by Jody Gehrman
I think boys may be hygiene-challenged and dismal at biology (unless you count the hours they spend investigating Internet porn) but none of these less-than-desirable qualities inspire hostility on my part. Just pity.
Geena
Perhaps not precisely the tone of titillating receptivity I’m after. Delete.
1:55 A.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Lonely?
Ben,
Do you ever fiNd yourself unable to sleep in the middle of the Night? If you answered yes, when you find yourself unable to sleep, do you start to wonder if maybe you’re the only person left on the entire planet? Like you imagine that some horribly lethal chemical has infiltrated everyone’s air conditioners and miraculously you’re the only human who’s immune to it? Because it’s just so quiet out and so . . . lonely? And then do you start to think, what if there’s one other person who shares my chemical makeup or is some kind of genetic mutant and they’re out there right Now too, and what if that person is Ben (in your case, Geena)— Whoa, whoa, whoa! What am I, Seductress from the Twilight Zone? Delete.
Why am I even writing him? This is ridiculous. Ben and I have coexisted since diaperhood, and we’ve never exchanged a single e-mail. Why should I start now? I’m turning off my computer and going to sleep, before I freak myself out any further.
3:20 A.M.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: After Hours Lexis
Hey Ben,
I can’t sleep, so I’m studying SAT vocabulary words.
Here’s my evening, in a nutshell:
Abed: adv. IN bed; on a bed.
Bowdlerize: v. To expurgate in editing (a literary
composition) by omitting words or passages.
Captious: adj. Hypercritical.
Pusillanimous: adj. Without spirit or bravery.
Recessive: adj. Having a tendency to go back.
Vicissitude: N. A change, especially a complete change, of
condition or circumstances.
Bettaglified: adj. The inability to express oneself in any
way that is Not snarky, even when one wants to be Nice.
This message has been brought to you by your local
valedictorian-to-be.
Geena
7:10 A.M.
Still no response from Ben. Don’t panic. Maybe he’s one of those Luddites who only checks his e-mail once a day.
I can’t believe I sent him such a random note. Bettaglified? What the hell was I thinking?
My new policy, from now until my death: Never, ever, send e-mails after three a.m.
6:05 P.M.
Today I tried to pretend everything was normal, despite my nerves about the absurd, nonsensical e-mail that will no doubt ruin my life. Hero and I worked the early shift, were stalked by the usual stalkers, and made a little under three dollars each in tips. Business as usual. Good thing we get free caffeine or we’d have to call Amnesty International.
Amber showed up just as we were getting off, yelping with glee behind the wheel of her mom’s car. It’s an old beat-up El Dorado with so many dents it looks like some nutcase went at it with a sledgehammer (I think one of her ex-boyfriends did, actually), but it’s a convertible, so we were psyched. Amber looked divine driving it—like a fiery red-headed goddess at the helm of her sparkly gold chariot. Plus, with all those dents, her mom’s never going to notice that she sideswiped a Dumpster on the way into the parking lot.
When she first showed up, Hero acted all unimpressed and aloof. I was caught in the middle, as usual. I wanted to go for a spin with Amber—her excitement was contagious. But I felt terrible, leaving Hero there, stranded in the parking lot waiting for her dad to come get her.
Luckily, Amber extended an invitation just in time. “Come on,” she yelled. “Hop in, for Christ’s sake.” She looked pointedly at Hero. “Both of you.”
I opened the passenger side, tossing my board in the back. Hero hesitated. “My dad’s supposed to pick me up any minute,” she said, anxiously looking at her watch.
“So call him!”
Turns out he was stuck in traffic outside Santa Rosa anyway, so he had to say yes (thank you, gods of 101). Hero climbed in back, looking kind of dazed at this turn of events, tucking her cell back into her miniature pink purse.
We had wheels and freedom and plenty of caffeine coursing through our veins, but we needed a mission. It was incredibly hot out, so I suggested a movie—not that there was anything good playing, but the AC sounded delish. Amber rejected that suggestion immediately. Too boring. That’s when she got The Look. When Amber gets The Look, there’s no telling what will happen next.
“I know who has a poo-ool,” she sang.
Hero leaned forward against the front seat and looked from her to me and back again. “Who has a pool?”
“Amber,” I said, my voice a low warning, “I hope you’re not suggesting we just show up there uninvited.”
Hero furrowed her brow. “Show up where?”
“Hello! I happen to know their folks left for Maui this morning.” Amber sucked at her iced vanilla latte with a demonic little grin.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“The Jamiesons?” Hero was catching on at last. “Are you talking about the Jamiesons?”
“Sarah Jennings told Lilly, who told Sam, who told Stacy, who told me. Duh.”
“Look,” I said, “even if their parents are gone, we can’t just show up there. It’s rude.”
Amber scoffed. “Oh rude, shmude. Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud. Hero, you up for it? I bet Claudio’s there . . .”
Just then Ben Bettaglia walked out of his dad’s shop and started toward his bike. He was wearing cargo shorts, a lemon yellow T-shirt, and a backwards baseball cap. There were so many hot-boy pheromones coming off of him, I swear I could smell him from halfway across the parking lot.
Amber didn’t even hesitate. She honked the horn, and when he looked up, she waved him over.
“Oh no,” I moaned. “What are you doing?”
“Leave it to me,” she said coolly. “I eat guys like Ben for breakfast.”
Hero got the giggles. There I was, the alleged guy-basher hanging out with Goldilocks and Queen Beezie. I was doomed.
“Hey,” Ben said, thrusting his chin out in that upside-down nod thing guys always do. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing much. Hot as hell today, huh?” Amber’s tone was casual and friendly. I couldn’t understand how she managed. I was suddenly so nervous, I was sure I’d puke up the cereal, toast, biscotti, and two iced mochas I’d had that morning.
“Yeah, it’s hot all right.” He kept his eyes on Amber’s face, but every now and then he’d sneak a look at me. Whenever he did, I felt myself go all gelatinous inside. All I could think was Bettaglified.
(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
“What are you guys up to?” Ben asked.
Amber’s eyes sparkled and I knew she was going in for the kill. “We’re heading over to the Jamiesons’, maybe go swimming. Hop in. We’ll give you a ride.”
This adorable little half smile crept over his face. He glanced back at his bike for a second, shrugged, and climbed into the backseat.
It was no longer a perfectly normal day.
On the way to John and PJ’s house, Amber almost tore the door off an old lady’s Chrysler, sent four yuppie tourists scampering for the sidewalk, and cruised through a red light, but somehow we survived the ten-minute drive. When we got there, PJ’s blue truck was parked outside. As we climbed out of the car, Hero squeezed my hand so hard I thought my fingers might pop off. Somehow having Ben with us made showing up there seem a little less ridiculous; it gave Hero and me the courage to follow Amber right up the front steps so we could cower behind her as she rang the bell.
When the heavy oak door swung open, PJ was there with an Oakland Raider
s towel wrapped around his waist. His dark shaggy hair was spiky-wet, and he was dripping all over the tile floor, oblivious to the puddle forming around his ankles.
“Hey man,” he said, looking past Amber to Ben. “Never thought you’d deliver a carload full of babes.”
“In case you didn’t notice,” Amber said, “the babes are delivering him.”
I swear to God, Amber always says the thing I can’t think of until hours later, when I’m moping around in my room, regretting the stupid things I actually said.
“What’s up?” Ben tried to act natural, like he got abducted by three Bettys in a convertible every other day, at least.
“Come in, you guys. This is great. The parents slip out one door, and the party comes in the other.”
“That’s us,” Amber said. “Instant party.”
The Jamiesons’ house was sprawling and posh—a Mediterranean-style villa, with bougainvillea climbing up the peach stucco walls. Inside, it was all bright Mexican tiles and thick rugs, cozy twill couches and chairs in festive colors. The big bay windows looked out on a huge, kidney-shaped pool, a hot tub, and the valley below. I could see Amber looking around, impressed by the size and grandeur. Hero barely even noticed; to her, this was nothing.
On the drive there, all I could think was Bettaglified— why? WHY? But once we were out by the pool, I started to relax a little. The sun was beating down on the bright turquoise water and Claudio was leaning on his elbows at the pool’s edge, half in and half out, smiling broadly. His hair, which usually hung down in his eyes, was wet and slicked back. He was cute. Hero deserved a little summer romance. Suddenly I couldn’t remember why I’d been so opposed to the idea of double-dating, if that’s what they really wanted.
There was an awkward pause as we all stood there, unsure of what to do next. It hit me all at once that we didn’t have bathing suits. The water looked absolutely divine, and I wanted more than anything to plunge in, but there was no way in hell I was going to run around there butt-ass naked.
I did the old head-jerking, time-for-a-conference thing to Amber and Hero, corralling them as far from the guys as possible, until we were huddled together on a few lawn chairs in the far corner of the yard.
“How are we going to swim without suits?” I said.
Hero looked suddenly stricken. “Oh my God. I never even thought of that.”
You see what I mean? The girl can conjugate Latin verbs in her sleep, but lately her grasp of the obvious is slipping.
Amber got all condescending. “Please. Don’t tell me you’ve never been skinny-dipping.”
“We have,” I said defensively. “But not in broad daylight, with guys.”
“So, we’ll leave our underwear on,” Amber said, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “It’s exactly the same as a bathing suit, if you think about it.”
Hero’s eyes were wide. “Maybe we should just drive to our houses and get our suits.”
“If you’re going to be babies about it, forget it—you can walk home.”
I locked eyes with Hero. We did our cousins-trying-to-mind-meld-and-discover-some-way-to-avoid-showing-acres-of-flesh look, but it wasn’t working.
I sighed. “Okay. You win,” I told Amber. Then I peeked under my waistband and tank top to remind myself which underwear I had on. Turquoise hip-huggers below, regular old white cotton bra on top. It wasn’t going to win me lasting fame in the history of lingerie fashion, but neither was it likely to shame me eternally in the eyes of Ben, Claudio, and PJ.
“Oh no,” Hero said. “I’m wearing all white. They’ll see right through it. I might as well be naked.”
Amber smirked. “Wait till you see what I’m wearing.”
We didn’t have to wait long. She stood up, dropped her shorts, peeled off her tank top, and ran at top speed for the pool. From where we sat, we had a perfect view of her naked butt cheeks gleaming white in the sun. Amber was wearing a black lace thong.
She dove into the pool recklessly, abandoning grace for speed.
The boys all turned and stared. Ben looked flustered. PJ looked impressed. Claudio looked nonchalant. I guess chicks in Italy must run around in thongs all the time.
“Great,” Hero grumbled. “They’re looking. We’re doomed.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” I said. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
Hero looked uncertain. “We could walk to your house from here,” she said. “It’d only take a couple hours.”
“Think of it as Life Experience,” I mumbled. “Isn’t your dad always saying we need more of that?”
“I don’t think prancing around PJ Jamieson’s pool in our underwear is exactly what he had in mind.”
She did have a point, but I could already feel my nerve slipping away, so I grabbed her hand and said, “Right now. I’ll do it if you will.”
Instead of answering, she stood up and pulled her T-shirt over her head.
Those three seconds spent dashing madly for the pool were the longest three seconds of my life. Just before we sprang over the edge and into the water, I made the mistake of locking eyes with Ben. Something about the curve of his lips made goose bumps rise all over my body. I must have looked like a huge plucked chicken flying through the air.
I guess we kind of broke the ice when we took our clothes off; after that, things seemed less awkward. Ben borrowed some shorts from PJ, and the guys competed for the Most Explosive Cannonball title. PJ brought us beers and some towels when we got out, and we all lounged on the patio furniture, sipping cold Coronas and feeling kind of adult about it. Amber stayed in her underwear, looking like a slightly oversized but no less cocky Victoria’s Secret model; Hero and I both draped our towels over us, mummy-style, claiming we were cold.
Everything was more or less dreamy. The fragrance of hot cement and chlorine was so summery. I thought the beer tasted sort of vile, but the bubbles filled my head with a pleasant effervescence, carbonating my brain. Ben was sitting in a chair near my feet and I was stretched out on a cushioned chaise, soaking up the sun. I had to squint to see him, but each time I did, it was worth it. He was eating chips, and once he dropped one on my leg. When he reached to pick it up, his fingers brushed my shin, and the goose bumps spread all over again, making me glad that most of my body was buried under PJ’s Free Willy towel.
“What’s up, kiddies?” The second that John sauntered through the French doors, the relaxed atmosphere went all tense and wonky again.
“Hey, John.” Amber peeked over her sunglasses at him, then made her way in his direction. She had enough modesty to drape her towel around herself sarong-style as she stood up, though her black push-up bra was on full display.
“Looking good, Ginger.” John gave her a slow once-over, then looked past her to Hero and me. “Hi, Blondie. Skater Girl.”
We just waved and pulled our towels around us more tightly.
John and Amber were too far away for me to hear their conversation clearly, but every few minutes she’d fling her damp hair over her shoulder and laugh like he was the funniest guy alive. He stood close to her and spoke in low, intimate tones, but I noticed that he kept sneaking glances at Hero over Amber’s shoulder.
After drinking half a bottle of beer, I needed to pee, so I tucked the towel around me and went inside to look for a bathroom. As I wandered down the hall, I passed what must have been PJ’s room. I couldn’t resist the urge to check out a boy’s natural habitat. The floor was covered with clothes. The bed was a tangle of sheets and blankets. There was a massive stereo system, a huge collection of CDs and records, and some bookshelves with a ragged assortment of paper-backs leaning haphazardly against one another. The walls were plastered with posters of rap stars. Above the bed was a blown-up, slightly blurry photo of PJ shaking hands with Ice-T.
The bathroom was right there, but I couldn’t help being intrigued by the door left a few inches ajar at the very end of the hallway. I tiptoed across the tile floor and listened for a long moment before pushing the
door open gently, poised to dart for the bathroom if anyone was in there. It was all shadows, the blinds closed against the dazzling afternoon sunlight. The walls were filled with pen-and-ink drawings of faces, and even though the light was dim, I could see they had an almost photographic precision. There were also quite a few framed pictures of John—headshots, I guess, and some stills from his commercials. There was a long series of dance photos side by side, and in each one he had his arm wrapped protectively around a different pretty, slender girl with shiny hair. They were all from Sonoma Valley High, though I didn’t know any of them very well. There were a couple of costumes laid out at the foot of the bed—a velvet cape, leather pants, a couple of wigs. No doubt it was all stuff for Sonoma Shakespeare’s summer show; I’d heard he had a leading role, as usual.
Over in the corner was a stainless steel desk with a sleek new laptop open on it. The screensaver seemed to be a slideshow of John’s photos. I couldn’t stop myself; the images were yanking firmly at my inner Nancy Drew. Above the desk, his bedroom window was cracked open and I could just make out the low rumble of John’s voice, interrupted once in a while by Amber’s coquettish peals of laughter. I inched closer.
The first few photos weren’t that interesting—just John and his muscle-bound buddies doing guy things: fishing, snowboarding, toasting the camera with Heinekens at the beach. Each picture had a different caption, like “Corky, Brad, Ansley, and me kicking it at the coast.” I was about to leave, disappointed at my bland discoveries, when a picture of Amber popped up. She was wearing a soft pink sweater, looking straight at the camera with an expression of such pure adoration and straight-up love, it took my breath away.
Then I saw the caption: “Blowjob Beezie just before she drops to her knees.”