How to Make Out

by Brianna Shrum

  Awesome. Either he’s going to think I’m a total skank and be turned off forever or he’s gonna figure I just do that all the time and expect it to happen again. Either way is not good.

  He looks up at me, and all I want to do is crawl in a hole and stay there until summer comes.

  “I mean, here’s the thing. It was good. Really good. Amazing actually.”

  Okay, option #2 it is.

  He continues, “But it’s just … it’s not something I’m totally comfortable with. And I feel like a total asshole since you were drunk. I don’t know.”

  I breathe a giant sigh of relief.

  “I mean, I’m not completely blameless here,” I say. “You protested. I was drunk. But not so drunk I don’t remember that. Shit.”

  Seth shrugs, hand on the back of his neck, and looks at the floor. “Either way. I’m just not … I don’t want you to think I’m not into you, or I’m a prude or anything. I’m just not exactly ready to take this there yet. Know that my entire body is protesting this decision big time, by the way. Like, I’ll probably hate myself when you go home. Just … okay, now you’re not saying anything. Do you hate me?”

  I laugh. “Hate you? I was thinking the same thing. I’m super embarrassed about everything, and I’m just not that experienced and ugh, I’m so glad you feel the same way. Kind of surprised. But glad. I don’t hate you. I—” I stop short, not totally sure how to finish that sentence. Love you? Like you? Kind of have a crush on you?

  He waits there for a while, then says quietly, “I love you, too.”

  I didn’t actually tell him I loved him, so the answer is a little presumptuous. Nonetheless, butterflies are everywhere in my stomach, fluttering all over the place, crashing into each other.

  “You do?” I say, eyes giant and round.

  “Yeah. I know we haven’t been together that long, but I do.”

  I reach my palm out to his cheek and he kisses me deeply, giving me that feeling in the pit of my stomach. One so delicious I never want him to stop. Then he flips me over onto his bed and kisses me again, lips moving down my throat and back up to my ear.

  “Come to prom with me,” he whispers in my ear.

  “What?”

  He raises up, running his fingers up and down my waist. “Come to prom with me.”

  “It’s all the way in April.”

  “So?” he asks, grinning and dipping down to kiss me again. His kisses are freaking intoxicating. “You planning on breaking up with me before then?”

  “You wish you were getting off the hook that easy.” It’s like his lips are a magnet for my mouth. I can’t help kissing him when they’re there. Right. There.

  “So come. It’s my senior prom. I’ll pick you up in a limo”—he kisses my neck—“you can wear a fancy dress”—kisses my ear—“I’ll dance with you all night.” Down to my throat again.

  “I can’t even think with you doing that.”

  “Good.” He keeps doing what he’s doing and my brain stays delightfully fuzzy.

  “Okay, I’ll go.” I smile. His lips are totally hypnotizing. Something in the back of my mind niggles at me, but I ignore it and go back to focusing on the sweetest, hottest boyfriend anyone has ever had.

  Until I get home. I scroll to my calendar in my phone and stop short when I reach April 29, the day of the senior prom. It’s the last day of the New York trip. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. What was Mr. Sanchez thinking, scheduling the trip the same freaking week as the senior prom? (Granted, no one in the math club is a senior this year. Still, though.)

  I can’t go. I throw the phone on my bed, like taking vengeance on the electronic device will bring me some satisfaction. I can’t believe I have to miss what could potentially be the most romantic, amazing night of my life to go see the math museum and planetarium. What a loser.

  I lie back on the bed, dreaming about Seth’s arms around my waist, slow dancing with him, kissing him. I’d wear a long dress, maybe sparkly. Spaghetti straps. Probably an updo. Maybe down and curly. Halfway in between?

  And then I think about New York. A bunch of kids from the math club who often forget to wear deodorant, exploring mathematical wonders and talking about differential equations and string theory. Whoop-de-do.

  When it comes down to it, I know what I really want to do. But it would kill April. It would be horrible. I can’t cancel on her. I can’t.

  I lie there for a while, considering. Would she care, really? She’d be there with Cash. It would probably be easier for them to be all over each other if I wasn’t there, honestly. She might be relieved. And it’s not like I’d be canceling just to go on a date to like, a concert or something. This is prom. His senior prom. If I don’t go with him, he’ll find another date. Someone else who would be more than willing to dress up and dance with him and stick her tongue down his throat. A picture of Sam with him at prom comes into my mind. Then, even worse, Taylor. I feel sick.

  April would understand, wouldn’t she?

  I spend the next three hours agonizing over what to do. And then I pick up the phone.

  Hey.

  Hey stranger. How you been?

  Good. Thinking.

  That could be dangerous ;) April says.

  It’s about NY.

  She takes a little while to respond. Then writes,

  okkkkkkk

  I don’t know if I’m coming.

  Silence. For, like, twenty minutes. I don’t know what to do. Text her again? Call? Maybe her phone died. Then there’s a knock on the door. A knock that could wake the dead. I hear it slam open and April shrieks, “Renley!”

  I walk hesitantly down the steps to meet her. “Yeah?” I say, voice mousy and weak.

  “What do you mean you don’t know if you’re coming?” She’s so mad she’s shaking. Her hands are curled into fists at her sides. Even her hair looks mad somehow.

  “I mean I don’t know.”

  “Haven’t you paid already? At least the first half? It’s nonrefundable.”

  “The deadline’s tomorrow,” I say, fidgeting.

  Her face falls then. “What are you even saying? This is all we’ve been talking about this entire year. What is this about?”

  I suddenly feel very small and very stupid. “It’s just … Seth asked me to go to prom with him, and—”

  “PROM? This is about a dance? I can’t even … I don’t even believe this. You’re abandoning me to go to a dance for three hours with a guy. This is New York Freaking City, Renley.” She grabs my shoulders. “NEW YORK. Do you understand that?”

  “I … yes. But it’s his prom, April. It’s not just any dance.”

  She lets go of me and steps backward, a look of complete disgust on her face. “Who ARE you?”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “No,” she says. “I want to know what has happened to you. You change your hair, start spending every second of your free time with The Amazing Seth, Greek god, dressing like that, and wearing so much makeup you look like a three-dollar hooker—”

  “Excuse me. But I don’t think you have any room to be calling anyone a hooker, you slut.”

  She recoils as though I’ve slapped her. And the guilt feels worse than the zinger feels good. But it’s true.

  “Slut? Slut? I may kiss a lot of guys, Renley. I know I do. But it’s freaking fun. And that’s it. That’s all I’ve ever done with anyone until Cash, hickey queen. Yeah. Cash. No I didn’t tell you. Of course I didn’t. And I don’t care if you were sleeping with half the school, I would never call you a slut. And I would never treat you the way you’ve treated me for the last two months. And now this? Abandoning New York? Abandoning me for some guy? Yeah,” she says, hands held out, backing away, “I think I finally see how you and your mom are related.”

  My eyes fly open wide, and there’s a literal pain in my chest like she’s stabbed me. “April—” I say, but she flips me off and walks out the front door, slamming it behind her.

  26. How to Throw Ou
t Something That Matters

  “Hey, are you doing okay?” Seth asks as we hang out in my room. He’s running his fingers up and down my back, and I’m just lying there, frustrated.

  “I’m fine. It’s just … nothing. April.”

  “For being BFFs or whatever you call it, it seems like you guys are on the rocks a lot.”

  “Yeah. Seems that way.” I shake my head, trying not to cry, watching the snow fall slowly outside my window. She’s being ridiculous, right? She totally is.

  “What are you guys fighting about?”

  “Nothing. I don’t really want to talk about it.” Every time I think about telling Seth what’s going on, I feel embarrassed. Like I don’t want him to know I gave up going to New York to go to prom with him. I made the right choice. I know that. It’s something I shouldn’t be embarrassed about. But I am, so I just let him scratch my back and take my side without questioning me.

  After about a half hour of back scratching and quiet angst, he slowly gets up from the bed. “I gotta go,” he says.

  “Don’t go.”

  “I have to.” He kisses my forehead. “First night of Chanukah. Plus, I’ve got this giant trig exam tomorrow. And I know you’re a math wizard and all, but studying with you does nothing to help my grades.”

  I grin wickedly and he smiles back.

  “You’re still going to school? On Chanukah?”

  “Minor holiday. So yeah, alas, school must go on.”

  “Bummer.”

  “I’ll see you, love,” he says, heading through my door.

  “See you.”

  And he leaves me alone to wait out the evening in solitude. I spend most of it just listening to music and contemplating, which makes for a fairly boring (and depressing) night, but around ten o’clock, I see something outside my window that catches my attention. At first, I frown. That can’t be right. But no. That aqua blue in her hair is unmistakable. April is sitting on Drew’s doorstep in the snow.

  He has his arm around her and they’re talking like they’re old friends. Since when did that happen? Drew never has girls who aren’t me over unless … holy shit. No.

  I feel sick to my stomach all of a sudden and double over. I might actually throw up right here on my carpet. Are they … did she sleep with him? For what? Revenge? Tears spring to my eyes and blur my vision so badly I can barely see out the window. But I have to. So I wipe them furiously and stare out of the glass again.

  He has his arm around her and he’s giving her a hug, a close hug. I hurt. Everywhere. Part of me doesn’t even want to watch, but it’s like a car accident. You drive past knowing there’s wreckage and broken glass and maybe blood. And of course you hope no one died. But if someone did, part of you wants to see it. So you slow down and you stare. I stare.

  Then he does something worse than the hug: she wraps her arms around herself, and he leans over and says something to her, then shrugs his shoulders and slips off his jacket and hands it to her. It’s like someone has taken a serrated knife and twisted it in my gut.

  He gave her his freaking jacket.

  That sick feeling hits again and I back away from the window, reeling. This cannot be happening. They cannot be doing anything together. April would never do that to me. Drew would never do that. Would he?

  I’m drawn back to the window again, and they’re standing now, hugging each other tightly. He walks her to her car and she takes off the coat and hands it to him. Then she drives off. Good. She’d better, or this would be a double murder.

  The second she drives off, I’m sprinting down the stairs. My face is red and hot before the descent even begins. By the time I get to Drew’s, I can actually feel smoke rising from my pores.

  I bang on his door so hard, I’m surprised nothing splinters. He opens it and his eyes fly open when I shove past him into the foyer.

  “You gave her your jacket?” I spit. Those were not the words I’d planned to say.

  “What?”

  “April. You gave her your jacket?”

  “I … yeah. It’s freezing outside.”

  I sink down to the tile and wrap my arms around my knees and let forth a cry, sobbing without sound.

  “R, I told you I needed to talk to you.”

  “I had no idea it was about this. About you and … ugh, I can’t even say it.”

  He reaches down, lifting me up by the elbow, and leads me into his room.

  “Listen. April came by a couple hours ago, saying she needed to talk, and—”

  “You don’t even like April.”

  “I never said I didn’t like her. I said I didn’t know her. Big difference. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. She came by and told me about New York.”

  My face shoots up and I glare at him. “So you what? Pity screwed her?”

  His features twist into a mask of confusion. “What? Pity screwed? I didn’t touch her,” he says, voice rising a decibel. “No, I let her talk to me. She thinks I can make you listen. And she said you abandoned New York to go to a dance? With Seth?”

  “Yes. So?” I can hear the venom in my own words. He hasn’t accused me yet, not really, but I already want to bolt. Or punch him. I can’t decide.

  “I thought she was your best friend.”

  “Well, I thought so too, until she up and decided that if I didn’t go on a six-hundred-mile trip with her, we were through.”

  He’s quiet for a while, and his voice is low when he does finally speak. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

  I stare at him, squeezing my knees tighter.

  “I’m serious. You’re being, well, you’re being totally crazy.”

  I laugh.

  “Renley, she’s right. You swore you were going, and the day before it was all for sure, you bailed. For a guy. And you know that was bullshit. Does Seth even know?”

  “That we’re going to prom together? I’d hope so,” I say coolly.

  “Don’t play dumb with me. Does he know you gave up New York for it?”

  I don’t say a word.

  “I’ll bet you every cent you’ve earned from your stupid blog that he doesn’t. ’Cause you know he’d tell you you were crazy. Of course April’s pissed. I’m pissed. Neither of us has any idea where on earth our best friend has gone.”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh please, Mr. Melodrama.”

  He shakes his head. “I still read your blog, you know. And what you’ve been pulling …” He runs his hand through his hair and sits heavily on his bed.

  I stand then. “What? Tell me what I’ve done that’s any worse than anything you’ve ever done.”

  “This is not about me. This is about you. How to Get Rid of a Hickey? How to Cure a Hangover? How to Give a Hand Job? That’s not you. And I’ll bet you double or nothing that by the end, you didn’t even need the money.”

  I clench my jaw, arms crossed hard over my chest.

  “You didn’t, did you? Listen, I couldn’t care less what you do with Seth behind closed doors. I honestly don’t care. And drink whatever you want. Go to whatever parties you want with whomever you want. But do it because you want to do it. Not to, what? Please some loyal reader you’ve never met on the Internet? Or maybe it’s the popularity. Is that it? I just don’t get it.”

  I’m fuming. I can feel my blood pressure rising. “What I do is none of your business, Drew.”

  “You’re right. And it’s none of cyberspace’s business either.”

  “Look at you, High and Mighty Drew. It’s so easy for you to judge me, isn’t it? You and April, new best friends, looking down on poor, misguided little Renley. Well I don’t need either of you. I’m doing fine on my own.”

  “Yeah. Seems that way. When was the last time you took the initiative to text April first? You totally forgot about her because you’ve been so busy being SweetLifeCoach and hanging out with Seth and Sam and the rest of that crowd and you’ve totally left her behind. And that matters to me. Because you love April. And you’re about to lose her completely. Do you get th
at?”

  “I didn’t ask for your input on this.”

  “I beg to differ. I didn’t march into your house in the middle of the night, demanding to know why you let someone borrow your jacket.”

  I don’t know why that makes me want to cry again. “Why did you give her your jacket?” I say quietly, rage discarded for just a moment.

  Drew sighs and looks right at me, eyes boring into me. “Because she can take care of herself. I don’t know her that well, but I know enough to know that. She doesn’t walk around, needing everyone else to. But you … I’m crazy about you; you know that. But you go through your whole life waiting for someone else to take care of everything for you. You have a problem, you don’t just try to figure it out. You get it from someone else. You need money; you turn to your parents and random strangers on the Internet. You never remember a jacket because you just expect me to give you one. You think you need it. And you don’t. You’re strong. There’s nothing wrong with needing someone to take care of you every once in a while, but you don’t need it all the time. And until you figure that out, you don’t get my freaking jacket.”

  I just stand there for several seconds, blinking, and turn away.

  “I don’t want you to lose yourself because of all this,” he says.

  My nostrils flare and I whip around to face him. “Lose myself. Yeah. I’m drowning in all my issues. Because I went further with a guy than I meant to. Because I got drunk at a party and got a group of friends that doesn’t include you and April. And because I sometimes forget to wear a jacket. You want to talk about problems? Let’s talk about you laying everything that moves. You don’t think that’s an issue?”

  He looks up at me like I’m stupid. “Of course it’s an issue. How many other guys do you know who sleep with half as many girls as I do? I have problems. But we are not discussing me. We’re discussing you. You’re destroying everything you care about for a blog. And for that awesome self-esteem boost you get when everyone notices you. Is it worth it?”

  He’s so self-righteous, I want to throttle him. I stomp out of his room, and he follows me.

  “I don’t want to threaten you, R,” he says softly.