Crash Test Love Read online

  Again? How about a first time?

  Enrico2000: it’s nothing like that, okay?

  TheDuke69: u would tell me if there was something going on, rite?

  Enrico2000: of course

  I feel bad lying to Duke, but then again … am I really lying? Nothing’s going on between Garrett and me. Not yet, at least. Even if there were something to report, Duke and Nigel certainly wouldn’t approve, so what’s the point of saying anything at all?

  TheDuke69: when do u get off tonight?

  Enrico2000: around 11 or so

  TheDuke69: call me l8r. meet me & N at this girl’s party in Sea Cliff. Should be krazy!

  Enrico2000: OK OK … i gotta go. Duty calls

  TheDuke69: lata, playa

  INT.—HUNTINGTON CINEMAS

  I get to work early. I’m already wearing my uniform, and I brought a change of clothes in case I decide to meet up with Duke and Nigel. Lately, I haven’t been hanging out with them as much. I don’t necessarily feel bad about this—life happens—but I do miss their company. Being friends with D & N is easy; they don’t expect me to chime in with some incredible insight about shit I don’t care about. They get that I live on Planet Henry most of the time, and leave me alone as long as I let them visit occasionally.

  I check in with Roger, who has me count out one of the cash registers and then heads back to his office.

  Garrett isn’t here yet, and I relish the time alone. It seems odd that our schedules are more or less the same, but I don’t press her (or Roger) about it. I don’t actually mind working with her. I’m bothered by my feelings for her, sure, and it would be easier if she weren’t around … but there is something that I undeniably like about her. She’s the first girl I’ve met who isn’t afraid to tell me how it is. I appreciate that. Girls who agree with everything I say aren’t worth my time. Where’s the challenge?

  I recognize a few chicks from school waiting in line to buy tickets for one of the foreign films, Eso No Es Mi Sombrero (That Is Not My Hat). They smile at me. I smile back. One of them is cute: short brown hair, clear skin, nice teeth. A freshman.

  ME

  Hey. You go to East Shore, right?

  CUTE FRESHMAN

  (nodding)

  You’re Henry Arlington.

  ME

  That’s what they tell me.

  CUTE FRESHMAN

  (laughing)

  Well, um, one for … the Spanish movie.

  She glances back at her friends, all of whom have turned a bright, embarrassing pink. I’m about to tell her that the ticket is free (just don’t tell my boss) when someone behind me says: “That’ll be eleven fifty.”

  Garrett.

  I turn around and man, she looks hot. Damn. The freshman pales in comparison.

  CUTE FRESHMAN

  I have a student ID.

  GARRETT

  Good for you. Just saved yourself a dollar.

  The rest of the girls pay for their tickets and hurry into the theater.

  ME

  You sure know how to scare people away.

  GARRETT

  I have a lot of practice.

  What I like about working the register is that, if it’s a busy night, time really flies by. I don’t know whether Garrett recognizes that I’m being standoffish, but since she isn’t exactly initiating conversation either, I figure she’s aware. It’s better this way. Even if we got together it wouldn’t end well. Plus, it’s not like we have that much in common. She’s from Chicago, and I’m from Long Island. Enough said.

  Garrett takes a break and comes back with a fountain soda. She sips from the straw, watching me as though I’m supposed to say something.

  ME

  You’re doing a great job.

  GARRETT

  Thanks.

  I look at my watch: 10:06. It’s weird, being here with Garrett. We’re not friends, but we’re no longer strangers. I’m unsure how to act around her. Saying hello at school is one thing; standing next to her, so close we’re practically touching, and trying to sustain dialogue is another thing entirely.

  ME

  Uh, who do you have for English?

  GARRETT

  Jacobs. Why?

  ME

  Oh, I have Smythe. I hear Jacobs is a real piece of work. Like, really nuts.

  GARRETT

  She’s kooky, but I appreciate it. Keeps things interesting.

  ME

  What are you guys reading?

  GARRETT

  The Inferno. You?

  ME

  Oh, we read that already. We’re reading Heart of Darkness.

  GARRETT

  I didn’t like that one.

  ME

  Why not?

  GARRETT

  I mean, it was fine, but I’m not typically a fan of story-within-a-story kind of books.

  ME

  Me either! Well, I don’t read a whole lot, but in movies … I hate that.

  GARRETT

  Ugh, I know. Except for—

  BOTH

  Forrest Gump!

  We both laugh.

  ME

  So, uh, did you have a nice week?

  GARRETT

  It was all right. I’m still adjusting to East Shore. It’s really different than my last high school.

  ME

  How so?

  GARRETT

  The people are just, I don’t know … more intense.

  ME

  Yeah, well, I doubt anyone is more intense than the girls you’ve been hanging out with.

  Garrett doesn’t respond; I wonder if I pissed her off by mentioning the J Squad. But then she looks at me, really looks at me, and I find it impossible to turn away. I don’t see her from a distance, like she’s playing a role in a film or anything like that—she is right here.

  “Thanks for saying hi to me this week,” she says. “It was really sweet of you.”

  I totally clam up. My forehead gets sweaty, and I scratch the back of my neck. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. What does she want from me, exactly?

  “Do you have any crazy weekend plans?” she asks.

  ME

  Not really.

  I remember how easy it was to talk to Garrett when I first met her. Then I close my eyes and squeeze until the memory bursts and I am back to my life, where things are never easy. It is 10:11. Just under an hour left.

  We finish at the same time and walk to the break room, where all the lockers are. There’s also a box of coffee and a few stale donuts on a table in the corner. I take off my uniform (is she watching me?) and put on the shirt I brought with me. I’m about to open my phone and text Duke for the address of the party when Garrett’s bag tips over. All the contents spill in front of me.

  GARRETT

  Shit. I’m sorry.

  She begins to pick everything up in such a hurry that I wonder if there’s something incredibly personal on the floor, like a tampon or birth control pills or a picture of her dry-humping a tree. I bend over to help; when I see what was in her bag, my heart jumps.

  Movies.

  I feel like a kid in a candy store. An American in Paris. Dr. Strangelove. Annie Hall. The Crying Game.

  ME

  Are these yours?

  GARRETT

  Yeah. I like to make sure I have something good to watch in case I get bored.

  I know exactly what she means. Not having a DVD on me at all times—in my locker, in my car, wherever—is one of the scariest things I can think of.

  ME

  Have you seen all of these?

  GARRETT

  Like a million times each. Except for Annie Hall. I’ve only seen it once. I’m in the middle of watching it a second time.

  ME

  Do you like it?

  GARRETT

  Yeah. It’s different than a lot of movies that were made in the seventies. I think it’s one of Woody Allen’s best.

  ME

  What do you like about it?

  My que
stion seems to ignite her.

  GARRETT

  Well, for starters I love Diane Keaton. I love Woody, too, and how it was made, you know? How so much of the movie is just talking. How the characters break the fourth wall and speak directly to the camera—it makes the whole thing feel intimate and personal, like I’m part of it.

  The more she talks, the faster my heart beats. It’s as if she’s a painting and every word is a brushstroke, coloring her in until she is complete.

  “It’s nice to just watch a scene in a movie without so much cutting back and forth between the actors,” Garrett says. “Makes it seem more like real life.” She laughs. “I must have just bored the hell out of you.”

  “No,” I tell her. “No. You didn’t.”

  I cannot believe how she talks about movies. How she thinks about them.

  Like I do.

  “What are you doing right now?”

  She narrows her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  I point at the stack of DVDs in her hands. “You said you’re in the middle of Annie Hall. If you’re not doing anything … maybe you’d want to come over to my house and watch it?”

  “You want me to come over to your house?”

  My cheeks feel hot. “I mean, you don’t have to. I just have a really big bed that’s good to watch movies on. I mean, a really big TV.” I smack my forehead. “Sorry. I should get going.”

  “No,” she says, placing her hand on my arm. I practically jump at her touch. “I’d like to come over. That sounds … nice.”

  Nice. “Uh, okay.” What have I just done? There’s no time to prepare. This is going to be a disaster.

  Yet, I am excited. Nervous. Thrilled. Ready to puke.

  I decide against texting Duke—he’ll only bother me with a million questions.

  “I have my car with me, so I’ll just follow you?” Garrett asks.

  I cannot form words. I simply nod and walk straight ahead, out of the break room and into the parking lot. Garrett is beside me. She goes over to her car, and maybe it’s the way the light from the street hits her face, or maybe it’s the way she moves, or maybe it has nothing to do with her at all and the change is happening somewhere deep inside me, but for the first time in a long time I feel, I don’t know, alive.

  GARRETT

  Who knew that a couple of perfectly selected DVDs and a monologue about Woody Allen would help me worm my way into Henry Arlington’s heart?

  Oh, that’s right.

  Me.

  Which is why I’m standing in the middle of his living room, just before Friday night becomes Saturday morning, about to go upstairs to his bedroom.

  Take that, J Squad.

  I look around; pictures of Henry at various ages stand everywhere like “Statues” (Foo Fighters, 2007). There’s a long leather couch, a few vases with dried flowers, a gorgeous grand piano, and some interesting framed posters on the wall.

  I follow Henry into the kitchen and watch him pull two beers from the fridge. “Take whatever you want,” he says, motioning to the pantry. I open it and find a smorgasbord of chips and cookies; I grab some Oreos and raise them in silent victory. Henry laughs and together we go upstairs, into his room.

  Henry’s room is not what I expect. It’s pretty minimal. His bed is against the wall, and opposite it is a large flat-screen TV atop an elegant black dresser. Next to that is a glass desk with an oversized Apple monitor; on either side of the desk is a rectangular speaker sitting on a narrow stand. His walls are stark white. There’s a framed picture of Elvis Costello and three enormous windows that overlook his backyard. A tiny nightstand with a lamp. A navy blue bean bag chair next to his closet. Oh, yes—and there are DVDs. Hundreds of them. Three bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling, and they’re packed.

  So this is where Henry sleeps. This is where he lives.

  “We’ll have to keep the volume kinda low—I don’t want to wake up my dad.”

  “Where’s your mom?” I ask.

  Henry flinches. It’s a slight reaction, but I notice it nonetheless. “She’s dead.”

  “Oh,” I say, immediately regretting my question. “I’m so sorry, Henry. I had no idea.”

  He shrugs. “It’s okay.” He opens a beer and passes it to me. It’s tangy and sweet. “Ever had Tsingtao?”

  I’m not a huge drinker in general, but I do like this. “Nope. It’s really good, though.”

  “My dad is kind of a beer connoisseur,” he says. “He usually has the fridge stocked with stuff I didn’t even know existed. He doesn’t care if I have one or two, as long as I’m not driving.” He looks at me. “So, actually, you shouldn’t be drinking that. If you’re gonna drive home.”

  Is he suggesting I should stay the night? I put the beer down. “You’re right.”

  “Unless you want to drink. Then I won’t, and I can drive you home.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell him. “But thanks.”

  “I still can’t believe you’re such a film fanatic. I thought when you took the job at Huntington, well, that you were—”

  “Lying?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “You don’t have to apologize. My father is a film professor, so I’ve grown up with an appreciation for truly great movies. And truly bad ones.”

  He laughs and says, “Wow.” Usually when I tell people what my dad does they think it’s interesting, but it’s never a big deal. To Henry, though, it really is.

  “Getting to study and watch and talk about films every day sounds like a dream come true,” he says, kicking off his sneakers. He’s wearing white socks that cut off just below the ankle, and his jeans are tattered in all the right places.

  “I guess,” I say, slipping out of my own shoes. I sit on the edge of his bed. “Maybe you should become a professor.”

  “Nah,” he says, taking another sip of his beer. “I like to keep to myself. If you haven’t already noticed.”

  I have.

  “I’d like to write movies. To be a screenwriter, you know? I just really want to be a part of them. A part of something that’ll last a whole lot longer than I will.” He blushes. I doubt he’s ever said those words out loud before. “That must sound so corny.”

  “Not at all,” I tell him. “It’s good to have a goal, and clearly you know a lot about film. Do you write a lot?”

  “Some. Not much.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Why?”

  “You seem like someone who has stories to tell.”

  He smiles an I’m-embarrassed kind of smile. “So what do you want to do with your life?” he asks.

  This is going to sound ridiculous, but I have absolutely no answer. And truthfully, it’s the first time anyone (other than my parents) has asked me this question. When Henry speaks about screenwriting, there’s real passion there. I don’t have anything I feel that way about. Except music.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “You must want to do something. Candy striper? Go-go dancer?”

  “No, I mean … I don’t know what I want to do. I honestly have no idea.”

  Henry rubs his chin. “Why do you think that is?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel bad,” he says, “it’s just that most people have some idea what they want to do when they grow up. And if you don’t, I guess I’m curious why.”

  I flash a smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to be a therapist?”

  “Definitely,” Henry says. “I can barely deal with my own issues, let alone other people’s.” He sits down next to me. “So. Spill. If you could do anything in the world, what would it be? And you have to answer.”

  I try to think of something impressive-sounding. Doctor? No. Lawyer? No. Executive producer of a reality TV show? Maybe. But no.

  “You’re taking too long. What’s on the tip of your tongue? Just say it. I won’t judge you.”

  Somehow, I believe him. “I’d want to work in the music industry,” I
say.

  “Doing what?”

  “Maybe producing albums, or writing lyrics, or helping discover new artists.”

  The words leave my mouth and I think, Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ve never really thought about music in terms of a career. Okay, that’s not exactly true. I have thought about it, just never seriously. I’m not good enough to be a recording artist, but why couldn’t I find some other way to be involved in the industry? Why did it take Henry’s asking me point-blank to make me admit this desire?

  “That’s awesome,” Henry says, sliding his hand over my knee and squeezing. His touch feels “Wonderful” (The Beach Boys, 1967).

  Then I freeze. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be talking about this kind of stuff with him. I don’t actually want to date him. I want to play him. I try to ignore the fact that we seem to have incredible chemistry and when I’m around him, all thoughts of Ben are completely gone. I remember how Henry lied to people about us hooking up, and how many hearts he’s broken in the past. I remember my desire to be the one in control. It’s time to take my plan to the next level.

  I’m still wearing my Huntington Cinemas uniform; in my bag is a low-cut long-sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans. “Do you mind if I change?”

  “Go for it,” he says.

  I follow his directions to the bathroom and close the door behind me. I change at a leisurely pace. I remind myself I don’t want a boyfriend—especially not Henry Arlington. I shake my hair out and fix my eyeliner where it’s smudged. I study myself in the mirror. I wonder what Henry sees when he looks at me.