Lipstick Apology

by Jennifer Jabaley

  Anthony walked over toward me. “You survived the subway!” he teased.

  I’m sure Adrienne rides the subway every day and doesn’t require a map or written notes, I thought bitterly. I mustered up a smile and nodded. “Didn’t wind up in Queens, did I?”

  He laughed and opened the door. I followed him inside the long and narrow brownstone, dropping my backpack on the couch. The living room had beautiful architecture, archways and elaborate moldings, but the paint was chipping in spots and the ceiling looked old and musty. Only the kitchen showed signs of recent updates, with a huge gas range, double ovens and an enormous counter top, cluttered with cookbooks and baking accessories.

  “This is really nice,” I said. “Your home. The neighborhood.”

  Anthony smiled. “Yeah, we lived here way before it was cool to live here. They’ve cleaned it up pretty nice. All the yuppies started moving in from Manhattan a couple of years back. It’s been really good for the bakery. Hey, do you mind if I take a quick shower before we get started?” he asked, pointing down the hall.

  “I was hoping you would,” I teased, feeling more relaxed to be inside and away from the two voluptuous local beauties.

  I went back into the living room and sat on the couch. I knew I should review my chemistry notes, but I opted instead to read through a People magazine.

  The phone rang.

  I heard the water shut off, and the bathroom door swung open. Steam poured out, followed by Anthony, dripping wet, a towel wrapped around his waist. He raced into the kitchen and picked up the cordless phone.

  He scribbled on a pad of Post-it notes, saying, “Uh, huh, okay, okay. Great. I’ll let her know. Thanks.”

  I tried really hard not to stare in total shock and amazement, but his body, oh my God, his body. A broad chest with a sprinkle of dark hair across the top and huge, sculpted biceps. Did he do push-ups and arm curls while baking muffins every morning? It had never occurred to me that under his boring hunter green school polo hid such a masterpiece of perfection.

  Anthony set the phone down and I averted my eyes.

  “That was a really important call for my mom,” he explained. “She threatened my life if I missed it.”

  I nodded, absentmindedly staring at the ceiling.

  He walked back toward his room.

  Stop thinking about his chest! Stop thinking about his broad, sculpted, wet chest. STOP!

  I bet ADRIENNE has seen his amazing chest.

  Anthony walked back into the room, jeans and a white T-shirt on. Why had I always just felt like Anthony was the big brother type and not some poster-worthy heartthrob? How had I never noticed his sleeves stretch taut over his biceps before? And why did I assume that just because he ate lunch in the library that he wasn’t datable? I thought back to the day I pushed him out of Jolie’s apartment. Had he really intended to kiss me, or was I just delusional from post-traumatic stress? I looked at him rifling through his chemistry notebook. I wanted to talk to Anthony about finding Mom’s letters, but suddenly I felt myself closing up. I always assumed Anthony and I had a special relationship—that I held an important place in his life. But that was before I saw his life outside of Darlington, filled with neighborhood friends and voluptuous girls. Maybe I wasn’t special to him at all.

  He pulled out a crumpled piece of newspaper, smiled, and handed it to me. “I saw this and thought of you.” It was a comic strip. A frazzled-looking girl was sitting at a desk, books open, pens and paper everywhere. The girl’s head was sizzling and a stream of smoke floated to the sky. The caption said: Academic overload.

  Anthony laughed. “It wouldn’t be the first time your head caught fire.”

  “Very funny,” I said, thinking, No, I don’t think he ever intended to kiss me. He definitely just thinks of me as a friend. And suddenly, a teeny tiny part of me was queasy. Why didn’t Anthony want to kiss me? Owen wanted to kiss me, so I couldn’t be too pasty. I crumpled up the comic and tossed it at Anthony’s head.

  He laughed again, then opened his chemistry book and started chewing on a pencil. Somehow that annoying little habit didn’t seem so annoying now. His full lips seemed kind of sexy as he gnawed on the pencil. With his arms resting on the table, his short sleeves hiked up slightly, showing the swell of his biceps. The biceps of the guy who never actually wanted to kiss me. I was never going to be able to concentrate. Stop! I told myself. Why does it matter? I had a date planned with the hottest guy in the whole junior class whose biceps were equally as impressive. At least I thought they were, as best as I could remember the night I saw them.

  My stomach dropped a notch. Suddenly, I envisioned Owen clipping out a comic strip of an inexperienced girl, slobbering in a fit of inebriation all over a gorgeous guy as she attempts to seduce him. Oh God. I was in over my head. Third note to self: Schedule an emergency session with Lindsey and Andi. Put your pride aside, admit your inexperience, and beg for some kissing guidance.

  Anthony tapped his pencil on the table, bringing me back to reality.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I am ready for nothing,I thought.

  But I nodded and tried my best not to let my brain catch fire.

  chapter twenty-two

  THE SCHOOL WAS BUZZING all week and into the next.

  As I walked down the pristine halls, people stared, whispered, and sometimes blatantly pointed. I got to my locker and the school’s most notorious gossipers—Sammy Greensboro and Vera Stewart—were stalking me like hawks. The two girls cornered me against my locker like prey. It had already been a week and I still couldn’t open my own locker without harassment.

  Vera leaned one arm against my locker, shook her red hair, and pursed her thin lips. “Is it true that you got wasted and totally hooked up with Owen last week?”

  “I heard that you broke five thousand dollars’ worth of crystal in a drunken rage.” Sammy widened her hazel eyes and hopped up and down a little. She was the shorter of the two and clearly Vera’s sidekick.

  “I heard Owen had to call the cops to personally escort you out.”

  “ENOUGH!” Andi bellowed, inserting herself into the huddle. I was just as startled as the stalkers that such a booming sound could come out of Andi’s teeny tiny body.

  The girls and some other stragglers scattered.

  “Thanks,” I said gratefully.

  “That’s the price you pay when you date the school’s most eligible bachelor,” Andi said, fluffing her hair in my locker mirror.

  “I’m surprised he still wants to date me after that night.”

  “Are you kidding? He said you were hilarious.”

  My heart plummeted. Hilarious. Not sexy. Not sultry. Hilarious. “What do you mean, hilarious? Not the whole world is watching me puke on YouTube hilarious, right?”

  “Relax. We know it wasn’t your fault. You know, the reaction.”

  “Reaction?” I asked tentatively.

  “Owen said you had an allergic reaction to something . . . was it the nuts?”

  I nodded furiously, and my heart swelled that he honored his promise.

  “Anyway,” Andi continued. “He just said you were wobbly and klutzy and all over the place.”

  All over the place. Like with my kissing skills? Oh God. What if I truly am a terrible kisser and next time I don’t have the alcohol to blame? I looked around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “Hey.” I leaned in close, whispering. “Do you think you, Lindsey, and I could have a talk? Sometime soon?”

  Andi’s forehead furrowed with curiosity. “What about?”

  “Girl stuff,” I whispered, giving her a look that said, No details amid the stalkers.

  She got my drift. “How about this weekend at my place.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll text Lindsey.”

  DR. REEVES’S HANDS were bulkier than I remembered as he jammed a slab of plastic into my mouth that Friday after school.

  “See,” he said. “That will keep your jaw stationary and reduce the grinding.”<
br />
  Whatever, I thought, just make itbetter. I have to go out with Owen again soon and muscle relaxers are not an option.

  As he removed the night guard from my mouth, there was a knock on the exam room door. A hygienist ushered Jolie in. She was tucked into a glamorous knee-length light gray wool coat.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, taking a seat in a chair by the window.

  “Actually, we’re just finishing up,” Dr. Reeves said, sliding his stool over to Jolie. He opened the plastic container, pulled out the night guard, and began his demonstration again.

  I watched as Jolie’s eyes scanned Dr. Reeves from the top of his salt and pepper hair down to the tippy toes of his shiny leather shoes. He wasn’t wearing scrubs today; instead he wore tan pants, an expensive-looking tailored shirt, open at the collar, no tie.

  “Any questions?” Dr. Reeves asked as his eyes locked on Jolie.

  “No,” I said.

  He turned around quickly, almost startled, as if he forgot I was in the room. Then he stood up and offered to help me out of the exam chair. He escorted us down the hall to the receptionist and told us to make an appointment in one month for a recheck. He lingered for a moment, then extended his hand to Jolie.

  “I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving,” he said, apparently addressing both of us but looking only at Jolie.

  “I hope you have a great holiday too.” Jolie’s voice sounded artificial and juvenile.

  “Don’t eat too much pie,” Dr. Reeves joked, still holding her hand.

  “But I like pie.” Jolie laughed. I saw her flick her light hair, and her eyes seemed to twinkle more than usual. She dropped his hand and quickly pulled her hair into an easy ponytail, trying to look busy.

  The patients in the waiting room fell to a hush, all eyes observing this exchange. All at once, Dr. Reeves released his gaze on her, patted me on the back, and walked down the corridor. Jolie watched him until he disappeared into the exam room, hearing him greet his next patient with his deep, cheerful hello.

  Jolie made my appointment and we went home. During the cab ride down 7th Avenue, I gazed at her face through my peripheral vision. I was still mad at her. But it was strange to see her cheeks glowing in the light of the stores as we drove past. I realized what I was looking at was hope.

  chapter twenty-three

  ALL DAY SATURDAY, I practiced non-humiliating ways to ask Andi and Lindsey for a little help in the hooking-up department. It’s been a long time since I made out with Steve and I’m just a little worried I’ve forgotten how. Ha ha. Yes, I know Owen and I made out last weekend, but let’s face it, I wasn’t exactly coherent.

  As Lindsey and I took a cab to Andi’s condo, I became a little panicky. “Why did Andi tell us to bring a bathing suit? She’s not going to, like, give me a bikini wax or something, is she?”

  Lindsey laughed. “Relax. I think she just wants us to hang out at the pool.”

  “The pool? It’s November.” I shivered just thinking about it.

  “It’s an indoor pool. What’s wrong? You seem jittery or nervous or something.”

  I pushed my sunglasses up my nose. “No, I’m fine.” You are going to totally think I’m an immature, inexperienced idiot, but I’m fine.

  We walked into the contemporary lobby decorated all in shades of white and cream. Andi was standing in front of a waterfall fountain, flirting with the concierge.

  “Hey, guys!” Andi called.

  We followed her into the elevator and rode to the floor marked Fitness Level. We walked past the gym to a door with a large engraved plaque that read Lap Pool. I couldn’t imagine anyone exercising in such an opulent setting. There were two crystal chandeliers hanging above the long, rectangular pool. There was an ornate gold-framed wall-size mirror at one end of the pool and three round tufted cream ottomans at the other end. We changed into our bathing suits in the locker room—I was relieved to see Lindsay wore a tankini like me—then wrapped ourselves in plush terry-cloth robes and each took an ottoman to sit on.

  I wanted to spout my rehearsed monologue about being out of practice, but I anxiously blurted out, “I’m totally inexperienced and I don’t think I’m a very good kisser. I don’t want Owen to laugh at me. And I can’t keep delaying our next date!” I hugged my arms around my legs.

  Andi sat up, adjusting her white bikini top. “Well, then let’s start with what you are proficient at.”

  “Proficient? I haven’t even taken a test drive!” I said, panicking.

  Lindsey looked interested and Andi looked confused.

  I bit my lip. “I know you guys probably think I’m totally lame, but I just haven’t really fooled around much with guys.”

  Andi’s brow furrowed. “So, are you asking for help with the physical mechanics of hooking up?” she asked, looking unsure.

  I nodded furiously. “Yes. Exactly. Like the breathing. My tennis coach used to say in through the nose, out through the mouth. And kissing is, in a sense, exercise, right? But out through the mouth seems all wrong, and while I contemplated this on our date night, I got all panicked and tried to convince my lungs to go oxygen free for just a few minutes and I practically suffocated.”

  Lindsey burst out laughing, practically falling off the ottoman.

  Andi smiled. “I really don’t think Owen noticed.” She walked over to a refrigerator, inserted a card, and opened it. She took out three Diet Cokes and handed them to us.

  “Why? What did he say?” I leaned forward in anticipation. Owen and I were still at a stage where we didn’t exactly talk much at school. In fact, it only happened if he initiated conversation.

  “Well, he didn’t say anything specifically,” Andi said. “But Aidan said he talked about you a lot.”

  “So he didn’t say anything about a bad head tilt or a distracting nose position?”

  Lindsey giggled again.

  “Hmm,” Andi grunted. She leaned forward and grabbed the pillow behind her back. “Okay, say this is Owen . . .”

  “Oh, we’ve been down that road.” Lindsey laughed.

  “Not nice, Lin,” I bellowed. “Okay, so this is Owen.” I walked up to the pillow.

  Andi lifted my chin, cocked my head, and showed proper lip-parting techniques. She looked like she was about to launch into a further tutorial.

  “Okay.” I stopped her. “That’s good. Thanks.”

  Andi gave me a strange look, her blue eyes squinting.

  Ugh. How to explain the battleground in my mind between hormones and morals? “I want to make out with Owen, but I don’t want him to think it’s going to go any further. Because it won’t.” I bit my lip, afraid of their reaction.

  “Oh,” Andi said. “I get it. Like a promise ring? That’s really big right now.”

  “I totally get it too,” Lindsey said. “You know when it happens, it’ll be amazing, but you just aren’t ready for it to happen yet.”

  Andi started laughing. “Um, I know that when you watch movies, it looks amazing, like your body is exploding with pleasure , but just a heads-up: they’re wrong. Well, at least for the first fifty times or so—then it gets good.”

  “Fifty times!” Lindsey shouted. “Are you like a nympho or something?”

  Andi shook her head, still laughing. “Well, like I said, it does get good, it just takes some practice.”

  The three of us fell on the tiled floor laughing.

  Andi pointed over at me. “And even if you’re not ready for amazing, you still need a bikini wax.”

  I looked over at Lindsey and we burst out laughing again.

  Lindsey propped up on her elbow, her short, dark hair grazing her shoulder. “Even if I am ready, I don’t think it’ll ever happen.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, dipping my toes into the pool water.

  “Jason never showed up last night,” Lindsey said, joining me by the poolside.

  “I completely forgot about your date. I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Did he call and explain?” Andi
leaned in with curiosity.

  “Nothing,” Lindsey said. “No call. No text. Can you imagine? I just sat there waiting in the lobby of Café Loup like a loser.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” said Lindsey. “Me too.”

  On my way home I felt a sense of relief. Neither of them teased me for my inexperience, and I was worried that Andi would think I was a prude. But she didn’t seem to pass any judgment; in fact, she seemed to really enjoy helping me.

  I decided to call Georgia and let her in on some of my newfound knowledge. If I was struggling in the make-out department, Georgia was totally clueless.

  “Oh my God!” Georgia wailed. “You’re going to become a statistic!”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “Pregnant at sixteen is not becoming, Emily. I thought we agreed we wouldn’t be like those trashy girls that gave it up to the first guy that showed interest.”

  “I’m not giving anything up. Jeez, calm down. I’m not a trashy girl. Don’t you know me at all? I just thought I could share a little insight about the art of a good make-out session.”

  “Oh, sure, call it a make-out session, but when Silvia on Rhapsody in Rio decided to quote-unquote make out with Miguel, nine months later they wound up with triplet boys and an ugly custody hearing.”

  I shook my head. “Stop freaking.”

  But Georgia continued to freak, without a breath, until I swore on my first unborn child, which I assured her would not arrive for at least another decade, that I would not, in the heat of the moment, allow Owen to deflower me.

  chapter twenty-four

  “HAPPY THANKSGIVING!” Trent bellowed as he walked in carrying an apple pie and a stack of DVDs. “Football’s on all day.” He frowned. “So I brought movies.” He joined us in the living room, helping himself to a plate of chips and salsa.

  I could hardly believe it was already Thanksgiving. It seemed like just yesterday I was the new girl at Darlington and totally overwhelmed by New York City. Now, looking out of Jolie’s floor-to-ceiling windows at her view of the West Village, it felt different. Not exactly like home, but not a scary foreign place either. The trees down the streets were all bare by now, and dark fallen leaves blew in the wind.