We collapse on this bench near the big white lifeguard tower, and as our laughter subsides, I can hear the sound of the waves crashing before us.
“That was the worst!” Jas says, shaking his head.
I nod and pull my jacket tighter around me.
“Cold?” he asks.
“A little,” I say.
“Here have some of this. It will warm you up.” He offers me a tiny flask he pulled from his jacket pocket.
I take a sip and immediately recognize the smooth taste of the cabernet we had earlier in the kitchen, so then I take another. And I’m so not used to drinking that it immediately goes to my head. “Thanks,” I say, smiling and leaning into him just a bit.
He puts his arm around my shoulder and rubs up and down, like he’s trying to make me warm. Then he takes his other hand and gently tucks my hair behind my ear.
His face is close to mine, and he’s looking right at me, and I can’t help thinking: This is it! This is the exact moment when he kisses me!
And it’s kind of embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never really kissed a guy before and I’m almost seventeen.
I told you I was a geek.
I mean, a long time ago Paige and I practiced on Hud, so if the opportunity ever arose we wouldn’t look completely retarded. But I’ve never kissed someone that I really wanted to kiss—like Jas.
So I look into his eyes.
Then I close mine.
And I don’t know if it’s the wine or just extreme nervousness, but I hear myself say, “Oh, Jas, I’ve been waiting for this all night”
Then I open my mouth ever so slightly, and wait.
But nothing happens.
Then Jas says, “Hey.” And he sounds a little surprised.
And when I open my eyes this completely gorgeous creature, clad in an outfit very similar to the one I was lip-synching in earlier, goes, “I just got off work, and stopped by the restaurant. They said you might be here.”
Then she leans in and kisses the lips that just seconds ago I thought I was going to be kissing.
And then she looks at me and says, “Hi. You must be Rio. I’m Monique, Jas’s girlfriend.”
Eleven
Can you imagine anything more humiliating than being in the backseat of a politically correct car watching your almost-boyfriend get touchy-feely with someone who’s so gorgeous and so exotic it’s like she’s from another planet?
And all of this in hot, eager anticipation of the moment when they get to drop you off?
Can you?
Well, I can’t.
And believe me, I should know. ‘Cause I was the sole ticket-holder to the “Monique gets to touch Jas wherever she wants” show.
And it was awful.
So when he pulls into my driveway I leap (yes, I leap) out of the car, and mumbling something sounding vaguely like, “Thanksgoodnight,” I run through the front door with barely a shred of dignity, only to be confronted with a Breathalyzer.
Well, kind of.
My mom is standing there in the silky robe she wears when my dad’s home and she goes, “Rio? How was your evening?”
“Okay,” I say, heading for the stairs, not really wanting to play show-and-tell right now.
But she misreads that as my wanting to hide something. After all, according to her I was out with a notorious Newport Beach gang member. “Come here,” she says. “Into the light where I can see you.”
Into the light? She’s watching too many “Law and Order” reruns when my dad’s away.
But I step into the light. And my eyes are all red, and my makeup is smeared, and I know this because after my leap from the car I burst into silent tears, and then I wiped my face as I came through the door. And even though I can’t actually see myself, I only have to look at her to know what she sees. But she’s reading it all wrong.
“Where did you go tonight?” she asks.
“I told you, Jas’s dad’s restaurant.” I look at the ground, which I know makes me look even more guilty, but if I look directly at her I’ll cry. And I don’t want her to see me do that and know the real truth. Because the real truth is much worse than what she’s thinking. The real truth is that I’m a big geek, and a total dork, and I’ve made a complete fool of myself.
So you can see how I’d rather just have her think I’ve been involved in some adolescent shenanigans.
“Have you been drinking?” she whispers, looking nervously upstairs where I assume my father is sleeping off his jet lag.
“Yes,” I say. I mean, why bother lying at this point?
“How much did you have?” she demands.
“I don’t know. One? Two glasses of wine?”
“Any drugs?” She eyes me suspiciously.
“No, okay? Now can I please just go upstairs?” I look at her briefly then back at the ground.
“Rio, I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t like you hanging out with those kids. I think they’ll lead you down the wrong path.”
Oh, god. Wah wah wah. In my head I make her voice sound like the parents on the Charlie Brown Christmas special.
“And I don’t know why you reject perfectly nice girls like Kristi Wood,” she continues.
“Because girls like Kristi Wood aren’t exactly interested in hanging with me. They’re a pretty tight, exclusive group,” I say, my voice rising to dangerously high levels that could possibly disturb my father’s slumber.
“Well, maybe if you distanced yourself from the troubled kids you seem so fond of, the more popular kids would give you a chance. You know, Rio, water seeks its own level.”
She looks at me and I roll my eyes, but I do it when I’m looking at the ground again so that she can’t really see it.
“Why don’t you wear some of those nice clothes I buy you? Make an effort, and see what happens,” she says gently, but persuasively.
“Can I go now?”
“Yes. But, Rio, I don’t want you hanging with those kids anymore. Do you understand?”
I just nod my head and take the stairs two at a time.
Twelve
If you think that when I got to my room I threw myself on my bed (without washing my face or brushing my teeth), and just lay there and cried until I passed out like a big pathetic loser—well, you’d be right.
So you can only imagine how scary I look when my dad wakes me on Sunday morning.
“Rise and shine, kiddo,” he says.
And as I roll over and open one eye, I briefly catch the fleeting expression of horror on his face. So I know it’s bad because he’s a criminal-defense litigator, he’s used to seeing some ugly stuff.
He quickly recovers and clearing his throat, he says, “I thought we could run over to Roger’s Gardens after breakfast, it’s supposed to be the best plant nursery around.”
In an attempt to spare him from further shocking images, I’ve taken my comforter and thrown it over my face, so through a thick layer of goose down and a duvet cover with a really high thread count, I say, “I’ll be down in a minute.”
And he says, “Take your time.”
When he’s gone I roll out of bed and go into my bathroom. And when I look in the mirror I totally admire his self-restraint. A lesser person would have screamed.
Because what stares back at me is truly awful. My eyes are not only bloodshot, but puffed out to twice their normal size. And the ring of smeared black mascara that circles them looks like a police outline of a crime scene.
Which in a way, it is.
So I stand there and torture myself by staring at my own scary reflection. And I think: Dumbass! Yes, you standing there with the smeared makeup. You the one who said, “Oh, Jas, I’ve been waiting for this all night!” And then closed your eyes to receive a kiss that never came. How will you ever face him? Do you think he’s laughing? Of course, he’s laughing. He’s probably laughing this very moment, with Monique! And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it because the words are out there and you can’t take them back! A
ll you can do now is get your pathetic, dumbass self into the shower and try to salvage some crumb of dignity. It won’t be easy, but you better do it. Because if you don’t, then you’re a bigger dumbass than even you think!
So my dad’s driving down the Pacific Coast Highway and I’m getting glimpses of the ocean between the clusters of gated communities with their giant McMansions and tiny, little yards, and I’m feeling really happy that it’s just us, and that my mom’s not here. Because when I’m feeling this bad about myself I usually don’t want to be around her. But my dad understands, because he’s a geek, too.
It’s like, if my house was a high school then my mom would be the prom queen, my dad would be the bramiac, and I would be the big weirdo art geek.
And my mom would refuse to eat lunch with either of us.
When he turns onto MacArthur Boulevard he says, “So, kiddo, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want, but from the looks of you this morning you either had too much fun last night or not nearly enough.”
And because it’s just us, I answer truthfully. “It was the latter,” I say, doing a double take as we drive past a bakery that’s just for dogs.
“Wanna talk about it?”
I peer at him through the sunglasses he suggested I wear to hide the evidence that lingered long after I showered, and I know that if I want to get this off my chest, now’s my only chance, since by tomorrow he’ll be back on a plane to New York. And even though I’ve always bypassed my mom and gone straight to him with all of my problems, it feels kind of weird now. I mean, before it was always about stuff at school like grades, and projects, and friends. It was never about a guy. And I’m just way too embarrassed to talk to him about stuff like that.
So I look over and just as I’m about to lie and say I’m okay, he looks at me and smiles. And I break down and tell him everything.
Well, almost everything. I mean, I leave out the more humiliating moments that are really damaging to me. You know, like detention and falling down and the infamous “wardrobe malfunction” in Jas’s kitchen. But he gets the gist.
“Sounds like you really like this boy,” he says.
I shrug.
“Do you want me to go after him? Get an arrest warrant issued?” He smiles.
“What? For reckless disregard and endangerment of my poor teenage heart?” I say, laughing.
“I’m sure we can find a statute for it.” He looks at me.
“Nah. I’ve decided not to press charges. I’m moving on.”
“You sure?” he asks, parking the Range Rover and opening the door.
“Definitely. Now, let’s go look at some plants.” And when I get out of the car I give him a big smile.
But I’m not sure I’ve convinced either one of us.
So we ended up with four small palm trees, two hanging fuchsias, a couple pots of different decorative grasses, six trays of annuals, several curly bamboo stalks for my room, and a climbing rosebush for my mom.
It’s getting pretty late in the afternoon and we’re still in the backyard planting and planning for what we’ll buy next time, when my mom comes out and goes, “I just don’t get your attraction to dirt.” Then she smiles and sets down a tray of iced teas.
“It’s not dirt,” my dad tells her. “It’s nature.”
“And just what does a city boy like you know about nature?” She vamps, shaking her blond shoulder-length hair, and approaching him with her old runway walk, with hips leading and swiveling.
Oh, god, they’re flirting again. Gross.
I watch my dad, with his face all tan from a day in the sun, and his gray-streaked hair messed-up and matted with sweat, and I guess I never really noticed before, but he’s actually pretty handsome. I mean, he’s just my dad you know, so it’s not like I’m used to looking at him objectively.
Well, his clothes are all covered in dirt, but he spreads his arms wide and chases after my mom, trying to hug her. So she squeals and darts around the patio in her little kitten-heeled shoes, pretending like she’s running away. But of course she lets herself get caught. Then they hug and kiss and laugh and even though it totally grosses me out, I guess in a way it’s kind of nice. I mean, at least they’re not screaming at each other like Hud’s parents used to.
And then it hits me: My dad’s a brainiac geek, but who did he marry?
Another brainiac? No!
An art geek? No!
He married the prom queen!!!!!!
Ohmygod. Even the smart ones want the one that’s not so smart. And if you don’t believe me then here’s the proof:
Exhibit A: My dad and my mom.
Exhibit B: Jas and Monique.
Okay, I don’t really know that Monique’s not smart, but what I do know is that the first thing a guy’s gonna think when she walks into a room isn’t “nice brain.”
I quickly wash my hands under the hose, kick off my shoes because they’re all full of mud, and make a run for the house.
My parents both turn and look at me, and in perfect unison they go, “Where are you going?”
“My room. I have work to do!” I yell, running through the open French doors.
Thirteen
The next morning when I’m walking down the stairs so my mom can drop me off before she takes my dad to the airport, she sees me and goes, “Are you really wearing that to school?” She looks shocked.
Damn. I knew I went too far. I never know when to stop. “Should I change?” I ask, suddenly dreading her professional critique.
“No, you look amazing!”
“I do? Really?” I ask, wondering if she’s just saying that.
“I can’t believe you’ve never worn that skirt before. You’re lucky you got my legs,” she says, as my father walks into the room.
“Don’t you have uniforms at this school?” he asks, in mock dismay.
“Nope, they let us wear whatever we want.”
“Well, he won’t know what hit him,” he whispers, as we walk out the door.
“That’s the plan,” I say, catching a fleeting glimpse of my Burberry plaid miniskirt, my favorite black motorcycle boots, and tight black turtleneck sweater as I pass by the mirror on my way out.
When I get to English I’m really nervous. All the bravado I felt in the Range Rover is long gone, and I’m wishing I’d just stayed in the safety zone of my usual jeans, ponytail, no makeup, and contraband sweatshirt.
When Kristi sits next to me she does a complete double take. “Nice skirt,” she says, eyeing it with approval.
“Thanks,” I say. Then risking an actual conversation I go, “How was the dance?”
“Boring. But, you know.” She rolls her eyes.
And I nod my head and roll my eyes too, like I really do know Even though I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Then like the complete dork that I am, I spend the next fifteen minutes trying to think of something else to say. Because if I can just come up with something good, then maybe she’ll invite me to hang at her locker after class. And we can stand around, laughing at an inside joke, while all the hot guys flirt with us. And then maybe Jas will walk by, see me surrounded by hotties, and—
So when Mrs. Abbott calls on me and asks, “Rio, can you tell us what it means when the characters in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises are referred to as ‘the lost generation’?” I’m caught completely off guard.
And in an attempt to stall for time I go, “Um, sorry? What was the question?” As I quickly scan the back of the book looking for the answer.
So Mrs. Abbott repeats it. And when she’s done I go, “They’re referring to the post-World War I generation, and their moral bankruptcy, godlessness, and lack of illusions,” I say, paraphrasing what I just read.
And she goes, “Why do you say that?”
And I go, “Because that’s what it says on the back of the book.” Then everyone starts laughing. And Kristi looks over at me and smiles.
And even though Mrs. Abbott doesn’t think it’s one bit funny,
I have to admit, it was totally worth it.
When class is over I’m still feeling pretty good about making everyone laugh. I’m walking right behind Kristi and when we start to veer off in separate directions, she turns and goes, “Ciao, Brazil.”
And I go, “Ciao, Kristi!” Then I give her this big smile and wave, even though she’s long gone and no longer looking at me. But I just continue to stand there, like a dog hanging out a car window, grinning into air.
I walk into Art just as the bell is ringing. And if I’m gonna be honest, then I have to admit that I timed it like that on purpose so that Jas could look up and see the new me. You know, kind of like the much anticipated, climactic moment in one of those makeover shows.
And then what?
He forgets about the stupid, “Oh, Jas, I’ve been waiting …” comment?
He falls in love?
Drops Monique?
‘Cause that’s not what happened.
What happened was he didn’t even look up. He just kept right on sketching and when my chair made that scraping noise against the concrete floor, he mumbled, “Hey, Rio.”
“Hey, Jas!” I say, all overanimated.
And with all of my might I think: Look up! Look up! Look at me!
But nothing happens.
So after sitting there for a while, straining to be noticed, I give up and go over to the wall where my smock is hanging. And when I’m all wrapped and tied and completely covered up, Mason comes rushing through the door yelling, “Sorry I’m late!” Then she sits next to me and throws her bag down all dramatic. And that’s when Jas decides to look up and smile at both of us.
Oh, now he sees me. Now that I’m all covered up in this paint-splattered nun’s habit.
I give up.
Really.
It’s so not worth it.
So I turn to Mason and say, “Zane seems really nice.” And I smile. Because I’d really like to get to know her better, I think we have a lot in common.