by Jody Gehrman
One of our stalkers drove up in his retina-searing yellow monster truck and revved the engine a couple times. I had to crane my neck to see past the wheel wells. We call him Mr. Little. Amber says anyone willing to spend that kind of money on tires is overcompensating for something. He favors muscle shirts, too-tight denim cutoffs, and aviator sunglasses. I feel a little sorry for him. He suffers from an all-too-common form of thirtysomething dementia. He obviously believes it’s still 1985. And that he’s cool.
Anyway, seeing as the temperature in our tiny workspace had just dropped about thirty degrees, I seized the opportunity to serve Mr. Little. He always gets the same thing: a large caramel shake and a glazed donut. He always tips exactly the same too: thirty-five cents. From the smug look he always shoots me, it’s clear he expects me to swoon over his loose change, then beg for a spin around town in his monster truck. As usual, I offered him a tight-lipped grin and a reluctant “Have a nice day.”
Once he was gone, I turned my attention back to the girl-fight-in-progress. These two were like toddlers; you couldn’t look away for a second or they’d go for the jugular.
“What’s wrong with my outfit, anyway?” Hero’s sharp chin jutted out defiantly.
“It’s perfect.” Amber couldn’t resist adding, “For a Moral Majority meeting.” She can be so mean! “Look, this job’s like working in a coal mine. You get covered in coffee grounds, especially when you’re training.”
“I’m careful,” Hero said in her conversation-over tone.
“Of course you are. Plus, Daddy will get you another cashmere cardigan when you ruin that one.”
I held my breath. The one thing Hero hates more than anything is being dissed because her family has money.
“You might be white trash and proud of it, but that doesn’t mean you can make assumptions.” Hero’s hands were twitching at her sides, and I was terrified she’d try some of the karate she’s been learning on and off since she was seven.
“Maybe we should just—” I began, but Amber interrupted.
“Listen, princess, your shit might not stink back at boarding school, but you don’t insult me here. I work in this dump because I have to, not because my mommy thinks it will—”
“My mom’s dead.”
Okay, that stopped her cold. An uncomfortable pause ensued.
“So, you ready to start?” I asked Hero, trying to sound cheerful.
“Is that your trump card? You pull that one out when all else fails?” Amber leaned back against the counter, her eyes a challenge.
Hero looked from her to me. “Can you believe this? She won’t stop!”
“I just wouldn’t do that,” Amber said.
“Do what?”
“Use my mom’s death to defend myself.”
“I don’t Use her death! I just corrected you—”
“You guys, this is stupid.” I edged closer, even though what I really wanted to do was burst out the door and skate as far from these two as I could. “Just stop, okay? Seriously. You’re giving me a headache.”
“You’re defending her? Did you hear what she just said?” This from Hero.
“I refuse to take sides. You’re both being childish.”
Hero looked a little contrite, but Amber grabbed her purse and launched herself out the door with a highly irritated “Whatever.” As the door slammed we heard a car horn honking, and Amber let out a string of curses that would make Dr. Dre blush.
“What’s Up with you two?” I said to Hero. “I thought you’d like each other.”
Hero sniffed. “You thought wrong.” I could tell she wanted to cry, because her neck was all blotchy and her voice was tight, but she had too much pride to break down, even in front of me.
“Hey . . .” I went to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. She has wicked PMS. She’ll get over it.”
Hero nodded, and swallowed hard. I think a tear slipped out, but she wiped it away so quickly with the back of her hand, it was hard to be sure.
Saturday, June 14
3:15 P.M.
I was working with Amber this morning when Hero cruised up to the window behind the wheel of her dad’s antique Jag. It’s a convertible XK140. Uncle Leo loves that car so much, I’ve actually heard him serenading it. He was riding shotgun, looking a little anxious.
“I can’t believe he’s letting you drive his baby,” I teased as I opened the window.
“It’s taking years off my life,” Leo said. “Believe me.”
“One small coffee and one small iced soy chai—actually, make them both larges,” Hero said. “We’ll need energy. We’re going to interview event planners. My birthday party’s only fifty days away!”
Hero’s actual birthday was back in May, but since she was in Connecticut then, she and Uncle Leo decided to have her long-awaited sweet sixteen party this summer instead. It’s kind of a big deal for her. I got their drinks and tried to ignore Amber’s strenuous eye-rolling.
“Have fun,” I said.
She beeped the old horn twice in answer and lurched away while Leo yelped, spilling coffee on his white linen shirt. She hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the stick shift yet.
Amber’s arms were crossed in front of her chest when I turned away from the window. “Ooh, goody. Planning a party in Daddy’s Jag. Quelle amusing,” she quipped.
Just then I heard a tremendous roar behind me, but before I could even turn around, Amber rushed past me and leaned out the window, blocking most of my view. “What are you doing here?”
Curious, I tried to peek around Amber without being totally obvious about it. I saw a big chili-red Harley with a twentysomething guy driving and a rail-thin woman perched behind him. They were both dressed in leather pants and jackets, with tiny black skullcaps strapped to their heads. The guy was a total Brad Pitt look-alike; the woman looked older, with slightly leathery skin, volumes of bleach-blond hair streaming out from under her cap, and major boobage displayed beneath her skin-tight, black leather vest.
The woman said to Amber, “I need that twenty back.”
“Are you kidding? I already spent it on groceries.”
The blonde teased her hair with her fingers while the guy revved his motor a couple times. “What do you got on you? We need gas money. We’re going to visit Grandma.”
Amber sighed and dug into her pockets, then handed her a limp bill. The woman studied her over the rims of her wraparound sunglasses. “This all you got?”
Amber nodded.
“Okay, sweetie. Thanks. See you later.”
“Are you coming home tonight?” Amber asked.
The blonde hesitated. Brad Pitt glanced over his shoulder at her impatiently. “Maybe. Depends how your grandma’s doing. I’ll call you.” Then the two of them roared off, leaving only the stink of exhaust behind.
Amber didn’t move. She stood there, bent over the counter, watching them.
“You okay?” I asked.
She spun around. “Yeah. Why?”
“Just wondered.” Neither of us said anything for a little while. “Was that your mom?”
“Yeah.”
The funny thing with Amber is she’ll talk about her family and all their problems like it’s a soap opera she tunes in to every day; she’s totally open about it. That’s part of why I feel like I know her so well. But when it really comes down to it, I’ve never been anywhere near her house, never met her parents. Actually, I can count on one hand the number of times she’s even been to my house. It’s like our friendship exists only at school and at work—like we’re having a secret liaison or something.
“You upset?” I asked.
“Of course not.” She started sweeping—something she never does. “I’m fine.”
“You want an iced vanilla latte with whipped cream?” She shot me a sideways glance. “Sure. Thanks, G.” “No problem.”
Tuesday, June 17
Oneish (I think) P.M.
After work, I skated to the health food store for
a sandwich, then here to Geevana (Geena+Nirvana = Geevana). I love hanging out here; it’s so peaceful, and the view makes me feel like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music—it’s all rolling hills and grazing cows and miles and miles of vineyards. I discovered Geevana when I was eleven. Back then I was into anthropomorphizing everything, so most of the trees and flowers here have names. The three oaks sitting in a half circle in the grassy meadow are Gloria, Maxwell, and Albert. There’s a wild iris that blooms every spring right in the center of the oaks I call—somewhat predictably, yes—Iris. There’s also a large, lichen-covered rock sitting all by himself at the edge of the meadow; his name is Hudson. I realize at sixteen this all seems pretty childish, but I can’t help thinking of them as distinct entities, even if I have outgrown such games. I don’t talk to them out loud or anything, but it is nice to sit on Albert’s low, mossy, muscular branch and feel like I’m among friends.
I don’t dare describe Geevana’s exact location here for fear that my information-obsessed mother (she always thinks I’m on drugs—should I be offended, or flattered?) will read this and show up here unannounced, dressed as a federal agent. With my luck, it’ll be the one day I do decide to toke up or drop acid.
I worked with Hero all morning. Not to be mean, but I assumed she’d have a much steeper learning curve—it’s taken her like four days to steam milk properly. I figured a girl who already speaks fluent French and Italian, knows the names of every bone in the human body, and can play Chopin like— er, well, like Chopin, I guess—could whip up a macchiato in her sleep by now. Not the case. Apparently, being book-smart doesn’t automatically make you barista-smart. I don’t know, maybe it’s because she’s so distracted by Claudio these days. He started his internship at Monte Luna last week; if it’s possible to stalk someone on your own property, she’s definitely guilty.
By mid-morning I’d downed two hefty cappuccinos and believe me, I was feeling the buzz. Also, I was feeling some semi-seismic activity brewing below the belt. Amber and I have like twenty different euphemisms for this by now, some of them so gross I’m not sure they qualify as euphemistic at all, but the one we use in polite company is: “Somebody’s knocking on my cellar door.” This is occasionally upgraded to “Somebody’s pounding on my cellar door.”
Now, BMs in public places are awkward at best, but to make things worse, Triple Shot Betty’s is too small for even the most claustrophobic of restrooms. Add to this our habitual caffeine-pounding, which tends to get things moving, and you’ve got yourself a human rights violation.
The good news: Pedal Pusher, the bike shop next door, lets us use their bathroom.
The bad news: Ben Bettaglia’s dad owns Pedal Pusher, and Ben works there like constantly, and the bathroom there is unisex, meaning the chances of Ben smelling the less desirable aspects of my personality are—well— catastrophically high.
You see the quandary.
Today was really the first day Hero and I’d gotten in a groove since she’s been back. I don’t know if it’s Amber or what, but something’s been slightly off between us lately. I guess in Connecticut all her friends have million-dollar wardrobes and horses and vacations in the south of France, so hanging out with me again in Slow-noma is no doubt mind-numbingly boring. But today we finally got back in sync, and it was pretty much like old times. She was there steaming milk for the uptight housewife in the Hummer who always wants her double latte half-soy, half-milk, and half-caf (where do these people come from?!?). As soon as she drove off we burst into a fit of giggles because the chick had lipstick all over her teeth, and every time she’d flash us a smile we’d almost lose it.
That’s when I felt it. The little knock-knock-knocking on my cellar door.
I’ve been known to skate two blocks to KFC for their bathroom, which is hardly ideal, but at least it’s a little more anonymous than the Pedal Pusher. Today, though, the urge was going from a tiny tapping to a booming voice going, “Let me OUT!!!!” within a span of fifteen seconds. I would never make it to KFC. It was Pedal Pusher or the pants. So I bolted across the parking lot and raced into the bike shop, running smack into—yep—Ben Bettaglia. He was dressed in baggy Levi’s and a pale green T-shirt that brought out the golden undertones of his olive skin. His dark eyes were shining at me, amused.
“What’s up, Geena? You in a hurry or something?”
I squeezed my butt cheeks together and forced a casual pose. “No. Why do you ask?”
“You practically ran over me, is all.”
“I . . . um . . .” I couldn’t very well say I needed the toilet, or the situation would be painfully obvious. “I need some . . . ”
—I looked wildly around the store—“lubricant.” As soon as the word was out of my mouth I regretted it.
Ben’s smile spread across his face so slowly, it was like watching a big blob of butter melting on toast. “Lubricant?” he echoed.
“Yeah. For my . . . uh . . . gears.”
“Do you cycle? I thought you only skated.”
I shrugged. “I ride a bike now and then.” A cramp in my lower abdomen was almost blinding me with pain, but I made myself breathe as Ben led me to a shelf of brightly colored bottles.
“Here they are,” he said. We studied them together. “I like this one, but lots of guys use—”
“Ben? Can you ring this up?” Oh, thank God. Ben’s dad was calling him from somewhere near the register.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’ll be back in a sec.” His eyes are like melted chocolate, with these long black lashes that would be almost girly if he weren’t so completely, 100 percent Guy. He let his gaze linger on my mouth for a quick beat before he turned around and jogged toward the register.
Finally! My moment of escape. I slunk as quickly as I could toward the bathroom, trying to avoid sudden, jarring movements that might accidentally jolt something loose. The minute I got the door locked behind me I dropped my shorts, sat on the pot, and let go.
Oh, yes. Praise the gods of indoor plumbing, I’m free at last.
After my initial rush of gratitude subsided, though, I started having little pangs of remorse. Did I make any noise? Had an incredibly loud plop-plop echoed throughout the store? Were Ben and Company out there now, trying not to laugh at the indelicate sounds reverberating off the walls?
Then a new, half-titillating, half-disturbing thought seized me: My butt was sitting where Ben’s butt sat. Our bare skin touched the same surface. Not just our skin, but our butt-skin. My God, it was so intimate.
And then I realized: This is where Mr. Bettaglia’s butt sat too.
Aack! I sprang from the seat and wiped quickly, pulled my shorts up, flushed, and washed my hands. I studied my reflection, scanning for fresh zits or sticking-out hair. I pulled my braids forward and tried a smile.
Suddenly there was a knock. On the door. Oh my God.
What if it was Ben? If I opened the door, he would be hit with a wave of nauseating foulness. What if it was Mr. Bettaglia—would he see right away from my expression that I’d been thinking about his butt-skin?
“Just a minute,” I squeaked. Another glance at the mirror confirmed that I’d gone beet red. I waited for the sound of footsteps retreating, but there was only an expectant silence. I sniffed the air. To me, the smell wasn’t totally putrid, but I guess everyone thinks that about their own foulness.
I resolved to open the door, scoot on out, and shut it before my most intimate odors could escape.
I opened it a crack, slipped out, and slammed it so loudly that every customer in the store swiveled around to get a good stare. Ben was standing there, smirking like he could see everything: my desperate need to evacuate my bowels, my foolish ploy to cover up by pretending to shop for lubricant (lubricant?), my shameless butt-skin musings that connected me not only to him but to his father in a bizarre, semi-incestuous psychic love triangle.
“Hi Ben,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Okay. Mind if I use the bathroom now?”
I le
aned against the door, barring his entrance. “I wouldn’t.”
This time he smiled outright. He was enjoying this. I wanted to strangle him.
“No?” he said. “Why’s that?”
“Because studies show that allowing at least five minutes to pass before you enter a small, enclosed space that someone else has recently . . . entered . . . or exited . . . can be an effective deterrent in the spread of germs. And bacteria. And stuff.”
He let this sink in. I folded my arms in front of my chest. “In other words, just wait,” I said.
“You’re really a nutter, aren’t you?” He said it like he’d always suspected as much, and was mildly gratified now that his hunch had been confirmed.
“What, you don’t believe me?”
“I’ll take my chances, okay? I’ve seriously got to go.” He reached for the doorknob.
“Five minutes!” I pleaded. “That’s all.”
But it was too late. He was already wrenching the door open, and a fog of noxious gas swept over us. “Oh,” he said, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Wow.”
I was blushing so furiously, I thought for sure my cheeks would burst into flame. “I tried to warn you,” I said, and with that I scurried toward the exit.
Just as I was escaping, I heard him calling out in a voice that choked back laughter. “Hey, Sloane! Aren’t you forgetting your lubricant?”
Hardee-har-har. Just you wait, Ben Bettaglia. Two can play at that game.
Saturday, June 21
10:00 P.M.
Hero’s gone insane.
She’s been home two weeks, and already she’s in love.
Please. When it comes to boys, I’m starting to think Amber’s got the right idea: Use ’em and lose ’em. (Not that I’ve ever used anyone—or been used, unfortunately. Hell, I’m probably the only sophomore-nearly-junior on the planet who hasn’t been to third base. Even second is questionable in my spotty, mortifyingly innocent sexual career. Todd Crossman put his hand on my boob once, but it was more like he was helpfully removing a piece of lint than feeling me up, and I think PJ dared him, so I’m not sure that counts.) Anyway, I’d much rather have Amber’s winner-take-all attitude than Hero’s starry-eyed listlessness. There are people in comas more responsive to external stimuli than Hero is right now.