Two-Way Street (10 page)

Day Two, 11:37 a.m.

I’m probably going to get into a fight with Lloyd when we get to Middleton. That bitch has had it coming for a long time, and I couldn’t be blamed for fucking him up. He never took the relationship I had with Courtney seriously. Even when we were together all the time, he’d still make little digs. Case in point: One night, when Lloyd, Court, me, B. J., Jocelyn, and a few other people were hanging out, Courtney decided she wanted to order food. And Lloyd was all, “Oh, Courtney, you always have to order food while we’re watching baseball.” Which may have been true. But it was the way he said it that pissed me off. It was like he was talking about food, but he basically was saying, “Jordan, I know Courtney better than you, and I could fuck her if I wanted to.”

Anyway, we’re in the car on our way to see my brother, Adam, and Lloyd at Middleton, and Courtney’s acting like it’s the night before Christmas. She’s practically taking her clothes off already. I’m not stupid. I know some of it is an act, something she’s probably doing to piss me off, but still. They hooked up. There has to be something there, or else she’s one hell of an actress.

So far, she’s asked me how her hair looks about five million times. She’s wearing a black flippy skirt and a black tank top. Her hair is in pigtails, which you think would be kind of silly, but on her looks really cute. I’ve hardly ever seen Courtney dressed like this. She usually isn’t so, uh…revealing.

“Does my hair look okay?” she asks again, flipping down the visor and checking herself out in the mirror.

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “Your hair looks fine.”

“Sorry if I’m being annoying,” she says, pulling a lip gloss out of her bag and lining her lips. “I’m just nervous.”

“Understandable,” I say, watching her out of the corner of my eye. She has the best mouth. I stare straight ahead again, keeping my eyes on the road.

“I’m starving,” she announces. “Are we going to stop for breakfast or something?”

“Do you think that’s smart, with your stomach and everything?” The last thing I need is Courtney throwing up all over my car again. Not that I really cared yesterday. I actually liked taking care of her. But things are different now. Yesterday she was cute and vulnerable. She wrapped her legs around me in bed, and pulled me close to her during the night. Now she’s dressed like a tramp and thinking about having sex with Lloyd. So forgive me if I’m not rushing to hold her hair back. Let Lloyd do that shit if she’s so into him.

“I’m hungry.” She shrugs and pulls out the CD in the player and tosses it into the backseat. She pushes the button for the satellite radio and turns it to the country station.

“Feel free,” I say, rolling my eyes. My phone starts vibrating in my pocket, and I do my best to ignore it.

“Your phone’s ringing,” Courtney says helpfully.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You should answer it.” She starts humming along to the song on the radio, something about someone’s last days on earth and taking advantage of them. I’m about to go crazy listening to this country radio bullshit. Country is so depressing. There’s too many slow songs. Why am I putting up with this shit? It’s my car. I’m driving. I should be able to listen to whatever the fuck I want. Especially now that she’s banging Lloyd. Let him put up with her country music bullshit, and her throwing up.

“Fine,” I say. “I will.” I pull my phone out of my pocket and make a big show of answering it.

“Hello?” I say, sounding upbeat, and like I’m happy to be on the phone. I decide to pretend it’s my imaginary girlfriend. Fuck pretending to be nice.

“Yo,” B. J. says.

“What’s going on, honey?” I say, trying to glance at Courtney out of the corner of my eye without her noticing that that’s what I’m doing. She’s going through her bag, probably looking for more makeup, so she can make herself look good for Lloyd.

“Honey?” B. J. asks. “Jordy, I had no idea you felt that way about me. I have to warn you, though, I happen to be in a very committed relationship.”

“Yeah, I miss you, too.” Courtney starts flipping through the satellite radio stations. Good. I hope she’s rattled. I hope she realizes that if she weren’t hooking up with Lloyd, I would let her pick any song she wanted to listen to. And that I would not be pretending to talk to my fake girlfriend.

“I’m guessing I’m your fake girlfriend?” B. J. asks, sighing. It’s a miracle that he figured it out. He’s not usually the best with things that aren’t spelled out for him.

“Of course, sweetie,” I say. I try not to think about the fact that I’m talking to B. J. like we’re in love. B. J. is six-foot-four and 220 pounds. Not someone you want to think about being intimate with. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Courtney pull her iPod out of her bag and shove the headphones into her ears. I’m not buying it. I know she doesn’t have the thing on. No way she doesn’t want to hear me talk to my new girlfriend.

“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you when you’re obviously busy with, uh, important things,” B. J. says. He sounds sarcastic. “But you remember a few months ago, when we scored that pot for Brian Turner?”

“Sort of,” I say, wondering if it would be going too far to call B. J. “pookie” or “schmooper.” I want Courtney to be jealous, but I also don’t want her thinking I’m a pussy. Which is really fucked up, since, you know,
I’m
the one that broke up with
her.

“We paid for that, right?”

“Yeah,” I say. A couple months ago we bought some pot for Brian Turner’s party. It was this long, drawn-out procedure, since the first guy we were supposed to get it from wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and then this guy named Gray Poplaski, who somehow ended up coming along even though he’s kind of a tool, said he knew this other guy who could probably get us some. Which annoyed me, because I don’t even like pot that much. Anyway, we finally met up with some very shady-looking guys and got it, but the whole experience was weird.

“Do you think anyone found out about that?” B. J. asks, sounding nervous.

“Found out about what?” I ask, trying to imagine why I would say that to my fake girlfriend. Maybe if she asked “Do you think anyone found out about that?” meaning, “Do you think anyone found out about us having sex in my parents’ bed?” or something. I hope Courtney is smart enough to infer that that’s what is probably going on. I wonder if it would be going too far to actually come out and say, “You mean about the doggie-style we had?”

“Found out about the pot we bought!” B. J. says, sounding exasperated. He’s been sounding exasperated with me a lot lately. Which, like I said before, really worries me. Because if B. J. thinks you can’t keep up, it probably means you’re in deep shit.

“Like who?”

“I don’t know,” he says, lowering his voice.
“Like their posse.”

“Like whose posse?” I realize I probably won’t be able to keep up pretending that I’m talking to my fake girlfriend for long, so I fake a call waiting beep. “I have to go,” I say to B.J., a.k.a. my fake girlfriend (M.F.G.). “I have a beep.” I pretend to mess around with the phone for a minute. “Hello? Oh, hi, B. J.” I glance over at Courtney, hoping she now thinks that I was on the phone with my fake girlfriend until B. J. beeped in.

“Are you done?” B. J. asks, sounding annoyed.

“I think so.”

“Anyway, their posse,” B. J. says. “Could be after me.”

“Whose posse?” I repeat, hoping Courtney doesn’t notice that I appear to be having the same conversation with B. J. that I was just having with my fake girlfriend.

“Those thugs we bought it from!” B. J. says.

I’m starting to get a headache. “I’m starting to get a headache,” I say.

“Look, I think someone’s been following me,” B. J. says. “And the only thing I can think of is that it might have something to do with that pot we bought.”

“Someone’s following you?” I ask. “Where are you?” I merge onto the freeway, and try to fight myself through the traffic. I really should put my phone on speaker, but I obviously can’t, because then Court will know I’ve been talking to B. J. and not M.F.G. I have a headset in the glove compartment, but that would involve reaching over Courtney. Or asking her to pass it to me.

“I’m driving to the gym,” he says. “And there’s a car behind me, weaving in and out of traffic. I think I saw it yesterday, too.”

“You’re being paranoid.” A red Jetta on my left side veers into my lane, and I swerve to avoid hitting it. My cell phone drops to the floor. Shit. I grope around on the ground while trying to get my car back into its lane. This is extremely dangerous.

“—and shoots me or something,” B. J. is saying by the time I get the phone back to my ear.

“What?”

“What the fuck is going on over there? My shit is about to get BLOWN UP, and you’re playing some kind of fucking game!” he says.

“Hold on one second.” I put the phone into my lap. “Courtney,” I say sweetly. “Can you reach into the glove compartment and hand me my cell phone headset?”

She ignores me and pretends to be listening to her iPod.

“Court?” I say, raising my voice. From the depths of the cell phone in my lap, I can faintly hear B. J. saying “Hello? Are you there? Jooorrrddaannn!” I flip the cell phone over, to muffle B. J.’s voice.

“COURTNEY!”

“Someee hearts just get luucccky sometimesss,” she sings, her voice totally off-key. I’m in the midst of three lanes of high-speed traffic, have a friend on my cell phone who is obviously losing his mind, am faking phone calls, and am listening to my ex-girlfriend, who I’m still in love with, sing country songs. I really, really need to get off of this trip.

“Court.” I poke her. She ignores me. I poke her harder.

“WHAT?!” she screeches, pulling her earphones out of her ears. “What do you want?”

“Can you reach into the glove compartment and hand me my cell phone headset, please?” I ask.

From my cell phone comes the faint sound of B. J. screaming. I pick it up and reduce the volume. Courtney sighs and reaches into the glove compartment like it’s some huge imposition. She makes a big show of rummaging through the stuff until she locates the headset. Such a drama queen.

She hands it to me. “Thanks, honey,” I say, and give her a wink. She rolls her eyes and puts the earphones of her iPod back into her ears. Like she’s really listening to it.

“THIS SHIT IS FUCKED UP!” B. J. is screaming once I get the headset in.

“Sorry, I’m here,” I say.

“What were you doing?”

“I was getting my headset so I could talk to you,” I say. “Now, what’s going on?”

“I. Am. Being. Followed. Like I said before.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “There is a car following me. It followed me yesterday, too. It’s those thugs from the drug deal, probably. Or maybe those fuckers we beat from Westhill.”

“Maybe you should call the police,” I say.

“I will not,” he replies indignantly. “I’m not afraid of a gang. Or some shitty football team. I’ll call my boys.”

“Okay,” I say uncertainly.

“Call ya back,” he says and then disconnects.

“What’s going on?” Courtney asks from the passenger seat. Oh, now she’s concerned.

“Nothing,” I say. “B. J. thinks he was being followed.”

She looks startled. “Oh,” she says. “Uh, by who?”

“Not sure.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Call the police, I guess,” I say, shrugging. No way I’m telling her about the gang violence and the fact that we bought drugs. She’d flip out, especially since we were together at the time. A worried look crosses her face, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Can we PLEASE stop and get some food?” she asks five minutes later. “I’m starving.”

I want to make a snide comment about how she wants to eat so she’ll have energy for her and Lloyd’s impending sex-a-thon, but I don’t. I also want to point out that the schedule doesn’t call for this kind of stop, but whatever.

“Geez, Jordan,” she says. She pulls her lip gloss out of her bag and starts relining her lips. “Could you be a worse driver?”

I clutch the steering wheel and concentrate on not losing my temper. I’ve decided passive aggressive is my new tactic. But five minutes later, when Courtney looks at me pointedly as we come up on the next exit, I put on my signal and pull off the highway.

77 Days Before the Trip, 6:07 p.m.

Courtney’s dad is onto me. We’re having dinner out at a Greek restaurant, and I can tell he wants to kill me. Okay, so he doesn’t want to kill me, but he knows I know he’s banging my mom.

“You have to try the souvlaki,” Courtney says, reaching across the table and taking my hand. I hold her hand, trying not to freak out. Jesus, this is awkward. Definitely on my top ten list of things I don’t ever want to do. “Number Three: Have dinner with your girlfriend and her dad, when said dad is having an extramarital affair with your mom, which your girlfriend doesn’t know about.” It really should be some sort of list on
Letterman
. “Top Ten Things You Never Thought About Happening, But Should Try to Avoid at All Costs.”

“That sounds good,” I say. I have no fucking idea what souvlaki is. It sounds disgusting. But I’ll try it, because Courtney’s dad is here, and he’s from Greece, and I’m trying to make a good impression.

“I hope you’re hungry, Jordan,” he says, smiling at me across the table. That’s the other weird thing. He’s acting like nothing is wrong. I wonder if maybe he has no idea who I am. But that would be impossible. He knows my last name. And he saw me the night I came in and found him feeling up my mom. Maybe he doesn’t know my mom’s last name. And maybe that night he was just so intent on banging her that he doesn’t really remember what I look like. Maybe they haven’t talked since. Maybe they broke it off.

“I am hungry, sir,” I say. Courtney rolls her eyes next to me. Of course I’m going to “sir” him. I have to kiss his ass for many reasons, not the least of which is that even though I haven’t told her yet, I think I’m in love with his daughter.

Courtney’s dad (“Call me Frank,” he said when we got here—Frank! Ha, fat chance!) motions the waiter over and starts talking to him in Greek. I wonder if they’re talking about taking me outside and doing away with me. I don’t think the mob is in Greece, though. The Sopranos are definitely Italian.

“He’s ordering appetizers,” Courtney says, as if she’s reading my mind. She’s wearing a black skirt and a long-sleeved pink shirt, and when she leans in close to me, I can see the black bra she’s wearing underneath it. Despite all the stress, I feel myself starting to get turned on.

The waiter turns to me and asks me in a thick Greek accent what I’d like. I order the souvlaki since Courtney recommended it, and since she said it, I already know how to pronounce it.

“Salad?” the waiter asks, smiling. He’s about twenty-two and he looks like he’s in pretty good shape, but I know I could take him. If it came down to that.

“Yes, please,” I say, figuring salad is safe. Salad is good. Salad is just lettuce. With dressing. Although maybe it’s some kind of funky Greek salad. Even so, Greek lettuce is better than some unknown shit. I’ve never thought of myself as a picky eater before, but now I realize it’s basically because I subsist on hamburgers and pizza most of the time. I’m probably going to die before I’m thirty.

“Whachu leek feetaumbla dreez?” the waiter says. At least, that’s what it sounds like he says. Who the fuck can tell with his accent? Courtney and her father look at me expectantly. Fuck.

“What kind of dressing do you have?” I ask, proud of myself for inferring that was probably the question he asked.

“No,” Courtney says, squeezing my hand and trying not to smile. “He asked if you want feta cheese. On your salad. They only have one kind of dressing here, the Greek house dressing.”

“Oh,” I say, shrugging. “Sure, I’ll take the feta.” I have no idea what feta cheese is.

Courtney and her dad give their orders, and the waiter clears the menus and leaves.

“So,” Courtney’s dad says. He picks up a piece of pita bread and dips it in some kind of cream that’s sitting next to it. He pops it in his mouth and chews. I have no idea how the dude can be so calm, given what’s going on right now. “I hear you’re going to BU, Jordan.”

“Yes, sir,” I say. I wonder who he heard it from—Courtney or my mom. Although I’m not sure how comfortable my mom should feel talking about my life right now, since I haven’t talked to her in weeks. For all she knows, I’ve scrapped this BU idea and have decided to head to Vegas and become a professional poker player. “That’s wonderful,” Frank says, smiling like it’s anything but. He hates me.

The waiter sets our salads down in front of us, and I realize very quickly that the whole feta cheese thing was a horrible mistake. It looks gross and it smells gross, like old socks. And it’s in chunks. I don’t like anything that’s in chunks. Chunks remind me of unpleasant things. Like vomit.

“Jordan’s majoring in accounting,” Courtney says in an effort to make me look good. In actuality, I’m going in undeclared, but I’m leaning toward accounting. I have no idea why, other than my dad is an accountant, and I feel like I need to do something to make him happy now that it turns out my mom is cheating on him.

“Nice,” Frank says. He takes a bite of his salad, including a piece of feta. “This cheese is unbelievable. How’s your salad, Jordan?”

“It’s really good, thanks,” I say. And it is really good. Except for the cheese. And except for the fact that I have no appetite.

“You’re not eating the cheese,” Franks says accusingly.

And you’re fucking my mom, I want to say back. But I don’t. I take a bite of the cheese. It falls apart in my mouth. I try to swallow it without tasting it, like a pill, and almost choke.

“You okay?” Courtney asks, handing me my water.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“So tell me more about this Miami trip,” he says, looking right at me. “Courtney says you two are planning to go next month.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, trying to convey in those two words that we are going to hang out only, not to have sex ever. Which is true. I’m not expecting sex at all. Not even a little bit. Okay, so I’d be happy if it happened, but I’m not planning on it. Courtney’s a virgin. As far as I know, she wants to stay a virgin. At least for a little while, anyway.

“And where will you be staying?” he asks, looking at me closely.

“My dad’s best friend from college has a house there,” I say, wondering if he’s going to give me shit about the fact that there will be no parental supervision. “And he goes to Europe for the summer, and lets me use the house whenever I want.”

“How generous of him. It sounds like it’s going to be a fun trip,” he says, shooting me a look over the table that basically means, “If you put a hand on my daughter, I will shoot you.” Which really isn’t fair, since he’s feeling free to feel up my mom at any opportunity.

“Yes, sir,” I say. I sound like a broken record.

“I’ll be right back,” Courtney says. She pushes her chair back from the table and stands up.

“Where are you going?” I ask, suddenly panicked. Why would she leave me alone with her father? Is Courtney insane?

“To the bathroom,” she says. She kisses me on the forehead and then disappears.

Once she’s cleared the area, Frank looks at me like I’m a piece of gum on his shoe.

“Listen, Jordan,” he says. “This situation is only as difficult as you decide to make it.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. Who does he think he is? Some kind of threatening hit man? Or Dr. Phil, warning me that I have my fate in my hands? I push the feta cheese around my salad with my fork, resisting the urge to throw it at him.

“I mean that this doesn’t have to be an issue,” he says. He wipes his lips with his napkin and sets it on the table. “I have no problem with you, Jordan. I have no problem with you seeing my daughter. The only problem we’re going to have is if you decide not to be discreet.”

Decide not to be discreet? Is this guy for real? The word “discreet” sounds so gross, like some kind of ad for hookers. I might not be pleased with my mom right now, but she’s definitely not a hooker.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, just to be a dick. I start taking the feta cheese off my salad and dropping it onto my bread plate.

“Yes, you do,” he says easily. “And I want you to know that I’m going to be the one to tell Courtney and her mom what’s going on. Not you.”

“You seem really sure of that,” I say, continuing to throw the feta cheese onto the bread plate, spearing each piece and pretending it’s Frank’s head.

“I am,” he says. “Because if Courtney finds out from you, I’ll make sure you never see her again. Hell, I won’t have to make sure of it. She’ll hate you for keeping it a secret from her for this long.”

I don’t say anything because I know he’s right. I had my chance to tell Courtney when I first found out her dad was the one who was having an affair with my mom, and I didn’t. And now, because she had this preconceived notion that I was kind of a dick, if I tell her now, it’s going to come off like I
am
a dick. But maybe…maybe if I keep my mouth shut, if I don’t tell her I knew, if her dad does eventually tell her, we can deal with it together. We can help each other through it.

“Whatever,” I say. “I’m not going to tell her.”

“Good,” Frank says. He takes a bite of his salad and licks the dressing off his lips. “I really do think that’s the best way.”

“Hey,” Courtney says, returning to the table. “What’d I miss?”