I twist my hair into a messy topknot and brush on some gloss, pencil in my eyebrows, and finish off with a bit of mascara. (I resemble a mole without certain cosmetics.) I slip on my shoes and spray myself with a quick spritz of perfume.
I glance in the mirror—not bad for five minutes.
I head down the stairs again, pretending I don’t know who’s here. “Kent, I thought you were going to the—oh. Liam. Hey.”
He hits me with the kind of slow, lazy, Bowie-esque grin that lights up the whole front hallway. The sheer wattage of his presence makes me feel melty inside, like a bar of chocolate left on the dashboard.
My parents are hovering around beside Liam, like...well, like parents.
“Hey, Moon Girl.”
My mum cocks an eyebrow in my direction. She’s not succumbed to any of those horrible chemicals many women of a certain age shoot into their foreheads, so she’s still able to make expressions. Cordy’s mum has a whole chemistry lab injected into her face. You have to listen to the tone of her voice to figure out if she’s cross or happy or sad; it’s too weird.
“Mum, Dad, um, Warhol—this is my friend Liam.”
Dad offers a curt nod. “We met.”
Huh. My folks are normally more gracious. They’re incredibly chatty! I came home last week to them entertaining both the UPS and FedEx men at the kitchen counter. Such is their cheer and effusive nature, they brought détente to the hyper-competitive overnight shipping industry.
“Hope you don’t mind me dropping by. Ran into Kent at the game and he gave me your address. Wanted to wish you luck for tomorrow.”
“Ah,” I say, because any other words escape me. I’m afraid if I open my mouth to say too much, the butterflies in my gut will flutter out and then that would be terribly awkward.
“Don’t you need to hit the sack soon. Simba?” my dad asks. His voice has an edge and he makes no motions to indicate he’ll afford us any privacy. Mum stands next to him, arms crossed, lips downturned, appearing equally stern.
Um, did I stumble into a bizarre alternative universe here? Did I fall asleep and wake up in The Twilight Zone? Who are these strangers? I can’t believe Liam hasn’t had a cup of tea thrust at him at a minimum. My God, Dad sent both the delivery men away with a couple of his original watercolors! (Ooh, Mr. Hochberg had a right fit over that.)
Mum can’t be thrown by the fact that there’s a boy calling for me. I mean, she put me on birth control when I confessed my crush on David Bowie. I was all, “Wouldn’t that be terribly illegal?”
“Doesn’t matter,” she’d said. Claimed she wanted me to be safe and ready for my “sexual awakening.” I replied that, again, didn’t need to be on the pill, but wouldn’t mind an iTunes gift cert if she was looking to throw around a bit of cash. So why are they both being so inhospitable right now? I’m not even sure they aren’t some ill-programmed clones swapped out for the real thing.
Wait, are they scowling? I swear they’re scowling. Something is amiss here. I’ve never had a set bedtime or a curfew or any of the parental rules and conventions that drove all my friends so mad. Cordy would always cry, “My mum’s so strict!” and I’d listen and sympathize, but truly could not empathize. In fact, I couldn’t even imagine.
But, now? Now I have an inkling.
I feel the need to move the party away from these two. “Liam and I are going to go chat in the TV room, unless you have an objection?” I say. I can’t decipher the look that passes between them.
“Fifteen minutes max, Sim,” my mum says, tapping the face of her watch. “You have an early morning and a big day.” Such is their consternation that Warhol, who’s taken a shine to Liam, doesn’t even frolic.
While I’d like to get to the root of their reactions, I’m far more interested in discovering why Luscious Liam is here.
“We’ll have a word and be up in two shakes,” I say as I lead him to our finished basement. We lived here three days before any of us realized that this part of the house was more than just a grotty old cellar that housed the mechanicals. There’s a whole bar setup and a posh extra kitchen, as well as a state-of-the-art screening room with built-in movie theater seats and a popcorn machine. Dad couldn’t stop exclaiming when we discovered this portion, crowing about how he has dreams where he discovers new rooms and never knew it could be a reality.
“Nice place,” Liam remarks.
“Thanks,” I reply, even though what I want to say is WHY ON EARTH ARE YOU HERE AND DO YOU FANCY ME BECAUSE I LIKE YOU SOOOOOOO MUCH.
I manage to hold myself together, though, as I ease onto the couch.
“You want some popped corn?” I ask, gesturing toward the machine. “I can make it just like the theater does.”
“I’m good,” he says. He settles in the seat next to me. I tuck my legs under myself and angle so that we’re facing each other. My bare knees show through my jeans. Did I shave them? Please tell me I remembered to shave them. Stubble will not do. “I wanted to talk to you, Moon Girl.”
“Uh-huh, of course.” I try to sound cool, but I’m so nervous right now that I can’t catch a full breath. I suck in little gulps of air here and there. Is it possible to drown on dry land? I pray I don’t find out.
“I broke up with Mallory.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply automatically, even though I’m actually thinking YES, YES, YES, PRAISES TO YOU, CHRIST AND YOUR BIKE!
I find myself suddenly designing the kind of commitment ring that Brazilian men give their intended before proposing marriage. I picture braided platinum, with an inset moonstone.
Stop that, self, you’re being too ridiculous. Also, we’re not in Brazil.
And we’re still minors.
“Don’t be, it was a long time coming. We just weren’t right together anymore. Everything had become so complicated and heavy and just...wrong. The minute I ended it, I felt euphoric, like I was free. That’s when I realized the only thing I wanted was to see you. Being with you is easy.”
“I’m terribly easy,” I agree. Then I snort and clamp a hand over my face. “That’s not what I meant.”
He grins and my innards arrange themselves into a Gordian knot. “What I’m trying to say is that I want to be around you. I feel like I can be me, no expectations, no demands. I can’t...” He searches for the words.
“Feel your face? Particularly when you’re with me?” I say, paraphrasing what I already consider our song.
He smiles, activating his dimple. (Would it be bad manners to place my tongue in that divot?)
He says, “I’ve been gravitating toward you and now I don’t need to fight those feelings.”
I nod. Saying nothing is probably the better strategy. I’m having to remind myself to breathe. This is so surreal, having a boy I fantasize about just materialize at my house to confess his hidden feelings about me. Maybe my dad dreams about undiscovered rooms, but this is how my dreams unfurl.