Crash Test Love Read online

  DUKE

  (looking behind him)

  Can we talk about it later? Like, when we’re far, far away from here?

  NIGEL

  It’s a sixty-nine, Henry. A sixty-nine. With booze.

  I stand up immediately. A sixty-nine with booze is Crasher Code for getting caught stealing alcohol. (We call every emergency a sixty-nine with [fill in the blank] because, you know, it’s funny.) Normally, I’d have no problem getting the hell out of here with D & N, but I think of Garrett and realize I don’t want to leave. I consider tossing the keys to Duke and letting him drive my car home.

  DUKE

  Dude, what is your problem? Let’s go!

  If I tell them I want to stay, I’ll have to explain that it’s because of Garrett. And if I want to stay because of Garrett, they’ll assume it’s because I want to Get Freaky with her, and one of the cardinal rules of the Crasher Code is No hos before bros. I could attempt to explain that I have never felt such an immediate connection with anyone in my entire life, but that would make me sound like a total loser and it would be against both the Crasher Code (punishable by death or, at least, social genocide) and my own personal code: No Girlfriends. Ever.

  Suddenly, Garrett is back, holding out a glass of water for me. She acknowledges Duke and Nigel with curiosity.

  GARRETT

  Is everything all right?

  I debate whether to ask for her phone number. How can I pull that off with Duke and Nigel standing right here? I suddenly wish they would just go away. Vanish. Garrett looks genuinely concerned; I am not sure how that makes me feel.

  DUKE

  Well, hello there, my dear. My name is Charlie von Huseldorf and I come from money. Oil money. What’s your name?

  GARRETT

  What?

  Then we hear a voice. “That’s them, over there!” We turn and see the bartender coming toward us with two security guards. Big security guards. They do not look happy.

  NIGEL

  (grabbing my arm)

  Now!

  ME

  (to Garrett)

  I’m sorry. I’ve gotta go.

  GARRETT

  But—

  DUKE

  Later, sexy!

  We run out of the hotel lobby and into the parking lot. I don’t hear anyone following us, but I also don’t turn around to look. I spot my car and click it open. We pile inside.

  NIGEL

  Man! That was close.

  DUKE

  Nice going, douche monster. It was all your fault anyway.

  NIGEL

  It definitely was not my fault. It was yours!

  DUKE

  Maybe it was your mom’s fault.

  NIGEL

  Shut up.

  I start the engine. Duke selects a synthy electropop album we all love, Owl City’s Maybe I’m Dreaming, and rolls down the windows until the air-conditioning kicks in.

  We drive for a few minutes until our breathing is steady. Then the inevitable questioning begins.

  NIGEL

  So … who was the chick? She was hot.

  DUKE

  Really hot. I’d bang her.

  NIGEL

  You’re not exactly picky.

  DUKE

  Well, I wouldn’t bang your mom.

  NIGEL

  Ouch.

  DUKE

  That’s what she said. Last night. When I banged her.

  NIGEL

  Lame, dude. Lame.

  DUKE

  (to me)

  What did you tell her your name was?

  ME

  I forget.

  DUKE

  Shut up. You’re not gonna tell us?

  ME

  It’s not important.

  NIGEL

  It’s totally important! What’s with you?

  ME

  I dunno. I just feel weird.

  DUKE

  At least answer us this: did you guys fool around?

  I should just say no. I mean, nothing happened. But I feel so strange about the whole thing that I remain silent.

  DUKE

  I knew it! Dude. We want details, my man. Details.

  NIGEL

  All in good time, Duke. (He leans forward to pat my shoulder. Nigel knows when not to press an issue—a skill Duke most definitely lacks.) Henry will tell us when he’s ready. Right, Enrico?

  I ignore the question. I cannot stop thinking about Garrett. There has only been one person in my entire life who, even though she’s gone, I think about constantly: my mother. I haven’t seen her in five years. As I get lost in the music and the speed of my car on the highway, I wonder if Garrett will be the second woman who will leave me and never look back.

  GARRETT

  If I weren’t so self-conscious, I could probably get ready very quickly in the morning.

  But the truth is that I’m an emotional mess. It takes me practically an entire hour just to figure out what I’m going to wear, let alone do my makeup, fix my hair, and stare at myself in the mirror (and suck in my stomach and my cheeks and make sure my butt looks good). Getting ready in the morning is never easy, but it’s especially tough when you’re starting a brand-new high school senior year on Long Island, where the girls are notorious bitches and the guys all look like Abercrombie models.

  Neurotic is not the image I project, of course. If you were to meet me on the street, I would go out of my way to be casual and cool, to make you think I’m one of those girls who doesn’t care about how she looks and wants people to judge her on her personality. Whatever that means.

  So now you know one of my (many) secrets: I am insecure. Welcome to my life.

  “No time for pictures!” I yell, tramping down the stairs, grabbing my bag, and heading straight for my car.

  “Now, listen to me, young lady,” my father says, standing at the breakfast island (yes, our new kitchen has a breakfast island) and frowning. “I’ve taken a picture of you on your first day of school for the past … however many years, and I’m certainly not going to miss this one.” Dad holds up his digital camera. “It’ll only take five minutes.”

  I know from experience it will be less painful to let him take the picture than to argue. “Fine,” I say. “But just one.”

  Dad leads me outside. At our old town house in Chicago, the house I’d lived in for my entire life in the city that I love, there was a spot right by the front door where we took First Day of School photos. Here, though, in this completely new place, this entirely foreign world, the possibilities are endless.

  “Where would you like to stand, darling?”

  I look around, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of grass and trees. Suburbia. “I don’t care. Just take it, please. I’m gonna be late.”

  “Here, in front of the hydrangea? No, no. Maybe there, by the car? We don’t want the neighbors’ house in the picture, though. That orange color is just wacky.”

  When my father was hired to head up the film department at Columbia, I was happy for him. Really. But I never thought he’d have the balls to leave his job at U Chicago. It was the biggest surprise of my life to learn that we were actually moving, that I was going to a new school—a public school—for senior year. That was less than two months ago. I’m still in shock.

  “Yoo-hoo!” comes a voice from the side of the house. “I didn’t miss the photo shoot, did I?”

  My mother prances into view, a watering can in one hand and a sprinkled donut in the other. She’s wearing a pair of overalls with patches everywhere that say things like Peace and Harmony. “Garrett, you look beautiful! What a great way to begin the best year of your life!”

  My mother is a natural optimist, a trait I find both annoying and (recently) admirable. She knows I’m pissed I have to spend senior year with no friends, and she’s gone a little overboard trying to reassure me that everything will work out “Just Fine” (Mary J. Blige, 2007). I already know it won’t, though, so the whole charade is pointless.

  I roll my eyes.
“Are we done yet?”

  “Garrett, put your right hand on your right hip,” Mom instructs, “and the other on your left leg.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, come on! That’s what all the models do.”

  “No, Mom, it’s not.”

  “Yes it is.” She places the watering can on the ground and finishes the donut in one bite. Then she poses. “Do it like me.”

  “You are insane,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Dad, please just take the picture.”

  “Okay, okay,” he says, steadying the camera. I smile. “There we go. Gorgeous.”

  “I seriously doubt that.” I get into my car (the only good thing that has come from moving to Long Island so far) and close the door. My mother calls my name. “Yes?” I say through the window.

  “Good luck, honey,” she says, kissing the glass. “We love you.”

  I don’t respond. By the time I leave our neighborhood, I have exactly twenty minutes to get to school.

  East Shore is bigger than Mercer, my last high school. The outside is covered with bricks, the inside in beige paint. There are tons of windows and hallways that seem never-ending.

  I arrive about half an hour early. I’m nervous. The dean introduces himself and prints out a copy of my schedule. A freckled girl who looks like she could’ve been in one of the Gremlins movies is instructed to show me around. We’re barely outside the dean’s office when she tells me she was named after Marilyn Monroe. “People say I remind them of her all the time,” Marilyn says, motioning for me to follow. “Minus my limp. We have very similar demeanors.”

  We stroll toward what I assume is the senior hallway. “Where are you from again?” she asks.

  “Chicago.”

  She nods. “The Windy City.” We pass a few rooms and Marilyn points out which ones my classes are in. “Most of the sciences are upstairs, since that’s where all the labs are. The cafeteria is down this way, to the right, and so is the gym. Back there’s the student parking lot. Come on, I’ll show you how to open your locker—it’s sort of tricky.”

  I wonder if Marilyn and I will be friends. I doubt it. Not because of her braces or her wet-dog hair, either. The truth? I’ve never had a problem landing a guy, but girls tend to be catty and mean, and I’ve always had trouble making girlfriends. It took nearly two years for Amy Goldstein (who I now consider my BFF) to realize I wasn’t trying to get close to her so that I could steal her boyfriend, Trevor (who was gross, by the way); I just wanted to be her friend. There’s no doubt in my mind that the girls at East Shore High School will be exactly the same as the previous girls in my life. Maybe worse.

  “It must be awful to move senior year,” Marilyn says. “If my parents ever did that to me, I would kill them. Lizzie Borden style.” She frowns. “No offense.”

  “It’s okay.” I don’t exactly blame her—moving does suck. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”

  “That’s smart,” she says. “And East Shore’s as decent a school as any, I guess. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Boyfriend. The word zings me. I must make some kind of face, because Marilyn stops in the middle of the hall and blushes. “That was really forward of me. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her.

  I did have a boyfriend.

  Ben Harrison. My significant other of the past year (and three months) who told me two days before I left for New York that we should “take a break” because it would be “really hard to keep in touch … you know, especially with the time difference.”

  I’m pretty sure Ben and I won’t be getting back together, seeing as how we haven’t spoken since I got to Long Island. I count in my head how many text messages I have sent (12) and how many I have received (1).

  “No,” I respond. “I don’t.”

  Here’s the thing: I have this problem with men. Well, boys. I get attached. Really attached. I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count; each time, I swear off dating until someone new and amazing sweeps me off my feet and makes me forget all the hard parts of falling in love. I am a relationship phoenix: I crash and burn and then I rise and start again. Ben was by far my most serious boyfriend, and I’m exhausted—from crying and trying to figure out what went wrong and how I can possibly fix it. I really thought we had something special, but the fact that he didn’t even want to try and stay together shows how little he felt in the end. Long distance sucks, but if you love someone, don’t you at least want to try?

  “Well, there are a few guys at East who’ll make your head spin,” Marilyn says. “Some of the seniors are dreamy.”

  The last thing I’m interested in is another boyfriend. However, an image of the guy I met at Erica’s Sweet Sixteen pops into my head. Henry. I wonder what he’s doing right now.

  “Since you’re new, though, just a piece of advice: you’ll want to steer clear of the J Squad.”

  By now, we’re at my locker; Marilyn shows me how to enter the combination and continues talking. “They’re these three senior girls. They call themselves the J Squad, which is retarded because only two of their names start with J, but whatever. Jyllian, Jessica, and London. They’re way snarkilicious, and everyone sort of worships them.” She bangs on the metal door and it opens with a squeak. “Here you go.”

  “The J Squad,” I say out loud, trying to picture them. I knew a lot of popular girls back in Chicago who took pleasure in torturing some of the less attractive girls. I was never cool enough to be one of them, but I was also never lame enough to be one of their victims. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a group of friends like that.

  “What do they look like?” I ask.

  “Oh, you’ll know them when you see them,” Marilyn says, “but don’t be pissed if they don’t like you right away. Or ever. I’ve heard some crazy stories about stuff they do to girls who try to be their friends. They’re pretty exclusive.”

  “Are you friends with them?” I ask.

  Marilyn snorts. “Definitely not. First, I’m only a sophomore, and second, I don’t need to spend time with a bunch of girls who … well, you’ll see. They can pretty much make or break you, Garrett.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I’ll be fine no matter what. Besides, they sound kind of silly.” Then I ask: “So, what period do you have lunch?”

  Marilyn tilts her head. “Look, you seem really nice, and I don’t know what your last school was like, but at East Shore upperclassmen don’t really talk to underclassmen.”

  “Says who?” I ask.

  Marilyn rolls her eyes as if to say the J Squad. “Hanging out with me would be social suicide. Trust me.” She glances at her watch. “I’m late meeting someone. Good luck.”

  She scurries away, and I’m left completely alone. I try to remember how to get to my first class, but I can’t seem to concentrate. No matter how ridiculous the J Squad sounds, all I can think about is becoming one of them.

  BRITNEY SPEARS LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD DURING THE FIRST DAY AT A NEW SCHOOL

  “All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus …”—Circus

  “Sometimes I run, sometimes I hide.”

  —Sometimes

  “Hit me baby one more time.”

  —… Baby One More Time

  School sucks and is mad boring. I try making friends, only no one seems interested in getting to know me. This is both ridiculous and unfair because I’m decent-looking, smart, and not a social d-bag. But for whatever reason, the facts that I’m:

  Not from New York

  A senior

  totally work against me. Perhaps the “new student” intrigue factor might’ve worked when I was a sophomore or even a junior, but these kids seem resigned to their same old (boring) friends and their same old (boring) lives. There is, apparently, no room for change.

  I don’t particularly care that my lab partner in physics wants nothing to do with me (“I’m applying early to Cornell. I need to focus”) or that when we have to pair off in phy
s ed, I’m the odd person out and have to do crunches without anyone holding my ankles. (At least, I tell myself, I don’t have cankles.) And it’s not that anyone is making fun of me or being outright rude; it’s simply that an invisible line exists between belonging and not belonging, a line that seems impossible for me to cross.

  I eat lunch alone. Well, not completely alone. I choose a table occupied by two girls and a cluster of empty chairs. The other tables overflow with friends who’ve known each other for years; the cafeteria, it feels like, is made up of laughter and music coming from the headphones of people’s iPods.

  “Hi,” I say, taking out my lunch (which I brought from home) and placing it in front of me. “I’m Garrett. Is it okay if I sit here?”

  They nod.

  “So … what are your names?”

  The girls smile at me. Tell me their names. When I ask how long they’ve been going to East Shore, they respond with “Since forever,” and in the moment it takes me to remove a turkey sandwich from my brown paper bag, they shift their arms and talk quietly in what I think is Korean, holding a conversation in which I am not invited to participate. It would, I think, be easier if they’d just tell me to go away. The silence is what stings.

  After lunch, I wish I could just “Relax, Take It Easy” (Mika, 2007). My binders and books from the morning get replaced with fresh ones for the afternoon. This is when I see them.

  The J Squad.

  Marilyn was right. It’s clear who they are from the way they’re dressed (which is not so differently from anyone else at East Shore but seems entirely unique) and the way they walk: with purpose. They’re also gorgeous. Two of them have long blond hair with waves and curls and body and bounce, hair that moves as if it’s alive. The third has a cropped black haircut that stays perfectly in place as if by magic (or some seriously intense hair spray). They have tight jeans and tight shirts and expensive-looking shoes that click methodically against the tiled floor in the senior hallway. Their boobs are semi-to-decently big, their skin is lightly baked from the summer, and as far as I can tell, they aren’t wearing any makeup. Their bodies seem to be in perfect proportion. They look like every trio of popular girls from every teen movie that has ever existed.