by Trish Cook
She eyed me up and down. “You’re looking well, Tracey.”
“Thank you.” I knew what she meant. Skinny.
Mrs. M. yelled up the stairs, “You really should start running with Tracey. It’s done wonders for her.”
That last comment stung a little. I wasn’t spectacularly fat before I decided to start training for the Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon or anything. Just a little squishy around the edges.
“Maybe I’ll just start throwing up after meals instead,” Brina yelled back. “I hear it works quicker!”
“That’s not funny,” Mrs. M. said, but I could tell she thought it might actually be a viable weight loss plan. “Go on up to Brina’s room, Trace. You know it takes her forever to get ready.”
I walked upstairs. “Knock, knock.”
“C’mon in!” Brina was still yelling over the blow-dryer’s incessant whooshing. She put the finishing touches on her hair and twirled around so I could see her outfit: an Empire-waist peasant top with flared sleeves, skintight Blue Cult jeans, and pointy-toe stiletto sling-backs. Every time I tried to look somewhere else, my eyes were magnetically drawn back to her chest. “So what do you think?” Brina asked me.
“That your tits grew,” I said, the words flying out of my mouth before I could stop them. She actually looked stunning. Was I crazy to be introducing her to Zander or what?
“Not everyone can be a double A like you,” she said, looking hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to take back my snotty comment. “You honestly look amazing. I must just be a little nervous about seeing the Vipers, is all.”
“The Who-pers?” she asked.
“Zander’s band.”
Brina put her arm around me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right there next to you the whole time.”
See, that’s what I was worried about.
We bought our tickets and walked into the sweaty gym just as the band was taking the stage. Zander counted off a beat—one, two, three, four!—and the Vipers launched into their first song.
The chorus sounded like it went, “She can run, but she can’t sing to save her life.” But who knew? My most recent lyrical disaster had me questioning my hearing. It might just as well have been, “It’s all fun, but you can’t fling your wife.”
Brina grabbed my hand and started dragging me through the crowd toward the stage. “Let go,” I yelled into her ear. “I like it back here.”
“C’mon, have some balls. Let’s get up close and personal with your new boyfriend’s band,” she said. “I want to pick the lucky guy who’s gonna be mine tonight.” Brina was practically drooling at the thought of being a Vipers groupie. Maybe she was really Bebe’s daughter, and I was a misplaced Maldonati.
When Zander spotted me, his smile was so huge I couldn’t help turning around to see if he was looking at someone else. Nope, it was me, all right. After the last notes of “Can’t Sing to Save Her Life,” or “You Can’t Fling Your Wife,” or whatever it was called, he grabbed the microphone out of its stand and said, “That one was for you, Trace!” That confirmed it. He actually liked me.
I felt woozy. After the whole T. J. debacle, I’d decided to voluntarily withdraw my name from the dating pool this year. I was thinking I had more important things to do, like training for a marathon, uncovering Daddy-o’s identity, getting into a good school, and now solving Brina’s slp mystery. Oh, well. I’d just have to add jumping Zander’s bones to the list.
Halfway through the next song—I didn’t even try to decipher this one’s words—Zander held out his hand to pull me onstage. There are very few things I hate in this world, but being the center of attention is number one on my list. (Men Without Hats and Flock of Seagulls are a close second and third—a problem only if you live with Bebe, like I do.)
When I didn’t take Zander up on his offer, Brina did. Smack-dab in the middle of the stage, she gyrated around suggestively enough to make a stripper proud. All she needed was a pole to complete the picture—no, never mind, the bass player had turned into the pole. A roar went up in the crowd, and people started yelling, “Take it off!”
Wanting to get back in the spotlight like any respectable lead singer should, Zander pogoed his way over to them during an instrumental, and Brina became the cream inside a Zander-and-bassist Oreo. She looked like she’d died and gone to heaven. Here we go again, I thought.
I rolled my eyes and headed out of the place, pushing people out of my way as I went. Welcome back, Quasimodo. The hunch on my back would probably be so big by the time I got to the exit, I wouldn’t be able to fit through the door.
The phone rang later—much later. I know because I had to stick my nose right up against the alarm clock so my nearly blind-without-contacts eyes could make out the time: two a.m. I checked caller ID to be sure it wasn’t an emergency. Just as I suspected, it was Brina.
I let the answering machine take it. Our message clicked on. “Hi! Trace and Belinda here . . . except we’re not. Leave us a message!”
“Trace, pick up. C’mon. It was all in fun.”
I grabbed the receiver. “It wasn’t fun. It was humiliating.”
Brina sighed. “Trace, you’re making a much bigger deal out of this than it really is.”
I breathed into the phone extra loud just to be annoying. Then Brina said in a singsongy voice, “Zander was looking for you all over the place.”
“If Zander wanted to find me, he could’ve called or come over. Didn’t happen. End of story.”
“Ahhh, but it’s not the end of the story,” Brina said. “Far from it. All the good parts happened after you left.”
I could almost hear her smiling on the other end of the line, and I felt the corners of my mouth heading upward, too. Brina knew I’d want to hear the dirt as long as it didn’t involve her and Zander getting naked. And I was fairly confident that hadn’t happened, though I still couldn’t be one hundred percent sure.
“So spill it, sister.”
“OK. First, Zander grilled me about where you went. So I made up some lame-o excuse about bad cramps—”
“You didn’t!” I screamed, hoping Bebe wasn’t home yet. If she was, she’d probably think I was getting murdered and call 911.
“Believe me, Trace, Zander thinking you have your period is a lot better than knowing you went all bunny boiler because we were dancing together.”
“The fact that I don’t like you dry-humping my crush in front of two hundred people does not make me a bunny boiler.”
“Oh, please,” she said, writing off my overreaction. “Anyway, after their set was done, Zander slinks home because you’re not there. So I start talking to the bassist, Robb. He’s totally my type.”
“Lots of muscles, studly, not too bright?”
“Yeah. No. Yeah,” she laughed, no doubt realizing it wasn’t far from the truth. “So we start flirting and stuff—”
“I’m tired, Brina,” I interrupted. “Does this story get any more exciting?”
“Would you listen? By now, Robb and I are all alone backstage—”
I interrupted her again. “Let’s just skip to the juicy parts. What did you and Robb do once you were all alone?”
“Let’s just say I was a very, very bad girl.”
Going to bed late and then talking on the phone in the middle of the night was definitely not the motivation I needed to get up at six a.m. and run the fifteen miles my schedule said I should. So when my alarm rang, I hit the SNOOZE button and snuggled back under the covers.
Unfortunately, my conscience wouldn’t let me fall back asleep. First it said, “You made a commitment.” Then it moved on to, “You are a lazy sack of . . . oh, yeah, I’m not supposed to swear anymore.” And for a finale, it told me, “Remember what was really in the sack? Not the potatoes, but the other stuff? That’s what you’re gonna feel like if you don’t get up NOW!”
Admitting defeat, I pulled on my running gear, chugged a couple of glasses of Gatorade, and hit the pavement. I took my usual
route down Sheridan Road, where I can people-watch as I run past the beaches dot-ting the shore of Lake Michigan.
A couple of miles in, all that liquid hit my bladder. I felt like I might wet my pants if I didn’t do something about it soon. And thirteen more miles was not going to be soon enough. I searched high and low for a proper bathroom—one with a door and a toilet that flushed—but it turned out all the public restrooms had been closed for the season as of Labor Day. Even the Porta Pottis were locked.
Desperate, I ran down a long flight of stairs and settled for a secluded patch of sand instead. I glanced around to make sure I was alone, and then let ’er rip. Much better, I thought, pulling up my shorts.
But also much, much worse. On my way back toward the steps, I bumped right smack into Zander. He’d obviously witnessed the whole episode. Besides being extremely embarrassing for the both of us, it gave him yet another round of ammo in the Trace-is-cute-but-such-a-goofball war.
He was laughing at me, of course. “When I fantasized about seeing you with your clothes off, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
Witty repartee eluded me once again. “I really had to pee,” I explained lamely.
“I could see that.”
I threw a handful of sand in his direction and changed the subject. “You guys were really great last night.”
“If we were so great, why did you take off?” he asked. Then he got a weird look on his face and said, “Oh, I forgot. Are you feeling better?” I could’ve sworn Zander was staring at my crotch, probably looking to see if a humongous maxi-pad was bulging out of my shorts.
“Much, thanks,” I said.
Zander picked up a flat, smooth stone and expertly tossed it at the water. It skipped four times before disappearing into the lake. “Hey, what’s the deal with your friend Brina?” he asked me.
“Who wants to know?”
“Robb. He seemed pretty blown away by her.”
So maybe that was what Brina meant about being a bad girl last night. Yikes. “I think she likes him, too,” I said, not sure that was necessarily true. Brina might have just thought Robb was fun to play with for a night and now the thrill was gone. My cat is like that with new toys, too.
Zander rolled his eyes. “That’s nice, considering she was in his pants an hour after meeting him.”
“Oh, come on. Brina didn’t do anything major with Robb,” I said. Well, OK, maybe she did, but who was I to judge?
“That’s not what I heard.”
I don’t know why I felt the need to defend my best friend’s getting-more-questionable-by-the-second honor, but I did. “The whole player thing is a big act.”
“I don’t think so. Robb’s totally honest, even if he isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed,” Zander said. “Not to be mean, but this is a guy who forgot to drop the second b when he shortened his name from ‘Robby.’ ”
I laughed. What did I care if Robb and Brina had possibly indulged in some serious nooky last night? Zander hadn’t been sucked in by her obvious charms, and that’s all that mattered. “What would Rob-buh think if he heard you say that about him?”
“He probably wouldn’t get it,” Zander said. “What would Brina say if she knew you knew her smutty little secret?”
“She’d probably deny it,” I said, realizing a second too late it sounded like I was admitting her guilt. “Because it didn’t happen,” I added quickly.
“Yeah, right.”
Then it hit me. “Hey, wait a minute. How did you know I was gonna be here this morning? Are you psychic?” Even I didn’t know I was gonna be here this morning.
“I actually thought you came to see me,” he said. “You did know that’s my house, didn’t you?”
I looked up at what might as well have been Buckingham Palace. “Whoa.”
“Want a tour?” he asked me. “I’ll be sure to point out all the bathrooms.”
“Drop it already. I have to stay hydrated during my long runs. Which reminds me, I’ve really gotta get going.” I threw out a spontaneous invitation for him to join me, never thinking he’d take me up on it, what with his lack of wind during our last unscheduled training session. “Want to come along?”
“How long is a long run?” Zander wanted to know.
“About thirteen more miles,” I said. “Fourteen at most.”
“Jeez.” He hesitated for a second and then said, “OK, but only if you promise to tell me all about yourself. And give me mouth-to-mouth if I drop from overexertion.”
If it would get my lips on his, I’d keep our pace at a sprint the entire run. “Not a problem.”
Zander must’ve read my mind, because the next thing I knew he was pulling off my baseball cap and untangling the headphone cords from my hair. Then he planted a long, sweet kiss on my lips. Before it could progress into a major make-out session—which, believe me, I was up for—Zander pulled away and started walking up the stairs toward his house.
“Wow,” I said, trying to catch my breath.
He grinned over his shoulder at me. “I’ll be right back. Wait here, OK?”
I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to, so I sat down and tried to stop smiling. I felt like a goofy, infatuated idiot. To be honest, I pretty much was.
Thirteen miles gave us plenty of time to talk. And at the slow pace we were taking, speaking was even semidoable.
“So what’s your family like?” Zander asked me.
I shrugged. How could I explain my crazy circumstances?
“Let me guess,” he said. “You’re little orphan Tracey?”
“Not even close. Anyway, I already told you about my mom with the bad taste in music. She’s an author.”
“You didn’t tell me she was a writer. Have I ever heard of her?”
I wished I could avoid the subject entirely. I mean, aren’t we weird enough already? “Maybe. Her name’s Belinda Tillingham.”
“I love her!” Zander practically screamed. Oh, crap. Bebe’s readership was almost universally female. Had I misread all the signals and Zander was really gay?
“You know her stuff?”
Zander blushed, realizing his mistake. “Uh . . . well . . . I . . .”
Good. He wasn’t gay, just a musical romance-reading geek. Even I could successfully flirt with someone like that. “Fess up, baby,” I said, touching his arm.
“OK, my old girlfriend Buffy was a huge fan, and she got me hooked.” I didn’t know which was worse: his liking Bebe’s books or having an ex named after a loofah sponge. Zander shrugged it off. “You might as well know the gory truth. At this point, I’ve read everything she’s ever written.”
I concentrated on my feet. Bebe and Brina. Brina and Bebe. And now some chick named Buffy. Wasn’t there anything else to talk about?
“Did I say something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly, hoping to get back to some light, flirty conversation.
But it just wasn’t in the cards. “So how old were you when your parents got divorced?” Zander asked.
“I wasn’t,” I said. “And they didn’t.”
“Oh,” he said, looking confused by my cryptic pronouncements.
“My parents broke up before I was born,” I explained.
“Don’t feel bad. Practically none of my friends’ parents are still together,” Zander said. “Do you do the every-other-weekend thing, too?”
“Um, no.”
“Your dad lives too far away, huh?”
“I couldn’t really say,” I admitted. “I kind of don’t know where he lives.”
“What?”
I decided I might as well let the truth fly and deal with whatever the consequences might be. There was no point in lying to someone I hoped would be sticking around for a little bit. “If you can believe this, I’ve never met him,” I said, taking a deep breath before I delivered the final blow. “To be brutally honest, I don’t even know who he is.”
“That is brutal.” Zander groped around for a polite response. It’s n
ot like he could look it up in Emily Post’s Teen Etiquette or anything. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
I could practically see sympathy oozing from his every pore. It wasn’t exactly the emotion I was hoping for. I wanted Zander to think I was sexy and fun, but even more than that, I wanted him to think I was normal. So far, I’d only proved to be a lyrically challenged, heavy-flowing, outdoor-peeing, illegitimate-but-who-knows-by-whom kind of a girl. Definitely not normal.
“So, do you have any idea who your dad might be?” Zander asked me after miles of silence.
“I’m keeping a suspect list inside my locker door,” I said. “I haven’t quite figured out how to go about proving or disproving any of my theories yet, so no one’s been added to it or crossed off in a really long time.”
“Anyone interesting on it?”
“Actually, it’s pretty lame,” I said. “With the exception of Springsteen.”
Zander’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. “As in Bruce?”
“None other.” I could barely meet his eyes—I felt so stupid admitting my suspicions. Like some major rock star could actually turn out to be my dad. Even if there was the remotest possibility, which there clearly was.
Zander eyed me up and down. “Hair color, no, but the curls are a yes. Nose is a no—thank God—but maybe I see a little resemblance around the mouth. Who else made the cut?”
“Let’s make it a game. I’ll name their most famous song. You name the band.”
“I take it your mother has a thing for musicians.”
“Didn’t you just say you’ve read everything she’s ever written?” I asked, shooting Zander a look that practically said “Duh.” “I mean, haven’t you noticed by now that every book ends with the rock star professing his undying love to the regular girl?”
“Right,” Zander said, looking like he wanted to clonk himself in the head for making such an inane comment. “OK. You’re on.”
“ ‘Sunglasses at Night,’ ” I said, feeling triumphant. “You’ll never get it.”