“Fuck you,” I say again, trying to make it sound funny, but it’s getting harder to hold back the patience in my voice. My shoulders grow tight, and my knee’s itching to hammer. I have to ask myself why I’m going through all this bull for a girl who doesn’t love me back.
Missy and Alyssa enter the kitchen, and Missy shoots me a broad smile. I stop shuffling long enough to hold out my hand and invite her to sit on my lap. When she does I curl my arm around her waist and deal the next round, my forearm brushing her back with each flick of the card. She slides her arm across my shoulders to lean in for a better look at what I dealt for myself. I nuzzle closer, letting her see it. I’m keenly aware our mouths are a few inches apart.
I turn to Armpit. “You were saying?”
He mumbles, acting like he has no clue what I’m talking about.
Alyssa stands behind Viktor and wraps her arms around his neck. I sense him eyeing me, so I slide a hand onto Missy’s knee and give it a gentle squeeze. That’s right, take it in, Mr. Viktor, I can score too if I want, and I don’t need your help. Missy hugs me back, and I notice barely-there freckles across her pert nose. She’s pretty and smells like Cheetos and coffee-flavored toffee.
We throw down our cards, and I lose again, which means another three shots. I give one to Missy as I down the other two. The beers and booze hit me all at once, making me warm, fuzzy, and touchy-feely. I run my hand along Missy’s back, and she nuzzles my earlobe. A twinge of guilt tries to unsettle me, but I cut it off at the pass. It’s not like I’m cheating on anyone.
I turn to Missy. “Wanna give me the grand tour?”
The guys erupt in exaggerated “Whoo” sounds, and Viktor adds, “Getta room.”
“Sure,” she says, standing, and before we leave the kitchen, I refill our beers. I catch Alyssa and Missy trading fast, sly grins with each other.
Missy and I hang in the hallway for a bit and make small talk with some of her friends. At one point I find myself completely surrounded by girls who all laugh and talk in that high-pitched excited way. Missy cracks a few jokes, and when she wraps her arm around mine to tuck in closer, it triggers a memory of Claire. How she’d always do the same wraparound thing with me. I didn’t think it could hurt any worse, but somehow it does.
“You okay, Kevin?” Missy asks, noticing that I’ve drifted away.
I nod and sigh. “Yeah, it’s just been a hard week.”
She tilts her head to the side, like she understands, and then draws me in for a nice hug. Just like with Simone, Missy’s touch helps dull the pain.
“Do you want to go upstairs and talk?” Before I can answer, she takes ahold of my hand and pulls me, guiding me through the crowd and past kids sitting along the stairs. In the hallway two kids play tonsil hockey, and when Missy reaches for the first door on her left, someone downstairs shouts, “Forty-five minutes till midnight!,” and they’re followed by a chorus of yells and cheers. Missy flicks on the light, and my eyeballs get a blast of all things pink, along with other girlie, frilly stuff, like fuzzy animals and posters of horses.
She slides her arms around me for another supportive hug. I can’t help it. I reach for a little comfort, a little relief, and sink into the warmth of another human being. I wish she knew everything, so I didn’t have to go through this alone. I guess I cling on for a little too long because when she pulls away, she looks at me—like, really looks at me—like she sees into my hurt heart. She lays a gentle hand on my cheek, leans in, and kisses me to make it better.
I kiss her back, and before long, we’re making out, hardcore. Hands travel up and down and all over. We French, and I lift her up and she wraps her legs around my waist. She grabs the back of my T-shirt to yank it off, and I walk us to her bed, where we land with a bounce and she squeaks with laughter.
She reaches for my belt buckle, undoing the clasp and drawing the leather strip through the loops before dropping it to the floor.
I slide my hand under the bottom of her dress to pull it up and remove it, and she scrambles away from me in a weird, catlike reaction. The second I think, Oh god, she’s going to run screaming from her room, what have I done?, Missy slaps the light switch, plunging us into darkness. I can’t see a thing, not my hand in front of my face. She leaps back into bed.
“I’m shy. . . .” she explains, giggling.
“Fifteen minutes to midnight!” the voice shouts.
Feeling my way through foreign territory in the dark isn’t as fun as I thought. Missy’s parts are placed differently from Claire’s. I try locating her mouth, but end up making out with her shoulder. She shifts around to find me and clocks me in the chin with what I guess is her elbow, because it’s followed up with an award-winning head butt. Now I can see something: fireworks and stars. How can two highly athletic people be such klutzes? I manage to find her face and lean in for a kiss. It’s nice. Missy’s a good kisser. I vow no more thoughts of Claire.
CHAPTER 13
FIRST THING FLOODING MY VISION WHEN I awake is horses. Posters everywhere—on the walls, the back of the door, the ceiling above my head.
I squeeze my eyes shut and knuckle them open, sleep-crust scraping the sensitive tear ducts. A heavy pulse slams my temples, and my head feels like someone lodged an ax in it and walked away. Why does my chin hurt? Oh yeah, I got clocked.
Missy’s asleep next to me. Her hair is matted to her head, and her eye makeup is smudged. She’s like a model in one of those glamour fashion shoots, where the girl is made to look like she’s strung out on heroin.
Oh boy.
Missy moans awake, and when she realizes one of her boobs is sticking out, she grabs the bed sheet, covering herself. I wonder why the sudden shy act. I mean, we did sleep together.
“Hey,” she mumbles.
“Hey,” I say, and the inside of my mouth is a cross between sandpaper and that paste you were told not to eat in kindergarten. “Happy New Year. Where’s your bathroom?”
“The door across the hall.”
I climb out of bed, avoid looking at the condom on her nightstand, and pull on some clothes. The bathroom smells like puke, so I crack open a window. Cold January air engulfs the room as I take a long leak. I wash my hands before cupping them under the tap to swallow handful after handful of water. I keep doing it until the furry animal that died in my mouth disappears. I splash more water on my face and catch my reflection in the mirror.
I’m all pasty, puffy, and groggy. It’s like getting an eyeful of my forty-year-old self.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Yo, I gotta piss.”
Viktor. I go open it.
He stands there, every strand of hair in place. Bastard, I bet he’s not hung over, either.
“Hey, man,” he says.
I wince. Why must he shout?
Viktor throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to Missy’s door. “You popped your cherry last night?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, he just holds out his hand for a high five. “Way to go.”
The idea Viktor thinks my first was with Missy makes my teeth clamp so tight, I’m about to chew a mouthful of Chiclets, but I return the high five because I’m an idiot.
“Welcome to the club,” he says. “Now outta my way, I gotta piss.”
He switches places with me and shuts the door. I turn around, and just as I’m about to head back to Missy’s room, what we did last night sinks in. I stop. Oh no, what have I done? Instead of letting the pain of rejection burn itself out, I’ve made things worse. I’ve tossed gasoline onto the fire. Maybe Missy will think what we did was a onetime thing? A romp in the hay?
I open the door.
And Missy’s face lights up when she sees me.
“Hi,” she says, now sitting on her bed in plaid pajamas.
And now I want to fall through the floor.
I go to reach for a thought to get me out of here, and all I get is the penalty buzzer.
“Hey . . . so, ah . . . I gotta go. Gotta feed my dog.”
/> Missy gazes longingly at me.
This isn’t awkward at all.
“Okay, so I’ll text you?” she asks.
“Um, yeah, sure,” I say, and when I take my phone off airplane mode, it buzzes to life with a message from Claire. She’d sent it just past midnight: Are u there?
I make my way downstairs. Bodies everywhere. Kids asleep on the couch, in chairs, or sprawled on the living room floor. Sticking around the next day for the postparty replay is usually the best part. You get to hear who face-planted first, or who got duct-taped to the ceiling. Not this time. I’m the first one gone.
On the long, cold walk home, I’m hoping the fresh air clears my head. The crunch of snow underfoot sounds like it’s hooked up to a loudspeaker, with each step gnawing at my skull. Thirty minutes later I kick off my snow-slicked boots. Buddy’s sprawled on the living room floor. His eyes might be closed, but his wagging tail says he’s heard me. I crouch down beside him, my cheek pressed into the carpet, and he opens his eyes and paws at my nose.
“Hey, boy,” I say.
Thump-thump-thump.
We head to the backyard, and after I feed him, it’s back to bed.
I wake up hours later, my throat’s still dry. I’m one hurtin’ unit. I wander into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. As I drink I get a hit of Missy’s scent, a combination of perfume and sweat. It’s strong, as if she stood right beside me. I take a shower and make myself a large vanilla-peanut-butter-and-strawberry protein shake.
I turn on my computer to check my email and notice one from Claire.
Dear Kevin,
I’m emailing you because I’m scared to tell you to your face in case you don’t feel the same way. I now realize it was a huge mistake to make that deal. I wish I never did it, because I really like you. In fact, I more than like you. I’ve just denied it because I didn’t want to get hurt, but I can’t help it. You’re kind, you make me laugh, you’re hot, and my parents think you’re great. I was an idiot for turning down your Christmas gift. It was the most thoughtful and sweetest thing a guy has ever done. Anyway, I’m not sure if you feel the same way anymore, because I feel like you’ve been pushing me away, not because we’ve both been busy, but maybe because of what I did??? Anyway . . . I just thought you should know, and if you feel the same way and want to be a real couple, then I do too because I know we can make this work.
Love, Claire
Oh shit.
I start over from the beginning again. I seesaw from happy to sick, and then back again. “But Claire and I were FWBs,” I say aloud. She didn’t want to be exclusive. I should be ecstatic, over the moon by her confession, but instead, I wish I could wipe the past twenty-four hours from existence.
My phone vibrates with a new message. It’s Claire. She’s probably wondering if I’ve seen her email yet. I read her text and my gut drops like being pushed into a pit of spikes.
Go to hell!!!
Oh shit, shit, shit. I race over to Claire’s in Mom’s car. Every intersection I hit, the traffic light turns red. I wait, squeezing the steering wheel as her text flashes in my mind. I want to crawl out of my skin. She’s found out. But how? “Why did I turn my phone off? Oh yeah, she rejected me then sent me texts like, ‘miss you’ and ‘xoxo.’” Some guy in the car next to me smirks when he catches me yakking to myself. Like I care. I slam my fist on the dashboard. “I was hurt, dammit.”
There’s another vehicle parked in her driveway, some black, beat-up Jeep from the eighties that I don’t recognize. I get out and half jog to the front door. I ring the bell, and my heart won’t stop pounding. My mind keeps switching from I did nothing wrong to I made the biggest mistake of my life. I want to run, throw up, or do both. Seconds later the door swings open, triggering the motion sensor, but instead of it being Claire, or her folks, it’s Rat’s-Nest Girl.
What the hell?!!!
She takes one look at me and gives me the stink eye.
“Where’s Claire?” I demand, letting her know I’m not in the mood for any crap. What’s her problem, anyways?
The corner of her lip rises in a sneer. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
I crane my neck, but can’t see into the kitchen or living room. “Claire?” I shout.
No answer.
Rat’s-Nest Girl tries to close the door in my face, but I think fast and step inside. I call Claire’s name again, and this time she appears from the kitchen, her eyes pink from crying.
“Claire . . . ?”
Rat’s-Nest Girl rolls her eyes. “Just spare us the ‘What happened to you?’ bull, because I was at the party. I know what you did. Hell, EVERYONE knows you hooked up with that cheerleader. Practically heard you humping through the ceiling.”
Claire folds her arms over her chest and stares past me, like something’s happening across the street. “Tell him,” she says to Rat’s-Nest Girl, “I never should have sent that email, and I take back everything I wrote.”
Rat’s-Nest Girl turns to me. “You heard her, slut-boy.”
I have never in my life wanted to push a girl like I do now. I turn to Claire. “You’re the one who wanted to be fuck buddies and nothing more.”
When Rat’s-Nest Girl raises an eyebrow, I think, Huh, I guess she didn’t know about that part, did she. I go on, “You didn’t want to be with me, so what gives you the right to be mad for hooking up with someone else?”
She opens her mouth to speak when the door behind me opens, triggering that stupid motion sensor.
It doesn’t take René long to figure out he’s walked into something pretty heavy.
“Well?” I ask.
Claire glances from me, to her dad, then me again, the words getting caught in her throat. “Just—just, get out, Kevin. Leave. I never want to see you again.”
René blanches for a second before his stance grows, like a Kodiak bear rising on hind legs. “What’s going on here?” he demands, and then asks Claire, “Did he hurt you?”
I take a step back.
She pauses. “Yes—no, it’s not like that, Dad.”
“Then what’s going on?”
Her eyes grow wide. What’ll she do? Tell him we slept together and I cheated on her even though I had permission to because we agreed we were fuck buddies? I’m positive he won’t take it well, and then he’d kill me.
“Just leave, Kevin,” she blurts.
I hold my hands up in a sign of surrender. “No problem. I’m gone. You won’t see me again.”
CHAPTER 14
THE BELL RINGS AND I BACK MISSY AGAINST her locker and lean in for a hello-good-bye kiss before taking off. It blows my mind at how fast we became exclusive. One day I’m with Claire—sort of, I guess (I dunno, I’m not thinking about it anymore)—and the next I’m part of the school’s elite power couples: me and Missy, Viktor and Alyssa. When people see us coming, they step aside. I have to admit, it gives me a rush.
Missy’s cooler than I thought, too. She’s always up for stuff, like outdoor runs, pick-up basketball games, or tobogganing with me and the guys down Christie Hill. She also comes to all my games and practices, too. I told her she didn’t have to, but she says she likes it, and she gets bored at home or always having to go to the mall with Alyssa, who’s addicted to shopping. Missy’s energy reminds me of a cute chipmunk, the way she’s always bouncing around and chatting.
It seems like everyone I know is pairing up too. Even Armpit’s managed to convince a girl, a sophomore named Olive, to go out with him. He’s told us that from now on, he wants to be called Leo, but the guys like giving him a hard time about it, so it’ll probably never happen. Whenever they spot him in the halls now, they purposely shout, “Arrrrmpiiit,” to embarrass him more. I’m like, whatever. If that’s what he wants to be called, it’s no sweat off my back.
Dino’s still single, though. Guess shaving his head hasn’t helped him.
With hockey season still going strong, Viktor and I return to Shreds, but just twice a week, because it’s not good to
overtrain. I focus on cutting my abs again. Whenever Viktor or me start slacking, not putting in 100 percent, we remind each other about scouts and scholarships.
It’s almost February before I have a free Saturday, and Missy tells me her parents are out of town and I must come over to watch a movie. Her demand is supposed to sound cute, but sometimes her delivery comes out wrong and she sounds bossy instead. Case in point: I knock on her front door, and when she opens it, instead of saying, “hi,” and giving me a kiss, she just swings the door wide, walks away, and cries, “About time. I’m starrrrrving!”
I follow her to where she stands in front of the side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. The freezer half is open, and she rifles through stuff, so I look in the refrigerator. I get excited by the possibilities—chicken, ground beef, greens, and fruit. “Want me to make something?” I ask.
She removes a frozen pepperoni pizza and shuts the door with the heel of her foot. “Nope. I want this.”
The box top is concave, like a bowling ball’s been dropped on it. I take a guess at the carbs count and empty calories, not to mention it’ll taste like cardboard. “Why don’t I make us a stir-fry?”
She wrinkles her nose, like she’s smelled garbage. “Yeah, um, hello, pizza?” she says, holding it up, like it’s the obvious choice.
I open the pantry. “How about tacos? I make a mean taco.”
Missy stares like she can’t figure me out. I’m a guy turning down frozen pizza over making dinner. It’s like I’m old or something.
“Trust me,” I say. “I’m a good cook.”
Her bottom lip juts out. “No. Pizza. Piiizza!” Her insistence reminds me of how I kept telling Claire I wanted meeeat. I must have been so annoying.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “But I’m whipping up a side dish.”
After I make chicken stir-fry (my so-called side dish) and Missy cooks, or rather heats, we carry everything to the coffee table to watch a kung-fu movie.
During the flick Missy inhales the pizza while I mow down on my meal. She won’t even try a bite of what I made. I want her to taste how good it is—the crisp veggies, the chicken, the sauce. I’m impressed with it and want to share the experience, but she doesn’t care. I guess I am old.
The Jock and the Fat Chick Page 12