Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters (9 page)

But she seems serious.

“Uh, yeah, if you want me to, sure. Why not?”

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I open it up to a text from Em, less than three feet away. It reads: See? I told you she was nice!

13

So, tonight is the Foreign Scarves concert, and there are some major questions to be answered. Such as: What should I wear? How can I make sure Keith doesn’t mistake this totally platonic outing for an evening of romance? What are the chances the band will spot me in the crowd and pull me on stage with them?

I call Em for a fashion consultation, and after a lot of back and forth, we agree on a perfect outfit. I wriggle into my new jeans and an amazing wrap sweater that I got with my Urban Outfitters gift card. I apply eyeliner in fabulous smoky-eye fashion, flatiron my hair, and dab on mint-infused, subtly tinted lip balm.

I’m ready.

Of course my lame dad insists that I have to take a car to the club with someone because the subway at night is too dangerous. Well, I certainly don’t want to go with Keith—that would seem very date-like, I think. Better to meet him there. I convince Cass to come over to my house so we can go together—despite what she said at lunch the other day, I know she doesn’t want to go with her gross brother.

My mother is heading to a late work meeting of some sort and is devastated to only have a few minutes to gush about my “First Adult Dating Experience,” which, based on the eighty-seven photos my dad snaps with his new digital camera, is actually with Cass. My attempts to point out for the millionth time that this is not, in fact, a date fall on deaf ears.

We
finally
leave. The second we get in the car, Cass goes, “So, do you think you’ll hook up with Keith tonight?”

“Cass, this is
not
—”

“I know, I know—it’s not a date. But still, like … maybe you’ll change your mind?”

“Um, no, I will
not
change my mind, unless Keith magically transforms into Jordan. Besides, even if there were no Jordan, Keith is too short. And there’s that freaky eye thing …”

“Kels, there is no eye thing. Keith’s eyes are totally normal.”

“Cass, what’s your deal? I’m not into Keith. He’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t like him like that! Are you new?”

Cass flops back in her seat, pouting. “Okay, fine, just asking. Don’t freak out or anything. Geeeeeez.” She passes me the water bottle she brought, which is filled with cranberry juice and the three drops of vodka she managed to swipe. I think the driver is onto us, but he doesn’t say anything.

At the door to the club, we get the humiliating stamps that mark us as underage, and I text Keith, who comes out to find me. He looks nice, I guess, but he’s still no Jordan. Cass goes to find her brother, who is up in the nosebleed section somewhere, and Keith and I elbow our way to our unbelievable floor seats.

Keith talks a mile a minute throughout the sucky opening band and I learn that he used to make model airplanes (weird), is allergic to melon (weirder), and wants to go to Yale (are people already thinking about college?). Sheesh. I didn’t know there was going to be quite so much sharing. So, what—am I supposed to show him the scar I got ice-skating and reveal my childhood fantasy of working at the McDonald’s drive-thru window?

He hands me a little flask with his dad’s initials on it, and I take some and pass it back. Then there’s an earsplitting blast of feedback, all the lights go out, and a single spotlight hits the stage. The whole audience is silent, waiting, and when the Foreign Scarves finally come on, we all basically lose our minds. Everyone is bouncing around and dancing and mouthing the words to the first song, which is one of my all-time favorites.

I take a second to glance around and see if I can spot Cass, but I don’t see her. Keith looks over at me and grins—oh, Lord. Did he think I was looking at
him
? He starts dancing very close to me and sort of flinging his arms around in a bizarre way, then offers me some gum for about the sixth time.

I suddenly realize that there is no getting around it: Keith Mayhew is going to try to kiss me.

Craaaaaap. What do I do now? It’s not like this is totally unfamiliar territory—I could’ve hooked up in middle school, with Keith or someone else I wasn’t that interested in. I just … I wanted my first kiss to be special, so I never let it happen. I mean, I think it’s a big deal, even if everyone says it doesn’t matter. But how long am I supposed to wait for Jordan to get it together? And should I maybe get some practice in before he does? But if I
do
make out with Keith, will I be able to live with the knowledge that I abandoned my fantasy of the perfect first kiss just because I didn’t want to be branded some kind of fourteen-year-old prude? And is this going to be a prolonged, tonguing sort of affair or just a kind of pecking situation?

And then, before I can finish reviewing the complete list of pros and cons, Keith goes for it. He lunges in, and suddenly his tongue is flopping around inside my mouth like a fish dying on a dock.

I think I may be choking to death. He tastes like … rum and Coke and spearmint gum. And panic. If a tongue could sweat, I think his would be.

I extricate myself from his clutches and manage to squeak, “Keith! What are you
doing
?”

“Sorry, sorry. I couldn’t help it, Kelsey—you just look so hot tonight, y’know?”

Of course he has now said the perfect thing (note to self: wear smoky eyeliner every day from now on, even while sleeping) and I figure,
Okay—I might as well give it another shot
. So I kiss
him,
brimming with empowered-woman confidence.

And it is still
totally
awful!

What the hell? On TV it’s all delicate and nice-looking with the rare big slurpy-yet-sexy moment, but
nothing
like this mess. My chin is all wet and I think I’m going to barf if he doesn’t stop gagging me with his tongue. This can’t be right; he must be doing it wrong.

I pull back, and he goes, “What’s wrong?”

“Look, I don’t think you’re doing this right,” I tell him. “It’s way too much tongue or … something.” I attempt to wipe some of the spit off my cheek with my shoulder in a way that I hope isn’t too obvious. Blech.

Keith glares at me and shouts over the band, “Well, it’s more like
you’re
not doing it right. Have you ever even made out before? My brother is in
college,
y’know, and he told me everything there is to know about Frenching when we were in seventh grade, so I
think
I know what I’m doing, Kelsey. But don’t worry—I’m happy to practice with you till you feel more confident about your skills.”

First of all: Did he just say
Frenching
? Seriously? And second of all: He’s happy to
practice
with me? Really? Well, how thoughtful! Maybe I’ll buy him a model-airplane kit as a thank-you for his kind attention to my kissing education.

Yeah. I’ll get right on that.

I look at him witheringly for a sec and then say, “Keith, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” Of course, getting to the bathroom in this place will probably take an hour, which should give me enough time to think of a way to convincingly act like this never happened.

I wonder if you can decide to be a kissing virgin again. No one saw. What if I pretend I didn’t just have a gross foreign tongue in my intestines and issue myself a well-deserved do-over?

I shove through a million people and finally make it to what is clearly the world’s longest bathroom line. I take my phone out of my pocket, contemplating sending a text to Em. But what can I say in a text that could possibly convey the level of anxiety I’m currently dealing with? Writing
GAAAAAAAAH!!!
just about sums up my feelings but might be somewhat unclear. Better to call her later when I’ve figured out what my story is, anyway.

I look back toward the stage, where the lead guitarist is playing an unbelievable improvised solo. I cannot believe I’m missing it! Stupid Keith. Stupid
me.

I scope out the line again, which is down to about half a million people now. I move forward two inches. My pocket buzzes with a text from Keith, which reads:
R U coming back?
I respond:
Huge line
, and snap the phone shut.

The two girls in front of me start giggling, pointing up at the balcony behind us, and I look up to see what’s so funny: it’s a couple making out like they just invented it. Is that how I looked when I was with Keith? Horrors.

The guy starts sucking his partner’s neck like a crazed vampire, and one of the girls ahead of me in line snorts derisively.

“I know, get a room, right?” I say to her. It’s always nice to make friends in the bathroom line.

“Seriously!” she replies. “I mean, if you’re gonna spend a hundred bucks, it might as well involve a bed, right?”

I laugh, looking back up at the balcony. Then the stage lights do a sweep over the audience, and for a moment, the girl’s face is illuminated.

It’s Cassidy.
My
Cassidy.

And she’s kissing …

Jordan Rothman.

My stomach drops to my knees.

14

I feel like I’m in a vacuum—there’s absolutely no sound. And my eyes aren’t working right; it’s like, instead of being twenty feet above my head, Cassidy’s and Jordan’s faces are right in front of me, kissing passionately in slow motion so I can see every little detail.

I’m vaguely aware that the girl I was talking to is asking me something like, “Uh, are you okay?” but I can’t pull my eyes away from the carnage of my romantic expectations. I may, in fact, be paralyzed. Except for my stomach, which feels like it’s being kicked repeatedly.

I am
not
going to cry.

How, and in what world, is this even possible? Cassidy has
always
known how I feel about Jordan. She and I just talked about it on the way here!

I suddenly have a horrifying realization: My brilliant, hope-filled Jordan-Brooklyn theory is actually true. Only it doesn’t involve me … it’s been about
Cassidy
the whole time. She lives six blocks away from me with her dad, who is never home. Perfect after-school makeout opportunity. No wonder Cass was trying to steer me toward Keith!

Then all the little moments from the last couple of months start adding up. How could I have been so dumb? The texts Cass didn’t want to talk about … disappearing at the Halloween party … that’s why I didn’t see Jordan—he was probably in his bedroom with Cass the whole time! Missing my soccer game when he was playing on the other field … even making me feel guilty at lunch the other day when she was obviously trying to cover up the fact that she had just been doing it with Jordan in the home ec lab or something.

And saying Nathan gave her a ticket to the concert tonight? Did I actually fall for that?

I furiously push my way back to Keith and I’m like,
Kiss me, you fool!
(I do not actually say this.) We proceed to make out like crazy, which is still totally wretched, but it’s the most distracting thing I can think of. I am a pillar of strength in the face of adversity.

You know, you hear about groups of friends who split apart in high school for one reason or another, but I never thought it would happen to us. Sure, my relationship with Cass isn’t quite as close as the one I have with Em, but I never thought in a million years that Cass would stab me in the back. I know I’d never do something like this to her.

But she went ahead and did it to me. I seriously can’t believe it.

It occurs to me that I’m actually still kissing Keith and should probably try to focus on that, though to be honest I would rather be curled in a ball on the floor of my closet right now. After about five more minutes of face-smushing discomfort, I realize I’m not quite sure how to bring the whole making-out situation to a close.

Luckily the show ends and everyone boos as the lights come up. Keith mumbles something at my shoes and wanders off to do who-knows-what, so that’s solved, I guess. So, what—are we going out now or something? Do I even
want
to go out with Keith Mayhew? Of course, with my luck, Keith will ditch me for Julie Nelson or someone and I’ll have to marry Danny Zifner. Or else resign myself to spinsterhood, I suppose. I’ll probably end up living with my parents until I’m fifty.

But truth be told, at the moment? I just feel so sad I don’t even care.

I go outside and hail a cab, leaving the Traitorous One to figure it out for herself. When I get in the car, I realize I can’t even call Em yet, because I know I’ll burst into tears as soon as she answers and she won’t be able to understand anything I’m saying. And the driver will probably think I’m on drugs.

I succeed in not crying the whole way home.

.   .   .

After surviving three endless minutes of small talk with my parents, who are pretending they weren’t waiting up for me but were just “hanging out” in the kitchen, I finally get to my room and look in the mirror above my dresser.

There I am: Kelsey Finkelstein, a girl who has been kissed and betrayed all in one night. I look a mess; the skin around my mouth is swollen and red. I might as well be wearing a big sign that says, “I just had an uncomfortable makeout session!” I can’t believe my parents didn’t say anything. I think about washing my face and brushing my teeth, but I just don’t feel up to it, so I crawl into bed fully clothed. The tears finally start pouring down my cheeks, and even though I know I’m going to be yelled at for mascara-streaked pillowcases, I don’t care.

I am never speaking to Cassidy Gayle Rosenblum again.

EVER.

Not even if she came to me on my birthday and offered me my own horse (brown, with white feet and a brown mane) and a lifetime pass to Disneyland and the world’s biggest chocolate mousse cake. And her Wii system. And a Blu-ray player. And a million dollars. And an unlimited gift card to Sephora.