He gets up, but sees Phillip heading down the hall toward us.
Phillip rushes over. “Shelby came and got me out of study hall. What are you doing here? Are you okay? Do you want me to take you home?”
Being mad is much easier than feeling sad, so I say in a perturbed voice, “No, Phillip, what I want is to know what’s going on around here.”
Ricky touches my arm. “Hey, I’m gonna go. Sorry about your parents, JJ.”
Chicken.
“Uh, thanks, Ricky, I really appreciate what you did.”
I turn to Phillip. “Phillip? I asked you a question.”
“Oh, it’s not a big deal or a big secret or anything. We were just kind of keeping it quiet because Danny knew you’d react like this because you’re stubborn and hard-headed.”
“Danny?” I shake my head, trying to understand. “What does Danny have to do with this?”
“Well, he sort of met with the football team.”
“The football team? Why?”
“Well, not everyone—mostly just the seniors and a few juniors, and well, Coach and Mazer too.”
This is mind-boggling.
“Why?”
“Well, Danny knew he’d have to go back to Lincoln right after the funeral. He felt like he was abandoning you and worried about how you’d do when you came back to school. He just wanted to make sure you’d be okay and that someone was around if you needed anything.”
Most of me wants to throw a fit and scream, I can take care of myself, but the other part of me feels grateful and loved. Because, awwww, that was really, really sweet of Danny. That’s how my life has been this week. An emotional roller coaster. Two stupid sides to every feeling I have. I think I liked myself better when I just thought my side was always right.
“You know what, Phillip? I do think I wanna get out of here. I'll see you at home later. I shouldn’t have come here today. And I’ve been lucky: I haven’t run into Jake.”
“Uh, yeah. Danny might have had something to do with that too.”
I arch an eyebrow at him.
“Fine.” He rolls his eyes at me. “He invited Jake to the meeting and told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave you alone. That’s the other thing the guys are supposed to make sure of.”
I sigh. I need to get out of here.
“I’m gonna sign out.”
I almost get out of school without being seen by the faculty, but when I round the corner, I run smack dab into Principal Mazer.
Crap. I suppose I’m going to get in trouble for my insubordination to a substitute teacher.
But Mazer surprises me by giving me a hug. “JJ, I’m surprised to see you here. We didn’t expect you until Monday. Everything going alright so far?”
“Um, uh, there was a little incident in AP English. I want to apologize in advance, and when you hear about it, um, just know he pushed me.”
Principal Mazer looks confused by my statement, but I don’t elaborate. I just say, “If it’s alright, I think I am going to leave now.”
“Sure, honey, feel free to come and go as you please for a while, and if there is anything you need, let us know. All of us around here care about you.”
“Thanks. That means a lot to me.” My standard funeral response, but I can’t seem to come up with anything better.
Phillip tells Mazer that he’s leaving with me.
“Follow me,” Phillip bosses me, as I get in my car.
I follow Phillip’s car in a daze. Pretty soon we are at the Westown Park. We park and get out of our cars. Phillip grabs my hand and leads me to the swings.
I sit down on a swing and am pleasantly surprised when Phillip starts pushing me.
I close my eyes and enjoy swinging. I love how swinging makes my stomach feel all fluttery. Then I remember once when I was little, telling my mom that I’d been swinging so high I thought my feet had touched heaven.
I swing higher and point my toes upward.
I hope they still can.
Phillip is swinging beside me now, and I realize this is exactly what I needed. I don’t know how he does it, but Phillip always seems to know exactly what I need.
Come to think of it, enjoying a ride on a swing is very much like stopping to smell the roses.
I hope my parents are proud.
Because I grew up around Danny and Phillip, I discovered the truth about the male language very early in life. What I learned is there are three basic responses that most guys will use when shouldered with the major task of having to answer the question, How do I look? by the fairer sex.
Although I have never confirmed it, I am convinced that boys are taken aside in school, probably in fifth grade when the girls watch the film about getting their periods, and are taught the following three responses:
You look like shit. (Translation: You look bad. Just go back to bed and start over tomorrow. I really shouldn’t be seen with you like this.)
You look fine. (Translation: You look good enough to be seen with.)
You look hot. (Translation: I want you.)
They also must teach them there is only one acceptable variation to these responses and to use it sparingly. The variation is simple. They just throw a “really” into the sentence. The following are examples I have witnessed:
JJ, you REALLY look like shit. (Translation: You must be very hung over, or sick, or having an extremely bad hair day. I really don’t want to be seen with you.)
REALLY, JJ, your hair looks fine. (Translation: Your hair looks the same to me as it always does, even though you spent an hour fixing it, so stop messing with it and let’s go because you look good enough to be seen with.)
And…
(Insert cheerleader’s name here) looks REALLY hot. (Translation: I REALLY want her.)
So when Danny shows up at my door and says these five simple words—you might think with my insider knowledge, I would have expected them—I’m truly surprised!
“Jay, you look really hot!” he exclaims, looking me over from perfectly done hair to perfectly painted toe.
Now, normally, I would be excited by this compliment because it’s not something I typically hear.
But what I’m thinking is, my God, I have spent, like, the following:
$400 dollars and months of shopping, which is still not a pastime I find enjoyable, on a fabulous halter dress in a beautiful, stretchy, coral fabric with coral and silver beading. This dress actually makes me look like I have hips.
$60 on a special bra, so I’d show no straps.
$120 on a pair of high-heeled, strappy silver sandals with rhinestones. (And yay, even in five- inch heels, Danny’s still taller than me, unlike my previous date, Mr. Unfaithful.)
$78 on a silver clutch, that is only big enough to hold some lip gloss and a cell phone.
$60 on a silver gossamer wrap, in case it gets chilly. (Okay, so I have absolutely no idea what gossamer is either. But Lisa said that’s what it’s called and she should know. All I know is that it’s a very sheer fabric that has no chance in hell of ever keeping me warm.)
$240 plus tips, to get my nails, toes, hair, and makeup done.
And all Danny can say is Jay, you look really hot?
You’d think that maybe he could come up with something a little more original like, Wow, that color dress looks amazing on you. Or, Your face looks flawless (which, incredibly, it does), or I love how your toenails are the exact shade of coral as your dress, and my, aren’t they painted perfectly.
But no, I am hot.
Still, coming from Danny, it does make me feel good. For two reasons, really.
One. It is the second time—in a week, no less—that he has used my name and “hot” in the same sentence. Except for something like, Jay, it’s really smokin’ hot out here; why don’t you go grab us some drinks?
And, two. I think it’s the only time I’ve ever heard him say those words in reference to someone other than a supermodel, cheerleader, or playmate.
The boy really does need to broaden his horizons
a bit.
Did I mention how handsome Danny looks? He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a cool silver and black patterned vest and tie. I love the way his shoulders look so broad when he wears a suit.
Danny grabs my hand and kisses me. “So, are ya ready?”
Um, I have been, like, getting ready for the last six hours.
Hello?
Can’t you tell?
But I don’t say that because I know he’s wondering if I’m ready to face everyone at the dance.
“Okay with all of this?” he asks again.
“Yeah, and by the way, I’m glad you’re forcing me to go.” I grin.
“Ah,” he says, holding his hand to his chest like I have just stabbed him. He flashes an infectious smile and winks at me. “We’ve gotta run over to my house. Mom wants to take some pics.”
Just as we finish pictures, Phillip is at the door.
Phillip, my articulate, sensitive, linguistic, emotional man, what do you have to say about how I look tonight?
“Wow,” he says, “you look . . . ”
Okay, here we go. He’s searching his brain for the perfect word. I know, come on, you can do it! How about perfect shoes?
“ . . . hot, really hot.”
Oh for God’s sake, what is it with boys!
Phillip leaves to go pick up his date, and Danny and I head to dinner.
A lot of our friends are going out to dinner in big groups, but because Jake wanted to be alone with me, Danny and I are going out alone. Of course, Jake, Mr. I-Can’t-Plan-Ahead, wouldn’t make any plans for prom, so I had arranged everything.
And guess what? Rumor has it that he’s been cheating on me, like the whole time! And, apparently—get this—he’s honest with the other girls. He tells them he has a girlfriend. And they’re okay with that!?!?
So, apparently, he’s been doing it with pretty much everyone but me. So, here’s my question, then. Why was he bugging me about it so much? I mean, supposedly he had a whole legion of skanks to choose from. Why not let me, his sweet little girlfriend, whom he professed to love more than life itself, stay safely ensconced in my imaginary virginal bubble world? Why keep pressuring me?
Whyyyyy???
God.
I really should’ve skipped trying to make him jealous and gone for Option One: walked straight up to him and punched him in the face. Hard! And I’m not talking a little slap across the face like what girls in movies who get mad and slap their lying, conniving, cheating boyfriend and yell, You bastard! give.
I’m talking, BOOM.
There’s a fitting song on the American Pie 2 soundtrack that goes something like, If I leave with a broken heart, you’ll leave with a bleeding nose.
That’s what I’m talking about.
Sorry, I digress. I may still be slightly bitter.
However, it does make me feel better knowing that I’m going to Prom with one of the nicest and hottest guys around. Danny will be, hands down, the best looking guy at the dance. Although, I have to admit, Phillip will be a close second. I swear, he just keeps getting cuter.
It’s probably for the best that Danny and I are going to dinner alone.
I’m not sure I could handle all the questions.
Like, How are you doing? Are you and Danny serious? Is it true that Jake has been dating that girl for like four months?
I’d have to answer . . . Um. I don’t know . . . ; uh, I don’t know . . . ; and, well, I don’t know.
I’m a fountain of non-information.
Danny and I have a great time at dinner.
He teases me.
I feign irritation and tease him back.
He kisses me and I melt.
He feeds me dessert.
I’ve decided I’m very glad we’re alone. I’ve been able to forget about my life for a while, and it’s been perfect. I mean, when you’re around Danny, it’s really hard to think about anything but him. He’s got this easy, seductive way about him. Like he’s a warm, inviting swimming pool and you can’t wait to jump him.
In. I meant jump in . . . You know, jump in the pool. The, uh, warm pool.
Crap. I’ve become one of those girls. Those girls who hang on his every word and think he can do no wrong and wouldn’t care if he did.
Those are the girls I make fun of.
I do a great impersonation of a swooning, mute, hair-flipping, eyelash-batting, stomach-holding-in, and boob-sticking-out girl. Phillip thinks I’m hilarious when I do this.
And, somehow, I’ve become one. Well, not completely. Coherent words are still coming from my mouth, and I’m not flipping my hair.
Okay, so I can’t flip it since it’s up in pins.
My point is, I haven’t been totally hypnotized by his charm.
I’m holding my own.
My dad used to call Danny a chick magnet. Eighties slang for what would probably now be referred to as a player. Anyway, I’ve thought it was a good way to describe him. But I’ve always been like an opposing magnet. We tend to butt heads.
Tonight, I think I’ve become like, you know, a wimpy paper clip or something. I can’t help but be drawn to him, and I’m totally incapable of resisting his pull.
We finish dinner too early to go to the dance, so we retreat to the limo, and Danny tells the driver to just cruise around. We really aren’t paying attention to where he is going because we are sitting in the back, drinking champagne, and seriously making out.
You know, I never wanted to be cliché and do it on prom night, but let’s just say that the issue is currently under advisement.
What it really means is that I haven’t made up my mind yet. I have determined though that if I wanted to, Danny could be the perfect guy for it. I mean, I love the guy. And why not do it with a friend? Someone you trust and are comfortable with.
Not some stupid, loser, slut-loving boyfriend.
And didn’t Phillip tell me I should think about doing it with a friend?
So why wouldn’t I?
Well, cuz maybe you’re afraid of ruining your relationship?
See. I really can’t decide.
We go to Prom, and I have fun dancing with Danny. I especially enjoy how he holds me when we slow dance and how he keeps playing with the loose strands of hair that have fallen out of the back of my updo.
Memo to self: Updos and passionate limo kissing are not a good mix. Especially when date is enthralled with your hair and can’t seem to leave it alone!
Which I am totally not complaining about, even though it is rather hypnotic.
I manage to get in a slow dance with Phillip, while his date is throwing up in the bathroom.
Too much champagne for her. Silly girl.
Speaking of champagne, Danny and I drank a whole bottle, but I feel fine. Although, come to think of it, Danny had most of it, and occasionally he’s taking nips from a flask of vodka hidden in his tux pocket.
Hey, where’s mine?
Why aren’t we sharing?
Come on! Get me drunk and take advantage of me.
Please!!!
He seems sober enough, but sorta nervous. That’s so not like him. Why in the world would he be nervous with me?
I may be a bit confused, but certainly not nervous. It’s just Danny, for goodness’ sake.
Billy Prescott and Katie are named Prom King and Queen and at a little after eleven, Danny and I leave, get dropped off at the hotel, and go to our room. A bunch of us went together and booked the whole floor of the hotel. We got the whole hotel thing past our parents by swearing we were all just going to crash in the rooms and that way they wouldn’t have to worry about anyone drinking and driving. At least, that was my explanation.
God, I miss them so much.
Anyway, there’s kind of an awkward moment when we first get to the room. I know we’re just supposed to crash here, but you can’t exactly ignore the big bed in the center of the room and what it implies. I mean, there might as well be a neon arrow pointing down to it, with the words, HAVE SEX HERE
, flashing at us.
Okay, now I am nervous. I seriously need a drink. Thank goodness Danny brought more champagne to the room.
As he opens the bottle, I sit on the bed. He seems much calmer now; back to his confident self, as he pours champagne into little plastic cups.
“Cheers,” he says. In one long drink, he drains his cup, and then sets it on the nightstand. I barely get to take a sip before Danny grabs my cup. I’m about to protest, but he looks at me, runs a finger across my cheek, and kisses me sweetly.
The kisses don’t stay sweet though.
We’re really kissing.
And when he starts kissing down my neck, my sensible mind goes completely fuzzy. Especially now that he’s running his hands through my hair and tossing the bobby pins he finds onto the floor.
God!!!
It’s like he’s undressing my hair!
Pretty soon his kisses get, well, urgent, and his hands, well, they have been everywhere but in my hair.
Oh, I like this.
But . . . shit!
Decision time.
I start to panic, so I stop the kissing, grab my cup, and take another drink.
A big one.
Relax, JJ.
Danny pours himself another cupful of champagne. Which is good. It gives me a second to think without his kisses clouding my judgment. But I only get a second because he slams his champagne, sets his cup down, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. And I just sit there and watch.
Yes, I have seen Danny shirtless many times, but I am still dazzled.
Because he is not just whipping off his shirt cuz he’s hot, he is taking his shirt off for me.
He’s getting naked, for me.
And, well, when his shirt hit the floor, I’m pretty sure my judgment walked right out the door.
We kiss and stuff some more.
It all feels so good, and evidently my body decides to take control. I hear a husky voice, which I’m shocked to realize is my own, suggest, “Why don’t I change into something more comfortable?”
Where did that come from?
You always hear that in movies, and just once I’d like to see somebody come out in baggy old sweats and a T-shirt. But, no; it is always beautiful lingerie.
Which I happen to have in my bag.
What? I was just trying to be, you know, prepared for every possibility.
Kiss Kiss Page 148