Despite the sinister warning, every year someone busts through the laughable security measures and starts a nipple free-for-all. While I admit high school boys drooling over pictures of tits and disgusting beaver shots falls into the category of “totally lame,” there’s something even lamer about adults so clueless they can’t figure it out. Plus, it’s funny, and I root for funny every time.
Personally, I’m grateful for the free computer access. My loser lunch period goes by much faster when I can take my mind off the fact that I have no real friends and cruise around MySpace with my fake ones. Although, I must confess, I may be outgrowing that addiction.
I check in on the Stats’ Web site, curious to see if Dylan, their drummer and nerd extraordinaire, has posted any updates. Nothing.
I wonder if Oliver is calling me on Malice’s phone right now. Ugh. Malice should have let me skip school just so I could be there when Oliver calls back.
I move on to the Tour Scrapbook, which is a new addition to the site.
Ooh. So that’s where Dylan’s been posting the new goodies.
I scroll through the tour pics, all of which fall into one of three categories: (1) someone in the band playing onstage, usually bathed in blue light, occasionally red; (2) the band at some crummy restaurant eating cheap food; and (3) members of the band, sweaty from having just played a set, holding a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other while chatting with some random person they’ve clearly just met. Fans.
I don’t know how to explain it, but seeing pictures of Oliver makes me feel homesick for him. I didn’t know you could be homesick for a person, especially when they’re the one traveling. But I am. I guess Oliver is where my heart lives.
I glance at the printers near the library check-out desk, trying to gauge whether or not I can get away with covertly copying my favorite Oliver picture. I nearly die when I see it. He’s playing bass in classic Oliver head-down, hair-in-the-face mode, but you can see one of his eyes peeking out from under his mop, and he has a little smile. Like he’s trying to be cool, but he’s having so much fun he can’t help himself. And best of all, Oliver’s wearing my beloved Stryper shirt. Onstage!
I never thought a picture of ’80s metalheads in spandex pants could look so sexy, but when that image is stretched over the broad shoulders and chest of my boy on bass—swoonalicious.
But then, like some criminal act that changes your life forever, something goes wrong. Terribly wrong.
I notice another picture of my Stryper shirt. I can’t quite make out what’s going on in that small frame, but—
My heart races as I click on the thumbnail. The picture suddenly fills my screen with a brutal truth I’m not at all prepared for, as if I was skipping down the street on a sunny day and then—
whammo
—from nowhere, I got hit by a car.
My Stryper shirt is definitely in the picture, and so is Oliver, but he’s not wearing said Stryper shirt. Someone else is. A girl, a blond, smiling girl who I’d like to now and forever refer to as That Fucking Whore in My Stryper Shirt. And she is all over Oliver. Not just her hands and body but traces of her lipstick. And they look disgustingly happy.
Apparently Oliver had quite the good time with TFWIMSS. After a little more detective work, I see them in the background of a Hank picture, making out against the van.
Now that I think of it, getting hit by a car would have been better than this. At least I’d be unconscious by now.
Instead, I’m awake, wide awake. My entire body feels like it’s on fire, and I have to get the hell out of here. Away from this computer, this library, this school, this town, this planet.
I have to go.
Run Forest Run
S
tudies show that people in crises can achieve amazing feats of physical strength, which probably explains how I manage to sprint right past the school security guard and out the front door. Bodeen High supposedly has a zero-tolerance policy on things like a girl running out the front door in the middle of the school day, but a girl with a freshly broken heart blowing past security? They don’t stand a chance.
All I know is I have no idea where I’m going and I can’t stop running. I feel so raw the sun hurts, the breeze stings, and I can’t get away from this tidal wave of sudden pain that has me pinned against the shore.
What the fuck just happened?
My mind races with a highlight reel of all things Oliver—seeing him at the first derby bout when he was just Señor Smolder, listening to the Velvet Underground with him, the surprise of him standing in the Oink Joint parking lot, playing Stampede, talking at three
A.M
., kissing him, getting kissed by him, music, music, music, and laughing, laughing, laughing.
It was all a lie.
What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I good enough? And how could Malice be right?
I tried to be cautious, I tried to keep him at bay with sarcasm and innocent hang-outs to prove I wasn’t easy, to prove that I wasn’t going to fall all over myself just to be with a boy who plays guitar. I made him prove himself to me, I made him earn it—and he did. And then I gave it up to him: my trust, my heart, my soul, everything. I gave it up to him five times in his bedroom while I completely forgot about my best friend.
And now . . . I just wish I could get it back.
Low, Lower, Lowest
I
must’ve blacked out because I don’t know who or what brought me here. All I know is I’m sitting on the floor of a familiar-looking kitchen in front of a giant refrigerator door.
It occurs to me that I’m hungry. Well, not so much hungry as desperately feeling the urge to shove as much food as I can into my mouth to keep from screaming. Make sense? Of course not, but I’m in a painful free fall.
I yank open the fridge and start emptying its contents onto the floor around me until I strike gold with a Tupperware of leftover shepherd’s pie. I heart shepherd’s pie. I peel back the Saran Wrap cover and go to town.
I hear the faint jingling of keys in the distance but continue eating, trying to distract myself from all the hopeful “this must be some misunderstanding—Oliver really loves me” thoughts coming out of my mind.
It’s hard to lie to yourself if you’re a smart person, even when you feel stupid. Half-assed, needy explanations aren’t going to change what I now know about Oliver. I feel so . . . used.
I look up, and there she is—Brooke. I’m so loony right now, I didn’t even realize I was in my own house. That was not the plan. (Okay, there wasn’t a plan, per se, but I didn’t expect to end up here.)
She looks at me. I look at her.
I haven’t been home in three days, but it feels like three years. She can’t begin to imagine what I’ve been through. Like a cornered and confused animal, I start to panic, wanting to escape but unsure how.
I can’t even find my words. All I can say is “please, just—” before the Hoover Dam holding back my tears starts to crumble and out spills the tidal wave. I’m sure it gives her triumphant satisfaction to see me weeping uncontrollably in front of a tub of shepherd’s pie, but I can’t stop.
Brooke takes one step toward me, and I brace myself for whatever new round of fighting she’s about to suck me into. I don’t care if I’m grounded till I’m sixty-five, I just don’t have the energy right now. Whatever it is, she wins.
But something else happens. She throws her hand over her heart and sighs, “Oh, honeybunch . . .”
She kicks a tub of fake butter out of the way and kneels beside me. I’m crying so hard, it takes me several seconds to realize my mom’s arms are around me, rocking. She’s warm and soft and it feels so good, like I’m five years old and she’s scooping me up with her love.
You can laugh, but that’s the truth.
Maybe it’s some secret unspoken mother / daughter language, but even though I’ve never uttered a peep to her about Oliver, she seems to
just know
why I’m so devastated. She brushes my hair back and says only one thing. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve you.”
“Mom, I think I’m gonna die,” I say.
“No, you’re not.”
“No, really, I think I am. He gave her my Stryper shirt, and she was wearing it. How do you do that to someone?”
My mom just keeps hugging me, then says, “Stryper? I saw them when I was a freshman at Texas Christian. Good Lord, those boys had bigger hair than I did.”
I laugh. The idea of my mother rocking out to ’80s Christian heavy metal—singing along to “To Hell with the Devil”—is so accidentally cool. She has no idea.
Cupcake
O
kay, say it. Go ahead. I got my heart broken by _____ (I don’t say his name anymore), and the first thing I do is run home to my mommy. Well, so what? I don’t care if I’m uncool. I’m just trying to survive at this point. My heart’s on life support.
I get to my room and nap for about a thousand years, total sleep coma. As cool as being Malice’s temporary roommate is, I can’t get a good night’s sleep over there. This stupid room, in this stupid house, in this stupid town is where I sleep best. I guess it’s home. For now.
I wake up to one of my favorite smells, warm cupcakes. Mom knocks on my door and enters carrying a plate of fresh-baked (from scratch) chocolate cupcakes, with chocolate filling and chocolate frosting. They are a total sugar bomb, but soooo good on the rare occasion.
“Thanks, Mom, but I’m not really hungry,” I say.
She sets the plate down by my stereo. “In case you change your mind.”
I immediately do and reach for a cupcake.
My dad wanders in from the hall. “There you are.” He smiles. “You’re lucky you showed up. I was about to colonize your room myself. Turn it into a football-watchin’ room. Get me a flat screen and—”
I give him a “don’t you dare think about painting little footballs on bedroom walls” look, and he slugs me in the arm.
“Good to see ya back, kiddo.”
“Yeah, sorry I was such a bitch to you on the phone.”
Dad waves his hand like it was nothing. “Already forgotten.” He kisses my forehead, swipes one of my cupcakes, and leaves.
As my mom exits my room, she adds, “I think we can forget the grounding thing for now, don’t you?”
So, I guess the secret recipe for getting your parents to be cool is have a big fight, then run away, and return three days later an emotional train wreck. They can’t come down on you then. Which is nice. I don’t know if I could take it right now.
Getting my heart stomped by _____ is already punishment enough.
In light of such parental coolness, I decide to meet my mom halfway.
“Mom. If you really want me to be in the Miss Bluebonnet pageant, I will,” I say. She turns back.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to push you.”
“No. I want to do it,” I say, which is kind of a lie, but it’s not like it’s going to kill me. One last pageant hoorah. I’ll go out with a bang.
My mom perks up. “Well. That would do my heart good.”
Pash Part 2
I
figure if my mom and I can find some common ground, then there’s hope for me and Pash.
I get up early, dash over to her house, and sneak into the backseat of her car, lying in wait. She doesn’t even notice me when she chucks her books in the backseat as she gets ready to leave for school. The books barely miss making contact with my face. It is by the grace of her sloppy throwing skills that I still have my nose.
Pash starts the car and cranks up the Killers’ new CD (
What? I thought we agreed, except for the seductive charms of “Mr. Brightside,” that band was all hype.
)
I let her cruise a few blocks before I rise out of the backseat like a creature from a slasher flick. Pash screams and slams on the brakes.
“Dammit, Bliss. You scared the shit out of me!” she yells into her rearview.
“Sorry,” I offer. “I just had to talk where you couldn’t walk off or hang up. Plus, you never lock your doors, so consider this a lesson. What if I were some creepy guy? You would be so kidnapped right now.”
Pash rolls her eyes. “Just spit it out.”
“Look, I know I’ve been exiled from the Queendom of Pash and I totally deserve it. I’ve been a crappy friend, and no matter what happens, I just want you to know how sorry I am that I screwed up your GPA. That’s all.”
Pash slows at a stoplight, and I shimmy from the backseat to the front, opening the door to let myself out. At the last second, I feel a hand grip the back of my cardigan.
“Get back in here, you dork,” Pash says. And just like that, she reopens the pearly gates of her friendship.
“I missed you!” I beam as we hug.
“Missed you too. You’re lucky I’m still first in our class, or this would not have worked out.”
As much as best-friend purgatory blows, it feels so good to be forgiven that screwing up was almost worth it. Almost.
A Week Later
P
ash and I fall back into synchronized best-friend step, which provides much relief from my Miss Bluebonnet preparation. Nothing takes your mind off promenading down a long stage in a frock covered with appliqué bluebonnets like stealing tube socks from Wal-Mart. All of it helps keep my mind off _____ and his lying ways. It hurts if I think about it too long, and I don’t want to give him that power over me. He doesn’t deserve it.