Haters

by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez

  17

  The doorbell rings at exactly — and I mean exactly — eight o’clock. Andrew might be kind of a cute jerk, but at least he’s punctual. I’m actually on the phone with Janet, who’s trying to tell me how to act with Chris to get him to notice me. Some of her advice is good, but sometimes she’s a little crazy. Like she thinks I should pretend to fall on him. That’s nuts. I tell her I have to go, and after I promise to call her later to tell her everything, we hang up.

  I breathe deeply to calm myself down and take one last look in the mirror on the back of my door. I decided on jeans, the tight, low ones with the rhinestones on the back pockets. I can’t believe I’m down to a size six. I guess the stress of the move has made me lose some weight.

  I wear two tank tops, a plain white one underneath a pink one with sparkles at the neckline. I thought about wearing the straw hat, but it looked like I was trying way too hard, so I went for some dangly earrings and loose, curly hair instead. I’ve done my makeup as much like Rachel Bilson as I could, with strong emphasis on my eyes. I outlined them in black liner and did charcoal eye shadow with lots of mascara. I’m wearing a shimmery body lotion, Jergens, all over my body. I’ve got on the strappy sandals, and I even had time to put red polish on my toenails. I put on a little of the lip gloss, and spray myself with the cheap spritzer. I would have gotten real perfume, except I didn’t have time to go to a department store. I’ve read that boys really like citrus smells. Anyway, I look at myself and I’m surprised by how much I’m starting to look like a girl from Orange County. At least I think I do. I don’t know what the people at this party will think.

  I open the door and find Andrew looking taller than usual, extremely cute and well groomed in his Abercrombie shirt and scruffy shorts. He has amazing legs, with little blond hairs all over them. He wears a couple of gold chains around his neck, and I can smell his acidic cologne from here. His hair is perfectly rumpled. He looks like the model that he is. He would look just right in a magazine ad for messy preppy clothes. He’s got an arm up on the wall next to the door, and he’s leaning in all casual, like he does this all the time. But as he sees me, the cool look on his face changes to one of mild surprise.

  “Wow,” he says.

  “Hi,” I say. I blush because I can tell he likes what he sees.

  “Daaamn, girl, you look hot.” His voice cracks on the word “hot,” like it’s still changing. He steps back and looks me up and down like a piece of meat. “I mean, I knew you were cute, but I didn’t know you were hot.” He smiles and nods with enthusiasm. “Daaaammn. You’re hot, mamacita.”

  Mamacita? Why did he call me that? I don’t know if any of this is supposed to make me feel good, but what it actually does is make me feel naked. At the same time, I’m totally flattered, in a sick way, and loving it. “I’m ready to go,” I say, clutching the shiny gold handbag to my side. I wish I could take out my new cell phone and send his photo to Emily and Janet right now. They would die.

  “Yeah, let’s go, shorty,” he says. We start down the stairs, and I’m horrified when, as we go down, we run into Keoni and Kerani on their way up, with a pizza and a liter of Pepsi. They are dressed exactly alike again, this time in plaid shorts and ties with tank tops. Not. A. Good. Look. I notice that Kerani is carrying a stack of library books. I glance at the titles on the spines: They’re about Japanese internment camps in the United States during World War II. I feel a strange sense of peace that he has these books, like it would make their grandmother happy. I want to ask him about it, but now’s definitely not the time.

  “Hi, guys,” I say.

  They glare at Andrew and say nothing. They look at me all betrayed, like I’m some kind of traitor or something.

  “Have fun staying in practicing your chess moves, geeks and freaks,” Andrew tells them. “Fucking weirdos,” he turns to me. I feel personally struck by this insult. I want to protect the twins, and I can feel their grandmother trying to talk to me. I tune her out because I don’t want Andrew to think I’m a total weirdo.

  “Be careful, Paski,” Keoni says after we’ve passed.

  “What did you say, dickwad?” asks Andrew, turning to look up at them.

  “I told Paski to be careful,” says Keoni. His voice sounds like it’s shaking with fear. My heart pounds with the tension in the air. I don’t want to see a fight. I really don’t. That would be so stupid. What is it about guys that they’re always ready to fight each other? I hear the Japanese words come in and out, like a radio not quite tuned to the right station, in the grandmother’s voice: Naze desu ka . . . kudasai . . . Ikimasho.

  “Come on, Andrew,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  “Yeah, whatever, loser, okay?” says Andrew to Keoni. He puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “This chick is in very good hands. Don’t you worry about her. I’m going to make her very happy tonight.”

  I feel filthy as the twins give me a sad, disappointed look. He’s going to make me happy? What the hell is he talking about? Why is he acting like I’m some kind of skeezer girl who’s going to have sex with him?

  The inside of Andrew’s shiny black Porsche smells like cherry cough syrup. I notice that he has a red air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, and I figure this is the source of the smell. My dad always says those things are cheesy, and I have to say I share that opinion. It makes my throat hurt to smell it.

  “Nice car,” I say.

  “Word,” he says. He puts on blue-tinted Oakley sunglasses, and as he turns the key in the ignition, he looks me up and down again and whistles through his teeth. “Damn, I had no idea. I mean, I really had no idea.”

  Andrew revs the engine a few times, and I can see the twins looking out at us from their balcony. From this safe distance, they’re actually laughing at us. That’s not good, is it? They aren’t bad people. They’re nice guys, actually — just a little odd, but I’m not exactly one to talk, right? I don’t like that I’ve become hilarious to them. What do they know?

  Andrew cranks up his stereo and adjusts the controls on a black iPod until the bass booms so hard I feel it in my bones; he’s got a device that broadcasts the music to the FM dial. It’s a Fat Joe rap song, and he chants along, using all the offensive words. He smiles over at me like I might be impressed by this. I’m not impressed, but I have to admit that being in such an expensive car with such a hot guy and such a booming stereo is a little bit exciting. Okay, a lot exciting. I’ve only ever seen things like this on TV. I like the idea of where I am right now. I just don’t know if it’s good that Andrew is so vulgar. Maybe it’s all a front. Maybe he has a soft side somewhere.

  Andrew revs the engine a few more times and blasts the a.c. With only one hand on the wheel — and the other over his crotch — he looks over his buff shoulder and backs out of the driveway very fast, so fast that I clutch my seat and the grab bar over my window. As he drives, he licks his lips and raps: “’Mami tell me do you like it, I know you like it, it’s written all over your face, don’t fight it, you like it, more than I like it, so put it all over your face don’t bite it.’”

  He notices that I’m afraid. “Hey, chill, shorty,” he says. “I’m a hell of a driver.”

  “Okay,” I say. I don’t “chill,” however. That’s because I’m afraid of more than Andrew’s driving. I’m afraid of Andrew.

  18

  After a scary fifteen-minute drive on freeways where everyone seems to drive a million miles an hour while sipping Starbucks and chatting on a cell phone, we pull up to an iron gate leading to a street that winds up a hillside. Everything is shaded by giant bright green palm trees. They’re so well manicured they look like toys. The houses on the other side of the gate all look exactly alike, pink with red tile roofs. It looks comfortable and safe, like somewhere I’d never live.

  “Wow,” I say. “This is really nice.”

  Andrew looks surprised. “You think?”

  “It is.”

  “Bunch of freakin’ McMansions,” h
e says. He rolls down his window and tells the guard that we’re here for the party at Trent’s house. The guard looks at a guest list, then waves us through.

  Andrew cranks the stereo, driving too fast down the streets, and as we get near the end of a cul-de-sac, I see a bunch of shiny new cars, some of them the very expensive kind, parked along the curb. Andrew hits the brakes so hard they squeal against the blacktop. He parks behind the nearest car, and we get out. I can hear rap music blasting from a huge, beautiful “McMansion” at the end of the cul-de-sac. We’re about half a block away, but I feel the music in my feet, it’s that loud. Andrew looks smug and dances with some lame-looking hip-hop moves while looking at my body like he owns it.

  The yard at Trent’s house is full of tall brightly colored flowers, and the porch has these folksy pots and signs with smiling cats and rag dolls painted on them, like his mom is Little Miss Homemaker. I always wished I had a mom who put things like that on the porch. Heck, I always wished I had a porch.

  The front door is wide open. I see kids inside and in the yard, sitting on each other’s laps, drinking what looks like beer. A few of them smoke cigarettes with their eyes half closed. The song roars out the door and washes over us. I see some guys get out of a white Mercedes SUV and start walking toward the party, a bunch of pampered-looking boys. When they hear the music, their heads start to bob and they twist their hands up all stupid, in imitation of the thugs they’ve seen on MTV. They think they’re tough. It’s almost funny to see these rich boys pretending to be gangsters or something. One of them sees Andrew and waves. Andrew responds by pointing to me with both hands and lifting his eyebrows, like he’s saying. Look at this big hunk o’ meat. Eew?

  “Not bad,” calls one of the boys, like I’m on display just for them.

  “Not bad?” calls Andrew. “Fuck you, dog! You wouldn’t know good if it bit you on the ass.” The boy turns and pulls his shorts down to moon us with his hairy rear end. Lovely.

  As soon as we enter the house, Andrew is swarmed by a different group of guys in Abercrombie clothes, almost all of them attractive in some way, and I’m left standing there. Andrew talks to them for a minute and then introduces me. “She’s new at school,” he says. “She’s an apartment girl.”

  The guys seem to think this means something. Something funny. They laugh. I don’t like how I’m feeling. Why should it matter that I live in an apartment? I excuse myself and wander through the house. It’s beautiful. A winding staircase with a black iron banister leads to a spacious loft on the second floor. There’s art on the walls, and expensive-looking sculptures in these tiny nooks with their own lights on them. I wonder what Andrew’s house must look like that he thinks this house is a McMansion.

  I find what I think is the great room. There are a bunch of kids in there, their bare arms and legs spilling all over the beige leather sofas. They appear to be drinking and screaming. Oh, and smoking. Weed. I smell the green smoke of marijuana, a familiar smell from the limited time I spent with my mother. Yuck. A couple of preppy-looking boys light the most enormous joints I’ve ever seen, inhaling deeply until their faces turn purple. Everyone is huddled around the center of the room in a group. The whole group roars with laughter and screaming. I try to see what’s going on that’s making everyone laugh so hard. A loud Missy Elliott song comes on the stereo, and everyone starts to bob and weave in time. “’Music make you lose control, music make you lose control . . .’”

  One of the girls in the circle backs up and runs off, looking a little green and dizzy, like she’s going to throw up from drinking too much, and I can see into the circle of kids. In the middle I see two pretty girls I recognize from school, in tight low jeans and tank tops. I’m in shock over how many pretty girls there are around here. Back home, there were a few, but in Orange County it’s almost like every single girl you see is pretty.

  One of the girls puts something that looks like a cherry in the other girl’s belly button and slurps it out with her mouth. Then the girls share the cherry by kissing each other and biting it in half, while all the stupid drunk guys watch and yell and laugh. The girls stop and look around like they’re waiting for everyone to be impressed.

  “Encore!” one of the boys screams. His voice hasn’t quite changed yet. Everyone looks way baked. The girls kiss again, then one of them turns around and bends over for the other one to spank her.

  “Oh, shit!” cries one of the guys. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, yo.” Why do they all speak like a rap video?

  I turn toward a door that’s open to the backyard and try to make my escape. This isn’t exactly my scene. No, let me be very clear. This isn’t my scene at all. I don’t drink or do drugs because, probably unlike most of these kids, I had a mom who did all that for me, and I was lucky enough to see exactly how messed up someone’s life can be because of it. But before I can take two steps, I hear a guy call out: “Hey, you!”

  I look behind me to make sure he doesn’t mean someone else. “You! The new girl. Come here,” he says. I shake my head and smile, because I don’t want to seem unfriendly. But it’s no use. Some girls from the group have already broken away and rushed over, giggling and stinking of alcohol. They grab me and drag me into the middle of a circle, where they try to dance with me like we’re hoochies from some rap video.

  The guy who called for me shouts over the music: “We’re trying to decide which of the two chicks here would make the best threesome for me. I vote for you and Amber.”

  I’ve barely had time to wonder who Amber is when I find out. I’m spun around and pushed into the center of the circle. Everyone yells and laughs, boys and girls alike. A super-pretty girl from school is in the middle with me. She has long reddish hair and big brown eyes that remind me of a baby deer. She wears super-short jersey shorts with the word “Juicy” on the butt, and a tight tank top with the Baby Phat logo in jewels over her boobs. She doesn’t wear any shoes and has rings on a few of her toes. She looks totally baked and happily numb. She smiles at me and comes over to put a hand on one of my breasts. She makes a face like “oooh,” like she really likes touching me, only I can tell it’s a total act for the benefit of the boys. I don’t know what to do. I feel trapped, but everyone’s laughing like this is normal and harmless. I see a TV on one side of the room. A porno movie is playing, and the actress is making the exact same face as this girl.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t think so.” I try to get away, but there are hands all over me, pushing me back into the circle. Some of them touch me in places I would rather they didn’t.

  “What’s the problem?” cries Amber. She stumbles and laughs and grabs me behind the neck and pulls me in to kiss her, like she’s not going to be rejected. I have no choice. I have only ever kissed two other people in my life, both of them boys. I don’t kiss back, and I try to get away. I feel like a kid who hates getting kisses from a crazy old aunt or something. The boys start to boo and push me really hard. If I don’t kiss this girl, I think they might actually hurt me. Survival instinct kicks in.

  I look at her and close my eyes. She kisses me again, and for some reason I don’t even understand, I give that kiss everything I’ve got. I hate myself for wanting these losers to like me. Who am I? The boys whoop it up. Part of me is totally embarrassed, but part of me finds it interesting that this is so normal and so not a big deal to these people. Amber sticks her tongue in my mouth, and it just lies there like a dead fish. It’s totally gross. She has bad breath. Then I feel her hands, or someone’s hands, on my rear end. Okay. That’s enough. Game over, freaks.

  I pull back and smile and dance my way out of the group while all the boys yell and clap. By now the boozers have happily moved on to one of the other girl couples who wait for their approval. I am totally creeped out and practically run into the backyard. I have no idea where Andrew is, and I don’t really care. It’s not like he’d be any help in this situation anyway, right?

  I find more kids out here, some of them much calmer than the
animals inside. The mellow kids stay outside, apparently. They sit in tight groups on the lawn and on the pool chairs, talking and laughing. Some of them actually look cool, like people I could hang out with. There’s a huge keg at one end of the patio, and this is where I find Andrew. He’s filling a plastic cup, then guzzling everything in it while some other boys grunt to encourage him, and then he’s filling it up again. Beer spills all over the front of his shirt. He reminds me of a thirsty old dog at a bowl. Sloppy. Uh, do I really want this guy to drive me home? Not. I feel in my handbag for the cell phone my dad gave me. It’s there. Good. I just might need to call him to come get me. Not that I’d want the Squeegeemobile to be seen by anyone on earth, especially people who go to my school, but it beats, like, ending up at the bottom of some canyon in a heap of twisted metal, pinned under a crushed Andrew.

  Andrew sees me and waves. Not knowing what else to do, I go to him. I pretend to be happy to see him. I mean, he’s the closest thing I have to a friend here.

  “Beer!” he says, handing me a clear plastic cup full of the stuff. Thanks, I think. I never could have figured out that this was beer without the insightful description.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I don’t drink.”

  Andrew laughs like I’ve told a joke. Then he seems to get it that I’m not kidding. He pours the cup of beer on the grass and asks if I’d like a soda instead. I say yes, and he goes into the house. I can’t be sure, but I think I hear him shouting Jessica’s name, and I think I hear her awful laughter. A couple of minutes later, Andrew comes out with a plastic cup of Coke for me.

  “Thanks,” I say. I take my cup and sit on an empty patio chair. The yard is kind of small but neat and clean. The pool takes up practically the whole area. I see some kids climbing the trees. They probably aren’t supposed to be doing that, but I guess they’re very in touch with their inner monkeys.

  I look around the yard for any sign of someone I might know, specifically Chris. As soon as I think about him, I hear Andrew scream his name.