Promiscuous (20 page)

Even though Margot’s psychiatrist told Nana she’s doing much better, I still worry about whether or not she’s going to be able to finish school on time. Though, now that I think about it, summer school wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Not with Grant sticking around to intern for the mayor’s office, and the recent ceasefire between me and my mom. And hey, if sticking around town for a few more months gives me and Margot the opportunity to bask in Becca’s failure and humiliation, I think we could survive that.

I’ve been bringing Margot her homework, and the other day Grant offered to tutor her in Trigonometry if she needs it. I almost kissed him right then and there, except I’ve made a promise to myself that the next time we kiss, I won’t be the one to initiate it. It’s bad enough that he has more money, a nicer car, and better grades than me. If I have to keep throwing myself at him just to get a little bit of action, people will probably start spreading rumors about me again.

Then again, if my efforts to seduce Grant Blue proved to be successful, I can’t help feeling like it might be worth it.

On Saturday afternoon, I decide to swing by his house on my way to work, just to say hi. Maybe invite him to come visit me and grab an ice cream cone. Maybe a little make-out session in the freezer. Who knows? It’s been getting warmer lately, and business has started to pick up again at the ice cream shop. It might be nice to break up the monotony of scooping and blending with a little bit of attempted seduction.

But before I can get both feet out the door, my mom yells at me from her bedroom.

“Natty!”

Ugh
, there’s that name again. I roll my eyes. She’s been staying out late again, and sleeping in until early in the afternoon on weekends. If I didn’t already know about her new boyfriend, I’d probably suspect her of being a drug dealer.

“What, Mom?” I hold the screen door open with my foot, teetering on one kitten heel as I lean back inside. I’m really getting good at this whole balance thing. “I’m going to be late for work!”

“I need you to swing by and pay the electric bill! I forgot to deposit my check, so I need you to take them cash before they close. I’d do it, but I need to get some sleep before my thing tonight.”

I groan, but because I lied about being late for work, and because I know I won’t be able to take hot showers or curl my hair without electricity, I cave.

“Fine!”
So much for stopping by to see Grant.

I sulk into my mom’s darkened bedroom to grab a wad of cash from on top of her dresser, then sulk my way back out through the house and get in my car.

By the time I’ve finished paying the electric bill and putting gas in my car, it really is time for me to go to work. I sigh, thinking of all the effort I put into wearing my cute shoes and doing my hair and makeup, and now Grant won’t even see it. Plus, I’m probably going to get ice cream all over my nice black skinny pants.

When I pull into the parking lot at work, though, I have an idea. I text Grant from my car, something along the lines of:

Hey, I’m working 5-9 at the Baskin Robbins on 3
^rd
. Show this text message at the cashier for a FREE double scoop cone with an extra side of Tash.

I giggle at my rather clever boldness, and hit ‘send’ before I have a chance to talk myself out of it.

Then, chewing my lip and glancing at the clock, I have another, even bolder idea.

Or, if you don’t feel like ice cream, you can always swing by my house after work. My mom will be out until late with some guy. We could study….

I consider putting quotes around the word ‘study,’ but then I decide that’s probably overkill.
Send.

It doesn’t hit me until I’m washing my hands, that I may have just made a huge mistake.

Shit, am I coming on too strong again?

I was going for casual, non-committal even, but once I’ve re-played the one-sided text conversation in my head about three-hundred times, I’m pretty sure Grant thinks I’m a desperate stalker. He’s going to politely ignore me all weekend, then at school on Monday, he’ll say something along the lines of, ‘Hey, so…about this whole prom thing? A few months ago, I asked someone else to go with me and I
totally
forgot about it.’ Then, I’ll freak out and punch him in the balls, and my shiny new life will officially be over.

Shit,
I realize.
Things are about to go all Pretty in Pink, fast. What do I do? How can I fix this? Shit!

I rack my brains, but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make it worse.

An hour into my shift, I get a text message from Grant:
I’ll try to make it.

Okay. I calm down a little bit. But then another flare-up of girl craziness hits. Make it where? Is he coming to visit me at work? Is he going to come to my house later? And if the answer to either one of those questions is yes, what time will he be coming? I’m going to need time to primp and prepare, damn it! I’m not used to being good looking on a full-time basis.

God, having a boyfriend is a lot of work. If he’s even my boyfriend. I don’t know if you can call someone you’ve only kissed once your boyfriend.

I try to focus on being calm for the rest of the shift, on smiling, on only sneaking to the bathroom to touch up my lipstick once. …Every half hour, or so. Finally, at around 8:30 PM, the door jingles, and I hear Ramona loudly clear her throat—which is the top-secret signal we agreed upon if any high school age guys happen to walk in while I’m decorating cakes in the back.

The horde of horny little butterflies in my stomach work themselves into a frenzy as I skid toward the door that leads into the main ice cream shop, pausing at the smudged mirror above the employee sink just long enough to make sure my lipstick is okay and adjust my BR baseball cap so it’s not too low over my eyes.

But when I step out behind the counter, grinning like the lovesick idiot I am, my stomach hits the floor.

It’s not Grant standing there, smiling back at me.

It’s Trent.

He's with his dumb friend, Alan. The one from Pre-Calculus, who laughed at his joke about duct tape and lube.

“So, this is where you work,” Trent says, gesturing around to the grubby floors and empty tables. They were full of people, earlier, but we’re closing soon. I try to let that fact comfort me. “Sweet.”

Alan laughs, and Ramona just looks confused.

“Ramona,” I say, trying to communicate with my eyes how terribly disappointed I am in her ability to tell a ‘drop-dead gorgeous Captain America type’ from the skuzzy, funk-breathing dickhead that is Trent. “Could you finish decorating that Harry Potter cake for me?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, telling me with her body language that she could care less about the intricacies of my teenage drama. “Whatever.”

When Ramona is gone, I draw myself up to my utmost height. Then, I reach down and pick up a steel ice cream scoop. I’m determined to keep my cool, freeze him out, ice him off...whatever ice cream puns mean showing Trent that he has zero power over me. Sub-zero power, less than zero.

“What can I get for you and your life-partner today, sir?”

That wipes the stupid smile right off Alan’s Cro-Magnon face. “Did you just call us gay?”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting to see if Trent will keep it together, or if I’m finally going to have a chance to use the silent alarm button underneath the cash register. I’ve always secretly wondered how long it would take the five-oh to show up and rescue us ice cream maidens, should we ever be in distress. My guess is at least twenty minutes, if not more. That should be plenty of time for me to brain Trent with the industrial blender, and claim it was in self-defense.

Ramona would back me up, I’m pretty sure.

But after about five seconds of just staring at me with that lascivious, yellow-toothed smile of his, Trent just orders two mint chocolate chip shakes. I nod, then keep at least one eye fixed on the two beef wads as I bustle around making the fastest and sloppiest milkshakes of my life. I hand them over, and Trent pays in cash. I fold my arms and watch coldly, dispassionately, as they leave the shop and climb into Trent’s pickup truck. I don’t stop watching until I’m sure they’ve driven away.

Then I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding for what seems like the last twenty minutes.

###

The whole drive home, I’m cursing myself for being such a damn girl about this whole thing.

Not about Trent, because in retrospect I’m actually kind of shocked about how well I handled that. I didn’t lose my temper once, or say anything that Trent could’ve even remotely construed as a challenge. Except for the part where I might have insinuated that he was butt-buddies with Alan. But other than that, my behavior was totally above board. Classy, almost. In fact, I can’t help feeling like my beef with Trent might have finally died down.

Now that that’s over, though, I’m back to worrying about Grant. Which only makes me more upset, because I shouldn’t be worrying about Grant. At least not like that. I shouldn’t care if he’s interested in me
that
way or not, because at the end of the day, my plan only relies on him taking me to prom.

I can’t believe I let myself get my hopes up, especially when I’ve got eighteen years of experience telling me that hope is like a donut. It fills you up for a few seconds, and gives you a momentary sugar high, but then you crash. Hard.

On top of that, I let myself get sidetracked from my ultimate goal. I was supposed to be doing this to get back at Becca. But I haven’t been rubbing Grant in her face. I’ve been sneaking around, meeting with him in libraries, falling for him on my own time.

And worst of all, I’ve been enjoying it. I’ve been basking in the fake glow of legitimacy, telling myself it’s all going so well, but really I’m not much better off than I was a few weeks ago. I’m still broke, and driving a shitty ass car, with little or no idea of where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing six months from now.

By the time I get home, I’ve worked myself up into a frenzy of self-hatred the likes of which I haven’t experienced since Margot tried to off herself. I’m angry all over again, and not just at myself. I’m angry at Grant for standing me up, at Margot for getting herself locked up in a psych ward and missing our first and last school dance, at my dad for dying, at Becca for being her foul, nasty self….

And I’m mad at my mom, for once again staying out all night with some dude I’ve never met, and forgetting to turn the damn porch light on.

I growl a string of murderous, but impotent curses at my mom and my life in general. Then I get out of the car and trudge up the driveway, fumbling in the abyss-like recesses of my bag for my keys. Man, shit was so much easier to find when I still had my backpack, with all those lovely pockets.

I stop in my tracks, because it’s too much effort to walk and search at the same time. My trailer is totally dark inside, and probably cold, and I try not to imagine what it might have been like if Grant had come over. What might have happened. Maybe we’d hold hands, or even kiss. Wasn’t that what I’ve been hoping for? What the hell was I thinking? What kind of guy would want to make out with anyone in such a dump?

For a few seconds, I consider turning around and getting back into the car. Driving across Lazy Acres to stay at Margot’s house. Nana is probably still awake, watching Leno or something. I could crash in Margot’s bed. Maybe it will help remind me why I’m doing all of this. But then, I shake my head. It’s not that late, but I’m tired. Maybe if I just go straight to bed, things won’t seem so hopeless in the morning.

Finally locating my keys, I dig them out of my bag and start to climb up the steps to my front porch. Something rustles behind me, in the bushes. I turn, but there’s nothing there.

Probably just my next door neighbor’s one-eyed cat, Patches.

Patches is always trying to keep from being brought inside at night. Margot and I have this theory it’s because he’s sick of Mr. Ellison feeding him old sea rations from when he was in the Navy. But then, the half-blind old veteran probably can’t afford to buy real cat food with his shitty pension, so maybe the damn cat should just be grateful for what he—

Before I can fit my key into the lock, something grabs me by the hair. My head is whipped back, then forward again, as I’m slammed face-first into the door. Something heavy crushes against my back.

All the air leaves my lungs in a loud gush, and I drop my keys. They hit the porch with a clang. I open my mouth, dragging in air, planning to let it go again in a blood-curdling shriek. But any sound I might have made is cut off when a hand mashes against my face.

“Don't scream.” Trent's voice growls thickly into my ear. So I don't. Instead, I focus all my energy on trying to bite his hand. I kick as hard as I can away from the still locked door, pushing him back a few precious inches, until I can move my arms again.

Terror clutches at my brain, but I push it back, letting pure hatred rush through me instead. It solidifies in my veins, taking the form of a single word.

No!

I clamp down on his fingers with my teeth, as hard as I can. When he lets go, I scream it, as loud as I can.

“NO!”

No, I don't want this.

“Let go of me!”

This is not my fault.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

This can't happen. Not again.

“Somebody, help me!”

I do not deserve this.

“Help m—”

Trent’s hand closes around my throat. He spins me around, and the back of my head connects violently with the aluminum siding of the trailer. It’s the worst kind of déjà vu. I see stars, and behind them, Trent's face. His lips are pulled back in a smile of anger, as he shoves his arm sideways into my mouth. His letterman jacket is too thick for me to bite through, and I struggle against him, as the taste of leather fills my mouth, making me want to vomit.