Playing Nice (7 page)

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Matt will be there.

A gulp and a choke and I almost throw up on the keyboard. And then my fingers type the response my heart, not my brain, knows I should say.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Okay.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Pick u up on the corner of Washington and Forest in 30 mins.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

What does RPMcMurphy stand for?

Lil doesn't respond. I sit back in my chair and scroll up through our conversation. My stomach tickles with butterflies. I can't believe I agreed to go to a party with a girl my parents don't want me to have anything to do with. And Matt will be there. MATT WILL BE THERE.

I look at the bag of decorations sitting on my bed. My gaze moves to the torn up pieces of paper in the garbage can beneath my desk.

My mind is already made up. I just need to pick out what to wear.

***

I come down the stairs twenty minutes later dressed in a black cotton long-sleeved shirt and my favorite dark jeans that hug my legs clear to my ankles. I tied a red scarf around my neck; I look Parisian, maybe, and artistic.
French
kissing, I say to myself and picture Matt. I stood in front of my mirror and practiced my "surprise" face, eyebrows arched and eyes twinkling, for when I see Matt and say, "I had no idea you'd be here." I even practiced touching his arm nonchalantly.

With my makeup redone and fresh pink lip gloss shining on my mouth, I walk into the family room. My mom and dad are watching
Dateline
.

"I'm going to meet some people at the movies," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Who?" my mom asks, tilting her head over the top of the couch so that she can see me.

"Um," Stumbling over words, I say the first name I can think of. "Alex Austin."

"A boy?" My mom sits up and smiles.

"It's not a date," I snap. "He's just a friend from English class. I mean, he wears sleeveless undershirts under his football jersey." Panic is rising in my veins. I'm used to little blemishes on the truth.
You look pretty today
, even though it would take a blowtorch and plastic surgery to fix the person's problems.
I love foreign films
, even though reading subtitles while watching a movie makes my head hurt. I even lie to myself sometimes.
Everyone likes you for you. You're pretty even when you cry. A boy hasn't kissed you because he's waiting for the exact right moment to fall head-over-heels in love
.

Some days, the white lies work. On others, I want to scream from the top of a building and cut all my hair off.

My mom slouches down on the couch and goes back to rubbing cuticle cream on her fingernails. I think I see a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "Just be home by midnight."

"I will." I head toward the door and almost run into the wall.

"And don't forget you're a Hart," my dad yells after me.

Ugh.
The dreaded line
. I hate it when my parents remind me I'm a Hart. It's like they're placing the world on my shoulders and telling me to run a marathon. Or clamping a chastity belt around my waist so no boy can ever get close to my lady parts. Some days, I have a hard time being seventeen, let alone a girl with perfect posture and the vagina of a saint.

"I will," I repeat, grabbing my black pea coat out of the closet.

And then I'm out the front door and standing on the porch, the cold autumn air circling around me. I take a deep breath, letting it clear my mind, and realize I just lied to my parents. I'm meeting the one girl they would never want me to hang out with.

Something swells up in my gut. It's the same feeling I get when words come from the back of my mind and I have no choice but to put them down on paper. An uncontrollable giggle slips from my lips. This might be the most exciting thing I've ever done.

***

Lil pulls up five minutes late. I hear angry guitar music blaring before I ever see the car. Taking a breath, I force the door open.

"Hi," I say.

"Pollyanna," she nods.

"Why do you call me that?"

"You just answered your own question."

"Huh?" I ask thoroughly confused. "Well, if I asked you to stop, would you?"

"No."

I slouch into the seat and cross my arms over my chest.

"Fine,
Marty
." Lil rolls her eyes. In the moonlight they're still bright blue, almost glow-in-the-dark colored.

"I like your shirt," I say appraising the gold sequined tank top she has on over black jeans. "But aren't you going to be cold?"

"Are you my mother?" she asks.

"No, I just thought you might want a sweater or something."

"I'll be fine." Lil grabs her black leather jacket out of the backseat and places it between us.

"So where are we going?" I ask. As the words come out, it dawns on me that this one answer is important. That I've agreed to go to a party with a girl I don't know, whose name sends my dad into a chicken-choking fit, who prompts Saturday morning gossip sessions in Hobby Lobby. My earlier excitement wanes and I realize the heaviness of what I've done.

Lil lights a cigarette, pulls the gear shift into drive, and smiles at me. "Lake Loraine."

***

"Lake Loraine," The words get caught in my throat.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Lil asks.

I can only gape at her. During the day, Lake Loraine is a huge reservoir on the outskirts of Minster. But at night, it becomes a breeding ground for bad decisions. I've heard stories of huge bonfires with psychedelic hippy drugs and sex tents where people trade partners. A boy from the next town over drowned in the reservoir four years ago. It was rumored that he was at one of those parties, but no one would come forward and say it was true.

Worried Lil might say something else about my virgin stink or tight thighs or lack of penis knowledge, I shake my head.

The sky is velvet black with clouds blocking any light from the moon. The perfect night for an illegal party with a bunch of random people in the back woods.

We pull up to the remote side of the reservoir and drive down a barely-there path covered with overgrown grass. The car bumps and shakes, making my stomach even more upset. My parents would kill me if they knew I was here, like, murder in the first degree. Drinking vodka at Sarah's is nothing compared to partying at Lake Loraine. My parents would probably have me automatically tested for an STD if they knew I even touched a cup of beer.

"How did you hear about this?" I ask as Lil parks the car.

"You need to open your ears more. You'd start hearing a lot of things."

I get out of the car without asking another question.

"Follow me," Lil says. I take a breath and straighten out my jeans.
I'm a Hart
, I remind myself. My amazing social skills allow me to adjust to any situation.
Be a leader, Marty
, my dad's voice rings in my ears.
No one follows a follower
.

But how can I be a leader when I've never seen a mushroom or smoked pot? And I have no choice but to follow Lil. At Lake Loraine, I'm blind.

We walk for what feels like a mile in silence. I trip over branches and jump every few feet, terrified that some crazed, hallucinating person is going to jump screaming out of the trees. In my head, I start to sing songs from
West Side Story
to keep myself calm.

I should have stayed home. I should have curled up in my comfortable pink fleece pajamas with my no-name rabbit and watched Tony and Maria fall in love.

But then what if Tony didn't meet Riff that night of the dance? What if he decided to stay home and watch
Leave it to Beaver
on TV, or whatever people watched in the 50's? He never would have seen Maria. He never would have fallen in love with her.

And then I hear it. Music. Real music, not the songs in my head. Smooth melodic tones with a heavy bass beat waft through the air; they get louder the closer we walk. I actually like what's being played, and it calms my jitters. It sounds like sunshine bouncing around the black forest.

"Who is this?" I ask.

Lil doesn't miss a beat. "Bob Marley."

I picture his poster on the wall at Vinyl Tap. His dreadlocks and smoked-out eyes.
A pothead
, my mom would say. But the music is peaceful and fresh. Way clearer than the man in the picture.

"I like it," I say, and bob my head to the beat.

Lil rolls her eyes. "Can you try not to be so green? It's Bob Marley, not an orgasm."

I stop and cross my arms over my chest. "You're the one who invited me in the first place. If you don't like the fact that I've never seen a penis or whatever, I'll just go home." I pretend to turn on my heel, hoping Lil stops me. I don't really want to walk away from the party and Bob Marley and Matt, but Lil needs to lay off.

"Fine, I'm sorry." She groans, and then smiles. "I knew it."

"What's the big deal if I've never seen a guy's
thing
?"

"Do you want to see Matt's?"

"I..." I pause. In a way, I do, and in a way, I'm scared to my bone-rattling core. "I don't know yet."

Lil turns without saying anything. We walk into a clearing in the woods and finally find the party. People are everywhere, chatting and dancing and smoking substances I've only read about in Health class. Someone has driven their pick-up truck all the way out here and set up a stereo on the bed. It's like I've stumbled upon a hidden population that only comes out at night. Drunken vampires that feed on pot and sex. I look around at the nameless faces, all the people I never knew existed, and see a couple making out in the distance against a tree trunk. The girl's shirt is practically off and the guy has his hand down her pants. It's not how I've envisioned making out at all. It's coarse and hurried, like they know their time might expire and they want to get as much out of each other as possible.

Lil walks over to one of the many kegs propped up against a tree. "You want some?"

"No, thanks. I don't really like alcohol."

"Suit yourself." Lil pumps the keg like an expert, tilting her cup so the beer doesn't get foamy. I gather this isn't Lil's first time, and I wonder if she has any of those left.

I play with my scarf and bob my head, trying to look like I know the song playing, but it's no use. Sweat starts to prickle the back of my neck and my stomach turns inside out. Maybe I will take a beer. I remember my Health teacher, Mr. Spencer, saying alcohol is a depressant. I could use something to depress the anxiety creeping up under my skin.

"Did you like living in Tampa?" I ask Lil, rubbing my sweaty hands on my pants.

"No. I hate hot weather."

"Is that why you moved to Ohio?"

"No." She turns away from me and takes a long gulp of beer.

I wait for her to say more, but she just bites the top of the red plastic cup. I undo my scarf and rewrap it around my neck. A girl dressed in a full-on fairy costume comes up to the keg and pours a beer. I think about grabbing a cup before my knotted insides burst free from my chest and spill my truth on everyone here. That I'm a phony in a red scarf. That in seventeen years, this is the first time I've ever heard a Bob Marley song.

And then I see him. Matt Three-Last-Names. GULP.

He's carrying his guitar strung over his back, like I've seen him do so many times at school, but here he looks different. Sexier, if that's even possible. In the dark, his blonde hair glows like a halo and his body seems to curve around the guitar. He has on a navy blue hoodie zipped up to his neck, but he's pulled the sleeves back to expose his arm accessories. I catch my breath, so much excitement dropping in my veins that I wonder if I'll explode.

"I'm just going to hang out over there," I say toward Lil, trying to keep my voice calm and flat. When she doesn't answer, I look over at the place she was standing and realize she's disappeared. "Of course," I whisper to myself.

Not sure what to do, I find a seat on a picnic bench and wait.
Patience is a virtue and very rewarding if you know how to use it
, my mother always says. Some days, it feels like I've waited an entire lifetime for things to happen. It took forever for me to finally sprout boobs. I was the only freshman still wearing a training bra. And I've waited seventeen years and counting to be kissed. I mean, really kissed. My father says girls who get kissed too early turn ugly in college. But do girls who've never been kissed in high school turn into the Virgin Mary at graduation? I don't want to be known around Minster as a slut, but being a prude is just as bad.

Needing to keep my hands busy and my mind focused on something other than the gorgeous rock god standing across the way, I take my cell out of my purse and check my messages. I want to look casual, like I come to Lake Loraine all the time, like watching people making out against a tree is just another Saturday night.

I have one message from Sarah.

I wonder what Sarah would say if she knew where I was right now. If she knew I was with Lil and that Lil had already ditched me. That Matt Three-Last-Names is here with his guitar, exuding a sexiness that makes my heart beat erratically.

Sarah'd probably shrug her shoulders and say Lake Loraine is for potheads and she hopes I don't catch any STDs.

I know Sarah and I have a plan for U of M and most days I'm happy with it. But on cloudy days, when the rain beats on my windows and I want to curl up in bed or write a thousand poems, I wonder if I'm wrong. I start to picture a different person, one who lives in California or Seattle or anywhere that isn't flat and humid, who marries an artist or never gets married at all and writes line after line of poetry all over the walls and doesn't care who reads it.