by Tina Ferraro
“His mother and I are very proud of him,” Chuck said, patting Adam’s arm. “We’re just sorry, Bill and Jennifer, that it coincides with your wedding.”
“What can you do?” my step-mom-to-be replied. “It’s clearly a wonderful date for wonderful happenings.”
I kept on smiling, probably to excess, probably all goon-like. I couldn’t help myself. In a world where mothers left without explanation, refrigerated cookie dough had gone from being comfort food to a possible source of salmonella poisoning, where friends up and turned on you, how great was it that someone I knew who deserved a big break was getting it?
Jennifer waved her fork in the air. “So tell us, Adam, is there a grand prize for the winner? Money? Trophy? Credit at a surf shop?”
“Trophies, yeah. And the top three get partial expenses paid to the international competition on the Gold Coast in Australia.”
My dad nodded impressively at Adam’s dad, while Jennifer did a butt-in-chair version of the hokey pokey turn-yourself-around. I wasn’t a pillar of propriety, either, as an involuntary noise, part moan, part “wow,” escaped from my mouth.
Then I covered it with my hand. Just to be sure I did nothing Neanderthal again, I kept my mouth and my throat closed for the rest of the meal. Making it kind of hard to chew, swallow and breathe, but you know, first things first.
* * *
“This party tonight,” Jennifer said as Adam and I helped clear the table. “Is it to celebrate the girl’s birthday?”
I figured it was more likely to celebrate her parents being away, but no way I was saying that.
“Might have something to do with Homecoming next week,” Adam responded in a perfectly believable tone. “Lots of people like to make a big deal out of it.”
I glanced at him appreciatively. No reason to set off her bells and whistles that underage fun was about to be had.
“Is it going to be,” Jennifer said, then paused to do an exaggerated head and neck dance, “all Surf City U.S.A.?”
I cringed. Jennifer tried so hard to be cutting edge. Too hard. I knew Adam would be strangely baffled, so I looked his way. “She heard that on a sitcom.”
“Cool.” A hint of amusement flashed in his eyes. “Here’s a new one for you, Jennifer, hot off the beach: definitely drop knee.”
I felt the blood rush to my face. Drop knee was a bodyboard move, but I’d never heard it used as slang, not even by the surfer crowd. He was punking her, and I didn’t know how I felt about that. I got super busy brushing crumbs off the tablecloth into my hand.
“Definitely drop knee,” she repeated, turning toward the kitchen.
I lifted my head. I wanted to give Adam a hard time, to tell him to go apologize to Jennifer. I mean, yeah, she was embarrassing and gullible, but also a sincerely good person. But then he smiled—wide and guilty. Which touched something inside of me, making me remember why I used to have a crush on him.
Anyway, no harm, no foul. Jennifer would probably use the phrase once or twice and forget about it. Beside, she was such an influential spokesperson and saw so many people in her rounds as a pharmaceutical rep, she might even give it wings. The important thing was she’d never know he was pulling her leg.
“So hey,” he said, the smile falling away. “Are you driving to this event of the century tonight? Can I catch a ride?”
I did a little eye roll. “Yeah, I guess misery loves company.”
Doing goodbyes with the grown-ups later, Adam gushed again about the food to Jennifer while I told my dad when I planned to be home. He was always way cool about me going out, giving me the “I trust you to be responsible” line, which I am sure was true since he trusted me to be responsible with so much of his own life, but sometimes I wondered if it wasn’t a cop-out, a way to avoid more implied obligations of his life.
He did have one rule he strictly enforced, though, and that was no driving alone after midnight. This went back to a rule from his days at St. Ansgar’s, where it had been drilled into his head that midnight was the official bewitching hour for unescorted girls. As silly as I thought this was—kidnappers and bogeymen did not keep regular hours—I rather liked the thought that went into it, and had long ago done a cross-my-heart-and-hoped-to-die pledge to obey.
“I’ll be home before midnight,” I promised my dad, then gave Chuck a quick good-to-see-you hug, before heading out the door.
Soon Adam and I were buzzing down the Pacific Coast Highway under a royal blue sky, KROQ turned down low since they were running a block of commercials.
“What’s with you going tonight, anyway?” he asked, shifting in my admittedly small passenger seat. “I thought you avoided these kinds of things.”
I shrugged. We’d discussed our general dislike of parties last summer at the office picnic, while tying my right and his left leg together with rope for some stupid race. It had seemed easier than owning up to the emotionally scarring intimacy of the moment.
“I kind of have to. I got the word from Flea that I’ve been AWOL too many times and people might stop missing me.”
“Ouch.”
“What’s your excuse?”
“Saffron. She trapped me by my locker, made me promise.”
Hanging a right onto a side street, I braked for a man and his leashed dog in a crosswalk. Again wondering if Adam had been invited for my benefit, I went for a quick cover-up. “She must have heard about you qualifying and wants to show you off at her party.”
“Oh, she’s got plans for me, all right.”
My head spun. Plans?
The pair made it to the sidewalk, but instead of taking my foot off the brake, I swiveled my whole body in Adam’s direction.
Was he saying Saffron was into him? If so, why hadn’t I heard about this? From Flea, if not from her. Sure, I’d declared my crush null and void, but the fact I’d had one at all should gain me some status and privilege here!
He pointed through the windshield. “Are you going to move or what?”
The what sounded good to me: staying put in the middle of the street while he explained everything. But since that wasn’t really an option, I righted myself in my seat and pressed the gas. Too hard—jerking us forward. I swallowed some saliva and some pride, and got things back under control.
“So, Saffron, huh?” I managed, afraid I really had been gone too long and too often. “She’s hitting on you?”
He nodded, making everything inside me tighten.
“Are you okay with that?” I somehow continued. “I mean, attracted to her?”
“Well, she’s good-looking and all. Now that her hair’s grown back.” He chuckled. “How come you didn’t have to shave yours, too?”
“It was my teeth, her scalp.” Our outfield collision, that was. Both of us were too focused on making the out to hear the other call “Mine!” While the E.R. doc had only shaved away a small patch of Saffron’s hair for stitches, she’d confided later that no amount of scarves or ponytails could cover the bald spot, so she’d gone to a salon and told them to do the deed. “I think she had fun telling people she was channeling her inner Halle Berry, though,” I added.
“Vin Diesel was more like it.”
I did the outraged mouth drop that I figured was required, even though I secretly love-love-loved him for saying that. “Well, my dad did make me wear a retainer to sleep for a few months afterwards, to make sure there was no permanent dental damage.”
“Let’s see, shaving your head,” he said, held up one palm, “and retainer.” He raised the other, stopping a whole foot lower, then shot a grin my way. “Nope, can’t say you suffered quite as much. You’re lucky she forgave you.”
“Well, it was an accident.”
“Didn’t mean she had to be reasonable. I don’t know how much time you’ve spent around her, but she’s got some twisted views on some things. Like she thinks parents are heartless if they make you apply for college loans or buy you a ‘previously-owned vehicle,’” he said, emphasizing his words with air q
uotes.
Yeah, I knew she had a close, personal relationship with entitlement. She’d had her own credit card since about kindergarten, and liked to use the term “great room” for the space that ran the back wall of her house. I half expected her to get offended when we “reused” softballs on the field.
But this wasn’t about Saffron. It was about Adam. Well, Adam and Saffron.
“So you’re here to keep the peace tonight, too?”
“No.” He blew out a sigh. “I’m probably out of options. I think I’m going to have to go there with Saffron.”
“Go there?” My muscles went tense. All over. In places I wasn’t sure I had muscles. “Why?”
“Let’s just say she’s got something I need.”
I didn’t know how to take that. Well, other than the obvious. But if that was what Adam was after, wouldn’t he be going into this with some ramped-up hormonal enthusiasm?
Saffron’s mountaintop house came into view. Two stories, blaring lights, and cars parked bumper-to-bumper around the cul-de-sac. Glad to have something to focus on besides Adam, I slowed and went in a fervent search of a small, overlooked curb space.
A driver’s side door on a parked car burst open a few feet ahead of us, followed by the emergence of long legs and broad shoulders inside a letterman jacket. I braked to a stop.
“Hey, look, there’s Schiff,” Adam pointed out.
Like this was meaningful to me.
“Looks like we’re both going to have an interesting night, Courtney.”
I studied his profile, probably longer than I should. “Oh, yes, let’s get the good times rolling.”
Chapter 4
Adam was out of the car as soon as I thrust the gear into park. Tossing words of thanks back over his shoulder, he sauntered toward the house, his hips rolling rhythmically with the thumping techno bass.
I figured he didn’t want to be seen walking in with me, like we were together, and that was fine. More than fine. If I’d had my way, I wouldn’t be “crashing” this party at all. I’d be home, or better yet, at the shop. Yeah, the shop, where it was quiet and safe, and unconditional love stood waiting in the window display.
But I’d already resolved to dedicate tonight to paying my dues with my teammates. So I took some deep breaths and crossed the lawn, headed up the cement walkway, and in through the open, oversized door.
A couple sat making out on the circular staircase, and a small group chatted in an interior doorway. Spotting the red Solo cups in people’s hands—the unofficial party vessels for anything alcoholic—I pondered which excuse I should use tonight for not imbibing: the lie that I was on antibiotics; the semi-truth that I hated the taste; or the reality that my mother had knocked back enough for both of us.
What I wanted to say, the quite simple No, thanks, not for me, always seemed to encourage people, to turn it into a challenge to get me to drink.
Two or three more steps and my gaze fell upon Saffron under the glow of the entryway chandelier. Seeing me, she stopped mid-sentence with a friend to glare at me. Then she gave her head a little shake, and called out my name as if the party had been on hold until my arrival.
“Courtney....” She clomped toward me in three inch heeled boots, opening her arms for a hug. I followed suit, but her lean-in was so fast, so insincere, that I wasn’t even sure our boobs collided.
“So glad you made it,” she said, putting a smile front and center to cover the fact her tone was loaded for battle.
Unlike with Adam—whose thoughts and sentiments often remained a mystery to me—I suddenly was pretty sure I could read the score here. I was the enemy.
Saffron was into Adam, and adhering to the girl code of unrequited love, which basically stated that since I’d not had the chance to act on or work through the feelings I’d once had for Adam in a relationship, I remained in danger of an Instant Crush Relapse. That in the right (or wrong) situation, my heart could go from zero to sixty in as many seconds for him, and my actions were unpredictable and dangerous to her best interests.
Not taking into account the obvious, that if he didn’t sit up and take action when I was getting all starry-eyed and puppy-dog panting every time he got near, why would he want me now?
But, it was better to be mistrusted by Saffron than ignored. This told me I still existed in her world, still had some status and power.
Pulling back from our faux hug, I took in her dark blue eyes, framed by black liner, mascara and suspicion, and knew what I had to do. I needed to show her that not only was I over Adam, but that I approved of her with him. The first was a piece of cake; the other like swallowing a softball.
“Oh,” I said and did a perfunctorily glance around her elegant entryway, “did you see Adam shoot through here?”
“Adam?” she repeated, her tone arching.
“Yeah, I gave him a ride since we were both at a family dinner. I swear, the second we hit the top of the hill, he shot out my door. Like there was someone here he couldn’t wait to see.” I lifted a playful brow. “Any idea who that might be?”
Her gaze drilled into mine. “Sounds like you’ve got something to tell me.”
I tightened my hands into fists at my side for strength. My standing on the team—basically my whole school life—could rest on how well I pulled this off. And as much as I hated this complicated mess, Adam and I would never be. Adam was disposable.
“Well, my guess, babycakes,” I said and managed a grin, “is soon you’ll be the one with something to tell.”
“Really?” She stepped closer and sucked in long, raspy breath. “Moi?”
I parted my lips to reply “Yeah, you” in French, then realized I hadn’t a clue. I went with an internationally recognized nod.
“You think, Courtney?”
“I know.”
“You’re okay with it? Adam and me?”
Time for the grand-slam hit: “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Her eyes went all Fourth of July sky, and I swear, if she could have given me another hug (once more, with feeling) without causing undue attention, she would have.
“Okay, then, have fun tonight.” She took a step, an oxygen gulp, then shot a look back at me. “Oh, Flea and the others are out by the keg.”
No surprise there. But by saying this, Saffron was really telling me that I was welcome, I was wanted, I was in.
Yay?
I moved through her house, past the low couches, glass tabletops and framed paintings that probably cost more than a new car, nodding hello at the people who made eye contact with me. I didn’t catch wind of any arched brows or “I can’t buh-leeve she’s here” murmurs, telling me whatever static was between Saffron and me had yet to make headlines.
I intended for it to stay that way.
Spotting Flea on the far side of the sliding door, I cruised through the poolside patio door. She was wearing a couple layers of tee-shirts and denim booty shorts, and slurping from a red cup.
“Hey, you!” Flea said when she saw me, and reached to squeeze my hand. “You made it.”
“Like I promised.” I did a big inhale in hopes of holding in any best friend resentment that had been snowballing, then gestured around at the crowd. “Great turn-out, huh?”
“Big house, no parents. Who wouldn’t come?”
Me, voluntarily. But I let that slide, and leaned in closer. “Hey, Saffron and Adam, huh?”
Her face tensed, like she’d known this topic was coming. “She’s hoping. You okay with it?”
“Sure. But why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just heard about it myself.” She smiled. Big. Too big. Was she telling me the truth? “He’s old news to you, anyway. And now you have Randy.”
She sounded like the guy’s mother! “I do not,” I said, lowering my volume, but not my intensity, “have Randy.”
“Okay, okay, but you said there was some cute guy at work.”
I pulled back, half-remembering a fleeting mention to explain why I didn’t mind all the
long hours there. I’d just left out little details, like his lack of flesh and blood.
“Oh,” I said and let out a long laugh. “Good looking guys come in all the time to rent tuxes, but mostly they’re like thirty years old, you know?”
“No, you said he worked with you.”
Crap! Big decision time: insist she’d misunderstood or own up to my freakish fetish for the unreal?
When my gaze suddenly zapped into Randy Schiff’s, I had more pressing matters. Especially when he moved in beside Flea, his head dipping at me in a hello.
“Courtney, right?”
“Um, hi, yeah.”
Flea garbled out a “see you later,” then made a stealth disappearance. I knew she was trying to be helpful, but all she really did was move me from one insanely uncomfortable conversation to another.
“About before,” he said, a grimace lifting his top lip high enough for me to see a sizeable gap between his front teeth. What came to my mind was the word “braces,” then I gave that thought a dentist daughter pop fly, reminding myself that some people liked that look, even made it part of their trademarks. Like Madonna. Anna Paquin from “True Blood.” And a whole bunch of rappers.
“With my mother and all,” he went on, his hand tightening around his Solo cup. “See, she was already freaked out when we got there, thinking we were too late to order a tux. And then the phone call with Jacy...” He shook his head. “It pushed her over the edge. She didn’t exactly like Jacy to begin with.”
“I caught that.”
He let out a laugh. Uneasy, but a laugh nonetheless, and something between us to share. “Yeah, anyway, sorry about all that.”
“No problem.”
I started to inch backwards, appreciating him manning up with that apology, and assuming we were done, that we’d go back to being near-strangers. When Adam pushed in between us, his long arm thrusting a cup of beer my way.