Those Girls

by Lauren Saft

  Drew’s dad was really tall, like him. I’d never seen him before that night, just heard how creepy he was from Alex. He didn’t say much now that he was here, just sat in the corner, reading a paper and drinking scotch. His only movements were looking up from his paper, crossing and recrossing his legs, pushing his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and jerking his chin toward his wife when he was ready for a refill. Drew had two little sisters; one gave me a lot of stink eyes and I got a lot of Do you know Alex? Can you play the song from The Little Mermaid on the piano, because Alex can, and she always does that when she comes over from the other.

  I’m not really a little kid person, so I wandered into the kitchen and asked if I could help with anything. His mom told me not to worry, and to go play with the girls, but I sidled up to her and started chopping onions anyway.

  “Oh my!” she said. “You’re like a professional!”

  I’d learned the right way to chop onions from all my time watching Food Network. My knife skills had really improved, and I was excited that she even noticed. I beamed a little from the compliment. She asked me if I’d check on the stuffing, which I did happily.

  “I actually made a stuffing like this a few weeks ago,” I said as I took a little taste and put it back in the oven.

  “Really?” she said mid–potato mash. “You make stuffing?”

  I laughed a little; I guess that probably sounded sort of weird. What kind of sixteen-year-old makes stuffing in her spare time? But it had been Thanksgiving, and all that food on TV looked so good, and I knew that I was never going to get to eat a Thanksgiving dinner unless I made it myself. “I watch a lot of Food Network,” I said. “And eventually, you can only watch so much delicious food before needing to eat it!”

  She let out a belly laugh. “Good for you!” she said.

  “But you know what’s really good in stuffing that you’d never think?”

  She shook her head.

  “Apples!”

  “Apples?” she asked. “Red or green?”

  “I used green. I think red would be a little too sweet, but it would also probably work to the same effect. If all you have is red, just maybe add a little lemon juice to cut the sweetness with some acidity.”

  She put the potato masher down and looked at me with wide eyes. “Sweetheart, that sounds delicious. I think we have some green apples in the crisper in the bottom drawer of the fridge. You lead the way?” And she handed me an apron.

  I tied it around my waist, opened the fridge, and counted out four apples. I asked her if she had a paring knife, and cored them all in one fluid motion, the way Ina Garten does it. She stood behind me, watching and asking questions; I felt like I was hosting my own cooking show.

  “What other tips do you have?”

  “You really wanna know?” I asked as I slid the apple cores into her garbage disposal.

  “Of course!” she said as she went back to mashing her potatoes.

  I gestured over to her potatoes and said, “The key to potatoes? More butter.”

  She laughed again, and said, “With a figure like yours, you eat real butter?”

  “Oh please!” I said. “I don’t believe in imitations. I don’t buy fake purses, and I won’t use fake butter. In my experience, when you think you’ve added enough butter… double it.”

  She laughed wholeheartedly.

  Drew popped his head in. “What’re you girls doing in here?”

  “Drew, you didn’t tell me Veronica’s a gourmet chef!” She patted me on the shoulder and gave me a squeeze in that motherly comforting and prideful way that no mother had squeezed me before.

  I looked over at Drew and shrugged, unable to fight the hard smile my face had been frozen in since the last time I’d remembered to think about my face.

  “She’s a natural,” he said, and he came over and kissed me on the cheek. His mom giggled.

  “Okay, so what’s next?” she asked.

  “I’m just going to add the chopped apples to the mix and put it back in the oven,” I said.

  “Is it bad that everything’s already been cooking and we’re adding them late?”

  “Actually, it’s totally better to add them now, because if they cook too long they’ll caramelize and get soft, and the whole beauty of this apple thing is to give an otherwise ball of mushy stuffing a little texture and crunch, you know?”

  Drew and his mom sat back, crossed their arms, and just watched me as I stirred the apples into the mixture and added some seasoning. Drew scratched his head and smiled at me in a way he never did, almost like his smile when he sat back and watched Alex when she was onstage. He was making me feel like I was doing something awesome, even though all I was doing was stirring apples. And it was a strange feeling, because his mom was also watching, so I couldn’t bend over or flip my hair or do what I normally do when I know a boy is watching me, but he was watching me anyway, and smiling anyway.

  “Okay!” I said as I wiped my hands on my apron. “Ten to fifteen more minutes, and we’ll be ready to eat!”

  “Veronica,” Marcia said as she stood up and cleaned her glasses, “next year, you’re coming over at noon and running the show!”

  Drew smiled and winked at me, and I blushed a little.

  Once we sat down, I’m pretty sure I handled my end of the conversation. His mom asked me where I wanted to go to college and what I planned to study. As if anyone actually planned to study in college. I told her I thought I better get my SATs back before I got my heart set on anything. She asked if I’d thought about going to culinary school; I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. She started bragging about Drew’s writing and asked if I’d ever read anything he’d written. I told her I hadn’t, then asked Drew if I could. He said, “Thanks a lot, Mom,” and she smiled lovingly and went back to the potatoes.

  All in all, the meal was a success and I felt like they liked me, even his dad, despite the fact that he never really talked to me. They all hugged me and said it was nice to finally meet me. I still couldn’t believe that I’d gotten so lucky. I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve this, but I had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for it. Look at me with this great, smart guy, proud to stand by me with his great, loving, totally functional family. I wanted to call my mom and tell her how proud of me she should be for being someone’s real, in public, in front of your parents, girlfriend. Though I doubted she’d believe it.

  After dinner, Drew took me home and came inside to hang out for a little like he usually did.

  “So, when am I going to get to read one of your stories?” I asked, turning on the TV. Love Actually was on again. My favorite.

  “You really want to?” he said, extending his bony arm around me.

  “Of course! Have you written anything about me?” I asked, then started to really wonder what he’d say if he did.

  He laughed. “Not yet,” he said, and kissed my head, “but I might.”

  We sat there for a while, watching the movie, my shoulder hooked underneath his. But I’d had enough of Hugh Grant’s shenanigans, so I turned around to make out. He smiled and kissed me back, like he always did.

  I climbed on top of him, took my shirt off, and kissed him again. This time harder, my hands clasping his skull, hoping my aggression would ignite his. I pushed him back so he was lying down and put his hands on my boobs. I leaned down and kissed him again and could feel that he was hard. So he did want me. So what was the problem?

  “Do you want to?” I asked. For the first time in my life.

  “Do you?” he replied.

  I sat up, still straddling him. “Well, only if you do!”

  He propped himself up on his elbows and put his hand on my thigh. “Of course I do.”

  I smiled, pushed him back down, and continued kissing him. He ran his hands up and down my back, but still made no attempt to take off my bra or anything. Was he that lazy? Was I going to have to do all the work?

  “Veronica,” he said mid-kiss. I ignored him, figur
ing he was going to say something cheesy and romantic or something that I’d have to try to not be totally turned off by. “Veronica,” he said again, and pulled away. “You know that this is my first time, right?”

  I sat up on him, still wearing my festive red Christmas bra. He was no longer hard.

  I did know. I’d asked Alex months ago. I wasn’t sure what to say. Was I supposed to care? Was this supposed to change anything? Was there, like, a special blessing or something he wanted me to say? I’d lost my virginity on a dare.

  “Oh,” I said. “Do you not want me to be your first?”

  He sat up, too, his legs still extended straight on the couch; I was still sitting on them.

  “No. I do!” He paused. “I just… I’m worried I’ll be bad or disappoint you or something.”

  I smiled. He looked so scared sitting there, all wide-eyed and pale and shaking. I told him not to worry, that we all had first times and that I was honored to be his. That I’d hold his V card near and dear to my heart, treasure it always. He asked if I had condoms. I did, but I had never actually had a guy not bring his own. I got one from my upstairs bathroom and came back to find him still sitting upright with his legs extended in the exact position I’d left him. He asked if he could be on top. I said sure.

  So we resituated on the couch and saddled up. We started kissing, and once I felt him get hard again, I grabbed the back of his sweater and pulled it over his head. He lost his balance and fell on me, leaving me with a mouth full of wool and an eye full of elbow. Once the sweater was off he said sorry. We kissed some more. Eventually, he slid my tights down to my knees and my skirt up and undid his pants. He wiggled them down to his ankles and lay back on top of me. I felt his heart beating on my still-bra-clad chest. His normally sweet, gentle kisses were now all over my face and neck, and his wet, meatball breath was right on my ear.

  “You’re doing great,” I said. I even threw in a little moan to let him know that I was enjoying myself, which I was, in a way.

  He didn’t reply, just pumped away, and asked me if I liked that, which he must have heard in a porn or something. As soon as I could tell him that I did, it was done.

  “Well,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas,” he said.

  And then he fell asleep on my shoulder.

  ALEXANDRA HOLBROOK

  I decided I was going to have a party on New Year’s Eve. I never had parties, because I had arguably the smallest house of anyone I knew, but I wanted to do it my way, with my friends, on my turf for a change. My mom was having a little dinner party, too, but said that I could have people in the basement if I wanted, as long as Josh could also invite friends. And that no one would drink and drive.

  My basement wasn’t big and nice and adjacent to a pool or tennis court or helipad like Mollie’s or Veronica’s or anything. It was an actual basement-type basement. We had old TVs and furniture and mousetraps, a ratty old brown corduroy couch, and a white art deco coffee table down there. It smelled like a combination of mildew and what I imagine the eighties smelled like.

  It was a rare occasion that everyone was home for New Year’s. Mollie’s family usually went to Florida and V’s family usually went somewhere posh and exotic, but this year, Mollie’s mom made her stay home and study for the SATs and the Collinses, well, they didn’t do a lot of things they used to, so we had a stacked team. Normally, when I was the only one around, I’d end up at one of Drew’s friend’s taking bong rips and watching the ball drop. I stole some liquor from my mom’s cabinet and told everyone to bring as much alcohol as they could fit in backpacks, as they’d need to bypass my mom’s party to get down to mine.

  Drew came early to help me set up. Move boxes, that sort of thing. When all that was done, we sat on the smelly gray carpet and ate pizza, figuring we should carbo-load before the drinking marathon.

  “So, how are things going with you and Fernando?” he asked, stacking my discarded pepperoni on his dripping slice.

  “Good, I guess,” I replied, not entirely sure how to answer. Not entirely sure if I was even playing this make Drew jealous game anymore or if I’d already lost.

  “Are you guys, like, official?”

  “We haven’t had, like, an official talk or anything.” I hadn’t hooked up with anyone else, but that didn’t mean that he hadn’t. I couldn’t help but worry that he had a whole other girlfriend at public school. Maybe multiple. That I was his post–band practice make-out, and that he maybe had a post-math-class make-out, a post-football-Sunday make-out, and maybe even a post-Friday-night-stoner-movie-with-Alex blow job. I hung out with too many boys to believe in the benefit of the doubt. And it was my fault anyway for never sacking up to ask him what our deal was. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be his girlfriend, but I was sure I wanted him to want to be my boyfriend.

  “Well, is he coming tonight? Do you plan to kiss at midnight?”

  “He is coming, and I guess.”

  “Then he’s your boyfriend! Alex has a boyfriend. Who’d have thought we’d see the day.…” He smiled and patted my shoulder.

  “What about you? Are you sick of Veronica yet? I can’t believe she came to your house for Christmas Eve. That’s so in-lawy. I’ve never been invited for Christmas.”

  “You’re Jewish!”

  “So! That doesn’t give me the right to celebrate the birth of Christ? One of my own?”

  He laughed.

  “I had no idea you felt such a kinship to our Lord and Savior. You can come next year, too. It was cute; Izzy kept asking her if she knew you.”

  That hurt my heart. Thinking about Veronica being there and infiltrating that family. My family. Good girl, Izzy. At least one of the Carsons has a sense of loyalty. I chuckled a little, picturing Marcia choking on her Santa apron, aghast at whatever inappropriate low-cut getup Veronica had decided to wear. I wondered what they talked about, if Veronica put on a show and pretended to be into school or tennis or anything that made Drew’s interest in her look more complicated than that she was hot and easy. I wondered if Marcia liked her. I wondered if she wished it were me there—if afterward she said something like She’s sweet, but she’s no Alex. I wonder if Drew’s dad was nicer to her than he ever was to me.

  “Aww,” I said, using every muscle in my throat to restrain myself from saying Good girl, Izzy out loud.

  I took another piece of pizza, plucked off the pepperonis, and gave them to Drew. He handed me his crust.

  “So,” he said, dropping his slice back in the box. I put mine down, too, and sat up straight, responding to the urgency in his gesture. “I kind of have something to tell you.”

  My heart dropped, because I knew what he was going to tell me. It was bound to happen eventually. It was Veronica, for fuck’s sake. I took the fact that it took this long to mean that he was holding out, that he had grander, more romantic notions about sex than most guys and that he wanted to wait until it was special. For someone special. For me. Did this mean he’d decided that she was special? Was she?

  I didn’t want to hear him say it. So I did.

  “You fucked Veronica.” I used the word fuck on purpose, hoping the word would cheapen it for him, too. That it would not only make it seem like less of a big deal, but actually make it less of a big deal. It sounded fake coming out of my mouth, like a joke we’d told a thousand times already.

  “Did she tell you?”

  Holy shit. I had been half kidding. Kidding myself, I guess. Part of me thought he’d laugh and say, Yeah, right, but he didn’t. He’d done it. With her. I couldn’t cry; I didn’t even know why I wanted to. I was prepared for this. I’d been preparing for this since that moment in the creepy fun-house bathroom when Veronica told me they kissed. After all, Veronica doesn’t just kiss people. Once you’ve kissed Veronica, you may as well consider your dick sucked.

  “No, she didn’t tell me.”

  Which I couldn’t believe. Though I guess we didn’t talk much anymore, especially about Drew. Di
d she think I’d be mad or weirded out or something? Why would she all of a sudden think I’d be mad about this, but not about the fact that they’d been making out and jerking each other off in my face for the last three months?

  “You could just tell? Do I look different? More like a man?”

  “You’re such a homo.”

  “Actually, now that I’ve had sex with a woman, I am officially not a homo. I am an actual, practicing heterosexual.”

  He wasn’t funny. I wasn’t laughing.

  “Yeah, you are!” I yelled. “High five!” I actually made him high-five me. I had a very sudden urge to drink heavily and punch myself in the face. “You’ve officially left me alone in the virgin club. How does it feel? How was it?”

  He smiled and picked up his pizza again. “It was good,” he said. “Different than I thought, I guess.… But it’s not like I have anything to compare it to.”

  My mouth was frozen in a smile, but the rest of me was slowly dying, hardening, decaying from within.

  I asked if he told her it was his first time. She already knew it was, because she’d asked me if he was a virgin when they first started dating.

  “I did. She was really cool about it.”

  “You down here?” someone called from the top of the stairs.

  It was Mollie.

  Thank god.

  Mollie rolled in with a backpack full of tequila and some story about her vagina being sore. Drew and I both rolled our eyes and put her to work setting up beer pong on the pool table.

  I helped myself to the tequila.

  By the time Veronica arrived, I was drunk.

  She showed up in some sparkling, slutty, typical whorecasing and draped herself on Drew. Drew’s crew all arrived together and brought a lot of beer, as requested. Fernando came around ten: I was already half past blacked out.

  “Hey, baby,” he said when he bounced down the stairs into the party, “looks like you’ve already started!”

  “Haaaaaaaappy New Year!” I screamed in his ear, then looked around to make sure Drew was watching and kissed him. With tongue.