Getting Over Jack Wagner (10 page)

Dutifully, I looked up at the sky: a far-out panorama of wisps and puffs and residual Philly smog. “Yeah,” I said, and was momentarily blinded by the sun as I felt Z's warm hand engulf mine.

Before I knew it, I had materialized on the grass beside him, kind of like Z had behind his drums at the talent show. I snuck my lollipop from my mouth and flung it behind me as far as I could. I tried to concentrate on my palm not sweating. I tried to recall Katie Brennan's old ORSFC lectures on the mechanics of French kissing, but could remember nothing except a few bio bits about Duran Duran.

The embarrassing truth was, I had never kissed a boy before. In my defense, it's not that I hadn't had the chance; it's just that the options weren't all that appealing. There was Danny Farley, a pasty boy who I landed on in a game of Spin the Bottle, then had to feign puking to avoid; Ivan's little brother, Isaiah, who Camilla occupied herself with trying to set me up with for the month after Ivan lost the student council election; and shy, sweaty Brett Kimco from algebra, who tried to grope me at the ninth-grade picnic after he downed a jug of spiked Gatorade and hadn't been able to look me in the eye since.

It wasn't an impressive showing, I realize. And yes, Z was the first kiss to take place under circumstances that weren't artificially manufactured by either alcohol, my sister, or an empty Sprite bottle. But the way I see it, another girl would have kissed pasty Danny Farley just for the sake of having kissed pasty Danny Farley. I was being selective.

As Z leaned toward me, I tried not to let my total lack of experience show. I watched my twin image approaching, terrified, in the lenses of his shades. At the last second, I closed my eyes and tilted my head to the side, like couples always did on
General Hospital.
Z's lips, when I felt them land, were softer than I'd expected. They were actually kind of nice. They tasted like green apple lollipop.

But then, just as I was starting to get the hang of things, Z's tongue came on the scene and came on strong: small, hard, concentrated spirals, like a mini-electric mixer. I panicked. I felt my throat begin to close. I considered a) running for my life or b) spiraling in return, but didn't feel courageous and/or coordinated enough to do either.

Someday I would look back and realize Z's kisses were sloppy, slobbery, overly aggressive—the whole phallic nine yards. But in that moment, I had no frame of reference. I figured Z had to be an experienced kisser (he was a rock star, after all) and it was probably just my naivete that made the experience so revolting. In the presence of his expertise, I told myself to relax, make no sudden moves, and wait for the magic to happen.

 

I dread formal dances. This was true then, it is true now, it will probably be true always. No more formal dances is the main reason I was relieved to graduate high school (that, and no more presidential physical fitness testing). When and if I ever get married I'm going to barter for elopement, just so I can avoid the ritual Chicken Dance, Dollar Dance, and—God help us—bride-and-groom Spotlight Dance. But in the fall of my tenth-grade year, I had a radical attitude about the upcoming Soph Hop.

I had officially been with Z for almost two months, and (after adjusting to his kissing technique) dating a rock star was everything I'd dreamed it would be. In the first week, he made me a mix tape of spooky, echoey Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin that lived inside my Walkman. We each got an ear pierced at the Blue Horn Mall (my second hole, his fourth). He walked me through my first cigarette: a Marlboro Red, the first of many smoking habits I would temporarily adopt based on a rock star's brand of choice. During lunch, we'd leave school to have prolonged makeout sessions in my living room (this avoided me having to be seen entering the Quad, or him leaving it) fumbling along to Guns N' Roses's painfully loud but surprisingly sexy
Appetite for Destruction.

On weekends, we usually went out either Friday or Saturday night, though there weren't many places our worlds could comfortably overlap. The thought of our friends mingling was too weird (“Quadders, meet Katie Brennan; Katie, meet Quadders”) and our families were off limits, too (mine for obvious maternal reasons). Z's house, according to him, was a “cell block,” which struck me as angstfully, musically perfect. In my mind, it was a row house, blunt and gray, tight with tension, with a cast including a witchy, one-eyed stepmother, a father with a grizzly chin who called Z a “good-for-nothin',” a mean black dog who ate metal.

As a result, we wound up spending most of our time together alone. Since we had no cars (or driver's licenses, for that matter) we did a lot of restless smoking and pacing around the highways and byways, playgrounds and Wawas of suburban Philadelphia, the way any suffering young artists should. Z muttered about how a) “All I want is to take my music on the road” and b) “My mother is totally screwing me over.” I pitched in how my mother drove my father off to California, blood tingling, blowing smoke streams at my feet.

“Does he ever call you?”

“Nah,” I said, trying to sound blasé. The fact that I'd spent most of sixth, seventh, and eighth grades thinking Lou might still appear in my living room after school one day was something I was trying to deny and forget. “I don't need him. I hardly knew him.”

Z stomped out his Marlboro and lit a new one. “That's harsh,” he said, giving me a slow squint. Then he started muttering again about how a) “All I want is to take my music on the road” and b) “My mother is totally screwing me over.”

Normally, I was Z's devoted audience. But in late January, I had bigger things on my mind: the Soph Hop. I admit, I felt a little disloyal to my new tie-dyed self since, according to the rules, I shouldn't have wanted anything to do with something as cheesy and mainstream as a school dance. But I was still a hot-blooded teenage girl. I'd never had a boyfriend, much less a boyfriend coinciding with a school dance, and I planned to take full advantage.

I just had to mention it to Z. As I saw it, the key was in the tone.

Dismissive: “So what do you think of the Soph Hop? Pretty dumb, huh?”

Oblivious: “What's that dance at school called? God, I can't even re
mem
ber…”

Unfortunately, I waited until we were hanging up the phone on the Thursday before the Friday of the Hop to make my move. At that point, I'd blown any shot at subtlety. Just as Z was exhaling “Catch you later,” it was all I could manage to blurt out, “Can we go to the Soph Hop?” before he hung up the phone.

There was a horrific, endless pause, during which I felt my entire social existence crashing down around me. Then Z asked: “What's a Soph Hop?” sounding as genuinely clueless as if it were a word on his English vocab list.

I should have known. Such were the perils of dating Quadders: they lived in their own worlds. They were oblivious to grades, top 40 hits, and school-sponsored events. Z probably didn't even know where the gym was.

“It's a dance,” I explained, my mouth so dry I could barely move my tongue. “For sophomores.”

Z was silent for another beat, while I steeled myself for rejection. Then he said, “Free tunes? Why not.”

It was such a brilliant approach, I don't know why I didn't think of it myself. For girls, music is the last thing they are worried about at school dances. Dances are about flowers and dresses and pride and relief and sheets of wallet-size photos you can cut up and distribute among your eighty closest friends. They're about the fat corsage you preserve forever in a box in your freezer among the ice cube trays and cans of frozen juices. But with Z, the music worked to my advantage. I pretended it was all I cared about, too.

The theme of the dance was Candyland, held in the cafeteria-turned-board game. The moment we walked in, I instantly and deeply regretted bringing Z. Pieces of wrapped candy and Bazooka gum were Scotch-taped to the walls. Lollipops hung from tinfoiled trees. In one corner, a plastic kiddie pool was filled with something suggestive of the Molasses Pit. Not even the music could save us, a potpourri of Billy Ocean, Cheap Trick, and Rick Astley.

Naturally, there was not a Quadder in sight. There were, however, tons of parent-chaperons and corsaged teachers and streamers and strobe lights. Hannah and Eric were already there, lingering near the Candy Cane Forest when we approached.

Hannah to Z: “Hi.”

Z to Hannah: “Hey.”

In one of the stranger cross sections of high school clique-dom, Z and Eric shook hands.

Then we all just stood there, staring blankly at each other. Hannah and Z had talked before, basically to the extent they already had. But for some reason, maybe the fact that we were in formal wear, we felt compelled to take a stab at adult conversation.

“You guys look nice,” Hannah offered.

Z and I were both subdued and flowerless. He was in black jeans, a black Izod, and an alarmingly tweedy jacket that stopped an inch short of his wrists. I was wearing a shapeless gray dress that my sister had kindly informed me looked like a giant vacuum bag. That afternoon, Z and I had had an edgy talk about the stupidity of boutonnieres and corsages. (“It's all a scam, man!” Z spat at one point, going on to cite Mother's Day, Father's Day and Valentine's Day as other prime offenders.)

Hannah and Eric obviously had not had such a talk. Despite the fact that Eric was four inches shorter than she was, they looked perfect together. Their outfits were pinned with identical pink carnations; Eric's navy-and-red striped tie complemented Hannah's pale blue dress. Standing there, the four of us could have been an after-school special about not falling in with the wrong crowd.

“So do you guys,” I said. “You look great, too.”

Silence again. Silence made worse by the suddenly dimmed lights and the opening strains of Phil Collins's “Groovy Kind of Love.” Z tugged at his collar, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Hannah's eyes moved from my face to Z's, waiting 'til she caught his eye. Then she ventured, “So, Z, I guess you might not remember me.”

All our eyes turned to her. Eric looked concerned.

“From elementary school…?”

Panic tightened my chest so fast it hurt. All at once, I a) imagined all the memories of cartwheels and handsprings and wimpy bunt kicks that might come flooding back to Z at any moment, b) resolved not to let Z mingle with my friends again,
ever,
and c) gave Hannah a sharp, throat-cutting gesture which made her stop midsentence.

Eric turned to her, rightly anxious. “What were you saying, honey?” Meet the only tenth grader in the history of the world to call his girlfriend “honey.” “He might not remember you from where?”

But just as all my careful scamming might have been exposed for good, I was saved—or rather, outdone—by a terrifyingly large Italian woman who descended on us out of nowhere wearing a tarplike purple dress and barking: “ZACHIE!”

Zachie?

Z rolled his eyes at this huge woman. “Get outta here, Ma.”

Ma?

In one swift, shocking move, the woman's hands were on my shoulders like two canned hams. “Zachie wouldn't bring the girl to the house,” she bellowed, “so I had to bring the
house
to the
girl!”
Then she laughed a large, wide, fleshy laugh that made her chest, chins, and upper arms wobble.

Hannah and Eric clutched hands.

“Ma, I told you not to come!” Z protested. He scowled, but it wasn't a scowl of musical angst anymore. It was a third-grade scowl, a pouty scowl, a scowl accustomed to getting Coke with breakfast.

But it was enough to silence Ma Tedesco, who sobered up and stopped her insane laughter. She gazed down at me, her eyes suddenly and alarmingly swimming with tears. My heart started to pound inside the vacuum bag.

“Come visit us sometime, Eliza,” she said, sweetly. “We've heard so much about you. We'd love to get to know you better.” Then she bent down, engulfing me in a giant purple hug, and thundered off through the Chocolate Marsh and out the door.

I couldn't move. Hannah and Eric glanced at each other, then slipped into the mass of kids rotating in tight circles to Phil. When I looked at Z, he shrugged, squinting at something over my shoulder, trying to look unaffected and resume his cool. But the damage was done. Z's mother wasn't the loveless witch he'd made her out to be. Suddenly his home life flashed before me: a life with a mother who fed him breakfast meats and rumpled his oily hair and badgered him about his girlfriend, a life filled with coddling and big-breasted aunts and superhero bedsheets, a life exposed as horribly, irrevocably, normal.

Z started his absentminded leg drumming, but it wasn't absentminded anymore. It was insecure, self-conscious. A freaking nervous tic. “Sorry about that,” Z said, and his breath smelled like—was I imagining this?—pastrami sandwiches from paper bags. As the music bumped awkwardly from slow Phil Collins to Paula Abdul's “Straight Up,” Z tilted his head to one side. “Man, this beat isn't bad.”

I smiled faintly, and yanked a piece of Bazooka off the wall. As I unwrapped it, I knew that it wouldn't last with Z much longer. I knew he wasn't really my soulmate. I was also reasonably sure Michelle Klein's poem really had been as terrible as I'd thought. What I couldn't have known yet was that Z would go on to date Michelle Klein, or that I would dabble next in the stage band, or that I would eventually pierce my navel and Z his left nipple and by senior year, we would be too estranged to even sign each other's Yodels.