Not That Kind of Girl

by Siobhan Vivian

If not for her seat belt, Spencer might have popped straight out of her seat. “I knew it! Oh, my God, tell me everything about him! Is he cute? I bet he is so cute.”

  I turned to her and smiled. So many adjectives filled my mouth. But I could see Spencer’s apartment building looming ahead. I didn’t want to drop her off. It felt so good to have a girlfriend. Why hadn’t I done this weeks ago? So when I braked for a stop sign, I turned to her and asked, “Do you maybe want to go grab a bite to eat? My treat.”

  Spencer grinned from ear to ear. She looked grateful, as if she were lucky to receive such an invitation from me.

  I drove us to what used to be Autumn and my favorite diner, which was an old-timey steel trailer with a handful of tables and a bright-pink neon sign. The place was pretty empty since it was still a few hours from dinnertime. Our waitress let us have our pick of seats, and Spencer opted for the last booth on the right. We had a view of the parking lot and our own push-button jukebox stocked with oldies. Spencer dug for quarters to give us a soundtrack.

  We each ordered a Coke and a crock of onion soup baked over with a bubbling cheese canopy, and we shared a plate of perfectly crispy fries drowning in gravy. I was so incredibly happy.

  Spencer gladly let me yammer on and on about a slightly altered version of Connor. I kept lots of the details the same. How handsome he was, how he was attracted to the fact that I was such a smart and strong girl. The only thing I changed were the details on how we’d met—my new boyfriend had been my tutor in an SAT prep class, a brilliant college freshman.

  “So, what’s the issue?” Spencer asked. “He sounds great.”

  Hearing her say that made my heart hurt. Connor and I were so close to perfect, but still so far.

  “We’re just…very different people,” I said.

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I don’t see us having a future. We’re like…wasting each other’s time.”

  Spencer’s face wrinkled. “What do you mean, future? You’re not going to be one of those girls who gets married at eighteen, are you?”

  “What?” I said, grabbing another napkin. “No! Of course not.”

  “Well, then, what kind of future are you talking about?”

  I thought of our cold little shed. “He’s transferring to another college after Christmas. And I don’t want to get attached.”

  Spencer dabbed her fry into a pool of ketchup. “You won’t get attached,” she said, matter-of-factly.

  “I won’t?”

  “No. Because you already know you can’t. It’s mind over matter, Natalie. You can’t get attached, so don’t get attached. It’s as easy as that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Get what you can out of it. I mean, if spending time with him makes you happy, do it. Don’t overthink things. Remember, you’ve got the power. He wants to be with you. You’re the one in charge.”

  Somehow I managed to nod. Spencer clearly had her sexuality in check. She could turn it off or on, depending on what, or who, she wanted. But I was the complete opposite. I didn’t feel like the one in charge. Though it wasn’t like Connor was in charge, either. The recklessness was leading both of us.

  “Don’t get quiet on me now, Natalie. I want details!”

  “Like what?”

  “You know!” Spencer wiggled her pinky at me.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Haven’t you seen all the girls do this in the hallway?” She wiggled her pinky again, but I was still clueless. “I invented a hand gesture for Mike Domski. It means teeny peeny, and it’s caught on like wildfire.”

  I winced. “Oh, God!”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve always had my suspicions, and my movie theater prank proved I was right. It’s sad, but makes total sense if you think about it. I mean, Mike drives the biggest SUV in the school parking lot!” She laughed a little and then pointed to her lap. “So your guy is all good down there?”

  I fidgeted in my seat. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know. It’s normal, I guess.”

  “Well, is he good in bed?”

  “What?!”

  Spencer pursed her lips. “Don’t be coy with me. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

  “Spencer, I’m not sleeping with him.” She stared me down, as if I were lying. “I’m a virgin.” And then I looked around for our waitress. After all, we weren’t even eating anymore. Just talking.

  Spencer looked confused. “Like a total sex virgin? Or a straight-up intercourse virgin? Because I haven’t had complete sex with anyone before, either, though I’ve done lots of other stuff.”

  I grabbed my soda glass. It was empty, but I still sucked down a big gulp of melted ice because I didn’t want to talk about this anymore. Because I was picturing Spencer in her Rosstitute shirt, and then in her Halloween costume, and whatever she had to do to convince Mike Domski to whip it out in a movie theater. And I didn’t want to be that kind of girl.

  I switched the subject to student council, and how much pressure I was under with the Thanksgiving food baskets. The stress gripped me tighter. Spencer listened to every word as intently as the sex stuff, which was somewhat of a relief.

  After we finished our food, I drove Spencer back home. “I’m here for you, Natalie,” she said as I pulled up in front of her building. “If you need extra help with the baskets, or if you just want to talk, let me know.”

  I said, “Thanks,” only because I would need her help with the baskets. But Spencer and I weren’t going to have another conversation like this again. Part of me thought Spencer was a smart girl. And the other part of me thought she was a fourteen-year-old Rosstitute who knew even less than I did.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  That night, we were only a few feet away from the shed before I pivoted and started walking in the opposite direction.

  I didn’t know why. It wasn’t like I had all the time in the world. My parents had gone to bed late, which kept me from sneaking out at a respectable hour. And I couldn’t stay long, not with the huge trig test the next morning that I’d hardly studied for. I needed a decent night’s sleep. I’d told Connor exactly that on the phone. I had maybe an hour tops. It might not even be worth it.

  He’d said to come anyway.

  So I did.

  And even though he knew tonight would be rushed, Connor didn’t say anything about it, about me not going right to the shed.

  The first time I came to the farm at night, everything seemed pretty spooky—the darkness, strange noises from the woods. But I felt comfortable here now. I walked around like it was daytime. My eyes took almost no time to adjust to the night once my headlights clicked off.

  The gift shop sat a few feet in front of me, so I headed that way. I’d always wanted a closer look at it.

  “Mom had it built two years ago. She thought we should sell souvenirs. In fact, it was her idea that we open the farm year-round, instead of just at Christmas. She’s got a real business mind.” Connor slouched against a porch post. “You’d like her,” he added.

  Hearing that made me happy. But only for a second, because I wasn’t sure Mrs. Hughes would like me back. Not if she knew how many nights I’d sneaked onto her property to fool around with her son while she and her husband were sleeping. No mother in her right mind would like that kind of girl. That was the worst part of all, really: knowing better, but doing it anyway, no matter how deeply it went against the kind of person I was.

  I cupped my hands around my eyes to peer through a window at a stack of shelves. Mason jars sat in perfect rows. Handwritten labels proclaimed strawberry jam, apple butter, and pumpkin pie filling in charmingly perfect penmanship. Each one had a scrap of fabric tied over the lid with a piece of twine. Red gingham, like summertime picnic tablecloths.

  “She makes everything herself, with fresh ingredients from her garden. Some fancy bakery in the city even started selling her stuff.” Connor leaned into me from behind, his body blocking me from the night chill. He rested his chin on my shoulder and looked inside, too. Tog
ether, our breath fogged the glass. “You wouldn’t believe what some people are willing to pay for this stuff.”

  My mind flashed with an idea. A big one. I spun around and faced him. “Connor! You know what? Your family should donate something for my Thanksgiving baskets! We’d only need like twenty jars. Possibly thirty, if you could spare them. By Wednesday.”

  Connor started kissing my neck, and I closed my eyes and breathed. He’d shaved just before I got there. I knew because his cheeks were unbelievably smooth. That, and from the smell of his aftershave, woodsy and spicy and warm.

  After a few kisses, I ducked out from underneath him. I couldn’t let myself get sidetracked. I’d been slacking off on the Thanksgiving baskets. I’d been slacking off on everything. “Seriously, Connor. Are you listening to me?”

  “I’m seriously distracted,” he said, coming closer.

  My hands went right to my hips. “There are a lot of families in Liberty River who have nothing. They can’t afford a Thanksgiving turkey, never mind all these fancy jellies. Don’t you think you should give something back to people less fortunate than you? Isn’t that only right?”

  He nudged his chin in the direction of the shed. “Come on, Sterling. It’s freezing.”

  I didn’t move. And I didn’t feel cold. I was starting to boil. “You know, it would be nice if you helped me out. Honestly, it’s the least you could do.”

  He pulled the hood of his jacket up over his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, let’s see,” I said, sarcastic. “You’re not the one driving across town almost every night. You just roll out of bed and find me here, waiting. Your grades aren’t suffering. You don’t have to worry about falling asleep in your classes.” Just hearing myself say these things out loud made me even madder. Connor looked at me blankly, like none of this had occurred to him before. I pointed at him. “You don’t have to do any of the work or put in any effort to get something out of this arrangement.”

  Connor rubbed his hands together. The tips of his fingers were turning red with cold. “Are you saying you want me to sneak over to your place?”

  “No, Connor!” That was the last thing I wanted—to be with him someplace where we could actually get caught. Connor didn’t think about those things. He didn’t have to. “It’s different for you. You don’t have to worry about college, keeping up your grades. I’m really stressed out by this food drive. Stuff like that doesn’t magically come together. It takes hard work, effort, time. And I need people to help me.” I knew I sounded annoyed with him, but why wouldn’t Connor just agree to get me some of this stuff for my baskets? Didn’t he want to help me?

  He shook his head, wounded. “So basically, I should give you a bunch of jellies because you come over here to fool around with me? Like payment?”

  “What? No! That’s not what I’m saying!” Even though maybe it was. All my muscles wound up tight, from my toes up to my jaw. “And I really don’t appreciate you insinuating as much. I’m not some slut from school. You can’t buy me off with jelly.”

  “Maybe you should go home,” he said, drawing curved lines in the gravel with the toe of his running sneaker. “Call me crazy, but I don’t see us having much fun tonight.”

  I wanted to smack him. “Huh. That’s funny! Because about an hour ago, I said I shouldn’t come over, but you talked me into it.”

  “I didn’t talk you into anything, Sterling. That’s a skill I definitely don’t have.”

  “Oh? What’s that’s supposed to mean?” I asked. And then, I thought better of it. “You know what? Forget it. I’m leaving.” I said it proud, like I didn’t care. Pure, raw spite.

  But as soon as I started walking back to my car, I felt sick. Connor let me go. He was going to let me drive away. He wasn’t going to try to stop me. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to apologize, but I was too proud to do it.

  I was fumbling for my keys when I heard him come up behind me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really stressed out, too. We’ve got playoffs this Wednesday, and our practices have sucked.” He exhaled deeply. “Let’s not fight.”

  “Yeah, well. It’s a little late for that, huh?” I felt silly and desperate and immature, so much it made my palms sweat. I switched gears fast, to save face, to hide the fact that I expected Connor to care about me and my student council troubles. “And I wasn’t trying to take advantage of you, by the way. I figured it would be good publicity for your family. The local paper is sending a photographer over to take pictures as we put the baskets together. I’d make it so the jars were prominently featured, and that your family got a special mention in the article.”

  I waited for Connor to say something, but he stayed quiet. Achingly quiet.

  And then, before I knew what I was doing, I turned to face him and threaded my thumb through his belt loop. I suddenly wanted him to want me so bad that he’d do anything I said, give me anything I asked for. I wanted to have that power over Connor Hughes.

  “I’ll talk to my mom, okay? I can’t promise anything, because like I said, it’s expensive stuff, but I’ll ask.” I tried to say thank you, but my throat got tight. Connor took my hand, the one holding on to his pants, and tucked it in the warm pocket of his jacket. “It’s getting late,” he said.

  I barely managed to nod.

  But we both walked toward the shed anyway. Our sneakers crunched the gravel in sync until we were stepping on fallen pine needles, and then I couldn’t hear anything at all.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Way too soon, it was time to put the Thanksgiving food baskets together. It should have been easy. Except I seemed to be the only one taking it seriously.

  “Fire in the hole!” Ricky, one of the freshman reps, called through cupped hands, before launching a paper snowball in a high arc.

  Another freshman rep, Phil, shouted, “That’s what she said!”

  The boys, squished together on a single mahogany library chair, cackled like hyenas, greasy faces beaming mischievous smiles. They tore out two more notebook sheets and wadded them up into fresh ammo.

  “Guys!” I darted across the library, ducking my head. “Stop!”

  While I’d been preoccupied getting the baskets prepped, Ricky and Phil had constructed a fort out of cranberry sauce cans, creamed corn cans, spinach cans. Nearly all the student donations had been stacked in pillars on top of their library table. They popped up over their tin wall every few seconds to launch attacks on a table of vulnerable boys across the library, who wildly swatted away the bombs with fat textbooks.

  Sure, it was right before a holiday, and everyone was excited to have a couple of days off from school. But somehow, I’d lost control of student council. I thought back to my first meeting, and how I was so clearly the leader. How no one would dare speak unless I called on them first, how everyone respected me. Even feared me. It was the absolute opposite these days.

  Ms. Bee emerged from the office, annoyed at the ruckus. She walked straight over to me. “Natalie. A moment, please.”

  “Yes, Ms. Bee?” I sounded a little annoyed, probably because I knew she was going to lay into me yet again. And yet again, I felt I deserved it.

  “Things seem to be devolving here. Do you have a…a plan for this afternoon? Or are you flying by the seat of your pants?” Half her mouth wrinkled up.

  “I—I’m trying to…”

  Just then, Dave ran up and said, “Should I get everyone to start divvying up the food?”

  “Yes,” Ms. Bee and I said at the same time.

  She glanced around the room, and I tried to keep my eyes up with hers. It was a disappointing sight.

  “Is this all we have?” she asked.

  “It will be enough,” I said, even though I knew it wouldn’t be. We needed to make twenty baskets, and there was barely enough food for ten. But what could I do? I’d tried my hardest to remind kids to bring in cans. I basically had to threaten the town grocery store into donating free turkeys. I wa
s so happy when I convinced the bakery to give us loaves of bread, but I could tell when I’d picked them up this morning that they were already stale. Thanksgiving was tomorrow; they’d be rock hard by then.

  I had wanted to give people a really nice Thanksgiving. A memorable one. I wanted my baskets to be something special and beautiful, like you’d see in one of those fancy home magazines. If this were the stuff that made up my Thanksgiving meal, I wouldn’t feel much like celebrating. I’d probably kill myself.

  “Doesn’t this look great, everyone?” Spencer called out to the room, though her eyes were on Ms. Bee. She sat by herself at a nearby table, cutting big pieces of red gingham to line the willow tree baskets. “The fabric really dresses everything up. It was Natalie’s idea.”

  While I appreciated what Spencer was trying to do, I felt stupid for spending money on the baskets and the fabric, especially when I could have bought more food for the families.

  “Go ahead, Natalie,” Ms. Bee said flatly. “Don’t let me hold you up any further.”

  I sat down next to Spencer and, in the best possible penmanship I could muster, tried to write Happy Thanksgiving on little leaf-shaped paper tags. But my handwriting sucked. If Autumn had been there, she’d have been able to do it much better. She’d done most of my campaign signs.

  My pen started to sputter, and I looked up to ask for another. That’s when a balled up piece of paper hit me square in the face. A gasp told me it was an accident, and then the whole room quietly laughed, which made me want to kill whoever had thrown it. I glared at the boys and decided the offender in question was Phil, because out of everyone, his face was the reddest.

  “Seriously, Phil. You’re such a boner,” Spencer shouted.

  “Spencer!” I hissed. Ms. Bee was just across the room. “Shh.”

  Phil jabbed his finger though the air. “It wasn’t me. Ricky did it!”

  Ricky rushed the table. “Liar! Don’t get me in trouble.”

  Ricky tried to wrestle Phil out from behind his fort, only to clip one of the towers. In the most incredible rumble, the cans came crashing down on the floor.