by A. J. Lape
“No,” I said truthfully. “We were just talking,” I half-lied.
In a rare out-of-character moment, Dylan accepted my answer and didn’t push for particulars which told me he hadn’t seen what White Van had attempted to do. “Then let me start again,” he murmured. “Sweetheart, we’re out of sync. I know you’ve had some bad luck lately, but maybe we can do something to cheer you up. Guess who just got a text from your aunt?”
Oh, God, no. That meant one of two things. Red wanted him to rat me out on something, or worse yet, she wanted him to take me…someone help me…shopping.
Ugh, ugh, ugh.
Shopping was okay when I was in control.
Not when someone was trying to morph me into someone else.
When I winced, he grinned, “The occasion is Rookie’s party. You’re an honored guest and have an unlimited shopping spree under my fine eye. Come on, Darc,” he winked. “Let’s get these last two classes in. I’ll blow through practice, and then we’ll go stimulate the economy.”
My uncle hosted a holiday bash each year for all his hoity-toity friends who helped him get elected. For some insane reason, he felt it was a good idea I was on the invite-list. There was no need to protest. They’d already made a unilateral decision I was going. I didn’t have the energy anyway.
Dylan led us back up the steps in a run, not even broaching the subject why I’d been standing outdoors, barely clothed, talking to total strangers. That seemed Grade A Stupid to me, but Dylan sometimes operated under the auspices I’d been behaving.
God love him. Sometimes he was an idiot.
After one class (our sixth periods weren’t together), we met up going to seventh period English. While we navigated our way through the crowd, Dylan got sidetracked talking to Grumpy and Finn. Grumpy had his cell phone half hanging out of his back pocket…so I picked it while we were walking. When he turned around with a huff, I basically barfed up my entire day, starting with Brantley McCoy and Nico Drake’s dead body, ending with my run-in with the three guys in the parking lot.
“Does Taylor know this?”
“No. Does that make me a bad person?”
“It doesn’t exactly make you humanitarian of the year. He’s like the nicest person I know, Walker.” I pulled my books closer to my chest, trying to dematerialize. “You’re honestly taking this reward seriously?” he continued in surprise. I gave him a sullen nod. “Red Mustang, huh?” Another nod. “I know him. I’ll talk to him tomorrow about Coach’s car.”
“Throw out Nico Drake’s name too.”
Grumpy’s gaze went hard as granite. “And why would I do that?”
“Do you remember me asking Slapstick and Damon about The Ghost?” Another granite gaze. “Well, just do it. And ask them about the creepo guy in the white van. I don’t like those guys, and I don’t know why.”
At least that’d be something. I attempted to explain the word patience to my brain as Grumpy scratched his brown mop-head. Looking over his shoulder for privacy, he whispered, “Listen, Walker,” while we dodged in and out of the crowd. “I’m getting desperate here, and the dance is knocking at my door. At this point I’d take the closest air-breathing mammal who looks halfway monogamous.”
Shoot, I’d forgotten about Clementine. Well, not totally, but I hadn’t given her high priority. I told him, “I’ll work on it.”
“But it has to be her idea, Walker. A guy has to keep his reputation.”
Once again, I muttered, “I’ve got you covered.”
“And if not her, then I’ll take Ivy…if she’s still single, that is.”
Gross. Grumpy needed his head examined.
I didn’t want to be an intergalactic killjoy—that was his shtick—but we needed to have a heart-to-heart about his choices in women. Trouble was, he’d probably want a heart-to-heart about my choices of recreation. As a whole, he was a well-adjusted guy, but around the holidays he was like everyone else—no one was immune to that feeling of desperation. That feeling you’d be all alone and that peace on earth stuff would choke the life out of you.
17. Social Mores
Basketball practice dismissed early when the cops busted up the party. Dylan, Finn, and Grumpy evidently were on the menu regarding Nico Drake. Can you say, Instant PR problem? Evidently, Dylan’s father had gotten a heads up they’d like to question the three, and since he was in Europe, his superstar attorney dropped everything and met them in AP Unger’s office. It was a short meeting, but when the cops discovered I was on-site (seriously, I’m not sure why I wasn’t on the invite list initially), after a quick call to Murphy, I opened the floodgates and told them what I thought: Nico was a douchebag, threatened girls, felt them up, didn’t know that no meant no, and given that his actions were deplorable and probably deserved death, I’d come to the conclusion I wasn’t sad he was dead—even though I had been initially.
I then confessed I felt better for getting that off my chest…
Superstar Attorney dove across the table and slammed a palm over my flapping gums. Dylan dropped an f-bomb, immediately demanding I shut up. AP Unger said, “Ditto.” I didn’t look at Grumpy and Finn. I chose to believe they were silently laughing rather than paralyzed with shock. Thankfully, the four of us had alibis, but I’m pretty sure the cops left with me on their radar. That’s what happens when you’re unstable. The trained can sniff you out.
But a funny little thing happened in that meeting. Everyone wanted to know the name of the girl Nico had accosted. Uh, yeah…me too. AP Unger divulged her name as freshman art enthusiast, Madison Flannery. Well, guess who was now Madison Flannery’s new best friend? I raised my hand in my own demented mind.
Dylan and I had just picked four dresses off the rack at Nordstrom’s Department Store, on the quest to find the holiday dress my aunt insisted I buy. I’d already test-driven three and stared at myself in a long-sleeved, siren-red mini. It fit me like a glove with textured fringe on the bottom. Falling mid-thigh, the fringe added an extra illusion of length.
I giggled over the changing room door, “Come and feast your eyes on the goods, Big Man.”
Dylan chuckled, “Darc, when are you going to realize we’re not six years old anymore? I can’t see you in your underwear.”
“You see me in a bikini every summer.”
Pause. “True, but we can’t. Come out, and let me see it.”
“I can’t get it zipped.”
“Aw, Darc, I can’t do that either. The females near you won’t appreciate the intrusion.” Debatable.
I frowned, throwing both arms over my back, attempting to grab the little hook and pull north. “Do you zip Sydney’s dresses?”
He didn’t answer right away. I took that as confirmation enough. “That’s different. She’s my sister.”
I played with the fringe and wondered what Murphy would think…I knew. He’d wonder where the rest of the dress was. “You don’t love me like you love her.”
A smile was in his voice. “I love you differently than anyone, sweetheart.”
Before I could talk myself out of it, I blurted out six words that proved I had no pride whatsoever. “Would you zip Brynn Hathaway’s dress?”
There was an undertow of shock in Dylan, him sounding offended without even voicing a peep. He shifted around, mumbling things I couldn’t unravel. “Why in the world would you say that, Darcy? You know what I’ve asked of you, and those feelings haven’t changed.” I stared in the mirror, realizing I’d broached a subject I wished I could immediately take back. Guys didn’t like desperate girls. I didn’t know much about relationships, but everything I saw on TV showed them running for cover when the girl became clingy.
Thank God Dylan granted me the gift of silence.
After some self-loathing, I mumbled, “I apologize. That sounded whiny and desperate. And every bit of r
esearch I’ve conducted claims whiny and desperate are major turnoffs.”
He chuckled deeply, “Come here, Darc, and let me get my hands on you. You’re the only crazy blonde I want in my life.”
I stole one last glance in the mirror. It’d been a long day. Not only did I have raccoon eyes but hair that looked like it belonged on a chinchilla’s butt. I looked inebriated, and the strongest thing I’d ever consumed was cough medicine with codeine. Holding the back of my dress together, I unlatched the door and took a step. There’s no sexy way to walk with socks rumpled at your ankles and an unzipped dress you’re trying to hold together. You just hope your butt and naked skin score some points. Trying to walk like a sexpot, I tiny-stepped it to Dylan who sat on a red leather sofa, scrolling through his BlackBerry.
He’d cleaned up well. He still wore the same clothes as this morning, but his “Ranger” hat covered his modern-messy hair. The swallow in his throat alerted me he struggled with the assignment; that brought on a deep feeling of sadness. We’d definitely crossed the barrier into male versus female, appropriate and inappropriate, no turning back.
Great if this turned into something everlasting.
If it didn’t? That would plain suck.
I lifted my hair off my neck and turned my back to him. Dylan stood up, placing his right hand on the small of my back, pulling my zipper up with the other. His hands were hot on my skin. I shakily pivoted to face him, trying my best to act unaffected.
“What do you think?”
He ran both hands down the sides of my dress—leaving them on my hips a little longer than warranted—then held his index finger up over my head, twirling it like a merry-go-round. I gave a slow 360-degree turn.
“We’re done,” he murmured resolutely.
“Does it make my chest look bigger?” I asked, still not convinced. Dylan rearranged his hat, nervously looking over his shoulder like he dodged a spear. “It doesn’t,” I whispered when his eyes grew wide.
“I do not concur,” he grinned. Dylan was dumb. Grabbing my face in his left hand, he tilted my face upward. “I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. There’s not one thing about your body I’d change.”
I turned, crashed on the couch, and burst into tears. I looked like an idiot, and Dylan was the biggest liar that ever walked the face of the third planet. My athletic socks hung at the ankles, and my glasses were coated in a misty fog. I not only looked like an idiot, I looked like a depressed idiot.
“I’m a freak,” I sniveled.
“You’re too cute to be a freak.”
I looked down at my chest and knew my own personal endowments weren’t anything to jump for joy over. “Maybe I would be less freakish with a push-up bra.”
Dylan gave me his TMI face. “Oh, God,” he whispered, rearranging his hat again. “I shouldn’t have taken this job.”
I blubbered like the fat on a whale. “Best friends are supposed to talk about these things, but you won’t talk anymore. Then you want to…date me. What would that do to us, D? Don’t you see a pattern here?”
Surely to God, he saw the signs…right? My God, did he not watch talk shows? “Please, don’t cry. Dating would only make our relationship better.”
No, dating me would be like an eventual death sentence, but he seemed determined to shake hands with the Grim Reaper. “Then answer about the bra,” I sniffed.
He swallowed, “I think I feel nauseous.”
God help me. This crying jag was worse than the first. Dylan scrubbed his forehead so hard he left a red mark. “D, I don’t like change. And you’ll barely talk as it is.”
“We’re talking.”
“I’m making you talk. There’s a difference.”
He pushed my hair off my face, sliding into the seat beside me. “Okay, ask me anything.”
“Everything is overwhelming. Push-up bras are overwhelming. School is overwhelming. The things you make me feel are overwhelming.”
Dylan stared hard—a brief moment of triumph in his eyes—but it quickly dissolved, and he rekindled the staring. He eventually found his way back to the subject at hand.
“What’s Murphy say?” he asked.
“About three years ago, Murphy gave me a book about the changes a girl goes through. A book,” I whispered, “that’s all.” I shook my head and waved my arms in exasperation like I’d been gypped in the parental-guidance department. “Who gives their kid a book?”
Dylan ran his hand down his jaw, crossed and recrossed his legs. He sometimes got fidgety when conversations made him uncomfortable. That didn’t happen often, but he looked like he’d rather play twister with a python. “Was it a good book?”
“It was a book of Grandma Marjorie’s from the turn of the century.” Dylan burst into rumbling laughter, throwing his head back. “Haven’t there been medical break-throughs in the meantime?”
He laughed even louder, covering his mouth. “The body still works the same,” he chuckled. “The wording in today’s books might be more user-friendly, but anatomy is anatomy. Have you talked to Red?”
Listen, my problems ran deeper than Puberty 101. It stemmed from having a father who was afraid I’d turn into a ’ho with too much information and an aunt who was convinced I’d turn into a ’ho out of curiosity. “Red is happy I finally got a chest,” was my answer. “I think she hopes I’ll get the rest on the bus.”
I felt like an idiot. Add Claudia and her malfunctioning voodoo cream and my closest girlfriend being a boy, there was no wonder my grasp of the birds and the bees—let alone the flowers and the trees—was severely stunted. “Can’t you see why this would never work? I’m asking you to explain the birds and the bees when you’re asking me to experience the birds and the bees with you.”
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “The conversations we have keep me up at night.” He looked me straight in the eyes. “Seriously?”
I nodded, wiping away my pathetic tears. “The Adult Channels really aren’t informative.”
With that statement, Dylan dove in like a health teacher—oblivious to anyone that came near. I pivoted toward him as we talked about the birds and bees, pollination, and the mating habits of the rabbit. Then he analyzed, dissected, and basically gave an oral report on the human version as my heart was thump-thump-thumping against my rib cage. Beads of perspiration formed over my lips, and I’m pretty sure I coughed a few times in disbelief.
When he finished, he murmured, “You can close your mouth now, Darc.” I couldn’t. “Well, at least breathe.” I couldn’t seem to do that either.
“Are you s-sure?” I sputtered.
“Happened the same way for centuries.”
Murphy left out quite a few details, and Grandma Marjorie’s book didn’t explain the gymnastics of the process. “It sounds sort of scary,” I shivered.
I felt like I needed a shower.
Dylan’s eyes softened. My guess was he hadn’t expected my reaction, but really, how did guys think we felt?
“I promise you,” he murmured, “with the right guy it will not be scary.” He threw in the word marriage. One prerequisite Murphy did drill into my head.
Funny thing was, I’d prefer living with Dylan as my roomie than marrying someone I’d known for only a few years. He was the one who picked my head up and twisted it on in the morning. How could someone replace that?
“If my science experiment or you and I don’t work out, can we live together?” I asked sheepishly. I sounded like a skanky ’ho-bag, but oh well.
“Darc, you have to be the most naïve person I’ve ever met, but if it makes you feel better, then yes. I’ll make sure you’re not alone.” I was giddy with the possibilities. I wouldn’t have to cook, and if the urge didn’t strike, I wouldn’t have to clean. Dylan lost most, if not his entire smile. “Why is it you make eve
rything so frigging hard?” he muttered to himself.
I stood up and turned toward the mirror, literally lifting my boobs with both hands. Okay, it wasn’t my boobs; it was more like my ribs.
He massaged both temples. “Please,” he whispered, “don’t do that around me.”
Apparently, he thought it was futile. Dylan and I defied social mores even having these conversations, but these were things girls confessed to one another while they lay in their sleeping bags, talking about the hottest guy on campus. It stunk when your best friend was a boy. There was no squeezing into a single stall to give your thumbs up or down. There was no running to get another size while you safely stayed tucked away. No, I had to walk outside, hold my zipper together, and beg Mr. Too-Mouth-Watering-For-His-Own-Good to zip up the body fate screwed me with.
I rang Murphy, checking in before leaving Nordstrom’s. “You’d better hit the road, kid,” he grumbled. “This storm system rolled into the area in record time, and I’m afraid you’re not going to make it home before the accumulation hits.”
“It’s snowing?” I said shocked.
“That’s one way to term an avalanche,” Murphy grunted. “Get home. Now.”
Dylan pulled his wallet out of his inside pocket, handing the sales associate an American Express Centurion Card. That was just wrong. No teenager should have unlimited funds—which is what that black card promised—and by the look on the sales associate’s face, she could not disagree more. She’d pulled two pairs of shoes earlier—a black ankle boot with a three-inch heel and flesh-colored gladiator-like sandals with a four-inch stiletto. Jimmy Choos. My God, they cost more than Murphy’s 401K monthly contributions. When she saw Dylan hadn’t been swayed by the price, she dumped several earrings and bangly bracelets on the countertop, declaring they were the “next big thing.”