The Brittanys

by Brittany Ackerman

  Stephen pays the check with the cash his mom gave him. At the theater, he picks up our tickets, and we have some time before the movie. Stephen leads me to the little arcade near the concessions stand.

  “We have a few bucks left to spend,” he says.

  “I like racing games.” I say this because they’re the only kind of games I know. My brother likes racing games. He always plays Cruis’n USA anytime we’re in an arcade. I usually opt for the grab machines, but I’m not about to admit I like stuffed animals to a guy who thinks I’m “hot.”

  “Cool, I think they have one of those in here.”

  We play a racing game that isn’t Cruis’n USA but is very similar. We quickly make our own individual cars—choose manual or automatic, the color, the build—and a map to race on. I motion for Stephen to choose that part. He picks an easy level that takes place in a futuristic city, probably because he thinks I’m going to be bad at the game, when in truth I’m really good at video games. All those years of watching my brother, learning the rules, seeing how he played the games of his youth—it’s seeped into my brain, and I’m confident that I can win.

  We push start and the race begins as bikini-clad women wave flags in front of our vehicles. My red car thrusts out ahead, and Stephen takes second place. There are five laps, and I maintain my lead for most of them, until a ghost player in the computer knocks me off course and into the city’s ocean. I lose time getting rescued, and Stephen gains a lead that he keeps until the race is over.

  “You know, I’ll be able to get my license soon,” he says, rubbing it in my face that he won. The bikini girls bring a large gold trophy over to his car. The animated characters are excited, and the screen goes black.

  “Oh, like your permit test?” I ask.

  “No, like my real license. I already have my permit.” Stephen pulls out his wallet and presents his permit card. He’s smiling too big in his picture. I hand it back to him.

  “I’m turning sixteen in March,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say. Stephen turning sixteen in two months is an absolute bonus for his cause. The girls would definitely approve of my dating a guy who has a car and can drive.

  “I’ll have to use the family car until I can afford my own, but it’s still gonna be pretty cool.”

  Family car. Bummer.

  “I want to get a Mustang, all black, pimped out and everything. I can’t start working at my dad’s office until I turn sixteen, though. But it’s gonna be sweet!”

  Black Mustang. Hot.

  “How are you already turning sixteen?”

  “I got held back in kindergarten.”

  “You couldn’t color in the lines?”

  “Ha! No! I found out I have really bad ADD and the school thought I just needed more time or something.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m pumped I’m getting a car before anyone else!”

  “Good point.”

  We make our way to the theater, and Stephen leads us to the very last row. The theater is full of families, couples, small children, rowdy teenagers. Stephen didn’t ask if I wanted anything to eat or drink during the movie, and I don’t because I’m so nervous, but I usually get popcorn and a slushie. Jensen and I always share a large tub of popcorn, and she gets a mixed-berry slushie and I get a Coke slushie. She always lets me hold the tub as long as she’s allowed to reach over and take as much popcorn as she wants. She knows I like to hold the tub. I try to shake the thought of her out of my head and focus on Stephen and Win a Date with Tad Hamilton!, which is about to start.

  During the previews, I tell Stephen I’m going to use the bathroom, and I find my way out of the dark theater. I check my hair in the mirror; the Coral Springs humidity has puffed it up a little bit in the back, so I run my hands under cold water and smooth it down. I reapply my lip gloss, then wipe it off with a paper towel, realizing that if we do kiss he’s not going to want lip gloss all over his lips. I stare into the mirror in the bathroom and tell myself that if Stephen tries to kiss me I’ll let him. It’ll be okay. I’ve kissed before, and I’ll kiss again. If it happens, it happens.

  Next to me, a mom is helping her young daughter wash her hands because she is too small to reach the sink. The mom is holding her up by her bottom, and the little girl is rubbing her hands together under the water, making them clean. I feel bad for being mean to my mom when she was just trying to help me and be nice to me. She’s been through all this stuff before, dating and drama. It’s hard for me to picture her stuffing her bra and talking to boys, hoping to get kissed. But it happened. And I wonder how much of it she remembers, how often she thinks about it. I wonder how much of it will matter to me when I grow up. The little girl plops down onto the floor, and her mom holds her little clean hand as they walk out of the bathroom.

  I remember, on a trip to the Cayman Islands when I was six years old, I started to worry about the day my mom would die. It came on suddenly, out of nowhere: I became obsessed with the idea that she was going to die one day and leave me alone on this Earth. I couldn’t imagine a life with only my dad and brother, one where my mom wouldn’t be there to comfort me through all of life’s tragedies. I kept the fear to myself the whole trip, until the very last night, when we went to this crazy restaurant that had parrots flying around as part of their kitsch. Something about the parrots, their brightly colored bodies flitting around the room, the way my brother didn’t even look up from his Game Boy and my dad was so focused on his steak, made me feel an immense pang of doom in my little heart. I burst into tears.

  My mom took me to the restaurant’s bar, away from the birds, and I finally told her I was upset because she was going to die. She told me that, yes, it was true, but it wouldn’t happen for a long time. She promised we’d live our whole lives together, that she’d always be there for me. She was young and healthy and I was young and healthy and we’d have plenty of time to be happy and live. The bartender slid me a glass of water with a circle of lemon in it, and I remember thinking how the lemon looked like the sun. I took it to be a sign that she was right, that I shouldn’t worry about her dying because it wouldn’t happen for a long time, that I should enjoy and appreciate her while I could. I often had moments like this, moments of extreme, almost holy appreciation for my mom. These times ended with promises to be nicer, to be better. But the surge of promises would always get lost in the ebb and flow of daily trials, the emphasis placed on all the wrong things.

  I look in the mirror and wish I had curled my hair like my mom suggested instead of straightening it. My hair is so pin-straight and lifeless. I run my hands under the sink’s hot water, and then through my hair, to rough it up—a big mistake. I flip my head over a few times to dry it, but two girls, younger than me, walk in, and I leave quickly, embarrassed. Forgetting another juncture of awareness, as I so often did.

  I walk back to the theater and find Stephen with his arm around my seat, waiting. The previews end and the movie begins. The movie is pretty cheesy, but we both watch intently. Stephen’s hand moves from the back of my seat to his own armrest and remains there for the entirety of the feature. I keep looking at it, willing it to go around me, and it does not. When the movie’s over, we walk outside without touching and wait for his mom. We don’t speak, and I feel like I did something wrong. There’s been a shift in the night, and I realize how cold I am in a skirt. I hug my denim jacket around me, and Stephen still makes no move to hold me or keep me warm. I wonder what the hell is going on in his head. He’s so quiet I could die.

  His mom asks us how the movie was, and I do all the talking. I tell her about the beautiful, quirky girl and how the nerdy guy is in love with her, but she wins a date with the celebrity hunk and has to decide who her true love will be. When we get back to his house, my mom is already there, and I’m glad. I hug Stephen goodbye and he waves, like an idiot. I thank his mom for ever
ything, and she gives my mom an obligatory smile and a wave as we drive off.

  I fall asleep in the car. I forget about how cold I am. I forget about my bad outfit choice. I forget about how Stephen said we were barely going to watch the movie but didn’t make even one move on me. I forget about all of it and drift off, sleeping so deeply that, when we arrive back at home, I’m still dreaming as I walk in the house and upstairs to my room. I’m glad my mom let me off the hook on having to disclose to her any information about my date. I change into shorts and a big T-shirt. I take off my makeup and brush my teeth and get into bed. I don’t want to think about any of it.

  I dream I’m on a plane going somewhere far away. I’m afraid of the long flight, but I’m already on it. I’m not sure how long I’ve been up in the air; I suppose it’s something like twenty-four hours. I start to walk the rows, and everyone else is sleeping. I find a stewardess, and she tells me to go back to sleep. I ask for a soda. She says it’s not time for drinks, it’s time for sleep. She guides me back to my seat, but someone is in it, sleeping. There are no seats open except at the back of the plane. She leaves me there, and I try to get comfortable, but the seats are smaller and upright and don’t go back. All of a sudden my mom walks up to the row and sits next to me. I ask her for a soda. She says to rest on her shoulder until we land. I ask her where we’re going, and she says home. I ask what about the trip, wherever we were supposed to be going. She says no, we’re going home, just home. I lie with my head on her shoulder and look out the window. The night sky remains still and blue.

  • TWELVE •

  Rosenberg and Tomassi come over the next night for my birthday sleepover, and I confide in them the tale of Stephen Fraber. They curse his name, as do I, and we chant that he has “no balls.” The night is uneventful; we do not talk about Jensen. We do one another’s makeup, which mostly consists of Rosenberg applying way too dark a shade of eye shadow for both Tomassi and me but us playing along with it. With my teal-shaded eyes, I insist that there was something between me and Stephen. Tomassi says it’s a shame, because he’ll be driving in two months, just in time for spring break. Rosenberg says he’s a “douche,” because he had so many chances and messed all of them up. “I was right there,” I tell the girls. They nod in acknowledgment.

  Rosenberg has brought her laptop and tells us she’s been using her webcam a lot. I’m not even sure what that is, but she shows us that you can video-chat with whoever you want as long as they have a camera, too. She sets up the device and says we should chat with Milo and Mitchell Vance. I think Milo is really hot. I’ve been watching him at school. We’re in the same lunch period, and since the girls have all split up, I’ve had more time to check him out. He always wears the collar popped on his polo and his khaki pants cuffed at his ankles. His hair is long to his shoulders and is the color of chestnuts. He makes me think of Christmas. He hangs out with the popular guys and girls in his grade, like Chris Saul and Amber Goodman, all the beautiful ones. I agree to do the webcam stuff if it’s understood that Milo belongs to me.

  Tomassi is too shy to partake but says she’ll watch from the sidelines. Once it’s set up, Rosenberg calls Milo and Mitchell at home and tells them to go online. We’re all wearing shorts and tank tops with spaghetti straps. Rosenberg and I both have our hair straight, and Tomassi has hers in pigtail braids. Tomassi always looks gorgeous, but in a more natural way. Rosenberg and I need to look “hot.” When the Vance brothers come online, they’re both wearing white T-shirts and cargo shorts.

  “If we put on music, will you dance?” Mitchell asks. I can’t believe how forward he is, but I guess it’s good, since we’ve spent the last few minutes giggling at nothing and embarrassing ourselves.

  “Sure,” Rosenberg says.

  They put on a rap song that I’ve only heard on the radio a few times, “P.I.M.P.” by 50 Cent, and Rosenberg turns around and starts shaking her butt.

  “Oh my God,” Tomassi says, and covers her eyes. She sits on my bed in the middle of the room. I move to join her.

  “Get over here, ya little shit!” Rosenberg yells at me while she continues to dance.

  “No way,” I reply.

  “One moment, please, technical difficulties,” Rosenberg says to the boys on the screen, and walks over to me.

  “This is embarrassing,” I say.

  “No, it’s sexy. They like it. Trust me.”

  “I’m not good at that…kind of stuff.”

  “Dancing?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “I can show you how. It’s really easy. You just put your hands on your knees and move your butt. It kinda jiggles up and down…”

  “Oh my God!” Tomassi says.

  “Where’d you go?” we hear from the computer.

  “One moment, please!” Rosenberg yells back.

  Another song comes on, Chingy’s “Right Thurr,” and I get up, involuntarily. I just really like this song.

  “She’s coming!” Rosenberg yells.

  “Only because I like this song!” I do the moves like Rosenberg showed me, and the boys seem to like it. The screen is pixilated and blurry, but I can see Milo smiling as I dance.

  After a few songs, we say bye to the boys, and Rosenberg says she’ll call them. They say we all have to hang out soon. Rosenberg, Tomassi, and I watch a movie and eat brownie sundaes that my mom makes for us. We fall asleep on the early side, and it’s exactly what I wanted, a calm birthday without drama. It’s not until Monday that Jensen finds out about the sleepover, but she doesn’t say anything to me. That’s how I know I’m completely screwed.

  • THIRTEEN •

  Brittany Rosenberg and I start having a lot of sleepovers. She always wants to make up songs or do some sort of dance routine when we are at her house. One night, she and I decide to drink from a random bottle in her parents’ collection while they aren’t home. We don’t know when to stop, and we don’t bother using juice or Cokes for mixers. Rosenberg gets naked and throws up in her tub, and when her parents get home I have to pretend we’re both sick but that she is more sick. Her mom gives us raspberry-sorbet popsicles, and Rosenberg throws that up, too, fuchsia goop on her pillowcase. In the morning, I realize I went to bed with makeup on for the first time, and my eyelashes are caked with mascara. They feel like spiders.

  Meanwhile, Jensen’s been hanging out with Kenzie, which concerns me. I know Leigh has been smoking pot and she hangs out with Kenzie all the time, so they might rope Jensen into their ways. It’s crazy that we all go to the same school but live so far apart from one another. Rosenberg lives all the way out by the Everglades in Weston, a solid forty-five-minute drive from Boca. Jensen and Leigh are closer, but Gottlieb is at least thirty-five minutes away in Coral Springs. And Kenzie lives near Tomassi in Parkland. Our time in high school was plagued with many things: worrying about how we looked, how we dressed, how we acted, and what we said; obsessing over our grades; cramming for the PSATs; getting overlooked by our crushes; getting our periods in the middle of the school day. But none of us ever worried about our safety, about someone doing something so terrible and heartless to us, to our friends. It wasn’t our school where it happened, but it was our community. The name Parkland has forever become synonymous with the truly horrible thing that happened there. You can’t hear it in passing or say it casually or write it in a book without thinking about what those kids went through.

  And yet I can remember what it was like, riding in my mom’s car when Parkland was just another city that one of my friends happened to live in—Boca Raton, Coconut Creek, Davie, Coral Springs, West Palm Beach, Hialeah, Pembroke Pines, Cooper City, Pompano, Deerfield, Parkland—just another place on the map.

  Rosenberg’s house is really big; she says it’s classified as a mini-mansion. Her mom doesn’t work, and her dad works from home. Her sister, Cassidy, is a slut, but her parents don’t know. Only we know. She’s always g
oing out on dates and coming home super late.

  Tonight, when the doorbell rings, Rosenberg and I run to look through the peephole.

  “Oh my God!” I say.

  “What? What?” Rosenberg asks.

  “That’s my brother.”

  “Are you serious? Oh my God, let’s hide!”

  “Don’t you dare get the door, you little bitch!” Cassidy screams from upstairs.

  Rosenberg and I hide behind the staircase so they won’t see us. Cassidy opens the door, and there’s Brad, standing there in an outfit I’ve never seen him wear, holding a single rose. Cassidy took almost an hour to get ready, so she must care about the date, I think. Rosenberg laughs and says the rose is corny. I whisper for her to shut up, and we watch as Cassidy and Brad leave the house. We run to her dad’s office window and watch them get in Brad’s BMW and drive off for their date. Maybe I’ve been so wrapped up in my birthday drama that I didn’t realize Brad started dating. The only girl I’ve ever known him to have a crush on is Julie Cohen, back when we lived in New York. He was only twelve or so, but I remember his fondness for her, the way he doted on her, and how his eyes glistened when he was around her.

  Brad and I both have a sense of romance, of romantic love we want to share with others. I saw glimpses of it in that script he wrote a while ago that I still haven’t fessed up to reading. Maybe we inherited it from our mom, or maybe even our dad, but I respect that he believes in love so strongly, enough to bring a girl he barely knows a rose. In kindergarten, I once wrote Robert Jenkins a love letter on tiny paper in my smallest handwriting and rolled it up like a scroll to give to him. He said it was too small to read, and I was too embarrassed, so he just threw it away.