by Lara Zielin
“You need a ride home?” Fitz asked. I blinked. Did I need a ride home? I pulled out my cell phone to text Sylvia, only to find I had two missed texts:
I left w Ryan.
Call me if u cant find ride bak.
“Um, yeah. That would actually be perfect.” Was it me, or were my words slurring? The edges of everything were getting blurry.
“Cool,” Fitz said. “Let’s just get to my car, okay?”
That sounded fine. “Can we go the back way?” I asked, motioning toward the yard. If I had to push through the crowd in the house—or see Neil again—I was sure I’d throw up.
“No problem,” Fitz said, helping me navigate the snow and slush until we found his car, halfway down Jefferson’s driveway. Even though he was right next to me, his next words sounded like they were coming through layers of felt. “Sylvia just left you here on your own, huh? She must be a really good friend.”
I stopped walking. “She’s my best friend,” I said. “She’s the only one in this whole wide world looking out for me.” I knew I sounded dramatic. I always sounded dramatic when I drank.
“Looking out for you?”
“Yes. Protecting me. Protecting me.” I also tended to repeat myself.
“Protecting you from what?”
“From people,” I said.
“Which people?”
I managed to focus my wobbling gaze on Fitz’s long-sleeved shirt, his dark jeans, his leather shoes. He looked like every other guy at the party. He looked like every other guy—period. I laughed. “People like you,” I said. I laughed harder. This was downright hysterical.
Before I knew it, Fitz had buckled me into the passenger seat and shut the door. I could hear the snow crunching as he came around to the driver’s side. I stopped laughing and reminded myself to tell him how nice this all was, and that I didn’t mean that he was the kind of people I needed to be protected from. But by the time he’d opened the driver’s door, sleep had overtaken me.
Chapter Five
MONDAY, MARCH 16 / 7:46 A.M.
Monday morning, I walked into school underneath a gigantic banner that read HOFBRÄU HAUS TICKETS ON SALE TODAY! In small print was the price: fifty dollars each. I almost tore the banner down right there. It was at least ten more dollars than what last year’s junior class had to pay, and who in their right mind would shell out that much dough for a stupid dance?
The incessant chatter all around me of dresses, limos, and dates told me that the entire junior class was who. I closed my ears to all of it and instead focused on getting to study hall so I could talk to Fitz. I knew he’d gotten me home safely on Saturday night. I knew I’d managed, somehow, to get up to my room without my parents suspecting anything. I knew I’d passed out and woken up late on Sunday with my head pounding and my mouth tasting like cotton. Despite feeling like I might hurl, I’d showered and cleaned my room, just so my parents wouldn’t think I’d been out partying. As far as I could tell, it had worked.
I was still thinking back to the weekend when Tiffany Holland, her cheerleader’s body squeezed into the tightest skinny jeans of all time, pranced past me. She was handing out colored pieces of construction paper. Each one of them said VOTE TIFF! in glittering letters.
“Prom court nominations are in a few weeks!” she chirped, her curly blond hair bouncing. “Remember to vote!”
Stupid bitch, I thought, glaring at her. She didn’t deserve it, but she’d probably get the nomination. In a few weeks, every junior in school would get a blank piece of paper with six lines on it. We were supposed to put in the names of three guys and three girls we wanted to see on the junior prom court. Six people who, no matter what, would march up on stage during the prom and be presented to the school. Out of those six, the king and queen would be chosen.
Technically, anyone could be nominated. But the way it worked at St. Davis, only a few people—like Tiffany Holland—ever made it onto the ballots. They were the only ones who cared enough to campaign, anyway.
Already she was doing all this work, and it was just for the nominations, which were like the primaries in a real election. When the nominations were secured and it came to campaigning for the actual crown, prom hysteria at the school would reach a whole new level. Which made me want to hurl. I stomped off to first period, my mood soured for the day.
In study hall, I couldn’t catch Fitz’s eye, so I passed him a note instead. It had one word written on it: Thanks.
Fitz nodded when he read my note and wrote one word back: Sure.
I figured I’d try catching him after class, just to make sure we were cool and I hadn’t done anything stupid in his car—like fart, or mumble in my sleep how in love with Neil I was—but when the bell rang, I lost him in the sudden crush of bodies in the hallway. Everyone was milling around the tables that had appeared since first hour started. It was the vendor fair. I wanted to punch myself for forgetting it was today.
Every year, the dress shops, salons, makeup boutiques, and tux outfitters for miles around came to St. Davis High to try and get the junior and senior students to spend money in their stores. They passed out coupons, offered discounts, and plastered anyone and everyone with compliments. “Your hair would look so lovely in the kind of French twist I do” or “I have at least five dresses that would look great with your skin tone.” There were squeals as girls picked up sequined purses, high fives as guys chose tuxes, and general disdain on my part.
I was pushing past kids, trying to get to gym—the one class I had with Sylvia—when I suddenly found myself face to face with Neil. The crowds pressed against us, forcing us closer. I lifted my eyes and we locked gazes. I didn’t know what I thought I’d see, but I didn’t expect him to give me a dead zombie stare that went right through me. Like he couldn’t even be bothered to register me.
I wanted to punch him and scream, You loved me once! I have proof!
Proof like the photo that was sitting on my computer desktop at home, a self-portrait we’d taken on homecoming night this past fall, just days before he’d dumped me. In the picture, Neil’s black hair is shiny; his chin is tilted up. He’s laughing, his brown eyes bright. His arm is draped around me, and I’m leaning into him, grinning like an idiot and looking at the camera. Strands of my ponytail are swirled around my face. My eyes are squinty with happiness.
We’d taken the picture at the end of a hard-packed dirt road. Neil had driven us way out of town, because we both agreed dances were stupid and we’d have a better time hosting our own formal. Dried cornstalks whispered on either side of us in the fading light. It was cold, but when I shivered, Neil pulled me close.
We took the picture, then Neil turned on his iPod. We swayed back and forth in the dirt, kissing for what felt like hours. I’d put my hands in his hair, had run my fingertips down his biceps. He’d felt so different. I had no idea his physique was about to change everything.
It was late when Neil had finally whispered in my ear, “You wanna get out of here?”
I’d nodded at him. “Yes.”
We climbed into his Impala and he started the engine, cranking the heat. “C’mere,” he said, holding open his arms. The Chevy only had one long seat in the front, so it was easy to get close to him. I slid into his arms, shivering.
“My house good?” he asked after the Chevy had warmed up and I’d buckled myself in on the other side of the car.
“Sure,” I said, swallowing nervous excitement. Neil had a downstairs room that was at the end of a long hallway, right next to the back door. It was the most isolated room in the house, and his parents hardly ever came down to check on him. In fact, after ten P.M., Neil’s parents hardly stirred at all.
I knew the logistics of sex stuff from when my mom had told me about it all back in sixth grade. But understanding it and experiencing it were two totally different things. Being with Neil was like waking up and finding out there was a whole side to being human that I’d never known about—like fishing and discovering there was a lake beneat
h the lake.
After our formal, we ground our bodies together until we were wet with sweat. I inhaled when Neil took off my pants and pressed himself between my legs. Our underwear was still on, but I ached for it to go further. With Neil, I always felt like I was looking over the edge of a cliff. I spent all my time peering over the side and wondering where the steep darkness finally ended.
At one point, Neil pulled back and pushed a strand of hair away from my forehead. “When we’re together,” he said, kissing one of my eyebrows, “do you ever . . . you know . . .”
I sat up on one elbow. “Do I ever what?”
Neil smiled. “Do you come?”
I pursed my kiss-swollen lips. “I don’t think so,” I said softly.
“How about when you masturbate?”
I tried to grasp what Neil was getting at. Masturbating felt okay when I did it every now and again, but if he was talking about it leading to the animal screams of ecstasy I saw on Sex and the City, then no.
“Not really,” I said. Then, “Why, do you?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, that’s why I do it. For the end.”
“Tell me about the end,” I said.
“I don’t know. How do you explain an orgasm?”
I didn’t say anything, and Neil sat up. “You know what I’m talking about, right? I mean, you have had an orgasm. Haven’t you?”
I lowered my eyes. “If I had, I’d know, right?”
Neil laughed. “Definitely you’d know.”
He leaned down and kissed my neck. I tried not to shatter into a thousand pieces. “I saw this thing online,” he murmured, one of his hands inching lower. “I thought I’d try . . . I mean, this thing . . .” His fingers slipped inside me, and I closed my eyes.
Maybe it was the magic of our dance on the dirt road, or maybe it was the fact that I felt so completely safe with him. Maybe it was none of that and what Neil had seen online was the trick. Either way, I totally came for the first time that night. As my first orgasm erupted and spread throughout my body like liquid glitter, I buckled and sighed and thought, This is it. I’m complete.
The next day, I’d tried to write Neil a note about it, to tell him how much I loved him and how much I appreciated that he’d been the first guy I’d had an orgasm with. But I never got the chance to give it to him. After two days of totally ignoring me, he finally called me to dump me.
Sylvia said he was too immature to handle the consequences of a profound relationship, whatever that meant. I think she was borrowing psychobabble from Oprah to try and make me feel better. All I knew was that I didn’t have Neil in my life anymore and I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel that way about anyone ever again.
“Hey, Adams!” Neil called out suddenly in the hallway. Greg Adams turned and Neil started cutting over to his right, making his way toward Greg. Same as it ever was, I thought, as pieces of my heart flecked off and disintegrated.
I pushed and shoved until I was free of the crush. I all but sprinted to gym as the warning bell sounded. I stepped into the locker room just as the final bell rang.
“Feet apart at right angles, and lunge!” called Ms. Rhone, our gym teacher. I leaned forward and tried to ignore the odor—like mold and potato chips—coming from inside my fencing mask.
“Left arm up, Winchester!” Ms. Rhone said, checking my posture. I hoisted my arm and wondered for the billionth time why St. Davis High taught fencing in the first place. Of all the useless skills to have, this surely had to be at the top. Also, I was sick of doing all this stuff without someone to fence with. But Ms. Rhone was determined to make us understand the basics before she paired us off.
Sylvia came in late and wasn’t in her gym clothes. I hadn’t heard from her since the party, even though I’d texted a few times. But that was Sylvia. Some days, she said, people just had to take her when they could get her. Whatever that meant.
“Hydration break!” Ms. Rhone announced to the class as Sylvia handed her a piece of paper.
“What’s going on?” I asked, approaching them. Sylvia’s hair spiked out in all directions. Her dark lipstick was cracked and faded.
“My mom took me to the doctor this morning,” Sylvia whispered. “I’m excused from gym for a while.”
After a long moment, Ms. Rhone handed the note back to Sylvia. “Participate when you can,” she said, her neck cords strained at the base of her ringer tee. “Get exercise regularly. Don’t stop moving.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out what Sylvia’s note said.
“Okay, time for partners,” Ms. Rhone said. “Everyone grab a neighbor. Winchester, you can partner with Jess.”
I looked over at Jess—or J. rex as she was known in school, on account of how her left hand was missing its index and middle fingers and looked like a tiny claw.
“You owe me,” I growled at Sylvia. She winked and smiled.
“This is payback for last week when you ate my Smarties.”
“Whatever,” I said, walking over to Jess, who seemed as happy about the arrangement as I was. Her sky blue eyes were narrowed as she watched me approach. She was all of fivetwo, with twigs for bones, but she still had the compact energy of a pit bull. She pushed a piece of her blond bob out of her face and tilted her chin up at me. I clutched my fencing sword and scowled.
“Try an attack using the lunge and recover technique,” Ms. Rhone called out to the class. “En garde—and go!”
Jess and I pulled the fencing masks back down over our faces and assumed positions. I figured we would just wave our swords at each other half-heartedly, so I was surprised when the tip of her blade jabbed the dumpy vest around my middle. “Ow!” I cried.
“Nice job, Kline,” Ms. Rhone said to Jess before moving on to observe another pair. I tried not to notice the way Sylvia was laughing and covering her mouth in the corner of the gym.
“So that’s how you want to play?” I asked.
“I’m just following the rules,” Jess said through the mesh of her mask.
Smartass, I thought, bounding forward to thrust the tip of my flimsy sword into the space where her vest met her neck. Jess blocked it and counterattacked, this time poking me in the arm.
“Dammit,” I cursed, wishing suddenly that the school could afford all the required fencing gear, instead of just bits and pieces we threw on over our shorts and T-shirts. It would at least keep Jess’s jabs away from my skin.
I heard Sylvia cackle and tried to ignore it.
“You’re not very graceful,” Jess pointed out.
“That’s not helping,” I said, rubbing my arm.
Jess lifted her fencing mask off her face. Her eyes had lost their hard edge. She was almost laughing.
“You’re trying to win by being powerful, but that’s not what fencing is about.”
I pulled the mask off my own face and stared at her. “What, do I look like I give a crap?”
Jess shrugged and pulled her mask back down. “Just trying to help,” she said. Before I was ready, she made some kind of little hop and poked my leg.
“Excellent footwork, Kline,” Ms. Rhone called from across the room.
“If you poke me again, I swear to God I’ll kick your ass,” I said, humiliated beyond belief. First, I was paired with a freak, and now she was beating me at fencing. Fabulous. I just hoped no one besides Sylvia was watching.
“You touch me, I’ll tell what was in that note your friend handed to the teacher,” Jess said.
“You have no idea what that note said,” I replied.
“Try me.” Jess’s sword was raised in her right hand. Her left hand, with its curled deformity, was hidden behind her. She’s in the attack position, I realized. She was no doubt bluffing—but better safe than sorry.
“I’m just playing,” I said, trying to make my voice light. “Just screwing around.”
Jess lowered her sword a few inches. “Yeah, well, me too,” she conceded. “I won’t tell. It must suck to be pregnant in this cow town.”
I pulled my
fencing mask over my face so Jess didn’t see the blood leaving my cheeks and pooling in my stomach. How did she know that? “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“My hand might be deformed, but my eyes are just fine, thanks,” Jess replied. She moved her sword again, and the tip landed squarely on my heart. But the jab wasn’t so hard this time.
“The match goes to Kline!” Ms. Rhone called out. I stared at the indistinguishable contours of Jess’s face behind her fencing mesh. Who the hell was I dealing with?
Chapter Six
MONDAY, MARCH 16 / 4:12 P.M.
Later that afternoon at Tickywinn’s I recounted the whole conversation with Jess to Sylvia. She and I sat at a battered blue table in the corner of the café. A huge old window was pouring so much light onto us, I was starting to feel like I was tanning.
“How does she know you’re pregnant?” I asked. “Who else did you tell?”
“No one,” Sylvia said, propping her legs up on the empty chair next to her. “Except Ryan. On Saturday night.”
“You told him? Really?”
“Yeah. After his beer pong game, we met by my car and just drove around for a while.”
I didn’t need Sylvia to go into detail about what they did when they “drove around for a while.”
“What did he say?”
Sylvia fingered the handle of her coffee mug. “Not much. He said some scouts were down recently from the wrestling team at the University of Minnesota, and afterward they sent a letter saying they’re interested in him. He says he pretty much needs to focus on that since his grades aren’t so hot and he might not make it into college without sports.”
“Uh, that’s great and all, except we don’t graduate for another year.”
“He says the scouts can make their decisions as early as the fall.”
I clenched my jaw. So that was that.