11
Ben asked you what you wanted to do, and you really didn’t care, as long as you got to be with him, but you didn’t want to say you didn’t care because that would make you sound boring and that had been one of the problems with Alex, so you suggest putt-putt golf. He comes to get you and he opens the car door for you again, and you’re hit with Abercrombie & Fitch and clean soap all over again.
You breathe.
You can’t believe this perfect boy likes you.
The two of you have texted every night, you’ve been on FaceTime, and Ben’s been over to your house too, but this is your official second date. One night he came over and you ended up watching one of the Scream movies on Netflix. You held hands, but nothing more than that happened. You were nervous most of the night, partly because you were jumpy from the movie and partly because you were afraid he might kiss you. Of course, you want him to kiss you, but your parents were home and that wouldn’t have been cool—to have your mom or dad walk in on a make-out session.
Another time, Ben “stopped by” because he was in the neighborhood. Surprisingly, you didn’t freak out when you answered your door in Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats and no makeup. You figured you met on a day when you had no makeup on, and your hair was as raggedy as it would ever be—you had river-rat hair that day—so if he likes you after seeing you like that, then he really must like you for you. Which gives you a boost of confidence and you want to make sure to hold on to that. Because you think that for once someone, this someone, Ben, likes you for who you are. Even though you’ve got the monster inside you.
You’re going to tell Ben about the monster tonight. You’re scared he might not like you after you tell him there’s something wrong with you. And that things might turn out like they did with Alex, not that you ever told Alex—things just got out of control with him. But now you’re trying to get help, your parents are getting you help, and Shayna is trying to help you too. You need to tell Ben something, and soon, if you’re going to be together. You’re just not sure what to say: So I have this monster? or, I don’t eat much? Either way, sharing this big part of yourself with him is a scary idea.
At Majestic Mini-Golf, Ben pays for the eighteen-hole course, then grabs two putters. He chooses an orange ball and you choose a green one.
“I thought you would have picked a pink or yellow ball,” he says.
“Why?” you ask.
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s what I expect girls to do, pick girlie colors, but you’re different. I should have known better. That you’d pick the unexpected color.”
“Well, green is my favorite color, so I wanted the green one,” you say.
“Aren’t you feisty tonight,” Ben says, laughing.
You feel good around him. Ben makes you want to be yourself.
On the eleventh hole he wraps his arms around your waist, pulls you close to him, so close you can smell the gum on his breath, and whispers in your ear, “I would love to kiss you.”
There is a family waiting impatiently behind you for their turn. Neither of you wants your first kiss to be on the eleventh hole while an annoying family waits their turn for putt-putt. The moment is lost, and you move on to the twelfth hole. But something’s changed. He looks at you more intently and touches you carefully as you maneuver through the maze of windmills and castles to finish the course. You wonder what’s next.
You can’t wait for what’s next.
Your whole body buzzes.
You shove the monster far down. You’re not telling Ben about him tonight.
You can’t.
12
Ben buys milk shakes for the both of you, and then he drives down the highway.
The milk shake is vanilla. It’s safe. You like chocolate too, but vanilla is good. You didn’t realize how hungry you were, and when the cold, creamy froth makes its way down into your stomach, the monster growls his approval. Usually you don’t think about the last thing you ate, and now you remember it was breakfast; you had half a chocolate-chip muffin and a glass of Carnation Instant milk. This milk shake is heaven. Being with Ben is heaven.
You slurp through the straw and ask, “Where are we going?” You really don’t care, because you’re in the car with Ben, and you’re drinking a milk shake, and the monster is satiated. Really, there’s nothing to worry about. Things at the moment are pretty perfect.
“You’ll see,” he says.
And because it’s Ben, and you already trust him, you trust him.
Ben pulls off the highway onto a gravelly semi-road and you tell yourself to still trust him. There are cacti everywhere, which isn’t unusual, but you’re really in the desert and you know if you get too far out, there are some serious wild animals. Where you live, the wildest animals you encounter are Todd and his dick friends.
“What if there are like javelinas or coyotes or bobcats out here? What about rattlesnakes?” you ask.
“Don’t worry,” he says, and laughs.
Then you think that you haven’t known Ben that long, and even if he is hot and looks and smells like an Abercrombie model, should you really be okay with this? Your heart starts thumping at a faster pace.
“Why are we driving this far into the desert?”
“It’s okay. We’re going to go watch shooting stars,” he says. Then he tilts his head toward you. “Did you think…?”
“Well. What was I supposed to think?”
The road is bumpy and Ben has stopped the car. He turns toward you and grabs your hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you nervous. You okay? I thought this would be nice, you know, kind of romantic.”
You laugh quietly, a bit embarrassed, and say, “Okay.” You can’t believe he’s planned a romantic date.
You see a sign for the trailhead of Lone Dog Mountain, a trail you and your family used to hike when you were little, when you didn’t mind hiking. Now that you know where you are, you feel more relaxed.
“Oh, we’re at Lone Dog?” you ask.
“Yep. Come on,” he says. He grabs a blanket from the backseat and you both get out of the car. Ben pulls you toward him and puts his arm around you.
The night is pitch-black but the sky is bursting with stars. Ben suggests sitting on some rocks at the trailhead but you say no because you’re sure there are rattlesnakes and scorpions. But there is a visitors’ center so you point and say, “Let’s sit there.”
Since the trail closes at sunset, the night is still and quiet, except for the sound of water trickling from somewhere. Ben uses the light from his phone to guide you to an open area where a water feature sits beyond the visitors’ center. Surrounding the fountain are six large concrete benches in a hexagon shape that are almost too big to even call benches. You imagine dozens of children scrambling upon them during the day while tired parents rest after long hikes.
You and Ben sit side by side on one of the concrete benches, facing the fountain, and at first it’s a bit awkward and uncomfortable because you’re straining your necks upward to the sky, waiting for stars to fall. Then Ben says, “Here, let’s try this,” and he pulls you up.
He spreads the blanket out on the concrete bench and tells you to lie down on your back. Your heart is racing like crazy but you do this. Then he lies down, not next to you, although there is plenty of space for him to do that. Instead, he lies so the top of his head is touching the top of yours and his body is sprawled in the opposite direction of yours. He says, “Now, give me your hands.” You reach your hands over your head and he reaches to touch your hands and you connect that way. You’re both lying there, looking up at the sky.
“There,” he says.
“There,” you say.
“So,” he says.
“So.” You giggle.
“Are you copying me?” he says.
“Are you copying me?” you ask.
“Do you want to play a game?” he asks, moving his fingers along the length of your fingertips. He’s doing this with both of his hands, to each
of your fingers. It, of course, feels freaking amazing.
“What do you want to play?” you ask.
“Twenty questions, I go first,” he says.
“Okay,” you say.
“Um, favorite band?” he asks.
“Oh God, I don’t know, like forever, or of the moment?” you ask.
“Ever.”
“U2.”
“Bonus points, right there,” he says. “Favorite movie?”
“Perks of Being a Wallflower, also favorite book.”
“Favorite flower?”
“Definitely white carnations.”
“Not red roses?”
“So cliché.”
“I knew I liked you. Okay, next question, best day of the week?”
“What’s today?”
“Tuesday.”
“Then Tuesday is the best day of the week.”
“You are winning all sorts of points in this game,” he says.
You pull your hands away from him and flip over so you’re lying on your stomach. You settle onto your elbows because you’re tired of looking up at the sky. You want to look at him.
He flips over too so you’re face-to-face. He’s got his elbows on the concrete, his chin in his hands, and he’s staring at you.
“You cold?” he asks, and places his finger gently on your forearm.
“Is that one of your twenty questions?”
“Nah, just want to know.”
You feel cozy and not one bit cold even though the temperature has dropped. “I’m okay,” you whisper.
“I have another question I just thought of,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Can I kiss you now?”
You swallow hard and close your eyes, and when you do, images of the stars from the sky flash before you, all purplish, black, and silvery white. You feel movement and you open your eyes. Ben is inching forward on his stomach, and then his hand goes to your shoulder and his lips touch yours, and he’s kissing you softly and you’re kissing him back. It’s perfect and it tastes like you thought it would—like peppermint from his gum and chocolate from his milk shake and a little bit salty sweet. It’s cool, not hot, and he doesn’t shove his tongue into your mouth the way Alex did. He just glides it across the inside of your mouth gently, exploring you a bit. He knows how to kiss, and it’s slow and fabulous and you make a noise that sounds like a soft, happy cry.
After a few moments he pulls away but he’s still holding on to your shoulder. You want to tell him not to stop, because you’ve never felt like this. You’ve never had this feeling in your life, and you feel like you could burst. You never want to leave this boy ever. You don’t know how you’re going to say good night to him when the date is over. You don’t know if you’re going to be able to do it.
You catch your breath. You’re smiling at him. He’s doing the same, smiling at you.
“It’s my turn to ask you a question,” you say finally. Your heart is racing from his kiss.
“You want to play the game now?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
You nod.
“Okay.” He sighs. You can only imagine what he’s thinking.
“Okay, here’s my question…” You pause, and then: “Will you kiss me again?”
13
You’re at the dinner table. You and your monster. You are trying.
You’re rarely at the dinner table. You make up excuses, telling your mom you have a stomachache or that you ate already, or that you’re just not hungry. Or sometimes you sit at the kitchen counter while your family eats and you pretend to eat, or you watch them eat, not even pretending to eat.
But tonight you’re sitting with everyone: Your mom. Your dad. And your brother. He’s not wearing his earbuds.
There are steaming bowls of food on the table. Corn. And some mashed potatoes speckled with pepper, and a big splat of butter melting in the center. There are rolls, and you know those are good. You will eat those.
There’s also a plate of grilled chicken. And some fruit. A mixture of slimy fruit. The colors are pretty—pastel and … well, fruity looking. You bet they might smell like they taste good, but you never get close enough to know for sure. Apples are the only fruit you actually like. But your mom didn’t even think to put apples on the freaking table—the one fruit you would actually eat.
You have a drink. Water. Shayna says you need to drink more water. That you’re going through most days dehydrated. You told her you drink water. That you drink like three glasses a day, and you drink milk. And soda.
“Soda doesn’t count as your water intake,” she told you at therapy.
Still. It’s liquid. In your mind, that counts.
Shayna told you she was “in recovery” too. Like for the past fifteen years. What the hell does that even mean? You don’t want to be in recovery for the rest of your life. You want someone to kill the monster, slice his head off quick and easy, with a machete or in a big ceremony in the center of town, complete with a guillotine, and get rid of the bastard once and for all.
“Can I get an apple?” you ask.
Your mom smiles at you. Hell, she’s beaming. You would have thought you’d asked for a steak.
You get up and grab an apple, the peeler, and a knife. You won’t eat the apple skin. Because that’s like people skin. You can’t do it.
You come back to the table and your dad and Todd are already digging in.
“How are your seven a.m. practices going?” your dad asks Todd. He’s on the varsity football team and practice has started even though school doesn’t begin for two more weeks. It’s all they ever talk about. Sports. Football. Sports. It’s annoying as freaking freak.
“Mmm,” Todd replies, his mouth full of dead chicken. The thought that the stuff in your brother’s mouth used to have a beak and feathers and flapped its wings and probably laid eggs makes your stomach churn. The thought that it used to cluck on a farm and that children’s nursery rhymes are written about the very thing your brother is chewing makes you want to run to your room and scream for hours.
“Gross,” you say. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“You should try it sometime,” Todd says back to you. “This food-in-your-mouth thing. It’s pretty good.”
“Kids, please. Stop,” your mom says. “I would just like to try and have a nice family meal for once. Please.”
She’s tensing up already, you can tell. She reaches for her wine and takes not really a sip, not quite a chug, more like a big swallow.
You grab a roll, put it on your plate, and start to peel your apple. Slowly. Everyone knows you’re stalling. You know you’re stalling. Your dad and Todd look your way and your brother rolls his eyes. You do your best to ignore him. You’re waiting. Just waiting. You take a sip of your water. Your mom cuts her chicken and takes a bite.
There are brown spots on your apple.
“Can I get a different apple?” you ask your mom.
“If you eat some chicken,” Todd says, laughing in your direction.
“Shut up,” you say to him.
“Stop,” your mother says. Your dad keeps eating.
No one has answered you yet. You ask again, “Can I?”
“Yes,” your mom says.
You go to the fridge and choose a better apple, then come back to the table.
“How’s that Ben kid?” your dad asks.
“He’s good,” you offer, and start the slow process of peeling your new apple.
“I don’t like him,” Todd says.
“You didn’t even meet him,” you say. “What do you care anyway? You don’t even like me,” you accuse.
“True,” he says.
Your mom picks up her plate and wineglass and takes them to the sink.
“What, Mom?” Todd asks.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to my children talk to each other like this. I try. I try so goddamn hard, and this is what I get.” She is near tears, and yo
u feel bad. You look down at your plate. You pick at your roll, place a piece of the bread on your tongue, like it’s communion.
Your mom looks from you to Todd and back at you. Then she looks at your dad.
“Well? Are you going to do anything about these children?” she asks him as if he has an answer.
Your dad shrugs, shoves a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. Your mom lifts her wineglass, looks at the three of you, finishes the wine, and walks out of the room.
The monster has won again.
14
Can I see you tonight?
You’re surprised when you get the text from Ben because it’s Saturday night and he left last night to go camping with his family for the weekend.
You’re home?
Yep, bad weather up north.
Would love to see you.
Can I come by in 15?
Sure!
You were supposed to see a movie with Jae but she bailed on you at the last minute so you had been in your room watching YouTube videos and sketching a bit with your drawing pencils. You change out of your sweats and pull on jeans and a cute T-shirt, one that’s not been on your floor for weeks. You swipe on some mascara and paint your lips a glossy rose-petal pink. You sniff your armpits and spritz on some body spray for an added touch. You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard, but you want to look like you care. There’s a delicate balance.
You find a pair of socks on the floor, smell them, and decide they’ll make the cut, but barely. Then you pull on your hot-pink Chucks and head downstairs.
“I’m going out with Ben for a little while,” you announce to your parents, who are watching TV in the family room.
“Oh, are you?” your mother asks, and you know what she means.
“May I go out for a little while?” you ask, rolling your eyes.
“Where are you going?” your dad wants to know.
“I don’t know,” you say. “He just texted to see if I could go out. It’s not a major deal.” You’re giving him all sorts of attitude. “How come Todd never gets the third degree when he goes out?”
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