If my dad and I have to move again, will SN and I still write to each other? Will he finally tell me who he is?
“Nah, I figured we could both work. My mom doesn’t care.” I wonder if he feels sorry for me, looks down on me the same way his girlfriend does, and that’s why he’s letting me stay. I’ve noticed the scholarship kids at Wood Valley—you can tell by their clothes and how they stick together in nondesigner clumps. No one seems to pay any attention to them. The other day, some girl wore a T-shirt that said GAP across the front. Gem didn’t even nudge Crystal. For whatever reason, I seem to be her only target.
“You sure?” I ask. Crap. I sound hopeful, even to my own ears.
“I’m sure.” And then Liam picks up Earl again and begins to play.
Dri: SHUT UP. He’s serenading you RIGHT NOW? FOR REAL? I’m coming there.
Me: I think he’s playing original Oville stuff?
Dri: OMG. Wait, if I come it will be too obvious, right? Right. Shoot! Can you call me and leave the line open?
Me: Really?
Dri: No. That’s too stalkerish. Even for me. AHHHHH.
Me: You were right. He’s actually really good.
Dri: You’re killing me right now.
Me: If it makes you feel any better, I wish it were you here instead of me. I have calc homework. If only I got paid to do that…
Dri: Admit it: he’s hot.
Me: Not my type, but…
Dri: But what?
Me: Let’s just say I get it now.
Liam starts playing a new song, one I’ve never heard before. The lyrics go: “The girl that no one knows, the one that secretly glows, all right, the girl that no one knows is mine, all mine, all mine….” It’s catchy.
Scarlett: Should I have sex with Adam Kravitz after homecoming?
Me: WHAT?!?!?
Scarlett: Was just thinking it might be nice to lose my v-card to someone who’s not intimidating, you know? Then it’s done and I can move on.
Me: Is that what you want? Just to be done with it?
Scarlett: Maybe?
Me: I’m not saying sex is such a big deal or anything, but it’s not nothing, you know?
I realize I’m quoting Dri here, but I think she’s right. It’s not nothing. Not to get all parental, but there are diseases and pregnancy, and yeah, I know Scarlett would use a condom—we’ve all seen 16 and Pregnant, which is the best form of birth control ever—but still. Adam Kravitz? My old neighbor Adam Kravitz? The only guy who’s ever shown any interest in me, if you call interest making out with me once, drunk, at the bowling alley on a Saturday night?
My history with him isn’t the issue, though. Scarlett is free to be half peened or full peened by him. I just think she’s being a little faux casual about the whole thing. She’s more like Dri and me than Agnes’s sister, as much as she talks a big game. There’s a difference between talking about sex (and even being comfortable about talking about sex) and actually doing it. Abstractly, sex is simple—one person’s body parts touching another person’s, nothing more, nothing less—but for some of us, the reality is something altogether more complex. Equal parts exciting and scary. I can’t explain why, but I just know that’s how it seems to me.
Scarlett: Don’t freak out. Was just a thought.
Me: Not freaking out. If you want to do it, then you should. But just make sure, because the same argument for doing it applies to not doing it. Once it’s done, it’s done. And I know you don’t need me to tell you to be safe.
Scarlett: Adam’s face is clearing up. I think he may be on Accutane.
Me: Oooh, I want to see. Send pictures!
Scarlett: I miss you, J.
Me: Me too, S. You have no idea.
Scarlett: ?
Me: Dad and the lady of the manor had a big-ass fight. Was scary.
Scarlett: And?
Me: I dunno. For newlyweds they don’t seem so happy.
Scarlett: My parents have been married for 18 years, and they fight ALL THE TIME. Sometimes I think they hate each other. They claim otherwise.
Me: Your parents enjoy fighting. It’s their happy place.
Scarlett: I probably won’t do it with Adam.
Me: ?
Scarlett: But then again, I might.
—
There’s traffic on Ventura, so I don’t get home till after eight. Gloria has left me dinner on the counter: a perfectly serrated leg and thigh of roasted chicken, string beans tossed with almonds, a dainty portion of mashed potato, all showcased under a glass dome. My silverware sits on a cloth napkin. In Chicago, we used paper towels. My mom was an okay cook—a little too prone to experimentation—but I miss her big hearty stews, everything thrown together and unidentifiable. My dad’s car is in the driveway, but Rachel’s is gone, and I don’t hear any noise coming from upstairs, not even the steady bass that usually emits from Theo’s room. I eat my chicken alone at the kitchen island, wipe my mouth, and am about to head upstairs, when I notice someone sitting on the deck.
Dad.