by Sara Ney
Tonight, as luck would have it, my parents are attending a fundraiser for a new girl's school that has just been renovated. My dad works in finance, but is also on the school board for our district, so they attend these sorts of things every so often.
"Yeah I get it, Molly, but can't you do your homework at the beach? Just bring a blanket. Run home and grab your suit and meet us there. Cool?" Jenna stares at me with her big blue eyes and pushes out her bottom lip, which I consider her trademark move to manipulate me.
And...it works.
"Fine," I relent, begrudgingly. "I'll run home quick and grab my suit."
Ugh, I'm such a pushover.
What I really wanted to do is go home, watch Pretty Little Liars on Demand while eating Cheetos on the couch. For the record, Cheetos are a big 'no no' at my house ever since the time my idiot older brother got caught wiping his orange fingers on the arms of the Lazy-Boy .
Food hasn't been allowed in the living room since.
I call it the "Incident of 2010 that ruined it for everybody."
Now my mom watches us like a hawk.
"Wear that new suit you bought at Macy's last week," she said wiggling her eyebrows at me in a suggestive manner. "Just in case! You never knooww..." she singsongs this last part. "I want to make sure you have a hot date for Fall Formal so you can double with me and Alex again this year."
Classic Jenna, always with a dance on the brain.
Before school even starts each year, she starts shopping for Formal dresses - in like, June. I'm every bit of a girly-girl as she is, but come on - June?
I am able to make it home, change, and get back on the freeway in less than a half hour. Headed south to Random Lake's public shoreline with the top down on the Jeep, my hair is flying in a million different directions. I have sunglasses on so that I can see, because hair is getting in my eyes.
I'd decided to scrap the idea of getting homework done on the beach, knowing that realistically no one is going to let me actually study. Instead they'll chatter non-stop, probably harass me to play sand volleyball (which I suck at) - stuff like that. According to Jenna, I was the only Senior she'd actually seen read a textbook this year and I needed to "give it a rest already...god...."
I'm clipping down the highway at a good pace, loving the way the wind makes me feel.
Free.
Alive.
Young.
I've got on my jean skirt, a plain aqua ribbed tank top from American Eagle over my suit, and flip flops. Nothing fancy. Driving with the top down on the Jeep feels amazing. If you've never been in a convertible, it's like standing on the top of a hill on a gorgeous day and letting the wind dance itself around you.
Pushing my sunglasses to the bridge of my nose, I adjust the adapter on my iPod and crank up the radio. I find my favorite tune - "Gone, Gone, Gone" by Phillip Phillips - and start belting out the lyrics to the high tempo love song.
"And I would do it for youuuu, for youu oohhh - Baby I'm not moving on, I'll love you long after you're gone....."
Is that my voice? Gosh I sound incredible...
I'm tapping the steering wheel with both palms, and can see a red pickup truck in my rear-view mirror approaching to pass. Whoever it is, he's hell bent on a mission to get somewhere, and is past me within seconds.
The windows on the red truck are tinted but I see the shadow of a large figure in the passenger seat crane around once it's past. On the back bumper, there's a sticker that reads "Puck Off," so I can only presume it's guys from school and that they're on the hockey team.
Confession: I think you and I both know that when you pass a Jeep on the road, it's almost impossible to resist checking out the driver. Have you ever passed a Jeep and not looked? In fact, have you ever seen a Jeep coming down the road and gotten all excited, and then when it drives by you, you're all bummed out because the driver was Ewww? Or taken one look at the driver and thought "Damn that dude is ugly! They have no business owning that sweet ride!" and been completely disappointed? I'd even go as far as to say: it should be a law that all Jeep drivers be pleasant to look at. I mean it, seriously.
The current laws of attraction state that an attractive girl driving a Jeep is even more irresistible to the opposite sex than any other vehicle - especially one with their hair down.
It's a scientific fact, er... somewhere.
It's coded in guy DNA.
Anyways, like I said - best feeling in the world.
I will even admit to an air of a smugness about myself when I'm driving. What can I say? I can't help it.
Soon I'm squeezing into a small parking spot - I groan at the sight of myself in the mirror. What a disaster. Grabbing my bag, I hop out the window without actually opening the door, ala Dukes of Hazard. Before I go any further, I lean over to give my head and hair a good shake, running my fingers through it to get out any knots. When I flip my hair back up my eyes immediate connect with Weston McGrath.
Well, well, well, what are the odds....?
He's openly staring. Again.
Leaning his shoulder against the passenger side door of the red truck that had passed me earlier, it's obvious Weston is waiting for its driver, who's still inside. Knowing that he had been checking me out on the highway sends an excited shiver up my spine. I can't see his eyes because he's wearing really dark sunglasses, but this time he isn't wearing a ball cap. Messy hair blowing in the breeze, he's changed his shirt (another cut off tee shirt) and is wearing Hawaiian printed board shorts that hang low on his hips. For a brief second I wonder if he has chest hair.
Ugh, get a grip Molly! I scold myself and give myself a mental slap.
He's just so...so.....What's the word for it?
Intense.
What is wrong with me today!? These thoughts are so unlike me!
I can hardly even focus.
The driver side door opens and Rick Stevens - he's a senior too - walks around to the tailgate and opens it up. I actually have Rick in my marketing class. For such an asshole, he's pretty smart. Shocking, right?
Rick follows Weston's gaze and takes off his sunglasses. He gives me one of those head nods - you know the kind - the unspoken 'hey.'
"Little Miss Molly Wakefield, lookin' good. Waz zup?"
Oh my god, seriously? What an idiot.
"Hey guys," is my bashful reply. They can't tell because it's hot out, but I'm blushing down to my toes.
I'm so lame.
Not sticking around for idle chatter, I give them a feeble wave and scurry to the beach as fast as my flip flops will carry me. My mom once said "Molly, you can afford to flirt a little. It never hurts if you want to meet someone special. And you never know - you just might have fun doing it." This is all very true, but I utterly refuse to be one of those girls. Simpering. Giggling. Fake. The one thing I always wonder: why do guys always fall for that?
I never once understood it.
Don't get me wrong: I date.
Have dated.
Do the occasional hair toss.
But over the past few months, as I get closer to high school graduation, it's a little harder to want to even bother. I mean, I'll be heading for college at the end of the year. And as for my own unique popularity... I'd classify myself as one of those "middle of the road" people - not popular, not un-popular. Friends with everyone and friendly to everyone (for the most part). Yes, I play a sport: I'm on a club soccer team called Lake Country Fusion, and I also play for school. I'm not winning any college scholarships, but I consider myself pretty darn good.
I've got fast feet.
A few weeks ago, when school first started, this guy named TJ Walker asked me to the movies. Jenna was all agog, because - again with wanting to double date... But there weren't any sparks. I didn't even want the poor kid to kiss me good-night, which he did attempt to do while we sat in the driveway under garage security light. I kept sarcastically thinking "Really TJ?! You didn't even talk to me tonight!" Not to mention, he only paid for his half of the movie, and I bought
my own popcorn.
Such a cheapskate (hardly the way to win a girl over).
So yeah. Guys are the last thing on my mind.
But ever since this afternoon in the library, Weston has been on my mind - like, all freaking day. Every nanosecond. When before today... I don't think I thought of him at all. He wasn't even a blip on my radar.
It's a funny thing how a few exchanged glances can change....everything.
I allow myself peek back at the parking lot just once to see that Rick and Weston are surrounded by a group of girls, all eager to be the flavor of the week.
Holy crap, they work fast.
"Hey, guess who's here Jenna? You're boyfriend Weston McGrath," I taunt as I approach my best friend, who's laying in the sand. She's sporting ear buds but I know she can hear me because she immediately shoots up to a sitting position. "Whoops! You better fix your top," I laugh, tossing my bag down beside her in the sand.
"Are you serious?! Holy crap do I look okay?" Her boyfriend Alex (who has seen this behavior from her before) sits up too and has the decency to look affronted, shooting her an incredulous look as she adjusts the straps on her bikini.
His mouth drops open. "Babe! I'm sitting right here..."
"I know babe, but oh my god, he's so cute." She is digging through her beach tote, and finds what she's looking for: a hair brush. "Seriously though Molly, do I look okay?" Alex gives up and lies back down on the towel, shaking his head and closing his eyes. Jenna gives him a quick peck on the cheek.
Measly consolation prize from a girlfriend who's ogling nearby man-flesh.
Alex must agree because he snorts indignantly.
"Sit down for god's sake Molly, you're blocking my view," Jenna practically shouts. I laugh again, because seriously, she's cracking me up. Like right now, she's applying lip gloss. One strong breeze and she'll have sand stuck to her lips all afternoon. "Shit, there he is with that jerk off Rick Salamander."
"It's Rick Stevens actually...." Alex chimes in.
"What are they doing, putting jet skis in the water?" Squinting, she looks toward the water. "Holy shit, they're looking over here. Oh my god, oh my god. Are they watching us? I can't look."
Oh yeah, did I mention Jenna is dramatic?
She should be the star of her own reality show.
No really, just ask her.
I force myself not to look over at the guys: Honestly, I have enough drama with Jenna practically hyperventilating on her beach towel next to me. If I didn't know her so well, I would feel horrible for her boyfriend - but no one is more caring and loyal than my best friend.
Jenna and I met in third grade, the year I moved from the private Catholic elementary school, over to the public school in our small town of River Glen, Illinois. And believe it or not, the two schools are directly across the street from each other, which I guess is small town living for you.
The teacher seated me behind her on that first day, and of course I'd been so nervous not knowing what to expect - this was public school, after all! Those first few hours no other students spoke to me at all, until math class when the teacher played a short video about multiplication. Jenna turned around and said "Hey, do you like lemon heads?" and I said "Yeah." So she handed me a few, and we sat there smiling at each other while we sucked on the sour candy in the darkened classroom until out taste buds were raw.
At recess, I plastered myself up against the brick wall near the playground, determined not to stand out. Jenna was having none of it. Blonde and tiny (which she still is), she came marching up to me in her floral dress and grabbed my hand, forcing me to play Statue Maker with a small group of girls.... I remember it well: her whipping me around by the arm until I got dizzy, then unexpectedly letting go of my hand so I went sprawling on the ground. Which, for the record, I never in any way resembled a statue. Ugh, I used to get so mad at her.
But man did I love that stupid game.
Best friends since.
Leisurely unpacking my bag, I spread out my beach blanket, snapping it open on the sandy shore. Off comes my skirt, and of course, my tank top. I pull it over my head and toss it so it lands strategically on top of my bag. Score! (Yes -in case you were wondering, I am one of those people who gloats when their wadded-up paper makes it successfully into the garbage can).
I adjust the straps on the bikini top I purchased just last week. It's a triangle bikini in a bright emerald green that really compliments my tan (and my hair) and ties around my neck. Even though I don't have the struggles many of my friends have with their weight, I'm not the most confident person in a two-piece swimsuit, so I hurry to lay down.
"Look at Britney Renken drooling over Weston. Ugh, nauseating." Jenna is mumbling to herself, disgusted. I turn my head and look at her over my sunglasses as she continues ranting. "And what is she wearing? Like a guy wants to see her ass cheeks hanging out."
Um, actually that's exactly what guys want, I stop myself from pointing out, and Alex confirms it by snorting out his nose. However, I keep my mouth shut and raise my head to watch the bubbly blonde grinning broadly at Rick and Weston. Petite, cute, and running her hand up and down Weston's' arm. My stomach does a flip-flop and something happens to my breathing that I can't put a finger on.
What does jealously feel like?
Can you even be jealous for something you don't even have? Over a guy you don't even know?
Is....he...someone I want for myself? He's so far removed from everything I know, which tends to border on, well, boring. For now, I'm just going to lay here and pretend that I'm alone on the beach with Jenna. Oh yeah - and Alex.
Er, and everyone else.
To chicken to make a move, my butt stays glued to my blanket until mom texts me to get home.
Chapter Four
MOLLY
"Sometimes you just have to put yourself out there. And do something with your hair. Also, showing some boob doesn't hurt either." - Maddie, our other friend.
It's early Wednesday morning, and I dress for the day with care. I've risen before the sun, with a mission: to be just a little unforgettable...
Pulling the white eyelet sundress off the hanger that I'd laid out last night, I check it over once more for stains. It's my favorite dress and I slip it over my head before eagerly walking to the mirror. I gaze at my reflection, all but nodding approval at my own appearance: spaghetti straps, a deep 'V' neckline (just appropriate enough for school) with lace trim that emphasizes my curves nicely. There is a small set of pearl buttons up the front right under my breasts, and the skirt flares out to the middle of my thighs. It's just stark white enough to set off the tan I've been cultivating on the weekends.
Slipping on a delicate silver chain bracelet and matching silver hoops earrings, I wander into the closet and stare at my shoes. Do I wear a high wedge sandal to elongate my legs or go with something a little edgier?
I'm smiling now as I pull out my well-worn pair of turquoise and brown cowboy boots. When my parents bought me them for me last year for Christmas, I became the envy of all my friends: that's how spectacular they are. They make me want to dance, and paired with this dress.... I feel feminine. And kind of like a knockout, actually.
My curling iron has been warming up and is hot enough to start my hair. I take the next forty-five minutes to wrap my long hair around its barrel, creating loose waves. I spritz it with Bumble & Bumble Surf spray, scrunch it so it looks like I've spent the day at the beach, and start applying my make-up.
Normally, I don't take this much time in the morning to get ready. My mom is probably down in the kitchen wondering why I'm up so darn early.
I won't lie.
We all know it's because of that damn Weston McGrath.
Soon enough I'm taking my seat in Marketing first period with one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Paul. Short, gray, pudgy, and in her early 60's, Mrs. Paul reminds me of my grandma. Also, she doesn't put up with any crap, so it's always a riot when she unleashes her fury on someone in class.
As I'm organizing my homework and removing it from my Marketing folder, a large body slides into the seat next to mine that doesn't belong there. It's Rick Stevens, and he's wearing a white hockey tee shirt with the saying "Stitches Get Bitches" on it.
Classy. Real classy.
"Damn Wakefield, you clean up nice." Rick has an idiot grin on his face that I want to slap off his face, and he's leaning over the desk blatantly peering at my chest. Technically it could be considered a leer. "Nice...necklace."
Only, I'm not wearing a necklace. Gross.
Isn't he a little young to be a lecherous pig?
I don't respond, choosing to ignore him. What guy calls a girl by her last name, anyways? I thought guys only did that to each other.
"Do you need a "tutor" for the mid-term project?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. And gross, did he just use air quotes when he said the word tutor? "I'm really good at giving instruction."
"Er, no, I'm good. Thanks."
"Do you want a 'study buddy'?" he asks, once again using his fingers to punctuate the words 'study buddy' with air quotes.
"I'll do the project entirely on my own, thanks."
"So how's about you and me —" fortunately he is cut off.
"Mister Stevens, pah-lease stop harassing Miss Wakefield and take your assigned seat," comes the stern voice of Mrs. Paul. She says the word 'mister' in such a scandalized tone that it has me snorting in an unladylike way behind my folder. Rick stands up, stretches his arms and puffs his chest out while throwing me what he probably considers a suggestive smile and walks to his desk in the front of the room.
Gross. He's like an oily used car salesman. Jenna would be dying right now if she could see this. Absolutely in hysterics. She loves it when I'm uncomfortable, damn her. Sneaking my phone out of my backpack, I slide it open and text to my friend Tasha, who sits three seats to my right.