“Aw, man, I hate Concordia Prep,” Marshall says. “They’re all a bunch of stuck-up jerks.” He holds his fist up to the guy next to him and waits for a pound.
“I used to go there,” Kelsey says.
“Oh,” Marshall says. “I didn’t mean you.” He’s talking to her chest. “But their football team really is a bunch of shits.”
“It’s okay,” Kelsey says, “but that’s kind of the point. I mean, you can’t tell just from looking at someone where they go to school or whether or not you should be friends with them.”
I like the way she says it. It’s not corny, the way it could be. I see a lot of the kids nodding, and then we all start throwing out ideas for a letter we can send to the president of the student council at Concordia Prep, so that we can invite a bunch of them to our school and see what happens.
• • •
On our way out of the meeting, I tell Kelsey she did great. She really did, too. Totally in control, never letting things get cheesy, and never putting up with shit from anyone while at the same time not being a total control-freak ball buster.
“Thanks,” she says. She looks happy and excited, her cheeks flushed from her success. She shifts her bag on her shoulder. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say, “see you tomorrow.” I feel like we should go out and get some food, a burger, something, because I feel like we accomplished a lot in there. Even if the only thing I did was lend my name and make some posters. But the moment to invite her has passed, and she’s already walking away. And then I notice that she’s walking toward the row of late buses.
“Hey,” I say, jogging up to her. “You need a ride home?” I’m trying to sound nonchalant, even though I really want her to say yes.
“No thanks,” she says, “I have a ride.”
“The bus?”
“Yes, the bus. What’s wrong with the bus?” Then she nods. “Oh, I get it,” she says. “You’re a bus snob.”
“A bus snob?”
“Yeah, one of those people who’s had a car since, like, forever, and so you can’t imagine taking the bus. Or any other kind of public transportation.”
“Not true,” I say. “I am not a snob about buses. I love buses. Especially late buses.” I’ve never ridden the late bus, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be a fan, but whatever.
“Really?” We’re in front of the bus now and she turns around and looks at me. “How old were you when you got your car?”
I think about lying, but she’s not stupid. “I got it on my sixteenth birthday,” I admit. “Well, technically, I got it the night before. There had been this mix-up on the lot, and so the guy dropped it off at eight at night instead of eight in the morning. My mom was not pleased, she had this whole surprise planned with eggs Benedict and . . .” I stop talking because she’s staring at me, her eyebrows raised incredulously.
“Goodbye, Isaac,” she says, and starts to get on the bus.
“Wait.” I grab her arm. “If you won’t let me drive you home, then I’m going to take the bus with you.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I can’t have you going around thinking I’m some kind of transportation snob. It’s not good for our friendship.”
“So we’re friends now?”
Do friends kiss? “Aren’t we?”
She thinks about it. Like, really thinks about it. She looks really cute when she concentrates. “I guess so,” she says. “Except for the fact that you were kind of rude to me the other day.”
“Let me make it up to you,” I tell her.
“How?”
“By riding the bus home with you?”
“You don’t really want to do that.”
“No. I don’t really want to. But I will. As penance.” I start to hop up the stairs. “Hello,” I say to the driver. He’s actually getting kind of annoyed because he wants to get on his way, and he can’t with us just standing there.
“On or off,” he says. And he’s pretty grouchy about it too. Which makes a lot of sense, since he’s a bus driver. They’re always in a perpetual state of being pissed off. The dude probably needs to get laid.
“On or off?” I ask Kelsey, holding my hand out to her.
“Off,” she says emphatically, and my heart sinks. “Because you’re driving me home.”
I smile.
• • •
“You want to drive?” I ask as we make our way over to the student parking lot.
“You’d let me drive your car?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?” Normally, I wouldn’t let anyone touch my car. It’s a black BMW, and I love it. I used to call it “baby” when I first got it, but that’s pretty corny. So I stopped. Plus chicks used to get really pissed off because I never called them “baby.” And then they’d be all, “Why do you love your car more than me?” and blah, blah, blah.
“Because you love this car,” Kelsey says.
“How do you know I love it?”
“It’s obvious,” she says. “You’re always staring at it adoringly.”
“I am?” Huh. “Well, whatever. Do you want to drive or not?”
“Sure.” She holds her hand out for the keys, and as soon as they’re in her palm, I’m kind of regretting it. But I push my trepidation down and head over to the passenger side. It’s weird, opening the door on the passenger side of my own car.
“You were really going to let me drive?” she asks, looking at me over the top of the car.
“Yeah. What, you don’t want to anymore?” I’m kind of relieved. In fact, if she says she doesn’t, I’m not even going to try to convince her to do it. I’m just going to take the keys back.
“No, I do,” she says. “It’s just . . . I can’t.”
“Why not? I already said you could.” So much for not trying to convince her. It’s just that she looks so forlorn, like she really wants to drive and is really going to be upset if she can’t.
“I know,” she says. She walks around to the passenger side of the car so that she’s standing right in front of me. It’s all I can do not to reach out and pull her close to me. That’s how freakin’ cute she looks. Which is a very new feeling for me. Usually when I have the urge to pull girls close, it’s because I want to have sex with them. I want to pull them close and get them naked. Not pull them close just to have them close, the way I want to do with Kelsey. God, I must really be losing it.
She’s holding the keys out to me and I almost don’t trust myself to take them. But finally I do. Her fingers brush against my palm, and it’s like a burst of flames rushes up my hands and through my arms.
“I don’t have a license,” she says.
“You don’t have a license?” I cannot comprehend this. Everyone has a license. It’s, like, a rule that you get a license when you turn sixteen. “Everyone has a license,” I tell her.
“Not me. I failed my test twice.”
“You don’t know how to drive?”
She shakes her head.
“Why not?”
“Dunno.” She shrugs. “I guess I never really had anyone to teach me.”
“Your parents?”
She shakes her head again and then stares down at the pavement, which makes me think it might not be the best idea to delve into that. Shit with parents is the last thing I want to talk about, anyway.
“Well, we need to fix that,” I say. The words are out of my mouth before I even realize what I’m saying, and I kind of want to take them back, but mostly I don’t. I hand the keys back to her. “I’ll teach you.”
“You’ll teach me how to drive?”
“Yup.” I’m opening the passenger door now, and I drop down into the seat. Definitely better buckle up for this one. Girls are horrible drivers. I know that probably sounds sexist, but it’s true. I’ve been in two accidents, both of them in the parking lots of my old schools, both of them with girls who weren’t paying attention and/or just didn’t understand anything about spatial relations.
&n
bsp; Kelsey leans down so that she’s looking at me through the open window. Her hair brushes against the bottom of the window frame, and she’s so close it would be easy to just pull her toward me and kiss her.
“I can’t drive!” she says, and opens my door.
“Yes, you can.” I shut it.
“What if I crash your car?”
“You won’t.”
“But what if I do? This car looks superexpensive.”
“It’s actually not as expensive as you would think,” I lie.
“Still.” She looks doubtful. “What if I crash it? I can’t pay for it.”
“That’s what insurance is for.”
“But I’m not on your insurance.”
“No,” I say, “but I am. And if you crash it, then I’ll just say I did it. Now, are you going to get in or not?”
She starts to shake her head, but then she catches my eye. And I want her to go for it. I want her to drive my car. And not just because I want to spend more time with her. I mean, yeah, I do want to spend more time with her, and I have to admit that suddenly something about the thought of her behind the wheel of my car is pretty sexy.
But more than that, I just have this weird feeling that it would be good for her, that if she can drive and be good at it, she might get a little of her confidence back. I don’t know how I know her confidence is down, or how I know it would be good for her to get it back, but I do.
“Okay,” she says finally, nodding.
And the next thing I know, she’s in the driver’s seat next to me.
Before
Kelsey
This is not good. This is a horrible disaster just waiting to happen. I can’t drive Isaac’s car! I’ve hardly ever even driven. Like, ever in my life. I have my permit, but that’s only because all you have to do to get your permit is study this little booklet and then go down to the DMV and take a written test. A multiple-choice written test, where they basically ask you things like what color light means caution. Seriously, you pretty much have to be an idiot to fail.
But being behind the actual wheel of an actual car? I’ve only done that a few times, when my dad took me out to try to teach me how to drive. Which was definitely not the best time I’ve ever had, mostly because I’m a really bad driver. My dad was nice about it (this was before I got kicked out of school, and before he thought I was a total failure), but I would still get really frustrated. And then I would come home and cry. I tried to take my road test anyway, mostly because by the time I realized I was a horrible driver, it was already scheduled. I failed it. So I took it again. And failed it again.
I’ve always really wanted to be able to drive, though. I mean, who doesn’t? Driving equals freedom. Of course, even if I got my license, it’s not like I have the money for a car. But if I’d still had my after-school job, who knows if I could have saved up enough to get one? At least some kind of junker. It would have been amazing.
Even though I’m supernervous, I have to admit that driving Isaac’s car is kind of a rush. At first we just circle the student parking lot. A couple of times he reaches out and grabs the steering wheel while I’m driving, which you’d think would be annoying, like he’s trying to take over, but it’s not. It’s more like he’s just looking out for me. Plus every time his fingers brush against mine, my stomach explodes with butterflies.
We’re going around the traffic circle in front of the school when it happens. I kind of, um, crash against the curb. There’s a scratching sound, and I slam on the brakes. “Ohmigod,” I say, feeling the blood drain out of my face. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
“It’s okay,” Isaac says, but he looks nervous, and even though he’s saying that it’s okay, he sounds scared.
I get out of the car and rush around to the other side so I can check the damage. Isaac’s out too, standing there and looking down.
“Is it bad?” I ask, not waiting for him to answer before I look myself. There’s a small scratch on the bottom of his car, on the passenger side near the tire. It’s not tiny, but it’s not big, either, and it’s just a scratch. No big dent. No smashed-in metal. I breathe out a huge sigh of relief.
“See?” he says. “No big deal.”
I don’t know why, but I’m holding my breath again, and I’m so, so happy that it’s nothing, that there’s nothing wrong with the car, that I start to cry.
I know. Lame. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. Maybe it’s because I’m so thankful that I won’t have to figure out how to pay for something superexpensive on top of everything else I’m dealing with. Maybe it’s because Isaac is being really nice to me, and I didn’t want to do anything to screw that up. Maybe it’s because my dad has been so hard on me lately that anytime I think I might be in trouble, it’s a huge relief when I’m not. Or maybe it’s just because for the past hour, while I’ve been driving around with Isaac, I haven’t thought about getting kicked out of school, or what happened with Rex, or me and Rielle, or anything else. I’ve just been having fun.
“Hey,” Isaac says. “Are you crying?”
“No.” I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. “I’m just relieved.”
“Come here.” He pulls me close to him, and I press my cheek against his chest. I can feel how hard his muscles are. Damn. The boys at Concordia Prep never had chests like that. At least, I don’t think they did. I wonder if Isaac works out a lot. He must. No one’s that muscular naturally. I bet he looks amazing with his shirt off. The thought of Isaac shirtless makes me catch my breath and makes my heart beat fast, and before I know what’s happening, I’m looking up at him.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m usually not so crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” he says.
“You don’t?”
“No.” He pushes a strand of hair off my face.
“Well, I am.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” he says. And now his lips are right there, like, two inches away from mine and ohmigod I want to kiss him. The moment is perfect, with us pushed up against his car, and the late-afternoon sun streaming through the trees around the parking lot. There’s a light breeze that’s ruffling his hair, and it smells like summer even though it’s fall.
I shiver again, and he pulls me closer, and now his lips really are right there, and I’m just about to go crazy from wanting him to kiss me when he finally does.
He brushes his lips against mine, keeping them there for a long beat and then pulling away. He looks into my eyes, asking me if it’s okay without saying anything, and I keep my gaze on his, letting him know, until he kisses me again.
This time the kiss is longer, but still sweet. His lips are perfect. He tastes like mint gum and strawberries, and I lose myself in the moment.
When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against mine. “I think I should drive home,” he says, and grins. “You know, just in case.”
“Fine,” I say. “But I get shotgun.”
Before
Isaac
After I drop Kelsey off, I can’t stop thinking about her. I didn’t want to drop her off. I wanted to hang out with her more, but I’m supposed to be home tonight for some dipshit dinner that my dad has planned. My dad’s always scheduling dipshit dinners at the worst possible time, like when I’ve just kissed a girl I really like. He has some kind of ability to know exactly when I’m having fun.
Anyway, these dinners are usually with people who are big campaign contributors, or people who are in charge of some big cause that my dad is about to fuck over, and so he has them over to make them think that he’s taking what they have to say into consideration before he votes for some measure that’s going to cut their funding.
Technically, I don’t really have to be at these dinners since they have nothing to do with me. But my dad likes to have me there because it makes it seem like we’re one big happy family.
“Isaac,” he says, all smiles when I walk in the door. Our guest is there already. Some douche b
ag wearing a suit and tie. They’re both holding glasses of scotch, which my dad thinks is really impressive. Seriously, the dude loves to pull out his expensive scotch and be all, “Would you like some of this expensive scotch that’s meant to make you think I’m cultured and refined?”
“I’d like you to meet George Donahue,” my dad says.
I reach out and shake George Donahue’s hand, giving him a smile. It’s not his fault my dad’s a shit. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” he says. “You might know my son, Kevin Donahue? He’s at Taft.”
“Yeah, I know Kevin,” I say. “He’s a good dude.”
My dad gives me a sharp look, I guess because I used the word “dude.” But honestly, if this guy is Kevin Donahue’s dad, he’s not going to care. Kevin Donahue and I were never close while I was at Taft (I got kicked out after a couple of weeks because of a fight—they have a zero-tolerance policy for fighting there, which is ridiculous, especially when most of the guys there are assholes who deserve a good beat down), but he was always really friendly to me and seemed like a really chill, laid-back guy.
“Your father tells me you just started at Concordia Public,” George says. “Good for you. I always wondered if Kevin would be better off at public school.” He shakes his head. “But his mother was insistent.”
I give him a sympathetic smile, and the three of us stand there for a while making small talk until my mom pokes her head into the family room.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says. She’s wearing a black dress and her hair is up in a bun. “Hi, Isaac,” she says, “I’m glad you’re home.”
“The food smells wonderful,” George says, carrying his scotch with him as he walks toward the dining room.
“Chicken cordon bleu,” my mom says.
We all start following George, and on the way I hear my dad whisper angrily to my mom, “I thought you were making filet mignon.”
“I was,” she says, “but by the time I left work, there wasn’t enough time to stop at the butcher. I had a big client meeting and—”