Out of Order (5 page)

I'm not really listening, but I'm not saying much either. I'm not used to being with a date who doesn't give a shit what we just saw.

“You want to go somewhere?” I hear Silver say.

I shrug. “Like where?”

“Like…St. John's?”

I look over. She's smiling at me. No sign of gum being chewed—maybe she threw it away already, getting prepared. Because the dead-end street behind St. John's Presbyterian Church is the prime parking spot for every guy with a car.

Well. Why not? It feels pretty good to have somebody want me more than I want her, for a change. Why not give the chick a thrill? And what Grace doesn't know won't hurt her. It's all her fault anyway for getting mad over a stupid Coke-can ring on her poem and all the other stuff she gets so pissed about.

I drive to the dead end behind the church. Silver's running off at the mouth again, talking about how her dad's going to get her a brand-new Mercedes when she turns sixteen next fall, only he's also going to give her his old Lexus to drive to school because he doesn't want the Mercedes to get banged up.

Finally I get her to shut up by kissing her.

Silver's a pretty good kisser, but tonight she's a little stopped up so we have to pause every once in a while to let her breathe. After a while she lets me touch her up top. She's got nice breasts for a freshman, good sized, but I haven't touched anybody but Grace in a while, and it feels strange, like when you're in a hotel and it's hard to sleep because the bed's not what you're used to.

With Silver, it turns out I can do pretty much whatever I want as long as I stay on the outside of her clothes.

I don't mind too much. She's not Grace, and anyway I don't want to go all that far with somebody who's probably going to go straight home and call the entire freshman class and spread all the gory details about how I performed.

Besides, Silver's nose is starting to make a little whistling sound when she breathes through it.

So after a while I sit back and tell her I've got to get home.

I drop her off at her house—which is huge, one of the biggest ones in the neighborhood—and I'm not feeling too good, because Silver's got her gum back and I know she didn't open a new stick, so she had it hidden somewhere inside her mouth where I couldn't feel it, and I'm kind of grossed out. But mostly I'm thinking how I just got more off Silver Stanton than I got off Grace for the whole first month we dated.

I walk Silver to her front door, say good-bye, don't even bother to try to cop one more feel.

Back in my car I sit there for a second. I've got that feeling, like a volcano, building out of nowhere, about to blow.

It's only a few blocks to Grace's house.

So. I'll just take a little detour—I won't stop, I'll just pass by on the way home. Let off a little of the pressure so the volcano doesn't blow. I'll just look at her house, that's all, and think how she's in there, just a few yards away, doing homework, watching TV.

I drive slowly down her street—that's her house I'm passing now, the one with the winding stone walk, the one with two bay windows.

The volcano's not satisfied.

I turn the car around and drive by again. Slower. Slower.

Well. I'm here, I've taken the time to turn around, she's probably already seen me out the window anyway.

There's no way I can go home without seeing her.

I park in front of her house on the street. Not in the driveway, because that would be like saying I planned to come. Parking on the street means I just happened to be driving by and think of her on a whim. Which is exactly what I did.

I walk up the drive, knock on the door, not too loud. I don't have a clue what I'm going to say to her, but I'll come up with something.

A moment later, Grace opens it.

Let me tell you about Grace. She's got a hot body, although she doesn't act like it. She doesn't throw her hair around and giggle, like some horses—I mean
people. She's got hair that's great, it's really truly blond, and soft and straight, and her eyes are a clear green that's so pale it's almost like there's a light behind them, making them glow. And her skin is like—well, I don't know what it's like, but it's clear and white, because Grace doesn't tan, she burns. So she stays out of the sun and her skin is smooth like she's got no pores. Well, that doesn't sound right, but it's true anyway. Grace has never had a zit in her life.

And her attitude is this: She doesn't know how beautiful she is, but she knows about a lot of other stuff. If there's something you wonder about, like why is the sky blue, Grace knows the answer. That's why she has this walk, like I Know Something. She doesn't walk like Silver walks, like Look At Me! Grace is just Grace, and anybody can tell she's comfortable being that way.

And when she opens that door, it's like my head's going to split in half with a smile that I can't stop.

“Who is it?” I hear her mother call.

“It's Colt,” Grace calls back. She doesn't
sound
mad. She doesn't roll her eyes or make my name sound like something disgusting.

I did the right thing, coming here.

“We're making candy,” Grace tells me, with a glance over her shoulder.

“I just wanted to talk to you for a second.”

She just looks at me for a moment, and God! It's been so long since I've been able to look into her eyes, it's like electricity zapping me back to life, even though I didn't know I was dead.

She's got to feel it too; she steps out onto the porch beside me and shuts the door behind her.

Now all I've got to do is not blow it.

“I miss you,” I blurt.

Majorly uncool—but it's the honest truth. “Listen. I was wanting to tell you. I really did like that poem. I don't know how it got under my Coke can. I should have put it back in my folder, but I wanted to read it again, so I guess I left it out.”

She sighs. “Forget it.”

“No, really. I did like it. I liked the metaphor.” I don't even miss a beat.
Metaphor
is the one word you need to know if you want to BS about poetry. You don't have to remember what it means. You just have to be able to pronounce it. “I thought you really captured something there.” I nod twice, slowly, so I'll look wise. It's my wise nod, and I'm good at it. “Yeah, I thought you pretty much hit the nail on the head. And I really am sorry about the Coke thing—because, you know, I was just about to ask if I could make a copy to keep.”

She's frowning down at her feet.

“Hey,” I tell her, “I just wanted you to know.”

Silence. But she doesn't move to leave. That's good. I want to tell her why else she shouldn't be mad at me, but any other chance at making sense has been sucked into the black hole that is my brain.

“I've been doing some thinking,” Grace says, and she looks up at me in that way she has. Which means Buckle In and Prepare for a Serious Discussion. “It wasn't right for me to blame you for getting carried away in the car, when I did the same thing.”

I'm not sure what she's talking about—she didn't do much in the car but sit there and breathe heavy when I touched her.

“I'm very attracted to you, physically,” Grace tells me. “I think that's why it gets confusing sometimes.”

“I get confused too,” I tell her quickly. “You're smart, and beautiful, and I get confused, and then I do things without thinking first and that's not good, that's not right. You're just so…so…I know I'm no Prince Charming—more like the Beast. You know that movie, well maybe you don't, but you're Beauty and I'm the Beast—”

“You're not a beast,” she interrupts. “Look. Things were getting kind of passionate. Probably at that moment you really did think you loved me.”

I didn't think so—I
did
love her. I
do
love her—but I'm not going to argue about it since she's actually speaking to me.

“But there's something that bothers me,” she continues. “It seems like if this was the real thing, we wouldn't have to work at it. It seems like I'd be more…swept away. Like we'd just click. A relationship ought to just happen, it ought to be natural and effortless….”

Oh no, I think. And sure enough she's off on the usual, emotional connection and meeting of the minds and
blah blah blah
versus physical attraction
blah blah blah
.

“…but it's all very confusing, Colt,” Grace finishes. “Because I'm really attracted to you. And I miss you when you're not around.”

I feel light, like I'm about to float off smiling into the air. She missed me! So what if she says it like it's some math problem she's got to figure out?

“I really do miss you,” Grace says softly, almost to herself, and she's got that little line along the inside of one eyebrow that means she's thinking hard, trying to understand. “I guess it's because you help me lighten up; you keep me from thinking too much. From taking things too seriously.”

“I don't drain your brain,” I tell her, and it's a joke, but inside I feel this sudden pain, like some little guy in there just jabbed me with a tiny knife. Moron!

Grace smiles up at me. “You're good for me, Colt,” she says. Like I'm some goddamn vitamin. “And I'm good for you, too, because I get you to think about things you
normally wouldn't think about.”

“Like poetry,” I agree. That almost sounds wise, and I've got to say something so I'll forget the little knife jab.

“There's just something about you. You can be incredibly sweet. And you try so
hard
. Deep down you're very different from the person you try to project. You practically reek of self-confidence—but I can see this scared little boy peeking out.”

The thing I wish about Grace is that she'd quit throwing words around all the time. Just once I wish she'd stop talking and just kiss, or get drunk, or laugh like hell.

But I can hear that she's starting to feel sorry for me. So I say “Yeah,” real pitiful. Grace has this social worker side, where she likes to fix people. I can't complain—it's the main thing that keeps her from dumping me every time she gets mad.

“The physical stuff…it's just happening too fast. Faster than the emotional part. I'm not ready for…I think…” She takes a deep breath. “I just think we're moving too quickly.”

Too quickly? If I went any slower, we'd be going backward!

“What I'd like…what I want…” Her voice gets so low, I have to lean closer to hear. “…is to just back off on some of the physical stuff for a while.” She doesn't look super-intelligent right now; she looks shy. “I mean,
we can still go out and everything. Just not…you know.”

“No. I don't know. What do you mean—I can't touch you?”

“I don't mean that. We can kiss and stuff.”

“Stuff?”

Grace is real big on using the exact perfect dictionary word—except when it comes to sex. Then she doesn't like to even admit people have
parts
.

Grace has always been a little uptight.

“I don't know. I just want to feel more in control.”

What? She just said she wanted to be swept away!

Okay, okay. I already knew she's afraid of sex. She's not only afraid of sex, she's afraid because I make her
want
to have sex. And I do make her want to have sex. I know I do.

Okay. Same old same old. She's just innocent, that's all. She's a virgin. So am I. This is good. Isn't it?

Can we take it slower? God!—even slower than we have been? Is that possible? But no, I can do it. Right? I love her. I can't stand being without her. I can do this.

Can't I?

She's looking up at me, waiting. It's my cue.

Even just being with her, I feel like something has loosened. I realize that I'm breathing again, nice and deep. That my breath has been caught in my chest for
two days—I can't even breathe right unless I have her.

“We won't do anything you don't want to do,” I agree. “You're the boss.”

I'm looking down at her, and her eyes are locked onto mine, a little worried, and she doesn't know what to do either, I can tell. God! I want to kiss her. Is that okay? Probably. Is it? Tongues? Maybe. Should I lean in?

“You got new cologne,” Grace says into the silence. It's a hint to get closer.

But holy crap! I'm not wearing any cologne.

What she smells is Silver's perfume.

“Um. Thanks,” I say, taking a step backward. “It's not really mine. It's a sample. I got it in the mail.”

The door opens behind her, and Mrs. Garcetti pokes her head out. “Grace, I need you to stir! Colt?” her mother's head adds. “We're making candy. Want to help?”

“Um, no. No thanks. I've got to go. I've got…homework.” Mrs. Garcetti smiles. “Can't you—” She breaks off, sniffing. “Uh-oh!” she says, and her head disappears, and as the door shuts again, I smell a funny smell coming from inside, like charcoal and syrup.

“So. I guess I'll see you tomorrow,” I tell Grace.

“Tomorrow,” Grace echoes. And after another second where I don't know what to do and she's just standing there, she turns and walks back inside.

The glass storm door shuts behind her. Her back is straight, her hair's silk or whatever that shiny stuff is that prom dresses are made of, and it swings a little with each step, brushing the back of her neck. Her rear end sways too, back and forth. Her waist swoops in and then out again, and her jeans are old and soft-looking. They follow every curve and valley, over her hips, down and around and between her legs.

This is how you know when you're really messed up. When the girl you love thinks you're a moron, is afraid of having sex with you, and you still can't stop wanting her.