Crash Test Love Page 7

  ME

  Any good?

  He looks up from the book (Crime and Punishment), swallows, and nods.

  DAD

  Creepy.

  ME

  I read that in my English class last year. I really liked it.

  He goes back to eating. So many questions are left unasked: How was your day, Henry? How are Duke and Nigel? Are you putting together your college applications? Are you lonely? Sad? Happy? Do you miss your mother?

  Some people I know curse their parents for being too involved in their lives, for not giving them independence.

  It’s the opposite for me. I used to have two parents, and now, sometimes—most of the time—it feels like I have none. I decide not to wait for a question to be asked and to ask one myself. Something simple. Efficient.

  ME

  Interesting day?

  Dad looks surprised that I’m trying to make conversation. Not displeased. Just surprised.

  DAD

  I guess. You?

  ME

  Work was fine. There’s a new girl.

  DAD

  Pretty?

  ME

  Yeah.

  DAD

  The most dangerous kind.

  I give a knowing smile and continue into less stable territory. I’m not sure why I suddenly feel so bold.

  ME

  She reminds me of Mom, actually. In a good way.

  Creases immediately form in his forehead, and his lips press themselves into a thin red line.

  DAD

  I’m gonna grab a beer and get to bed, kid. Good night.

  Just like that he is off.

  My mother left when I was twelve and put thousands of miles between us. My father left me in a different way. He didn’t put miles between us, just walls, and five years later I’m still not sure which is worse.

  GARRETT

  I am finally beginning to tell Jessica and Jyllian apart.

  “I’m very knowledgeable about the things that are important to me,” Jessica assured me the other day in the cafeteria. “Brangelina and The Biggest Loser. And the entire country of Mexico. Do you even know how cheap Tijuana is? I went there with my parents last summer and we survived on less than five hundred dollars. And we were there for an entire week.”

  “That’s disgusting. I’m surprised you weren’t kidnapped and forced to smuggle drugs in your own body,” London said.

  “Like in Maria Full of Grace,” I volunteered, remembering a movie my father made me watch with him in which a girl swallows tiny bags full of cocaine and crosses the border with them inside her.

  Jyllian shook her head. “Maria is such a fugly name.”

  And then, of course, there’s Jessica’s purse—a purse that appears to have come straight out of Mary Poppins. It’s seemingly bottomless, and the random shit she pulls out of it always keeps me on my toes. Yesterday, she removed a live salamander, and the day before, a remote control. “Just in case,” she said.

  Jyllian, from what I can tell, is a little minx. Guys are pretty much all she talks about. I find this interesting because her stories are obviously exaggerated, if not entirely fictional. I can’t tell if Jyllian is a pathological liar or if she’s one of those girls who simply exists in a completely different reality than everyone else.

  Her latest piece of news? She met one of the guys from High School Musical at a restaurant in the city the weekend before and they hooked up in the women’s bathroom.

  “That should tell you something about him,” London says, laughing. We’re walking around the Roosevelt Field Mall after school; there’s not that much to do on Long Island, after all, and the mall is as good a place as any to see and be seen. I never went to a mall back in Chicago. If I needed something—a new pair of jeans, a fancy pair of underwear, a calculator—I would go to individual stores. In a civilized city. The suburbs are just so … “Crazy” (Patsy Cline, 1961).

  We’re hardly the only young people here. The entire mall (the food court in particular) is filled with kids from local high schools, London tells me as we walk. It’s Monday after school. I looked for Henry during the day, but I think he was absent. “A lot of the Hofstra kids come here on the weekends.” She stops to adjust her bra. “Remember, Garrett: college guys. They’re the ones who are boyfriend material.”

  I avoid her gaze.

  “I could have a boyfriend if I wanted one,” Jyllian says to no one in particular. She has a thick scarf wrapped around her neck even though it’s not cold at all. “Millions of them. I don’t want one, of course. I like being single. I need my freedom.”

  “Sure you do,” says Jessica.

  “If I had a boyfriend,” Jyllian says, “I couldn’t have hooked up with that guy last weekend. And it was amazing, ladies. He sang to me. Like, his riffing was out of control. So lavish. And he said he could probably get me a part in the next HSM movie.” She averts her eyes, staring into the window of J.Crew. “Not that I even want a part in the next movie. God.”

  “Any Ben updates?” London asks. I like London the most of the three because she’s bitchy and fun and knows how to keep a conversation going. She does ask a lot of questions, though.

  “I haven’t called him in a while,” I say, attempting to be casual about the whole thing. After all, “Love Is a Losing Game” (Amy Winehouse, 2007). “I guess it’s really over.”

  “Good. Don’t call him,” London says, “and don’t text him. Definitely don’t e-mail him. And if he does contact you, don’t respond. With these kinds of things, no communication is the only way to go. Cold turkey. That’s how you’ll get over him.”

  “I stopped going to his Facebook page,” I say, “which has been a total blessing. Not seeing his status updates or his pictures has made me much less upset.”

  “That’s a major step in the right direction,” Jessica says.

  “‘Ignorance is bliss,’” Jyllian says, air-quoting with her fingers. “Whoever said that was a genius.”

  We all get Diet Cokes at McDonald’s and sit down at one of the food court’s many plastic tables.

  “Enough about Ben,” Jessica says once we’re settled. “Tell us all about Henry.”

  “Everything,” London echoes. “Every little detail.”

  “Well,” I say, thinking how to spin this so that my pursuit of Henry sounds interesting. “He’s training me at the Huntington Cinemas, and—”

  “That place is gross, by the way,” Jyllian says, playing with her straw. “I went there once to see some random movie and sat on a piece of gum. It ruined this vintage skirt I loved. So rusty.”

  I’m slightly offended that Jyllian called the cinema gross, but I let it slide.

  “What’s it like working with him?” London asks. “Does he flirt with you?”

  No. I think he hates me, but I also think maybe he likes me, and I can’t concentrate on anything or anyone else when he’s near me. “A little,” I say.

  Jessica giggles. “Does he lurve you yet?”

  “Not yet,” I admit.

  “Why not?” London asks. Her eyebrows are perfectly arched, and her expression makes her cheekbones appear even more angular than they actually are.

  “I mean, I’m getting there,” I say. “I just don’t want to come on too strong, you know? It’s all in the timing.”

  “True,” London says, “but you don’t have much time. Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen is barely a month away.”

  “He invited me out,” I say quickly, before I can think of a different, lesser lie. I don’t want the J Squad to think I’m failing. I don’t want them to cut me loose.

  “On a date?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  London looks skeptical. “Where to?”

  “OMG,” Jyllian squeals, “is he hiring a limo service to take you into the city to one of those hole-in-the-wall restaurants in Little Italy and then to see Mamma Mia?”

  “Um, no,” I tell her.

  “Oh. Too bad.”

  “He asked me over t
o … his house. To watch a movie.”

  All three of them look shocked. Intrigued. Definitely impressed.

  “No shit,” Jessica says. “When?”

  I shrug as if it’s No Big Deal. “Next weekend. After work.”

  (Note to self: Secure invitation to Henry’s house next weekend after work.)

  “I don’t think any girl from school has ever been over to his house,” Jyllian says, “well, except for—”

  “I’m getting a stress headache,” London says, massaging her temples. “I need to go home and lie down.”

  I drop Jyllian off first, then Jessica. Young Love’s Too Young to Fight It is in the CD player.

  “So,” London says as I pull up to her house. The way the light from the street fills the car gives her an ethereal look, as if she’s slightly more than human. I am both excited and terrified by the prospect of her friendship.

  “So.”

  “I can’t believe Henry asked you over.”

  “I know. Me either.”

  “It’s a really big deal, you know.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” she says. The way her voice resonates makes me feel like nothing in the world is more important than my going over to Henry’s house next weekend. I start to get nervous.

  “Good, I guess.”

  London gives me a smile as though it were a present. “You really might get him to go out with you, Garrett. Kudos.”

  I think this is supposed to be a compliment, but it makes me uneasy. “Did you think that I wouldn’t be able to?”

  “Just make sure you get him to take you to Destiny’s Sweet Sixteen,” London says. “Nobody likes a failure.” Then she kisses me once on each cheek. “And be careful. Thanks for the ride.”

  I want to ask why I should be careful but, before I can, she’s gone.

  I avoid my parents and head straight to my room. They’re curled up on the sofa in our den watching TV. If I say hello, they’ll want me to hang out with them, and I’m not in the mood. I don’t feel like being the third wheel with a loving couple, even if that couple is my parents. Actually, even more so because they’re my parents. Gross.

  My room is in various stages of unpacked. There are still boxes full of books and trinkets and pictures. Some—not all—of my clothes are folded away. The only thing perfectly in place is my CD collection, which I’ve arranged and sorted alphabetically. While most people buy their music on iTunes (or download it illegally), I like having something to hold in my hand. I also have a bunch of vocal selections I can sort of play on the guitar; mostly, I read through the lyrics of my favorite songs the way some people flip through magazines.

  I take out my cell phone and dial Amy back in Chicago. With the time difference, she should just be getting home from school. It goes straight to voice mail. I leave this message: “Hey, stranger. It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. What gives? I hope school is fun, but not too fun, and that you miss me every day and cry yourself to sleep at night because you can’t live without me. You better have a kick-ass reason for not getting back to me, okay? Call me.”

  When I hang up I think, That was pathetic, but that’s the thing about best friends—you’re allowed to sound pathetic because they love you unconditionally. Or at least, they’re supposed to.

  I check my e-mail (one from my English teacher about our Hamlet assignment and one advertising penile enlargement surgery) and watch an episode of 30 Rock on Hulu. Then my thoughts turn to Ben and “The Day We Fell Apart” (Kelly Clarkson, 2009). I really did think that I would hear from him by now. That he would miss me enough to call. How could I have been so wrong?

  When I close my eyes, I see him. Ben. Lying on my bed. His hair is disheveled and his eyes are sleepy and his lips are opened slightly. His shirt is crumpled on the floor and his chest seems like this enormous wall of muscle and flesh; I rest my head there and let my hands travel across his stomach. It’s the end of June. School is over for the year and my parents are away for the weekend; they have specifically asked me not to have any guests over, but Ben is not a guest (even though I am sure they would disagree). Ben is my boyfriend. Ben is “My Superman” (Santogold, 2008).

  “What are you thinking about?” he asks me. His fingers hesitate slightly when they reach the material of my bra, then crawl like spiders across the black cotton.

  “You,” I say. He moves on top of me, resting his weight on his elbows, and kisses me, soft, lovely kisses on my lips and earlobes and neck. When I touch him I imagine that this is what it feels like to place your hand in a fire. I am burning.

  Paolo Nutini is singing on my computer, and my iTunes is playing a light show; the colors bounce off Ben in muted reds and blues and greens and yellows. I close my eyes to savor this moment, these few seconds of stillness before the inevitable what comes next, only when I open them I no longer see Ben. I see Henry. His strong arms are around me. His beautiful eyes are staring right into mine.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  “What do you think?” He leans forward to kiss me—

  “Garrett! Are you in there?”

  My mother’s voice wakes me, and I realize I’m in my bed. Alone. I look at my clock—it’s not even eight p.m.

  “I didn’t know you were home,” she says after I open the bedroom door. She is holding a tiny bottle of scented lotion from Bath & Body Works and the latest Teen Vogue. “Want me to give you a hand massage and gossip about underage celebrities?”

  “Uh, maybe later.”

  She looks disappointed. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll be downstairs, probably doing Downward Facing Dog.”

  She leaves, and I am livid with my subconscious for allowing Henry to invade my memory. How dare he. I don’t love Henry. I love Ben. Well, I used to. Now … who knows. But I certainly don’t want to get naked with Henry Arlington anytime soon. That much I know for sure.

  I need to step up my game. Prove to the J Squad that I can seduce Henry without falling for him, and prove to myself that I can be the one in control, the one who doesn’t get hurt. I’ll start by securing an invitation to his house for next weekend. It will happen. I simply need to figure out how.

  PINK LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD AS I FIGURE OUT A PLAN

  “I’m comin’ up so you better get this party started.”

  —Get the Party Started

  “I hope I don’t end up in jail.”—Tonight’s the Night

  “Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, fun.”—Funhouse

  I have an idea. I go downstairs to my father’s study; he’s also still in the middle of unpacking, but has stuffed his bookshelves with his favorite books (on film studies) and DVDs. I may not particularly care about the Greatest Movies of All Time, but Henry does, and that’s how I’m going to get him. And I am going to get him. Just wait and see.

  The next morning, at school, Henry stops at my locker.

  “Hey,” he says. He’s wearing a red polo shirt and a tight pair of khakis. He looks good.

  “Hey,” I say back, surprised that he’s paying attention to me. I glance around for the J Squad, hoping they’re watching.

  “Just saying hello and not ignoring you.” The way he says it makes me remember our conversation over the weekend at work.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Yesterday. You were out sick, right?”

  “You noticed?”

  I’m suddenly embarrassed. I want him to think I’m interested in him—that’s the whole point, of course—but not that I follow his every move. “It was oddly silent,” I say. “Not a single girl cried all day, so I figured you weren’t around.”

  He laughs, and I can tell that was the right answer.

  “Well,” he says, smiling, “see you later, Garrett.”

  I watch him leave, walking slowly down the senior hallway.

  Henry said hello to me, and I made him laugh.

  Game on.

  THE
MIDDLE

  Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part.

  —from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin (2001)

  HENRY

  INT.—MY BEDROOM, FRIDAY NIGHT

  I’d rather talk to people on the computer than in person. In person you have to make eye contact and pretend you’re actually interested in the conversation. You have to (attempt to) complete your sentences and move the muscles in your face to feign emotion. This is something I’m terrible at. Most people think I’m distant because I assume I’m better than they are, but that’s not it at all. I’m distant because I can’t relate, because being around them makes me uncomfortable. This is why I love the Internet. It’s difficult to be detached one-on-one, but AIM makes it easy.

  TheDuke69: dude … skip work and come party

  Enrico2000: no can do

  TheDuke69: all work and no play …

  Enrico2000: someone’s gotta pay the billz

  TheDuke69: u don’t have any billz

  Enrico2000: you know what i mean

  TheDuke69: no i don’t

  TheDuke69: saw u talking 2 Garrett 2day

  Shit. I thought I’d been totally stealth. It’s not anything major—anything other than hello—but every day since Tuesday, I’ve stopped to acknowledge her presence and prove I’m not a complete asshole. Has anyone else besides Duke noticed?

  TheDuke69: u there?

  Enrico2000: yeah

  TheDuke69: n e thing i should know about?

  Enrico2000: nope

  TheDuke69: ur not like … dating her behind our backs, rite? i’ve never seen u talk 2 a girl u didn’t wanna hook up with b4. unless … u wanna get with her again?