“So tell me something about yourself that has zero to do with your family’s controversial political stance,” I say. I regret adding the word “controversial”, but I think he’s a bit drained by my challenging social skills at this point because he lets it go.
“All right. I’m the oldest of four siblings. I want to go to law school, preferably as far away from here as possible.”
“That’s cool,” I say. “Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?”
“No,” he admits. “It’s just what my parents want me to do. They’re both defense attorneys. Or they were until my dad got into politics. God, why does every conversation always swing back round to my dad?” This last sentence is laced with a bitterness I wasn’t expecting.
There’s another lull in conversation. Looking around the rose-smelling garden I can just make out a koi pond, plus the silhouettes of some creepy gnome-type things in a nearby flower bed. One is brandishing a fishing rod like a weapon.
“Er. Right. So. Here’s a question,” I mumble, in a desperate bid to ensure there’s no possible way his dad can crop up again. “What’s your patronus?”
This is in fact a sly test disguised as an interesting point of conversation. If he doesn’t know what a patronus is, I know immediately that there’s very little point in proceeding with the bench-based festivities.
But without even hesitating, he replies simply, “A duckbilled platypus.”
I’m quite taken aback by this. It’s not at all the answer I was expecting. Most dudes go with something obvious like a lion, but this is quite unique. “Oh really? Why’s that?”
He swigs his beer again. Despite the speed of his drinking he still seems pretty sober. “They’re just awesome and unique. Like, did you know they’re the only mammal that has a sense of electroreception? They hunt their prey by detecting the electric fields generated by muscular contractions. So basically they’re super smart, but in their own way.” He shrugs, like he can relate. “And they’re the only venomous mammal on earth. I like that they can strike back and defend themselves if they have to.”
What. The. Hell. He’s genuinely given this some thought. Like, Zachary Vaughan has put some serious time into considering his patronus. If there is any surefire way to win my respect, this is it.
I smile, observing his silhouetted profile. He’s really not terrible to look at – one of those cute dimple chins and a ski-slope nose that tilts up at the end. His father may be a fascist dictator, but he obviously has good genes.
“What about yours?” Vaughan asks.
I’ve had my answer prepared for over a decade. “A sloth.”
He spits beer everywhere as he laughs. “That’s hilarious. It’s so perfect. Cute and sleepy and highly entertaining. Yep, you’re a sloth, Izzy O’Neill.”
I grin. I can’t help it.
“Okay . . . what else can I tell you about myself??” he muses, looking around the garden as though waiting for divine inspiration to strike. He clocks the gnomes, and looks as perturbed as can be expected.
Then, borderline surprised like it’s the first time the thought has ever crossed his mind, he goes with: “Oh, I know. I’m a virgin, ha ha ha.”
???
[Yeah. Not what I was expecting either. I’ll give you a few minutes to process this.
. . . You good? Okay, so you recovered faster than I did.]
I have zip/zilch/zero/nada/nil problem with the fact he’s a virgin, I just was not anticipating this plot twist in the slightest.
So, very supportively and insightfully, I say: “Oh.”
Then the awkward silence kicks in. And all I can think to add is, “Why are you telling me this, of all people? We’ve never spoken before tonight, even if we do know each other’s patronuses now. How do you know you can trust me? I mean, I assume this is a secret.”
He shrugs and says, “I like you, Izzy. You’re funny and stuff. And I knew you were wary of me, so I told you something personal in the hope you’d see I’m not the jerk everyone thinks I am.”
Now, I personally find this logic quite flawed because I could very easily have turned out to be a vindictive psychopath and leaked this information everywhere. Obviously this is not the course of action I actually choose to take, but really, how did he know I’m not fundamentally awful? Also, being a virgin and being a jerk are not mutually exclusive, so the whole thing is quite hard to wrap my head around.
“Thank you, Vaughan. I feel kind of . . . honored? I guess?”
He just smiles and says nothing.
Mainly because I have no idea what to do or say next, I down the rest of my beer and then instantly start kissing him. Yes, I instigate it, for no other reason than: I wanted to. Which is a mistake, because if you’ve ever downed three-quarters of a can of fizzy liquid in six seconds, you know what happens next.
burp
Fuuuuuuuuucccccckkkkkkkkkkkk –
My cheeks start to burn with the fiery magma of Mount Etna as I pull away, mortified.
Next plot twist: he is not an asshole about this horrifying bodily development. He just laughs and says, “I guess now we both know something embarrassing about each other.”
Then I get all serious, which shockingly I am capable of on occasion. “Being a virgin is not embarrassing, Vaughan. You know that, don’t you?”
“Try telling that to the rest of the basketball team.”
And then he’s kissing me again, and it’s actually not terrible, actually it’s really good, like really good, and he smells like fresh laundry, and his lips are so soft, and sweet Jesus of Nazareth –
You know what happens next. Yes, I take his virginity on the garden bench.
Izzy O’Neill: keeping it classy since never.
12.42 p.m.
Betty just came knocking on my door with a bacon sandwich and a glass of extra pulpy OJ like the true legend she is, and demanded to know everything. I told her the abridged version. She laughed so hard at the burping incident she almost gave herself a hernia.
[Most of you probably find it really odd that I tell my grandmother about my sexual conquests, but she’s just never been weird about it. She’s of the general opinion that my mom (her daughter) led the life of a saint and she still ended up dead at the age of twenty-four, so I may as well enjoy myself because this could all be taken away at any moment, and do I really want to be at heaven’s gates/hell’s trapdoor thinking about all the things (read: people) I wish I’d done?]
[In hindsight, it’s possible my grandmother is partially to blame for the sex-scandal situation.]
Okay. So remember Carson Manning? Hot-yet-unintimidating, class clown, alpaca doodler? Yeah, him.
Vaughan and I come in from outside, and it isn’t like in those cliché movies where people who’ve just had sex look very obviously like they just had sex. There are no tree branches in my hair, for example, or dirt on my knees.
Much like Vaughan thirty seconds ago, the party seems to be reaching its climax. There are several people passed out in corners, several people making out against kitchen counters, and the music is now some sort of soft remixed reggae I don’t actually hate. The windows are steamed up with sweaty condensation, which is quite gross, and there are plastic cups scattered all over the floor.
I disappear to find Danny (oh shit, Danny!!) and Ajita, leaving Vaughan in the kitchen with Baxter and some of the other basketball guys. Vaughan doesn’t do anything gross, like squeeze my ass as I walk away, which I appreciate because catcalling-construction-worker-style romance is not really my idea of a good time. I know some of you may find this unreasonable and absurd, but it’s true.
Ajita is in exactly the same spot on the sofa, playing on her phone and looking generally bored when I track her down. A quick scan of the room shows me Carlie is still MIA.
“Where’s Danny?” I ask, only mildly terrified of the answer on account of his inevitable wrath.