by Mindi Scott
“You might want to hold off on that,” I said. “You know how Vicki feels about me.”
Rosetta pressed a few more buttons and held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds she said, “Aunt Coco, it’s me . . . Yeah. Everything’s fine. I’m just calling to let you know I’m staying over at Vicki’s tonight.” She kind of rolled her eyes at me about telling the lie while she listened to whatever her aunt was saying on the other end. “We’re just watching movies and stuff here. I’ll come home in the morning, okay? . . . Yeah. . . . Okay. . . . Bye.”
With the call ended and her mission accomplished, Rosetta smiled at me. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. It was official now. Rosetta was staying here tonight. All night.
I knew that when Mom got home, she was going to be as upset as Rosetta’s aunt would have been if Rosetta had told the truth, but really, there hadn’t been any other option. The rain had let up somewhat, but it was very wet and dark outside now. Walking back up the Hill wasn’t only a hassle at this point; it was dangerous, too. Or, at least, that’s what Rosetta and I had been telling each other for over an hour now.
“I hate lying to her,” Rosetta said. “But it isn’t like I had much choice, right?”
“Right.”
My heart had started beating like crazy, and I wanted to get up and sit on the couch with her. To just be close to her. Instead, I stayed where I was on the reclining chair, held on to the Magic 8 Ball, and pretended to be engrossed in the crappy reality show on the TV. Following Mom’s order to “be good” sucked. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to pull it off.
The oven timer went off in the kitchen, so we both jumped up and headed over.
“What do you think?” Rosetta asked as she pulled the pan from the oven and set it on the stovetop.
I had no clue what I was looking for. All I knew was that fudge brownies and Rosetta’s shampoo—or my shampoo, I guess it was—smelled amazing together. “Didn’t the box say to stick a toothpick in it?” I asked.
“Ooh! That’s right!”
Surprisingly, Rosetta was about as a bad a cook as I was. For dinner I’d managed to make cheese sandwiches in the toaster oven without burning anything, but she’d let the Ramen boil over. She did save the day later, though, by noticing that I’d misread the glass measuring cup; she stopped me just in time before I poured a full cup more vegetable oil into the brownie batter than the directions called for.
After we finished the toothpick test, I watched Rosetta bend to put the pan back in the oven. She was wearing one of my T-shirts and black sweats. I’d never had any idea how hot those clothes could look.
“We should have waited five years to meet,” Rosetta said as she set the timer for two more minutes.
I leaned against the counter. Close enough to keep checking her out. Far enough away not to touch her. “Why do you say that?”
“Just think about it. If we were five years older, there wouldn’t be any reason for me to lie about where I am right now. We wouldn’t have to check in with anyone. Ever. And in five years you’ll probably be some big rock star, and if things go well, I’ll be done being crazy and off doing whatever it is I’m going to do with my life. Attending college or, I don’t know, playing professional golf maybe.”
“Then how would we meet in the first place?”
She tapped her fingernails on the counter as she considered. “Maybe I’d be in a tournament somewhere and your band would be playing in that same town. We’d see each other at, say, a restaurant. You’d recognize me from having watched the golf channel during a fit of insomnia, and I’d recognize you from MTV and probably every magazine out there. And we’d somehow strike up a conversation and then start hanging out all the time and it would be really, really cool.”
“I think I hate that idea,” I said.
Rosetta’s mouth fell open. “Why?”
“Because. I wouldn’t want to have to wait five years to meet you. I like knowing you now.”
She pushed her hair over her shoulder and smiled at me in that way she had. My heart just about seized in my chest. And then the timer went off again, so I hurried to deal with the brownies and jab another toothpick in. “They’re done,” I said.
“Perfect!” Rosetta picked up Isaac’s Magic 8 Ball, which I’d set on the counter. “I love these things. All the answers to life’s mysteries are in the palm of my hand. Now, I’d like to test the accuracy of this device, if you don’t mind. Do rectangles have four sides? Oh, look! It says, ‘Yes—definitely.’ So far so good. How about something more challenging? Tell me, Magic Eight Ball, am I wearing underwear right now?”
Guh. It had not occurred to me to wonder about that. But now that she’d brought it up, I wasn’t sure how I’d ever be able to stop wondering.
This time she smiled at the 8 ball’s answer but didn’t read it aloud. “This thing is sure good at what it does. And now for the most important question of all: Is Seth McCoy ever going to kiss me again?”
My heart rate kicked it up about a hundred notches. Rosetta wanted me to kiss her. I wanted to kiss Rosetta. We should just be kissing. Yes.
“Isn’t that just so typical?” Rosetta said as she glanced at the answer this time.
I stepped forward. “What does it say?”
She turned her wrist so I could see the white lettering through the blue liquid: Ask again later.
“What’s the definition of ‘later’?” she asked, biting her lip. “Do you think it would be okay if I ask again right now?”
But before she got the chance, I was leaning in and touching my lips to hers.
9:15 P.M.
An hour later, we were still kissing. We’d kissed all over the kitchen. We’d kissed on the reclining chair. We’d kissed on the couch. We’d fallen off the couch and kissed on the floor. And now we were kissing on my bed.
It felt like we were never going to stop. I didn’t ever want to stop.
She’d taken off her shirt. She’d taken off my shirt.
My lips were on her face, mouth, neck, breasts.
Her fingers were on my hair, face, chest, back.
I took off her pants, then mine.
Her skin was soft, smooth, warm. She smelled so good, tasted so good, felt so good.
I was touching her. Everywhere.
And her hands were all over me.
This was really happening. Or it was about to happen.
“Do you have . . .?” she asked.
“I think so.”
I forced myself to pull away from her, pushed back the blanket. Walking to the dresser, I felt self-conscious and made sure not to check if she was watching me. I mean, it was dark and all, but the lights next door were coming through the curtains somewhat, so we could still see each other.
I dug through my sock drawer, ripped open the box that had shown up at some point courtesy of the Condom Fairy, reached in, and grabbed one. A whole chain of five or six others came flapping out with it. Jesus Christ. Who needs that many at once?
I got back under the covers, dealt with one condom, hoped I seemed calm about the fact that I was about to have sex with Rosetta.
We lay there facing each other. She really did have the most beautiful face I’d ever seen: very light freckles on her nose, a small scar—from her car accident, maybe?—near one of her eyebrows, a fallen eyelash on her cheekbone.
“You okay?” I asked.
She touched my face, smiled. “Yes. If you are.”
Oh, I was.
We went back to kissing. Very slowly at first, then even more urgently than before. Her breathing was quick, sexy. She whispered, “Just let me know what I’m supposed to do, okay?”
I knew she was a virgin from what she’d said on the bleachers. She didn’t know anything about me, though. Her guess that I had all the moves down, and that I was experienced enough to make this decent for both of us was obviously not even close to being the truth.
If a tree falls and no one is around to hear,
does it make any sound?
Probably.
If a guy’s had sex but doesn’t remember it, can he fake that he knows how?
Probably not.
“Rosetta,” I said. “I don’t know exactly what to do either.”
She smiled in that same surprised way she had at Pete’s party when she’d misunderstood about the drinking thing. For a second, I wondered if it would be better to go that route again, to let her believe whatever she wanted. But, no. I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to be that guy. “What I’m saying is, I’ve been with a girl before. It’s just . . . I don’t remem—”
“You don’t have to tell me this,” she interrupted.
“I just thought—”
She pressed her hand over my mouth, smiling. “No, really, Seth. I’m begging you not to tell me.”
Was I an idiot or what? “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She kissed my nose, ran her fingers through my hair. “I think we can probably figure out together how to, um, do this, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
And then . . . we did.
SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17
1:17 A.M.
Hours later. Rosetta had been asleep since around eleven o’clock, but I was wide awake. It felt strange—in a cool way—lying with her next to me. I’d let her have the good side of the bed so she wouldn’t have to put up with this goddamn poky mattress spring. But my brain just wouldn’t turn off.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Careful not to wake her, I climbed out of bed. In the dark, I threw some clothes over the boxers I’d put on when Rosetta had gotten redressed a few hours before. And then I headed to the kitchen.
Minutes later, I was at the table with the 8 ball, a glass of milk, and the entire pan of brownies—which were tasty but kind of dry—feeling even more wired now that I was up. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened, about how it was almost like I’d lost my virginity for the second time. And the coolest part was that the way I was feeling after sex with Rosetta was nothing like waking up hungover next to Kendall. It was a relief not to have to wonder what had happened this time. It felt good to remember.
My door creaked open down the hall, and then Rosetta came over, squinting in the bright light. “You disappeared,” she said, sitting at the table next to me.
She didn’t sound accusing or anything; it was more like she was concerned.
“Insomnia,” I said, handing her a brownie. “And I have a feeling there’s no pro golf on TV to help me get past it.”
Rosetta smiled as she took a bite, but she didn’t quite look at me. She’d been shy like this ever since everything happened earlier. Which, in a way, I understood, since I was feeling a little exposed myself. I hoped she wasn’t regretting it. I knew I wasn’t.
“I’m thinking those two extra minutes in the oven might have been about two too many,” she said softly.
“Stupid toothpick test.”
Rosetta pushed her hair behind her ears. “I have to say, when I woke up this morning—or yesterday morning, I guess it is now—I had no idea I’d be doing this.”
“Eating dessert in my kitchen?”
“Doing anything in your kitchen.”
She blushed and looked away again, but it seemed like a good sign that she was talking about it.
“I didn’t expect this either,” I said. “It happened kind of fast, huh?”
“Kind of,” she said, biting her lip. “Of course, I’ve had a crush on you pretty much since you gave me that rose on Valentine’s Day, so maybe it was kind of not fast from my point of view.”
I stared at her, speechless at that shockingly awesome announcement.
She went on. “You know, I was sort of in hiding for most of Pete’s party, but then when I heard that you were there and that you’d gone outside alone, I decided to make my big move and actually speak to you.” She smiled; still shy, but she held my gaze. “And I’m glad, Seth. About everything, I mean. About tonight and that it was with you.”
Now it was my turn to get embarrassed. It was weird how we couldn’t talk about it without one of us turning red. “Me too. And I’m especially glad that you’re glad.”
Rosetta got up from her chair and sat sideways across my lap. She wrapped her arms around my neck as I put my hands on her waist to hold her steady. “I wonder,” she said, “how long it will be before it sinks in that, after seventeen years, I’m no longer in the ‘never had sex’ group of people.”
“You’re seventeen?” I asked.
“You’re not?”
“Sixteen. For a few more months.”
“Wow! I’ve always assumed that you’re older than me. Now all of a sudden I’m feeling like a sexual predator or something.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, please. You have, what, a few months on me?”
“When’s your birthday?”
“February twenty-eighth.”
“Mine’s August twenty-eighth. Which means we’re exactly . . . six months apart. Six whole months.”
“Six months is nothing,” I said.
“It’s three-and-a-half years of a dog’s life!”
“A dog’s life?” I burst out laughing. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
She laughed too. “Actually, that seven-year myth is the old-school, lazy way to figure out dog years compared with human years. But it’s so much simpler than having to consider the dog’s size and breed. I mean, who has all those charts memorized, anyway, right?”
She was being nerdy just for the sake of nerdiness. I could play along with it. Maybe. “You know,” I said, “my age is about sixteen years and seven and a half months right now. Sometimes in math, you’re supposed to round decimals of point five or higher up to the next whole number. So, if we do that, I’m seventeen. Which means that you and I are the same age.”
“That sure is a relief,” Rosetta said.
I kissed her cheek. “If you say so. But maybe I like older women.”
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 20
6:44 P.M.
Three days later. Brody stopped midsong to yell at Xander for the third time. “Will you cut out the fancy stick-twirling and try playing the song the right way?”
“Sorry,” Xander said as he bent to pick up the drumstick he’d just dropped. “I’m working on improving my stage presence.”
I closed my eyes. Looking cool and playing with energy so the crowd gets into the music was one of the things Jared used to bug me about when I’d first started playing with the Real McCoys. I’d made an offhand comment about it to these guys last week. Now Xander was obsessing and I was wishing like hell that I’d kept my mouth shut.
“Do me a favor and knock it off,” Brody said to Xander. “Our show is in three days, and I don’t want us to look like a bunch of screwups.”
Brody acting like a typical asshole front man—like my brother—was getting hard to take. My own stress about playing this gig was through the roof, and Brody’s attitude all week was not helping.
Xander and Taku exchanged grimaces behind his back. I was over it. Leaning my bass against the wall, I said, “No one’s feeling this right now. Let’s wrap it up for the night.”
“I agree,” Taku said. “We’re trying to force it, and, if anything, our playing is going to get worse.”
“Whatever.” Brody ripped his guitar off over his head, dropped it on its stand, and stomped over and threw himself on the couch. Putting his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward and covered his face with both hands.
Taku, Xander, and I stared at each other.
Xander came out from behind his drums. “Brode, what’s going on with you?”
Brody shook his head, but didn’t speak.
“Um, dude, you’re kind of freaking us out,” Taku said.
“You should tell us what’s up,” Xander said. “We’ll help you.”
Brody looked up at him. “I’m not telling you anything if you’re going to try to use your sympathy tricks on me.”
“Empat
hy,” I said.
“What?”
“Empathy,” said Xander. “It’s like sympathy except instead of just acknowledging someone’s feelings, you feel what they’re feeling too.”
Taku coughed into the shoulder of his black T-shirt. That one sounded like a hiding-a-laugh cough, but it was hard to tell.
Brody shook his head. “I don’t know if I can do this, you guys.”
“Do what?” Taku asked, taking a seat on the arm of the couch.
“Play live gigs. Play this gig. It isn’t what I’m about. I like doing our thing here in the basement and messing around with recording and stuff, but that’s all I want to do.”
Xander grabbed his energy drink off the table and leaned against the wall, frowning. “Being in the basement and recording is all fine and good, but if we ever want this to turn into something more, we’re going to have to play live. I mean, it isn’t an option not to.”
“I’m not sure I want to turn it into something more,” Brody said. “This was supposed to be fun, and now it isn’t. When it stops being fun, maybe it’s time for me to stop.”
“I don’t get it,” Taku said. “Why is this not fun? Isn’t sharing your music with people kind of the whole point of creating it?”
Brody shrugged. “I don’t know. The thought of playing onstage stresses me out. I mean, I still get nervous playing in front of Seth, and he’s only one new person.”
I didn’t have to try hard to muster up some empathy for this one. Brody was standoffish for a good reason; he was suffering from stage fright.
Xander pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked at Brody. “It sounds like you’re over-thinking it. Like maybe you’re focusing on the wrong thing. Seth, you tell him. Playing music onstage is always going to be nerve-racking, but it’s a rush, too.”
I didn’t answer; I was still trying to process Brody’s confession and work out how it might affect this coming weekend, as well as the band in general.
“It was cool, right, Seth?” Taku prompted. “You felt good about your shows, like they were worth getting nervous over?”