My Parents Are Sex Maniacs

by Robyn Harding

  Leah says, “Rent’s going to be great, huh?” It’s not very cool to be talking about our high-school play while at cool Audrey’s cool party, but Rent is going to be great, and I kind of want to talk about it.

  “Yeah,” I say, lowering my voice a little. “You’re doing a great job with stage direction.”

  “And your sets rock,” Wayne says.

  “Oh . . . ” I shrug modestly, trying to hide my delight, “well, thanks.”

  Suddenly, our attention is torn from our conversation and all eyes fall on the front door. Despite the raucous music and general cacophony, Dean Campbell and Tracey Morreau still manage to make an entrance. This may be because Dean is by far the oldest person in attendance. With his trucker hat and five o’clock shadow, he definitely stands out. I know Sienna said he was around twenty-four, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was more like thirty-two or something. I wonder if he feels kind of awkward and out of place? I read the front of his green T-shirt: Suck Mine. I decide probably not.

  We all watch, in a sort of frightened awe, as the couple moves into the room. Tracey exudes a confidence that is almost . . . menacing. She has hair the color and texture of straw, foundation two shades darker than her natural skin tone, and eyes rimmed with navy liner. A beer bottle is held to her frosty pink lips and there is something really sexy about the way she’s drinking it. Handing the bottle to her middle-aged boyfriend, she removes her jean jacket.

  I try not to gasp, but it just escapes. Thankfully, I’m standing in a group of stagecraft nerds and various other club joiners who also find Tracey’s outfit shocking. “What is she wearing?” Leah Montgomery whispers.

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammer.

  Jessie Gray approaches. “It’s called underboobage,” she explains sagely. “It’s the new cleavage.”

  Well, it certainly is an appropriate name, since the bottom third of Tracey’s enormous breasts is hanging out of her tiny blue top. “Interesting,” Leah says.

  Jessie snipes, “I think it’s a bit much. I mean, that look’s okay for summer, but it’s, like, March.”

  I suddenly remember Sienna’s thing or moment or whatever she had with Dean Campbell at McDonald’s. Hopefully that infatuation was just a brief moment of poor judgment. Scanning the crowd, I spot my friend. Sienna is really taking this “wild girl from a broken home” thing seriously. Judging by the way she’s flailing her arms around and squealing with laughter, she must have drunk most of her coolers already. I look at the untouched, tepid drink in my hand. Obviously, I’m going to have to be the responsible one tonight and keep a close eye on my friend.

  As Jessie wanders away, Leah clears her throat. “Yeah . . . Rent’s going to be really good.” With an impressive show of effort, we stop staring at Tracey’s underboobage (except for maybe Wayne) and pick up the conversation where we left off. We discuss the various backdrops, our flamboyant drama teacher, and which of the actors take direction well and which are prima donnas or just too stoned to get what Aaron is saying. I am so engaged that I almost forget to watch out for Sienna. I look around but can’t locate her. Excusing myself, I move through the party searching for broken-home girl.

  Sienna is nowhere in sight, but I spot Kimber, Jessie, and Audrey. They are standing at the end of a darkened hallway and appear to be deep in conversation. I’m hesitant to interrupt, but then I remember how wasted Sienna is. I’ve got to find her. “Hey, guys,” I say cheerfully.

  They all look kind of surprised to see me. “Oh . . . hey,” Audrey says.

  “Great party,” I continue.

  “Thanks.”

  “You guys having a good time?”

  Their eyes dart back and forth to one another. Kimber puts her hand to her lips and bursts into hysterics.

  “What?” I ask, instantly paranoid. Why are they laughing? Are they laughing at me? Is this outfit all wrong? Or do I have something on my face? In my teeth? Hanging out of my nose? I run my tongue across my teeth while casually rubbing my nose.

  Jessie says, “Should we tell her?”

  “It’s up to Kimber,” Audrey responds.

  Kimber calms herself and clears her throat. Her cheeks are rosy from her outburst and her eyes look glassy. She has obviously had a few Mike’s Hard Cranberry Lemonades. “Okay,” she says gleefully, “tell her.”

  Audrey looks at me seriously. “This does not leave our group, okay?”

  Our group—as in, a group that I am a part of. “Okay.”

  “Swear,” Jessie demands.

  “I swear.” They are obviously going to tell me something extremely important. While I’m flattered to be included in their circle of trust, I’m also slightly nervous. What if I accidentally spill the beans? What if someone else spills the beans and they think it was me? What if this is all a trick and they are going to tell me I have a booger hanging out of my nose?

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Audrey asks Kimber.

  “Go ahead. Tell her.” Kimber looks about to burst with anticipation.

  Jessie leans in. “Daniel Noran told Kimber that she could give him a blow job later tonight!”

  “Oh . . . ” I scramble for the appropriate response. “That’s, uh . . . well, very kind of him.”

  Judging by the shocked and appalled looks I receive, that was not it. Damn! I’ve been invited into their circle of trust and I’ve blown it. But come on! Is this really great news?

  “Uh, Louise . . . ” Audrey says. “He’s, like, the hottest guy in our school.”

  Apparently, this is great news. I try to cover. “I know! That’s so cool . . . I mean, great! You’re really lucky.”

  “It’s an honor,” Jessie says.

  “It is.” Kimber sniffs. “And if you can’t see that . . . well, I just don’t know about you, Louise.”

  Jessie rolls her eyes. “She obviously doesn’t get it.”

  She’s right, I don’t get it. Daniel Noran is going to let Kimber put his dick in her mouth. This is an honor? Cause for celebration? Okay, maybe I’m a little negative about BJs after the whole thing with my dad and Sunny, but come on! I suddenly feel an urgent need to return to the stagecraft nerds, but I can’t forget why I came over in the first place. “Uh . . . have any of you seen Sienna?”

  “What are you, her mom?” Audrey remarks. The three of them burst into vicious laughter.

  “No, it’s just that I drove her here and she seems kind of . . . well, anyway, have you seen her?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “Okay.” I turn to go, then stop. “Well, good luck with . . . I mean, have fun, you know . . . ”

  “Thanks,” Kimber says dismissively and then returns to discussing technique or something with her friends.

  10

  I edge my way through the party, my concern mounting. Of course I’m not Sienna’s mom; but I am one of the only responsible, sober influences in her life at the moment. And I did promise her a ride home. Who knows what she could get up to if I don’t find her?

  Eventually, I end up in Audrey’s basement. There are several kids milling around, beers in hand, and a few more playing pool. Down the hall, there are a number of closed bedroom doors. I know better than to knock on any of these. I don’t want to interrupt some lucky girl enjoying the privilege of giving Daniel Noran a blow job. But to my right is the bathroom, and I sense that Sienna might be in there barfing up her Smirnoffs. Of course, all sorts of teenaged depravity could be taking place behind that closed door as well, but I decide to risk it. I knock.

  “Get lost!” a female voice shrieks from the depths of the bathroom.

  “Umm . . . I’m looking for my friend,” I call nervously. There are sounds of a muffled female conversation and then the door swings open. Standing before me is Gillian Weibe in all her intimidating dropout glory.

  “Who’re you looking for?”

  “Uh . . . sorry to bother you.” There’s no way Sienna would be in there with Gillian Weibe. Gillian Weibe is like a different specie
s. She dropped out of Red Cedars in tenth grade after she was expelled for spitting on her home ec teacher. “I guess she’d rather go to the school of hard knocks,” my mother commented when I shared the news. Gillian is seventeen but looks about thirty (apparently, the school of hard knocks takes quite a toll on your skin). In eighth grade, we were on the same volleyball team, but now . . . she may as well be from another planet.

  “Oh, hi, Louise,” she says in a bored voice. She calls to the other occupant behind her. “It’s okay. It’s just Louise Harrison.”

  Suddenly, Tracey Morreau’s tear-stained face appears over Gillian’s shoulder. “Come in,” Tracey says, grabbing at my T-shirt with her talonlike fingers. “Shut the door.” I allow myself to be dragged inside. I am too afraid to protest.

  “Go ahead and pee,” Gillian says, “but we’re not leaving.”

  “I don’t actually—uh . . . ”

  Before I can explain, Tracey dissolves into loud sobs. She hurries to the toilet, where she unrolls a large handful of toilet paper and holds it to her face.

  “Are you okay, Tracey?” I ask nervously.

  “Obviously she’s not okay,” Gillian snaps.

  Tracey blows her nose loudly. It is strange to see someone with underboobage crying and blowing her nose like that. The look just seems more suited to dancing on top of a bar or riding a mechanical bull. “It’s Dean,” she says, leaning close to the mirror and rubbing at the streaks of mascara cascading down her face. “I hate him.”

  I’m not sure how to respond. I want to say something sympathetic but not patronizing. I mostly just want to get out of there without getting beaten up. I finally settle on “Oh, no.”

  “He’s a prick!” Gillian growls.

  My eyes dart nervously between the two. Am I supposed to agree that Dean is a prick? But what about when Dean and Tracey get back together, which they are bound to do? Will Tracey be all, like, “You called my boyfriend a prick! I’m going to kill you!” But given her current state of emotional distress, I can hardly disagree. Maybe I could say something ambiguous like, I’m sure he has been exhibiting pricklike behavior, but—

  My thoughts are interrupted by Tracey. “We had a fight and he just took off in his jeep. And—and . . . Cameron Littledale saw a g—girl with him!” she wails.

  “We’ll kill her,” Gillian says, punching her fist into her palm, “whoever she is.”

  A sudden thought strikes terror into my heart. Oh god. Oh please, no! I clear my throat. “That really sucks, Tracey. Uh . . . I’d better go.”

  Gillian looks at me, her eyes narrowed. “Who did you say you were looking for?”

  My heart is beating like a frightened squirrel as I scramble for an answer that will keep me from being clawed to death by two pairs of hands with metallic purple fingernails. Obviously I can’t admit that I’m searching for Sienna. If, god forbid, she was stupid enough to leave the party with Dean Campbell, then her fate is in her own hands. Yes, we are best friends, but I don’t think I should be murdered for her poor judgment. “ . . . Leah Montgomery,” I finally say.

  Tracey and Gillian look at each other and shrug. “Don’t know her,” they say in unison.

  “She’s one of my friends from stagecraft club,” I explain. “We’re doing Rent this year. You guys should come check it out. It’s going to be great!”

  They look at me like I’ve just suggested filling their ears with Cheez Whiz. After a beat, Gillian walks to the door and grabs the handle. Before releasing me she says, “If you hear anything about that bitch who took off with Dean, report back to us.”

  “I sure will!” I say emphatically. Then, in the doorway, I pause briefly. “Well . . . I hope things get better, Tracey. And . . . nice to see you, Gillian.” With that, I hurry back to the relative safety of the party.

  But Sienna is still nowhere to be found, leading me to the obvious conclusion that she has taken off with the middle-aged Dean. What the hell was she thinking? Dean Campbell is old, balding, and dating an extremely tough woman with underboobage. And I have to have the car home in forty-five minutes! What am I going to do?

  There’s nothing I can do but sidle up to my friends from English class and pretend to be enjoying myself while hoping that Sienna returns before my curfew. But given recent events, it’s hard to be optimistic. My mind anticipates the phone call from Keith tomorrow morning. Hello, Denise, he’ll say when my mom answers. I guess it wasn’t bad enough that Len took my wife away from me; now Louise has taken my daughter. Sienna was found dead this morning, the victim of alcohol poisoning / a car crash / two angry teenaged girls with extremely strong acrylic nails.

  At 11:50 p.m., I can put it off no longer. I’m going to have to go home and hope that Sienna survives the night without me. As I walk to my mom’s car at the end of the dimly lit driveway, kids are still arriving, hollering with excitement. Many have cases of beer hoisted on their shoulders. Normally, my early exit would cause me some embarrassment. Only losers with overprotective mommies have midnight curfews anymore. But as I walk to the car, I’m too concerned to feel any shame. Sienna is gone. I’ve failed her as a friend. And it seems there is nothing I can do about it but confess everything to my mom and then deal with the aftermath.

  I’m opening the driver’s side door when Sienna appears out of nowhere.

  “Hey,” she says casually, sidling up to me.

  “Oh my god!” I cry, my voice hushed. Anxiously, I glance over my shoulder to ensure that Tracey and Gillian aren’t charging toward us. “Sienna, where the hell were you?”

  “I went for a drive,” she says casually.

  “Who with?” I demand, but on second thought, “No, don’t tell me here.” I glance nervously at the house again. “Get in the car.”

  Once we’re inside, I put the key in the ignition and auto-lock the doors. “You were with Dean Campbell, weren’t you? I can’t believe you took off with him like that!”

  She laughs. “What’s the big deal? I’m back now.”

  “What’s the big deal? The big deal is that”—a quick glance toward house, lower voice even further—“Tracey Morreau and Gillian Weibe are going to kill you.”

  “Whatever.” Sienna is actually laughing a little. God, what is wrong with her? She continues, “Do I look stoned?”

  Ah, so that explains her laid-back attitude toward her impending torture and death. I peer at her in the darkness. “Not really.”

  “Do I smell stoned?”

  I lean in to take a sniff. She breathes in my face. “You smell like you’ve chewed about thirty packs of Juicy Fruit.”

  She laughs again. “One and a half packs actually.” Then her voice turns bitter. “It’s not like it matters, anyway. My dad’s too consumed with grief to notice that his daughter is high.”

  I don’t know how to respond, so I focus on backing the car onto the street. When we’re cruising through the quiet subdivision, Sienna says, “Can we go through the drive-through or something? I’m starving.”

  “No, we can’t,” I snap, sounding uncomfortably momlike, even to myself. “I’ve got about three minutes to drop you off and get the car home or my mom will freak.” Sienna doesn’t respond, so we drive in silence for a while. Finally I say, “So, what happened with Dean Campbell?”

  “Nothing . . . We went for a drive . . . We smoked a joint . . . ”

  “Are you, like, going out with him now?”

  “Not really,” she says breezily.

  “Not really? What do you mean, not really?” I demand. “He’s got a girlfriend, and have you seen the fingernails on her?”

  “They’ve broken up. She’s just having a little trouble accepting it.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I suppose it’s a bit confusing for her since he brought her to the party tonight.”

  “No, he just gave her a ride,” Sienna explains. “It’s complicated, but they’re definitely not together anymore.” She stares out the passenger window. “He’s really cool though.”

  Yuc
k! Dean Campbell is sooo not really cool. I clear my throat. “So . . . did you guys . . . you know?” I’m trying not to sound too judgmental about it. It’s obvious that Audrey and the girls look at me as a sort of a prude, and I don’t want Sienna to think I am. So if Sienna chooses to hand her virginity over to some jerk with a receding hairline and a confused ex-girlfriend, then I will support her decision.

  “What?” Sienna is momentarily at a loss and then, “No! No! Nothing like that!”

  “No? Not even a . . . ” I try to be cool about this, even blasé, like I know that everyone does it and it’s really no big deal, “ . . . blow job?”

  “Not even a blow job,” Sienna says. We look at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter. While I could easily collapse into hysterics, that isn’t a very safe driving practice. I manage to compose myself.

  Turning onto Sienna’s street, I glance over at her. “Do you really like this guy?”

  Without looking at me, Sienna says, “Yeah . . . I know he’s not like the guys I usually go for, but there’s just something about him. Like, he’s not a boy; he’s a man.”

  That’s an understatement.

  “Like, he’s really lived, you know? He hasn’t been stuck in stupid Langley his whole life. He used to live just outside of Portland for almost a year. And he has his own roofing business.” Sienna finally looks at me. “I don’t know. There’s just something about him. He’s different. And with everything that’s happened lately . . . well, I’m different too.”

  Bringing the car to a stop in front of Sienna’s house, I swivel in my seat to face her. I want to say something meaningful, like, “Don’t let what our parents did change you. You have to value the wonderful person that you are and know that you can do better than Dean Campbell.” But those are my mom’s words and they’ll just sound corny. Finally, I say, “Well . . . wish me luck at my job interview tomorrow.”