Promiscuous

by Isobel Irons

  But they don’t.

  In fact, I feel like I have more energy to do more things, for some reason. It’s very weird. Unnatural, even. Especially when you consider the fact that I used to go to bed at like midnight and wake up at the last possible second, after hitting the ‘snooze’ button at least three times. And even then, my ass would always feel like it was dragging by 5:00 PM.

  Lately, I’ve been doing this thing where I go to bed at ten-ish and wake up at like 7:00 AM for no good reason, and then I just lie there daydreaming for a few minutes before hopping in the shower. Yesterday, I caught myself singing while shampooing. Probably would’ve scared the shit out of my mom if she’d been home to hear it, if she hadn’t been shacked up overnight at her new boyfriend’s house.

  Against all odds, Margot seems to be thriving, too. She’s even started putting on a little weight, and her legs don’t remind me of flamingo legs quite as much. As we drive to school, she catches me up on her sewing class, and how Ms. Greenwich keeps complimenting her on her style and sewing skills, begging her to consider fashion school—or, at least a double-major in fashion design and acting at UCLA.

  I tell her she should do it, smiling my encouragement even as I feel my stomach pinch with guilt over missing out on so many important moments of my best friend’s senior year. Then again, I remind myself, we’ll have all kinds of shared experiences after we move to LA. Fuck high school—college is where the real magic happens, or so I’ve read.

  When we get to aerobics, I try not to act surprised when Margot plunks her stuff down next to mine on the bench in the main locker room, and starts changing right there. It’s the third time she’s done that in the last week, and I’m feeling super proud of her. Of course, she still does it Houdini-style, pulling on one baggy shirt over the other, and then pulling the one underneath out through a neck or arm hole—Ta-dah! So there’s never much skin—or in her case, skin and bones—showing.

  The downside of this method is that it takes fucking forever.

  So today, while standing guard at the end of the row of lockers and waiting for Margot to finish, I find myself accidentally eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation.

  “Do you know what color dress you’re going to wear yet?” a semi-familiar voice asks.

  “No, I have to wait for Becca to decide.” That voice is definitely Brittany Rice, Becca Foster’s best friend. “We all really liked this frilly one from a bridal store online, and it comes in like, six different colors. So we’re all going to pick a different color and match. I really hope Becca doesn’t choose pink, though. Because my mom got me the cutest little crown with these pink rhinestones in it. And a matching garter and flask.”

  “Cute!”

  Wow, a flask. I lean back against the lockers, shaking my head. If I brought something like that to prom, they’d be all over me. But when it’s Becca and her friends, it’s apparently adorable.

  “By the way,” Brittany continues, “did you hear about Becca’s dad?”

  “No, what?”

  “He told Becca yesterday that his dealership is going to sponsor prom court this year.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that whoever wins Prom King and Queen will get a scholarship of like, two-thousand dollars or something.”

  “Wow, two grand?”

  “I know, right?” Brittany drops her voice even lower. “She told me the only reason he’s doing it is because it’s tax deductible. And he’s so sure that Becca’s going to win, he’ll just be giving half the money to her, anyway.”

  “But what if Becca doesn’t win?”

  Brittany laughs, but it sounds strained. “Don’t let her hear you say that. Not that I wouldn’t love to have two grand to spend on new clothes for college. Or drinks.”

  On the other side of the locker room, a door slams. Brittany and whoever she was talking to fall immediately silent. I can hear the sound of footsteps approaching, and I glance behind me to see if Margot is finished changing yet. She’s still tying her shoes, so I stay where I am—creating a human force field between her and Becca.

  “Hey Becca,” the first girl says, and I sneak a glance around the corner. Oh, right, it’s that redhead girl. Stacey…something. Or Sarah. The turnover rate in Becca’s bitch brigade is so high, it’s hard to keep track. And judging from the look of annoyance Becca is giving her, What’s Her Face doesn’t have long before she’s cut from the roster.

  “We were just talking about prom dresses,” the redhead says, in a voice that’s so high-pitched and fake, it’s obvious she’s guilty of something. “So, what color dress are you going to wear?”

  “Pink.”

  I stifle a laugh as I imagine Brittany trying not to let Becca see how crushed she is. Looks like her mom is going to have to return that flask. What a shame.

  “Okay, I’m ready!” Margot bounces up behind me with a happy trill in her voice. I turn toward her, just as Becca looks up to see me standing behind the lockers a few feet away. Her eyes narrow, and she looks me up and down. I cross my arms, daring her to say something.

  But instead of taking a shot at me, Becca’s eyes flit to Margot—as usual, seeking out the weakest target, because she’s too much of a goddamn coward to take on someone who’s every bit as strong as she is, at least in an emotional sense.

  “Hey Marge,” Becca says, pointing back the way she came. “I just came out of the bathroom, and that last stall is free if you want to use it.”

  Without breaking eye contact with Margot, she doubles over and pretends like she’s barfing—with retching sounds and everything.

  A familiar burn starts in my gut, and I take a step toward her. There’s nothing I would like more in the world than to smash her face into a locker, over and over, until she learns some damn human compassion. But then Margot is behind me, tugging on my shirt.

  “Come on Tash,” she says, and her voice sounds stronger than usual. “She’s not worth it, let’s go.”

  Wow. I look back to see my friend standing tall, her chin set. Either Margot is getting to be a seriously amazing actress, or somehow she’s found a way to muscle through her submissive tendencies when it comes to dealing with high school villains. Good for Margot. And bad news for Becca. Looks like she’s going to have to find someone else to torture now. Unfortunately, I’m not naïve enough to believe such a small victory will make her give up her sadistic ways altogether.

  After we leave the locker room, Ms. Tailor divides us up into teams and we play volleyball. Becca ends up on the other side of the gym, where she can’t bother us. Nevertheless, I find myself looking over at her whenever it’s not my turn to serve.

  It makes me sick to my stomach. I just keep asking myself, what did Becca Foster ever do to deserve being popular? Since the third grade, all she ever does is talk shit and make people feel bad. She's not pretty. She's not nice. People just follow her around, for some unfathomable reason. I'd be willing to bet she doesn't even know what the word unfathomable means. Because she's certifiably stupid, on top of being mean. With all that ugly piled on top of ugly, it’s amazing to me that karma hasn’t knocked her down a peg or two by now.

  When the bell rings, I follow Margot back into the locker room to change. But I keep catching snippets of conversation from Becca and her friends, talking about prom, giggling about which of the popular group of guys is going to ask them.

  When I hear Becca whisper the name “Grant,” I feel my stomach drop. But then I kick myself, because of course Becca is interested in Grant Blue. Who wouldn’t be? That doesn’t mean he gives a flying monkey’s ass about her.

  Not that I have any business thinking about that.

  Last week, after Prom Watergate, Grant Blue sat down with me in detention and gave me all of his notes from when he was in Pre-Calculus. We’re talking like, four whole notebooks full of meticulous, perfectly legible, handwritten notes. I told him I’d probably need some time to go through them all, so he said to call him if I had any ques
tions, and we’d meet up next week.

  Well, it’s next week, and I haven’t had the guts to call him yet. Whenever he asks me how things are going, I tell him I’m still working my way through the notes. But I think it’s obvious that I’ve hit a wall, because my homework assignments are starting to seem more and more impossible. My attitude isn’t really improving, either, especially considering the fact that every time I open up my Pre-Calculus book, I swear to God it smells like Trent.

  My palms are sweaty as I plot a course through the halls to Mr. Dodge’s office. I’ve decided to hide out there for the duration of third period, because I really can’t stand any more of Becca at the moment. Also, I might be avoiding Grant Blue. Not because of what Becca said, though. If anything, it’s because I’m avoiding the moment when I have to confess how mathematically retarded I am.

  Not that I care what he thinks of me, because I don’t.

  I just don’t want him to think I’m stupid. That makes sense, right?

  What do you mean, it doesn’t make sense? You know what, nobody asked you. So you can go ahead and mind your own damn business now. Okay?

  Anyway, where was I? Oh, right.

  I’m sitting in Mr. Dodge’s office with my feet up on the desk, reading my latest guilty pleasure bodice-ripper, when Mr. Dodge suddenly bursts in and scares me half to death. I drop my feet to the floor and scramble out of his chair, but not before he catches a glimpse of the cover of the book I was reading—which is, to my dismay, especially naughty-looking. Glistening abs, torn dress, side boob—the works. Also, it’s called The Sailor’s Sin. Ouch.

  “Sorry if I startled you Tash,” he says, side-stepping his way around me to get to the coffee pot behind the desk. “But I was getting dangerously low on caffeine in there. And Becca has been talking about her dad’s sponsorship for about twenty minutes straight. Did you hear about that, by the way?”

  “About what?” I’m distracted by my attempts to hide the evidence of my most humiliating, girly obsession.

  “Apparently, Becca’s dad is giving money to whoever wins prom court.”

  He turns his back to pour a cup of coffee, and I use the opportunity to stuff the book into my bag.

  “You should think about running. For college tuition. Every little bit helps, you know.”

  “Right, sure.” I perch on the edge of his desk, because his extra chairs are nowhere to be seen. “I’d be a shoo-in for prom court. Sometimes, I think I should try out for Miss America too, you know, because I’m just so graceful.”

  “Why not?” Mr. Dodge steps around the desk to stand in front of me. “Don’t sell yourself short, Tash. You’ve got a lot more going for you than you know. Not just looks, either.”

  At his words, a thousand alarm bells go off in my head. Without planning to, I hold my breath. Hoping, against all hope that he didn’t mean that the way it sounded, that he’s not about to do something that will destroy my last vestige of faith in mankind.

  He takes a step closer, until I can almost inhale the steam rising out of his coffee cup.

  “You know, with the right attitude, and a little bit of direction, I’m guessing there’s almost nothing you couldn’t accomplish.”

  A chill goes through me, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s a good or bad feeling. I’m staring up at his bow-tie, because I can’t bring myself to look him directly in the eye.

  “Really?” Something prickles at the back of my eyes, but I blink it away, as hard as I can. He doesn’t mean that. He’s just trying to be a good teacher, telling me what he thinks I need to hear. Or trying to get in my pants. Maybe all of the above.

  I sniff, then shrug noncommittally, looking away. “I guess.”

  Mr. Dodge sighs. “Someday, you’ll realize I’m right.”

  He turns to leave, and I’m frozen on the edge of his desk, like a sullen gargoyle with very poor posture. I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can say. I should have thanked him for his kind words, or at least for everything he’s done for me. But instead, I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because deep down, I know it will.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eighteen-point-whatever years of life, it’s that people always have an ulterior motive. Always.

  I can’t believe I let myself forget that lesson, even for a second.

  ###

  Later that day, I meet Grant Blue in the library during my free period for our first ‘official’ tutoring session.

  After Mr. Dodge’s little guilt-trip pep talk, I was feeling particularly shitty about myself, so I finally texted Grant during lunch and told him I’d meet him if he was free. But by the time I get to the library, I’m already having second thoughts. I go in through the fake metal detectors and wave at Shelly, the librarian—aka my smutty paperback dealer—before spotting Grant Blue at a table in the corner.

  As I approach, he looks up and smiles. That’s when it hits me: he’s sitting in the library because of me. He went out of his way to come here during his free period, for me. I feel like I’ve been tasered. My heart skips a beat, and my legs feel suddenly weak. It’s ridiculous that someone could make me feel this special, like I’m the heroine in some cheesy book. I’m starting to hate myself for having this reaction.

  Jesus, Tash. Lock that shit down. Grant Blue is not Prince Charming. He’s just another guy, just one more slightly remarkable face in a sea of leering, pimple-covered teenage faces. This isn’t a fairy tale, and you sure as shit aren’t anyone’s damsel in distress.

  I shuffle up to the table and drop my backpack on the floor. I don’t return his smile, because that would just encourage him to keep giving me more of his. And I’m like this close to a fatal Grant Grin overdose. My circulatory system can’t take it, I’m serious. Grant Blue pulls back a chair for me, right next to him. But I pull out the one directly across from him instead. Even then, I’m too close—close enough to see a fine, light brown dusting of shadow across his otherwise velvety-looking jaw.

  Okay, so he’s not even slightly pockmarked—his skin is perfect. I wonder what it would be like to touch it.

  Fuck me, this is getting to be a problem. It was all well and good to fantasize about him from afar, but now that I’m actually getting to know him, I’m starting to like him. In a very real, non-fictional way. Fuuuuuck.

  “You weren’t in Leadership today.” His remark isn’t really a statement or a question, but something in between.

  My mouth opens to say ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ but instead, what comes out is an excuse. “No, I uh, I had some things I needed to do. For Mr. Dodge.”

  Liar, says the asshole Jiminy Cricket. Why don’t you just tell him you were avoiding him, because he makes you nervous?

  “Anyway,” I clear my throat. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”

  “Sure.” He opens up his Pre-Calculus book, which is on top of a stack of a bunch of other books. There’s no way he’s taking that many classes.

  “Seriously, who lugs that many textbooks around by choice?” I don’t mean to make that observation out loud, but well, shit happens when Grant Blue is around.

  He laughs, and the throaty perfection of that sound makes me grit my teeth.

  “Yeah, I have a hard time getting rid of things.” He looks at me expectantly. “Where’s yours?”

  “My what?” Oh, right. My attempted murder weapon. The textbook that launched a thousand curse words. That book.

  I lean down and unzip my backpack and pull out the hated tome using only two fingers. It’s heavy though, so I end up dropping it. I mutter a few choice swear words under my breath, then heave the thing onto the table with a loud thunk. Ta-dah!

  “Okay, why don’t we start on page…three-fifty?”

  I shrug, opening up to the appropriate page. Ugh, functions. I seriously hate those.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, with that annoyingly sympathetic smile. “Functions suck, right?”

  And bingo was his name-o. “Yeah, they rea
lly do.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll show you how to break them down until they seem like the simplest thing in the world. Promise.” He flips through his book, all the way to the back. “See, graphing functions is kind of like making a treasure map….”

  A treasure map, seriously, like in The Goonies? Okay, so that’s kind of awesome. I crane my neck to see what he’s looking at, and he fixes me with this look.

  “You know, it would be a lot easier for me to show you if you’d sit over here.”

  Would it? I seriously doubt he knows what he’s asking. Sitting next to him and breathing his soapy, minty wonderfulness—that’s only going to make me stupider. But I don’t want to raise his suspicion by balking, so I sigh and move over.

  From my new vantage point, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Grant Blue, I can clearly see the graph he’s pointing at in the back of his book. Along with a bunch of black squiggles, red numbers and hand-written notes in the margins. Jesus, if there was a few more curse words in there, his book would look a lot like my shoes.

  “Hey, wait a second,” I reach over and slide my Pre-Calculus book toward me, flipping through to the back. “Why does yours have all those numbers in red? Mine doesn’t have those.” I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Well shit, that’s my problem right there. Mr. Bogart gave me the wrong damn book!”

  “No,” he laughs. “Mine is the teacher’s edition.” He holds it up to show me the cover, which I now realize is slightly different than mine. “See?”

  Meaning, his book has all the answers in it. Cha-ching! “That’s awesome. Where did you get that?”

  “I bought it online.”

  His totally innocent response seems so genuine, it makes me want to hit him.

  “Well, no wonder you passed the class.”

  Again, he seems to think my totally serious outburst is a joke, and he laughs. “No, I didn’t have it when I took the class. That would’ve been cheating.”