by Mari Mancusi
I can’t believe I just told off a) the most popular girls in school, and b) my best friends. A nagging guilt immediately starts poking at my insides. It’s not like the Ashleys haven’t been good friends to me. I mean, sure, they’re shallow and silly, but they always treated me with respect. Included me in everything …
I shake my head. No. They deserve this and more. Okay, they’ve been cool to me, but they’re not cool to my new friends. Or the other three-quarters of the school lunchroom. They think they’re better than everyone else and they need to be taken down a peg or two. And I’m the only person who can do it effectively. Maybe I’ll end up being a high-school crusader for geeks.
I turn back to my lunch tablemates. “Sorry about that,” I say, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Some people have no manners.”
Stuart lets out a whoop and the whole table combusts in excited conversation. It’s score one for the loser table and I’m their new champion. They excitedly recount the pissed-off looks on the Ashleys’ faces.
Starr elbows me and I turn to look at her. She smiles and pats me on the shoulder.
“You know, Barbie doesn’t really fit you, namewise,” she says. “In fact, I’d better start calling you Dawn.”
Chapter Eight
“So listen,” I say after lunch, as Starr and I head to our next class. “Sean texted me this morning.”
Starr grins and pokes me in my side with a black-painted fingernail. “Ooh, lover girl,” she says. “I told you he likes you!”
“Yeah, yeah.” I know I’m completely blushing. Who wouldn’t be? “But anyway, he says there’s a rave tonight and him and Eddie are going and—”
“Really?” Starr squeals. Literally squeals. “I love raves. Have you ever been to one? I went to a ton in Europe. They’re so fun!” She grabs my hand. “We have to go.”
I smile at her enthusiasm. “Yeah, I’m sure it’d be a blast. I can’t go though, so I thought if you wanted to, you should call Eddie and—”
“No. You’re going. Definitely. This’ll be a great place to hook up with Sean. Why can’t you go?”
“Are you kidding? The Evil Ones would never let me attend some all-night dance party. And I have a billion commitments on Saturday that I can’t be tired for. I volunteer at a nursing home in the morning. Then I have—”
“Dawn. Darling. Let’s get those priorities straightened out,” Starr reprimands. “You want Sean. Sean wants you to attend the rave. End of story.”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it. My parents won’t let me go. That’s the period, end of story, we’re talking about here.”
“What if they didn’t know?” “Huh?”
“You can tell them you’re sleeping over at my house,” Starr suggests. “My dad’s the headmaster. Surely they trust him to guard your virtue for the evening. I can even have him call your parents and talk to them.”
“And he won’t mind us going to the rave?”
“My bedroom’s in the basement and I have my own exit. We can come and go as we please and he’ll never know. He’s a super-heavy sleeper.”
A thrill of excitement bubbles in my belly as I consider her plan. It’s so crazy it just might work. And I’ll get to see Sean. Better yet, I’ll get to dance with Sean. All night. How can I pass up this opportunity?
“Okay,” I say, making my decision. “I’ll call them and let them know I’m spending the night with you.”
*
“Goodnight, girls.”
“Goodnight, Dad,” Starr says sweetly as her father closes her bedroom door. She waits a beat, for his footsteps to fade away, then jumps up and locks it tight.
“That takes care of him,” she says with a grin.
Those pesky butterflies are country line dancing in my stomach again. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe what we’re about to do.
The Evil Ones were surprisingly receptive to my sleeping over at Starr’s house. Of course when I asked, I used her given name (Ashleigh, if you can believe it!) and casually threw in the fact that her father is headmaster of our school. My Dad went as far as suggesting I sweet-talk the guy into a Harvard recommendation letter. He always has an agenda.
Starr’s home is small, but cozy, in a middle-class subdivision on the east side of town. The house is a split-level, with her bedroom taking up the entire refinished basement. It’s a pretty cool room, with a futon bed, beanbag chairs, a TV with DVD and PlayStation 2, and scads of musician cutouts and posters covering almost every inch of wall space. She even has a black light, which allows for some cool glow-in-the-darkage from the star stickers she pasted to her ceiling.
“So do you just live here with your dad?” I ask, after we’ve changed into cozy flannel Gap pajamas.
“Yeah,” Starr says, flopping on her bed and grabbing the remote control.
“Where does your mother live?” I wonder what it’d be like to have divorced parents. Mine are like the only ones on the planet who are still married. Such weirdos.
Starr drops the remote control without flipping on the TV and rolls over onto her back, staring at her starred ceiling. “Nowhere,” she says after a long pause. “She’s dead.”
Oh, nice one, Dawn. Open mouth and insert foot.
“I’m sorry,” I say, joining her on the bed. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Starr assures me. “She had breast cancer. Died a year ago next week.”
I look over and catch her swiping at the corner of her eyes with her sleeve. Is she crying? It’s weird to see this tough, punk-rock chick looking so vulnerable.
“Sorry,” she says with a choking laugh. “I never cry. It’s just … well, I miss her sometimes, you know? And it, like, just hits me.”
I don’t know. I have no idea what it would be like to lose a parent. A mother. As much as I can’t stand mine half the time, I do love her and couldn’t imagine her not being there every night when I came home from school.
“I’m sorry, Starr,” I say, reaching over to grab the box of tissues on her night table. I hand her one and she dabs her eyes. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”
I wonder if that’s why Starr dresses the way she does. Acts all tough. Gets kicked out of boarding school. I wonder if she was completely different before her mother’s illness and death.
“It’s okay, thanks,” Starr says, sitting up in bed. “I’m fine. But let’s change the subject, okay?”
I nod, but am suddenly unable to think of a single other topic. Some friend I am.
Starr groans. “Okay, fine. I’ll pick then. New topic of the night is boys.”
“Any particular boys?” I ask, making an innocent face.
She taps her chin with her forefinger, as if pretending to think. “What about … Eddie and Sean?” she says with a grin.
So we talk about the skaters and way overanalyze everything they’ve said or done and how much fun we’re going to have with them tonight and what we should do if they want to dance with us, kiss us, etc. Soon we’re giggling like crazy.
After a bit, Starr turns on her PlayStation and we occupy ourselves with video games. I completely suck at them. Since video games are considered “uncool” with the Ashley crowd, I’ve hardly ever played. But even though my character dies on a regular basis, I still have a blast playing. Maybe I’m destined to be a geek….
At nine o’clock, Starr suggests we start getting ready. She heads to her closet to find us outfits. No way am I going to a rave in my Barbie school uniform, she says.
Now dressed in a pink baby-doll T-shirt (that nicely shows off my new piercing), low-rise baggy jeans, and colored sneakers, I feel like a new person. A cool individual, not an Ashley clone. In fact, I’m so psyched about my new look, I keep peeking in the mirror to make sure it’s really me.
Starr chooses a more gothed-out outfit of black on black, of course, but she could look cool in anything.
Next it’s makeup time. Starr slathers the stuff on her face while I content myself with a
dab of lip gloss and a swipe of mascara. Then, feeling brave, I add a little eyeliner. Not so much as to make me look like Avril Lavigne, mind you, but enough that you’d actually notice I’m wearing makeup. It looks pretty cool, if I do say so myself.
Makeup application completed, Starr pulls me in front of her full-length mirror and we check each other out.
“We look fab, darling,” she pronounces in an over-the-top English accent. “Let’s go.”
My heart beats wildly as Starr opens the door to exit her bedroom. This is it! The cool night breeze hits my bare stomach as we tiptoe through the yard and out to the street.
“I told Eddie to meet us in the cemetery,” Starr whispers, gesturing to the graveyard down the road. How appropriate that the goth chick lives near a cemetery.
As we reach the wrought-iron gates, car headlights flicker twice in greeting. We scamper over to the parked car, which turns out to be a beat-up red Mustang. Starr hops in the front with Eddie, the driver, and I duck into the back, where Sean is sitting. He smiles at me and places a hand on my knee. Gulp.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m glad you could come.”
“So am I,” I say, trying not to squirm at the sensation his hand is creating on my knee. He’s so yummy it practically hurts.
Eddie revs the motor and soon we’re on our way. He turns up the CD player and loud, angry, punk-rock music blares from the speakers, cutting off conversation. Which is fine, actually, considering I’m almost too nervous to breathe, never mind come up with intelligent dialogue.
This is the first time I’ve ever ridden alone in a car with boys. Pathetic, huh? But The Evil Ones say no car dating
‘til I’m sixteen and that’s not ‘til next month. I’d be so grounded if they knew what I was doing now, it isn’t even funny.
But all the potential trouble I’d be in is soon forgotten as Sean reaches over and takes my hand in his. His callused thumb rubs against my palm, evoking a sensation that you wouldn’t believe. I swallow hard and concentrate on the raucous, decidedly unromantic music, hoping I can avoid melting into a big soppy puddle on the car floor, which would be way embarrassing.
About ten minutes later, Eddie turns left into the parking lot of a giant warehouse, set back by the river. He parks and the music dies with the motor.
“We’re here,” he announces. He pulls out a flask from his leather-jacket pocket. “Want a drink?”
Starr frowns. “No way, dude,” she says scornfully. “I don’t drink.” She spits the word out like it’s the poison contained in the flask. “Besides the occasional cig, I’m straight edge.”
“Yeah, we’re straight edge or die, man,” Sean agrees from the backseat. “Put that crap away.”
I’m not exactly sure what straight edge means, but if it saves me from being asked if I want to get drunk, I’m all for it. If I showed up at home with even a hint of alcohol on my breath, I’d be sent off to rehab quicker than you can say, “But I only had one sip.”
Eddie shrugs, but puts down the flask without taking a swig. Huh. Guess it’s like peer pressure in reverse. But hey, whatever works.
We scramble out of the car and lock the doors. Then we head toward the warehouse, Sean again holding my hand. There are dozens of people milling about outside, dressed in bright, candy-colored clothing and smoking cigarettes. Others suck on Blow Pops or pacifiers.
We pay our ten dollars apiece to a pierced and tattooed bouncer type—who surprisingly doesn’t ask to see any ID—and head inside.
Flashing lights and pounding techno beats grab hold of my senses the moment I step through the doors. Everywhere I look there are sweaty bodies moving and gyrating in time to the music. The whole place radiates a kind of energy, almost as if it’s alive.
Wow. All I can say is wow.
“Come on, let’s dance!” Starr urges, grabbing my free hand. Sean laughs and releases my other hand as I’m dragged away. We head out onto the middle of the warehouse floor.
As the music pounds into my brain, I lose my self-conscious inhibitions and allow myself to be carried away by it all. The techno enters my ears and drips through my entire body until I am alive with the sound and one with the rhythm.
I look around at the other dancers. Some sway slowly to the beat, others dance at an excited pace. There are black kids, white kids, Asian kids, Spanish kids. Ravers, goths, jocks, preps, hippies, stoners. Rich kids, poor kids, kids wearing major bling, kids wearing plastic jewelry. Beautiful, ugly, fat, skinny. All dancing as one, all entranced by the DJ’s spell.
It’s like in this place no one gives a care about your social standing. The amount of money you have or don’t have. Who you are, who you hang with, who you avoid like the plague. When you’re here, when you’re dancing, this is your family. A family who doesn’t ask what grades you get in school. Or what you want to be when you grow up. All that matters to this family is the here and now.
I feel hot breath on the back of my neck and turn around to find Sean behind me. He snakes his hands around my waist and together we trance out to the beat.
You know when you’re listening to your iPod and a song comes on that’s so beautiful it gives you chills and you want to cry and laugh all at the same time? Dancing with Sean is like that, multiplied by about three thousand. His fingers scorch my bare waist and his eyes set wildfires ablaze in my insides. I’m completely blown away and loving every minute of it.
This has got to be so much better than some candlelit, quiet dinner for two. Better than snuggling by a blazing fire and feeding peeled grapes to one another. Better than walking barefoot down the ocean shore at dusk. Better than any romantic movie cliché you can possibly think of. It’s alive and free and brave and wonderful.
After about half an hour of bliss, I realize I’m dying of thirst, all my body’s fluids having sweated out of me. I pantomime a drinking motion to Sean. He nods and leads me by the elbow off the crowded dance floor and into a smaller side room. Here, a second DJ spins soothing, chill-out music that greatly contrasts in tempo to what’s being played in the main area. Multicolored, fluffy pillows have been strewn across the floor and a juice bar takes up one wall.
We order orange smoothies and retreat to a pillowed corner of the room with our drinks. There are only a few other people around, vegging out, not paying attention to us. I sip my smoothie, rejoicing as the icy relief travels down my parched throat.
“Yum,” I say.
Sean stretches out his legs so he’s in complete relaxed lounge position. “Yum,” he agrees, staring at me in a way that makes me wonder if he’s talking about his drink.
He reaches over and brushes a damp lock of hair from my eyes. “You’re all sweaty,” he says with a teasing glimmer in his eyes.
“Um, yeah,” I say, taking in his own shiny face. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”
We laugh together. This is so nice. I feel so warm and cozy and happy and content for the first time in my life. Curled up in pillows, next to an uber hottie, snug as a bug in a Berber Carpet rug.
The old Dawn wouldn’t be able to enjoy herself here. She’d be too worried that The Evil Ones found out where she was and were on their way down to bust her. But the new Dawn is determined not to worry about things that are out of her control.
“So,” Sean says, finishing his smoothie and setting it on the floor. “Tell me about yourself.”
I shrug. “There’s not much to tell. I’m fifteen. I go to Sacred Mary’s and—”
“Wait, I’m not talking your standard four-one-one,” he interrupts. “I mean like the real you. What are your goals? Your dreams?”
“Oh.” Okay, I know my face is beet red now. I grab a pillow and hug it in my lap. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on,” Sean chides. “Everyone has goals and dreams.”
“I know, but …”
“I just want to get to know you better, that’s all.”
Ooh, he wants to get to know me. That’s a good thing, right? In fact, a very g
ood thing, I should think. All of a sudden I have this undying urge to start spewing verbal vomit like Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls and tell him everything.
At the same time, I’m frightened. I’ve never told anyone my secret life dream of being a poet/writer. What if he thinks I’m totally dumb and naive? I mean, who makes it as a poet in this day and age? No one even reads poetry anymore. It’s not like the old days of Shakespeare. Even Jim Morrison of the Doors had to set his poetry to music before it became commercially successful.
“I’ll tell you,” I say at last. “But it’s kind of stupid. So you have to promise not to laugh.”
“Dreams aren’t stupid,” Sean replies, taking my hand in his. Wow, how can one simple move like that turn me into complete mush? “Though, of course, there are tons of people out there who try to make you believe that. But that’s only ‘cause they’re blind sheep, running around with no imaginations.”
Wow. He’s so right. I mean, who gives a care what anyone else thinks of the achievability of my dream? It’s mine, after all, not theirs. And if I believe it, if I think I can find a way to make it true, then that’s all that really matters, right?
“Okay,” I relent. “But you first.”
He grins and pokes me in the ribs with his free hand. “Coward,” he teases. “Okay, fine. I have two, actually. My first dream is to become a professional skateboarder. To compete in national competitions and get sponsored by a skateboarding company.” He smiles. “You know, like Tony Hawk, only most likely on a much smaller scale.”
“That’d be awesome,” I say, genuinely impressed. Wow. I can totally picture myself as a pro skater’s girlfriend—standing on the sidelines during competitions, cheering on her man. Fielding the jealous stares from all the other girls who wished Sean was with them….
Oops, sorry. This is supposed to be about Sean’s dream.
“I mean, I have no idea if I’m even that good,” he’s saying. “But there’s a regional skateboarder competition coming up and I’m gonna enter. The winner gets sponsored by a local skateboard design company and an actual college scholarship.” He pauses, his eyes shining. “Which would put me one step closer to achieving my second dream. To be the first in my family to go to college.”