by Jody Gehrman
"Quelle exciting,” Amber grumbled. “A global exchange.”
“So, you guys coming out to the Inn later?” PJ asked.
Amber gave him a sly look. “Depends. Will there be any hot guys?”
PJ held his hands out, palms up. “Hey—I’m going to be there. Isn’t that enough?” PJ’s a shameless flirt, but everyone knows he has a girlfriend in the Bay Area he’s totally loyal to.
“Let me rephrase that. How many hot, available, heterosexual guys will be there—”
“Who aren’t puking more than they’re dancing,” I added.
“Picky, picky,” Ben scolded. “What’s the matter, Sloane, don’t you find beer barf sexy?”
I made a face. “Gross.”
“Oh, come on,” Ben persisted. “I hear Corky can burp the national anthem once you get a six-pack in him.”
“Charming,” I said. “The height of masculine appeal.”
“I suppose you’re saving yourself for Mr. Darcy?” I did an oral report last month called “Scoundrels and Studs in Pride and Prejudice”; Ben’s been teasing me about it ever since.
“No, but I do have standards.”
He looked intrigued. “Such as?”
“I’d rather make it with Mr. Hardbaugh than a guy who shaves his legs.”
“Ouch!” PJ reached over to high-five me, laughing. Amber snorted. Ben folded his arms across his chest and tried to look bored.
The amplified voice of Mr. H suddenly cut through our banter. “And now, I present to you, the class of two thousand and—” Only he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Corky Daniels, a big muscle-bound senior, released a primal shriek of joy, cuing his classmates and the entire crowd to follow suit.
Just then I felt Ben’s knee brush lightly against the bare skin between my shoulder blades, and for a weird second I felt inexplicably light-headed.
Hero’s dad let her take the Merc to graduation, and surprisingly, he didn’t say no when she called to ask if she could drive Amber and me to “a small gathering at the Inn.” He’s usually pretty overprotective, especially of Hero, his baby, but since the Sonoma Mission Inn is barely more than a mile from Moon Mountain, and since it’s about as far as you can get from a seedy hotel or a parking lot kegger, I guess he figured we wouldn’t get into too much trouble. Luckily, my mom didn’t require a phone call, since I’d already told her I was staying at Hero’s, and Amber’s mom was in the city with her boy toy—not that she ever cared what Amber did anyway.
What with the end of school, the frenzied sentimentality of graduation, and the balmy June weather, there was palpable electricity in the air, and it was infectious. We didn’t want to be the first ones at the party, so we cruised around town for about an hour, playing Mac Dre at top volume, putting on makeup, inching through the drive-through at Taco Bell for a round of Cokes, and generally just behaving like stupid, giggly girls. Well, Hero and I were, anyway. Amber was in the backseat, staring out the window, lost in thought. Every now and then I’d spin around and squeeze her knee, and once I pulled her up with me so we were both hanging out of the moonroof, our arms flailing like strippers erupting from a cake, but generally she was sullen and withdrawn, two adjectives I’d never connected with her until now.
It was almost eleven thirty when we finally found room 68, the number PJ had scribbled on the back of my hand with a ballpoint pen. There was a bass beat throbbing through the door—sounded like reggae. We knocked, but nobody answered. Hero and I looked at each other, hesitating, but then Amber stepped between us, tried the door, and, finding it locked, pounded as hard as she could with the palm of her hand. Within seconds the door flew open and there was Dog Berry, nodding his scruffy, sun-bleached head to vintage Bob Marley, toking on a cigar-sized spliff. Dog’s a junior with a sweet smile and a brain so saturated with bong hits, he’s been voted Most Likely to Become a Vegetable three years running. Behind him, the room was packed with people, and the air was opaque with smoke.
“Good evening, mamacitas,” Dog said with a lazy smile. “You looking for smoking, thizzing, Jell-O, or sixty-nine?”
"S-sorry?” I stammered.
He leaned back and gazed at us from under heavy lids. “This here’s the smoking room. Next door’s for Jell-O shots, and next to that’s where you get your thizz.” He was moving his arms around like a stewardess indicating exits. “Over here’s room sixty-nine, and that’s for—well, I guess that one’s self-explanatory.”
Beside me, Hero giggled nervously, and I found myself doing the same without meaning to. Amber just grunted in disgust and strode past us, into the smoky haze. Considering our other choices, I thought a little smoke sounded pretty benign, so I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle my own childish laughter and followed Amber’s roving red hair, pulling Hero along by the hand.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” An arm shot out of the smoke, stopping me in my tracks. “Skater Girl, hey. Who’s your beautiful friend?”
The arm was attached to John Jamieson. I was shocked; I couldn’t remember him ever addressing me directly. I was surprised he even knew—well, not exactly my name, but Skater Girl meant he had some idea who I was.
“Um, this is my cousin Hero. Hero, this is John. He’s . . . a senior, and . . .” I racked my brain for something intelligent to add. “He’s got amazing SAT scores.” I closed my eyes. Had I actually said that?
Lucky for me, John wasn’t paying any attention to my mortification. “Hero. Cool name. You like Shakespeare?”
She tilted her head this way and that, blushing. “Yeah. I guess.”
He offered her a red plastic cup filled with beer and as soon as she had taken it he struck a theatrical pose. “‘In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on.’ ” He dropped the pose and treated her to a flash of his blinding teeth. “That line’s about Hero. Remember that? I never met a Hero before. Seriously. You’re the first.” His icy blue eyes drank her in as he added, “You look like a Hero.”
She blushed again. “Thanks?”
He nodded slowly. His expression made me think of an artist assessing his model; he searched her face with a feverish intensity, as if committing the pink of her lips, the slant of her cheekbones to memory. “You don’t go to school here, do you?”
“No.” She was having a hard time meeting his gaze. I could see why—his eyes were so piercing and intense it was like trying to look directly at the sun.
“She goes to a boarding school back east,” I offered.
John smiled at me, surprised; apparently he’d forgotten my presence entirely. “What are you up to, Skater Girl? Training for the X Games?”
Having his 100-watt stare rotate in my direction, especially combined with a familiar, teasing tone when we’d never even spoken before, made my mind go totally blank. Luckily, an interruption saved me from blurting out anything I’d have to beat myself for later.
“Ah, ciao bella!” The lanky form of Claudio emerged from a smoky corner and clasped Hero’s shoulder warmly.
Hero’s face went from shy to radiant as she turned away from John and kissed Claudio on both cheeks, Euro-style. The two of them launched into a bright, musical exchange in Italian that left John and me blinking.
“I see you’ve met Claudio,” John said, slapping the taller boy with considerable force on the back. “He’s staying with us this summer. His parents manage a restaurant supply company in Sicily.” I thought I caught the slightest whiff of condescension as he added, “Dad gets all his garlic presses and cheese graters there.”
Claudio nodded and smiled uncertainly. “Restaurants— yes. Very good.”
Hero said, “We met at graduation.”
“And you speak Italian—impressive!” John hooked his arm around Claudio’s neck in a chummy way, though it looked like it might hurt a little. “I’d learn every romance language if it scored me points with girls like you.”
Just then Natalie Coleman, the blond, statuesque captain of the basketball team, came over and punched John playfully
in the shoulder. “Good speech tonight, Mr. Smooth.”
“You think I’d let you down, gorgeous?” John ruffled her hair affectionately.
Behind Natalie a whole gaggle of senior girls followed, each of them long-limbed and svelte, reeking of beer and designer perfume. They seemed to take John’s response as a cue to swarm around him like a cloud of gnats, each of them eager to share an inside joke or catch his eye with a flash of push-up bra.
Even engulfed in this cloud of hot girl pheromones, John’s eyes sought out Hero. She didn’t seem to notice; her voice was bright and animated as she locked into the Italian groove with Claudio.
“So, Hero,” John said, breaking away from a skinny redhead’s manicured clutches. “You in town for long?”
The redhead cast a testy glance over her shoulder at Hero before laughing hysterically at something her friend mumbled.
Hero looked uncomfortable. “Most of the summer.” “We should hang out.” He puffed his chest out slightly, and though his tone was casual, the challenge to Claudio was hard to miss. “Maybe go to the coast?”
“Uh, my Dad’s sort of . . . protective.”
Calling Uncle Leo “sort of protective” is like calling Hitler “a little unstable.”
“I could talk to him,” John assured her. “I’ve got a way with ’rents.”
Hero shot me a split-second furtive glance.
“He’s pretty much impossible,” I put in, trying to help. “Believe me.”
The situation was quite hilarious. I’d never seen any girl try to get out of a date with John. Hero’s excuse about Uncle Leo was true, but I could also see she wasn’t exactly melting under John’s piercing gaze like every other female in the room. John must have sensed it too. He looked positively bewildered.
Before he could pursue the point further, though, Corky, his muscle-bound sidekick, tackled him with an animal roar, sending plastic cups of beer flying in every direction. The two of them wrestled on the floor, forcing the people around them to scatter as best they could. John was obviously trying to extricate himself and continue the conversation with Hero, but all he could manage was a sheepish what can you do? grin in her direction before more thick-necked jocks joined the fray.
Can anyone say obnoxious?
“Yo, G!” I heard Amber calling out to me from across the room. “Get over here.”
I left Hero chatting happily with Claudio and found Amber pillaging the minibar. “What do you want? Crantini? Screwdriver? Cuba Libre?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Something not too nasty.”
“Did you lose the little princess?”
I rolled my eyes. “She’s not a princess.”
“You’re right. She’s probably really cool when she’s not surrounded by her minions.” Amber poured some vodka and cranberry juice into two clear plastic cups.
“No fancy umbrellas?” I complained.
“You’re lucky I was able to find this before the crowd did. I hate beer. Cheers.” We knocked our plastic rims together and drank. She downed half of hers, while I took a cautious sip. Alcohol’s not exactly my friend. The only time I’ve ever been drunk was at my parents’ anniversary party—the one they had the night before Dad freaked out and left. I had too much sangria and was busy throwing up while Dad packed.
“So.” She studied me with her cool, green eyes. “I saw John talking to Hero. What was that all about?”
“I think he was hitting on her.”
She blew her bangs out of her eyes, irritated. “Really?”
“Yeah, but she didn’t seem interested. I think she likes that guy Claudio. You should have seen the look on John’s face when she turned him down. I bet no girl’s ever done that before.”
Amber threw back the rest of her cocktail and poured herself another. “She won’t resist for long.”
Corky cried out to the room at large, “Behold, I shall christen him!” and poured half a bottle of frothing champagne on John’s head while everyone cheered. “You the Man,” they chanted. “You, you the Man!” John just laughed, occasionally turning his face up to swallow some of the foaming liquid.
Amber watched him, her eyes narrowed to slits. “He’s irresistible.”
“Even if she liked him,” I said, “Uncle Leo doesn’t let her date.”
Amber seemed to perk up a little at this. “Really? So she’s never had a boyfriend?”
I shook my head. “And she won’t until she’s thirty, if Leo has his way.”
“Yeah, well, John gets everything he wants.” She watched as John’s buddies hoisted him into the air, passing him from arm to arm like a rock star.
I studied her over the rim of my plastic cup, and her expression was so wistful, another tiny red flag popped up in my brain. “You’re not still into him, are you?”
She scoffed. “Me? Yeah, right. The only thing guys are good for is occasional comic relief. John Jamieson is no exception.”
I noticed, though, that she went on sneaking peeks at John the rest of the night—or until Hero and I left, anyway, which was only about half an hour later, when Uncle Leo called and reminded us that curfew was fast approaching. I didn’t really like leaving Amber there, but she assured us she’d find her own way home.
I wonder what really goes on inside her head. She talks a big talk, but is she truly happy playing the hoochie-mama? Sometimes, the way she looks at John, I can’t help but wonder.
Monday, June 9
2:30 P.M.
I came into work this morning at the usual time (five a.m.— the zombie hour). Amber showed up ten minutes late looking even grumpier and more zombified than me, if that’s possible. She grunted at me, pulled out a compact, and started painting her lips a plum so dark it looked almost black.
“What?” She got all defensive when she caught me looking at her. “I’m in a death-rocker mood. Is that okay with you?”
We both had on our Triple Shot Betty tank tops, the ones our boss, Lane, insists we wear. They’re white spaghetti-strapped numbers with pink rhinestone letters. They totally show bra straps—something Lane obviously never considered—and white is insanely impractical in this filthy little hovel. Then again, we could be those poor girls at Hot Dog on a Stick wearing big striped hats and up-the-butt shorts; Howdy Doody meets Hooters. Yuck.
After the morning rush hour, things slowed down a little, and Amber slumped onto a stool with her sketchbook, frowning in concentration as her fingers gripped the pencil and flew over the page in light, feathery strokes.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
She grinned without showing any teeth—her sneaky smile. “Your tattoo.”
I snorted. “Yeah, right. Mom would have me locked up.”
Her comment made me curious, though—if I did get a tattoo, what would it be? And what did Amber consider a fitting icon to brand into my skin forever? I tried to look over her shoulder, but she pushed me away, laughing.
“Not yet!” She put on a fake Jedi-knight voice and commanded, “Do not disturb the master before she has summoned you.”
A few customers drove up then, and I momentarily forgot about Amber as she sketched away in the corner. When I finally turned my attention back to her, she held up her sketchbook, eyebrows raised high.
“What do you think?”
I leaned in closer and peered at the drawing. It was me on my skateboard. There were little lines shooting out behind my body to show how fast I was going. I looked tough; my braids were flying and my mouth was set in a hard, determined line. In graffiti-style letters that wrapped all the way around the portrait she’d written TRIPLE SHOT BETTYS RULE.
“That’s cool.” I grinned. “I love it.”
She turned it around and examined the page. “When you get the balls and I get the needles, we’ll make it happen.”
Thursday, June 12
1:45 P.M.
I planned to stay at Betty’s later than usual today so I could train Hero. I figured that would be easy, seeing as she’s
got an IQ higher than Paris Hilton’s Visa bill; I think she can handle a little steamed milk.
I was hoping Amber would skip out a few minutes early, as usual, so we could avoid any virgin-whore awkwardness, but wouldn’t you know, she lingered today, performing an elaborate grooming ritual that involved plucking, painting, and plumping for what seemed like an hour.
I was getting nervous as the minute hand inched toward eleven and Amber was still glued to her compact, checking her teeth for lipstick.
(Side note: I’ll be the first to admit Amber’s hot. She’s got miles of flaming red hair, perfect, creamy skin, river-green eyes, and boobs that scream voluptuous without being so huge that they qualify her as Dolly Parton freaky. She’s definitely not skinny, but she wears her curves with such attitude, nobody would dare call her fat.)
At precisely eleven o’clock there was a knock at the door. Obviously it was Hero, because no one around here ever knocks. I called out, “Come in!” while Amber rolled her eyes.
In walked Hero. She had on the Triple Shot Betty tank top, like us, only she’d paired it with a white cashmere cardigan with tiny pearl buttons, a gauzy pink skirt, and brand-new pink suede ballet flats. Her blond, wispy bob was pinned back with shiny baby barrettes, and she was wearing such a serious, earnest expression you’d think she was showing up for her new position as a nuclear physicist, not a coffee-slinging minimum-wage slave.
“Hey, Hero, whattup?” I squeezed her hand in what I hoped was an encouraging you’re-still-my-cuz-even-if-Amber-doesn’t-like-you gesture. “Ready to learn the ropes?”
She just nodded and nibbled on her bottom lip.
Amber pocketed her lip gloss. “Hi, Hero. Aren’t you kind of warm?”
“No.” Hero’s voice was clipped and stiff. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know, it’s like a hundred degrees out there and you’re wearing a sweater. Just thought you might be uncomfortable. Call me crazy.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Good for you. Guess you’re an ice queen as well as a princess.”