by Robin Mellom
Al yson wanted that. Who wouldn’t? She’d never find that with Brian, that’s for sure.
“Seriously.” Brian leaned his heavy body on mine, smel ing more like beer now, not cologne. “Kiss me, would you?” I turned my head from him and quickly weighed the 260
consequences. I could’ve pul ed a Hailey—rol and deflect.
I could’ve been polite and gotten out of the situation graceful y, and we would’ve driven back to the party without a problem. But Brian needed to hear this. No matter what the consequences were.
“You know what, Brian? You may think Allyson talks too much, but all that stuff ’s important to her. It is her. And you don’t want to hear it? Maybe flag corps and the yearbook sound stupid to you, but all I ever talk about to Ian is my over-involved mother and stories about Christmas and why I love daisies. I’m just as stupid.”
Brian rol ed his eyes, clearly annoyed. “Stop, Justina. I’m not talking about this.”
But I wasn’t stopping. “And he listens to it. Al of it. Ian makes me feel like the most special person on Earth.” My voice cracked.
He rubbed at his eyes like he wanted to rub away this moment. But I swal owed hard, kept it together, and drove it home. “And see this dress? This nasty-ass stain-covered dress? I got it at a secondhand store. It cost as much as a case of Capri Sun. And my mother loved the beauty of a rose that matched a dress. She actual y said those words. I have a mother who actual y says stuff like that! How lucky am I? It’s because of her that I don’t look like any of the other Huntington High girls tonight—because I’m not like the rest of them. This dress is me. And Ian is the one who seems to get that.”
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He shook his head. “Jesus, I need a beer. You done now?”
“Did you hear a word I said?”
He sat up and turned his body to face me. “What happened to you?”
I pressed my head into the back of the seat, unsure what he was talking about.
“You and Hailey. You two have kissed half our school.
Why’d you stop the game?”
That. The Reputation. Of course. “It’s not a game anymore,” I said under my breath, hoping he wouldn’t hear me because this was the part of the conversation I did not want to be having.
“Sure it was. Everyone knew your game. You two were a sure thing. You stil are, right?” He leaned in to catch my eye.
“You can’t just change your reputation because you want to.
It fol ows you . . . and guys assume . . .” His voice trailed off.
I turned and faced the window—the sun was just starting to lighten the sky. I knew Mom was going to kil me for staying out al night, but I was more focused on making sure Brian couldn’t see my eyes fil with tears. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me.
He huffed. “Look, are we going to do this, or what? We al know you’re not the type of girl who can resist.” I whipped my head back to face him. “I’m not that same girl. I’d rather kiss no one than kiss a nobody.” I wiped my face and pushed my shoulders back. “Let me out of this car.”
“Why? Ian’s not here. He left you.”
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“Let me out!”
Boner slowed the car. “What’s going on?” Brian leaned up to him. “Don’t stop. We’re going back to the hotel.” He sat back and looked forward with a cold stare.
“I’m sure your boyfriend’s waiting for you. Right?” But he was wrong. I knew every inch of Ian’s brain and how his mind worked. “Ian’s not waiting for me.” I clenched my teeth. “He’s looking for me.”
“Not when he finds out you ditched him to be with me.
We al know Ian Clark doesn’t put up with cheaters.” He put his hand on my knee and fiddled with the hem of my dress—teasing, testing—he knew how easy it would be to slip his hand underneath. The scary part was, five minutes ago I would’ve let him. But not now.
“Stop the car!” I screamed.
Boner started to slow again, and Brian put his hand on his shoulder. “Go.”
But I knew I couldn’t trust him to get where I needed to go. Finding Ian was in my own hands. Before Boner could hit the gas, I popped the door handle, thrust my body forward, tucked and rol ed, and landed on the ground. In a ditch.
Only I didn’t actual y tuck and rol . I tumbled and flopped and landed with a thunk on the hard ground, with my forehead serving as a cushion for my fal .
Ouch!
And there I was, a heap of a disgusting mess, lying in a ditch on the side of Hol ister Road at 6:15 a.m.
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Without Ian.
Without my ring.
But it was clear I stil had my reputation. It seemed I would never escape that.
And Ian had every right to think I was up to my old tricks. I had to face the facts—I had ditched him for another guy because I assumed he didn’t want to be with me.
Damn.
I screwed everything up.
I had lost Ian. The one guy who wanted to be my boyfriend. And I never even got a kiss.
Eight months, thirteen days. And counting.
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19
Mrs. Fields
Peanut Butter Cookie
“HOW WAS I supposed to know he was throwing a party for me?” I yell like a lunatic, as if yelling like a lunatic will solve my problem now.
Gilda looks concerned.
Donna sighs.
Mike shrugs his shoulders.
Other Mike breaks into a bag of Bugles.
Serenity is smiling.
I look around and take in their faces, so thankful I have this group of people here for me—this ragtag, bizarre, wonderful group of people. There is kindness in my life. And it’s all around me right now. I take a deep breath. “Thank you,” I say.
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And even though I ruined my chances with Ian, I feel satisfied that it’s al over. This horrible night is final y past me. I’m done.
I wipe the tears from my face and lift my chin to them.
“Now . . . can someone give me a ride home?” Serenity scoops me back up in her arms and leads me to the door.
I stop and turn back to Gilda and Donna. “Thanks. For everything.”
Gilda rushes up to me and smothers me with a hug, and I whisper in her ear, “I’m not going to be The Girl At That Party anymore.”
She steps back and cups my chin. “You never were.” It’s true. I’m not that girl anymore. And there wil be a time when I’l be The Girl. It is al about timing—and one day when I’m not planning it, and organizing it and strangling it, love wil become possible. There won’t be any more leapfrogging. We’l land in the exact spot at the same precise moment. And I wil wait.
Ian and I missed our moment. But I’m glad we got close.
As elusive and improbable as love is . . . I got that close.
Amazing, real y.
Donna steps up to me. She doesn’t put her hands on my shoulders like a footbal coach. She clasps my hands instead and says in a soft voice, “I’m not real y a cougar.”
“I know, Donna.”
She bites at her lip. “And they’re not al scumbags.” 266
I nod.
Her eyes are watery. “I just seem to have a way of scaring the good ones off, dol .”
I squeeze her hands tighter. “You’l find a good one. If you’re looking for one.”
She lets go and lifts her arms like she’s going to hug me, so I lift mine too, ready to embrace her. But instead of hugging it out, she struts right past me and stands guard by the window. She tilts her head as if she hears something.
And then we al hear it. A rumble.
Not my stomach. I’m final y not hungry anymore. In fact, I’m so stuffed I think I’l never eat again.
It’s a different rumble. A familiar one. The rattling, clanging sound of a diesel engine.
Donna presses her hand up to the window. “O.M.God . . .
Captain Scumbag . . . he’s here.”
From the window, I
watch as Ian’s car pul s into the lot.
He barely even gets it into park before jumping out and barreling toward the 7-Eleven.
His tux is filthy—full of stains—and his Converse high-tops are covered in mud. Then I notice his eyes, bleary and bloodshot, but it’s his eyebrows that tel me what he’s feeling: worry.
As he comes toward me, Ian looks up, and through the glass, our eyes meet. He suddenly stops in his tracks in the middle of the parking lot.
I grab my chest—I’m barely breathing.
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But his eyes immediately light up, and his right eyebrow arches and lifts to the sky.
Oh, thank God. I know that one. It’s his relieved face.
And here you are, Ian Clark, swooping in to save me. In the parking lot of the 7-Eleven.
I bolt out of the store like a cheetah and race up to him.
He opens his mouth, but before he can talk, I start. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” I babble, high-pitched and squeaky. “I thought you were trying to get together with Al yson, not planning a pizza party for me, and you turned off your phone so I thought you didn’t want to be with me—” He grabs me. Hugs me. Pul s me in tight. “It’s okay.”
“No. It’s not.” I push back from him, taking in his soft face. It’s this face that I’ve looked at for so long, grateful for its sweetness. And I realize deep down that I am grateful for the friendship. And then deep, deep down, grateful for the electricity his touch gives me. “I was wrong. I assumed horrible things, Ian.”
“And you think that’s shocking to me?” He laughs. That goofy laugh that gives me butterflies.
This softness, this forgiveness, it is my hugest relief. He’s here. He’s laughing. I don’t understand this one bit. “How did you find me?”
“I cal ed Brian Sontag.”
I drop my head, ashamed of what I’ve done. Worried this is the part where he tel s me he doesn’t ever want to talk to me again.
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“Brian explained what happened . . . the dog swapping . . .
you trying to kiss him.”
I snap my head up. “But—”
“And he told me about you not kissing him. And then about you jumping out of the car on Lexington Avenue to come find me. Are you nuts, Justina?” He lifts my chin with his hand. “Don’t answer that.”
He reaches into his pocket. “I found this in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn.”
My Muppet-looking daisy ring.
“Serenity told me you bought it back from Fritz.” My fingers tremble as he slides the ring on and grabs my hand tight. “It fits you perfectly.”
And he’s right. It fits me in every way.
There are so many things I’ve wanted to tel him, but haven’t. Here he was, the one guy who listened to everything I had to say, and I couldn’t tel him how I felt about him.
“I’ve never told you about the green shirt,” I blurt out.
“The what?”
“A few weeks ago, you came to my house in a new green shirt, and I thought that was what made me have feelings for you.” My hands start to shake. He grabs them, holds them stil , our fingers interlacing. “But what I realized tonight was it wasn’t the shirt. It was way before that. The silver bat. And then the Motrin. And the licorice and the peanut butter cookie.”
He tilts his head and gives me a curious smile. “Silver bat?” 269
“The first day we met, playing softbal in gym class, you handed me that bat—handle first.” I squeeze his hands tighter, and my voice quivers. “I’ve had feelings for you ever since I met you, Ian Clark.”
We both take a deep breath, realizing we’re saying al the things we are final y ready to say.
“I’ve had feelings for you for a long time, too,” he says, then leans in, forcing me to look up at him. He has a sneaky smirk on his face. “Didn’t you ever wonder why the silver bat was always around after that day?”
I shake my head and laugh. Of course he’d be the one to make sure my favorite bat was always around.
“I don’t know why we missed each other tonight,” he says.
“And my biggest regret is that I left you. But I found you.” He holds my gaze, gently pul s his fingers through my wild hair—just like in my ridiculous fantasy—and pul s me into him as he whispers in my ear, “And I’m not letting you go.” And that’s the moment when the music in the gas station parking lot, which usual y blares country songs, suddenly changes to a new song. Our song.
“Open Arms.”
I look toward the store and Gilda is standing in the window, watching us, arms folded. Waiting.
This moment is dripping in cheesiness—epic, huge, Hummer-like cheesiness. But at least it’s the nacho kind—
only the best for my guy.
Donna mouths, “Kiss the scumbag!”
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And before I can turn back to ready my stance and prepare for The Moment of Liplock Bliss, he lays it on me.
O.M.God.
He sure knows when to slow things down. And when to step on the gas.
I final y know which category you belong in, Ian Clark.
We pul back from each other, taking a deep breath, silently recognizing what has just become of our friendship.
And that’s when I see it. The right side of his mouth pul s up, and there it is—the crease.
Al mine.
And I can breathe.
“Come on, Captain.” I stick my finger out, and we loop pinkies. “I have some people who want to meet you.” But before the door slides open, he pul s out a crushed Mrs. Fields peanut butter cookie from his pocket. “You must be hungry.”
I’m not hungry one bit. But I wil never turn away another gift from you, Ian Clark. Ever.
“Thanks,” I say as I take the cookie from him. “I’m starving.”
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The Following Friday
(WRITTEN ON A napkin from the nacho cheese bar at the 7-Eleven, not the sucky 7-Eleven near downtown, the one on 4th and Hill . . . the awesome one)
Dear Ian,
I will never leave your side again, not even if a dress malfunction leaves me nude. Not even if veggie pizza is being served in the girls’ bathroom. Not even if Journey themselves are playing in the parking lot.
I will forever be the human blueberry attached to your hip. Your personal refrigerator magnet. And 272
I’m glad I now know that when you mentioned
“weirdness,” you meant “excessive making out.” Um, wow. Graphic.
Hither and dither, perfunctory and whatnot.
Anderson Cooper can eat your dust.
Love,
Justina
(Your girlfriend)
(Yep. I’m gonna go ahead and make that
assumption.)
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