“You need to tell your crush—aka probably Laura—how you feel, and I have drama with Wolf. Agh!” I exclaim, holding the magazine to my chest.
Luke looks over at me, amused. “You really believe that stuff, Ricki Jo?”
“Uh, yeah! It just totally nailed us both. Wait ’til you hear the ‘Traumarama’ section,” I say, flipping to the right page. “Kissing goofs!”
“Kissing goofs!” Mackenzie exclaims. “Read another one! Oh my gosh, I would die.”
Seventeen sprawled on the table in front of me, I delight the girls at my table by reading the “Traumarama” section aloud. They are much more receptive than Luke was, and Laura actually has tears in her eyes. Even Kimi is paying attention to me. Does this count as bonding?
“Morning, girls,” Wolf says, taking his place at our table across from me.
I look up, but no one else does.
“Come on, Ericka!” Mackenzie begs. “Read another one!”
Pleased, I begin a horrid tale of a girl being shoved into a dark closet to play “70 Seconds in Heaven,” only to find out she’d been making out with her first cousin. Wolf interrupts the story once, but Sarah shushes him.
“Seriously? Ugh, Kissing Cousins!” Laura cries giddily and fake spits, as if trying to get the incest out of her mouth.
“Who cares about some dumb magazine?” Wolf asks.
“Let’s do a quiz,” Sarah says. I am amazed at how little attention she is paying to her bangs and how engrossed she is in what I have to say.
“No! Let’s finish these stories first!” Kimi demands. “They’re hilarious!”
I wait, poised over my magazine, willing to acquiesce to either of their requests, when suddenly Wolf jerks it out of my hands.
“Hello?” he says, standing over the table, obviously worried about his charm wearing off.
“Grow up, Wolf,” Kimi bosses, grabbing the magazine back and handing it to me.
Just then, Mr. Bates comes over the intercom with his boring-as-usual morning announcements.
“Keep reading,” Kimi whispers, leaning forward on her forearms. The other girls huddle closer as well. I steal a look at Mrs. Wilkes, but she’s nose deep in grading papers, so I lean forward and keep reading. We have to cover our mouths to keep from cackling out loud, and I notice that even Wolf seems to be leaning closer, actually enjoying the subject matter.
“ ‘… so, I made an excuse and sprinted out the door with my hands covering my butt!’ ” I read, and we all crack up, totally losing it.
“Hey, was that story sent in by your mom?” Wolf asks Kimi. “I remember her leaving in a hurry last night.”
“Ha, ha,” Kimi answers sarcastically. “My mom likes her guys with a little more muscle and a lot more facial hair.”
And to my immense surprise, Wolf is put in his place.
These stories are hysterical, and at the same time, a little horrifying. Unlike the other girls at the table, I have zero boyfriend/make-out experience, and feel sick at the thought that any of these true tales of horror could happen to me.
As I begin the next woeful story, about a girl who bit a boy’s tongue during a make-out gum exchange, I am interrupted.
“Miss Winstead,” comes the stern voice of our homeroom teacher. “If that magazine does not disappear in five seconds, I will make it disappear. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say and hurriedly stuff it in my backpack, my pulse racing. There’s no replacing this thing, so I can’t get it taken away.
All the girls lean back disappointedly and give in to lame morning announcement time.
“That sucks,” Wolf whispers to me loudly. “I was hoping you’d get to the sex tips.”
I flush deep red.
“And let’s have a good day here on the hilltop,” Mr. Bates finishes, machinelike.
“Oh my gosh!” Kimi says dramatically and leans forward. There is mischief in her eyes, and we all huddle over the table again, even Wolf. “I’ve got a story that could totally be in Seventeen.”
I fit in. In this moment, I fit in. I look around the huddle at the anxiously waiting, openly happy faces of my new friends and feel my heart beating in my throat. I can’t stop smiling.
Kimi proceeds to tell us about the time she was babysitting for her parents’ friends and had her boyfriend meet her out back in their pool. They took off all their clothes and started skinny dipping while the baby napped, but then the parents came home early and caught them in the act.
“I would die!” I cry. “Oh my gosh, I would totally die!”
“Yeah, and that’s not the worst part,” she says, really getting into it and taking off her sweater. She goes on with her story, but I don’t hear another word. I’m wearing one of my new outfits—my favorite new outfit, to be exact: a yellow dress with a lacy neckline, an empire waist, and cropped sleeves. To my horror, Kimi—curvaceous and delicious and all things I hope my body will one day be—is wearing the same exact dress.
“Ericka?” I hear. “Ericka, Earth to Ericka.”
Kimi is waving her hand in front of my face and I snap back to reality.
“Huh?” I say.
“I was just saying, I like your dress!” she jokes. “Twinsies!” The girls laugh good-naturedly. I choke out a crazy guttural sound that one could easily mistake for a laugh, but I really want to crawl under the table.
“I love the way it blouses on you,” she says, in what sounds like a sincere tone.
“Ha!” says Wolf. He looks at me. “That’s just another way to say you don’t have boobs.”
“Wolf!” Kimi says, wide-eyed. “No, I really like it on her. I’m going to have to put my sweater back on so I don’t feel bad.”
She smiles nicely at me.
“Give the sweater to her!” Wolf protests. “Why should the guys at this school be punished because y’all have the same dress?”
I pick up my backpack and clutch it to my chest, looking up at the big round clock above the door. The bell rings, and not a moment too soon. I consider not going to my locker, but Mackenzie’s arm is linked through mine before I can detour.
“You know you look adorable today, right?”
I nod halfheartedly.
“Your accessories are way cuter,” she continues at my locker. “I didn’t even notice at first, so it’s obviously not like she looks better in it or anything. Just different.”
“No,” Wolf chimes in matter-of-factly, hanging on my locker door. “It looks better. It definitely looks better on her.” Then he leans in to make sure Kimi can’t hear and whispers, “But your face is prettier, Ericka. She kind of looks like a dude. I mean, just in her face. Obviously.” He winks, does a weird shooting kind of gesture, and struts away.
“I love her face,” Mackenzie says, looking over at Kimi and totally missing the fact that Wolf just said I was prettier. “Isn’t she, like, half Native American or something?”
“Who cares?” I say meanly and slam my locker door. I leave her gaping and weave my way through the student body to Luke’s locker, my safety zone.
“Hey, I meant to tell you this morning,” he says, looking down at me with a lopsided grin. “You look really nice today.”
I roll my eyes and lean against the locker next to his, letting the back of my head slam against it. “Kimi Wilson looks nice today, Luke. I look like an idiot.”
“Me gusta tu pelo,” comes a breath behind me. I half turn during Señorita’s lecture and see Wolf leaned all the way up on his desk so that he is inches from the side of my face. “You mad at me again, Ericka?” he asks.
I shrug. I always want to be mad at this boy, and I always want to kiss him. Like I know I should be treated better, but I allow myself to be treated like a dog just because he’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
Of course, being totally incapable of saying any of this out loud, I say, “Yeah, I think so.”
He grins. “Are you mad, mad? Or playing hard to get, mad?” he whispers.
I’m sure the look of complete shock registers on my face as I whip all the way around. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying”—he shrugs and leans back—“I like your hair.” Then he raises his hand and gives Señorita the present tenses for the verb gustar (to like), without missing a beat.
Gracías, I write on his notebook.
I face front again and think about page forty-two of Seventeen—“50 Secrets to Flirty Hair.”
And I smile.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
“I can’t believe they were voted off!” my dad exclaims.
We just finished watching our favorite network reality show, and my parents are bummed. The couple they liked best were high school sweethearts (go figure), and didn’t complete their challenge in time, totally letting down their entire team. I would’ve kicked them off, too. It took the woman, like, a million years to weave a potholder, and she kept complaining about her manicure. Pathetic.
“I’m glad,” I say. “I want the two male models to win, anyway.”
“Teenagers,” my momma says, shaking her head.
“Hey, she can root for male models,” my dad says, winking at me. “She just can’t bring any home.”
“I want the brother and sister to win!” Ben hollers, scoring major points with me. I reach over and give him double high fives, marveling at the fact that his eight-year-old hands are almost the same size as mine.
“Okay, off to bed, kids,” my dad says, scooping Ben up and hanging him upside down, sending him into a shrieking fit. “It’s late.”
I get up from the couch and grab the popcorn bowl and Coke cans while Ben flees the tickling hands of my father. I’d actually like to get back to my room and write in my journal. I want to try to turn Kimi’s embarrassing babysitting story into something like we read in Seventeen, just to see if I can.
“And don’t forget to read your Bible,” my momma calls.
“We know,” Ben and I say in unison.
Teeth brushed, face washed, and pajamas on, I crawl into bed and grab my Bible, my journal, and my magazine. I look at Seventeen and try to copy their style as I jot down Kimi’s story as if it were my own. I actually start giggling all over again (it’s pretty funny), and think that it’d be cool to do this all the time. Maybe I could be a magazine writer one day. It’s fun and takes no time, as long as I have a source for the real-life trauma. It couldn’t exactly be anything from my personal experience, seeing as I have none, but hopefully that will all change in high school.
I sigh as I close the journal and slip it under my mattress. I toss the magazine over toward my backpack and open the Bible right smack down the middle.
Ever since I could read, my parents have encouraged me to end each day in the Word. I’ve read it through twice, but I prefer to randomly pick sections, letting it fall open where it may. There are actually some good stories in the Bible, but it’s not exactly something I’d bring up at school. People would think I’m some kind of religious zealot or Jesus Freak or something, crazy and preachy and all the stereotypes I see on the news. And I seriously doubt Wolf would find it sexy.
Sometimes, the daily Bible reading can feel like a real chore. But most of the time, especially this year, it’s kind of nice that the last thing I read before falling to sleep are promises that I’m never alone.
Tonight, the Good Book falls open to Song of Songs, and I’m instantly hooked. I sort of feel guilty, like I’m doing something wrong. It’s a short book, and it’s never made an impression on me before, but I’m reading it through for the second time already tonight and can’t understand what it’s doing in the Bible.
For example, the man says to the woman:
How pretty you are, how beautiful; how complete the delights of your love. You are as graceful as a palm tree, and your breasts are clusters of dates. I will climb the palm tree and pick its fruit. To me your breasts are like bunches of grapes, your breath like the fragrance of apples, and your mouth like the finest wine.
Right? I mean, he says he’s going to climb her tree and pick its fruit!
Okay, and then she says:
Then let the wine flow straight to my lover, flowing over his lips and teeth. I belong to my lover, and he desires me.
Seriously! The “wine” is her mouth, and she wants it to flow all over him! All over.
I actually find it curious that this reading material is encouraged by my parents while teen magazines are frowned upon, although I would die of embarrassment to mention it. I close my Bible and think about what in the world made this woman’s breasts so holy that they were written about in sacred text. Are they like Kimi’s? I bet they are. I wait for the lightning to strike and feel kind of tingly all over, especially in my own “bunches of grapes,” which could actually use a jump start. I pull at the neck of my T-shirt and look down, hoping to see some improvement.
“Ricki Jo?” my dad knocks at my open door and clears his throat. I jump a mile, eyes open wide, and clutch the fabric of my pj’s to my neck. He looks confused but has that expression where he’d rather not know. “Telephone,” he says. “Make it quick.”
I wait for my dad to walk away before pulling back the covers and getting out of bed. Not exactly a Hallmark father-daughter moment.
“Hello?” I say into the phone in the living room.
“Ericka!” comes Mackenzie’s voice through the receiver. “Oh my gosh, I’m so glad you’re still up! I just talked to my parents and they agreed to rent out the roller rink for my birthday party. That’s awesome, right?”
It is totally awesome.
“Totally!” I squeal into the receiver.
“Good, ’cause the other girls said the roller rink was the place to have a birthday party, but I wasn’t sure. I mean, I don’t even think there is one in Minneapolis, and if there is, no one would be caught dead there.”
I frown. I mean, I don’t know much about big cities, but the roller rink in our town is on the way to my house, and it’s always jammin’.
“Well, I’ve been to a couple of parties there and they were pretty fun,” I say, less enthusiastically than before. “And sometimes I go with my family, but never on the weekends, ’cause it’s always so packed.”
“Awesome!” she trills. “It’s so cute and small-town! This is going to be the best birthday.”
“Ricki Jo,” my dad says in his low parental voice. He’s tapping his watch and hovering. I roll my eyes and turn around. Dads.
“Okay, I had to call you ’cause you have to come,” she gushes. “You’re, like, my new BFF. We’re, like, the New Girls Club! Ha!”
“Ha!” I reply, letting the words register. “Yeah! Totally! We are!”
“So it’s this Saturday afternoon, but my mom said I can have you over afterward for a sleepover, too! Isn’t that great? Can you come? I hope you can come.”
I can’t see her, but in my mind, she is jumping in place, her blond hair full and bobbing.
“Uh, maybe,” I say. I hope. I really, really hope. “I’ll have to ask my folks.”
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll wait.”
I hadn’t meant that I would ask them right at this moment; I’m still feeling a little awkward after the whole dad-walks-in-while-I’m-checking-out-my-chest fiasco. But Mackenzie is waiting, and I don’t want her to get impatient and ask somebody else to stay over after the party.
“Ricki Jo,” Momma says, “who’s on the phone? Tell them it’s past your bedtime.”
I cover the receiver and look over my shoulder at my folks. Right. ’Cause having a ten o’clock bedtime is something I want to shout from the mountaintops.
“My new friend Mackenzie is having a birthday party this Saturday afternoon and a sleepover after,” I say. “Can I go? Please?”
My parents look at each other, each trying to read the other’s eyes.
“It’s at the roller rink,” I singsong, knowing that’s where they had their first kiss. My mom’s lips curve up and my dad
’s shoulders relax a little.
“I think that sounds like fun,” Momma says, and then hip checks my dad. I turn around before any more parental flirting causes me to go blind.
“They said yes!” I tell Mackenzie excitedly.
“Cool. So, the rink, this Saturday, four o’clock,” she says. “I can’t wait! We’re going to have so much fun!”
I hang up the phone and saunter back to my bedroom, sassy and saucy. “New Girls Club,” I sing to myself, jazz voice rasping, hips swinging, attitude on high.
“You going to Mackenzie’s birthday bash, Rosita Jo?” Wolf asks me in Spanish class.
The days this week have dragged by. Every night, I go through my wardrobe and plan optional skating party outfits. In Seventeen, there’s this whole article: “Look Great on Any Date.” They’ve got outfits for dancing, gaming, bowling, and concerts, but nothing about skating. I’m leaning toward a statement tee and skinny jeans (bowling gear), but think a team tee and faded boot-cut jeans might be more comfortable (gaming). I mean, it’s not like her party is even technically a date, but the article is still a good resource. And a girl should always look good when roller-skating with potential boyfriends.
“Most definitely,” I say to Wolf.
We’ve been paired up to do Actividad Numero 15, something about food and drink.
“Yeah, me, too,” he says. “I heard a lot of upperclassman will be there. You know, her older brother Mark’s friends, and then the girls from her cheerleading squad.”
“Oh, yeah?” I say nonchalantly. “Anybody you got your eye on in particular?”
“Huh,” he snorts. “You think the Wolf would tie himself down to one woman so early in the game? I’m still checking out all the inventory.”
“You’re disgusting,” I tell him, and he laughs.
“Nah, I’m just kidding,” he says. “Hey, I’m a freshman. The girls at her party want a guy with wheels, and I don’t mean roller skates. Stunning good looks only get you so far.”
We both laugh.
I don’t know what it is about Spanish class—maybe it’s that there’s nobody around to impress—but Wolf’s usually a pretty normal teenage guy between two and two fifty PM. He’s actually smart, which I like, breaking the dumb-jock stereotype. With the whole alphabetical system the school is married to, we’re always doing group work together. He totally participates and does his share when we’re paired up, but acts like an absolute slacker when we’re in a bigger group. I almost think he’s just like me as far as his image goes, that maybe he’s trying to mold himself into the cute, talented basketball star who doesn’t need school.
The Queen of Kentucky Page 8