Kiss And Blog

by ALSON NOËL

  And then Shay, apparently still dazzled by our unmitigated cuteness, goes, “How’d you guys meet, anyway?”

  And I just shrug, leaving the storytelling to Easton who uses all of his well-honed actor skills to tell a much improved, slightly abridged version of my New York adventure, leaving out anything that’s either too embarrassing, too personal, or that he wasn’t exactly privy to.

  And even though his version leaves me looking way more cool and far more daring than I’ve ever actually been in real life, it’s not like I can really stop and enjoy the moment, since I’m so caught up in the way Rey is watching him, almost like he’s scrutinizing him, that I can’t help but wonder if it’s because he feels like a big brother to me, and just wants to be all protective.

  Or if maybe, it’s something else.

  A couple hours later, I’m in a bedroom with Easton. Lying on someone else’s bed. Totally making out. And even though my lips are busy kissing his, my mind is busy hoping that this queen-sized bed, with the dark red, silky duvet, and the profusion of beaded pillows does not belong to Rey’s parents.

  Though I am kind of hoping that it might belong to Rey. Because even though that too could be considered kinda gross (in more ways than one), I guess what I’m really hoping is that he’ll come strolling in, looking for his favorite childhood model horse (even though I’m fully aware of how that sort of thing only happens on TV and never in real life), when he’ll stumble upon us and just stand there in shock, suddenly forced to see me in a whole new light. You know, as someone sexy, desirable, and quite obviously coveted, and not anything like the confused lab partner, reluctant organic sandwich eating, little sister stand-in who needs protection from the big bad Easton like he currently thinks.

  And even though I know it’s a really terrible thing to be kissing one guy while dreaming about another, it’s not like I can actually kiss the guy I’m dreaming about, so what am I supposed to do?

  But then, just as Easton tries to snake his hand up my top, I push him away, readjust my clothes, run my hands through my hair, and say, “I’ll be right back.”

  And he just sits up, looks at me, and goes, “Bring me a beer?”

  I wander around the house, opening doors and peeking in rooms, fully prepared to stand by my story of how I’m merely looking for a bathroom and not searching for Rey, should anyone ask. And it’s not until I’ve pretty much given up on finding him, that I spot him in the kitchen, sans Shay, all hunched over and peeking his head in the fridge.

  “Hey.” He turns to face me with two bottles of cold beer cradled awkwardly in his arms. “Want one?” he asks, shutting the door with his foot.

  Actually, I don’t. But Easton does. And since it will give me an opportunity to linger, I nod.

  He flips off the top then hands it to me, then we each take a swig and look at each other. And we stay like that for a while, just swigging and looking, until he finally says, “So, Easton seems cool.”

  I just shrug and take another sip. I mean, yeah, Easton is cool, no doubt about it, but this kind of feels like Rey’s digging for information and there’s no way I’m giving it up that easy.

  And then just as he opens his mouth to say something else, Shay pokes her perfectly beautiful head inside, and says, “Hey baby, what’s taking?” And when she sees me she narrows her eyes, and glances suspiciously between us. Rey and me, me and Rey, back and forth again and again, like she’s watching a Ping-Pong match.

  And even though part of me is excited to see her so suspicious, and even though part of me is glad she’s got the wrong idea, I also realize how totally unfair, not nice, and just overall despicable that is. So I grab a bottle of water, mumble goodbye, and head back upstairs to join Easton.

  The next morning we’re saying good-bye when—oh, yeah, that’s right, the next morning. You see after a long night of drinking (Easton) and making out (both of us), it was pretty late, and Easton was pretty drunk, and I just couldn’t allow him to drive all the way back to L. A., or anywhere else for that matter. And since I’m painfully lacking in any and all of the legal requirements that would allow me to take matters into my own sober hands, we decided just to leave the car on the street, and walk all the way back to my house (well, I walked, Easton just sort of swayed from side to side), where I got him all set up on the couch with two sheets, two pillows, and a thick cotton blanket in case he got cold.

  And then I had no choice but to creep into my mom’s room, wake her, and tell her all about it. I mean, I just couldn’t risk having her totally freak the next morning when she staggered into the kitchen, anticipating a cup of freshly brewed, organic green tea, only to find Easton all hungover and tangled up in multiple layers of natural fiber bedding.

  Okay, so I’m standing across the street from Rey’s, saying good-bye to Easton, when I happen to turn just in time to see Shay walk out the front door, looking all shiny, showered, and radiant, as she heads down the walkway and onto the street. And I just stand there and gape, my mouth hanging wide- open, when I realize what this means.

  Shay and Rey slept together!

  And even though I realize that had she actually turned in time to see Easton and I hugging good-bye she probably would have thought the exact same thing, the fact is they did and we didn’t.

  I mean, for starters, nothing happened between Easton and me. In fact, if you totaled up all of the times we hooked up (on both coasts), and calculated how far we went, you’d find that it actually totals out somewhere just shy of second base (even though I fully admit that he tried to steal third but I called him out).

  But Rey’s parents are out of town.

  And Shay’s parents are out of town.

  And her hair was wet. Which means she took a shower. Which also means that at one point, she was actually standing in his house, in his bathroom, completely naked.

  So you do the math.

  And after forcing myself to drag my gaze away from her, I say good-bye to Easton, and head home in a daze.

  But then, for some reason, right when I’m about halfway there, I change my mind and decide to drop by the café instead.

  And that’s when I run into Sloane.

  THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

  Sunday, still October, 2006

  4:45 P.M.

  Current Mood—Melancholy, baby

  Current Music—Dark, sad, instrumental jazz ensemble piece

  Quote of the Day-”Talk low, talk slow, and don’t say too much."—

  John Wayne’s advice on acting

  Stupid Girls

  Seen: Approaching the corner of Forest and Ocean, Princess Pink and her Pastel Posse, strolling four wide across the sidewalk, hogging it like they own it.

  Me: Just minding my own business, not bothering anyone, while attempting to have a conversation with skinny smoker dude that will hopefully serve as an apology and make up for some of my earlier rudeness.

  P. P. and P. P.: “Omigod. Check it out! Loser found herself a boyfriend!” This was followed by laughing, squealing, pointing, eye- rolling, and basically just your everyday show of self-satisfied, girl- on-girl bullying.

  So, with that in mind, I guess it’s safe to conclude that she no longer feels the need to cry on my shoulder and/or confide in me about her semipublic, dark moment over her dad’s seemingly never- ending prison stint.

  So in honor of that, I give to you, The List:

  13. In eighth grade P. P. saved up all of her allowance and birthday money for a pair of breast-enhancing gel inserts (a.k.a. chicken cutlets), complete with authentic-looking, perfectly molded, painted-on nipples that she saw in one of her mom’s numerous lingerie catalogues. And she was so excited when they finally arrived, that she decided to shove them into her bikini top, and wear them down to the beach that very same day. When she spotted her crush skim boarding nearby, she was so desperate to get his attention, and show off her brand-new, forty-nine ninety-five (plus shipping and handling) boobs, that she grabbed her boogie board and headed for the water, w
aiting for just the right moment to run by. But her balance wasn’t the only thing she lost when she tumbled headfirst into the ocean. And when she finally resurfaced, gasping for air, tangled in seaweed, and choking on saltwater, she had no choice but to watch in horror as her neighbor’s golden retriever, Honey Bear, sprinted toward shore, bright green tennis ball long forgotten and quickly replaced by a single gel-filled breast enhancer clenched firmly between his teeth, with perky painted-on nipple slapping the side of his mouth as he raced across the sand, anxious to share this exciting, newfound treasure with his confused and embarrassed owner.

  And the other chicken cutlet you ask? Well, that one just bobbed along the Pacific, making its slow, lazy way to Catalina Island.

  Sincerely yours,

  Eleanor Rigby.

  Seventeen

  Okay, so the real reason I was talking to skinny smoker dude is because, as it turns out, not only does he own that liquor store, but apparently he’s like this semifamous, mad genius, artist, musician guy that is idolized by practically everyone in Laguna Beach and zip codes far beyond.

  That is, everyone but me. As apparently I’ve been way too superficial to get past the back alley nicotine habit to see through to the sensitive soul residing beneath that grungy exterior.

  And I happen to know that this local folk hero tale is true because Autumn confirmed it. But that was only after I’d already heard it from Rey, Evan, Elijah, Clark, Hayden, and Shay. Hell, even Easton claimed to have heard of him.

  “You didn’t know?” Autumn said, her eyes all bugged-out and wide, just like Dakota Fanning when she’s acting with all her might.

  But I just shrugged. I mean, not only was I feeling kind of dumb and out-of-the-loop, but I also felt pretty awful for being so shallow that I’d written him off based solely on his appearance. I mean, not only did that point to a glaring lack of imagination on my part, not to mention an embarrassingly heavy reliance on preconceived ideas (which is awful enough on its own), but when you add that to the fact of how so far, I’ve pretty much spent the sum total of my life being ignored by nearly every kid at school for pretty much the exact same, stupid, shallow, narrow reason, well, that just made it even worse.

  So now, I’m lounging on my bed, watching Autumn start yet another new sketch (I swear that kid’s prolific), while remembering all the gory details of my encounter with Sloane and fantasizing about revenge scenarios so mean and so sick I couldn’t even list them in my blog, when my mom peeks her head in our room and says, “Autumn? Can you leave us alone for a few minutes? I need to talk to your sister.”

  And when I see the look on her face, I think:

  Oh, please God, no. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean my room, be nicer to Autumn, stop rolling my eyes all the time, but please, not this. Not.. . the Talk!

  But despite my silent begging, pleading, and offering up an entire list of potentially false promises that I know I’ll never live up to, my mom makes herself comfortable on the end of my bed, clears her throat, looks me right in the eye, and says, “Winter, after you left on your date last night, it hit me just how quickly you’re growing up. And I’m afraid I may have been more than a little remiss on explaining a few things that I think you should know.”

  My eyes glaze over as my lids start to sag with a heaviness that’s almost too much to bear. And I’m sure you can guess the rest.

  It starts with her being glad that I made the “wise decision” of “not getting into a car with a judgment-impaired and obviously drunk young man.” Followed by the fact that she “wasn’t born yesterday and realizes that kids are going to experiment.” And finally, concluding with “when two young people are very much in love they don’t drink, they don’t do drugs, and they don’t under any circumstances, have sex. Yet, if for some unforeseen reason they accidentally do, then they make sure to arm themselves with brand-name, statistically proven, FDA-approved, doctor-endorsed protection that will not only prevent an unwanted pregnancy but also the transmission of any and all STDs.”

  And unwilling to do anything that might drag this out even longer, I don’t say a single word or interrupt in any way. I just nod and smile through the entire tirade, and when it’s finally, mercifully over, I remember to thank her as I send her on her way.

  Monday at lunch the strangest thing happens. I’m sitting with my friends (yes, I can actually call them that now), and only glancing at those adorable, frisky lovebirds (Sloane and Cash), between occasional bites of my nitrate-free salami sandwich, when Elijah says, “Hey, I came across this new blog the other day.”

  And of course, the second I hear the word blog I instantly perk up, focusing my undivided attention back onto my friends, leaning in a little closer since I’m pretty curious to hear what he has to say on the subject, mostly because I’m always looking for ways to improve mine.

  “It’s called ‘The Gospel of Eleanor Rigby,’ or something like that,” he says.

  “Weird freaking name,” Hayden says, pushing her hair out of her face as she bites the end off a baby carrot stick.

  And then without even thinking, I go, “Oh, that’s from an old Beatles song, you know, from the Revolver album.” And then the second it’s out, I notice how everybody’s now looking at me, and I go into a total panic, realizing how I just completely outed myself, and feeling pretty sure that there’s basically no way I can ever recover. I mean, let’s face it, it’s not like anyone my age ever listens to that song, and the only reason I even know it is because my mom just happens to be a Beatles freak (big surprise), and their songs pretty much served as the soundtrack for the first seven years of my life. And that’s also the reason why I thought it was so perfect, you know? Because it would throw people off the trail of the person who was really behind it (me). It’s like, the actual song is about all these lonely people that no one ever notices, not even when they die! And that’s exactly how I feel sometimes. Like I could just fade away, and nobody would really notice. But now, someone is noticing, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it. I mean, I’m such a clueless dork, I even said the album name!

  But then Elijah looks at Hayden, rolls his eyes, and goes, “Duh.”

  Which, sadly, is also his totally retarded, inept way of flirting with her. Since just about everyone at this table knows how he’s all in love with her.

  But Hayden just shrugs and picks up another baby carrot.

  And then Rey goes, “Cool, I’ll look for it.”

  And then Clark goes, “Dude, you better do more than just look for it. You better read it, study it, and learn from it because your blog is getting boring. I mean, puppy training? Come on. Nobody wants to read that shit.”

  I glance at Rey, curious to see how he’ll react to that. But when our eyes briefly meet, I quickly look away. And even though I’m feeling pretty good that my secret is still safe, not to mention how I’m apparently not the only one who hates Rey’s blog, I just take a bite of my sandwich and nod my head, as though I just might look up old Eleanor Rigby, too.

  Eighteen

  On Halloween I dress up as that Mia chick that Uma Thurman played in Pulp Fiction, while Rey goes as Vincent Vega. Even though Rey’s like way thinner, way better-looking, and a whole lot younger than John Travolta. And it feels kind of weird to be dressing up with him like this, since obviously it’s pretty much a couple’s costume, and in the real world (the one that exists outside of my head) it’s not like we’re a couple.

  Not to mention how the wig that I’m wearing looks exactly like Shay’s real hair, which makes me painfully aware of the major differences between her amazingly beautiful face and my amazingly ordinary one. But still, in a kind of sick, sadistic way, it also allows me to imagine what it must feel like to be her. You know, to have hair like that, and to be Rey’s girlfriend. And I gotta admit, it feels pretty good, even though I’m fully aware of how at the stroke of the final bell it will all be over. And how tonight she’ll be wearing the same exact costume when she also dresses up as Mia and goes to a Sa
ge Hill party with Rey’s version of Vincent Vega. A party at which, needless to say, I am so not invited.

  But earlier in the week, when we were talking about costumes and trying to come up with ideas that weren’t all that obvious, and that only a few, cool, select, in-the-know people would actually recognize, Rey asked me to do him a huge favor and dress up as Mia at school, since absolutely no one would know who he was if he showed up all by himself in an oversized suit, rumpled white shirt, bolo tie, and messy ponytail.

  So I agreed. And I fully admit that at first I though it was really fun. Wearing the wig, attaching a fake syringe to my chest, and indulging in this little head game where I pretended that I hadn’t completely blown it that night at the club and that Rey and I really were this way cool, superhappy, totally in- love couple.

  I mean, isn’t that what Halloween is all about? The chance to climb on out of your tiny, narrow, self-made cage, and pretend, at least for a day, that you’re someone far more exciting and interesting than you really are?

  So I’m at my locker, changing out books, and slowly moving my head back and forth so I can enjoy the feel of that silky, synthetic wig hair as it swings against my cheek, when I see Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire.

  Jaci is dressed as a slutty French maid, Holly is in a sexy gypsy costume (which pretty much consists of last year’s boho clothes with tons of big, gold jewelry, lots of eye makeup and an inexplicable fake beauty mark that looks a lot like Cindy Crawford’s), Claire is a Playboy bunny (which, rumor has it, is actually an authentic costume that was once worn by her mom, or nana, or step-nana or something), and Sloane is a hot mermaid—wearing a freshly sprayed coat of Mystic tan, a tiny bikini top covered in seashells, a dangly, gold, starfish belly ring, and this long, turquoise, sparkly, sequined, fishtail skirt, which is dragging behind her, sweeping the floor and gathering trash, like a really glamorous mop. Along with these superhigh, clear plastic stilettos that I happen to know for a fact are leftover from her mom’s (not so long ago) “way off-Broadway” dancer days.