DC Trip

by Sara Benincasa

  “So, um,” Rachel said. “About last night …”

  “We can forget about last night if you want, Rachel,” Carter said. “We were both drunk and we said some things …”

  “They were true things, though,” Rachel said. “Weren’t they?”

  “Well, yeah,” Carter said. “I mean, I think they were. I was being honest. I really think you’re into me.”

  “And I really think you’re into me,” Rachel said.

  “Maybe we’re both right,” Carter said.

  “So what do we do?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, what would you usually do in this situation?” Carter said.

  “Fuck you behind the gym,” Rachel said automatically.

  “Okay, we’re going to do the opposite of that,” Carter said.

  “Fuck … in the art studio?” Rachel said uncertainly.

  “No,” Carter said. “Not at first, anyway. We’re going to get to know each other. I’m going to take you on a date.”

  “A date?” Rachel was shocked. “Like, a real date? With flowers and everything?”

  “With flowers and everything,” Carter Bump said. “And no sex for a while.”

  “Wow,” Rachel said.

  “You in?” Carter said.

  “Yeah,” Rachel said. “I’m in. But what will we do if we don’t have sex?”

  “We’ll talk, Rachel,” Carter said.

  “Wow,” Rachel said. “You’re blowing my mind.”

  “I have that effect on women,” Carter said.

  Gertie watched with wonder as Peighton and Sivan had what appeared to be a perfectly civilized conversation, and Carter Bump and Rachel had—wait, what the hell kind of conversation was Rachel having with Carter Bump? They were smiling at each other like total dorks.

  Holy shit, did Rachel and Carter Bump like each other?

  Gertie marveled at what madness life could bring.

  Then she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  She turned around, and there was Danny Bryan. He smiled down at her and she struggled to stay on her feet.

  “What?” she asked of no one in particular. “What?”

  “Hi,” he said.

  “How are you here?” she asked, confused.

  “We got back to Lindbergh early and I figured you’d be getting to FHS around now,” Danny said. “Looks like I was right.”

  “You came here just to see me?” Gertie asked in dis-

  belief.

  “I came here just to see you,” Danny said. “Oh, where are your mom and dad?”

  “They’re here somewhere,” Gertie said. “Over behind that tree, talking to some parents. Why?”

  “Cool, they’re not looking,” Danny said, and he pulled her to him.

  “I didn’t get to do this last night,” he whispered in her ear. “And I didn’t want to wait another seven years.”

  And then he kissed her—like a real kiss, like lips meeting lips, and lips parting and tongue meeting tongue and it was not at all gross as Gertie had suspected her first kiss might be, but was in fact perfect and amazing and even better than masturbating about Danny Bryan had ever been. He pressed her to him and she wasn’t positive but she thought she felt something hard, and made a mental note to ask Rachel about that.

  When they parted, she stared up at him, her eyes wide.

  “Here?” she said. “I mean—you came here, for this?”

  “For you,” he said. “I’d go anywhere for you.”

  And if there was any doubt whether she grabbed him and kissed him again then, even with all the parents and students milling around, right there in broad daylight, in front of everybody, on the front lawn of Flemington High School while cars whizzed past on Route 31 …

  … well, of course she fucking did.

  From: Alicia Deats

  To: Karen Fox

  Subject: You survived!

  Karen, I cannot tell you how proud I am of you. Don’t you dare feel bad about that emergency phone call from the bathroom at the National Portrait Gallery. A student sticking gum on a portrait of George Washington would be enough to give anybody a panic attack. I’m glad you kept those Xanax I gave you. And that they didn’t call the D.C. police.

  I will admit I’m flattered you used some of my tactics, and impressed you thought to tape all the doors with duct tape every single night. Yes, duct tape takes the paint off the walls and you will have to pay out of your own pocket, but hey! Rookie mistake!

  Things were quiet on the home front except for one thing, and you must swear up and down you won’t tell anybody—I’m pregnant. Yes, Brian Kenner finally put a baby inside me. You know I was big on a child-free lifestyle for the first few years of our marriage, but we’ve actually been trying for a year because we decided we were ready. I’ve been taking this weird herbal fertility mix that I get from the herbalist who works out of the yoga studio. I guess it worked, or maybe doing it like mad with no condom or birth control just eventually leads to this sort of thing.

  At any rate, next school year they’re going to need someone to teach AP History while I’m on maternity leave, and I figure you’re as good a choice as any, Ms. Fox. When the time is right, I’ll put in a good word with the principal. I know you’ll only be a second-year teacher, but fuck it. You’re my favorite and I’ve taught you all my secret tricks, anyway, Young Padawan Learner. (That’s a Star Wars joke, if you didn’t know. Sometimes I forget that not everybody talks to each other the way Brian and I do. He wants to call the kid Anakin, and I’m like, “Um, no, that does not bode well for anyone.” So it’s up for debate.)

  So be good, little Karen. Take good care of yourself. I’ll see you soon. I’m proud of you.

  Love,

  Alicia

  P.S. Do you want a fuckload of weed? Because I have a lot and I can’t do anything with it for nine months. Kids ruin everything.

  This book would not exist if Marshall Lewy hadn’t mysteriously shown up at a panel I was on at the Silver Lake Public Library in 2014, so I thank him for finding a justifiable reason to cut out of work early and go author scouting. Thanks also to Cecil Castellucci for putting me on said panel!

  Jordan Hamessley has been a delightful editor and I appreciate that she made me put in a dirtier sex scene for Alicia and Brian. That’s the kind of editorial advice you want.

  Thanks to the entire team at Adaptive Books and Adaptive Studios; Jane Fransson for being there early on to guide this ship; Deb Shapiro for PR wizardry; Diana Kolsky for the brilliant cover; the dead trees that made the pages of the printed galleys and books. I love you forever, dead trees. I will plant new baby trees in your honor. Thank you to Emily Epstein White for copyediting the living FUCK out of the manuscript and for being my friend for many years. I remember the first time I walked into a comedy club in the back of a bubble tea shop in Chinatown and there you were. “Maybe she’ll be my friend,” I thought. KABOOM! HERE WE ARE! Thanks also goes to copyediting magician Laaren Brown!

  Thank you to John DeVore, who motivated me, encouraged me, celebrated with me, hugged me when I needed it, and reminded me that our beautiful Shih-Tzu/Chihuahua/toy poodle/greyhound mix, Morley Safer, still needed playtime even if I was busy struggling with how to write the dirty sex scene demanded by one Jordan Hamessley. In the time it took me to write this book, John did many amazing things, including winning two James Beard Awards for an essay about Taco Bell. He is one cool cat.

  Thank you to my family, the Benincasas and the Donnellys and all our extended families (Kozielecs, other Benincasas, Stahlins, Persicos, Hodnetts, Faersteins, Francises, etc.) for being so unbelievably supportive and enthusiastic. A special mazel tov to my brother, Steve, and my future sister-in-law, Elaine.

  Just a few of the people who inspired me during this writing process: the brilliant Jill Soloway, who makes art that saves lives and also makes me laugh my ass off; the hilarious Michael Ian Black, who is pretty much a comic genius in my book and is very handsome and debonair to boot; the incredibly gif
ted Lena Dunham, who ought to be known as much for her generosity of spirit as she is for her wit and talent and butt; the incomparable Diablo Cody, with whom I have been honored to work for the past few years; Rebecca Trent, who gave me an excellent TARDIS blanket; and Roxane Gay, who kicks all kinds of ass. Thank you Tom Perrotta for everything. You rock my face off. Thanks also to Albert Berger and Ron Yerxa for believing in Gertie and Alicia.

  Thanks to my literary agent, Scott Mendel, who deserves to be the subject of laudatory ballads written by wandering Renaissance-era performers and is what the kids call “a true mensch.” Thanks to the excellent Doug Johnson, Melissa Orton and Josh Pearl at ICM and the scamp known as Sean Lawton at Keppler Speakers. (HI DARLENE!)

  A final thanks to the britches and witches of SHOUTYCAMP. You know who you are.