Crazy in Love

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “I’d like that,” he says. “Can’t wait to meet her.” He reaches over and tucks a stray strand of my hair behind my ear.

  I knew he’d be cool about Sandy. They’ll love each other. “By the way,” I say, sipping the last drop of my Coke. He’s ordered me a regular Coke, and I didn’t complain. We haven’t been together long enough for him to know I always drink diet. “I like your ‘plans’ for after school,” I tease.

  “Do you mind?” He scrunches up his nose, like he actually fears there’s anything he could do that would make me mad at him. “I just didn’t feel like sharing you with Sean or with anybody else.”

  This could make me cry if I weren’t so completely happy. “Me too,” I say. I lean over and give him a kiss. We’re still in the car, but it’s not the same as our midnight car dates. Nothing is the same.

  And I have a feeling—nothing will ever be the same again.

  21

  Fallingg ...

  Jackson and I spend every free minute together. We go on walks. We go to the mall, to the grocery store, window shopping. We get lost trying to find a new music store, and we discover we both love detours and getting lost. We even read Keats and Shelley aloud and try to study for our English quiz together. I help him rake the leaves in front of his house. Then I help him jump into them, after we build the biggest leaf pile in Attila, Illinois.

  We would spend every minute together if we could. But life interferes. Classes. Sleep. Jobs. Other trivial pursuits. His dad owns a furniture store, and Jackson has to work in the warehouse a few nights a week.

  When I’m not with Jackson, I’m talking about Jackson.

  I’ve used up all my cell minutes on Alicia, and I’ll have to move to a land far away when Dad gets our regular phone bill, too.

  “I think Jackson and Colt would really like each other,” Alicia says one afternoon. It’s a rainy Thursday, a week before Thanksgiving, and I’m sprawled on my bedroom rug after detailing the daily Jackson news.

  “Sorry. Jackson’s spoken for,” I answer. But I know they’d get along great, too. “Let’s double when you’re home over Thanksgiving.”

  “Deal.”

  “So,” I begin, and this is something I’ve wanted to ask Alicia all week but couldn’t get it out. “Are you and Colt still. . . . still good? I mean, being close and stuff?”

  “You mean are we still having sex?” Alicia’s always been able to talk about these things more easily than I have. Sometimes I wonder if I ever would have gotten the birds and bees straightened out if it hadn’t been for her. Mom’s little talk left more questions than answers. “The answer is yes, and it’s great,” she says.

  “Thought so,” I reply lamely.

  “I went to the health center on campus,” she begins.

  “Are you okay?” My mind flashes with all the warnings we got from our health teacher in seventh grade when she told us about the dangers of “sex diseases” and STDs and AIDS.

  “Yeah. But it’s so totally unfair. I mean, guys should have to worry about getting pregnant. Why is it up to us?”

  “Good point,” I agree, relieved.

  “So Mr. Responsible carries a condom in his wallet. Only a twelve percent failure rate. Works eighty-eight percent of the time. Good enough odds for a guy, right? No thank you! So I did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “I marched to the university health clinic in quest of birth control pills. I had to wait two hours in a tiny waiting room, where there was nothing to read except the wall posters of the human reproductive system. Talk about birth control. Those pictures are enough to make you never want to have sex again.”

  “They always reminded me of Candy Land,” I observe. "Or maybe Chutes and Ladders.”

  “Exactly. Or Operation?” Alicia goes through the painful details of having to confess her “active” sex life to a doctor who didn’t really speak English. She finally had to point to the diagram and kiss the back of her hand passionately.

  She makes me laugh, but I’m still uncomfortable talking about this. When she finishes, there’s a second of silence before I can change the subject.

  Alicia jumps on it. “Mary Jane, you’re not—”

  “No-ohh. ’Course not.”

  “But you’d like to?”

  I don’t answer. I’ve thought about it. I know Jackson has, too. You just don’t kiss somebody like he kisses me without at least thinking about it. Besides, he’s a guy. They’re born thinking about it.

  It’s turned dark outside my window while we’ve been talking. I haven’t turned on the lights in my bedroom. I’m glad it’s dark.

  “Well, take it easy, girlfriend,” Alicia advises. “It’s a big step. You guys are pretty young. And pretty new as a couple. Don’t rush into anything.”

  “We’re not.” I don’t point out to her that she’s only a year older than I am. And I’ve known Jackson longer than she’s known Colt.

  “So what are you two doing this weekend?” Alicia asks, probably sensing that I’m ready for a change of topic.

  “We’re both working tomorrow night.”

  “Bummer.”

  “But Robbie’s working part of my shift Saturday, so I’m off Saturday night.”

  “I love that boy,” Alicia interrupts.

  “Me too. Anyway, Sandy’s got a game Saturday night, and Jackson’s going with me.”

  “Sweet! That ought to put him firmly in the Ettermeyer camp. Even if he breaks up with you, he won’t want to break up with Sandy.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I say sarcastically. “Everybody loves Sandy best.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  I actually look forward to going to school on Friday because it’s the only time I’ll see Jackson. The morning is the best part. Jackson’s waiting for me in the senior lot, and we kiss before walking in together. It is so fly to finally be breaking the Attila Ill rules forbidding public displays of affection.

  I’m a regular at the cheerleaders’ lunch table, and I talk so much that I barely get my taco eaten before it’s time to bounce to class. But I’ve skipped breakfast, so I’m hungry enough to stay behind and stuff down the remaining tortilla.

  Only Nicole is still at the table when I gulp the last bite. I get the feeling she wants to say something to me.

  I break the ice. “So are we okay, Nicole?”

  She lets out a sigh, like she’s relieved to have me ask. “I am if you are, Mary Jane. I hope you’re not mad about things. I mean, before. I’ve just . . . you know. Star and I have been friends for a long time. I didn’t want her to get hurt.”

  “Is she?” I ask. The cafeteria is emptying, but I figure this might be worth getting to class late.

  “She’s okay.”

  “Is she really going out with John?” I ask. It’s more than a casual interest. I would like to see John and Star get married, have a dozen kids, and move to California. This week.

  She shrugs. “I guess.” She leans closer. “But she’s waiting.”

  “Waiting?” The taco has stopped its trip down my digestive tract. “Waiting for what?” But I think I know this answer. I think I knew it all along.

  “For Jackson. She says you have him for now, but you won’t do what it takes to keep him.”

  I study Nicole’s face for signs that she’s saying this to get to me, that it’s a secret mission in her role as ambassador. But there are no such signs.

  I’m not twelve. I know what Nicole’s talking about. Jackson’s not twelve either. Plus, he’s a guy. A guy who was getting what he wanted from his last girlfriend.

  Nicole gets up from the table. “I just thought you ought to know, Mary Jane. And I’m glad you and I are okay.”

  She may be okay. I, on the other hand, feel like someone’s just burst my balloon, wrecked my car, run over my puppy.

  I stay in the cafeteria until the cafeteria ladies and I are the only ones left.

  I feel like walking straight to Fred and punting the rest of classes, but I don�
�t. Instead, I get yelled at for being late to class. But I don’t care. My mind is spinning, and the voices in my head are at it again:Plain Jane: I’m so not surprised. You’re in the big leagues now. Maybe knock-out gorgeous women can keep a boyfriend without sleeping with him, or at least giving him some kind of sex, but not ordinary girls with zits on their chins. You were not destined to be a girlfriend.

  M.J.: Hey! Girls like sex, too. It’s not just a guy thing.

  I try to shut out the voices because they’re making me more confused than I already am. I know I was just a kid when Alicia, Red, and I made our pact to wait until we were married. But the reasons were good, and they haven’t changed, even if I have. If all that was true then, isn’t it true now?

  Alicia’s already grown out of the pact, and I wonder if Red has, too. I want to ask her. I don’t want to be the only member of Abstinence in Action, especially if it really means losing Jackson.

  But this is whack. Jackson hasn’t asked. We’re still enjoying getting to know each other. And kissing and being close.

  I wish I’d never talked to Nicole.

  The rest of the day, I do my best to put the whole thing out of my mind and go back to being happy with my boyfriend. And by the time school’s over, I’m almost back to inflated balloon, shiny car, and healthy puppy.

  I hate it that Jackson has to leave right after school. We walk to the senior lot together and find Fred. I lean against the driver’s door, and Jackson kisses me. “At least we’ll both be miserable in the land of the employed tonight,” he offers.

  “No chance we could see each other before my pretzel shift starts?” I touch his ear because it’s so perfect and because I can.

  He shakes his head. “I’m late already. And Dad’s got me closing the store tonight. You could come by after you’re liberated from the Pretzel Boss, though.”

  Yes! “Okay.”

  We kiss once more, and I start counting the minutes until I’ll see him again.

  I can’t stop smiling during my tour of duty at The Twisted Pretzel, even when a crazed, multi-pierced biker-shopper calls me an idiot because I salted his frosted cinnamon pretzel. Not even when Pretzel Boss threatens to back out on our deal and make me work next Friday. And not even when Robbie asks me to go to his senior prom with him . . . in three years.

  Jackson calls my cell six times, at regular intervals, and tells me that he misses me. I love the national anthem.

  Robbie agrees to close, so I skate as soon as the clock strikes nine. Fred and I cross town back to Main Street, Attila, Illinois, where Jackson’s dad has his furniture store, as did his dad before him and his dad before him. The House of Furniture, which I’m thinking is some kind of House family-furniture store play on words, stands tall between Picture This, our only professional photography studio, and Wilson’s Drugs, a pharmacy that sells everything from coloring books to ironing boards.

  I park Fred out front and walk to the door. It’s pretty dark inside, except for one light coming from the back. The sign is flipped to CLOSED. I knock on the glass. The night air is chilly, and it smells like snow’s coming. I glance across the street at the giant candy canes dangling from the streetlights. The whole town decorates itself for Christmas before Thanksgiving even has a chance. Someday I’ll run for mayor and change all that. But tonight I even like the candy canes.

  The door opens, and I spin around.

  “Come on in,” Jackson says, holding the door open for me.

  I scurry inside, and he shuts the door behind me. Then he walks over and wraps his arms around me. We hug for a full minute before we kiss.

  They could make a movie of us.

  "C’mon. I’ll show you around.” He takes my hand and jogs toward the single light hanging above an old wooden door. He pulls the door open, and I peer behind it. “That’s the warehouse, where I’ve spent more hours than child labor laws allow.”

  “You poor boy,” I say, squinting into the darkness. I can make out boxes against the nearest wall and maybe some recliners farther back.

  “Enough of that,” he says, racing to the far side of the showroom and pulling me with him. He stops in the dining room display and sweeps his arm at the surrounding furniture as if he’s a boat-show girl showing off the latest yachts. “We have here a solid oak country table, with two panels available and matching solid wood chairs.”

  “I’ll take them,” I say. “And I want that couch.” I point to the front of the store, where a perfectly ugly white couch sits, covered in plastic. “Because I feel sorry for it. This is the way I buy our pets, too. And boyfriends. I always end up getting the ugliest of the litter, the ones I’m positive no sane person would ever go home with.”

  “What?” He lets go of my hand and acts totally offended. “Are you making fun of my couch?”

  “More like mocking, really,” I explain. “And not just the couch. I better take that poor chair over there, the one with wagon wheels. Oh, and that hideous clock over there, and—”

  “That’s it!” he shouts. His eyes narrow, and his voice gets gravelly and villainous. “Nobody, and I mean nobody—”

  “Which is why you said ‘nobody’?”

  “Nobody mocks the House of Furniture and lives!” He creeps toward me, a step at a time, clawlike hands raised dramatically. “You will pay for this, wench!”

  I dart around the table just as he reaches for me. “Nobody said I had to pay for this junk!” I cry.

  He laughs evilly and stalks toward me. I run behind a leather couch and crouch down, but he leaps over the back of the couch and lands inches from me.

  I scream and laugh as I weave around chairs. He chases me. I scramble under a table and come dangerously close to knocking over a lamp. I’m in the darkest corner of the store, where I keep bumping into things. It doesn’t help that I’m laughing so hard I can barely catch my breath.

  I can tell I’m in the bedroom showcase because I just banged into two dressers. I make a dash for the bed and plan to hide under it, but there’s a fake bottom, like in hotel rooms, so you don’t leave your socks under the bed.

  “Gotcha!” Jackson grabs me around the knees, and we tumble onto the mattress together. I squirm, but he’s got me. “Laugh at my furniture, will you?” he says in a horrible Eastern European accent. “Theeze eeze what I do to people who mock zee House of Furniture!”

  He tickles me, and I explode into fits of laughter. He’s ruthless and unrelenting.

  “Stop! I give!” I cry. “House of Furniture rocks! I love that couch! You win!”

  He stops and leans back to sit on his heels. “That’s more like it.”

  I’m spent from running and laughing. And only in this second do I realize that I’m alone with Jackson. On a bed in his father’s store.

  22

  And Falling ...

  The second I realize where I am, in bed with Jackson

  House, I think Jackson realizes it, too. He stops talking. He stops laughing. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling makes his face a black silhouette above me as he leans down and kisses me.

  I kiss him back. He relaxes into me, against me. And then he gently rolls on top of me. I can feel myself soften under him, into him, until I’m not sure where I leave off and Jackson begins. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s happening too fast, like I’m in an ocean, pulled by the tide. And we’re rocking in waves together. I can’t think. I hear the voices in my head telling me I’d better think, and think fast.

  "Wait,” I say.

  He stops kissing me.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  He leans back. “Mary Jane, I love you. You know that, right?”

  “I love you, too.” If I’d had any doubts about it before, I don’t now. “But this is . . . I mean, I’m not . . . Jackson, I don’t want . . .”

  He pulls away from me and sits on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “It’s okay, Mary Jane.”

  “Promise?” I ask. It doesn’t feel okay. I don’t want to thi
nk about Nicole’s warning, but now her voice is in my head. Like I need another voice there.

  He turns and smiles at me. “Promise. And just so you know, I didn’t plan this, in case that’s what you’re thinking.”

  I hadn’t been thinking that, but it’s nice to know just the same. “I know. I’m the one who mocked your couch and started this whole business.”

  “That’s true,” he agrees. He stands up, and I climb off the bed. He reaches behind me and straightens the bedspread. “What do you say we blow this firetrap?”

  As soon as I get home, I dial Alicia. When she doesn’t answer her cell, I try her dorm. But she doesn’t answer there either. What good is a best friend who isn’t even there when you need her?

  I consider calling Nicole, but I know better. She’d go straight to Star. Cassie has a date, so I can’t call her. I’m not sure this is something I can talk about with The Girls anyway.

  There’s a knock at my door, and Mom sticks her head in.

  She’s wearing a light blue flannel nightie that looks very momish and somehow makes me feel better. “Everything all right?”

  “Yeah. Why?” These words are out before I think about them. They are my automatic responses to most questions posed by my rents. I think about taking them back, though, because I’m not entirely sure that everything is all right.

  She smiles and tiptoes into my room as if I’m still asleep, and she might wake me. “You were making funny noises in here. Groans. Grunts.”

  I make a mental note that I’m too young to start making such sounds. “I was trying to get hold of Alicia.”

  She tiptoes a few more steps and sits on the corner of my bed. “It’s pretty late. Must have been important.”

  You can talk to your mom! Plain Jane says.

  Get real! M.J. counters. Your mother probably hasn’t had sex since you were born.

  “You seem to be spending a lot of time with this Jackson guy.” Mom smoothes out nonexistent wrinkles in my bedspread. “You must like him a lot.”

  “He’s pretty likable,” I agree, not sure where we’re going with this. Not sure where I want to go. She’s met Jackson a few times when he’s come by for me. Dad’s even met him once. Sandy sleeps so much that she’s missed him every time he’s come by. But Jackson will get to meet Sandy at her game.