The Brittanys

by Brittany Ackerman

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  “Cool. I’m glad.”

  We stare at each other for a moment, and then Kasey puts the truck in drive.

  “Where do you live?” he asks.

  “Woodfield Country Club,” I say.

  “What street’s it on?”

  All the streets inside my neighborhood have made-up names that don’t matter once you’re outside the subdivision. I know my mailing address, but I have no idea what street the country club’s entrance is on. I haven’t had my driving lessons yet, and my parents won’t let me drive with a permit until I do. I don’t really pay attention when they—or anyone else—drive. I just sort of drift off or imagine the way I’d like my life to be.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I’m not sure what street it’s off. I know my subdivision is called Bay Creek.”

  “Yeah, but what’s the intersection?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you not know where you live?”

  “I’ve never driven there before.”

  “You don’t have to drive somewhere to know where a place is. You just have to, I don’t know, pay attention.”

  I can tell Kasey is mad. I try being cute to make it better, a tactic I’ve always wanted to try when a boy is angry with me. Especially since Kasey just established we’re pretty much together, I know I have him wrapped around my finger.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, leaning over the center console and grabbing his arm.

  “Me too.” He pushes me away. “I think maybe you’re a little too young to…to handle this.”

  “Because I don’t know my intersection?”

  “That says a lot about you. I mean, like, what else don’t you know?”

  “I know my address!”

  “That doesn’t help when you’re in a subdivision! I need crossroads. I need something more. It just shows you’re not mature enough to…”

  “I am mature. I’m very mature.”

  “Yeah, I can tell from your little pink purse.”

  “That’s mean. This bag is cute.”

  “It is cute. And you’re cute. But that’s the thing. I think you’re too young for me. You should be dating guys your own age.”

  “I’m fifteen. It’s not that much younger than you. Two years. That’s it.”

  “I’m going to stop at a gas station and call one of my buddies, see where Woodfield Country Club is, and take you home.”

  “I don’t want to go home.”

  “Well, you have to.”

  Kasey drives us to a gas station and gets out to use the pay phone. He nods while he talks, laughs a little. I sit in the truck and press myself deep into the seat, trying to melt myself into it. I’m so embarrassed. I’ve just blown my chances with the only junior who’s ever looked at me. I could have lost my virginity to him. I could have smoked with him. We could have been just like Brittany Gottlieb and Aaron Roth.

  Kasey returns to the truck and says he knows how to get there. We drive the rest of the way in silence. The lights are on in my house, and even from my seat in the truck, I can see my mom in the window of my dad’s den, sitting there, watching, waiting for her little girl to come home.

  • FIFTEEN •

  Spring break falls on the second week in March. It’s the first year my parents don’t decide to drag Brad and me to the Bahamas. My mom asks if I want to take a friend and go to Disney World for a few days, but I’m so sick of everyone and I don’t really want to do anything.

  But once break starts, I realize this means I’m going to be spending the whole week in my room. When I was in sixth grade, my mom let me redo my bedroom. We hired a decorator and everything. I wanted it to feel like “Fall in New York,” so we hired an artist to paint that dumb tree on one wall and hang a swinging seat next to my window. I eventually got scared of the swing, the way it moved and spun at night without anyone inside of it, so my dad took it down. There’s still a gold hook in the popcorn ceiling, useless.

  Now I hate my room. The artist thought it would be cute to paint some happy squirrels around the tree, a liberty he took that I did not appreciate. My mom thought it was cute, too, but I’ve since pushed my bed to the middle of the wall to cover them. There are three of them, and I hate them all. My room is so childish, and I wish it was simple and yellow like Brittany Gottlieb’s room, or done in classy pastels like Kenzie’s room. Jensen has had the same white wicker furniture since she was a baby, but her mom keeps promising that this summer, when she’s off at sleepaway camp, she will redo the room. I just want a normal room, free of squirrels and foliage.

  I’m into this old Red Hot Chili Peppers CD, Californication, that I stole from my brother. I listen to it over and over again on my stereo and lie on different pieces of furniture in my room—my bed, the floor, the couch where Jensen used to sleep when she came over. I think about calling her, and I almost dial her number but call Rosenberg instead. She doesn’t answer. I go online and see that Stephen Fraber messaged me when I was “away.” He says he’s sorry about how the date went and that he just got his license and a car. He wants to know if he can make it up to me. I don’t respond.

  It’s Monday, and even though I did absolutely nothing the first weekend of spring break, I’m tired all the time. My body has trouble getting up and moving. I just want to sleep. My brother has a college visit at the University of Miami, and my parents are going down with him for the night. They’re not staying in a hotel, but they’ll be back late, Mom tells me. They leave around noon, and I’m still in pajamas. I make myself a tuna salad sandwich, and it reminds me of Jensen, because that’s her favorite. I’m still hungry after, and I think about making waffles, too, but I know I’ll feel sick if I keep eating. Instead, I eat a Blow Pop that was in the cabinet for some reason. We don’t usually have candy, but it must be left over from Halloween. It’s grape-flavored, which sucks, but I eat it anyway.

  There’s an Indiana Jones marathon on TV, and I watch for a while and paint my nails. I see the love story unfold between Indy and Marion and admire her brazenness and how she can knock back all those drinks, how she seduces Indy and isn’t helpless.

  I call Stephen Fraber, and he answers on the first ring.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I just got home from a friend’s house.”

  “Did you drive?”

  “Ha! Yeah. I have a car now. It’s not like your brother’s Beemer or anything, but it’s pretty cool. It’s a Mustang, all black, but it’s old. What are you doing?”

  “Do you want to come over?”

  “Right now?”

  “My parents are in Miami with my brother, looking at the University of Miami. They won’t be back till late.”

  “UM is amazing. Damn. I want to go there when I’m—”

  “Do you want to come over?”

  “Hell yeah. Like, now?”

  “Yeah. How far are you?”

  “From Boca? About thirty minutes, I guess, maybe more.”

  “Okay. I have to call you into the gate. See ya.”

  “Bye.”

  I rush into the shower to shave my whole body. We’re definitely going to have sex. There’s no way Stephen Fraber is getting out of hooking up with me this time. Even though I planned it, the thought of losing my virginity becomes real when I get out of the shower. I look at myself in my bathroom mirror and feel so young without makeup on or my hair done. I look like a kid. By the end of the night, I’ll be a woman. I’ll have accomplished something big over spring break, something to be proud of, something worth telling the girls. I’m all ready for it to be over, for it to be a story.

  I decide to wear something that’s easy to take off. I put on athletic shorts made of sweatpants material that make my b
utt look good and a white T-shirt with no bra. I’ve never done this before, but I see it in the movies where girls have guys over and they sleep together. The girl is wearing a white T-shirt with no bra, and it’s really sexy. The camera always shows the guy taking off the girl’s shirt from behind and you see her back with no bra and there’s just skin. That’s what I imagine Stephen Fraber will do.

  He calls at the guard gate. I let him in and finish getting ready. He rings my doorbell, and I hurry downstairs. I open the door, and he’s standing there in jeans and a black T-shirt. He looks older—like, way older than he did on our last date, only a couple months ago. Sixteen looks good on him. I’m glad he’s here. His car is parked on the street, right in front of my mailbox. It’s getting dark and there won’t be mail so it’s fine.

  “Come in,” I say, trying to be cool and coy and not nervous.

  He walks in, and we go to the kitchen for some reason.

  “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “Not really.”

  “I don’t have much food here. I have waffles, but that’s more like breakfast than dinner. We could order a pizza…”

  “Isn’t that how, like, every single porno ever starts?” he asks.

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t watch porn.”

  “You’ve never seen a porno?”

  “I mean, I’ve seen them, but I don’t watch them,” I say, which doesn’t even make sense.

  “I watch porn when I jerk off.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Do you ever do that?”

  “What?”

  “Like, touch yourself?”

  “I’d rather someone else do that for me,” I say, and I can’t believe myself. Who am I? I guess I’m someone who wants Stephen Fraber to make a move on me already.

  “I can definitely do that for you. Want to go to your room?”

  I nod, and we run upstairs. I close the door slowly and lock it, even though no one’s home.

  “Have you ever done it?” I ask, as I get into my bed and take off my shorts.

  “No, but I want to, with you.”

  He takes off his shoes and leaves on his socks. He walks toward my bed.

  “Take those off,” I say.

  “My pants?”

  “Yeah, those, too, but I meant the socks.”

  “Ha! Okay.”

  He takes them off and gets into bed with me. We start kissing, and he’s actually the best kisser I’ve ever kissed. He doesn’t use too much tongue, like other guys, and he leans to the left, which feels more comfortable to me for some reason than leaning to the right. He gets really into it and I feel him start to get hard. I can feel myself getting wet, so I tell him, “I’m so wet,” because I know girls say that to guys and it turns them on even more. It works, and he gets even harder. He’s rubbing up against me and it feels good and I think that sex will feel a hundred times better than this.

  All of a sudden he takes off my underwear and smiles.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, a little freaked out.

  “I want to eat you out.”

  “Have you done that before?”

  “No, but I know how to do it.”

  “How?”

  “Porn. And my friend who’s done it.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s okay?”

  “Yeah. I’ve just never had someone do that…but I want you to.”

  “Okay. Let me know if it feels good.”

  He kisses in between my legs, and at first it feels weird, like walking into the wrong classroom after you take a bathroom break and forget what period it is. Then I realize I’m supposed to be enjoying myself, so I start moaning a little but not too much. But then it really does feel good. He’s massaging me with his tongue, kissing me like how he kissed my mouth, but lower and more intense, more intent, more passionate. I start to get lightheaded and warm and my body tingles and my breath is uncontrollable. I feel myself tighten around him and what he’s doing and I shiver and shake and push him off me.

  “You want me to stop?” he asks, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Something just happened.”

  “Did you come?”

  “What?”

  “Like, have an orgasm?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did it feel good?” he asks, smiling with eyes so big.

  “Yeah. It felt amazing.”

  “Holy shit. That’s awesome. That’s so hot.”

  I smile, and I know it’s about to happen. He takes off his jeans and I pull off my shirt. He kisses me and grabs my boobs and then takes off his shirt and I feel his chest against mine and he’s in his boxers and I’m completely naked and I’m ready to have sex with Stephen Fraber, I’m ready for him to take my virginity and for him to lose his to me and for us to do it. I hear something that could only be a violent thunderstorm rising to the peak of its fury in a matter of mere seconds, or the unmistakable sound of the garage door opening.

  “My parents are home!”

  “Shit!”

  We both get dressed as fast as possible. I succeed because I have a lot less clothing to put on, but Stephen only makes it to his top half because he can’t find his socks and my mom is knocking on the door because it’s locked. I throw his clothes into the bathroom.

  “One sec!” I yell.

  I put my hair in a messy bun and straighten the bedsheets and answer the door.

  “Why is your door locked?” Mom asks. I’m still eyeing the room for a pair of socks when I realize that she doesn’t know someone is here. Stephen parked in the street, so his car could belong to anyone—someone else who parked mistakenly in front of our house. It happens all the time. A neighbor’s problem, not mine. But then Stephen comes out of the bathroom, and I see he’s wearing his shoes without any socks.

  “Hi,” he says to my mom.

  “Oh, I didn’t know Stephen was coming over. Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. She doesn’t even seem mad. “What are you doing?” She surveys the room but remains smiley and upbeat. I wonder if she can tell I just had an orgasm—like, if there’s some mother-daughter energy pulsating through the room and she knows her little girl is not so little anymore. I sit on the bed and feel Stephen’s socks under my butt.

  “We watched a movie, but Stephen’s about to leave, because it’s getting late and all,” I say.

  “Yeah. I have a curfew, so I gotta get going.”

  My mom picks up my school bag and moves it to my desk. While she does this, I reach under the covers and fish out the socks and toss them to Stephen. He shoves them into his pockets and shrugs at me.

  “Sorry this place is such a mess,” my mom says to Stephen, and her eyes return to me. “I’m always telling her to get her crap off the floor and put everything away. Does your room look like this, Stephen?”

  “No. It’s much worse.”

  “Jeez Louise! Your mom lets you get away with that?”

  “All right, well, I’ll walk Stephen out,” I say, to break the tension. Stephen follows me downstairs as I skip steps and race to the door. We walk to his car, and it’s dark out. The whole world seems different now. It seems so easy for two people to have each other like that, to know sex is possible, fathomable. I feel older, more mature, cooler. I go to give Stephen a kiss, but he says he probably tastes like me. I tell him I don’t care, but he gets into his car anyway and drives off. I stand out there for a few minutes longer. I want this feeling to last. It’s cool to have done something like that with a guy. It feels like an accomplishment, a step up on the ladder of growing up.

  When I get back inside, my mom asks why I didn’t tell her I was having company. I say I thought I told her, and even though we both know I’m lying, she lets it go. What’s done is done, and a boy was at our house without her permission. M
aybe she wants to believe that nothing happened, that we just watched a movie and he had his arm around me, because we’re still kids in her eyes. Maybe she wants me to be happy, and seeing me smile for the first time in a long time makes her happy, too.

  I fall asleep thinking about Stephen Fraber going down on me. I replay it over and over and over again, until it seems like a dream I’m having. It’s not until I wake up the next morning and my underwear is still soaking wet that I know it was real.

  • SIXTEEN •

  My English teacher assigned us work over the break, but I don’t mind. I love reading, and it’ll take my mind off obsessing over what happened and what might still happen and what my mom thinks happened with Stephen. We’re supposed to read The Outsiders and write a five-page essay about what it means to be “an outsider.” It’s not until I go to read the book halfway through the week that I realize it’s in my locker at school.

  My mom drives me, and I’m praying the campus is open. There’s a security guard at the gate, and he tells us the school is actually open for testing and that I can run in and go to my locker, but to be quiet and not disrupt the PSATs in progress. We pull up to the 400 Building, and I run inside. The hallway is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. No girls gossiping by the lockers, no boys roughhousing or talking shit, no teachers yelling at everyone to get in the classroom and sit down and be quiet. I’m glad no one’s around, since I’m wearing an oversize pajama shirt underneath a hoodie and sweatpants with sneakers. My hair is in a messy bun, and I’m not wearing any makeup. I wouldn’t be caught dead like this on a normal school day.

  Someone comes out of the bathroom, and I hurry to my locker. I assume it’s just one of the PSAT kids taking a break, but it’s Amber Goodman. She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt and black leggings and slippers. She’s holding her lower back with one hand and looks like she’s in pain.

  “Are you okay?” I blurt, and it comes out louder than expected since no one else is here in the hall.

  She notices me immediately and smiles. “Yeah. Thanks. I got a tattoo yesterday, and it hurts like a bitch. Wanna see it?”