Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters Page 7

  I call Em for a fashion consultation, and after a lot of back and forth, we agree on a perfect outfit. I wriggle into my new jeans and an amazing wrap sweater that I got with my Urban Outfitters gift card. I apply eyeliner in fabulous smoky-eye fashion, flatiron my hair, and dab on mint-infused, subtly tinted lip balm.

  I’m ready.

  Of course my lame dad insists that I have to take a car to the club with someone because the subway at night is too dangerous. Well, I certainly don’t want to go with Keith—that would seem very date-like, I think. Better to meet him there. I convince Cass to come over to my house so we can go together—despite what she said at lunch the other day, I know she doesn’t want to go with her gross brother.

  My mother is heading to a late work meeting of some sort and is devastated to only have a few minutes to gush about my “First Adult Dating Experience,” which, based on the eighty-seven photos my dad snaps with his new digital camera, is actually with Cass. My attempts to point out for the millionth time that this is not, in fact, a date fall on deaf ears.

  We finally leave. The second we get in the car, Cass goes, “So, do you think you’ll hook up with Keith tonight?”

  “Cass, this is not—”

  “I know, I know—it’s not a date. But still, like … maybe you’ll change your mind?”

  “Um, no, I will not change my mind, unless Keith magically transforms into Jordan. Besides, even if there were no Jordan, Keith is too short. And there’s that freaky eye thing …”

  “Kels, there is no eye thing. Keith’s eyes are totally normal.”

  “Cass, what’s your deal? I’m not into Keith. He’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t like him like that! Are you new?”

  Cass flops back in her seat, pouting. “Okay, fine, just asking. Don’t freak out or anything. Geeeeeez.” She passes me the water bottle she brought, which is filled with cranberry juice and the three drops of vodka she managed to swipe. I think the driver is onto us, but he doesn’t say anything.

  At the door to the club, we get the humiliating stamps that mark us as underage, and I text Keith, who comes out to find me. He looks nice, I guess, but he’s still no Jordan. Cass goes to find her brother, who is up in the nosebleed section somewhere, and Keith and I elbow our way to our unbelievable floor seats.

  Keith talks a mile a minute throughout the sucky opening band and I learn that he used to make model airplanes (weird), is allergic to melon (weirder), and wants to go to Yale (are people already thinking about college?). Sheesh. I didn’t know there was going to be quite so much sharing. So, what—am I supposed to show him the scar I got ice-skating and reveal my childhood fantasy of working at the McDonald’s drive-thru window?

  He hands me a little flask with his dad’s initials on it, and I take some and pass it back. Then there’s an earsplitting blast of feedback, all the lights go out, and a single spotlight hits the stage. The whole audience is silent, waiting, and when the Foreign Scarves finally come on, we all basically lose our minds. Everyone is bouncing around and dancing and mouthing the words to the first song, which is one of my all-time favorites.

  I take a second to glance around and see if I can spot Cass, but I don’t see her. Keith looks over at me and grins—oh, Lord. Did he think I was looking at him? He starts dancing very close to me and sort of flinging his arms around in a bizarre way, then offers me some gum for about the sixth time.

  I suddenly realize that there is no getting around it: Keith Mayhew is going to try to kiss me.

  Craaaaaap. What do I do now? It’s not like this is totally unfamiliar territory—I could’ve hooked up in middle school, with Keith or someone else I wasn’t that interested in. I just … I wanted my first kiss to be special, so I never let it happen. I mean, I think it’s a big deal, even if everyone says it doesn’t matter. But how long am I supposed to wait for Jordan to get it together? And should I maybe get some practice in before he does? But if I do make out with Keith, will I be able to live with the knowledge that I abandoned my fantasy of the perfect first kiss just because I didn’t want to be branded some kind of fourteen-year-old prude? And is this going to be a prolonged, tonguing sort of affair or just a kind of pecking situation?

  And then, before I can finish reviewing the complete list of pros and cons, Keith goes for it. He lunges in, and suddenly his tongue is flopping around inside my mouth like a fish dying on a dock.

  I think I may be choking to death. He tastes like … rum and Coke and spearmint gum. And panic. If a tongue could sweat, I think his would be.

  I extricate myself from his clutches and manage to squeak, “Keith! What are you doing?”

  “Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t help it, Kelsey—you just look so hot tonight, y’know?”

  Of course he has now said the perfect thing (note to self: wear smoky eyeliner every day from now on, even while sleeping) and I figure, Okay—I might as well give it another shot. So I kiss him, brimming with empowered-woman confidence.

  And it is still totally awful!

  What the hell? On TV it’s all delicate and nice-looking with the rare big slurpy-yet-sexy moment, but nothing like this mess. My chin is all wet and I think I’m going to barf if he doesn’t stop gagging me with his tongue. This can’t be right; he must be doing it wrong.

  I pull back, and he goes, “What’s wrong?”

  “Look, I don’t think you’re doing this right,” I tell him. “It’s way too much tongue or … something.” I attempt to wipe some of the spit off my cheek with my shoulder in a way that I hope isn’t too obvious. Blech.

  Keith glares at me and shouts over the band, “Well, it’s more like you’re not doing it right. Have you ever even made out before? My brother is in college, y’know, and he told me everything there is to know about Frenching when we were in seventh grade, so I think I know what I’m doing, Kelsey. But don’t worry—I’m happy to practice with you till you feel more confident about your skills.”

  First of all: Did he just say Frenching? Seriously? And second of all: He’s happy to practice with me? Really? Well, how thoughtful! Maybe I’ll buy him a model-airplane kit as a thank-you for his kind attention to my kissing education.

  Yeah. I’ll get right on that.

  I look at him witheringly for a sec and then say, “Keith, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” Of course, getting to the bathroom in this place will probably take an hour, which should give me enough time to think of a way to convincingly act like this never happened.

  I wonder if you can decide to be a kissing virgin again. No one saw. What if I pretend I didn’t just have a gross foreign tongue in my intestines and issue myself a well-deserved do-over?

  I shove through a million people and finally make it to what is clearly the world’s longest bathroom line. I take my phone out of my pocket, contemplating sending a text to Em. But what can I say in a text that could possibly convey the level of anxiety I’m currently dealing with? Writing GAAAAAAAAH!!! just about sums up my feelings but might be somewhat unclear. Better to call her later when I’ve figured out what my story is, anyway.

  I look back toward the stage, where the lead guitarist is playing an unbelievable improvised solo. I cannot believe I’m missing it! Stupid Keith. Stupid me.

  I scope out the line again, which is down to about half a million people now. I move forward two inches. My pocket buzzes with a text from Keith, which reads: R U coming back? I respond: Huge line, and snap the phone shut.

  The two girls in front of me start giggling, pointing up at the balcony behind us, and I look up to see what’s so funny: it’s a couple making out like they just invented it. Is that how I looked when I was with Keith? Horrors.

  The guy starts sucking his partner’s neck like a crazed vampire, and one of the girls ahead of me in line snorts derisively.

  “I know, get a room, right?” I say to her. It’s always nice to make friends in the bathroom line.

  “Seriously!” she replies. “I mean, if you’re gonna spend a hund
red bucks, it might as well involve a bed, right?”

  I laugh, looking back up at the balcony. Then the stage lights do a sweep over the audience, and for a moment, the girl’s face is illuminated.

  It’s Cassidy. My Cassidy.

  And she’s kissing …

  Jordan Rothman.

  My stomach drops to my knees.

  14

  I feel like I’m in a vacuum—there’s absolutely no sound. And my eyes aren’t working right; it’s like, instead of being twenty feet above my head, Cassidy’s and Jordan’s faces are right in front of me, kissing passionately in slow motion so I can see every little detail.

  I’m vaguely aware that the girl I was talking to is asking me something like, “Uh, are you okay?” but I can’t pull my eyes away from the carnage of my romantic expectations. I may, in fact, be paralyzed. Except for my stomach, which feels like it’s being kicked repeatedly.

  I am not going to cry.

  How, and in what world, is this even possible? Cassidy has always known how I feel about Jordan. She and I just talked about it on the way here!

  I suddenly have a horrifying realization: My brilliant, hope-filled Jordan-Brooklyn theory is actually true. Only it doesn’t involve me … it’s been about Cassidy the whole time. She lives six blocks away from me with her dad, who is never home. Perfect after-school makeout opportunity. No wonder Cass was trying to steer me toward Keith!

  Then all the little moments from the last couple of months start adding up. How could I have been so dumb? The texts Cass didn’t want to talk about … disappearing at the Halloween party … that’s why I didn’t see Jordan—he was probably in his bedroom with Cass the whole time! Missing my soccer game when he was playing on the other field … even making me feel guilty at lunch the other day when she was obviously trying to cover up the fact that she had just been doing it with Jordan in the home ec lab or something.

  And saying Nathan gave her a ticket to the concert tonight? Did I actually fall for that?

  I furiously push my way back to Keith and I’m like, Kiss me, you fool! (I do not actually say this.) We proceed to make out like crazy, which is still totally wretched, but it’s the most distracting thing I can think of. I am a pillar of strength in the face of adversity.

  You know, you hear about groups of friends who split apart in high school for one reason or another, but I never thought it would happen to us. Sure, my relationship with Cass isn’t quite as close as the one I have with Em, but I never thought in a million years that Cass would stab me in the back. I know I’d never do something like this to her.

  But she went ahead and did it to me. I seriously can’t believe it.

  It occurs to me that I’m actually still kissing Keith and should probably try to focus on that, though to be honest I would rather be curled in a ball on the floor of my closet right now. After about five more minutes of face-smushing discomfort, I realize I’m not quite sure how to bring the whole making-out situation to a close.

  Luckily the show ends and everyone boos as the lights come up. Keith mumbles something at my shoes and wanders off to do who-knows-what, so that’s solved, I guess. So, what—are we going out now or something? Do I even want to go out with Keith Mayhew? Of course, with my luck, Keith will ditch me for Julie Nelson or someone and I’ll have to marry Danny Zifner. Or else resign myself to spinsterhood, I suppose. I’ll probably end up living with my parents until I’m fifty.

  But truth be told, at the moment? I just feel so sad I don’t even care.

  I go outside and hail a cab, leaving the Traitorous One to figure it out for herself. When I get in the car, I realize I can’t even call Em yet, because I know I’ll burst into tears as soon as she answers and she won’t be able to understand anything I’m saying. And the driver will probably think I’m on drugs.

  I succeed in not crying the whole way home.

  . . .

  After surviving three endless minutes of small talk with my parents, who are pretending they weren’t waiting up for me but were just “hanging out” in the kitchen, I finally get to my room and look in the mirror above my dresser.

  There I am: Kelsey Finkelstein, a girl who has been kissed and betrayed all in one night. I look a mess; the skin around my mouth is swollen and red. I might as well be wearing a big sign that says, “I just had an uncomfortable makeout session!” I can’t believe my parents didn’t say anything. I think about washing my face and brushing my teeth, but I just don’t feel up to it, so I crawl into bed fully clothed. The tears finally start pouring down my cheeks, and even though I know I’m going to be yelled at for mascara-streaked pillowcases, I don’t care.

  I am never speaking to Cassidy Gayle Rosenblum again.

  EVER.

  Not even if she came to me on my birthday and offered me my own horse (brown, with white feet and a brown mane) and a lifetime pass to Disneyland and the world’s biggest chocolate mousse cake. And her Wii system. And a Blu-ray player. And a million dollars. And an unlimited gift card to Sephora.

  Not even if she apologized on her hands and knees and offered to become a nun immediately. In the Alps.

  Not even if she were in a horrible accident and was about to die and all she wanted in her final moments were my forgiveness and an opportunity to touch my hand.

  Never.

  I suddenly feel completely drained. I’m too exhausted to even put my thoughts together, or cry more, or anything. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to sleep.

  15

  What seems like a very short time later, I am nearly suffocated to death by a heavy weight collapsing on top of my stomach.

  “What the eff?!” I screech.

  “Mom says you have to get up! It’s one in the afternoon and you have to help with Chanukah cards!”

  I shove Travis off of me, which is easy to do since she weighs about sixty pounds and I’m madder than I’ve ever been in my whole life, practically.

  “Do not come into my room without permission! What is with this family? Has no one ever heard of privacy?”

  I wipe under my eyes with the side of my hand and come away with big black streaks. My face feels sore and dry from crying, and my legs are all cramped from sleeping in my jeans. What I want is a long, hot shower and to be left alone forever. What I do not want is a brat in my room chattering away about Chanukah cards.

  “I’m telling Mom you hit me!”

  “Fine, knock yourself out. And close the door behind you!” I’m not in the mood for threats from a nine-year-old, thank you very much.

  “And you forgot to take your makeup off. You look like a dead corpse!” she shrieks, slamming the door.

  “All corpses are dead, dummy!” I holler after her, throwing a pillow at the closed door.

  I toss my clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor and turn on the shower. I can’t stop reliving the moment when the light hit Cassidy’s face and I realized she was kissing my true love for everyone to see. Every time I do, it hurts all over again, but I can’t stop torturing myself.

  I get in the shower and scrub my face to get the makeup and dried tears off. Not to mention every scrap of Keith Mayhew, kissing stand-in. I can’t believe I hooked up with him when I didn’t even want to. I’d probably feel worse about that if I didn’t feel so bad for myself already. One thing at a time, I guess.

  I’m rinsing the shampoo out of my hair when a major thought interrupts my nightmare replay: Why on God’s green earth would Jordan pick Cassidy?!

  I comb conditioner through my hair as I mull this over. Lexi I could understand. I’d still be incredibly upset, but she’s gorgeous and perfect, so it’s at least logical. Cassidy … well, sometimes she can be far too liberal with the eye shadow. And she wears a weird belt that has a skull for a buckle. I mean, hello? We are not biker chicks. And … oh, this one time she ate six bacon and banana sandwiches on a dare. That’s just disgusting.

  And she is probably a terrible kisser.

  Unless … she’s a great kisser.

&nbs
p; Oh my God. What if Cassidy is this terrific kisser and Keith was right and I’m awful?

  No. No, no, no, no. This simply cannot be the way this goes down. I rinse off and grab a towel. Clearly the only plan of action is to call Em. She’ll know what to do.

  Her phone rings four times and goes to voice mail. I call again. Same thing. Em is never away from her phone, so she must be talking to James. I call a third time. Surely she’ll realize that this is an emergency.

  No answer.

  I call JoJo, who is apparently still sleeping, because when I say, “JoJo, I am so upset right now—can you talk?” she replies, “Huglubblnxk?”

  Great.

  I give up on niceties and shout, “I saw Cassidy making out with Jordan Rothman last night at the Scarves show! What the eff is going on?”

  That snaps her out of it a bit. “Wait, what? Your Jordan? With Cass?”

  “Yes, at the concert. She lied, JoJo—she was planning to go with him the whole time! And I think it’s been going on for weeks … you didn’t know about this, right? You’d tell me?”

  “Kels, of course I didn’t. I swear!”

  I’m so relieved—at least I’m not being deceived by everyone I hold near and dear. I guess my only real problem, then, is that I’ve had my heart ripped out, tossed in a blender, and then poured down the garbage disposal. Glad that’s cleared up. I tell JoJo, “You have to find out what’s going on. Call her. Text her. Send her a psychic message. Find out what the deal is!”

  “Okay, okay, I will, but … I have to figure out how to handle this. I mean, this is big. Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” I say, and I hate that my voice catches. I don’t feel like spending any more time crying over a stupid guy and a supposed friend. I take a deep breath. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

  “Okay. Don’t freak out—maybe it’s a big misunderstanding. Maybe it wasn’t even her. Or … something. Ugh, boys are the worst. Anyway, I’ll call you back.” JoJo hangs up.