Crash Test Love (13 page)

DESIREE

What’s going on in there?

NIGEL

Let’s check it out.

The screaming is growing louder. Inside, the party is in ful swing; a girl is standing in the middle of the dance oor, practical y convulsing.

Barely a foot away from her is Duke, his face frozen in fear.

ME

(whispering)

We’ve gotta get Duke and get outta here.

At rst, I think we’re in huge trouble, but the closer I get the more I realize that the girl—who I can tel is the birthday girl, Marge, by her silver tiara—isn’t freaking out for a negative reason (such as nding out that we crashed her party). Rather, something is making her incredibly … happy.

MARGE

OMG OMG OM-EFFING-G!!! THERE IS A REAL LIVE BROADWAY STAR AT MY PARTY!!!

Oh shit.

Marge throws her arms in the air and does a grapevine into a jazz square. She is panting so hard she reminds me of Max, my dachshund, when he sits on my porch in the summertime. Her eyes are wild, and I’m pret y sure she’s foaming at the mouth.

MARGE

OMG YOU NEED TO SING RIGHT NOW!!! GET ON THAT STAGE!!!

Duke sneaks up to me, trembling.

DUKE

I don’t know what happened. I was doing my thing, and all of a sudden Marge started ipping out. Someone must have told her I was in Phantom and now she wants me to sing to her.

ME

Well, then sing to her.

DUKE

I don’t want to, Henry.

I glance back at Marge, who is playing with a feather boa and grinding her hips.

ME

I’m not sure you have a choice.

Marge gets up on a tiny stage with the DJ and grabs a microphone.

MARGE

Testing, testing, one, two, three … la la la la la la la. Thank you! Ladies and gentlemen, as you know, it’s my Sweet Sixteen, and tonight we have been graced with a member of the Broadway cast of The Phantom of the Opera.

Marge points at Duke. People applaud.

MARGE (cont.)

His name is Marcello, and for my birthday, I would like him to sing me a song from the show, which happens to be one of my favorites. Not my favorite favorite, which is Les Miz, and not my second favorite, Ragtime. ‘Wheels of a Dream,’ byotches! It’s not my third favorite either, but, well, it’s de nitely Top Five. No, Top Ten. Anyway … without further ado, I bring you … Marcello!

Duke looks to me for help. I shrug and start to laugh. This is so ridiculous.

He crawls to the stage as though he’s about to be executed, and takes the microphone from Marge, who squeals.

DUKE

Uh, thank you.

There’s no accompaniment, so everyone simply waits for Duke to begin. What seems like an eternity goes by before he presses his lips to the mic.

DUKE

I would love to sing for you, Marge, but since it’s your Sweet Sixteen, the song should truly be a special one. I’m only in the chorus of Phantom; however, the Phantom himself is here with us tonight. (He points to me.) Give it up for my good friend, Don Carlos!

If there weren’t over a hundred people staring at us, I would leap across the room and tackle Duke.

DUKE

Don’t be shy, Don Carlos. Come on up.

Nigel pushes me forward and I give the crowd a fake smile. When I reach the stage, Duke passes me the microphone.

MARGE

Aren’t you a little young to be the Phantom?

DUKE

Nah, you should see him with the mask on!

How can I get out of this? I could drop the mic and run, but Duke has the keys, and I’d have to wait for the valet to bring the car around—by How can I get out of this? I could drop the mic and run, but Duke has the keys, and I’d have to wait for the valet to bring the car around—by that time Marge (or her parents) wil have clobbered me to death.

MARGE

Well, sing to me already! Somebody SING to me! It’s my e ng birthday!

Here goes nothing. I start with the rst few words of “The Music of the Night.” Even though the movie version sucked, I’m glad I saw it. I have a decent-enough voice. Although I forget a few of the words, I think Marge wil be happy.

Toward the end (I sort of rushed through the middle, let’s be honest) I look over at Marge and she’s crying. Could I possibly be that … good?

When I nish, her tears are owing pret y freely.

ME

Don’t cry, Marge.

MARGE

IT’S MY PARTY AND I’LL CRY IF I WANT TO! You’re an AWFUL singer! (She turns to her mother.) What has the state of musical theater come to?

DUKE

Actually, he’s only the Phantom understudy.

ME

Let’s go.

I pul Duke o the stage with me, grab Nigel, and dash toward the exit.

We drive home in silence. Until:

ME

I can’t believe that actually happened.

NIGEL

Well, I thought you were stellar. I wanted an encore.

ME

Bite me.

I turn to Duke.

ME (cont.)

You’re a dead man, Duke. A dead man.

DUKE

If I gotta go, I gotta go. But man, was that shit funny.

GARRETT

“Tel us al about school!” my mother says at dinner. Since the move, we haven’t eaten together often because of Dad’s teaching schedule.

Wednesday nights he’s free, though, and we try to do something as a family. Usual y this means ordering in (Mom isn’t much of a cook), but tonight she’s made her signature dish: spaghet i.

“Eat up, guys, or it’l go cold!” She pours more sauce onto my plate. “Isn’t this delicious? It’s my favorite recipe.” I want to say that boiling water and heating up a can of Four Brothers doesn’t qualify as a recipe, but I don’t because, real y, where wil that get me?

“I tried this new pasta,” Mom says, “and it’s green! You probably can’t tel because of the sauce, but it is. Green pasta. What wil they think of next? It’s made from spinach, I think. Organic spinach. Which is real y healthy for you, honey”—she turns to my dad—“because of your high cholesterol.”

“My cholesterol is just ne,” he says, swal owing.

“That’s not what Dr. Mil er told you. Dr. Mil er said that your cholesterol was through the roof! Can you imagine? Now, eat up.” She wipes Dad’s chin with her napkin. “You had a lit le sauce on you,” she says, kissing him. Then she turns her at ention back to me. “We’re stil waiting, Garret

—how is school?”

“It’s ne,” I say.

“What are your favorite classes?” Dad asks.

I think for a second. “I guess AP Lit and, I don’t know, my creative writing elective.”

“You always were such a wonderful writer,” Mom says. “I’ve saved al the birthday cards you gave me, you know. Your words are like miniature poems. You’ve got a gift, dear. A gift. Don’t let it go to waste.”

I can’t remember ever writing anything to my mother other than Happy Birthday, Mom. Love, Garret , but I don’t correct her. “Uh, thanks.”

“Any friends?” Dad asks.

“There are these girls. London, Jessica, and Jyl ian. They’re … nice.” If the J Squad ever heard me describe them as nice, I think they would o cial y cut me o .

“That’s great, sweetie,” Dad says. “Any boys?”

My father has never liked any of my past boyfriends except for Ben, who he didn’t like so much as tolerate. Not because they were bad guys

—he’s just leery of any teenagers with testosterone.

I wonder what Dad would think of my current actions: get ing Henry to fal in love with me so I can dump him on television to teach him a lesson. I doubt he’d be very proud. Before I can answer, my mother says, “Oh no, honey. Garret has sworn o men. Forever.” Dad raises an eyebrow. “Forever?”

“Just until col ege,” I say.

He continues staring at me. “Good for you, sweetie. That’s an excel ent idea. Focus on your grades and applying to schools. Have you thought about where you want to go?”

I remember my conversation with Henry in his room. Why is the question from adults always Have you thought about where you want to go?

and not Have you thought about what you want to be? Who you want to be

“Not real y,” I say. “A lit le.”

“You should,” Dad says. “I can put you in touch with the Columbia admissions person for Long Island if you have any questions. Or the woman from U Chicago.”

“Sure,” I say. “That sounds ne.”

“Oh, before I forget,” Mom says, “we were invited to a party this weekend. A welcome-to-the-neighborhood kind of thing. One of the women who lives down the street invited me this afternoon. I wanted to say that we’ve been here for over a month already! Where was this party when we rst arrived? But I didn’t want to be rude, you know? Bet er late than never, I suppose.”

“Sounds good,” Dad says, leaning in and giving her a kiss. I think about when Henry kissed me this afternoon. “It’l be fun, I bet.” My parents have known each other since they were my age. They met in high school and started dating their junior year. They went to separate col eges but stayed together (aside from a six-month breakup that neither of them wil speak about). They are total y and completely in love. I can’t decide whether this makes me sick or insanely jealous.

I put down my fork. “May I be excused? I have a lot of homework.”

“Sure, honey,” Dad says. “Get to it!”

I leave the table and go upstairs, let ing them have a few moments alone.

In my room, I sit down at my computer and check my e-mail. Nothing. I pick up my phone and dial Amy’s number. It goes straight to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. Why hasn’t she returned any of my cal s? This is get ing ridiculous already.

I’m about to put my phone down when it buzzes. One new text message. From London.

Saw u with Henry @ lunch today. Good 4 u.

I write back:

All in a day’s work.

Then she writes:

When’s ur next date?

Good question. So far, I think I’ve played everything perfectly. Aside from get ing the job at the cinema, al of my encounters with Henry have been initiated by him (even though they were manipulated by me). I haven’t chased after him; I’ve let him take the lead. He was the one who started saying hel o to me at school. Who invited me to watch Annie Hal . Who asked me to have lunch with him. Maybe now it’s time to up the ante.

I open my Gmail account. I need to send something short and to the point. Flirty and intriguing rather than pushy and irritating. An e-mail that, when he opens it, wil make him respond immediately.

To: [email protected]

Subject: When are you …

Going to take me out on an actual date? Courtyard benches are nice and all, but sometimes a girl likes a good old-fashioned restaurant.

—G

I click Send and stare at my computer, waiting for a lit le (1) to appear next to the Inbox on the left side of the screen. I open my iTunes library and search for Adele. At least I can have some music while I wait.

I get through the rst two songs on her album and am halfway through the third when a reply comes. I click it open.

Henry Arlington to me

You + Me = Friday. After school.

That’s al it says. Five words, but I’m in. I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. Good work, Garret . Then I reply to London’s last text: Friday

A few seconds later, she writes:

Lavish. See u tmrw!

I wonder where Henry wil be taking me. I know it doesn’t real y mat er what we do—it’s the fact that we’re going out that counts—but stil .

Were this an actual relationship, I’d be smit en with how adorable he’s being (buying me a cookie?! Flirting via e-mail?!), but since it’s not an actual relationship, any smit en-ness would be inappropriate on my part. Completely inappropriate.

I do my homework and get ready for bed. I watch TV and paint my nails. I go into iPhoto on my MacBook and nd pictures from my seventeenth birthday; I drag al the ones with Ben in them to the trash except for a photo of me, him, and Amy. I’m stil feeling restless. I begin unpacking some of the boxes from the move I’ve hidden underneath my bed. Lots and lots of books. My copy of Aimee Mann’s The Forgot en Arm, the one I thought I’d lost. I stil cannot stop thinking about Friday. What am I going to wear?

I’m searching through my closet—I have way too many sweaters—when I pause for a moment. It feels like I’m get ing ready for a date, only this is not a real date. This is part of a game, a mission. I am going out with Henry because it’s the next step in my plan to break his heart.

Only I can no longer think about Henry without remembering the way he kissed me, and what it felt like to be held by him and talk about life and love. I’ve never had such a frank, open conversation with anyone—not even Ben. I want to be happy that I found someone at my new school I truly connect with, but I can’t because I’m not supposed to like Henry. I am supposed to destroy him.

But if I like Henry, actual y like him, then I’m going against everything I said I wanted, mainly not put ing my feelings at the mercy of some

“high school boy,” as London would put it.

Despite my confusion, one realization has emerged: this thing with Henry is complicated.