Girl Mans Up

by M-E Girard

  “I just want it to be over, Pen. I want it to be done.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just don’t want to go by myself,” she says. “I’m always by myself. There’s never anybody here.”

  “Don’t cry, Olivia. I’ll go with you. Don’t worry.”

  AFTER THAT, OLIVIA MAKES us dinner. She pulls out a box of Kraft Dinner, and I could eat KD at every meal and be happy, so I give her a thumbs-up.

  “You can have that Atari system, if you want,” she says later, as she places a bowl of macaroni and cheese in front of me.

  “What? Are you crazy? Won’t your uncle be pissed?”

  “He came back last month to pick up the rest of his stuff. He left that there, so I figure he doesn’t want it.”

  “Shouldn’t you ask him?”

  “I want you to have it,” she says, taking a seat across from me at the round kitchen table. “You seem to really love it. It’s just shoved into our piles of junk. Take it.”

  “The games, too?”

  “All of it.”

  “Wow. Johnny would . . .” But I don’t finish the thought, because Johnny’s gone. “That’s awesome. It feels like a bribe, but I’ll take it. Thanks.”

  When I grin, she lets a little grin of her own pull the corner of her mouth up. We eat our KD, and every once in a while, I look up to watch the way she eats. It makes me feel like a slob, so I try putting only a few pieces of pasta on my fork and chewing eighteen times before swallowing. It’s exhausting as hell, so I go back to shoveling forkfuls in my mouth.

  “We met with Mr. Middleton earlier,” I say. “We have barely over a month to come up with a concept and shoot everything. I’m kind of freaking.”

  “I’m sorry I bailed on you guys,” Olivia says, putting her fork down. “If you really get stuck, you can go with my idea. I told Blake about it before I quit.”

  “Really?” I say. “What was it?”

  “The project is supposed to be about capturing what it’s like to be a student at St. Peter’s, right? Well, I’d been thinking about asking people for quotes about what it’s like to go to this school,” she says. “Combining their words with their pictures.”

  I let that sit for a moment, picturing what it would look like. I’d gotten as far as deciding black and white would probably make the pictures look artsy. Words might be good.

  “That sounds pretty cool,” I say. “But . . . who would actually want the truth plastered over their picture? They’d get laughed at.”

  “Well . . . ,” Olivia says, then we both go quiet. “Maybe some people aren’t ashamed of the truth.”

  “Doubt it.” I point to her bowl. “Are you not gonna eat that?”

  She shakes her head and pushes the bowl over my way. “Orange things have been grossing me out lately.”

  “Orange? Just . . . anything orange?”

  “Juice, cheese, mangoes,” she says. “Ugh, carrots are the worst.”

  “That’s messed up,” I say. “Orange is an important food color. Jalapeño Cheetos are orange. Me and Colby eat, like, two bags of those a week.”

  At the mention of his name, we both stop and look at each other. There’s no way to not talk about him; he’s everywhere.

  “Pen?” she says. “How come you’re friends with Colby?”

  “I can’t really remember right now,” I say.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asks. When I nod, she adds, “Because I don’t think I was just some girl.”

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe not.”

  “The third time we hung out, he told me he loved me,” she says.

  “Colby said that?” It’s like she’d need to point him out of a lineup for me to believe we’re talking about the same dude. “Love?”

  “He’d text me in the morning when he’d wake up to say good morning. For a month he was like that. Then the summer ended and school started. Things changed. I don’t know how.”

  “That just sounds . . . like you’re talking about some other dude.”

  “When I was worried about being late, I called him. He came to meet me and it was horrible. It was stupid, but I thought . . .” Olivia looks over and her face breaks. I never want to be the reason a girl’s face breaks like that.

  “You thought he’d step it up, stop being a douche, and man up,” I say. That’s what she thought—it’s on her face. “So that’s why you backtracked and told him you made a mistake.”

  “There was nobody but him around,” she says. “I’m always by myself. But telling him was a bad idea. It just turned him into the biggest jerk.”

  “You’re not the one who made him like that. He came out that way,” I tell her. “And don’t worry. I got your back. I mean it.”

  The thing is, girls can man up, too.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  FRIDAY, TWO DAYS LATER, IS DATE NIGHT. I TOOK two showers, just in case I missed a spot. I saved my best fancy shirt for this—this black golf shirt Johnny had bought for me last summer. Over that, my white Portugal warm-up jacket. And my jeans are baggy as hell and ripped at the knees—my legs are shaved, which is probably the only girly thing I do. I scrubbed the white rubber of my skater shoes with alcohol to get rid of some of the scuff marks. As I step into them, my mom wanders over from the living room. “You no go out like this. You look like punk druggy.”

  “I know. But I like it.” One last check of my pockets for phone, keys, and wallet and it’s time. Mom’s huffing and puffing behind me. I turn. “Can I go?”

  “Why you no put on nice clothes? You think this nice? You look like you steal something. You wanna look like a boy, huh? You think the good nurse in the hospital look like boys?”

  “I don’t want to be a nurse.”

  “You no this, you no that. All the time, you say no.” Then in Portuguese, she says she doesn’t know what she did to God to be given kids like the ones she got.

  “Maybe God’s not listening to you,” I say.

  Her fist goes to her heart, and she faces me with a look of disgust. “Something wrong with you, Penelope. Something wrong with you, big-time.”

  “I know.”

  My mom wants me to dress pretty, to go to college to be a nurse, and to meet a nice man to be my husband. What if I want to dress sharp, go to college to study landscaping or plumbing, and meet a nice girl to be my wife? Shouldn’t that technically be the same thing, only better because it’s actually what I want?

  I walk out, and she doesn’t try to stop me.

  CRESTONVALE HAS A NEWER movie theater with way more showtimes and way bigger screens than Castlehill. The theater’s in the middle of a bunch of restaurants and nightspots, with little paths connecting everything and a gigantic parking lot surrounding it all. There’s music blasting through outdoor speakers and neon lights splashing over every surface. Plus, the bus stops right at the entrance of the lot. Blake’s standing below the center light post where we agreed to meet. I hang back, hidden by one of the big planters with evergreens growing inside.

  The dessert place next door is packed. Johnny likes to take girls there for something sweet. I scan the people inside, doing a quick sweep of faces and bodies. I don’t even know why. He’s not in there.

  My eyes fall back on Blake. I go to her, but I don’t get too close.

  “Sorry, were you waiting long? I should’ve left earlier,” I say.

  “Are you scared I’ll bite your head off if you’re late? I’m not that bad, am I?” When I make this face like, Um, kinda, she lightly smacks my arm. “I’m starving.”

  “Same.”

  While we walk to McDonald’s, I make sure to keep at least three feet between us.

  “Olivia told me about her idea for the photo project,” I say.

  “She did?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Do you think maybe we should just go with that idea? I can’t really think of anything else that’s doable. I mean, all I could think of is to pixelate the image, but . . . then all that’d do is make it impossible to see any detail.�
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  “I guess we could go with her idea,” Blake says.

  “Unless you have a better one?”

  We cross between the arcade and a steak house. My phone goes off with the Turtles theme. It says “Home” on the display screen. I put it on Silent and let it fall back into my pocket.

  “Was that Colby?” Blake asks.

  “Nah. Probably my mom.”

  “Is Colby still freezing you out?” she asks.

  “Guess so.”

  “All this over Olivia?” she says.

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  We hop the curb to McDonald’s and reach the door. “But I thought you said you and Olivia aren’t friends,” she says. We’re not going inside, because Blake is closer to the door than I am, and she makes no move to open it. “That’s what you said before, right?”

  “Yeah, she was just some girl,” I say. “I thought that’s all she was.”

  Blake’s squinting like she’s waiting for me to go on.

  “Maybe we’re sort of friends,” I say.

  Blake opens the door and heads for the counter, taking a spot in line. We order and wait. She doesn’t try to take my hand or touch my shoulder or anything. I wish I could thank her for being cool in public, but it doesn’t seem like something to talk about—especially if she’s sitting there feeling grateful about the distance, too.

  I pick a booth in the back corner. It’s better this way because it’s like no one else exists. She dips her fries in a mixture of ketchup and mayo.

  “He was a prick to her,” I say. “I wasn’t cool with that, and now things are sort of messed up.”

  Blake nods. After a sigh, her features lighten and she says, “What if—for the photo project—we mixed up the truth and the photos?”

  “Meaning?”

  “What if we get people to give us anonymous quotes and then we match them up with pictures of other people,” she says. “Wouldn’t that be absolutely amazing? Think about it. The more mismatched it would look, the better it would be.”

  “People might actually tell the truth.” I point at her with a fry. “You and Olivia would’ve made a way better team.”

  She looks down. “Or maybe you and Olivia would’ve made a better team?”

  “The only reason I’m on any team is because of you,” I say. “If there’s no you on the team, then there’s no me.”

  She slides out of the booth, only to slide in next to me. Our shoulders are touching, and no one can see us from here. It’s pretty awesome, especially when both our hands are in our laps and they move closer to the middle until mine can wrap around hers.

  I don’t eat too much because I’m kind of thinking the universe would be enough of a jerk to give me the runs on my first date.

  AT THE MOVIE THEATER, we’re waiting in line for tickets, and I act like the display of showtimes is super fascinating. There are so many dudes here, dudes who are so obviously checking out my girl. I don’t know if I should act like a tough badass about it, lifting my leg to piss against Blake like Colby would do, or if I should spare us both the extra attention by sort of acting like I’m randomly standing near her. If someone yells anything stupid or asks me if I’m packing, I’ll absorb it all. I’ll tell anyone that Blake and I aren’t together. I’ll say whatever I have to so she doesn’t get laughed at. Or I’ll punch someone if I get mad enough.

  “One for Steel to Hell 3,” Blake tells the ticket booth person. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I don’t like scary movies.”

  “Oh, wait,” I say, because it’s my job to pay for her, but I didn’t bring enough money. “Uh . . . I would’ve paid for you.”

  “Why?” she says, handing the lady some cash.

  “Because,” I say, then I whisper, “it’s a date. I didn’t even buy your dinner.”

  “So? I can pay for myself. You pay for you.”

  And that’s what I do, leaving me with just enough left over to afford six kernels of popcorn, so I grab a stack of napkins just for something to carry. Blake orders popcorn and a drink. There are only, like, twenty other people in the dark theater so far. We head for the back seats.

  “Popcorn?” Blake asks, tipping the bag my way. She leans into me and puts her head on my shoulder.

  More people enter the theater, but it’s so dark I don’t think anyone would look at us twice. Tonight I hope people assume I’m a dude. I hope they think I’m just some guy whose hand Blake’s threaded hers into. The previews roll, starting with a stream of movie-theater commercials.

  Blake flattens my hand against her thigh, keeping hers on top. Going to a movie for a date is the stupidest idea ever. All I can do is sit here in silence and eat my date’s popcorn.

  This movie is playing for everyone else but me tonight. Instead, I draw circles on the inside of Blake’s wrist, and I know she likes it because her hand twitches. Sometimes she lifts her head to look at me, and I know I could kiss her and she’d let me. But I don’t try, because there are a couple guys ahead of us, and at any second, they could decide to turn around and ruin everything. I can wait.

  AFTER THE MOVIE, BLAKE and I take the bus back to Castlehill. My phone has a couple more missed calls from home. At the terminal, we’re supposed to get on different buses heading to opposite ends of town.

  “I don’t want tonight to end,” she says.

  Tonight can’t end. Not yet. We haven’t even kissed at all.

  “Me either. I don’t want you to go.” But it’s cold, and it’s almost midnight.

  “Come back to my house,” she says.

  “I want to, you have no idea. But my parents—well, my mom—she’s just . . .” I make a face like I’m being strangled. “She’d kill me. I know you don’t get it, but my parents aren’t like yours. Even if it’s the weekend, I can’t just—”

  “I do get it, Pen. I guess I shouldn’t always assume everyone’s parents are like mine.”

  Her hair blows with the breeze and strands get stuck against her shiny lips. I reach up to brush them aside.

  “Wait—hang on. What if you came back to my house? Would your parents let you?”

  “They’re not that cool,” she says. “But they’re sleeping right now, so . . .”

  Next thing I know, we’re on a bus headed to my neighborhood, and I have no idea how the hell I’m going to get into my own house without getting a nice dose of my mom’s pissy eyebrows and a swat of a dish towel.

  I WALK BLAKE TO the backyard first and let her in using my key. I tell her to wait for me, then I head back out and let myself into my house through the front. My parents aren’t there. There’s no sound, and their bedroom door is closed. I go to the living room. With the TV set to the music channel, I set the sleep timer for 120 minutes. Then it’s down to the basement, where Blake’s waiting.

  “No one’s up. We should be good here.”

  Blake scopes out the place. It’s so ugly, and I hadn’t thought to explain. Concrete floor, drywall, and no furniture except for a broken kitchen chair.

  “Uh, give me a second. Want something to drink? There should be some stuff in the fridge. And the bathroom’s over by the—” I was going to say TV, but then remembered everything’s gone. I point instead.

  In the storage room, which was supposed to become a second bedroom at some point, I dig out one of the extra blow-up mattresses for when the family visits. I bring that to Johnny’s empty room, plus a heavy quilt and my old Superman desk lamp. Blake follows me inside. The mattress has an automatic pump, and it’s inflated within a couple minutes. I spread the quilt over the mattress. “It’s ugly but it’s clean.”

  “We’re squatting in your basement,” she says. “This might win everything.”

  We end up on our stomachs, side by side, making shadow puppets on the wall.

  “Mine look like shadow puppets of hands sucking at making shadow puppets,” I say.

  She bursts out laughing, and I clamp my hand over her mouth. She puts her hands over mine, and there’s somethi
ng in her eyes that I can’t stop staring at.

  “Penelope!” My mom’s voice comes from far away, but still. “Why you down there? Penelope?”

  Oh, man.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I BEG BLAKE TO BE QUIET AND NOT MOVE, THEN I rush up the stairs, where my mom’s poking her head out.

  “What you doing down there?” she asks.

  “I was just looking for my lamp. My Superman lamp.”

  She makes a face. “You come back, huh?”

  “I didn’t leave forever. I just went to the movies with the guys, because it’s Friday night. It was a three-hour movie, so it finished late.”

  “You lie! I see Colby tonight. He not with you.”

  Oh, man. I feel the guilt on my face, but still. “Me and Tristan weren’t with him. He was being a jerk, so we went to the movies without him.”

  She doesn’t look satisfied. “I call you, three times.”

  “My phone died. I told you the battery sucks. It’s an old phone. I charged it earlier, but it dies fast.”

  She’s fuming. I can tell by the look on her face and the way she can’t keep her arms crossed but she continues trying. “You go to bed. We talk about this tomorrow. You pai is very mad.”

  “Okay.”

  It’s making her even more mad that I’m just standing here, saying everything like there’s an invisible shrug that goes with it. It’s making me mad that I have to lie because that’s all she’ll let me do. No one ever tells the truth about anything.

  “Go to bed now,” she says.

  “I’m just getting something to eat and I’m gonna watch TV for a bit.”

  “Go to bed!”

  “All right! I will. But I’m hungry.”

  She tells me to watch the crumbs, and then says if I make a stain, I’ll have to clean it—as if I’m some four-year-old who can’t help but spill her drink all over the place. She heads back upstairs mumbling to herself.

  When I get to the basement, Blake looks ready to bolt. “Relax. I’m pretty sure we’re safe. She yelled at me, then she went to bed.”