Crash Test Love Read online

  Also by Ted Michael

  The Diamonds

  For my parents

  &

  for anyone who has loved,

  lost,

  and lived to write about it

  Contents

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part 1 - The Beginning

  Chapter 1 - Henry

  Chapter 2 - Garrett

  Chapter 3 - Henry

  Chapter 4 - Garrett

  Chapter 5 - Henry

  Chapter 6 - Garrett

  Chapter 7 - Henry

  Chapter 8 - Garrett

  Part 2 - The Middle

  Chapter 9 - Henry

  Chapter 10 - Garrett

  Chapter 11 - Henry

  Chapter 12 - Garrett

  Chapter 13 - Henry

  Chapter 14 - Garrett

  Chapter 15 - Henry

  Chapter 16 - Garrett

  Chapter 17 - Henry

  Chapter 18 - Garrett

  Chapter 19 - Henry

  Chapter 20 - Garrett

  Part 3 - The End

  Chapter 21 - Henry

  Chapter 22 - Garrett

  Chapter 23 - Henry

  Chapter 24 - Garrett

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  THE BEGINNING

  Hearts will be practical only when they are made unbreakable.

  —from The Wizard of Oz (1939)

  HENRY

  I am not the girlfriend type of guy.

  I want to get it out there and be completely honest.

  I am not the girlfriend type of guy.

  I won’t: hold your hand, buy you flowers, have dinner with your parents.

  I will: kiss you until your legs collapse and you beg me to lift you up and start all over again.

  I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, ladies, but you should know exactly what you’re getting into.

  It’s only fair.

  INT.—BACKSEAT OF MY CAR, SATURDAY NIGHT, LABOR DAY WEEKEND

  I am bored.

  HER

  And I was like, really, you like my hair like this? On top of my head?

  ME

  (blank stare)

  HER

  Because I think it looks better in braids. I know that sounds so third grade, but it’s true!

  ME

  (blank stare)

  HER

  Don’t you agree, Reinaldo?

  ME

  (even blanker stare)

  HER

  Reinaldo? Hel-lo?

  I forget she is talking to me because my name is not Reinaldo. It’s what I told her my name is, though, so it makes sense she’s calling me that. I try to remember her name—Marissa? Marisol? Something with an M?—but I can’t. I suddenly wish I hadn’t suggested we leave the party to be alone in my car. It’s much easier to tune someone out in a large group. But here we are, in the back of my Jeep. I think about how many girls I’ve been with in this very same position. Our legs are touching, and even though it’s the time I would normally make my move, I have a gnawing feeling this is not going to happen. Whoever this girl is sitting next to me, she seems incredibly … young. But it’s still worth a shot.

  HER

  Did you hear a single thing I just said?

  ME

  Maybe you should take your dress off—it’s really hot in here.

  HER

  (giving me a look I don’t even have to describe) You are a pig, Reinaldo! A pig!

  She slams my car door behind her as she leaves. I am slightly upset. Not because I liked her (she was boring) or because she thinks I’m a pig (I am) or even because it’s pretty clear I’m not getting any tonight; I am upset because I can usually pick them pretty well. Girls, that is. I can see a girl and know within seconds what her deal is. What she likes and what she hates and whether she moans when she’s being kissed. It’s a talent I have. Some people are good with numbers. I am good with women.

  Just not this one. The Hello Kitty hair clip should’ve tipped me off.

  I get out of my car. It’s dark, but not too dark. Even though I’m standing in the parking lot I can hear the noise coming from inside the hotel. Music. Dance music. You should know that I love to dance. Love to dance. Not professionally or anything, but in a club where it’s loud and crazy. That’s one of the reasons I dig parties. I like to have a good time. And there’s nothing wrong with that—despite what anybody says.

  This particular party is a Sweet Sixteen for a girl who goes to my high school. Usually when I crash Sweet Sixteens, I like to go where no one knows me and I can pretend to be someone else entirely. I get a rush from sneaking into a party I wasn’t invited to and dancing. Well, not just dancing. Finding a cute girl to hook up with and hopefully making a little mischief in the process. Escaping the monotony of life for a few hours. Duke and Nigel (my co-crashers) have never understood this about me, and they probably never will. They just think crashing parties is fun. They don’t know firsthand the need to escape. To flee. To invent fake names and fake pasts and know that someone, some girl, actually believes it all. This makes me feel powerful. It also makes me kind of an asshole, but I don’t really care.

  This is probably why I love movies so much. The idea of transforming into an entirely different person on-screen than who you are in real life. You would think that’d make me a wannabe actor, but I’m not. I do want to study film in college, though, and write screenplays. Like Charlie Kaufman or Alan Ball or Joel and Ethan Coen. I want to make movies, to create something from nothing. Every day I imagine my interactions as part of one big script; I see things as if my whole existence is on film. I’ve been this way for a while now, and I can’t imagine changing anytime soon. I want to be a writer so I can hide behind a computer or even a pen and paper and make decisions by myself. Without anyone interfering. Without anyone saying no.

  Inside, it’s as spectacular as a Baz Luhrmann film, only with a crowd made up entirely of horny sixteen-year-olds. The guys here look so tiny, like miniature men. Did I ever look that small? Granted, I’m not even two years older—but somehow I skipped that awkward phase of pimples and wispy mustaches.

  I wasn’t officially invited to this extravaganza, but since most everyone here goes to East Shore, I am known. Duke and Nigel are too (slightly less than me, but still). Truth be told, it’s a pretty chill setup. The girls seem ready to party, the music is nice and hip-hoppy, and the food smells good. Not a bad way to close the summer. The fact that school is starting up again next week makes me wanna hurl, but I’m not going to think about that right now.

  I head over to a table covered with a bunch of snacks, shrimp, and napkins. And mini quiches. People love mini quiches. This is when my buddies approach me.

  DUKE is just over six feet tall with lots of brown hair. He’s built, plays football, and he’s pretty smart, despite talking like he’s a character in a Judd Apatow flick.

  NIGEL is shortish and always dressed up. He plays the cello like a pro, but Duke and I are the only ones who know he can play at all.

  The three of us have been inseparable since we were twelve. We started crashing Sweet Sixteens last year, when Duke turned seventeen and got a car. (Don’t judge—there’s not much else to do on Long Island.) I got my cousin’s hand-me-down Jeep about three months ago, on my seventeenth birthday, and now we alternate driving so we can (try to) drink.

  Nigel and Duke are more talk than anything, really. They’ve never had girlfriends, and they usually mess things up even when they do get the chance to score—not that it happens often. I, on the other hand, seem to attract more girls than any person should. They cling to me like barnacles. I kind of dated someone once (the closest thing I’ve had to a girlfri
end, anyway), but it was a long time ago and the relationship, if you can even call it that, ended badly. Since then, I like to fly solo.

  NIGEL

  Yo, Henry, how’d it go?

  DUKE

  Get any tail?

  Only Duke would use the word tail in reference to women.

  ME

  (eating a pig in a blanket)

  Not yet, gentlemen. But the night is young.

  DUKE

  You’re cool to drive, right?

  ME

  I’m cool. Why, what’s up?

  NIGEL

  (pointing to the bar a few feet away)

  Look how stocked they are!

  It’s true. They have all the fancy stuff. The bartender, though, seems like a total bitch. I doubt she’ll be lax about serving us. (Tonight, Nigel’s folks—our usual suppliers—locked their liquor cabinet, so we’re on our own.)

  A few girls pass by and giggle. I give a little wave. They run away.

  ME

  You can try, dude, but it’s never gonna happen.

  NIGEL

  I like a challenge.

  DUKE

  Your mom likes a challenge.

  NIGEL

  Shut up.

  DUKE

  Let’s make a bet, Henry: if we can get the bartender to serve us, then you give us each five bucks.

  ME

  No.

  NIGEL

  Oh, come on. It’s all in good fun.

  ME

  How about this: if you get her to serve you, you each give me five bucks for gas, seeing as how I picked your asses up and drove you here.

  NIGEL

  Ha. No.

  ME

  Okay, how about this: whether you get her to serve you or not, you’ll each still give me five bucks for gas.

  DUKE

  I don’t like that bet.

  ME

  It’s not a bet. I need the cash. This is my way of telling you.

  DUKE

  Fine. Just don’t drink, okay? You need to drive us home.

  ME

  Deal.

  NIGEL

  Back to the bartender. I recognize her. My brother used to date this girl named Leslie, who went to middle school with her. I think her name is Stacy. Or maybe Sapphire. If that’s not an in, what is?

  ME

  You’re right. She’ll totally serve you once you mention that.

  Not.

  Duke and Nigel slip away, and I am left standing alone at the hors d’oeuvres table. This is not, in my experience, such a bad place to be.

  “What’s with all the quiche?” asks a voice from behind me.

  I turn around and there is this girl. She looks around my age, but the closer I examine her, the more I realize she is not a girl. I mean, she is but she isn’t. She’s a woman. She has dark brown hair and perfect skin. She is beautiful.

  ME

  Do I know you?

  HER

  I don’t know, do you? (She picks up a mini quiche and takes a bite. She swallows but crushes the rest in a napkin, tossing it into the garbage.) Gross.

  ME

  I’ve never seen you before.

  HER

  That makes sense. I just moved here.

  I cannot take my eyes off her. The way she walks is not walking. It’s gliding. I can see every line and curve of her body. I want her immediately. But it’s more than sexual. It’s something I can’t describe.

  Across from us is a tiny alcove with a window overlooking the hotel grounds. She sits on the ledge.

  HER

  Care to join me?

  I am suddenly so glad that nothing happened with whatshername in my car, because then I would not be experiencing this right now. Whatever this is.

  We sit for what feels like a long time. Normally I have a routine:

  Compliment

  Flatter (which is similar to #1 but more over-the-top, and typically involves physical contact)

  Get It On

  It’s like this: girls like when you take charge and tell them what you want. And what they want. I am great at the art of seduction (whatshername being an exception). What I am not great at is the follow-through. I don’t hook up with the same girl more than once. It’s too complicated. Too much work. Too much responsibility.

  I stare at this gorgeous creature beside me and wonder what she looks like minus her dress and plus me on top of her. I begin to plan my attack.

  HER

  I guess you’re the silent type.

  ME

  Not usually. But you’ve got me speechless.

  HER

  (laughing)

  Oh. I see. Speechless, huh?

  ME

  Well. Kind of speechless.

  HER

  I bet you say that to all the girls.

  ME

  No. I don’t.

  HER

  Sure. So what’s your name, stranger?

  Something about her makes me want to say Henry Arlington. But that is completely against the Crasher Code (which Duke, Nigel, and I follow strictly). Rule #1: Never tell a girl your real name. And even though I have this sudden urge to be, well, honest, I know myself. Honesty is something I will probably regret.

  HER

  I didn’t realize that was such a hard question. (She reaches for her purse, as if she’s about to leave.)

  ME

  Henry.

  I don’t know why I say it, but I do.

  HER

  Good name. Classic. Nice to meet you, Henry.

  I’m Garrett.

  Unusual, but it suits her. Garrett. She looks right at me when she says it, too, which both unnerves and exhilarates me. I feel … naked. (I’m not, but I could be wearing absolutely nothing and I wouldn’t feel any more vulnerable than I do right now.)

  Garrett crosses her legs and her dress rides up just enough to show off how amazing those legs truly are. This is about the time I’d normally say that my car is parked close by and casually mention how comfortable the backseat is. Now, though, I can’t bring myself to do anything that will imply I’m less than a total gentleman.

  GARRETT

  So, how do you know Erica? Our dads went to grad school together.

  Erica. Erica. Who is Erica?

  GARRETT

  The birthday girl? (Dramatic pause.) Erica Warner? (She looks at me skeptically.) Are you supposed to be here?

  ME

  Hmm?

  GARRETT

  Were you invited?

  ME

  Depends on what you mean by invited.

  GARRETT

  I guess by invited I mean that, you know, one day you opened your mailbox and there was a really fancy invitation inside, addressed to you, inviting you to come and celebrate Erica’s Sweet Sixteen.

  ME

  Interesting.

  GARRETT

  So were you?

  ME

  Invited?

  GARRETT

  Yes.

  ME

  Absolutely not. You have great eyes. They’re so …

  GARRETT

  Blue?

  ME

  Yeah.

  GARRETT

  I get that a lot.

  ME

  I can see why.

  GARRETT

  Because they’re blue.

  ME

  Right.

  I wait to see if she’ll leave, but she doesn’t. She smiles.

  GARRETT

  I feel like I know you from somewhere. (She laughs, and the sound makes me happy. I am thankful she does not have an annoying, Taser-worthy laugh.) Gosh, that makes me sound crazy, doesn’t it?

  ME

  No. I don’t think so.

  I’ve never believed in energy or vibes or any of that bullshit, but just being near this girl puts me at ease. All of a sudden I cannot seem to stop myself from talking.

  ME

  Did you have a nice summer? What did you do? I work at this little movie theater in Huntington. Do you like movi
es? Where are you gonna go to school?

  GARRETT

  Whoa, there! Calm down. (She puts a hand on my knee. I know immediately this is not a sexual move, but one of concern. Still, when she touches me, something sparks between us.) Are you okay?

  ME

  Yeah, sure. I guess.

  I wipe my forehead. It’s dripping with sweat.

  GARRETT

  You don’t look so great, Henry. Let me get you some water.

  At the same time she gets up, Duke and Nigel practically crash into me. They’re both breathing hard and their eyes are everywhere.

  NIGEL

  We gotta go, dude.

  ME

  What?

  DUKE

  That bartender. Man. We gotta peace.

  ME

  What happened?