“There’s a little turn out a mile up the road. No worries.” There’s a long silence. “What were you thinking about?”
“Hm?” I keep my eyes on the road.
“When you missed the turn. What were you thinking about?” he wonders, still looking out his side of the window.
“Um, I was trying not to kill us.”
“Oh,” he says surprised. “Thank you. I very much appreciate that,” he teases, chuckling.
“You’re welcome,” I reply sweetly. “I was also thinking about the movie, Annie Hall.”
“I’ve never seen Annie Hall,” he casually states.
I am completely flabbergasted that he’s never seen the classic film. I have the impulsive urge to stomp on the brakes dramatically.
So, I do.
The car starts screeching to a halt.
All that soccer playing in Gym class must’ve gotten to my head because I throw my arm out across Ryan’s chest, soccer mom style. My hand is open, facing his chest and he grabs ahold of my arm tightly with both hands as we fly forward.
I cry out an oddly instinctive “eeeeeee” shriek that’s so high pitched only dogs can probably hear.
A “woooaaahhh” escapes Ryan’s mouth at a much lower decibel than my bizarre noise.
My shrill squeak, along with Ryan’s deep-throated howl, paired with the tires resounding “waaaaaa,” creates a hideously sounding symphony of noises.
When we come to a complete stop, gravity jerks us back against our seat and we both let out an “oof.”
It’s only then that I realize I’m pretty sure my thumb is touching his nipple, which I can feel through both of his shirts.
Which makes me realize his nipple is hard which then makes me wonder if me touching it made it hard.
Which then makes me want to graze my hand over the rest of his chest.
Oh. My. God.
I turn blazing red but am frozen. His hands are still on my elbow and forearm.
He lets go right away once his shock clears and I pull my arm back instantly. I’m destined to die of embarrassment. I swallow hard. My breathing picks up.
Why did I stop again? Oh, that’s right.
“You’ve never seen Annie Hall?” I ask in an unnecessarily loud, exasperated voice. I stare at him pretending like I never touched his nipple through two thin layers of shirt.
He smiles big at me and his blue-gray eyes sparkle causing me to swoon and see hearts like a Pepé Le Pew cartoon. He turns and looks out the windshield, unfazed about my blatant swooning.
“No, I haven’t.”
I realize I’m still stopped in the middle of the road and slowly start driving again.
His hand is on the back of his head flicking the short hairs. I swear, I see his eyes looking down at my legs again and then back up at me through the reflection. I pretend not to notice even though my heart thumps harder.
“It’s so good! You have to see it,” I gush enthusiastically, showcasing my geekiness.
“Turn right here,” he instructs, pointing to the street where I was supposed to turn a mile or so ago. “I’ll have to check it out if it’s good enough to almost kill us over.”
I pull onto the little dirt road and then turn left into his intricate cobblestone driveway. He lives in a beautiful, ginormous house. It’s made from red brick with white trimmings and two white pillars in the front. It has a large wrap-around porch with a swinging bench, rocking chairs and even flowerpots hanging from the roof. I’m impressed. My house is nice but it certainly does not have a wrap-around porch or pillars.
Off to the left of his house there are stables and wood gated grazing grounds for horses as well as a jumping course. The only horse out right now is a freakishly huge one, with long groomed hair to show off and exaggerate its already enormous features. It’s peacefully grazing, minding its own business. I could sit here forever and just watch this horse live its life. In fact, I’m making this horse my Patronus.
Not that a fictional soul-sucking creature from a Harry Potter book would ever come after me but, just in case.
He notices me staring at the horse and says, “Her name is Jamaica. She’s a Clydesdale. I don’t really ride anymore but when I do, she’s my favorite. She’s usually only used in shows. She loves apples and is very playful.” He winks at me and my heart melts like a cherry popsicle in the summer.
“She’s beautiful,” I say in awe.
“She is. Anyways, thanks, Scott. I owe you one.” He opens his door and gets out. He ducks down and looks at me seriously. “Try not to die on the way home, huh? I’d like to see you in school tomorrow,” he says, winking at me for the second time. The two winks alone extricate all my bad luck today.
“Yeah, thanks. I won’t.” I beam but I try not visibly swoon.
Before he closes the door he looks back down inside the car again. Before I remember that I’m talking to Ryan and not Veronica or Jimmy, I say, “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”
He freezes, looks at me with his eyebrows raised, resting on the door and then busts out laughing. I blush but pretend it’s precisely what I meant to say.
“I didn’t know you were so funny, Scott.” He gives me a classic, Disney Prince smoldering look and tells me, “I was going to say happy birthday again.” He finally closes the door and taps it twice before heading to his front door. I make the loop around his driveway.
Yes, his driveway has a loop.
I cannot believe I just “soccer mom-ed” Ryan Applebaum.
And then boob-grazed him.
I head home feeling really excited and sort of like a pervert.
***
THE FIRST THING I DO when I get home is run upstairs to take my uniform off. Within five minutes, I am wearing only long wool socks and an oversized pajama shirt.
Ultimate freedom.
I ran in so fast to change, I didn’t see my mom on the way in. I open my door and yell for her.
“Hey sweetie, I’m in my bathroom,” she shouts from down the hall.
I walk down to meet her, finding the door open. She’s going through her closet picking out clothes. “Hey, Mom.”
Before I say too much, I see what kind of day she’s had. Her hair hasn’t been brushed and she’s still wearing her bathrobe. The area around her eyes is darker and more sunken than this morning. Her face is whiter, she’s slightly frantic and a little shaky. I’m surprised that she’s not gripping a martini, nor is there an empty glass amongst her disheveled counter that’s littered with make-up and lotion bottles. Given her appearance and neurotic behavior, I tread lightly.
“How was school? Help me figure out what to wear to dinner tonight,” she begs, combing through her walk-in closet.
I would venture to say that a lot of parents don’t care one hundred percent of the time they ask that question, except my mom. She genuinely asks me every day not just because she loves me, but also because she misses her kindergarten students. She got laid off by the school district last year due to budget cuts and hasn’t been able to find another teaching job. As annoying as her hovering and insatiable curiosity can sometimes be, my heart feels for her missing vocation.
“It wasn’t so bad,” I reply honestly. “Strikes and gutters.”
“What about this?” She holds up a small red dress accented with white lace flowers.
“It’s cute. Not for dinner though.”
She grunts and throws it back on the rack. She pulls out a black dress with capped sleeves, a tight bodice that becomes a pencil skirt and ends mid-calf. The back has a diamond shaped cutout.
“It’s perfect,” I urge her quickly before she has any more time to think about it. “It’s my favorite.”
“Really? Okay.” She holds it up to herself in the mirror. Her shoulders are stiff and her arms tense. “Yeah, I like it too...”
She looks over at me and eyes my pajamas. “Bean, you better go figure out what you’re going to wear and start getting ready.”
“I will. I’m goin
g to do some homework first.”
“What time is it?” she murmurs, rummaging through her cornucopia of shoes.
“Almost four.” She raises her eyebrows in disbelief and quickens her pace.
“All right, go do your thing. Your dad is going to be home in a little bit and I still need to shower.” I can practically see her blood pressure rising so I head back to my room, giving her space.
I climb on my bed and get absorbed into my AP Calc homework. And by absorbed, I mean the way you’d get engrossed into a trashy celebrity documentary on the E! Network.
Once you start you can’t just stop.
After thirty minutes, I tear myself away, giving my eyes a break from analyzing graphs. I scoot off my tall, mahogany, four-poster bed and start to gather my books. I hear the hesitant creaks of my door opening. I look over my shoulder expecting to see my mom.
“Uh, hey, Ramona.” Brett slowly pushes open my door, unsure of whether he’s allowed to come in or not.
“Brett? Hi! What are you doing here? I mean, did my mom let you in?” I ask, surprised. He stands awkwardly in the doorway so I add, “You can come in.”
The blood rising to my cheeks proves that he’s the last person I expect to walk through my door right now. He walks through the threshold and scans me slowly up and down taking me in. I know that look, but I’ve never been on the receiving end of it- especially not when Brett is the one giving it. My cheeks burn darker. He gently closes the door behind him and the click of the doorknob sending my heartbeat into hyper speed. He runs his hand through his dark curls to the back of his neck.
“Uh, no, your Dad let me in. You forgot your birthday card at school.”
His eyes float around the room taking in the various artistic clippings cut from Sotheby’s auction catalogs, a few vintage film posters––An American in Paris, To Kill A Mockingbird, Singing in the Rain[3] and an old battered Nirvana poster that belonged to my parents when they first started living together.
He scans my dark wooden dresser scattered with journals, pens and candles. He eyes my ornate oval mirror adorned with pictures of all of us at various ages taped around it. My room looks a lot different since the last time he’s seen it. Last time it had butterflies and glow in the dark stars surrounding a twin size bed.
“I found it on the floor outside the girl’s locker room. It must’ve fallen out of your bag. Anyway, I didn’t see you after school to give it to you so I thought I’d stop by.” He finally makes eye contact with me and hands me the card. Our hands touch and my breath hitches as if I’ve never touched a boy’s hand before.
Get a grip, Ramona.
“Yeah...it would’ve been bad if I lost this.” I note as casually as possible.
I pretend that it’s totally normal for a hot guy to be alone in my room with me but my body is hyper aware of his body only a couple feet away.
I toss the card on the bed and lock my obnoxiously sweaty hands together behind my back to wring them without him seeing.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“Thank you. It’s nice of you to stop by.” My words come out confidently rather than awkwardly. I mentally give myself a pat on the back.
He looks at my legs again, thinking I don’t notice.
But, I do.
He scratches his side and I try not to stare at the bare skin that peaks out. I can’t believe I never noticed his body before.
Him, before.
He’s transformed into a man and I’m just now noticing.
While he’s in my room.
Two feet away from me.
I get anxious and focus on regulating my breath.
Relax, Ramona, you’re having a totally standard hormonal reaction to having a gorgeous guy in your bedroom. It’s just your friend, Brett, who always let you have the red Nintendo controller because it’s your favorite color… and would throw popcorn in your face so you would lose every game.
“So…” I break the unusual silence without actually knowing what to say.
“Yeah, um, It’s no problem.”
He scans my body again until his eyes stop, focusing on my upper thighs. I’m paralyzed, leaning against my bed and my heart drops down to my stomach. He’s looking at me like that again. Like he wants see everything under my clothes. His look makes me feel like I’m giving him something just by standing here. Whatever it is I’m giving him, I like it and shockingly, I think I want to give it to him. And I’m not even sure what “it” is.
He turns to leave then quickly turns back, clearly conflicted. “Ramona?”
“Yeah?” I answer over-eagerly, but still afraid to move. He walks back over to me until he’s inches away. My breath quickens as he grips his hand on my waist. I feel his eyes boring into me. I’m painfully nervous so I break our eye contact and peruse his neck, chest and arms. I want to touch him.
I do.
But my body has lost all knowledge of how to move.
He leans in toward my ear and says, “Have a good night.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine.
Just when I think he might kiss me, he pulls my shirt up past my waist, almost to the bottom of my bra and that’s when I feel my shirt un-tuck from where it had, apparently, gotten caught into the side of my undies when I scooted off my bed.
My entire body turns an unflattering color resembling fuchsia. He was only staring at me this whole time because he could see my naked leg and red undies.
“See you tomorrow, Bean,” he whispers in my ear, tugging at the hem of my shirt. He closes the door behind him leaving me in shock with my mouth ajar.
I jump on my bed and shriek, “Whyyyy” straight into my pillow.
My hormones have completely sold me out. I’m shocked and terrified that I would’ve let Brett touch me in any way he wanted just now. These hormones need to go on lock down. I can’t have them fending after Brett Dixon, of all people.
“Ramona, are you almost ready to go?” Mom hollers from downstairs.
Crap. Dinner.
“Yes, I just need ten minutes!” I shout back, jumping off my bed and taking my socks off.
“Hurry up! I told you to be ready!” she shouts up at me. I ignore the blatant irritation and crankiness in her voice as I quickly pull on my black dress with the gray lace edges.
If she doesn’t indulge in a drink soon enough she’ll become impatient, irritable, and short-tempered. On the other hand, if she does have a drink it will turn her into a frighteningly apathetic mess. If I have to choose between her being irritable or apathetic, I would choose apathetic.
Apathy seems to be easier on her.
I look in the mirror, cap my head with a black beret, I use a Q-Tip to clean up my eye make-up, I slap on some red lipstick and race down the stairs. Hopefully she’s not super ornery about having to wait.
She’s standing with my dad waiting for me with her jacket and purse on, holding a silver wrapped box with an elegant black ribbon on it. Dad changed into a perfectly tailored black suit with a deep purple shirt and narrow black tie.
Seeing them standing there together is like seeing Helen of Troy and her lover, Paris.
“Sorry, Mom. Hi, Dad,” I greet him, noticing how his tired eyes contrast with his suave look.
“Hey, Bean, Happy Birthday. I want to hear about all these boys and tattoos you were talking about this morning.” He winks before squeezing my shoulders and kissing the top of my head. I chuckle and wrap my arms around him.
“Ramona Bean, you look gorgeous. Put this on and let’s go,” she says, curtly.
Yup, cranky.
I slip into the red pea coat she holds open for me as we all walk out the front door.
I remind myself to be sympathetic and to be thankful that I even have two parents that love me.
Brett Dixon
Friday, 9/27
HOLY CHRIST. I just got back from Ramona’s house with a minor boner. (Am I allowed to say that?) Probably not. TMI. Sorry, Mr. Chan.
I can’t believe how she was looking at me. I
can’t believe how I was looking at HER! Her legs and her...Oh man. That was not at all what I was expecting when I walked into her room.
I JUST started dating Daphne over the weekend. I can’t make it THREE DAYS without thinking about another girl’s undergarments. (I can’t believe I just wrote the word undergarments.) Granted, that girl is Ramona and I’ve known her forever. We used to ride bikes together and play games.
There’s no way we could ever be together. She’s sweet but probably a virgin. Not that that really matters. I have nothing against virgins. I was one, once. Until Cindy McAllister came along when I was sixteen.
But that’s a different story.
Ramona is cute as hell, I’ve always known that, but I never thought she was sexy––until tonight. I can’t believe she’s been right here in front of me for forever and I’m just NOW noticing how beautiful she is. The dirty thoughts I was thinking during free period...
I start dating someone and I’m already thinking about the dirty things I would do to another girl. I could give it a shot with Ramona but it wouldn’t be fair. She deserves someone perfect. I’m not even sure if there’s a guy out there good enough for Ramona. I can’t be that guy. I would probably screw it up.
OH, AND I’M DATING SOMEONE.
Now I can’t stop thinking about her. Her hair was all messy in a bun and her eyes a little blood shot and glossy from studying. She smelled like she had just been rolling around in clean sheets. I just wanted to crash into her and soak up her soft as cashmere smell.
NO! Daphne, Daphne, Daphne. I should be thinking about DAPHNE and about how I’ve thought she was hot since middle school. GET IT TOGETHER, BRETT.
We hooked up after Homecoming. We both had a couple drinks and...whatever, it sort of just happened. It was fun but somehow last week I got wrapped up into dating her so, now we’re dating.
Is it too late to be like, This was a bad idea, it won’t work?
Nah, I can’t do that. I’m not that much of a dick ass. I’ll give it a little while and if it’s not going well, I’ll break it off. That seems fair.
UGH. But the moment I just had with Ramona was so hot. And I BARELY touched her. I can still be friends with her though. I mean, we are friends and that doesn’t have to change just because I’m dating Daphne. There’s no harm in having a friend, right?
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