You, Maybe, page 10
Emelina can drive a truck.
True, she ripped the top off it, but then she drove it topless four hours into the mountains. How is it that she does a total destructo thing that if I did, it would make me seem like a bumbling idiot, and she comes off as this sexy, powerful, independent, capable hero, and everyone in the room is left with the word “topless” on their lips?
I buckled my seat belt and turned the ignition key. The car was already on, apparently, judging from the grinding, squealing noises that came from both the engine and Carson.
“Sorry.” I dried my palms on my jeans.
“Do you remember what I said about the clutch?”
“Yes,” I lied, then admitted, “Well, no. Could you review?”
Following his instructions I pressed down with both feet and released the emergency brake. “It would be easier if you could see what you’re doing,” I said, trying to get a peek under the steering wheel.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” Carson said, keeping his own eyes straight ahead. “Now move your right foot to the right and press . . .”
“This reminds me of dance class,” I said, “Which I should admit that I failed. . . .” We were rolling forward. “Not that you can actually fail ballet, but I faked a sprained ankle and even though I couldn’t keep straight which foot was supposedly injured, the teacher was so relieved, she . . .”
“Press the gas lightly,” he interrupted. “Remember what I said, ease down with your right foot and up with your left. . . .”
“See what I mean?” My feet were doing what he told them to, like they had little foot minds of their own, while my mouth chattered on. “Right, left, up, down, it’s like doing the hustle. . . .”
We were heading straight for Michael’s hedges.
“You want to steer,” Carson suggested. “Remember how to brake?”
“Yes,” I lied. I knew there was something you had to do before you brake, he had been saying it right while I was admiring the angle at which his nose came from his forehead. He had said, what was it? There is something you have to do before you press the brake. Very important. You have to do something; don’t brake until you press something. What? I grabbed a wand sticking out beside the steering wheel and pressed it, then slammed on the brake, just as we crashed hard into Michael’s hedge.
It was apparently not the thing I was supposed to have pressed. In fact it activated the windshield wipers. If it had suddenly started to rain, pressing that wand might have been a good move. The sky was bright blue, however, as I could see over the edge of the bushes into which I had driven Carson’s car.
“Put it in neutral,” Carson said quietly. “And pull up the brake. The emergency brake.”
I did what he said, then asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Can you get out of the car?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure if he meant would I be able to open my door despite the bushes or was I injured or was I such a disaster that I could not even operate the door handle, but I just opened the door and tried to get out. I failed. I then unlatched my seat belt and successfully got out of the car.
Carson was looming above me, waiting. When I was out of his way, he slipped into the driver’s seat. I stood on Michael’s lawn. Carson backed his car out of the hedge, which was only slightly dented, and thumped the car down off Michael’s lawn onto the street again.
There were red streaks, like bloody scratch marks, striping the hood of his car. While he turned off the car, I reached over to touch the damage.
“It’s just the red things,” I assured him quickly. “Those red juicy bush-berries. It’s washable. It’s not blood. I mean, obviously, it’s not blood. What I mean is I can fix it. I’ll wash it. I’m sorry.”
“Stop,” he said.
“No, I insist.” I tried to put my arm around him, to comfort him. “I’ll wash it. You can just, if you pull it into my driveway . . .”
“That’s fine,” he said, stepping away from me. “I’ll pull it into your driveway. Then I am going to take a walk, okay? I need to take a walk.”
I nodded. “I’ll wash it while you walk. Carson?”
He was getting back into the car. He stopped with one leg still on the pavement. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
“You forgive me?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you,” I said. He pulled his leg into the car and slammed the door. He drove the twenty yards or so to my driveway, and I walked along behind him. He was getting out of the car by the time I reached my driveway. “I’ll have it shiny clean,” I promised, smiling broadly at him.
“Half an hour,” he said. “I have to get back for practice.”
I watched him walk his brisk, long-legged walk down my driveway, away, and then ran inside to look for a bucket and sponge. He could have said, “That’s okay, let’s go to the car wash together.” He could have said, “It’s my fault, too, I shouldn’t have pointed the car straight at a berry bush for your first time ever behind the wheel.” He could have put his strong arms around me and said, “Oh, Josie, are you okay? That’s all that matters to me. Don’t worry about the car—I love you, Josie.”
But maybe that’s not fair. Maybe I am being unreasonable and selfish. I just drove his beautiful white car straight into a berry bush—did I really think he should be nice to me, comfort me, at that point? He has every right to be angry. His parents would probably be homicidal if he came home with his car so wrecked.
I found some sponges but no buckets. Where would we keep a bucket? I bet Carson’s family would have a bucket. I got the biggest of my mother’s red pots. What the heck, they should get used, right? I filled it with hot soapy water and lugged it out to the driveway, and started to scrub.
Oh, Carson. I am sorry. You have every right to be angry at me. Why am I such a clod?
If Emelina drove his car into a bush, would he make her wash it?
That’s not fair. Emelina is not his girlfriend anymore, anyway; I am. I am his girlfriend. I have to try to be good at it. If he wants me to talk a little less, is that so much to ask? And wear my hair in a ponytail? I could learn to braid. He thinks I have a beautiful face, is why he wants me to wear it that way. He wants to get a word in edgewise. I am an only child; maybe I am spoiled. Maybe I need to be brought down a notch.
That’s not even what he’s doing, I chastised myself as I scrubbed his car. I am such an exaggerator. He loves me, he chose me, he wants to see my face, he wants me. He wants to know I want him, and also, please, for me not to be so jerky all the time.
Is that so much to ask?
The berry stains were gone. I kept going. By the time he came back, I was sweating again despite the cold, clouds of breath puffing from my mouth as I shined every bit of his car to a gleam. “Hey,” he said. “Hey.” He caught me by both arms and pulled me close. He kissed me soft and tender. I dropped the sponge and wrapped my arms around him. He kissed my empty earlobe.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Shh,” he answered. “Forget it. I gotta go.”
“Don’t you want to come in?”
“I can’t.” He pulled away and opened the car door.
“I was asking if you want to,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “But . . .”
“Yes,” I said, too.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll go to Emelina’s. Her mountain place. The weekend after next. With you.”
He kissed me again, I closed my eyes and pressed against him.
“What about work?”
“I have a party,” I admitted. “But I can cancel it.”
He kissed me, soft and deep, then pulled back enough to ask, “What about your parents?”
I shrugged. “It’s not up to them. We’re meant for each other, right?”
He nodded and kissed me again.
“So, we should be together.”
“Yeah.” We made out for another minute. “I gotta go,” he said. “I’ll call you.”
“Tonight?”
He slammed the car door shut and backed fast down the driveway. I stood there on my lawn, damp and soapy, and watched him go.
He didn’t call.
Twenty-one
“DO YOU BELIEVE in beschert?” I asked my mother, as I was climbing onto the table and lying down.
“Never heard of it,” Mom said. “Hold still for Bitsy.”
“I believe in beeswax,” Bitsy said. “Wow, have you ever had these eyebrows done before?”
“No,” I said, closing my eyes. “Does it hurt?”
“It hurts to be beautiful,” Mom told me.
Bitsy rubbed some warm, sticky wax over my right eyelid. Not so bad, I thought. It’s kind of nice, actually. Maybe I am just tougher than most women, and don’t make a big deal out of nothing.
Then she ripped it off.
I screamed. I said a bad word or three. Dozen. When I calmed down enough to do anything other than feel the pain of having my eyelid practically torn from my head, I noticed that my mother was laughing.
Not just laughing—she was cracking up. Poor Bitsy had backed into a corner, terrified, but my mother was sitting on a folding chair, practically gasping for breath, doubled over with laughter. How sick is that?
I watched her, amazed. No wonder I’m so screwed up: My own mother finds my pain hilarious. I truly have never seen her laugh so hard.
When she was able to lift her head and wipe the tears from her eyes, I said, “I’m happy I finally got a smile from you, Mom. If I had only known, I would’ve broken my arm when I was younger. That would’ve been a riot, huh?”
“What are you talking about?” Serious, suddenly. Ah, I was embarrassing her publicly again.
I shrugged. “I’m outta here.” I jumped down from the table.
“You can’t go, Josie,” Mom protested, and actually stood up to block the door. “Show her the mirror, Bitsy.”
“You’re insatiable, Mom,” I protested. “Is my pain really that funny?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Josie,” Mom said. She grabbed the mirror from Bitsy. “Don’t be so operatic! I was laughing at your vocabulary, not your pain. Look.”
I looked in the mirror. She was right, I couldn’t go. One of my eyebrows was curved like a movie star’s, though red underneath. The other looked like a huge fuzzy caterpillar taking a nap on my face. I flopped back onto the table.
As Bitsy tore the wax off my left eyelid, I came up with another choice few words. Mom held up the mirror again. “Better, right?”
I shrugged, but yes, I looked better. I followed Mom out into the main room of the salon and into a small closetlike room, where Mom handed me a smock. “Put this on so your new sweater won’t get wet while you’re getting shampooed,” she instructed.
“Is that really a verb?” I asked. “Shampooed?”
She rolled her eyes and shoved me toward the sinks. I never should’ve agreed to this whole thing, I thought, on my ways. Forget agreed—I had asked her to take me. You would’ve thought I’d given her a new cashmere sweater, from her reaction. She even almost forgave me for the one I’d ruined, after I asked to have my hair cut by an actual professional. How was I supposed to know that cashmere can’t be put in the washing machine? Anyway, she was happy, and took the afternoon off work to bring me.
I sat down in the chair and was pushed back into a weird and uncomfortable position with my neck bent back over the cold lip of the sink, but as soon as the warm water hit me and Bitsy’s hands began massaging my scalp, I felt myself relax. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander.
Carson. I couldn’t close my eyes without thinking of Carson, his gorgeous face, his red, perfectly formed lips, his strong, slow hands. He’d been driving me home every day, lately (no more driving lessons); when we got to my house, we’d head straight up to my room to fool around. We were going farther than I’ve ever gone before, but that’s okay, I told myself—he’s my boyfriend, I love him, and he’s a senior. I can’t expect an eighteen-year-old boy to be happy just kissing with a little groping every day. When I told him I was a virgin at Frankie’s on Saturday night, he said he knew, but he didn’t say if he was or wasn’t. Probably not. Probably he and Emelina . . . but I didn’t want to think about that.
He wasn’t pressuring me to do anything. Definitely not. Even if he was sometimes abrupt in how he talked to me, he was always gentle and slow physically. He was full of compliments on how I looked, and if he got annoyed when I talked too much, well, who could blame him? I do talk too much. I was trying to shut up more. I wrote SU (for Shut Up) on my palm with a Sharpie, to remind myself. Anyway, things were going well. Really well.
Except with my friends. Zandra and Tru had a “talk” with me on Sunday. They are “concerned” that I am “losing” myself. I assured them that I knew exactly where I was. They didn’t look convinced. Maybe we’re just growing apart. Maybe they’re right that I haven’t been such a great friend lately but I have other stuff going on right now and I wish they could just be happy for me. Michael meanwhile has been completely avoiding me. I put some of my stuff in Carson’s locker so I wouldn’t have to face Michael so much at my own. Carson walked me from class to class with his arm around me; those moments made the whole day worthwhile. I craved them, did anything I could think of to get back in there, under that wing.
He is such an amazing combination of strength and vulnerability, my boyfriend. Maybe we’re alike in that way. Maybe I had to test him, with all my teasing, and now it’s his turn, sometimes. I have to show him I can take it, I can take his sarcasm and his moods. I’m strong. I’ve always been a strong person. I can take it.
And it’s not like he’s even so tough on me, really, at all. I’m just new at this, I think, and so I’m sometimes paranoid. When he sees me down the hall and his whole face lights up, I feel so good, I feel—what? Complete. Like there’s nothing else I have to accomplish. I look back on all those days I spent arguing philosophy and dissing the high school experience with my friends, and I’m embarrassed about how immature I seem to myself, and how insecure. I had to put on this whole intense façade to prove I wasn’t lonely—and now? Now I’m not lonely. Now I am Carson’s girlfriend. People smile at me, and guess what? I smile back. Because life is good and I am where I belong, in the thick of it.
And then we go to my house and he smiles at me, touches my face, tells me I’m beautiful. And for those few minutes, I dare to believe it’s true.
Sitting in front of another mirror in the haircutting chair, I listened to my mother’s voice as she gave Bitsy instructions. Bitsy and my mother picked up pieces of my hair and looked, chatting, evaluating, not noticing particularly that there was a person under the hair situation.
“Can I go away this weekend?” I blurted out. There. Finally.
“Away?” Mom asked. “No. Where?”
“I don’t know, the mountains. To a friend’s grandparents’ house.”
“Which friend?”
Pieces of my hair were falling on the floor as Bitsy snipped her scissors briskly.
“Emelina.”
“Never heard of her,” Mom said. “With Zandra and Tru?”
“Zandra and Tru aren’t friends with her.”
“But you are?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“How about Michael?”
“No,” I said.
“But boys are going?”
“Yes.” I turned my head. Bitsy tsked at me so I turned back to the mirror.
“Carson Gold?”
“Yes. Why are you quizzing me? I am not a baby anymore, Mom!”
“You weren’t a baby when you were a baby,” she said. “What’s going on with you and him?”
“He’s my boyfriend,” I said. “Shocked?”
“No, actually.”
“Forget it,” I said. I know you are shocked, deny it or not, because he’s gorgeous, and a senior, and going to Harvard, and drives a white sports car. And you think I’m a loser. Admit it or don’t, Mom. I know what you think.
“I had a feeling,” Mom said, smiling a little.
“We’re in love,” I yelled. Everything in the salon stopped for a second. Clearly I had an audience. “I’m in love.”
“Congratulations,” Bitsy said.
“Thank you,” I answered. “My mother thinks he’s too good for me.”
“Is he?” Bitsy asked.
“Why would you say that?” my mother demanded—not denying that’s what she thought—just asking why I would call her on it. Very tricky, Mom.
“He probably is,” I told Bitsy. “That’s why you have to make me as pretty as possible, to compensate. Right, Mom?”
“He wants to take you away for the weekend?” Bitsy asked.
“Yes,” I said. “No. A bunch of people are going, it’s not like that. It will be like ten of us, plus this girl’s grandparents. But I’m probably the only one whose mother is making a big deal of it.”
“Are you making a big deal of it?” Bitsy asked Mom.
“I don’t need to,” Mom said, throwing up her hands. “Josie’s doing it for me. I didn’t say a word.”
“No way you’ll let me go,” I said. “I can’t believe it. I shouldn’t even have asked you. I should just run away.”
“Don’t cry,” Bitsy said. “You eyes will swell and right after the waxing, that’s bad.”
“Do you want to go?” Mom asked me, irrelevantly.
“Why would I ask you, if I didn’t want to go?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mom said.
“Okay,” said Bitsy. She put down her scissors and her comb, and picked up a blow-dryer. “Put your head between your knees, like you’re trying not to throw up,” she said.
“Good idea,” I said. For a minute I just let the sound of the blow-dryer drown out all my thoughts. When I was allowed to flip back up, my hair was off my face and Bitsy was pulling it hard with the brush, to dry and style me. I felt like Fluffy and Sarge must feel, which made me think again of Michael. It had been a week and a half, the longest I’ve gone without talking to him since I lost my baby teeth.
