I shake my head. “You bring up Minaj, he’s not going to acknowledge you. PS, never rap again—it shames us all.”
She holds her hand out like she’s holding a shopping bag handle and then says, “Can you hear this, Kent?”
“Hear what?”
“No? Then let me turn it up,” she says, rotating her wrist to flip me the bird and she sputters with laughter.
I like this.
I like us.
We have kickass friend-chemistry. She balances us out. When we roll, we come across as quirky instead of spazzy and everything’s more fun. Now, maybe I’m a total prick for even thinking this, but I wonder if her hooking up with Stephen would wreck our new trio? If a love connection would ruin everything? I want him to be happy, but...fuck, I want me to be happy, too.
I haven’t said anything to Stephen, but I’ve quietly encouraged the whole Owen thing for the past two weeks. Simone says she’s confused about how he feels because he hasn’t even kissed her yet, but I suspect he’s biding his time, establishing a true friendship first. Like he wants to have a solid foundation built before bringing in romance. Doesn’t seem like the worst idea to me. (Of course, I’m no expert.)
I tagged along to his short film screening last night with Simone and her folks. I kind of didn’t grasp what the movie was about, but that’s not a negative. Simone said it was “brilliant,” pointing out what was so artistic about the flowers and the wheels and stuff, and then I got it. After spending time with him, I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for all things Foley-Feinstein. People underestimate him. I forgot that I used to like him and I underestimated him. There’s more to Owen than weird hair and a too-casual relationship with soap.
When Owen invited us to his event, I suggested we not tell Stephen because he’d be at his oboe lesson at that time and that he’d have felt bad about missing out, but that’s not entirely accurate.
Truth is I didn’t want to watch him agonize over every single word, glance, and touch Simone and Owen exchanged and I definitely wasn’t up for the Monday morning quarterbacking he’d insist on while doing the postmortem.
Owen’s a good dude and he looks at Simone like she’s this rare butterfly, almost too delicate to touch. How can she wonder if he likes her? Pretty sure he worships her already and if he’s not been quick to make moves, then it’s out of respect. Most of the guys in this school aren’t like that. Most are total misogynists. You should hear the way they talk in the locker room after gym class. I mean, I’m embarrassed, and I’m a Gold Medallion Member at Porn-o-copia.com so I’ve seen everything...even if I’ve yet to experience it.
A while ago, my dad decided we needed a father-son talk about the whole porn thing. He sat me down to caution me about images online. He said that the internet would give me unrealistic expectations of what’ll happen when I do get a girlfriend. I replied that I’m a five-foot-four future physicist who can bowl a perfect game; the only unrealistic expectation here is that I’d ever even see a live girl naked.
I can’t complain about the lecture too much, though. When Mrs. Cho busted Stephen after he downloaded an X-rated video on his new phone, his punishment was to sit there and watch it with her.
Something like that will FUCK YOU UP FOR LIFE.
Anyway, after the big, awkward porn lecture, Dad took me for sushi, which my mom hates so we never have as a family. Over volcano maki, I told him I do believe I’ll eventually find a girlfriend, but probably not in this zip code. He poured me some green tea and promised that the ladies at MIT would recognize my charms. Assured me that I’ll have come into my own by then.
Am living for that day.
’Til then, I have a whole harem in my imagination.
(PS, they all look like Mallory.)
My point is, NSHS is the worst for most girls. I wanna shout, You know how much easier your life would be if you liked the nice guys? but they’re too distracted by washboard abs and chiseled jaws and Macklemore hair to listen. What am I supposed to say to them? What are my selling points? Hey, baby, wanna watch me make a robot walk? It’s almost like they’re trying to hook up with terrible choices. Christ, every Monday there’s half a dozen hot chicks crying off all their mascara in the halls because one of the Jaspers used them and abused them over the weekend. (This place is full of Jaspers/Jasper wanna-bes.)
As for Owen? He strikes me as a gentleman. Like, a funky gentleman who might be better served with actual Right Guard and not rock crystal, but still. Washing off patchouli oil is way easier than learning how to be chivalrous.
Stephen scrolls through his list. “Anyway, then we’re on to Tim Dog with ‘Fuck Compton.’ He wasn’t a huge player in the whole rap game, but this song put Ice, Dre, Eazy, and, really, all of NWA in the crosshairs, so Imma allow it. And because I’m not sexist,” he throws a sidelong glance at Simone, full of shade, “I’ll include MC Lyte’s ‘10% Dis’—she’s a female, just so you know—then Kool Moe Dee, and the penultimate dis, ‘No Vaseline,’ by Ice Cube.”
“Before I came here, I thought penultimate meant ‘most ultimate,’” Simone muses. “I’ve been using that word wrong for quite a long time. Ages. This really is an excellent school.”
Stephen plows ahead, not acknowledging her comment because he’s too excited about his mix to even consider an awkward stab at flirting. “That leads us to the greatest dis of all time... A drumroll, please.”
He pauses, expectantly.
Simone and I just look at each other. “Are we supposed to be doing something?” she asks.
“Why aren’t you drumrolling?” Stephen pouts.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. Simone makes rolling rrrrrrrr sounds with her tongue while I beat an imaginary snare drum.
“And the number one dis song is... ‘Hit ’Em Up’ by ’Pac!”
I drop my imaginary drumsticks and I can feel my mouth narrowing into a thin, hard line.
This is so typical.
This is the exact bullshit he always pulls.
Suddenly, I don’t feel so guilty being Team Owen. “Are you seriously not putting Biggie’s “Who Shot Ya” on your playlist? That’s just insulting and intentional. And wrong. It’s wrong and it’s insulting and it’s wrong.”
“Are you saying you feel this is wrong, Kent?” Simone interjects.
While we’ve been walking and talking (and arguing), we’ve arrived on campus.
“Don’t know what to tell you two, except that ’Pac rules. Don’t believe me? Then let’s take a simple random sample of our classmates,” Stephen suggests.
I roll my eyes so far back that I can see my frontal lobe.
(Mental note: consider other colleges. Maybe I don’t even want four more years of this, you know?)
Stephen starts looking around at the kids cruising past us on the quad. Mallory and Liam approach from one of the practice fields. While they seem like they belong in Barbie’s Dream House together, they’re acting more like something out of Fight Club. Those two are perpetually bickering. We’ll have to work on her attitude when we’re married.