phone and pay attention to the board. But after a second stupidly delayed response and half the club looking at me like they’re wondering if I got whacked over the head with something heavy, I excuse myself and stumble into the restroom, glad that this was a student-led practice. If Mr. Sanchez saw me acting like a total moron, I think I would die a little.

  I rub my hands over my eyes and stare down at my phone. READ. READ. READ. And no response for three days.

  I get it. I get not wanting to have any kind of contact with the man who walked out on you for a twenty-five-year-old, perky version of yourself. And I get that I kind of remind her of him, or whatever. But I don’t get going from watching old movies and painting our toenails and eating pizza and, honestly, having a relationship most of my friends were jealous of to not even putting up a fight for custody.

  And I don’t get never answering my calls or texts, or not even wanting to see me when I’m in town. Or on Christmas. I’m not the one who had sex with someone else.

  Seriously, Bruce Willis and Demi Moore, when they got a divorce, they bought houses, like, nex
t door to each other. Is that kind of parting of ways too much to ask for? I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter. I can complain about it all I want—I can call, text, cry—but it’s not gonna change that little status taunting me. READ. READ. READ.

  Tears sting my eyes and I wipe at them and suck it up. Vow to pay attention in math club. I allow myself a few unsteady breaths, then tuck in my lower lip and head out of the bathroom and into the mostly empty hallway.

  “Whoa,” says a voice I recognize. I almost run into him, and he reaches out to grab my arms, steady me.

  “Oh. Seth. Sorry,” I mumble.

  He chuckles and pulls back from me, beautiful sun-bronzed skin no longer touching mine, which is a bit of a bummer. “It’s fine,” he says. Then he peers at me. “Hey, are you okay?”

  I blink quickly, trying to rid my eyes of tear-evidence, but I’m kind of an ugly crier, so that’s not gonna do much to dissipate the red blotches on my skin, which I’m sure are doing wonders for the small breakout I’m currently experiencing.

  “I’m fine. It’s nothing,” I say.

  He narrows his eyes. “You sure?”

  I laugh nervously. “Yeah. It’s just, you know, parent stuff.”

  He nods and leans back against the wall. “Yeah, I get it. Parents.”

  I nod, mimicking him and folding my arms. Then there’s this odd, awkward silence. I reach for my phone because I’m not sure what to do with my hands.

  “So, do you have somewhere to be?” he asks.

  “Oh. Yeah. Math club.” I am so cool.

  “Cool,” he says. See? There you have it.

  He smiles and stands up straight. “I’ll let you get back to math club, then. See you in home ec tomorrow?”

  Then he walks away and I wave, and I just stand there for a second afterward, mouth hanging open. Typically our relationship consists of me waving an awkward greeting followed by a stream of syllables that only vaguely resemble “Hello,” and him smiling and nodding at me, then walking away. I am so not used to this whole “interacting with Seth like two equal humans” thing. I’ll take it, though.