Punk Love, page 7
Twenty minutes later, the guys joined us. Tom almost plopped on top of me and gathered Jadie into his arms, peppering her face with noisy, sloppy kisses. Alex sat next to me, but was still talking to one of his friends, a skinhead I was pretty sure enjoyed meat with a side of racist views. Ryan sat pretty close to me, too.
I took the opportunity to lean toward Ryan.
“Hi!” I said, keeping things light and cheerful. “I tried to call you.”
“Oh. Yeah. I’ve been busy. What’s up? It’s good to see you.” Ryan smiled back.
“I brought you that book we were talking about.” I flipped my canvas messenger back open, taking out Our Band Could Be Your Life by Michael Azerrad. Ryan read the back sleeve, nodding.
“Damn. Been wanting to get my hands on it for months. Thanks.”
“Sure.”
“Know that book about the mortician I was telling you about? Text me and I’ll bring it to you Monday.”
“Oh. Yeah. Totally. Can’t wait to read it,” I mumbled.
There was nothing quite like reading about death when you were in a constant state of existential anxiety as I had been since about age six.
Since Alex was still busy talking to someone else, and Jadie’s face was currently sucked whole into Tom’s mouth, and Ainsley was busy drooling in Alex’s lap, I dove into a conversation with Ryan. Things seemed normal between us. A little stiff, sure, but nowhere near the hostility I was expecting. Maybe he didn’t want me after all. Or at least, not that much.
I felt like I could breathe again.
Ryan said something that made me laugh, and that’s when I felt it. Alex’s arm. It swung over my shoulder possessively, draping over it, its weight delicious and the intentions it brought with it clear.
I was his now.
“What’s up, Ryan?” Alex popped a (vegan) gum.
“Good,” Ryan said, sounding…well, genuinely good. “You?”
“Great,” Alex replied. “Glad you put your big girl panties on before coming here today. Nobody likes a sore loser.”
“Nobody.” Ryan nodded, agreeing. “Words to live by, my friend. Just remember that.”
“For when?” Alex smirked, having fun.
“For when she realizes you are a fucking idiot and breaks up with you.”
Alex laughed, enjoying himself immensely. “You need help, kiddo. And a good lay. Not in that order.”
Ainsley shrugged, joining the conversation. “Ryan is right. You’ve never had a girlfriend before, and you’re like, what? Seventeen? You’re bound to fuck it up.”
Alex whipped his head around, his eyes dead and cold as he glowered at Ainsley.
“I know you’re an expert when it comes to fucking, sweetheart, but let’s agree to disagree.”
“Harsh much?” Ainsley screwed her nose in distaste.
“Much,” Alex spat out. “And since when do you pull bullshit jealous fits, Ainsley? I thought you were cool.”
This, I assumed, was the final blow for Ainsley. Not only was she stripped from the hope she and Alex could be together today, but now she wasn’t cool, either. I felt genuinely bad for her.
At the same time…
I knew this wasn’t Alex fighting for our true, undying love. It was him proving a point. Still, I liked that he took no bullshit from anyone when it came to our relationship, even if it had nothing to do with…well, our relationship.
The next portion of the picnic was relatively pain-free. We ate. We talked about articles I did not read by people I did not know, most of them seventeenth century philosophers and past dictators. Then the conversation turned to music and I really tuned out. Veganism and harboring a soft spot for tyrants and tsars were hard to swallow (literally), but bad music was something I couldn’t tolerate. I still secretly listened to Blink 182, Green Day, The Smiths, and The Strokes when no one was around.
After the picnic, the guys went to play soccer, and the girls talked about online stores they liked.
Ah, shopping, the passion of every anarcho-communist.
Some people retired into the woods, presumably to have sex or to enjoy the odd satanic ritual. Now that I was paying more attention to things that weren’t Alex, I realized there was a mish-mash of people. Yes, there were the “good” kids. The straight-edge bunch. The vegans. The kind that rebelled within the rules and expectations their parents had set for them. But there were also a bunch of skinheads I was totally not down with, and a bunch of people in leather who chain-smoked and looked like they were on something north of alcohol and weed.
I made a few new friends (Ainsley wasn’t one of them. I know, try to look shocked), and before I knew it, dusk descended on the park. The sky was awash with baby blues and soft pinks, streaked with orange and gold. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore lulled me into blissful, deep-boned exhaustion. I longed to get back into the suburban Volvo, make out with Alex, and see what else he could do with his tongue.
And to pee.
I also very much longed to pee.
Like, very, very much.
Alex and the rest of the guys finished their soccer game. Tom got back to making out with Jadie. Alex wasn’t super into public affection, which I respected. I loved that we kept people guessing. That we showed restraint.
When he sat next to me, I squeezed his hand and whispered in his ear, “If I don’t pee right now, my bladder is going to explode and you’ll have to take me to the hospital.”
Alex frowned. “I hate hospitals, and besides, your bladder is connected to another organ of yours I have an interest in. Come with me.”
We stood up and marched toward the woods, followed by catcalls from everyone else, claps and whistles conspiring about we were going to do there.
Alex found me a good, discreet spot behind the bushes.
“Here’s good. I’ll spot you, hurry.”
He craned his neck, looking serious and oddly protective, as he shielded me with his body.
I squatted down, closing my eyes and mouthing a silent prayer to God.
Dear God,
It’s Lara. I know we haven’t spoken in a hot minute. This is just me asking you to please grace me with a girly pee. Nothing too loud. And if you can, please make sure I don’t pee on my shoes or panties or skirt, that would be swell, too.
I promise to fast on Yom Kippur.
Okay, kidding. I won’t.
I mean, I will, but I’ll drink water, okay? Because not drinking water is really dangerous for me. I’m anemic.
Okay, done now.
Bye. xo
Maybe it was the xo that did it, but God was good to me that evening.
My pee sounded like wedding bells.
When I was done, I groaned.
“I don’t have anything to wipe with.”
Alex frowned, still looking ahead, dutifully not peeking.
“What about a leaf or something?”
“Aw. Gross. And what if it’s poisonous? I don’t want to die of…” I wasn’t going to say pussy poisoning. I was never going to utter this combination in his presence. “…of something.”
“Yeah. Okay. Wipe with your panties and throw them away.”
“I’m wearing a skirt. I can’t go commando.”
“Your hand?”
“Alex!”
“Fine. Sheesh. Use my shirt.”
“What?!”
“I’m dead serious. Use my shirt. It’s just a few drops, right? Who cares?”
“I do!”
“I don’t.”
That was the grossest, most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. Which was both sweet and sad in equal measures.
“That’s insane. Anyway, it’s drying up because I’m letting it hang.”
This was way too much info, but hey, if he was going to take my virginity, which was something I’d already decided was going to happen before he even sent me that very first ICQ message, he was going to have to take the bad with the good.
And…real talk? There was a whole lotta bad.
I peered down between my legs. If I put my panties back on, I was probably good.
I felt a warm whoosh of fabric landing on top of my head. I plucked it out. When I looked up, Alex was shirtless. His back was still to me. He had a glorious back. Not super muscular, but triangle-shaped. Smooth and long. Like he hadn’t filled into his tall frame quite yet, but was getting there.
“Wipe,” he ordered gruffly.
“I’m good.” I laughed, standing up and rearranging my skirt. I took a greedy sniff of his shirt when he wasn’t looking.
Ahhhhh. Heaven.
His sweat, laundry detergent, and singular Alex scent engulfed me. This was better than coke. Not that I’d ever tried coke, but, c’mon, it was Alex—the best-smelling teenager on planet Earth. I wanted to steal his shirt and sleep with it.
“I saw that,” Alex deadpanned, smirking smugly, but still squinting to the darkening horizon.
My eyes widened. Bastard.
“Am I okay to turn around?” he asked.
“Sure, creeper.”
“How am I the creeper?” He plucked his shirt from between my fingers, sliding it on the way hot guys put on a shirt. Pushing both his arms into the sleeves at the same time.
“You wanted my pee on your shirt.”
“I want your everything on my everything,” he informed me, dead serious.
I was pretty sure I was turning into a puddle of emotions.
“Ainsley’s pissed.” I bit down on my lower lip.
He shrugged. Darkness had washed over the woods and the cliff, and there was no industrial light or lamppost in sight.
“Ainsley’s always pissed,” Alex said tersely.
“I didn’t know you guys were hooking up.”
I wanted desperately to learn more about their relationship, even though I knew it was going to hurt like a mothertrucker.
“We aren’t anymore.”
“When’d you stop?” I swallowed.
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “A few days before I picked you up that first time? Though, that last time, she showed up unannounced at my house to a rehearsal with Ryan even though she low-key hates him. Weird.”
“Yeah. Weird.” I mulled the information over, making the obvious connection and feeling a little seasick.
We made our way back to the park. Alex did not elaborate, so I continued. “Does she know that? That you’re no longer hooking up, I mean?”
“If she’s not a complete goddamn moron,” he said shortly.
Silence.
“Have you hooked up with a lot of girls?” I couldn’t help myself.
Alex frowned, giving the question some genuine thought, then said, “No.”
“Are you…?” I trailed off. I couldn’t ask this. I couldn’t.
I didn’t have to.
He laughed softly. “Uhm, no.”
“Well, I am.”
“Figured,” he said.
“How could you possibly figure that?” I felt somewhat attacked by my own state of virginity.
He shrugged. “Just did. Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah.”
“Did Ryan give you trouble?”
I shook my head, still thinking about what Alex told me. About Ryan bringing Ainsley over to his house. That was such a weird thing to do. Did he know about us? Did he guess?
“Good.”
“He seems pretty certain it’s not going to last,” I commented. Because, hey, I was a bag of insecurities and iron pills, and he needed to find out sooner or later, right?
Alex didn’t seem fazed by that. “It will.”
Yes, I thought. Until Sweden.
Until you move away and leave me behind.
Then I smiled to myself as we emerged from the woods and joined the others.
That was not going to happen.
Alex was going to stay.
It was official. I had a boyfriend.
Things changed after the picnic.
Yes, Alex and I still talked on ICQ every night, but we also saw each other three to four times a week, and spent time with each other every weekend.
We texted. A lot. All day, every day.
And talked on the phone into the night. Until someone else from our household would pick up the phone and ask, “Aw, you guys are still talking? Hang up. I need the phone” (this is a struggle I suspect Gen Z folks will never be able to relate to, since landlines, like our tailbones, aren’t something we use anymore).
I was really, obnoxiously, deliriously happy.
A month had passed since that picnic.
A month in which Ryan and I cooled our relationship down pretty drastically at school. He was still nice to me, and I was still nice to him, but he no longer sought me out, and vice versa.
To be honest, I was mildly pissed at him for naturally assuming my relationship with Alex was going to detonate. Especially seeing as Alex and I were going from strength to strength.
Which reminds me, Alex really was pretty perfect as a boyfriend, human, and a punk rocker.
One time, I texted him that I was famished between classes, and he happened to skip school, so he went and got me a vegan falafel meal and brought it to my school, along with a Diet Coke, AKA the nectar of the gods.
Another time, my dog (yes, the one that barks his life away) had a vet appointment and my mother was running late at work, so Alex volunteered to take my stressed-out dog and me to the vet, which resulted in his Volvo smelling like a very angry dog for two months (and don’t get me started about the hair that got stuck to everything).
After my dog’s appointment was done (am I saying dog too much? It feels like it), Alex bought us vegan Subways and ice-cold beers. We ate them watching the sunset, with my dog sleeping at my feet, exhausted but happy to be far away from the vet.
When I had fights with my parents, Alex would listen to my whining for hours on end, and offer his input. He always told me the truth, never sugarcoated things, and never got tired when I went around in circles, rehashing the same things over and over.
Alex was attuned to my needs and my wants, and pretty fantastic altogether. Contrary to my initial assumption, he didn’t play games. He wasn’t mean (not to me, anyway). And he never gave me any reason to suspect he even breathed in another girl’s direction.
All in all, Alex was by far my favorite pleasant surprise.
A month after The Picnic that Changed Everything, my parents demanded to meet the mysterious guy I’d been spending so much time with.
Actually, they would have done so much earlier if it wasn’t for my elaborate, often ridiculous lies about spending half the time I spent with him with Paulina.
It helped that Alex was the son of two respectable dentists one town over, drove a Volvo, played three different musical instruments, and was generally a straight A student, even though he gave exactly two shits about school. They had the general idea that he was a very good kid. An idea, of course, that was at risk of bursting like a soap bubble the minute they actually met him, the mammoth guy with the Mohawk.
However, I couldn’t keep both worlds separate forever. I knew my mom and dad had to meet him at some point.
Because the whole meet-up was orchestrated by me, nothing about this meet-up was organized and constructed. One day, I just told Alex on the phone: “Listen, my dad says if you don’t come into my house next time you come over to pick me up, he’ll meet you out front with a baseball bat.”
“Your dad doesn’t have a baseball bat,” Alex challenged.
I sighed. “True. But he does have a machete. He works in construction, remember?”
“In that case, I’ll wear a suit.”
We both laughed.
Alex didn’t wear a suit, but he didn’t wear his usual might-be-homeless clothes, either. He wore dark jeans without one hole in them (hooray!) and a crisp white shirt.
Alex was…not what my parents had in mind for me.
First of all, you could tell he had an edge. Second, he looked like he could fit me in his pocket, and third, he had this air about him, of someone who wasn’t very keen on people, and they must’ve picked up on it. He wasn’t overly nice, or falling over their feet. He spoke to them on eye level, which was disastrous, because they were my parents.
Still, Mom and Dad couldn’t really fault him for not being their taste, so they kept their mouths shut.
My mom did ask me, upon meeting him, if we needed to go to the OB-GYN and get me on the pill. I said, “Gross, Mom.” Then, after a pause, “But ask me again in three months just in case, okay?”
I was wondering at what point, exactly, I was going to have my grand debut into society as The Girl Who Screws the Drummer (even though technically, I did not screw the drummer).
I’m going to be extra honest here—I’d thought long and hard on which band member was best to date long before I found out about Alex, and came to the conclusion that, when in doubt, always go for the drummer.
Here is why:
The vocalist knows he is hot shit and will always come with an attitude the size of Italy. All vocalists have a I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD complex. All lead singers also feel, somewhere deep inside their hearts, that they are the only member that’s not disposable in the band. After all, anyone can play the drums, guitar, and bass, right?
Guitar players are vain, vain people. And they would most likely talk about their craft twenty-four seven. They’re the football players of the music instruments.
Bass players are anemic. This is not a scientific fact. However, it should be. Do we know any super famous bass players? I sure don’t.
Drummers have great arms and inherent pent-up rage, which is why they become drummers in the first place.
Drummers come from very loving, understanding families, because who else would be okay with their child banging on a set of drums several hours a day, every day?
Travis Barker.
Obviously, I could write an entire dissertation about the subject, but you can just take my word for it—drummers are the best.
The answer to my question (when I was going to see Alex play live, in case you lost the thread, which would be understandable) came a month and a half after the picnic. At this point, Alex and I were treading second base. We were taking things slow. There was patting and groping, but I still wouldn’t get near that thing between his legs. He never pushed for it, but I could tell he was a little frustrated and, after making out for hours, usually wanted me to go back home so he could take care of business.
