by Ryan Schow
“Brayden’s got some edge,” Bridget says. “But in a good way, you know? In an honest way. If he wasn’t so damned ugly, I’d totally consider doing him.”
Swallowing hard, I say, “Isn’t your father a minister?”
She looks at me, her eyes locking on mine, and gives me a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “He’s not a minister, he’s the minister. The famous Reverend Steward Montgomery. If you’ve turned on the television at all on Sunday, you’ve probably seen him.”
“I have.”
“Yeah, well I’m out of the prison of religion for the next two years, so I’m making the most of my free time, with boys and everything else. After that, it’s lockdown again.” She looks at me, her expression falling flat. “I’m going to Westmont College in Santa Barbara after I graduate. It’s a Christian college. My dad wants me majoring in Religious Studies, for the love of Jesus. I mean, how the hell am I going to get laid in a place like that?” I just shrug my shoulders. She says, “Exactly. That’s why I’m making cookies while I can, so to speak.”
“Making cookies?” I ask.
She gives me a sly wink and says, “Yeah, making cookies.” Now I get it. Sex.
5
Georgia and Victoria join us, the two of them walking hand in hand, completely ignoring the mob of students making their way into the cafeteria. Trailing behind them is Julie Sanderson and Cameron O’Dell, the two of them rolling their eyes at Georgia and Victoria. Soon the four of us are together, but before we can say word one, Julie and Cameron stroll by, their hardened eyes grating across the girth of me. Their judgment is a weight I can’t ignore, a weight that makes my colon clench. Julie gets close enough to touch me. She slows to a stop, sniffs the air around me, then curls her nose and continues walking. The two girls are giggling at some inside joke. The inside joke, however, is me.
I’m everyone’s inside joke.
“Don’t mind Julie,” Georgia says. Of the three of them, Georgia is the most nurturing. “I hear she had an abortion at thirteen, then a baby at fifteen. By a different guy. At least, that’s the rumor. Her parents hid her pregnancy with home schooling. Then, when she had it, they gave it up for adoption because the Sanderson’s are prominent Republicans and wouldn’t let Julie abort twice.”
“So I’m supposed to feel sorry for her?” I say.
“I’m just trying to tell you why she’s so mean,” Georgia says. “So you know it’s not you.”
“What about Cameron? What’s her problem?”
Victoria says, “Her father’s a country music sensation who works his ass off to pay for Cameron’s mother’s cocaine problem. Maybe you’ve heard of him, Patrick O’Dell?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, blushing. “Who hasn’t?”
Bridget smiles, a sexy faraway look they all suspect has everything to do with how good looking and famous he is. “If he wasn’t so much better looking than Keith Urban, I’d dream of setting his rotten bitch of a daughter on fire.”
“Yeah, she’s a nightmare,” Victoria says. “Last year, when Georgia asked her why she was so shitty, Cameron said, ‘I’m an artist and cruelty is my medium.’ What an unholy terror that one is.”
“She’s like the bin Laden of Facebook,” Bridget adds. “She was kicked out of Excelsior last year for harassing two girls to death on Facebook. The things Cameron posted about them, I hear it was horrible.”
“Allegedly,” Georgia says.
“This isn’t a court of law,” Bridget counters. “Besides, you’ve seen her posts. She’s one soulless twat, if ever there was one.”
“On a separate, more important note,” Victoria says, “they’re having filet mignon today and I want a decent cut this time.”
We have lunch, mostly unmolested by Julie Satan and the Diabolical Three, which is the nickname Georgia coined for them. Eating my lunch, studying them without being too obvious about it, I’m still dying to know the non-triplets’ secret. Even with varying styles, they’re all so freaking identical.
“So if you’re not going to tell me why you all look exactly alike,” I finally say, “maybe you could tell me something else about yourselves. If we’re all going to be friends, that is.”
“Georgia had cystic fibrosis,” Bridget says with food in her mouth.
“Hey, talk about yourself, Bridget,” Georgia snaps. “I can tell my own story.”
Bridget sighs, then says, “Okay, fine. You know my father is”—and she uses finger quotes and the dramatic eye roll here—“the famous Reverend Montgomery, but what you don’t know is he’s never met a vagina he doesn’t love. Aside from my mother, he has a girlfriend on the side. She’s twenty-five at best with an apartment he rents for her on the DL.”
“Wow,” I say, genuinely startled. “For real?”
“I overheard a phone conversation and I confronted him about it. For some reason my mother doesn’t know, unless she’s a big time faker. I said I couldn’t keep pretending. He asked what I wanted and I said distance. Lots of distance. He’s got like sixty million viewers, people who believe in him and trust he’s a conduit to God, and yet he can’t keep his winkie in his shorts. It’s disgusting.”
“So your mom hasn’t let on that she knows then?”
“I think on some level maybe she knows. Or she should, at least. My two older brothers, I don’t think they know. At least, I hope they don’t know.”
“Is that why you dress the way you do?” I ask. The word I’m thinking is easy. Or slutty.
“No, that’s different. This is me being free. Like I said earlier, this is me knowing I have an expiration date on my freedom.”
I look at Georgia and she says, “As Bridget so gracelessly said, I had cystic fibrosis. But I’m better now.” Her eyes sink to her uneaten steak and potatoes; she pushes her food around with her fork then says, “My older brother was killed three years ago in a hit and run, and my mother now has breast cancer. Again. If you want to know something about me, it’s that my family is dying off while I’m off here in Never-Never-Land.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, understanding now why she seems to care so much about me. She spent her adolescence caring for others in pain. She understands loss.
“I miss my brother,” she says, her eyes misting over. “And I’m afraid for my mother.”
There’s a lull of silence that settles over us all. It’s always this way when someone talks about death or sickness. I say, “I’m sorry you’re going through this, Georgia. I never had a brother, but I can tell you love him.”
Her eyes flood, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing.
Victoria clears her throat, finishes chewing her steak, swallows and says, “My dad is a hedge fund manager in New York who is obsessed with beautiful things like art and cars and houses. He has this thing about wanting what he can’t have or what he perceives as unattainable. When he heard about Astor Academy, he said to me and my sister, ‘You girls are going there.’ My sister refused to leave her friends, but I didn’t have any friends, so it was an easy decision. He’s happy now, and I’m happy, so there you go. I’m the no-drama-mama of the group.”
“That’s why you’re here?” I ask. “Because your father is vain, or proud? Or whatever?”
“Anyone who knows my dad knows he’s got raging insecurities and doing things like this—sending me to a school that is best defined as ‘the country’s best kept secret’—is how he deals with them. We have three houses, eight cars, more money than we can spend in ten whole lifetimes and still it’s not enough. Something’s broken in him, something deep down, but if he’s looking to me to fill his insecurities, I’m happy to oblige. It won’t fix him, but whatever. The ride is good.”
“Speaking of vain,” Bridget says, “how do my tits look in this corset?” She’s wearing a black corset boasting inches and inches of cleavage. At first I thought her attire was a bit suggestive. Now I realize it’s very suggestive. She’s pushing the swollen tops of her breasts out at us.
“Ma
kes you look like a slut,” Victoria says with a mouthful of food.
“Good.”
“Good?” I ask, confused.
“I’m projecting.”
Georgia says, “I personally thing you’re projecting a little too much.”
“Me being a minister’s daughter,” Bridget says. “I’m every boy’s fantasy. Besides Georgia, the sooner you try sex the less time you’ll spend worrying about what it will be like.”
“So you’ve had sex then?” I ask. Why this surprises me after she said what she said just before lunch, I can’t say for sure. Sex is something good looking people do, and married people sometimes do, which is why I’ve never even come close to doing it.
I’ve never even held a boy’s hand.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not easy,” Bridget says, a sinister grin on her lovely face. “But I’ve already slept with two boys since I got here.”
Georgia seems startled. “I thought it was just one.”
“It was up until last week,” she boasts.
“What? This is how you tell us? You freaking holdout!” Victoria says, looking offended. Then, chewing on her mock anger, she says, “Details, girl. Details.”
“Well, it still hurt like hell, and my guilt weighed a ton at first, but I’d do it again. Maybe not with him because, well…he’s uncircumcised.”
Bridget and Victoria squeal with laughter, but inside I’m thinking, who cares what it looks like? To just feel wanted would be something worth talking about.
“It was like a worm with a sock over its head, so I closed my eyes a lot. He was a great kisser, though, so it wasn’t all gross.”
Georgia kind of makes a sour face, and she won’t look at Bridget, but I think it’s because she’s embarrassed with what she’s hearing.
Last year this girl Netty started to be friends with said her boyfriend wanted to go all the way and when he pulled down his pants to do it, the ugly thing he called his ‘junk’ looked like some dangling thrown-away meat roll. She said she couldn’t go through with it. He broke up with her a week later and that was that. I haven’t wondered about sex since then. Until now. I don’t want to think differently about Bridget, but part of me does. I don’t understand how she could be with two guys, but then again, if I could be with two guys I would totally do it, too. Does that make me easy? Maybe. Or maybe I just like the idea of sex, and not having any opportunities is me being desperate. Looking at Bridget, marveling at her beauty and her freedom, my heart burns with jealousy.
“Do you even believe in God?” I ask Bridget. This is a fair question, considering her father is a televangelist.
“I believe in free will and consequence. The whole question of God or no God is not a subject I’m willing or able to contemplate in this early juncture of my life. I’m only sixteen for heaven’s sake.”
“Forget the God topic,” Victoria says. “I want to know, who’s the second guy?”
“Not telling.”
“Bitch,” Victoria says.
“Wicked bitch,” Georgia adds.
“Lucky bitch,” I say and the three of them break into laughter. “What?” I say. “Fat girls need love, too.”
“You’re not fat,” Georgia says. “We keep trying to tell you that.”
“Georgia’s right,” Victoria chimes in.
“Whatever,” I say with a smile. Being together, joyful and relaxed, something inside me dares to loosen up, like all the hurt from the past is ready to simply fall away. Looking at the girls, still unsure of their secrets, I decide it doesn’t matter because I trust them. Plus, there’s a new side of me emerging, a side that feels a sense of ease and belonging I haven’t felt before. Even though I’m envious of them, and different in not-so-good ways, for the first time in my life I feel like I’m part of something. I feel wanted, appreciated. Or maybe I’m just fooling myself and they really will dump pig’s blood on me at prom.
This thought draws out my cautious side, my skeptical side. Truthfully, I’m scared. What if they are pretending? What if they are plotting?
Eating my food, I leave the three of them to their conversations, to their shared lives. After a minute or so of my introspective silence, Bridget asks about my life. What is there to talk about but Margaret? I’m me because of her. After I give them the highlight reel that is my childhood life, Georgia says Margaret sounds awful and I’m like, “Yeah, she’s the worst.”
Bitches and the Boy-God
1
Just before the second bell rings indicating the start of fourth period Investigative Journalism, I’m walking into class and not seeing many open seats. At this point, after a good lunch with the girls, I’m feeling pretty fresh, not so lonely, and then I see who’s in my class. Right away dark clouds blot out my sunshine. Julie Satan and the Diabolical Three. All four of them.
Awesome.
I look for Brayden, but he’s sitting closer to the front and there isn’t a seat available. He sees me and smiles, but in an aloof sort of way. As much as I was hoping to sit next to him once more, it appears I’m on my own here.
I’m looking to sit as far from everyone as possible, but with class sizes this intimate, there aren’t dozens of students to hide behind. There are about fourteen. With only about three seats to choose from—two up front near the four nightmares, and one in back—the choice is easy. The back of the classroom is the only place to hide. No one even notices me.
Just as I’m taking out my iPad and getting situated, I look up and—oh my God—walking into class is the most gorgeous boy ever. That whole “love at first sight” thing, it’s not bullshit.
Holy cow, it’s for real!
If eyes can feast on the flesh of others, my eyes are ravenous. Even my heart becomes a loud and thumping thing, rendering me breathless, causing tightness in my chest, and a stirring just under my FUPA. He doesn’t see me, which is fine; I don’t want to be seen. I just want to look.
Heat and moisture slick my skin, misting me with the kind of nervous sweat fat girls never want but have anyway in the presence of boys like this. I steal away, trying to compose myself, trying to remember how to breathe.
Like any normal guy, I expect him to take a seat by the four nightmares, so imagine my surprise when he walks right over to me. Oh sweet Jesus, this isn’t happening. Is he actually going to talk to me? I hope so! What should I say? I look up with my best smile only to find him glaring down at me, his face no longer neutral. Time stops.
Why does he look annoyed?
“You’re in my seat,” he says. His voice bears all the warmth of a block of ice. The way he’s practically hovering over me, his aggressive posture, I realize my stupidity in thinking anything more than this would happen. Complete and total devastation.
My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment as I gather my things and move toward the four nightmares. A few of them are grinning at me, silent like the rest of the class as they watch the confrontation between the boy-God and the sloth. I spot a nearby garbage can, thinking it’s small enough to take with me into the hallway for when I blow chunks. Julie and Cameron start laughing and my humiliation is complete. The acids in my stomach, gurgling and bubbly, seep up into my throat, the fumes noxious, the sting of bile low in my esophagus. I gulp hard, swallow harder. I think of my friendship with the non-triplets and how they said not to worry about stuff like this, and to my relief, my swimming stomach calms enough for me to breathe again. Barely.
I tell myself not to look up, but I can’t help it. Cameron is making a gagging face while Julie pretends to hold something (a garbage can?). Theresa gathers Cameron’s hair, holds it back. Unbelievable. The acid in my stomach starts to boil again and my eyes mist over. A tear skims the surface of my cheek. Another rolls down my face. I wipe it away. Now they’re really coming. I turn away from the girls, trying to hide inside myself. I don’t need this. What did I do to them? What do I ever do to anyone to deserve this? Chewing on my lip, I fight to keep my composure. At least I’m not puking. At least the
non-triplets like me. I manage to stop the tears simply by thinking, screw these boney Astor hags. And screw this stupid school, too.
2
After class, the boy-God approaches me and I almost run. He stops me and says, “Hey, I was a jerk back there. It was uncalled for and honestly, I’m ashamed of myself. So…I’m sorry.”
My face flares again, my insides wiggling like a bag of eels. Visions of everything going wrong flood my bloated brain. The thought of turning green and passing out, or even barfing on his feet, feels entirely possible. Should I turn and leave at this point?
I see Brayden waiting for me, but further down the hall. I’m dying to go to him, but my legs won’t move. They’ve forsaken me. Of course, if I had to choose between being seen with the boy-God or the beastly Brayden, hello, it would be the boy-God!
“Why though?” I manage to say. Two words don’t exactly constitute a conversation, but this is me conversing with an Adonis for the first time in my life, so whatever. It’s a start.
“For more reasons than are worth mentioning, being here really sucks. You wouldn’t understand. You’re new, so you can’t.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly had the most graceful start.” How do I look him in the face? I can’t. It’s my shoes that now get most of my attention. They’re not even that cute.
I look up, sort of, and Brayden’s gone. I don’t blame him. I would have given up on me, too. I’m surprised it took this long.