Tease Page 5

  It’s just—he’s the only one who doesn’t give me that look. That You’re the one who killed Emma Putnam look.

  I realize I’m still nodding and standing there, staring at him. Carmichael isn’t giving me the look, but he’s looking right at me, and I let out a short, self-conscious laugh. “Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know—I mean—” I turn toward the doors to the school, which feel really far away, and hold my hand out, gesturing. “You going in? I mean, of course you are, I just—should we go?”

  “Well, we’ve already come this far,” he says. “Why not just enter the mouth of hell?”

  I laugh again, almost a snort. “Yeah,” I say. I feel like I’m just making sounds at this point, not anything even remotely like conversation. I know Brielle would completely lose it if she saw me like this. She’d probably throw me back in the car and drive away, fast, to save us all from the embarrassment. I wish she could.

  But Carmichael is still standing there, a little half-smile on his face. Finally, like an act of charity, he says, “I liked Catcher in the Rye better.”

  “Oh,” I say. Then, before I can get my spaz under control, I add, “I hated that one.”

  “Seriously?” he says, genuinely startled.

  “Sorry,” I say again, wishing I’d just walked past him instead of getting myself into this mess of a conversation. “I mean, I can see why you’d like it—I mean, I can see why people like it, not just you—”

  “But especially me, right?” he says.

  “No! Not—I mean—ah, shit.”

  I don’t realize I’ve said this last part out loud until Carmichael’s face breaks into a smile. A real one.

  “You’re weird, you know that?” he asks me.

  “Easy for you to say,” I reply, but I’m joking, and I’m smiling too. And this time it actually sounds like a joke, the way I mean it to sound.

  “Yeah, I’m weird too,” he says. “That’s why they keep us separated from the general population, right?” Carmichael turns and I fall into step beside him, wondering if he even knows why I’m in summer school. Maybe not—maybe he spent last year in another country, and that’s why he’s here. Or maybe he doesn’t watch the news. Carmichael definitely seems too cool to pay attention to gossip. And lawsuits.

  We’ve just stepped inside the half-lit hallway when I see Beth and Cherrie at a locker up ahead. At first glance you’d think they were just standing there, talking, but I know that locker. This whole hallway makes my stomach clench. In fact, the one not totally sucktastic thing about summer school has been that I can avoid this hall, and that even if I have to walk down it, I don’t have to see flowers and stuffed teddy bears and candles piled up on the floor next to locker 8043. All that stuff got cleaned up at the end of the year. And it’s still gone, but here are Beth and Cherrie, their heads bent toward each other, like they’re sharing a secret or praying or something. Beth’s shoulders rise and shudder in a big, weepy sigh. I’m not surprised, but I have to grind my teeth together to keep from yelling.

  Beth and Cherrie weren’t nice to Emma either. They wanted to be friends with Brielle and me as much as anyone—more, even. They laughed when Brielle made jokes at Emma’s expense. They actually sent friend requests to Fat Beyotch before the page got shut down. And the whole thing on Valentine’s Day . . . I remember watching Beth roll her eyes that afternoon, when Emma sat down on the floor next to her locker, hugging her knees and crying. Megan Corley got down there with her and put an arm around Emma’s shoulders, but Beth had said something bitchy to try to suck up to me and Brielle.

  And now she’s back at that damn locker, playing the distraught BFF. I watch as Cherrie pats Beth’s arm, and a loud snort escapes me despite my locked jaw.

  Beside me, Carmichael kind of jumps. And I remember—everyone knows. And at the same time, no one knows anything.

  “Sorry,” I say to him, again. “I just . . . those girls are such freaking hypocrites.”

  Carmichael studies them for a minute. “Yeah, everyone’s a phony,” he finally says, softly.

  I look over, surprised he’s agreeing with me, but he’s just staring at Beth and Cherrie. Or maybe he’s staring past them—it’s hard to tell.

  “The world is full of phonies,” he reiterates, but it doesn’t seem like he’s talking to me anymore. It sounds more like he’s reminding himself of something. Something he’d almost been able to forget.

  January

  “DO YOU HAVE a—thing?”

  The floor pounds beneath me as Dylan shifts to the side and reaches for his jeans. He doesn’t even answer my question; he just gets his wallet out of his back pocket and I hear the crinkle of foil.

  It’s happening. It’s happening on the floor of Brielle’s parents’ guest room. The party’s still going on—the music is what’s pounding through the floor, through the walls. I practically had to yell about the condom, which kind of killed the mood. I think.

  Though honestly, there wasn’t much mood to begin with. I started drinking around seven, I guess, well before anyone got to the party. Irish came through with the keg, but even before that, Brielle had gotten out the bottle of vodka she has hidden in her room for “special occasions.”

  “Liquid balls,” she’d told me, pouring way more than a shot into a Solo cup. She poured one for herself, too, smiled wickedly, and downed it. I gulped mine. When I almost choked, she laughed and poured some more. “It’s your special night!” she crowed.

  Now it’s, I dunno, ten? I’m wasted. I feel sleepy and wired at the same time. I feel like I love Dylan. I feel like he’s kind of crushing me into the carpet in a not completely romantic way. He hasn’t said much since we came into the guest room. He pushed a dresser half in front of the door. We were kissing and then we stumbled on our way to the bed, so here we are, on the carpet. Which is light blue. We should get on the bed, I think hazily—what if we stain the carpet? With . . . whatever?

  Oh my God, he’s putting on the condom. I see his hands moving and quickly turn my head away, which makes the room spin. It’s dark in here, but not dark enough. Suddenly I feel really nervous and I wonder if I want to stop, if I’m about to throw up, if my life is turning into a crappy made-for-TV movie, if—

  He’s on top of me again, and my last thought as a virgin is After this I won’t have to worry about it anymore.

  It doesn’t hurt as much as I was afraid it would, but maybe that’s because it doesn’t take very long. I think I’m supposed to make sounds or something—like the movies, where it’s all screaming and moaning, isn’t that the way it goes?—but I’m still thinking about the carpet and then I’m kind of embarrassed for Dylan because he’s grunting and then—

  That’s it.

  He rolls off of me, still panting.

  My bra is kind of wet from where he was sweating on it. I wonder if we should’ve taken it off first. It seems weird that he’s taken it off other times, while we were just making out, but didn’t for this.

  The ceiling fan isn’t on, but it’s vibrating a little from the music, the long tassels swinging gently. I try to think about the song that’s playing, the song that played when I lost my virginity, but I can’t focus. I felt sober for a second, while everything was happening, but now I feel really drunk again.

  “Dude,” Dylan says. He’s not talking to me; he’s fumbling with the condom. He curses under his breath.

  I try to organize my limbs. I want to look sexy, how I’m supposed to look. I want him to want to do this again—not right now, but someday. Wasn’t that the whole point? Was this time even okay? My underwear are twisted around one of my ankles and I grab for them.

  He’s not even looking at me, though. I know guys don’t like to cuddle afterward or whatever, but he’s already got his jeans back on and he’s running his hands through his hair, straightening himself up. Where did the condom go? How did he do that?

  I reach out and try to gently pull his face toward mine for a kiss. Instead, I end up sort of lurching at his shou
lder, grabbing it for support. I hear myself giggle and don’t even realize it’s me for a second.

  “Hey, babe, steady,” Dylan says. It sounds so sweet I want to cry. That feeling you get at the back of your throat, right before the tears come. That lump. That happens—a split second after I’m giggling, I think I’m going to start sobbing.

  Not a moment too soon, Dylan’s hands are around me, pulling me, holding me up. It’s not quite a hug, but it’s enough. It’s long enough for me to take a breath.

  “You ready?” he asks.

  I’m standing there in my underwear—sweaty bra and half-pulled-on panties—and I have to push my hair out of my face. But I nod, and I think I smile.

  “Okay,” he says. He gives me a little kiss, softly. Nicely. “I’m gonna go back out there.”

  His face is close to mine and I can just hear him over the music. I want to reach out to him again. I want to cuddle, even though that’s probably lame. I feel so close to him, I feel so warm inside, but really cold, too, in all the places he’s not holding.

  But he’s not holding me at all now, he’s leaving. He’s pushing the dresser away from the door.

  There’s a blast of light and sound from the hall, and then I’m alone.

  “OMG, you’re such a slut!” Brielle is practically screaming at me and laughing, and I would be afraid of the rest of the house overhearing, but the music is still on really loud. “On the floor?! God, who knew D-Bag was such an animal!” Her plastic cup waves in the air as she half dances, half hugs me. “Woooo!”

  I can’t help it—I’m blushing like crazy. I’m embarrassed, but proud, too. I did it. I feel like my blood is pumping in double time, like my whole body is thumping along with the music.

  Brielle has me sort of pinned in a corner of the living room, which is packed with people, but across the mob I manage to spot Dylan playing flip cup with a bunch of guys from the baseball team. It’s the last night they can all drink without really worrying about getting in trouble with the coaches, and it looks like they’re going to make sure they have enough beer to last the whole season. Still, when I see Dylan—even just the side of his face, just for a second—my heart sort of convulses. My stomach tenses like I’m going to throw up, but in that good way, like when you’re just so excited about everything you can’t handle it.

  “You need another drink!” Brielle shouts. “Follow me!”

  I kind of always thought that losing my virginity would be a little more . . . private, I guess. Like Dylan and I would go to a rustic little cabin in the woods somewhere, and the room would have a fireplace, and we’d stay up all night talking afterward. Not that my mom would let me go to a hotel with Dylan, obviously. She’d have to pay for a babysitter to watch my brothers while I was gone, for one thing.

  Anyway, Brielle is totally taking care of me. We stumble toward the kitchen, and from the flip-cup table, Dylan catches my eye and gives me a little smile. I think I’m going to just melt into a puddle right there on the kitchen floor, but then Brielle’s shouting again and putting a plastic cup in my hand.

  “This is the best party EVER!” she shouts. She yells it just as there’s a little break in the music, but instead of laughing at her, the whole room bursts into wild hoots of agreement.

  Just as the music starts up again, Brielle grabs my arm and says, “Okay, you have to tell me everything! Everything everything. Every. Thing.”

  I laugh and take a deep breath, wondering where to start, wondering if Brielle is going to think I did it all wrong, wondering if maybe we should talk about this later, after the party, but at the same time wanting so badly to talk about it all right now.

  But just when I open my mouth, Brielle’s hand grips my arm harder, too hard, and her jaw drops. For a second she seems totally sober. “Oh. My. Freaking. GOD,” she says. She’s staring at something across the kitchen, and I follow her eyes.

  It’s Emma. She’s talking to Jacob Walker, and it looks like she’s upset about something. Surprise, surprise. He’s got his arm around her all comforting and shit—God, that girl will do anything for attention.

  “Skank.” I think it’s Brielle hissing the word for a minute, and then I realize it was me who just said it. It feels good. I say it again. “What a total skank!”

  I must be kind of loud, because a couple of girls I don’t know that well turn around and look at us. Brielle shoots them a glare and turns to me, all serious. “Don eeeven worryaboutit,” she slurs. “God, I mean, who even uses Facebook anymore?”

  “Shh!” I hiss at her. “You know we’re not—” I don’t get to finish my sentence because now she’s pulling herself up to sit on the counter, knocking over a stack of plastic cups in the process. I’ve had too much to drink, definitely, but I know better than to announce to the whole room that we set up the Fat Beyotch page. It’s already been taken down by the system administrator, but we heard at school that Emma got pulled into the guidance counselor’s office, and who knows what she said in there.

  “WhatEVER,” Brielle is saying now, swinging her legs and kicking the cabinets with the pair of Jimmy Choos that I happen to know are her mom’s. “I’m so sick of talking about that nutcase. And now you’n D-Bag are all”—she holds up her hand and crosses her fingers—“and then”—she wraps her other hand around the first one, intertwining all her fingers, then starts waggling her tongue.

  I burst out laughing again, despite myself. “Stop it!” I squeal. She’s, like, making out with her hands now, doing these gross moaning noises. The girls who were staring at us before look like they don’t know whether to laugh or run away.

  Brielle starts grabbing at me, going, “Oh, Sara! Oh, Dyyylaaaan!” and I’m trying to push her off, but still laughing, and while we’re basically wrestling my eyes move to the other end of the room again.

  Emma and Jacob are looking at us, obviously a little stunned that we’re acting like such freaks, but whatever.

  And then, finally, it occurs to me.

  That bitch can’t call me a tease anymore.

  “C’mon,” Brielle says, clumsily hoisting herself back off the counter. She stalks across the kitchen and plants her hands on the island where Emma and Jacob are standing. I follow her, setting down my plastic cup and tossing my hair over my shoulder. It might not be red, but it’s long and curly(ish) and I kind of like how tously it looks after my . . . um . . . time with Dylan.

  “What are you doing here?” Brielle says to Emma.

  Emma ignores her, though, and talks to me instead. “Do you do everything she tells you to do?”

  “What did you just say?” I snap back, but at the exact same time Brielle goes, “What did you say, bitch?” so it actually sounds like I’m parroting her.

  Emma cracks up, and so does Jacob, which is totally not fair—he was our friend first—and Brielle takes another step toward the corner of the island, closer to them.

  “I don’t know who invited you,” she growls at Emma, “but I do know who’s gonna kick your ass out of here.”

  It’s not her best line, but it’s effective. Emma gives Jacob this look, like a sad Disney princess. Jacob shakes his head, like we’re all so immature and he’s just disappointed in us, and puts his arm around Emma again. He looks back at me and Brielle and says sarcastically, “Really nice party.”

  “Really nice skank,” Brielle sneers back, but Jacob is already guiding Emma through the kitchen to the front of the house.

  Brielle turns to watch them go, then holds her cup of beer up in the air, as if she’s toasting them.

  “I hope Jacob likes herpes!” she yells.

  Everyone’s still laughing as Jacob and Emma walk out the door.

  By midnight Brielle is mostly in the bathroom throwing up, so I’m mostly in there with her. I only really see Dylan one more time, just as he’s leaving, but he gives me this long kiss and says, “Talk tomorrow?” and it’s enough. In the morning I feel like I’ve slept maybe five minutes, but I don’t care. I pad down to Brielle’s
giant kitchen and make coffee while she’s still asleep.

  When I bring it back upstairs, Brielle is propped up on her pillows, but still wearing the eye mask she put on last night. “That smells ahhhmaaaazing,” she says. She pushes the eye mask up and holds out both hands, and I put one of the mugs into them.

  “Two Splendas and cream,” I say, sitting on the other side of the bed with my own one-Splenda cup.

  “Bless you, you beautiful slut.” She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “I might actually be dead right now.”

  “Actually, I’m not quite dead yet!” I joke, but when she doesn’t laugh I remember it’s my mom and my brothers who like Monty Python, not Brielle.

  “Uch, you’re shouting,” she whines. “Are you going home now, or what?”

  I open my mouth to make another joke, or argue, or something. But I actually should get home. And Brielle’s clearly not in the mood to download my Dylan experience. I press my lips back together and swallow my disappointment.

  “Yeah,” I say, standing up. “Just wanted to make sure you had some caffeine.”

  “You’re the best. Lock the door when you go.” Brielle’s eyes are still closed, so she doesn’t see me smile, which is just as well. It’s kind of a crappy smile.

  But when I’m in my car I think about Dylan again, and I smile for real this time. For the whole drive I’m grinning like an idiot, though it fades again when I pull my Honda into the driveway at home.

  My mom isn’t one of those parents who goes into the office on the weekends, and sometimes I wish she was. Instead she’s always trying to fix something around the house, and my brothers and I get roped into the lamest chores, like cleaning the blades of the ceiling fans (gross) or boxing up our old toys or electronics or whatever so she can take them to the Salvation Army. Or to the garage, more likely, where they become some other weekend’s cleanup/donation/dump project.

  It snowed and then rained last week, but now it’s kind of warm out, so I’m not that surprised when I see Alex and Tommy holding a giant trash bag under a ladder while my mom, big rubber gloves on her hands, scoops gunk out of the gutters and tosses it into the bag. They’re all laughing about something, and I pause before I get out of the car, thinking first that I’d rather do anything but help clean the damn gutters, and second how happy they look, like some postmodern Norman Rockwell painting. The Single Mother, it would be called. She has her hair up and her big red Huskers sweatshirt on, the one that used to be my dad’s, one of the things he left behind when he moved.