“There he is,” I say, cutting off Marissa as she’s about to launch into a long spiel involving the reasons Jeremiah is not just using her for sex. My voice sounds all strained, like I’m trying to talk around a mouthful of marbles.
“What?” Clarice asks. She leans in closer and I raise my voice to be heard over the music.
“There. He. Is,” I say. “Don’t look.” But of course the two of them do look, turning around on their swivel chairs until they’re facing him. Cooper looks up and locks eyes with me, and I quickly look away.
“Oh. My. God,” I say to Clarice and Marissa. “Is he … what is he doing, is he coming over here?”
“Um, no,” Clarice says. “He’s just …” she frowns, “… sitting.”
“Is he with anyone else?” I ask. “Do you see Tyler? Or any of the 318s?” The 318s are this secret society at our school, a sort of high school fraternity composed of all the most popular (and jerkiest, IMO), guys at our school. No one knows exactly why they’re called the 318s, although the rumor is that the original three founding members had had sex with eighteen girls between them, and they apparently thought it would be a real hoot to incorporate that into their name.
Anyway, no one’s supposed to know who their members are, but it’s pretty much common knowledge that Tyler Twill is their president. And once you know that, you can kind of figure out who’s in by who’s hanging out with him. Although of course they’d never admit it. But I happen to know for a fact that Cooper is one of their members. They’re the ones who made him do the totally ridiculous, despicable thing that he did to me a few weeks ago. It was part of his initiation task.
“He seems like he’s alone,” Marissa says.
“Do you see my notebook anywhere?” I ask.
“Um, no,” Marissa says. “I don’t see a notebook anywhere. It could be on the seat next to him though.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know,” Marissa says. “If this is some kind of game, then he definitely wouldn’t bring it with him. Cooper Marriatti’s a lot of things, but he’s not stupid.”
“Or ugly,” Clarice says, sighing. I glare at her, even though she’s, of course, right. Cooper isn’t ugly. He’s really hot. But still. So not the time to bring it up.
“First of all,” I say, starting to feel angry. “He actually is kind of that stupid, because anyone who would get involved with the 318s cannot be that smart. And second of all, he really isn’t even that cute.” Lie, lie, lie. “Did I ever tell you about the scar on his stomach? He’s totally deformed.”
Clarice and Marissa go all quiet and look at each other nervously, because of course I’ve told them about the scar on Cooper’s stomach and of course I’ve told them about how sexy it is.
He got it while he was snowmobiling and he fell off and the snowmobile RAN HIM OVER and Cooper didn’t even go to the hospital until later when they found out he had internal injuries. Of course, it’s totally possible that I just (used to) think the scar was sexy because of what we were doing the first time I saw it. I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“And furthermore,” I say, “I really wish you two would stop looking at each other like that. It’s kind of rude.” I take another sip of my drink. A big sip. But whatever. What is it they call alcohol? Liquid courage? Good. Fine. I’ll take all the courage I can get right now, liquid or otherwise. “I will be right back,” I announce. And then I hop off my chair and march right over to where Cooper is sitting.
“Hey,” Cooper says when he sees me. He doesn’t even look nervous. In fact, he looks totally relaxed, his arms draped across the back of the huge booth he’s sitting in. Doesn’t he know that if you are alone, you’re not supposed to take a big booth that is meant for larger parties? What a jerk. Also, why isn’t he nervous? I could totally freak out on him if I wanted. I would have a right to freak out on him, in fact, after what he did to me. I could … I don’t know … punch him or scream at him or make a big scene, even.
“Give it back,” I demand and hold my hand out. Maybe he’ll get more nervous if he sees I’m bossing him around, that I am obviously a force to be reckoned with.
“I don’t have it,” Cooper says. He moves over in the booth, then pats the seat next to him and motions for me to sit down. I look over my shoulder to where Clarice and Marissa are sitting and then slide in next to him.
“So what’s the deal?” I ask. “What is this about?” Our legs are touching underneath the table, and I want to pull mine away, but I don’t. Not because I want to keep my leg against his, God no, but because I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of pulling my leg away.
“Eliza,” he says, leaning in close and whispering in my ear. His breath tickles my skin, and I can smell the familiar scent of Cooper—mint toothpaste and hair gel and some kind of yummy smelling cologne. “You’re going to get your notebook back, but you’re going to have to do what they say.”
“Do what they say?” I look at him. “Do what who say?” Even though I of course already know who he’s talking about.
“You know, Tyler and all of them.” Cooper moves away from me then and looks at a spot across the room. I follow his gaze and see Tyler standing in the corner, huddled around a high-topped table with a bunch of his friends. Ugh. This is like my worst nightmare. I close my eyes and count to three, but when I open them, I’m still here.
“Look,” I say. “If you think I’m going to participate in some weird, sick little game of yours, then you’re wrong.” I look him right in the eye. “I already did that, remember?” Cooper has the decency to look away then, at least. Probably because he knows it’s true, and he can’t really dispute the truth. I reach down and rub my leg. It’s still tingling from where he was touching it.
Cooper’s phone starts to go off then. A text message. He looks at the phone and then looks at me.
“You have to ask a guy here to dance,” he says. He scans the crowd. “That one.” He points to an extremely good-looking guy at the table across from us. He’s blond and wearing a blue button-up shirt and khaki pants. Tan skin. Expensive looking haircut. Not someone I would ever ask to dance. Mostly because I would never ask anyone to dance, but if I did, it would definitely not be that guy.
“I’m not,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Doing that.”
“Then they’re going to put your notebook online,” he says.
I blink at him, positive I’ve heard him wrong. “They’re going to put my notebook online?” What the fuck is wrong with these people? I mean, honestly. “What the fuck is wrong with these people?” I ask.
“They’re pissed,” he says. “That you posted that thing about me online and kept me from getting into Brown. Plus you outted me.”
“Outted you?”
“Yeah, outted me. As being one of the 318s.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Cooper shrugs, downs the rest of his drink, and then gets up and crosses the room over to where the 318s are sitting. I’m left sitting at the huge booth by myself. I look down at the seat, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Cooper did bring the notebook and maybe he left it by accident. But of course the seat is empty.
I make my way back to Clarice and Marissa, my head spinning from the warmth of the club and the buzz of the alcohol and the shock of what just happened.
“What did he say, what did he say?” Clarice asks. She’s out of her seat and jumping around, hopping back and forth from one foot to the other, back and forth on her high silver sandals.
“He said,” I say, “that I have to ask that guy to dance.”
“What guy?” Marissa asks. I point him out.
“Oooh, he’s cute,” Clarice says. “Lucky girl.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Marissa says, obviously a little quicker on the uptake than Clarice. “Why would they ask you to ask that guy to dance?”
“I don’t know,” I say, staring at him. “Maybe he’s a crazy stalker or something, and they know if I ask him to dance, I’ll end u
p in a dumpster somewhere, killed and dismembered.”
But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize that’s not the reason. And that’s because I remember something. Something from my purple notebook. Something I wrote last year, one night after Kate came home from Cure and it seemed like she had a really, really fun time. And that was, “Show up at Cure in a sexy outfit and ask the hottest guy there to dance.”
And then I get it. The 318s have somehow decided to make me do the things that are in my notebook. All the things I’m afraid of. The things I’ve been writing since the seventh grade. And if I don’t, they’re going to post the notebook online, and everyone at school, no, everyone with an Internet connection, will know all my secrets. For a second, it feels like my throat swallows up my heart, and my breath catches in my chest. There’s only one thing left to do. I put my head in my hands and start to cry.
Chapter Three
8:03 p.m.
This whole thing is pretty much my own fault. I mean, if I hadn’t been stupid enough to think that Cooper Marriatti really wanted to date me, then I wouldn’t be in this mess. But when he showed up at my work that day, he looked so cute and he seemed so nice and I guess I wanted to believe it so badly and so I did.
I work part-time at a paintball park, so it wasn’t like I’d never had a hot guy come in before. In fact, it seemed like all we got there were hot guys. Of course most of them didn’t pay any attention to me, and a lot of them had, you know, rage problems which is why they were there playing paintball in the first place.
But something about Cooper was different. The way he leaned against the front counter and talked to me, the way he asked me tons of questions about paintball even when it became obvious that he already knew what he was doing.
Of course I knew who Cooper was—but I’d never actually paid much attention to him. He was the guy other girls drooled over, the kind of guy who’d go for my sister, Kate. I never really let myself crush too much on guys like that—they were to be admired from afar, like a painting or an actor on TV.
After Cooper played a round of paintball, he came back into the shop and spent the day with me, talking and laughing and getting me sodas from the snack bar. And when he asked me what time I got off work and if I wanted to hang out, I said yes. So he took me out to dinner and even walked me to my door when he dropped me off. The next morning at school, he was waiting for me at my locker.
It was only six weeks later, when I started getting in my head a little bit, that I decided to go through his stuff one day when we were at his house, studying. It wasn’t my fault that I was going crazy. It was everyone else’s. I could tell people at school couldn’t figure out how someone like me ended up with Cooper Marriatti. And it made me all paranoid.
So Cooper was downstairs getting a drink of water or something, and I was supposed to be working on my history homework, but instead I decided to try and break into his email, and when I couldn’t figure that out, I went the old-fashioned way and just started going through his drawers. And that’s when I found it. The 318s’ initiation sheet outlining how Cooper was dating me as his initiation task. He was getting all these points for doing certain things with me, like kissing me was five points, etc. And when he got to a certain number of points, he was in.
I freaked and yelled and screamed and Cooper tried to calm me down, but I wouldn’t listen. I stormed out of his house, telling myself I would never talk to him again, but hoping he would at least try to call me. He didn’t. That was three and a half weeks ago, and until tonight, we haven’t talked.
“I am so stupid,” I moan to Clarice and Marissa now. I mean, really. I’m in the National Honor Society for God’s sake; how could this happen to me? Not to mention that I totally should have learned my lesson about losing things. Although. Now that I think about it. I think my purple notebook was in my locker. They probably broke into my locker and TOOK IT.
“No, you’re not,” Marissa says. “You were just a victim of the blatant misogynistic and ridiculous hierarchy that is high school in contemporary society. You have to take the power back.”
“Okay, I’m not really sure what that means,” Clarice says. She frowns and looks at Marissa. “Can you just say it in English please? Because honestly, it’s not—”
Suddenly, Marissa cuts her off. “Ohmigod,” she says, grabbing my arm. “OH. MY. GOD.”
“What?” I say. “Ow, you’re hurting my arm.” I wipe the tears off my face with the back of my hand and straighten up, trying to pry her fingers off of me.
“It’s Jeremiah,” she says. “JEREMIAH IS AT THIS CLUB.”
“Okay,” I say. Ow, ow, ow. Her fingers are digging into my arm and, hello, it hurts.
“He is over there with Julia Concord, what is he doing with Julia Concord?”
“I think y’all probably know the answer to that,” Clarice says, because, you know, Julia Concord is kind of … well, let’s just say she doesn’t discriminate when it comes to hooking up. One time last year they found her giving some guy a blow job during a pep rally. They weren’t even trying to be that discreet about it either. They were totally just under the bleachers, going at it.
“That jerk!” Marissa yells, slamming her fist on the table.
“Talk about a misogynistic hierarchy,” Clarice says. She’s texting on her phone, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “It’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. Guys will do anything they can to make you think they’re with you, and then they will run off and hook up with whoever and whatever they can get their hands on. That’s why it’s so important not to give it up.” She smiles, proud of herself.
Okay, we are really starting to get offtrack. The issue of the night is me, my notebook, and Cooper. Not Marissa and Jeremiah. Or Clarice and her views on teasing guys in an effort to make them fall in love with you.
“Hello!” I say. “Can we please focus here? I need to know more about taking the power back, like you said.” I hear the desperation in my own voice. “Please, seriously, I need to take the power back, HELP ME TO GET THE POWER BACK!” A couple of girls at the table next to us turn around to look. But honestly, who cares? I have bigger problems than what two randoms in tight shirts think of me.
“Okay, LOOK,” Marissa says. She spins my chair around until I’m facing her. “This whole secrecy thing is all well and good, but if you really expect us to help you, you have to tell us what is in the. God. Damn. Notebook.”
I take a deep breath and look down at my hands. “It’s just … it’s this list.” Then I look up and force myself to give them both my most dazzling smile, hoping this will suffice.
“List?” Clarice asks, her perfectly plucked eyebrows shooting up in interest. “Like of all the guys you’d hook up with if you weren’t worried about people calling you a slut?” Marissa and I stare at her. “Not that I have one of those or anything.” She studies her new pedicure. “I’m just saying that people could make one of those. Just in case.”
“No, it’s not about guys I want to have sex with. But it is a list.” I give them another smile.
“You already said that,” Marissa points out. She’s starting to look annoyed.
“Yeah, we get it, it’s a list,” Clarice says. “What kind of list though?”
“It’s this … list … ,” I say, “of everything I’m afraid to do. Of things I was going to do, that I am going to do, that I would do if …”
“If what?” Clarice prods.
“If I wasn’t afraid of anything,” I finish lamely.
“You mean like skydiving?” Clarice asks. She’s still looking at her toes. She reaches down and runs her finger over her polish. “Why did y’all let me buy drugstore nail polish? It always flakes.”
“No, not skydiving,” I say. “Not like physical fear, more like, you know, emotional fear.”
“Like going to a club and asking hot guys to dance,” Marissa says, getting it.
“Why would you be afraid of that?” Clarice asks. Her face c
rumples up in confusion, and she slides her legs out from under her. “That’s what you put in your notebook? That you’re afraid to ask some guys to dance?” She looks at me skeptically, like I’ve just announced I’m afraid to go to school or something. Which, actually, now that I think about it, isn’t that weird of a thing to be afraid of.
“Not, like, terrified of it,” I say defensively. Which is sort of a lie. I might not be terrified, but I’m definitely scared. Terrified means “I think I’m going to die” or something. And I don’t. At least, I don’t think I do. Do I think I’m going to die if I ask guys to dance? Am I crazy? Like, even crazier than I first thought? Ohmigod. I’m totally going to have to go on meds! Just like Brian Abbott, who fell asleep right in the middle of lunch and drooled on the cafeteria table because he was on Xanax! Of course, I don’t think it was prescription, but still.
“That’s completely normal,” Marissa says, nodding, and I relax a little. “To be nervous about that.” She looks at Clarice over the table. “I’d like to see you do it.”
Clarice shrugs and then pops up out of her chair. She smoothes her shirt down over her boobs, then takes a step toward the corner where the guy I’m supposed to be asking to dance is sitting.
“Noo!!” I almost scream, grabbing her arm. “You can’t ask that one to dance, I’m supposed to do it.”
“Fine,” she says, shrugging her tiny shoulders. “I’ll find someone else.” And then she disappears into the crowd, where I watch her make her way over to the opposite corner, ask some random guy to dance, and then lead him onto the dance floor. There’s hardly anyone else even dancing! Although it is getting a little busier in here. More and more people are streaming through the door, girls dressed in short skirts and dresses, guys in jeans and T-shirts. How come guys are allowed to wear jeans and T-shirts and girls have to wear heels and tight stuff? Of course, the more important question is why did I allow myself to be bossed into wearing heels and revealing stuff? It’s so not me. I sigh and try to pull the top of my shirt up a little.