Finding North (Naïve Mistakes Series) (10 page)

I kept my eyes closed, trying to center myself, trying to stop those pesky imaginary fingers walking all up and down over my spine and body. I broke out in a sudden chill.

Conall was by my ear.

"Leora," he whispered. I could feel his breath entering me like warm flesh.

"M-hmm."

He whispered again: "To answer your question: No, I won't be ripping your dress of on this concrete floor. If I ripped your dress off, it would be on a silk bed in front of a crackling fire. There'd be champagne, Perrier, wine, fucking diet lattés if you wanted. But there'd also be you, and me, alone, and nothing else. And to comment on your second point"
—(What point? I'd forgotten. But who gave a shit? Just let him keep talking in my fucking ear!)—"if the idea of having your dress ripped off 'fucking turns you one'"—(Oh, yes,
that
point...)—"then all you need to know is that seeing you in that club, in that tight bustier and that skimpy dress on Friday, with skin so golden it looked like honey that I wanted to lick off you, has had me so
fucking horny
for three days that I think the Marriot will be running out of water from all the cold showers I've had to take."

Oh. Mother. Fucking. Wow.

English Propriety
was absolutely the reason he'd only slept with three girls. Because lacking in the turn-on department was out for the count.

As was I.

-1-

I can't answer if I masturbate "a lot." What is a lot? Three times a week? A month? A year?

Three times a day?

You can imagine how The Convent (as we all refer to our school) feels about that "sinful deed." That was how we'd often hear Headmistress Tabathy refer to it at assembly on a Friday: "The Solitary Sin" or the "Sin of Self-Gratification" (there was no double-meaning in that one. She was talking about "Today's Literature").

I developed pretty quickly. By the end of fourteen my cup size settled on the C to which it has ever since adhered, and the only change in the following year was when my 34 band size became a 36. Which was also when I started panicking about my weight.

I'm short. Five-four. And I'm stocky (or, was stocky. Now I like to think of myself as "Athletic.") By the time I'd hit fifteen I was getting rounded. You can guess the rest.

My dad works out at a gym in The Bronx. It's where he grew up, and he's often there. He worked himself up from nothing and, by the time he met my mom, was worth several million. "But you must never forget your roots," he always said (in his very American Italian accent).

It was he who taught me the basics of weight lifting. More girls should do it. It's the most effective
weight-loss, body-toning system out there. (Yeah, and I guess I also maybe took it a little overboard.)

I wasn't worried about getting "buff" (which I didn't. Women just don't get buff without steroids and other shit.) I just lifted. I lifted to get my mind off things. I lifted to tone my body. I lifted to forget that my dad, even though he taught me how to do this, was rarely around to see my progress. My dad also taught me how to box. I think this is the real reason Kayla is my friend. I think she secretly believes I'll whip the ass of some steroid-pusher who might be after her.

How wrong she is. But I
will
do everything I can to protect her. And I would indeed take on said steroid-pusher for her, even if it killed me. (Which is why I was so glad Muscle-Man Brad had come with me to look for her on Friday. Who know what could have happened otherwise?)

The other thing weightlifting does is increase testosterone. And testosterone is the hormone of arousal. So maybe that's why when it hits me, it hits like a supersonic plane, leaving me in its wake with hardly any breath to catch. Or maybe it hits simply because I grew up fast, or maybe because I've never had a boyfriend. Who fucking knows. I stopped beating myself up about it. Stopped stigmatizing myself for it (heck, I don't even go to church, why should I feel guilty about Headmistress Tabathy's views of that "Sinful Deed"?)

When I turned sixteen I pretty much accepted it for what it was: There would be times when I got horny, and I needed to "let go." Sometimes it was more frequent than others (like when Mr. Howards subbed for a week. I took a lot of bathroom breaks then.) Other times it happened only once every two weeks, sometimes as rarely as a month.

Ever since Friday night (since I'd seen Conall now that I think about it) it was
all the fucking time
. I felt like a friggin taut rope on a ship ready to snap.

Now, I've never had any backoff about turning the lights low, letting my hand slip down and getting it over with so that my muscles could relax and I could fucking
think
again. It's better than screwing around, isn't it?

But tonight... Tonight, after Conall's 'expertise,' my muscles were more taut than a rope holding a grand piano filled with five hundred bars of gold and dangling from the top of a building. I was ready to burst. A fly could've landed on my arm and I would've gotten turned on.

But when he got me home, and when I jumped in the elevator, I promised myself I wouldn't do it. Not tonight. Not while thinking about Conall. If this was truly going to be my first time, then I wanted it to be the first time in every possible way. (Yeah, the club didn't count! We were weren't officially "dating" then.)

So when I opened the door to my apartment, firm and resolute to jump in a cold shower and maybe sleep with the AC set to like minus fifty degrees or something,
nothing
was going to get in the way of my battle with maintaining my fantasized chastity with Conall.

Nothing, except maybe Brad from Bushwick.

-2-

I walked into the living room with a smile on my face and my head in the clouds. I'd just finished reading Conall's message saying "Will you be wearing lacy underwear tomorrow?" and still had my eyes glued to the screen. From the periphery of my vision, I saw Kayla lying on the floor, her arm stretched upwards and her head on top of it. An open paperback was on her chest (no doubt some book talking lewdly about sex on every second page.) Mom was on the couch, in a similar position, only there wasn't any book on her. Kayla had covered her with a fleece blanket.

And then Brad appeared like a ghost about four inches away from me!

"Oh, my God!" I shouted, almost throwing my phone up in the air. I caught my breath and relaxed. He was just standing there, bulky arms by his side, his thumbs in the pockets of his denims.

"Hey," he whispered with a smile, "I'm just sayin hi."

I looked down at Kayla, wondered if the two had done something in my bedroom (I didn't really care. I had just wondered.) She moved slightly (no doubt because of my scream.)

"What are you doing here?" I whispered back, grabbing him by the elbow and taking him into the kitchen.

"Kayla was feeling beat"
—
I couldn't imagine why...
—"and asked me to come by. She didn't want to let you down by not watching your mom like she promised. Your mom had already fallen asleep."

I went to the fridge to get some mineral water, not entirely certain what to do with my hands.

Brad really was very big... His tank top clung to his body like cling-wrap.
And this is my best friend's boyfriend (I think) I'm thinking about!

"Yeah, well, thanks." We stood and looked at each other. He still had this dorky looking grin on his face (and emerald green eyes, I must mention that.)

"So, um, how'd your date go?" I choked on some water. "Yeah, um, Kayls told me you was goin out with this English guy."

"Kayls" told you that, did she?
"Um, it was OK. So you two now...you know...are...?"

"What? Dating? Nah, we's just havin some fun is all." He looked over at her on the ground.

"Just 'fun'?"

"Yeah, she's cool. Very outspoken."

Yeah, she's also my best friend. So if you fuck with her I'll cut your frickin nuts off. With a blunt knife. In public.
"Yeah, well, she bruises easily. So take care of her."

"Oh, I will..." His mind seemed to drift. When he looked back at me I caught him eying my breasts. It was very brief, and surely it was nothing because all guys' eyes are like friggin magnets to breasts. (Or flies to shit to use an age-old ad very wise saying.)

And I know it was because of Conall and his "don't release the sexual tension" move, but as-true-as fuck I damn near felt Mr. Bradley's eyes touch my now very tensed nipples.

The act of clearing my throat filled the uncomfortably silent air like an anvil dropping in an empty warehouse with wooden floors!

"Want a drink?" I asked.

"Sure. Got beer?"

I looked in the fridge. Yip, two cold beers. I wasn't gonna look at the expiry date... "Here you go."

"Hey, next weekend there's a block party down in Bushwick. Las
t one before it gets too cold. Sponsored by
Vans
or sumthin. Kayls says she wants to go. You wanna come?"

What, for a friggin threesome?
It really looked like this thing was getting serious with my best friend here. I had to keep my eyes on this guy if he was gonna be taking her out. Conall would be gone by then. Why not? And, heck, my dad taught me how to box in a dingy little gym that smelled of sweat and had caked blood on some of the punching bags. I don't care about any of that "gentrification" shit they talk about. The Bronx is still frickin bad in some spots. Bushwick could never come close to that.

"Sure, I'll come..." My mind was on sex (still) and I knew that might have some connotation so I finished it off with "...along. I'll come
along
. I mean, if Conall is not still here."

"You guys getting serious?" He sipped his beer.

And his question made me look at him stunned. Luckily, Kayla started rousing. "Mmmmmm, Brad, baby?" she mumbled.

She's said "Brad." I see. Not "Leo." Brad. "I guess she's calling you," I said.

"I guess so. Thanks for the beer."

-3-

"Hey, sweetie. Have a good time?" asked Kayla after she got up, her arm around Brad's waist.

He was looking at me still with that frickin grin on his face. I couldn't judge what it meant. Was he happy to be with Kayla? Dumbstruck? Low in IQ? Or was the grin really a lewd smirk aimed at me? All of the above made me a little uncomfortable.

Kayla leaned into him and rested her head on his chest, then her hand on his abs.

Um, step back... Say what?
That was an "I'm in a relationship that looks serious" move if I'd ever seen one!

"Leora?" she said.

"Um, yeah?"

"I asked if you had a good time..."

My throat was dry.
Yeah, I had a great time. I wanted to tell you all about it. But I see you're, well... Busy?
"Yeah, um, great time. Great time."

"Great! Well, I'm beat. So, see you at school tomorrow?"

"Yeah, of course. It's, what, like almost midnight. Tonight's a school night. No time for girl talk, right?"

"Right."

She and Brad left. The last thing I saw was the back of her ass as Brad's hand rubbed over it. And her head as it leaned—still there!—on his chest.

The door closed.

As it did, my phone buzzed. A message from Conall.

Conall: Wear lace panties tomorrow.

I smiled.
Did someone turn up the heat?
I fanned my face. This was
not
helping! But I would remain firm. I wouldn't do it. I'd wait.

So I pumped weights instead.

-1-

Kayla had dumped me for the day. "Spending the day with Brad" she'd said in a text. I was forced to spend recess overhearing Bianca Henshaw talking about how "awesome" her new boyfriend was, with her other skanky friends. (Yeah, assuming she was talking about Raphael, her meaning of the word "awesome" was lacking some serious awesomeness.) And it was clear she wanted me to hear it, because I kept moving around the quad trying to eat my lunch (less than three hundred calories in total, including a treat because I was in a good mood) and, like a mosquito that hangs around just outside the net, there she was again.

It was obvious she had no idea that I knew who slimeball Raphael was. Mr. Drug Dealing Rapist.

My mood, however, completely changed when I saw Conall after school. In a sports car. Which was frickin red! (Don't ask me what model. All I knew is it looked expensive.)

His black hair tumbled back in the wind and he sat there looking like Mr. "I'm So Cool Don't Fuck With Me." I almost ran down the stairs in excitement, but held myself back. I had to look "mature" in front of my friends after all. (Yeah, say what you will. It was childish, I know. So what? Bianca had thrown the first punch with all her bragging...)

I walked up to his car in my uniform. He looked up at me from the shades. "I'm trying to look like a bad-arse for you. I believe that's what you were looking for?"

"That's exactly what I was looking for! Only, it's not bad 'arse.' It's bad
ass
!"

"Oh, do forgive me..." He was exaggerating his accent to sound very pompous. "I do feel most unrefined."

I clutched the door of his cabriolet and looked in the back-seat, thought about Kayla on Friday night, bit my bottom lip. "So, do you want to get out of the way so your less mature friends can get jealous?" he teased.

I smiled widely, because I could hear one particular friend and her crowd chattering like parrots on crack. And they were big-ass
jealous
!

Yeah girls, slaver away. Because not only am I getting into his car, technically: We're dating!

I went over to the other side of his car. "Uh-uh," he said, holding his hand up. "If we're going to do this, we have to do it right."

He got out, looked at Bianca and her crowd, then walked behind the car and opened my door for me. I sat down, not wanting to look back at the school because I had an almost uncontrollable desire to crack out laughing. It was clear that Conall was enjoying this far more than I was!

He got back in the driver's seat. "How long should we wait here?" he asked.

"Just a few seconds more." I suppressed a giggle.

"M-hm. So the purpose is to make these girls completely jealous, isn't it?"

"Yes, a very mature cause, I might add." The chattering from across the street on the school steps was getting louder.

"And you believe that
I
am making these other girls jealous? Me. Mr. Simple?"

"Oh, Mr. Simple, you have
no fucking idea
how jealous they're getting!"

"Well, in that case, we might as well go all the way and give them something to be jealous about."

He put his arm behind my seat, leaned forward into me. I still couldn't believe this was happening. It was like I had somehow—in the time between weight-lifting last night, and now—been convinced that last night with Conall had been a dream! A once off! This was happening to
me
, Leora Caivano!

His hand wrapped around my neck tightly. He pulled me toward him. I was a little stunned and just went with the flow. My mouth opened. He kissed.

Like being dunked in icy water, I woke up. As if we'd picked up from where we'd left off yesterday (that moment of unreleased tension as his hands had twiddled my underwear and then moved away) all those emotions (and, yes, that tension) started
pounding
me. (My God the torrent of memories of his hands on my thighs moving higher and higher started hitting me like the bat of a Yankee player!) I clutched his neck, forced my tongue into his mouth, bit his lip, interlocked my fingers behind him so he'd stay by me. I needed him.
Wanted
him!

"Oh. My. God!" I heard from across the street. I don't know who's voice it had been. It wasn't Bianca's. But that was fine with me. And by now, who fucking gave a shit. This wasn't about them anymore. This was about me. And Conall. And...
wow
.

I pulled back. "You're driving me fucking crazy," I said.

"Good."

The roar of a car engine never sounded so good.

I turned back to look at the school steps as we left. Bianca's mouth was agape. Much like mine had been when I'd first met Conall.

I smiled. OK, maybe it was about them as well. But only a little.

-2-

The music in his I-don't-know-the-model-car was dark. Not like death metal or anything, but troubled. I liked it. It had power, an undercurrent. I found myself bobbing my head (thinking I should start head
-banging and playing air guitar anytime soon.)

"Who is this?" I asked.

"You like it?"

"Yeah, very much."

"It's
Soundgarden
. The song's called
Fell on Black Days
."

"Wow, sounds morbid. It's got a cool, um"
—I made a guitar sound—"what do you call that thing?"

"A riff?"

"I guess."

"That repeating guitar pattern you hear in the back."

"Right."

"Yes, that's a 'riff.'"

"Well, it's got a good one. But I've never heard of them. Are they new?"

He chuckled. "No." His eyes widened in a
definitely not!
look. "Actually, they're a little before your time. In all honesty, it's a little before my time as well. But not as much."

I crossed my arms, gave him my best "I'm unimpressed" glare. He wasn't bothered by it, was too excitedly telling me about the stupid music.

"Here, listen to this one..." He changed the track. A creepy tune came on.

"Wow, you need help, dude!" (Secretly I also I also liked that one. It was like it said something to me. That life was more than this bullshit we see every day: Skyscrapers, successful moms who nevertheless drown themselves in brandy when they're in trouble. Money.)

"Maybe I do need help."

"So, what's on the cards?" What I really wanted to say was:
I put on those lace panties you wanted. How long before you pull my skirt up and take them off to have a look at them?

"Picnic. Somewhere quiet."

I stopped. Say
what
? "A fucking
picnic
?"

"Yes, isn't that what all men do when they want to impress a girl, take them on a romantic picnic somewhere quiet?"

"Firstly, that's what lame-asses do when they're trying to
pretend
to impress a girl so they can get into their panties. Secondly, this is friggin New York! There is nowhere quiet here!"

"Firstly," he copied, "I've already gotten into your 'panties' so I don't need to take you on a picnic to achieve that goal."
Touché. But don't talk about my panties, bud. I can't take any more of this!
"And, secondly, there are
plenty
of spaces here that are quiet and romantic and allow people to
talk
and
communicate
with each other!" He made wide eyes at me on those last two statements.

Whatever!

"You look very sexy today," he said, raking my body with his eyes and swallowing me whole with them.
Heat flush!
I shuffled in my seat.

"So, you do like a girl in uniform?"

"Please, don't make this any harder than it is." He laughed. "Besides, you seem far more interesting than some girl in a uniform. Do you know that Juliet was fourteen when she married Romeo?"

"Yeah, and look what happened to her! Besides, that's disgusting."

"That wasn't my point! My point is that love occurs irrespective of age. (OK, now that I think about it, maybe Juliet was a bad example. That
is
pretty disgusting!)"

Hold up! Screeeeech! Car crash.
Um, dude, forget that. Did you just use the frickin L word?

"Leora?"

Oh, great, phased out. "Uh, yeah, right, I get it."
I get that you used the big L word, that's what I get...

"But seven years isn't a big age gap," I continued. "I mean, depends on how old the youngest one is. Twenty and twenty-seven are nothing."

"I have an aunt whose husband is eleven years older than she is. She was nineteen when they met. Maybe that's why I didn't run when I first found out your age because they look pretty happy. At least on the outside."

So what's the problem!?
I wanted to scream.

"We're here."

Conall got out and opened up the hood. No, wait a minute, it was the trunk. "The trunk is in the front?"

"You've never been in a Porsche?"

Clearly not.

"And you packed a picnic basket. A real picnic basket. All it needs is a pink bow and you'll be officially gay."

"Are you taking the piss out of me, Ms. Caivano?"

"Am I what? Man, you're full of disgusting statements today!"

"It means: Are you making fun of me!"

"Oh, I see, well then, yes, I am pissing on you."

"Not pissing
on
! Now
that's
disgusting!"

"Oh, forget it, it's not like I'm ever gonna live in England or anything!"

There was a silent moment: A house-settling, mountain-cracking, earth-tilting, silent moment as Conall stood with his hand on the trunk and looked at me, stunned. It all happened so quick that he hadn't even realized it. But I had. "Conall, sorry, I shouldn't—"

"No, of course not." He closed the trunk. "I mean, this is only our third date. Technically, only our second."

We walked toward the spot he'd picked,
Teardrop Park
, which was indeed pretty quiet, had it not been for the rowdy kids jumping around on the boulders about fifty feet away. But the spot he'd picked was pretty secluded. (
Secluded enough for at least a few kisses
, I thought. I had to get me
something
before this day was over!)

"Technically only our second?" I asked.

"Yes, well, that first encounter was just you wanting to interrogate me as to my standing on the subject of sexual intercourse without the approval of the person you're having it with." (He had a joking tone. But I was still reeling from that silent moment earlier, trying to get this second or third date back on track!)

"Look, Conall..." I held his forearm. "I'm sorry. I... As I said to you on our 'technically first' date which was really our second, I'm new at this. I..." I started to think about him leaving. Suddenly I wanted to spend every aching moment with him! Every second! I'd skip school, get suspended, so what?

"No, but you brought up a good point; just one I don't think either of us is ready to talk about yet, I mean, until we know where this is going. We still have a few days."

We sat on a blanket he'd laid out.

I finally asked him the question I didn't really want an answer to: "Wh—when are you leaving?"

"Well, I've postponed until Thursday."

"But you'll have to leave eventually, won't you?"

"Yes, unfortunately I will. What I
won't
have to do is stay in England all the time. Unless, of course, Bloomingdales is sending you to Europe to look at the latest fashions." He gave a smirk.

My cheeks went warm. "Um, no, I guess not," I said, looking at the ground.

I turned to him abruptly: "But wait, I wasn't lying about that trip! Well, not technically."

"There are a lot of technicalities in this relationship, aren't there?"

Relationship. Wow. Another baseball to the head.
I had a brief moment of vertigo.

"Um, yeah...so it seems."

Silence.

"And?" he prompted.

"And what?"

"You were telling me how the lie you told me really wasn't a lie
—you know, the one about Europe?"

"Oh, right, well, it's always been my dream. I mean, to go there. Backpack, actually."

"Backpack?" He seemed a little grossed out by it.

"Yes! Real backpacking!"

"My, that's ghastly!"

I mimicked him (more like teased him): "
Ghaahhsstly
. Hmpf!"

"Why don't you just book some hotels and travel it like a real person?"

"God, you sound like my mother."