Crash Test Love

Also by Ted Michael

Also by Ted Michael

The Diamonds

For my parents

&

for anyone who has loved,

lost,

and lived to write about it

Contents

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Dedication

Part 1 - The Beginning

Chapter 1 - Henry

Chapter 2 - Garret

Chapter 3 - Henry

Chapter 4 - Garret

Chapter 5 - Henry

Chapter 6 - Garret

Chapter 7 - Henry

Chapter 8 - Garret

Part 2 - The Middle

Chapter 9 - Henry

Chapter 10 - Garret

Chapter 11 - Henry

Chapter 12 - Garret

Chapter 13 - Henry

Chapter 14 - Garret

Chapter 15 - Henry

Chapter 16 - Garret

Chapter 17 - Henry

Chapter 18 - Garret

Chapter 19 - Henry

Chapter 20 - Garret

Part 3 - The End

Chapter 21 - Henry

Chapter 22 - Garret

Chapter 23 - Henry

Copyright

THE BEGINNING

Hearts will be practical only when they are made unbreakable.

—from The Wizard of Oz (1939)

HENRY

I am not the girlfriend type of guy.

I want to get it out there and be completely honest.

I am not the girlfriend type of guy.

I won’t: hold your hand, buy you owers, have dinner with your parents.

I wil : kiss you until your legs col apse and you beg me to lift you up and start al over again.

I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings, ladies, but you should know exactly what you’re get ing into.

It’s only fair.

INT.—BACKSEAT OF MY CAR, SATURDAY NIGHT, LABOR DAY WEEKEND

I am bored.

HER

And I was like, really, you like my hair like this? On top of my head?

ME

(blank stare)

HER

Because I think it looks better in braids. I know that sounds so third grade, but it’s true!

ME

(blank stare)

HER

Don’t you agree, Reinaldo?

ME

(even blanker stare)

HER

Reinaldo? Hel-lo?

I forget she is talking to me because my name is not Reinaldo. It’s what I told her my name is, though, so it makes sense she’s cal ing me that. I try to remember her name—Marissa? Marisol? Something with an M?—but I can’t. I suddenly wish I hadn’t suggested we leave the party to be alone in my car. It’s much easier to tune someone out in a large group. But here we are, in the back of my Jeep. I think about how many girls I’ve been with in this very same position. Our legs are touching, and even though it’s the time I would normal y make my move, I have a gnawing feeling this is not going to happen. Whoever this girl is sit ing next to me, she seems incredibly … young. But it’s stil worth a shot.

HER

Did you hear a single thing I just said?

ME

Maybe you should take your dress o —it’s really hot in here.

HER

(giving me a look I don’t even have to describe) You are a pig, Reinaldo! A pig!

She slams my car door behind her as she leaves. I am slightly upset. Not because I liked her (she was boring) or because she thinks I’m a pig (I am) or even because it’s pret y clear I’m not get ing any tonight; I am upset because I can usual y pick them pret y wel . Girls, that is. I can see a girl and know within seconds what her deal is. What she likes and what she hates and whether she moans when she’s being kissed. It’s a talent I have. Some people are good with numbers. I am good with women.

Just not this one. The Hel o Kit y hair clip should’ve tipped me o .

I get out of my car. It’s dark, but not too dark. Even though I’m standing in the parking lot I can hear the noise coming from inside the hotel.

Music. Dance music. You should know that I love to dance. Love to dance. Not professional y or anything, but in a club where it’s loud and crazy.

That’s one of the reasons I dig parties. I like to have a good time. And there’s nothing wrong with that—despite what anybody says.

That’s one of the reasons I dig parties. I like to have a good time. And there’s nothing wrong with that—despite what anybody says.

This particular party is a Sweet Sixteen for a girl who goes to my high school. Usual y when I crash Sweet Sixteens, I like to go where no one knows me and I can pretend to be someone else entirely. I get a rush from sneaking into a party I wasn’t invited to and dancing. Wel , not just dancing. Finding a cute girl to hook up with and hopeful y making a lit le mischief in the process. Escaping the monotony of life for a few hours.

Duke and Nigel (my co-crashers) have never understood this about me, and they probably never wil . They just think crashing parties is fun. They don’t know rsthand the need to escape. To ee. To invent fake names and fake pasts and know that someone, some girl, actual y believes it al .

This makes me feel powerful. It also makes me kind of an asshole, but I don’t real y care.

This is probably why I love movies so much. The idea of transforming into an entirely di erent person on-screen than who you are in real life.

You would think that’d make me a wannabe actor, but I’m not. I do want to study lm in col ege, though, and write screenplays. Like Charlie Kaufman or Alan Bal or Joel and Ethan Coen. I want to make movies, to create something from nothing. Every day I imagine my interactions as part of one big script; I see things as if my whole existence is on lm. I’ve been this way for a while now, and I can’t imagine changing anytime soon. I want to be a writer so I can hide behind a computer or even a pen and paper and make decisions by myself. Without anyone interfering.

Without anyone saying no.

Inside, it’s as spectacular as a Baz Luhrmann lm, only with a crowd made up entirely of horny sixteen-year-olds. The guys here look so tiny, like miniature men. Did I ever look that smal ? Granted, I’m not even two years older—but somehow I skipped that awkward phase of pimples and wispy mustaches.

I wasn’t o cial y invited to this extravaganza, but since most everyone here goes to East Shore, I am known. Duke and Nigel are too (slightly less than me, but stil ). Truth be told, it’s a pret y chil setup. The girls seem ready to party, the music is nice and hip-hoppy, and the food smel s good.

Not a bad way to close the summer. The fact that school is starting up again next week makes me wanna hurl, but I’m not going to think about that right now.

I head over to a table covered with a bunch of snacks, shrimp, and napkins. And mini quiches. People love mini quiches. This is when my buddies approach me.

DUKE is just over six feet tal with lots of brown hair. He’s built, plays footbal , and he’s pret y smart, despite talking like he’s a character in a Judd Apatow ick.

NIGEL is shortish and always dressed up. He plays the cel o like a pro, but Duke and I are the only ones who know he can play at al .

The three of us have been inseparable since we were twelve. We started crashing Sweet Sixteens last year, when Duke turned seventeen and got a car. (Don’t judge—there’s not much else to do on Long Island.) I got my cousin’s hand-me-down Jeep about three months ago, on my seventeenth birthday, and now we alternate driving so we can (try to) drink.

Nigel and Duke are more talk than anything, real y. They’ve never had girlfriends, and they usual y mess things up even when they do get the chance to score—not that it happens often. I, on the other hand, seem to at ract more girls than any person should. They cling to me like barnacles.

I kind of dated someone once (the closest thing I’ve had to a girlfriend, anyway), but it was a long time ago and the relationship, if you can even cal it that, ended badly. Since then, I like to y solo.

NIGEL

Yo, Henry, how’d it go?

DUKE

Get any tail?

Only Duke would use the word tail in reference to women.

ME

(eating a pig in a blanket)

Not yet, gentlemen. But the night is young.

DUKE

You’re cool to drive, right?

ME

I’m cool. Why, what’s up?

NIGEL

(pointing to the bar a few feet away)

Look how stocked they are!

It’s true. They have al the fancy stu . The bartender, though, seems like a total bitch. I doubt she’l be lax about serving us. (Tonight, Nigel’s folks—our usual suppliers—locked their liquor cabinet, so we’re on our own.)

A few girls pass by and giggle. I give a lit le wave. They run away.

ME

You can try, dude, but it’s never gonna happen.

NIGEL

I like a challenge.

DUKE

Your mom likes a challenge.

NIGEL

Shut up.

DUKE

Let’s make a bet, Henry: if we can get the bartender to serve us, then you give us each ve bucks.

ME

No.

NIGEL

Oh, come on. It’s all in good fun.

ME

How about this: if you get her to serve you, you each give me ve bucks for gas, seeing as how I picked your asses up and drove you here.

NIGEL

Ha. No.

ME

Okay, how about this: whether you get her to serve you or not, you’ll each still give me ve bucks for gas.

DUKE

I don’t like that bet.

ME

It’s not a bet. I need the cash. This is my way of telling you.

DUKE

Fine. Just don’t drink, okay? You need to drive us home.

ME

Deal.

NIGEL

Back to the bartender. I recognize her. My brother used to date this girl named Leslie, who went to middle school with her. I think her name is Stacy. Or maybe Sapphire. If that’s not an in, what is?

ME

You’re right. She’ll totally serve you once you mention that.

Not.

Duke and Nigel slip away, and I am left standing alone at the hors d’oeuvres table. This is not, in my experience, such a bad place to be.

“What’s with al the quiche?” asks a voice from behind me.

I turn around and there is this girl. She looks around my age, but the closer I examine her, the more I realize she is not a girl. I mean, she is but she isn’t. She’s a woman. She has dark brown hair and perfect skin. She is beautiful.