Perfectly Good White Boy (22 page)

Skullfuck? “No idea what you're even talking about.”

“Wow, I can't believe you haven't seen that. Like, every guy has seen that. Tristan quotes from it all the time.”

I shrugged. Because, fuck Tristan. “Fuck Tristan.”

She stopped talking, then. Stared straight forward. I didn't know if she was pissed off. Or had been seeing him again.

“What?” I said, after I parked in front of her house. “Is it surprising I don't like the guy?”

“No.”

“Well, what, then? Did you want to see him again or something?”

“Do you still see Hallie?”

It caught me, I had to admit. I was quiet.

“Fuck you!” she said, pushing at my shoulder. “You're still doing it with her, aren't you?”

“Did you do it with Tristan?”

“No,” she said. “No, but . . .”

“But . . .?”

“Almost,” she said. “I wanted to tell you earlier. He came over last night. If my mom hadn't woken up just when I could have slid out the back door, I might have.”

“Wow.”

“I know.” She was quiet a minute. Then she turned back to me, mad. “I can't believe you! What's your problem? How can you be all judgey of me when you're still with Hallie?”

“I'm not
with
her.”

“Technicalities. She's at college, big deal. You have a car.”

“She's not at college,” I said. “She didn't go back after Christmas break.”

“What?”

I mumbled through the details. Neecie looked shocked. More shocked that Hallie had quit college than that I'd been doing it with her.

“Was it, like, too hard for her or something? College?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. All I know is she's depressed or something.”

Neecie was quiet for a minute. Then: “So, that's why you go fuck her, then? Because she's so sad and pathetic?”

“Jesus!” I said. Because saying it that way was blunt. And pretty much true.

“Or because
you're
so sad and pathetic?” she asked.

“Jesus! Is that why you fucked Tristan?”

“Obviously.”

“You're not sad and pathetic, Neecie.”

“Whatever.”

Then she wouldn't look at me, so I had to stop talking if I wanted her to hear me right and I thought it was a pretty sweet system she had for controlling and cutting off conversation. Until I realized she was crying. Oh god. Crying girl, in my car. I wanted to hit the eject button.

“Neecie. Neecie, come on. Neecie, it's okay . . . Okay?”

My words being feeble and probably hard to hear as I was almost whispering and she wasn't looking anyway.

I touched her knee, and she looked up.

“Hey,” I said. Then I couldn't think of anything to say.

She wiped her eyes a little, her makeup getting smudgy. It was the first time I'd noticed she wore makeup. She didn't seem like a very make-uppy girl, I guess.

“I didn't think you believed me at first,” she said. “That we were doing it, me and Tristan. Because, you know. I'm me, and everything. And he's, like, Tristan.”

I hadn't believed her, really. But there was no way I'd ever tell her that.

“And he's not, like, you know, always a dick to me,” she continued. “Sometimes he's really nice, Sean. Plus, I know a lot about him. Not on purpose. But it's been, like, you know, like half a year. He doesn't get why I wouldn't text him back. He was so mad! And, like, whining. Sad. But what did he expect me to do? Start crying? Start fighting with him, like I was his girlfriend? Be all crazy and possessive? I mean, he's gone out with like four other girls since all this started. So, what was I supposed to do? I mean, I know all these
things
. All these little weird things about him. Like, he's only ticklish in one spot. And he loves country music. I mean, how geeky is that? Like, not just the cool alt-country stuff. I'm talking Taylor Swift and Tim McGraw, all the shitty new stuff. And all the twangy old stuff. He knows all the words, too. He's kind of a good singer, actually. Sometimes he sings along with it, when we're in his car alone. He has tons of it on his iPod. No one knows that about him but me, because, you know, he doesn't really advertise. I mean, country music sucks, right?”

“Well,
yeah
.”

“And he has this cat? At his mom's house. He misses that damn cat so much when he has to stay with his dad. He sits and cuddles with that cat. He talks to it. The cat stays in the room, on the bed, while we're doing it, you know? Because he feels bad closing the door on her. I mean, what do I do with all that information, Sean? I can't do anything with it. But I can't really forget it. And I can't really break up with him, either.”

“It sounds like you tried.”

“Yeah, but I think Tristan thinks . . .”

“Hey, who cares what he fucking thinks?” I said, a little loud. “Him and Hallie both. I mean, it's fine, I guess. Just to be hooking up. I mean, obviously both of us think it's fine or we wouldn't do it, right?”

She nodded.

“And so, what?” I continued. “It feels good. That's fine. I mean, not gonna argue with things that feel good, right?”

“Well...”

“Does it not feel good, Neecie? Tell me it did, at least little. Because, otherwise, why would . . .?”

“God!” she shouted, and laughed a little and covered her mouth. “I can't believe you. I mean . . . yeah. It felt good,” she said. “We got good at it. I'll say that for the whole thing.” Then she got all red and laughed some more. “God.”

“Well, that's a fucking relief,” I said. Though I didn't feel relieved. Not at all.

“It wasn't good at first, though,” she said. “It was, you know. Boring, a little. For me, at least. Then, later, it . . . wasn't.”

I couldn't look at her for some reason, then. She was kind of smiling, and red, and she had tears, and it was like, I didn't want to hear the sex stuff when there were tears. Or maybe I did. But I didn't want to hear it and then pretend everything was normal and there wasn't The Horn or that I wasn't insanely curious to know every last detail. Every last one. Because I was curious. And jealous. Because it was Tristan. Just, too many things.

“I mean, too bad if he's sad or Hallie's gone mental or whatever,” I continued. “Tough shit, right? I can think of a whole lot worse shit than Tristan not getting laid or Hallie failing out of college.”

“Hallie failed?”

“No. I don't know. She wasn't getting along with her roommate or something. Who cares, that's not the point.”

“Right. What
is
the point, then?”

Shit. What was I trying to say?

“The point is that we did it and we enjoyed it and that's good enough. Like, just fuck the whole thing, you know? Don't worry about it.”

I had no idea what I was talking about anymore. This pep talk had just been aimed at stopping the crying. Beyond that, I didn't really know what the point of anything was.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, okay, okay.” She wiped her eyes, wiped her hands on her jeans, shook out her hair.

“Now go take a nap. And I'm gonna . . . I don't know. Do something.”

“You should take a nap, too, Sean,” she said. “All that running. Aren't you tired?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Kinda sore, too.”

“Take a bath,” she said.

“A bath? No way.”

“Good for sore muscles, my mom says.”

“Guys don't take baths, Neecie.”

“Whatever. You're just being an idiot about it. All the pro athletes take hot baths and stuff. I've seen it on ESPN. It's like you don't watch television, I swear. You need to take care of yourself so you don't get injured. I mean, is this our new Saturday tradition? I get free breakfast and then pick you up miles away from the starting point?”

I sighed. “I don't know. It's kind of a whole big pain in the ass.”

“Look, you can't flunk out of boot camp, Sean! You've got to keep up or the gunny will humiliate you and you'll blow your brains out in the latrine.”

“What?”

“
Full Metal Jacket
,” she said. “You need to see that movie.”

“Oh.”

“Or just join track,” she said. “Then all the workouts are figured out for you. Like, the coach'll do it all.”

“But I don't want to compete and stuff. I mean, I don't want to . . .”

“Just join for the workouts. Who cares if you compete? Even if you just run with the B squad, it'll be easier. And over with. Just think, every day, you'll be done at 5:30. No weekend bullshit.” She unclicked her seat belt. “I can't imagine you with no hair, Sean.”

“What?”

“They shave your head, you know. You'll be all bald. I can't even imagine you like that. Like, what if your skull is all lumpy? Or covered in moles or something?”

“What are you even talking about?” I ran my hand over my head, though. Like I was checking for lumps already.

“You know they shave your head, right? How can you not know that?”

“I know that. But, just, who has
moles
on their damn head?”

“I don't know; I go to the dermatologist a lot. They have some pretty weird photos on the walls there.” She started gathering up her Thrift Bin bags and stuff. “See you at work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Sean?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for cheering me up. I mean, sorry for crying and stuff.”

“It's okay. What . . . what are you doing tonight?” I said it all casual. Didn't want to sound date-y. It was Saturday and everything, but we weren't like that.

“I said I'd go out with Ivy,” she said.

“Okay.”

“But I'll text you if that's boring.”

“Text me if it's fun, how about.”

She laughed. “I will.”

And there it was, again, us, friends. But The Horn, man. The Horn was all over Neecie Albertson's shit. The Horn didn't know what he was doing. I swear, though, it was The Horn that texted Hallie before I could drive away.

Chapter Thirteen

Valentine's Day at school was more than a day. Since the actual day landed on a Wednesday, it dragged on all damn week. Nothing but announcements about the flower and candy sales and girls fluttering around the student council table at lunch getting all insane about who they were sending stuff to and a few cases of swaggering guys doing it too. Like buying one-dollar carnations made you some kind of romantic badass.

Neecie was home sick most of the week, which was good, I guess, because then she wouldn't have to watch that Hannah chick Tristan went out with lose her mind about her cheap, assysmelling carnations that she got in the middle of our goddamn English class. I kind of wanted to clock her, to be honest, the way she was acting all fake-surprised and all “OH MY GOD WHAT IS GOING ON” like she didn't know damn well what was going on.

Two days after Valentine's Day, Eddie and me were eating lunch in the cafeteria. He told me he'd gotten Libby a candy bar but she hadn't really seemed that into it.

“I think she's pissed,” he said. “Maybe she wanted flowers?”

I didn't say anything. Mostly because it a no-brainer: go buy her some flowers, then, too. Or a whole box of candy. Or some other thing she liked. Mostly, though, buying stuff for people in order for them to know you liked them seemed like the creepiest thing in the world. Prostitute-y.

Obviously, I was kind of salty; I'd gone over to Hallie's after school the day after Valentine's Day and she was also in bed, sick. I wondered if she had the same thing Neecie had.

Whatever it was, she was sick enough to not even want to go down to the laundry room. And though we were in her bed, she didn't seem into it. I mean, she was the one who texted me, so I guess she was. But mainly, it was just me doing my thing. A little too fast, probably.

“Now I've gotten you sick,” she said, when I coughed while getting dressed.

“I'm just clearing my throat,” I said.

“Mine started with a cough,” she said, pulling her sweatshirt over her head and coughing herself. No bra. Hallie seemed uninterested in wearing underwear lately. This might have been sexy, if not for the fact that she seemed so dull and sad since leaving college. Even when we had sex, I felt like she was about to sigh the whole time.

It would have been okay, beyond the fact that she never had anything to say anymore, because she said she just sat around in her old room in bed all day watching movies on her laptop. We walked out to the TV room and she flopped on the sofa. I started putting my shoes on and then, out of the blue, she just started crying.

It was real crying, too. Messy. Like she'd been holding it in for a long time, and while I felt like escaping through the sliding glass door onto the deck, I just couldn't. Neecie had cried in front of me, and I'd managed to deal with that.

“Hallie, what's . . . What's going on?”

She didn't talk for a long time; she blew her nose, she sniffled, she gasped for air, she shook her head. Basically, she was more animated than she'd been with my dick up her. Which made me want to cry along with her. The both of us were so shitty. I went to the bathroom and got her a wad of toilet paper, hoping that would help, that she'd wipe her eyes and get over it.

But she kept crying. It went on so long, I didn't know what to do or say. I'd never heard anyone cry that long before. And I was running out of patience, which was shitty to admit. I was starting to think it was all an act. Nobody could cry that much. Not in front of another person who was standing there looking concerned and handing you toilet paper, at least.

I tried to interrupt her crying, asking her what was wrong again, but the only things she would say was that everything sucked and she hated her life and nobody even gave her a Valentine except her mom and dad and they didn't count and why the fuck did this happen to her? Why did it feel like everyone hated her?