I didn't mean to get upset with Jason. He just gets a little out of hand sometimes. But I do love him. Not the way he wants, but I can't help that. Martha and Deena understand what I mean. They're like my sisters.
Want to know when I met Martha? Would you believe seventh grade? Westfield has this summer program for honors kids, with courses like Backpacking and Astronomy. It's kind of like day camp except it only costs three dollars. That's why I went. My friends were really going to camp, but Mom and Dad couldn't afford it, so I signed up for the Theater Arts course.
That's where I met Martha. She was a real honors student, in the Gifted and Talented Program. I remember this pudgy little thing with a mass of red hair and freckles. She wore glitter on her face, and plastic junk jewelry on every finger. At the end of the course, she made a rubber band chain for the teacher.
And she was deep. She showed me this story she was working on, an outer space epic that was about twenty pages long. I couldn't even understand it. But it was professional, you know? I know Martha said she couldn't tell stories, but Martha lies a lot.
Anyway, we became friends right away. I was even littler than I am now, and we both thought we were ugly as scabs. I was actually the quiet one back then. I sat in the front of the room and kept my head down and never talked back to the teacher. Martha spent half her life in the principal's office. Even at thirteen, she was smarter than half her teachers, and she let them know it. Teachers don't get off on looking stupid.
But I thought she was hot stuff. She'd already gotten her period, and she'd already made out with guys, and it was like instant older sister. We spent the whole four weeks writing notes to each other. I made her describe every second of what it was like to kiss a guy. And she wanted to know all about my parents' fights and if I was going to be a child of divorce. It was heavy stuff.
That September, we wound up in English and Sequential I together, and we took up where we left off. We laughed hysterically most of the time. I got a reputation for being a troublemaker, and my parents got called up for a conference with all my teachers. It was awesome. My dad went to the conference, because Mom didn't want anything to do with me anymore. He was so sad when he sat me down at the kitchen table. He said all my teachers loved me and thought I was so smart, and it was a shame I let Martha lead me astray.
Dad told me he wouldn't forbid me to see Martha because he knew I'd just sneak around and see her anyway. But he gave me this long talk about independence and being my own person, and maybe influencing Martha to act better. He was so sweet. Of course, he was dreaming. Nobody influences Martha. But I told her I was in major trouble, and we kind of cooled it for a while. Or maybe the teachers got used to us. But I don't remember any more conferences.
I remember Hostess cupcakes, though. We were both crazy about Hostess cupcakes. We bought boxes of them and always carried two or three around when we went out.
I remember the two of us strutting through the streets of my neighborhood, eating Hostess cupcakes. What a sight! Martha had her hair permed and it looked like an explosion in a Brillo factory! I was wearing this spiky hairdo and I'd had my hair lightened but it came out green. I can still see the two of us in these ensembles of sweatshirts and T-shirts and ripped shorts and fluorescent sneakers, with our lumpy little bodies and both of us in braces. We thought we were two elegant ladies. We'd stroll around, giggling and yakking, and always watching for hot guys to notice us. But the best part was the chocolate all over our teeth. God, somebody should have videotaped it.
Oh, wow. This was not on the agenda. Why didn't anyone stop me?
"Because it's worth hearing, Kimber."
Gee, thanks. From you, that's a major compliment.
I don't know about my life history being important, though. In fact, I used to make up a different life history. In eighth grade, we had to write our autobiographies. So I wrote how I was born in Singapore, because my dad was an exporter, and how we lived in France for a while, in a villa in the country and I learned how to ride horses and grow wine. It was a neat story. I had the teacher going for a while, too.
The horse part I put in because I was so jealous of all the girls who did ride horses. On Long Island, most girls take dancing lessons or horseback riding lessons. When I was six, I got ballet lessons. I remember going to this studio in a dirty little shopping center. It was always cold, and there were sleazy dancers rehearsing their routines to really loud records.
I never got to ride horses. That was way too expensive. I remember other girls chattering about their beloved horses, which they owned. I used to dream of going to a stable and grooming my own horse. It sounded so exciting when they talked about it. I'd tum away and draw horse pictures.
It was always like that. The other kids would come back to school with their Trapper Keepers and I'd come in with my Cheap John's notebook. They'd have all these cunning fashions from boutiques and I'd have knockoffs from McCrory's. They'd buy lasagna from the lunch lady and I'd have a peanut butter sandwich in a My Little Pony lunchbox. It's mean to grow up that way. I crawled into my own little world because I was so ashamed; of course all the other kids called me stuck-up.
I'm not blaming Dad. He's just one of those people who's always in the wrong place at the wrong time. He started out as a salesman for Revlon, but he's scared to go talk to people and he developed an ulcer the first year on the job! He was unemployed for five years and Mom worked and they had to take out loans. Dad could never find a job that paid off.
Then Corey came along and it got worse. He was hyperactive, and they had to get Ritalin to calm him down. He was a terror. He'd run around the house screaming or stand and bang on the stairs. At night he kept smashing his head into the wall. Didn't do a lot for my nerves. He's not hyper now, just obnoxious.
Anyway, the whole point is that I was really alone, and when Martha came along, it was like a gift from heaven. She saved my life in a way.
If you're wondering why I'm giving Martha such a big buildup, it has to do with the whole mess on the Senior Weekend, which led to her suspension from the Prom, and to her cheating with Lou, so I wanted to make sure you understood—
"Wait! Run that in reverse for a minute. Cheated with Lou?"
Oh, yeah. I guess nobody mentioned that. But hang in, I'm not ready to talk about that yet. First you have to know about Martha and Rob, and why she started to go out with him, and the fight in school. And about the Senior Weekend.
In fact . . . Martha, maybe you want to tell about all of this.
You said you were dying to tell it.
I was kidding. But seriously, I didn't see the fight, so maybe you'll be more accurate?
I didn't see it, either. But I want to say something about me and Rob.
Kimber's right, I was pretty loose back in the seventh grade. But by the time I got to be a senior, I didn't have much of a romantic life. I was all screwed up with hating the system and reading Hermann Hesse and listening to head-banging music. Not exactly catnip for the average Westfield guy.
So when the Senior Banquet came around, I went stag because Kimber and Deena were going. I made a lot of jokes about the Banquet being stupid and all the bimbettes running around pulling up their strapless gowns. Meanwhile, I bought a strapless dress. And I went to the beauty salon and got my hair curled, and I spent two hours in the bathroom, putting on makeup.
So at the Banquet, I'm hanging out with Kimber and Lou, and Deena and Brett (she was still with Brett back in December). The scene is the Island Manor House. All our purses are on the table with the rolls and glasses of ice water, and the DJ machine is pumping bubbles and blasting party music. I feel so stupid I want to take poison.
I meet Rob while we're on line for the buffet. A hundred dressed-up teenagers are standing on this line, trying to look suave and not spill spaghetti on their clothes. Kimber and Lou are in front of me, and Rob is behind me with his friends, except, of course, I don't know him. So, feeling stupid as I do, I grab an apple and stick it in my cleavage and start belly dancing. Kimber and Deena go hysterical, and even Lou is smiling.
Then I hear this guy say, "Could I get some fruit?"
I tum around and this guy is looking at me with a snide grin. He's a little shorter than I am, and built, with ashy hair and blue eyes. He's wearing a neat pearl gray suit and his face is attractive, except he put on too much zit cream. There are a couple of guys behind him on line, snickering. Obviously his friends.
And here I am, with an apple in my cleavage. "Sorry," I say.
"No problem."
I move up, and let him get to the fruit. My face burns and I pray that I get off this line fast and that he's sitting on the other side of the room.
I keep my head down and I slouch over and I point to stuff in the chafing dishes. The girls who are serving give me strange looks. The blood is pounding in my head as I become more and more embarrassed. Finally, I'm at the end of the buffet table. I can feel his eyes like two drills in my back. And my back is now in a major sweat.
I start to walk away and he goes, "Aren't you going to take out the apple?"
His friends crack up. I'm holding a plate spilling over with food, which I have to balance with both hands. And the apple is still in my dress. I went down the whole food line with this apple.
So I say ... well, it's a word I won't repeat, but I say it loud. He cracks up. I walk away as fast as I can with an apple in my dress and a plate of food in my hands. I have to walk about a mile and a half in between tables to get back to where I'm sitting. I feel everyone looking at me. It's one of the low points of my life.
I finally take the apple out of my dress. Kimber and Deena laugh for about forty minutes, and make bad jokes. "Why not watermelons?" and humor like that. I remember eating but I don't remember tasting anything.
Before I'm finished mopping up sauce with a roll, Rob comes over to the table. He's very careful where his eyes are looking. He says, "I was trying to find you."
"Why?"
"I didn't mean to laugh at you. But you were pretty funny."
"Thanks. My agent will be happy."
"Huh?"
Whoops. I realize that he's not that swift. But he's cute. I become aware of my dress and my hair, and my sweat.
"Nothing," I say. "It's okay."
He looks confused, but he recovers. "Anyway, I'm Rob Trainor."
For a minute, I don't know what to say. Everyone at the table is looking at me. They realize he's hitting on me, but I don't. This is not usual. If a guy wants to get to know a girl, he asks a friend who knows her to set up an introduction. He doesn't just wander over and say hello. Rob's friends must have dared him to do this.
So I'm not ready for his approach. I sit there and go, "Uh ... uh ... "
Deena punches me in the arm, very subtle. My brain kicks in, and I say, "Hi, I'm Martha Sullivan."
"Hi."
"Hi."
This threatens to become a dead end. But Lou says, very smoothly, "I'm Lou and this is Kimber, and that's Deena and Brett and . . . " and he goes around the table.
Rob says, "Hi," to everybody and everybody says, "Hi," to Rob. Rob is now pretty flustered, but he looks me in the eye and says, "So you want to dance?"
I say, "Huh?"
Deena rolls her eyes. Kimber makes a whimpering noise in my ear. And my brain says, Oh! He asked you to dance! He asked you to dance! He asked YOU to DANCE!
Now the sweat is rolling down my ribs and I don't dare pick up my arms. But I manage to say, "Sure," and to get up without pulling off the tablecloth or knocking over any glasses.
I follow Rob back to the dance floor, bumping into people, wondering what the hell I'm going to talk to him about or how long I should dance with him, or what I do after we're finished dancing. Finally, we get to the dance floor, except you can't see it because there are hundreds of bodies jammed together, boogying down. Rob leads me through the mob to a space he likes, then he turns and starts moving. I start moving, too.
He's not really a dancer, which makes me grateful because I don't know what I'm doing myself. But I get into it, and of course every few minutes I discreetly yank up my dress. He's having a pretty good time, smiling at me. And at that moment, the music gets to me, and I begin to get infatuated.
Of course, I don't know anything about the kid. Maybe I'm compensating for being embarrassed. Maybe I'm just too lonely. But that's how it starts, right? Timing. I needed to be asked to dance more than I needed anything else in the world.
So we dance for about a half hour, and then we walk out into the lobby. This is a second floor lobby, carpeted, with couches and mirrors and potted plants. Kids are on the couches, sometimes couples, sometimes friends. One boy and girl are having THE TALK—you know, where he looks deep into her eyes and touches her shoulder and she looks down and nods every once in a while. I love when guys do THE TALK. They get so intense. Usually it's because they've done something retarded and they're desperate.
Rob and I find a loveseat near a railing and we sit down. I slump back and kick off my shoes because my ankles are swollen. I realize Rob has a great view of large feet inside pantyhose. I'm nervous because I don't know what to say.
He sits next to me and we're both quiet. I wish I was with Kimber and Deena, comfortable and secure.
Rob says, "So what classes do you have?"
Good opener. Let him know right away that I'm a dexter. I tell him the whole lineup: Advanced Placement English, Regents Physics, Advanced Placement Calculus, Advanced Placement European History, Creative Writing. Might as well chase him away now.
He says, "No wonder I don't see you."
"It's a big school."
"I don't take advanced courses. I just want to get out."
"I don't cover myself with glory," I reassure him. "I'm about to get dropped from two of them for cutting."
He says, "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah. It hasn't been a wonderful year."
There's more silence. This is not an unusual opening conversation when you meet someone. Unless you're like lab partners or work in the same place and have a lot to talk about, you grope.
But by then, I kind of sensed that Rob wanted to go out with me, and I kind of wanted to go out with Rob. I knew he was an average guy, probably pretty nice, but nobody I could ever talk to about who I was and what I felt. That was okay. I was pretty desperate for somebody to be with.
That's the tough thing. You have to be with somebody. Every song tells you that. Nothing's worse than being alone. And if you don't have somebody, you start looking for all the things that are wrong with you.
"So," Rob says. "Did you ever eat the apple?"
I smile. "Nope. You want it?"
"Yeah, sure."
"I'll have it wrapped up for you."
He's stretched his arm along the back of the couch and now I feel his fingers softly touch the nape of my neck. My hair is so stiff it makes scratching sounds. I let him go ahead and I even wriggle a little to make it easier.
"Do you like basketball?"
"I guess."
"I'm on the team."
"I'm impressed."
"Ever go to a varsity game?"
"No."
"There's a scrimmage on Friday. Maybe you could show up, and we'll do something after. Go to McDonald's or something."
I'd been asked out. Scrimmage and Mickey D's. I actually feel my heart tum over. My pulse is racing. I suddenly realize, in a rush, how much I need this. I suddenly want to kiss Rob.
So I do. Which is also unusual. Generally, you go on a test date first and then spend time with a guy so you can both decide if you want to get involved. Kissing and other things happen after a while (unless you meet at a party and get wasted). But Rob and I are ready. We talk some more and his hand gets to my shoulder. I tum to him and look hard into his eyes. He bends toward me. I shut my eyes and we kiss.
Rob kisses excellently. I can feel that he's pretty tight and muscular. That's what I want.
And you've got to know that because of what happened later. The Martha Sullivan who said yes to Rob Trainor was a different persona. Not the real Martha Sullivan. Not the one who destroyed herself on the Senior Weekend or got suspended from the Prom.
Poor Rob didn't know that girl when he asked me out. He got to know her pretty soon, though.
Okay, Kimber, you can tell the story now.