UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
We’re fooling around on the couch in Luke’s basement the day things get weird. His parents are away at a dinner party, and we just got back from our own dinner to celebrate our two-month anniversary. It’s February twenty-seventh. We count that day we kissed in the snow as the start of our relationship, even though he didn’t officially ask me to be his girlfriend till later.
We’re naked from the waist up doing everything we usually do, and today I decide I’m ready for us to be naked from the waist down too. When I unbutton his pants, his face lights up like a firework. I fumble with the waistband of his jeans, tugging it from side to side so they’ll slide over his butt. How come stuff like this never looks awkward on TV? He pulls his jeans off the rest of the way by himself. They join our shirts in a pile on the floor. My jeans are next, and then our underwear, and then I am full-on naked in front of a boy for the first time.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers.
“Thanks.” I wish I could say the same for him, but penises look SO WEIRD.
“I have protection. We can—”
I freeze. “I’m not ready. Yet.” I hope I wasn’t sending signals that I was.
“Oh. Well, that’s okay,” he says. “Is there a reason?”
“Yeah. Um . . .”
I’m not ready because the last time I thought about being ready, my boyfriend was cheating on me. Because I’m scared it will hurt. Because I don’t know how many girls you’ve slept with and you could be carrying chlamydia. Because I love you but I still haven’t decided if you’re the One.
“You don’t have to explain right now. I don’t mind or anything. I was just curious,” he says. And then, after a pause: “Are you a virgin?”
My cheeks turn pink. “Yeah. Are you?”
“No.”
“Do you mind if I ask how many?”
“Three.”
I want to know if Megan is one of them, but I can’t bring myself to ask. So we do stuff besides it and then watch SNL reruns for the next two hours, and I’m mostly just happy he doesn’t care that I’m not ready to have sex yet. But then in his car on the way home, he says, “It’s funny you just now gave me a bj tonight.”
“Why is that funny?” I ask, because I can’t think of any other way to respond.
“Nothing. It’s just Megan and I had already had sex by now.”
He says it so casually, like he’s making an observation about the weather. So many questions ping around in my head.
What does sex with me have to do with sex with Megan?
Does he compare me to her?
What if I’m not as good as her?
What if he compares how we look naked? Good Lord, I hope not.
I wonder if he ever thinks about her when he’s doing stuff with me.
And why is he telling me this anyway? Is he trying to make me jealous?
Does he think it’ll make me want to have sex with him sooner? He seemed so okay with waiting before.
“Well, I’m not Megan. And anyway, the last time I thought about losing my virginity, things went really badly, so I’m not wanting to rush into it again.”
“Hey, it’s okay.” He reaches for my hand across the console. “I’m glad you’re not her. I could never talk to her the way I talk to you.”
Hearing him say that makes me feel warm all over.
“All we ever did was hook up.”
And the warm feelings die.
I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Why are you being like this? I said I’m glad you’re not her. You don’t have to be jealous. I love you now.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I say.
But the thing is, I’m not.
When I come downstairs on the morning of my birthday, I half expect to find Luke in my kitchen. He’s not there, though. Of course he’s not. He wouldn’t do the same thing again. But after Valentine’s Day, I can’t wait to see what he’ll do for my birthday.
A horn beep means Sam is in my driveway, so I grab my stuff and run outside. A monstrous caramel latte and a cranberry-walnut muffin are waiting for me in my seat.
“Happy birthday!” says Sam.
“Aw, thanks.”
Since I didn’t have time for breakfast, I begin unceremoniously stuffing my face before he leaves the driveway.
“So, I was watching Napoleon Dynamite last night—”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve seen that.”
Sam practically veers off the road. “Wait. What?!”
“I’ve never seen it?”
“How have you never seen Napoleon Dynamite? It’s only the funniest movie ever.” For the remainder of our drive, Sam lectures me about how culturally illiterate I am. He keeps going even after he parks, and we stand in an empty space while I feebly defend myself.
“I can’t believe I’ve never made you watch it before. You’re coming over this Saturday. Bring kettle corn.”
I see Amanda waiting for him by the back entrance. Her arms are crossed. She won’t approach Sam while I’m talking to him because Megan or someone might see her and think she’s talking to me.
“You better get over there or you’re going to be in trouble.”
Man, that girl keeps him on a short leash. I’m tempted to say something more, but I don’t want to bash his first real girlfriend.
He sneaks a glance at Amanda. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”
I find Luke in the hallway on my way to class.
“Hey.” I give him a hug.
“Hey. Happy birthday.”
“Thanks. So, are we doing something after school today? Any special plans?”
“It’s a school night.”
“Oh.”
My disappointment must be obvious because Luke quickly says, “Yeah, I guess we can do something. Want to meet me at my car after school? We could go get some ice cream or something?”
I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Ice cream or something sounds perfect. I have to be home in time for dinner with the family anyway.”
I spend most of school daydreaming about how this is the best birthday I’ve had in years, and before I know it, the last bell is ringing and I’m winding through the halls to the back parking lot. Luke sits in his car with the windows rolled down. I wave, but he doesn’t see me. I wave again. It’s like he’s in a trance or something. I reach my arms through the window and wrap them around his neck, giggling.
“You okay? You look kind of out of it.”
He jumps. “Hey, I didn’t see you.”
He pulls my face toward his and kisses me until the parking lot disappears beneath my feet. His fingers brush through my hair, tracing patterns across my scalp. I come up for air, a light sigh escaping my lips, and through my half-shut eyes I see what Luke was looking at before I interrupted him.
Megan.
Perched on the back of her car and reapplying her lip gloss while she waits for Britney or Amberly or whoever, the afternoon sun glittering against her hair and the hood of the car. She’s the only possible person you’d see if you were sitting in Luke’s driver’s seat and looking in that direction. I’m tempted to ask him about it directly, but I don’t have the guts. He pulls out of the parking lot, slouching low in his seat with one lazy arm resting on the steering wheel, and I watch him to see if he’ll look at her again, but he doesn’t.
“So, have you talked to Megan recently?” I ask.
I scrutinize his face. Is he nervous or just surprised?
“No. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Hey, I need to get gas before we go get ice cream.” Luke pulls into Pete’s, the combination gas station/convenience store/live bait shop, but doesn’t get out of the car. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing, though, would it? Us talking again? It would be good to smooth things over. For all of us, I mean—for you guys too.” He sure is sweating a lot for someone who isn’t talking to his ex-girlfriend.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”
Something about this whole situation doesn’t feel right. So when he goes inside to pay for the gas, I do something I never thought I’d do. I see his cell phone, sitting in the console whispering my name. And I pick it up.
There’s a text from Megan in his messages. That bastard! I can’t open it because it’s new and he’d know I did it, but the fact that it’s there at all proves . . . something. When I replace the phone, taking care to make sure it’s positioned exactly as it was before, I get a queasy sensation in my stomach. I’m one of those girls now. We have that kind of relationship.
But there was a text. From Megan. So obviously I was right to look. I shake my head. I can’t even convince myself with that kind of logic. I know it wasn’t right. But I also know this won’t be the last time I check Luke’s phone.
We get ice cream and everything is fine (well, as fine as it can be considering that text is all I can think about). Then he drops me off at my house and kisses me on my front porch and I try to find some sort of answer in the kissing, but it feels like . . . a kiss. A good kiss. A fun kiss. But it doesn’t reveal the mysteries of the ages and it doesn’t tell me why my best friend is texting my boyfriend or if he still has feelings for her.
I close the front door behind me and am immediately tackled by Libby.
“Open it! Open it!” she squeals.
She waves a letter over her head—it’s from Georgia Tech. Holy crap, it’s from Georgia Tech! I run my fingers along the seal but they’re shaking and I’m clumsy and I practically rip the envelope in half trying to get at the letter inside. I gloss over the pleasantries and scan for the important part. “We are pleased to inform you . . .” I’m in!
“Libs! I’m in! I’m in!” I pick her up and twirl her around and then read over the letter again, savoring it this time.
This is more than just an acceptance letter. This is a ticket to a different life and a validation that everything I worked for was worth it and the beginning of a fulfillment of a pact I made two years ago. Something like longing clenches like a fist around my insides.
I wish I could call Megan and tell her.
“Claire,” Mama calls from behind a rack of dresses. “What do you think of this one?”
The dress she’s holding is fugly (periwinkle, huge crinoline skirt), but I’m so happy to have my mom take me prom-dress shopping I smile anyway.
“It’s not really my style. I like dresses that are more straight and fitted.”
She nods seriously and dives back into the racks. I keep going with the rack I’m working on, and a few minutes later she pops back out.
“What about this one?” “Oh.”
The dress is every shade of blue—it fades from a sky color at the top to a deep indigo at the hemline. The skirt is layers of sheer fabric that fall just above the knee, and the bodice is fitted through the waist with a slight flare at the hips. Wow. My mom can take direction.
“Definitely ‘oh’ good.”
We add it to the pile of other potentials that is quickly taking over one of the dressing rooms. I rush to try on the other dresses first, saving it for last. The dress swooshes over my head. I zip it up and turn to look at myself in the mirror. It’s perfect. It shows off my legs and how tiny my waist is, but it has this ruching across the chest that makes my boobs look huge (for me). I have never felt so beautiful in a dress before. It’s like it was made just for me. I run outside to look in the three-panel mirror, and Mama agrees.
We’re waiting to buy the magical dress when I realize the blond girl in front of me sliding a credit card across the counter is Megan. And she realizes it’s me at exactly the same time, so neither of us can pretend to look away.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies. “So, you’re here with your mom?”
I glance over my shoulder, but Mama is busy texting.
“Yeah.”
“That’s great.” Megan smiles a sad smile at me.
I’m sad too, because I can remember a time when we would have been happy over it together.
“Is your mom here too?”
“No, I’m here with Amberly.” She gestures to the doorway, where Amberly waves to me. “Listen, I have to go because B and Amanda are waiting for us at the food court.”
With one last wistful look over their shoulders, they’re gone. I see them again when Mama and I walk past the food court on the way to our car. They’re with Britney and Amanda at a table, laughing, surrounded by colorful shopping bags. They’re all eating salads (prom crash diet, I’m sure), and I’m not there to lecture them on the importance of protein in any weight-loss plan. Amberly says something, and Megan laughs so hard she grabs B’s wrist with one hand and slaps the table with the other.
I stare at the four of them, Amanda sitting in the chair where I should be sitting. Where I could be sitting if I had never started dating Luke. And I start to wonder if he’s worth it.
Kiss #15 xoxo
Megan deserves to win prom queen. I totally voted for her even after everything that’s happened. I have to pretend prom queen is the most important thing in the world. If I lose my focus for even a second, I might remember the other prom. I might remember that prom is when little brothers die.
Seth, the senior-class president, makes a big show of announcing the winners, waving his white envelope like it’s the Academy Awards or something. He’ll announce king first. I hope it isn’t Buck. I still don’t get why the 90 percent of our class who spent four years under his reign of torment would vote for him, but they will. People still voted Megan for homecoming court back in ninth and tenth grade before the debitch-ification process. That’s how I know Buck will win too.
Seth finally rips open the envelope. “And your new prom king is . . .” He reads the card inside. “Glennnnn Baker.”
OMG. Glenn! The whole crowd screams for Glenn. I whistle. Buck tries to play it cool, but he is so pissed. Ha!
Seth hushes the room. “And your new prom queen is . . . the fabulously beautiful . . . the effervescent . . .”
“Just say it already!” someone yells from the back of the room.
“Megan McQueen!”
Megan’s cheers are, if possible, louder than Glenn’s. I clap and yell along with everyone else, but I can’t help frowning when she exchanges hugs with Amberly and Britney and even Amanda Bell, who holds on for a few seconds too long. I know I should hate her, but I kind of wish I were there to celebrate with her. Her winning prom queen means she completed her part of Pact #5. And I guess I did too. It just wasn’t as fun as I expected.
Megan makes her way to the stage, her slinky floor-length red gown swishing with every step.
“I’m so glad Glenn won,” I say to Luke as Seth gingerly places a sparkly rhinestone crown atop Megan’s elaborate hairstyle. “It’s unbelievable. Everyone at school finally wised up and didn’t vote for the guy who made their lives hell. And Glenn deserves it so much.”
Luke watches Megan and Glenn take their places in the center of the dance floor so they can share the requisite first dance. It’s hard to tell whether he’s looking at both of them or just her.
“So, you haven’t said anything about my dress. What do you think?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, it’s really pretty.” He takes another swig of his rum-spiked Coke—his third, I think—and turns back to the dance floor. “Have you seen Megan’s? That slit up the side is so hot.” His eyes devour her as she twirls under the spotlight, like he’s planning to draw her from memory later. “And her hair looks so cool. How come you didn’t do anything special with yours?”
“I’m not an updo kind of girl.” My hands smooth my straight hair protectively. “Plus, do you know how much those things cost? I’d rather straighten it myself.” I don’t say, Plus, thanks to you I’m no longer friends with Amberly, who would have done amazing things with my hair for free, but I’m tempted.
He grunts in reply. Since he doesn’t bother to look away from Megan, I figure he also won’t notice if I leave him standing by himself, so I stalk off toward the ladies’ room. Prom is being held in a ballroom at the Fabulous Fox Theatre, so it’s one of those super-fancy bathrooms with overstuffed couches and real artwork. I scowl at my boring hair in the gilded mirror. Luke’s at prom—with me. That means I won. So why don’t I feel like a winner?
There’s one thing I think could make me feel better, but I don’t know if she’ll talk to me. I know Megan’s done some unforgivable things over the past few months. And I know finding out about Luke and me at a party in front of everyone must have been awful and humiliating. But I really miss my best friend. And it couldn’t hurt to try.
When I come back to the ballroom, the first dance has obviously ended, because everyone else is dancing now. Including Luke. With Megan. I bump past dancing couples and trip over dress trains until I’m close enough to jerk Luke away by his elbow.
“Can we talk? Now.”
Megan’s eyes get big. “Claire, I didn’t—he just—” I leave her there stuttering and yank Luke out of the ballroom, past the faculty members standing guard over the lobby, to a couch tucked into an alcove by the bathrooms.
Luke holds his hands in front of him, the universal gesture for I have nothing to hide. “I didn’t do anything. She came up to me out of nowhere and asked me if we could talk about why we broke up. She wanted closure.”
“Since when does closure involve freak dancing?” “Oh, c’mon. It wasn’t like that. Anyway, the only reason I danced with her is ’cause I couldn’t find you. Why’d you walk off like that?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m surprised you noticed. You were so busy going on and on about Megan.”
“I just said I liked someone’s dress. You can’t expect to have the best dress at prom or for other girls to never be prettier than you. Try not to be so insecure.”
“Maybe if you’d stop comparing me to her, I wouldn’t be.”
“I’m not comparing you guys. I’m just stating facts.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, your facts hurt.”
He sighs like I am the most exhausting, annoying person in the entire world. Then he takes a drink directly from the flask in his pocket, because apparently I’m so annoying he can’t stand to be around me without having some alcohol to take the edge off.
“Whatever, Claire. Prom is supposed to be fun, but if you want to ruin it by picking a fight with me . . .”
Me ruin prom? “You’re the one—”
I stop because I hear noises coming our way. Luke shoves his flask in his pocket fast, but relaxes when a couple of junior girls breeze past our couch, giggling their way toward the bathroom. He pulls it back out and takes a sip. I’ve never seen him have more than a couple beers, but he’s a mean drunk. At least, I sure hope this is the alcohol.
“Look,” he says. “I’m sorry I said that stuff about Megan. Can we just go back in and have fun now?”
I really wish it were that easy. “It’s more than that. I think there’s something going on between you two.”
Luke’s apologetic face disappears. “Are you seriously doing this right now?” He gets up and stomps across the alcove. “I broke up with her to be with you. How can you even say that?
I follow after him and lower my voice. “You were dancing with her, and I know you guys have been talking again.”
“No, we haven’t. I don’t know who’s telling you this stuff, but they’re lying.”
I’d like to believe him, but I saw something like fear flash in his eyes before he answered. He’s the one lying.
“I saw a text from her in your phone.”
“What.”
“I looked through your phone one time when you were getting gas, and there was a text from Megan. I didn’t read it, but—”
“What the fuck, Claire!” He moves toward me, his hands at his side like veiny claws, his face red with anger and rum. “I can’t believe you went through my phone. It’s the kind of thing Megan was always doing. First her. Now you. I’m so tired of dealing with this bullshit!”
And then it happens so fast. His left hand balls up and lashes out toward the wall, almost as if it’s acting of its own accord. His fist passes so close to my cheek the flyaway hairs around my face spiral with the motion of the air. An angry thud echoes behind my ear. Did he really just punch the wall? But now he’s shaking his hand in pain, and sure enough, there’s a fist-sized crater imprinted in the antique velvet wallpaper.
I back away from him like he’s a wild animal.
“Claire, wait.” He looks just as shocked as me.
I shake my head and run back to the ballroom, where other people are having fun at their senior prom. I flop into the first chair I find. My heart pounds against my chest, and I’m breathing like I just ran suicide sprints.
“Claire, are you okay?”
Megan hovers over me, looking ridiculously beautiful, even for her. She sparkles from head to toe, the top of her crown to the heels of her stilettos. Of course he wants her back.
“I’m fine,” I say with my jaw clenched tight.
“I’m sorry about what happened before. With Luke.”
“I bet you are.”
“No, I am. I didn’t mean for it to look that way. He came up and said he wanted closure and could we—”
“I already talked to Luke. I know you’re the one that wanted the closure.” I make air quotes when I say the word closure.
Megan’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arch towards her crown. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, I’m not about to trust someone who has done everything she can to make my life miserable for the past three months.”
“I know it was wrong of me to keep you closed out for so long. I’m sorry I did it.”
“It was a lot more than that. The things you guys did . . . you tortured me.”
Megan frowns. “What—?”
“No. You know what, I’m going to stop you right there. Some things are too big for sorry.”
She opens her mouth one more time but then shakes her head and walks away.
Luke doesn’t show his face for at least half an hour, and by then I’ve calmed down. He shuffles up to me with his head hung low.
“I’m really sorry. I was a jerk.”
“Yeah. You were.”
“But you know I’d never hurt you, right?” His blue eyes are wide and innocent, but I don’t trust them anymore.
“Yeah, I guess.”
A slow song plays over the speaker system.
“Do you maybe want to dance with me?”
I don’t. But I also don’t want to awkwardly dump my boyfriend in front of everyone at prom, so I’ll do what I can until it’s over. “Sure.”
I take his hand reluctantly and follow him to the dance floor. In spite of what happened, my body molds itself to his, feet between feet, hips against hips, my head tucked under his chin. I used to love how perfectly shaped we are for each other. To anyone watching, we must seem like this happy, totally-in-love couple sharing a romantic moment. But all I can think of is his fist swooshing past my cheek.
At the end of the song, he tilts my head up and presses his lips against mine. And like the traitors they are, my lips part until we’re full on making out and my skin tingles with warmth and I’m hungry for more. Damn it. I know lots of people are into that whole passionate fight–passionate make-up thing, but I’m not one of them. The highs aren’t worth the lows. Now if only I can convince my body.
Luke is overly attentive and gentle as a kitten for the rest of the night. He strokes the back of my neck while we take a packed limo to Buck’s house for the after-party. He whispers in my ear how beautiful I am. It only makes what I have to do next that much harder. After the other couples exit the limo, I grab the sleeve of Luke’s tux.
“Wait.”
He slides back into the seat next to me. “What is it?”
Rip it off. Fast. Like a Band-Aid. Picture the wall crater. Let it be your strength.
“We need to break up.”
“What?”
“You make me jealous and insecure. I make you punch walls. We’re obviously not right for each other.”
“Can’t we talk about this?”
I scoot across the seat toward the door. “There’s nothing to talk about. We’ll just fight again.”
I close the door to the limo and walk sadly into the party. Now I have no friends and no boyfriend. What I do have is a house full of people under various degrees of intoxication harboring various degrees of hatred toward me. It’s time to start doing shots.
In the kitchen I find a shot taker’s paradise—bottles in all shapes and colors supplied by Buck’s older brother, who makes regular appearances at high school parties even though he graduated three years ago. Jimmy stands at the counter mixing drinks for a couple of sophomore girls who have apparently not been alerted to his legendary creeper status.
“Hey, Claire.” His eyes light up. “What can I get you?”
I decide getting a drink is worth making a deal with the Grim Creeper. “Shots.”
“Oh-ho-kay.”
Jimmy whips up a line of shots, something with vodka and juices, and the four of us (me, Jimmy, the two sophomores) take them and slam the empty glasses on the counter. He immediately makes another batch, and when Sophomore #1 wimps out, I pound hers too. A hand squeezes my shoulder, and I turn.
“CJ, are you okay?” Sam asks, his brown eyes full of concern.
“I’m fine. I’m just having some fun.”
He shifts from foot to foot like he wants to say something else, but before he can, Amanda drags him away for yet another photo op. I hop up on the counter, not caring that my dress gets wet in the process, and prattle away with the sophomores like we’re BFFs. They don’t seem to know they’re supposed to hate me—that I’m a boyfriend stealer and a slut. Or maybe they’re so excited to hang out with seniors they’re not picky. Jimmy slips us a steady supply of fruity drinks while we talk, each one tasting stronger than the last.
“Be right back—I totally have to pee,” I tell the sophomores. I jump down to the linoleum, barely sticking the landing. “And I totally have to take off these shoes.”
I leave my heels in the kitchen and zigzag to the bathroom, which—miracle of miracles—is empty. When I open the door again, Jimmy stands in the hallway, waiting.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m totally fine. Totally.”
I take a step forward, wobble, and decide it would be easier to lean against the wall instead. Jimmy is suddenly close, really close, his breath hot on my cheek. The elk head mounted on the wall above me watches with glassy eyes.
“You sure are pretty,” he whispers into my ear.
He kisses me, but I’m too drunk to care. I barely even feel it. My lips have gone numb. I press at them with my fingertips and giggle. There’s a tug at my wrist, an arm around my waist, Jimmy dragging me up the stairs toward the door of a bedroom.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My eyelids flutter. Megan has stepped in front of Jimmy, blocking the doorway.
“Oh, uh, sorry. We can go somewhere else.”
“You’re not going anywhere with her.”
“She wants to come with me.” A whine creeps into Jimmy’s voice as he backs away from her, pulling me with him.
“No. She doesn’t.” Megan’s fingers pry his arm from my body. When I start to keel over like a doll that can’t stand on its own, she quickly slides her own arm in place of his. I fall against her birdlike shoulder, and she staggers under my weight, taking tiny shuffling steps to lead me away.
Jimmy’s face turns red between his goatee patches. “What am I supposed to do now?” He kicks the door. “Bitch.”
“I don’t care. But it won’t be with her.” Megan fixes him with her frostiest smile. “So you can go find someone else to molest, Creep Show.”
Jimmy opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but instead he stomps off down the hall. Megan and I half walk, half fall down the stairs, and by some magic she manages to get us to the first-floor bathroom in one piece. She leaves me on the floor, where I slump against the bathtub, which is nice and cool against my cheek. When the door opens again, she’s holding a glass of water.
“Drink the whole thing.” She shoves it into my hands, and I tilt it back. Some of it sloshes down the front of my dress. Megan sits behind me on the side of the tub and combs my hair away from my face with her fingers.
“What are you doing?”
“In case you throw up,” she says.
“Thanks.” Then I remember every awful prank and cold silence for the past four months. “But . . . I mean . . . why did you pull me away from Jimmy?”
“Um, because he’s the creepiest guy in the universe.” She wraps an elastic around my hair.
“No, I mean, why are you helping me? I stole your boyfriend, and I just bitched you out at prom. You’re supposed to hate me.”
Megan kneels in front of me and holds my hands.
“Because, Pact number two, I couldn’t let you make out with him. And, Pact number one, I don’t hate you.”