Two-Way Street (9 page)

123 Days Before the Trip, 4:30 p.m.

I’m trying to kiss Courtney McSweeney. If you had asked me six months ago if I would ever be making out with Courtney McSweeney, I would have said no, absofuckinglutely not. But here I am, trying to get her to kiss me. We’re parked in front of her house, sitting in my car, and somehow I pulled her close to me before she could get out of the car. Which she let me do. But then, when I went to kiss her, she turned her head.

“Not gonna happen,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest.

“Why not?” I ask, wondering if I’ve underestimated her. Maybe she’s a game player, one of those girls who makes you work for it. The weird thing is, I’m usually into that, but thinking about Courtney messing with my head is disappointing for some reason.

“Because,” she says. “Once you cross that line with someone, you can never take it back.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. Why would she want to take it back? I’m a very good kisser. Or so I’ve been told.

“I mean that once you kiss someone, all this other stuff comes into it, whether you want it to or not.”

“Not necessarily,” I say. I’m stroking her hair now, and all she would have to do is move her face about two inches and tilt it up, and we’d be kissing.

“It does,” she says. “It brings all kinds of drama you never have to deal with if you just stay friends.”

“Not true.” I try to pull her closer, which doesn’t really work, because she’s already as close as she’s going to get. “I’ve had hookups that haven’t resulted in any kind of drama.”

“None whatsoever?”

“Nope.”

“No broken hearts?”

“Nope.”

“No psychotic prank phone calls?”

“Nope.”

“No feeling like you wanted to throw up and/or kill her new boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

“Name one girl you hooked up with that you’re still friends with.”

“Nope.”

“That’s what I thought,” she says smugly. Although being smug really makes no sense here, because I think she really does want to kiss me. Otherwise why would she be leaning against me like that?

“You tricked me,” I say.

“So do it, then. Name one girl you hooked up with that you’re still friends with.”

“It doesn’t have to be dramatic,” I say, ignoring her request. “It can just be about…the moment.”

“I’m not good with the moment,” she says. “I’m always worried about what’s going to happen next.”

“You should stop worrying,” I say. And then I reach down and tilt her face up toward mine, and I kiss her. She doesn’t pull away. Her mouth is on mine, and our tongues are together, and my hands are on her face. And it’s really, really nice. She pulls away first, and we lean our heads together.

“That was nice,” I say, smiling.

“That was such a mistake,” she says, smiling back. And then she gets out of my car and heads into her house without looking back.

When I get to my house fifteen minutes later, my mom is sitting at the kitchen table. So much for waiting it out and hiding until I got up the courage to confront her. She’s wearing a purple sweater set and a cream-colored skirt. Which is weird. Because she looks…normal. Not like she was just fucking some random dude on the couch that her and my dad picked out for their anniversary.

“Jordan,” she says, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. Her eyes glance at me nervously and I look away. “Listen, we should talk.”

“I don’t know if we have anything to talk about,” I say simply. I’m trying to figure out the best way to work this to my advantage. I’m pissed.

“We have to,” she says. “Sit down.”

I pull out a chair from the kitchen table and plop down across from her.

“What do you want to talk about?” I look at her, and suddenly, I’m really, really scared. It’s something on her face. Because here’s the thing—up until this point, I figured it was just a random thing. Maybe her and a client were working late and got carried away. They started kissing, I came in, and she sent him home after she came to her senses. That’s how these things usually work, don’t they? I curse myself for watching
Laguna Beach
instead of learning valuable life lessons on
The OC.

“I think we need to talk about what went on here the other night.” She bites her lip again and looks around nervously.

“What about it?”

“Jordan, I really, really, need for you not to tell your father about what happened until I have a chance to talk with him.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say. “There’s no way I’m not going to tell Dad about this.” She must be delusional. Does she really think I would keep this kind of huge secret from my dad? How can she even expect me to do that?

“Jordan,” she says, “I have the right to be able to tell him on my own time, on my own grounds.” She tugs on the hem of her skirt nervously. “That’s the only way we’re going to be able to work it out.”

“Whatever,” I say, heading to the refrigerator and grabbing a Coke out of the side door. “I’m staying out of it. In fact, I’m totally over it.”

I leave her standing in the kitchen and head up to my room, where I spend the next two hours listening to rap music on my iPod and thinking about how it felt to kiss Courtney McSweeney.

Day Two, 4:07 a.m.

I lay there for a second, not really sure what I’m supposed to do. I mean, Jordan is in the same bed with me. Wrapped around me. A part of me wants to scream, to push him off, to flip out, and possibly kick him in the balls. But it feels good. To be close to him. And I realize that I’m probably never going to be this close to him again. Ever. So maybe I should just give into it for a little while, hold on to this last thing.

I can feel his chest moving next to me, up and down with his breathing, and his arms feel strong around me. My stomach grumbles, probably because it’s empty. What a pain in the ass. I know I can’t eat anything, because if I do, I’m going to end up sick again.

I push Jordan’s hand off my shoulder. It bumps my head. Great. Why is he in this bed with me? Is it possible I got into some kind of weird delusional state because of my apparent food poisoning and then grabbed him and pulled him into bed with me? Maybe it was a fugue. We learned about those in psych class. I’m horrified.

I push his arm up and over my head, trying not to wake him up. The last thing I want is for him to be aware of the fact that we’re in this position. Maybe it happened naturally. Like in movies, when guys and girls are always falling asleep and not realizing they’re getting wrapped around each other. Maybe it’s our bodies’ way of telling us we were meant to be. Or maybe I, like, cuddle raped him or something.

I need to get out of this bed. Out of this hotel. Out of this trip. It’s definitely not good for my mental state. I grab my phone off the nightstand by the bed, extract myself quickly from the tangle that is Jordan, and head to the bathroom. I check my missed calls. Four of them. They’re all Lloyd. Lovely.

I wonder if four in the morning is too late/early to call him. Actually, it could be the perfect time, because there’s no way he’s going to be awake. So I can leave him a quick message, a “Thanks for calling me, but I was sick and sleeping,” kind of message, so that I won’t actually have to talk to him. I’m so brilliant.

I push the button in my phone book next to his name and listen while it rings. Ring…Ring…

“Hello?” he says, sounding tired.

Great. What kind of fool answers their phone at four in the morning? On the day they get to school, nonetheless! Doesn’t he have orientation? Whatever. This is so ridiculous. I mean, I hooked up with him, it’s not the end of the world. People hook up all the time. And then you just deal with it. You talk about it. You work it out. This is Lloyd. He’s my friend. He’s not psychotic. He’s Lloyd. I take a deep breath.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

“I miss you.”

“Oh.” It’s the only thing I can think of to say. I don’t have to say it back, right? I mean, it’s not like when someone says “I love you,” and you’re kind of obligated to say it back, even if you don’t mean it. And I do miss him. Kind of. Although I don’t really know how you can miss someone you just saw one night ago. I mean, normally, we don’t see each other every day. So it’s kind of weird for him to say he’s missing me, since even though we’re both going to be away at school, nothing’s really changed yet.

“What time is it?” I hear the sound of him moving around in his bed.

“Um, four in the morning,” I say.

“I’m so glad you called me back,” he says. “I was worried about you.”

“Yeah,” I say. Silence. “So, listen, I can’t really talk for that long, because I’m in the bathroom and I don’t want to wake Jordan up.”

“Why would you wake Jordan up?” he asks, sounding confused.

“Because he might hear me talking, and then he would wake up. And having to deal with him while he’s awake during normal hours is enough of a trial for me.” I’m assuming Lloyd will like the fact that I’m saying something bad about Jordan, but my statement has the opposite effect. Lloyd flips out.

“You guys are staying in the same room?” he asks. Suddenly he sounds wide awake, and there’s more noise on the other end of the line, like he’s sitting up and taking notice. Suddenly, I feel like I’m in some really weird episode of
The Twilight Zone
, where Lloyd wants me and I don’t want him, Jordan broke up with me, I’m in bad hotel room lighting, and it’s four in the morning. But it’s not. It’s real life. So weird.

“Yeah, we’re staying in the same room,” I say, trying to sound breezy. “But there’s two beds, and it was only because there was only one room left.” I’m now lying to Lloyd. I’m a liar.

“There was only one room?” Lloyd asks incredulously. Apparently a very bad liar.

“Yup,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Court,” he says. “Are you okay? Having to stay in the same room with him like that?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m holding up.”

“Good.”

“Yup,” I say. “So, anyway, you sound really tired, so I should let you go. I’ll call you tomorrow, though, before we get there and let you know when—”

“Today,” Lloyd says.

“Today what?” I ask. My head is starting to hurt, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m getting over some sort of whacked-out food poisoning thing, or if it’s because of the stress of this trip.

“You’ll be here today, technically,” Lloyd says. “Because it’s four in the morning?”

“Oh,” I say. “Right.” Silence.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Lloyd asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s fine.”

“Is it Jordan? Has he tried anything?”

“Uh, no,” I say. “He hasn’t. Tried anything, I mean. He has a girlfriend.” I don’t mention the fact that I just woke up with Jordan’s arms wrapped around me. Because that was obviously some sort of weird mistake, something that happened while we were sleeping.

“Like that’s going to stop him.” Lloyd snorts. No, really, he snorts. The guy I made out with last night is snorting. “You guys were together when he started hooking up with his new girlfriend, so I wouldn’t put anything past him, Courtney.”

I want to point out that (allegedly) Jordan didn’t cheat on me, but really, what’s the point? Lloyd is going to believe what he believes. And whatever, he’s probably right. Jordan probably did cheat on me. I feel myself starting to get upset, and I take a deep breath.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go back to sleep,” I say to Lloyd. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow and let you know how we’re progressing.”

“Okay,” Lloyd says. “I miss you, Courtney, and I can’t wait to see you.”

“Yeah, you too,” I say, and then hang up before he can say anything else. I slide my cell phone back into my bag and creep back into the room. I climb into the other bed, the one Jordan’s not in, close my eyes, and try to fall asleep.

107 Days Before the Trip, 4:05 p.m.

“Stop hooking up with him,” Jocelyn says. “It’s going to get bad.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning.

“Just what I said. You like him, Court. And that’s not good.”

“I don’t like him,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We’re just, you know, hanging out.” It’s been a couple of weeks since I first kissed Jordan, and after a couple of days of me trying to blow him off, and him being very persistent, we’ve been hanging out a lot lately. And by a lot, I mean, um, a lot. As in, like, every second that we’re not at school, we’re together. And even when we’re in school, we’re texting. Or hanging out at lunch or during our unstructureds in the library. Or passing notes in math. It’s really not that bad, though. I mean, school is almost over. So it’s not like we have a ton of work we should be concentrating on or anything.

“You like him,” Jocelyn says. “I can tell from the way you talk to him. And it’s not good. When people start liking people, that’s when someone has the ability to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt,” I say, shrugging. We’re sitting in Jocelyn’s living room, watching my DVD set of
Laguna Beach
and talking about nothing.

“Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying.”

“You should talk,” I say, picking up a pillow from my side of the couch and throwing it at her.

“Totally different,” she says. “I’m not nearly as emotionally attached to B. J. as you are to Jordan.”

“I’m not emotionally attached to Jordan,” I lie. The truth is, I kind of am. Emotionally attached to him, I mean. At first, it was just fun. I liked kissing him, and being around him, and holding his hand. But then it turned into something different. I talk to him. I tell him things I’ve never really told anyone, like about how I’m afraid once I get to college everything will be different, and I won’t be smart anymore, and I’ll end up flunking out and my parents will disown me.

“Well, whatever,” Jocelyn says. She grabs the remote and turns up the volume on the TV. “Just be careful, Courtney. Because he is most definitely not emotionally attached to you.”

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

I think I’m emotionally attached to Courtney McSweeney. This is not a good plan for a few reasons. I make it a point to never get emotionally attached to anyone. Emotional attachments are messy. They end with broken hearts and stalking. Not that I’ve ever been on that end of it, i.e., been the one who was stalking or getting brokenhearted. But I’ve seen plenty of girls get emotionally attached to me, and it’s never a good situation. Emotional attachments are for really stupid people, or people who are much, much older and can deal with messy things like emotional attachments.

Also, Madison Allesio is now stalking me. When I say stalking, I mean it in relative terms. She’s dropped the hard-to-get act, and is now making it pretty clear she wants to hook up. She’s doing this by leaving me MySpace messages and texts that say “I want to hook up.” The weird thing is, this shouldn’t really be a problem. Because I don’t even really want to hook up with her anymore. Which is why I probably should. Because if I don’t, it means I’m emotionally attached to Courtney. And I can’t have that.

This is what I’m thinking about as I’m driving to Courtney’s house to do the math assignment. We usually do our math homework together in her room, which entails us doing a problem and then making out for a few minutes. Then she stops and says, “Jordan, we really have to do our work,” and then we do two more problems and make out again for a while. It takes a lot longer to do the assignment this way, and yet the time seems to go by much faster.

The other thing that worries me about the Courtney situation is that I’m obviously spending so much time over there in an effort to avoid what’s going on at my house. My strategy, as with most things, has been denial and avoidance. I just deny and avoid. The weird thing is, my parents don’t seem to notice.

“What’s up?” Courtney asks when I get to her house.

“Not much,” I say. She leans into me as I pass by her on the way into the house, and I inhale her scent. She smells so good. Like…I don’t know, exactly. Like Courtney.

Two hours later, we’re making out on her bed. Our math books are on the floor. My hands are in her hair, and on her face, and under her shirt on her back. Her tongue is in my mouth, and I want her so bad.

“Wait,” she says, pulling away. She pushes her hair away from her face and looks at me seriously. “I don’t know what’s going on here.” She sits up and smoothes down her shirt.

Uh-oh. This is not good. This sounds like it’s going to be a talk. Talks, as a rule, are not good. They usually mean something bad is going to happen. When bad things happen, I just like them to happen. Why waste time talking about them? Or about the possibility that they
could
happen? Again, denial and avoidance is really a great strategy, and saves everyone a lot of trouble.

“What do you mean?” I ask. I kiss her neck in an effort to distract her. “Your skin is so soft.”

“Jordan,” she says, pushing me away. “Stop. Seriously.” Whoa. Okay. I pull away from her and back up against the wall behind her bed.

“I just…” she trails off. “I don’t want to be a typical girl, but I need to know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, not sure what to say. Not because I’m being forced to confront the issue, but because I really don’t know what to tell her. I’ve been in this situation a lot before. Usually, girls aren’t so vocal about it. You can just kind of tell they’re getting to the point where they’re going to press you for an answer about what’s going on. They want you to be their boyfriend, not just a hookup. Which is fine, I can’t blame them. I’m kind of a catch. Usually, I tell them I’m just not up for it. Sometimes they hate me. Sometimes we keep hooking up (although it’s never the same). But this time, I realize I don’t want to tell Courtney that I don’t want to be her boyfriend. In fact, I do want to be her boyfriend. If that’s even what she’s saying.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says slowly. She looks down at the bed and traces her finger around a blue flower on her comforter. “It’s just, I mean, I don’t need you to be my boyfriend or anything.” Oh. “But I just…I mean, what exactly is going on here?”

“Well,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “I don’t know. I love spending time with you, and I love being around you.” I realize she’s two feet away from me, and that makes me nervous. I reach out and touch her hand, and start drawing little circles with my index finger against her palm. I try to pull her close to me, but she resists.

“It just feels kind of weird to be spending all this time together and doing all the stuff we’re doing without figuring out exactly what this is.” She bites her lip. I lean over and kiss her. “Jordan, seriously,” she says, pushing me away.

“Okay,” I say, backing away. “Sorry. So, what do you want? Let’s be together. Me and you.” I kiss her again. I can’t help it. “Be my girlfriend.”

“Jordan, I’m being serious,” she says. She rolls her eyes and pushes me away.

“So am I.” I pull her close and look into her eyes. “Let’s be together.”

She leans her head against mine. “Is that really what you want?” she asks. She tilts her head up toward mine.

“Yes,” I say.

“Because you shouldn’t say it unless, you know, you really mean it. I don’t want you to think you have to.”

“I don’t feel like I have to do anything,” I say. I inch my lips closer to hers.

“Okay,” she says. “So…”

I kiss her then, and she finally stops talking.

Three hours later, we’re finally done with our math assignment. It was ten problems. Ten problems took us three hours. It’s ten at night. I’m going to have no time to finish the rest of my homework. I hope having a girlfriend doesn’t mess with my ability to keep my grades up. Ha.

“I should go,” I say, trying to distangle myself from Courtney’s body. We’re laying in her bed, kissing, and I can’t stop. It’s like I’m physically unable to be away from her.

“Okay,” she says, not moving. She closes her eyes for a second, and I try to memorize the way she looks, her hair spread out around the pillow, her lips slightly parted. She sighs and pulls herself out of bed, then holds her hand out, and pulls me up. I pull her close to me and kiss her again.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” she says when she pulls away.

“’Kay.” I gather my stuff, shove it all into my black messenger bag, and walk with Courtney down the stairs.

As we’re walking into the kitchen, the back door opens.

“Dad?” Courtney asks. Shit. Courtney’s dad has been on a business trip for the past few weeks, so I haven’t had to meet him. I hate meeting dads. Dads, as a rule, don’t like me. They think I’m a punk who’s trying to deflower their precious daughter. Which is usually the case. But not in this instance. Although I wouldn’t mind deflowering Courtney, I’m content with the whole making-out thing. Maybe it wouldn’t even be a deflowering. We haven’t had the whole “Are you a virgin?” talk yet.

The back door opens and Courtney’s dad walks in.

“You’re home!” She flings herself at him and grabs him in a hug. This is going to be doubly disastrous, because Courtney and her dad are superclose. Which means getting his approval is key to our relationship. I use their reunion time to smooth my clothes and run my fingers through my hair. I hope I don’t look like I’ve just been making out with his daughter.

“Jordan,” Courtney says. “Come meet my dad.” She pulls back, still holding his hand.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say, holding out my hand. I get my first good look at him, and then stop. Because Courtney’s dad is the guy my mom was making out with on the couch.

“Let me get this straight,” B. J. says a couple hours later, leaning back in the booth. We’re in Denny’s, having a late-night snack, and I’ve just finished telling him the whole sordid tale. Everything. My mom. Courtney. Her dad. Everything. “Courtney is now your girlfriend.”

“Right.”

“And two hours after you two crazy kids came to the conclusion that you’re soul mates, you figured out your mom was fucking her dad.”

“Right.” I don’t even wince at B. J.’s crude language. I’m beyond that.

“Dude, that shit is FUCKED UP.” He takes a fry and drags it through some ketchup. “What are you doing to do?”

“I have to tell her,” I say. Silence. “Right?”

“Right,” B. J. says, sounding uncertain.

“Why do you sound uncertain?”

“I don’t,” he says, sounding even more uncertain than before.

“Yes, you do!”

“Well, it’s just one of those things that sounds good in theory, but might not really be necessary.” He takes the straw out of his drink and throws it on the table, then takes a long gulp of his soda right from the cup. On cue, the waitress comes over and replaces his old soda with a new one.

“Thanks,” B. J. says, grinning at her.

“You’re welcome,” she says, looking at me. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, I’m fine,” I say, slightly annoyed that she’s interrupting.

“You sure?” she persists. “Dessert? Coffee?”

“Nah, I’m good,” I say, looking away and hoping she’ll get the message.

“Oooh, you know what?” B. J. says, looking excited. “I’ll have a piece of that strawberry thing, the one with all the whipped cream?” I resist the urge to hurl myself across the table and strangle him.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Vanilla ice cream?”

“Sure,” B. J. says. He shrugs. “Do it up.”

“I’ll bring two spoons.” As soon as she clears the area, B. J. takes another gulp of his soda. He leans back in his chair and lets out a huge burp.

“Anyway,” I say, trying not to freak out. “Can you please tell me why I shouldn’t tell her?”

“Dude,” B. J. says. He pulls an ice cube into his mouth and starts crunching it.

“Dude what?”

“Hold on,” he says. “I’m trying to think of how to phrase this.” Great. We’ll be here all day.

“Don’t try to think about how to phrase it,” I say. “Just say it.”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“You probably won’t be with her for that long.” He shrugs. “So there’s really no point in telling her.”

“Geez, tell me how you really feel.”

“You said to just say it!”

“I know, I know,” I say. I lean over the table and rub my temples with my fingers. Maybe B. J.’s right. Maybe I don’t have to tell her. Maybe I can wait a little while until I figure out how I feel about her and then I can decide whether or not to tell her. I do like Courtney, I like her a lot, I don’t want to hang out with anyone else, but I am fickle. What if I tell her and it wrecks her life? What if she’s not supposed to know about this, and not only do I tell her, but otherwise, she never would have found out? It’s not like my mom is planning on marrying her dad. I don’t think, anyway.

“Dude, are you stressin’ about this?” B. J. asks. “Don’t freak me out.”

“Why would that freak you out?”

“Because you never stress.”

The waitress returns with a huge plate of strawberry pie, ice cream, and whipped cream. She sets down two spoons.

“I made a double portion,” she says, smiling. She licks her lips and smoothes her hands across her tight apron. Lovely. My world is falling apart, and some random waitress is making threesome jokes. She walks away, swinging her hips from side to side. If I wasn’t so fucked up right now, I’d probably be turned on.

“Dude,” B. J. whispers, leaning across the table. “Does she want to have a threesome with us?”

“Probably.”

“Whoa.” His eyes widen. “Not that I ever would. No offense, bro, but that would be way too fucked up.” He takes a bite of strawberry pie. “That is some good shit. Try it.”

“No, thanks,” I say. I’m suddenly not very hungry, and the cheeseburger and fries I just devoured feel heavy in my stomach.

“You need to chill,” B. J. says. He has whipped cream all over his mouth. I reach across the table and wordlessly hand him a napkin. He smiles sheepishly and wipes his mouth. “For now, you can’t worry about it. The last thing you want to do is get Courtney all freaked out for nothing. And if you do decide it’s going to turn into something serious, you can always tell her later.”

“What if she asks why I didn’t tell her before?”

“You can tell her the truth. That you wanted to make sure you knew what was going on between you guys, and between your parents, before you did anything psychotic.” I stare at B. J. in disbelief. How is it that someone who is so idiotic most of the time can somehow be able to give such good insight? Maybe it’s because he thinks on such a simple level most of the time that he doesn’t get bogged down by things like emotion and manipulation. He just figures out the best way to handle a situation, and then he does it.

“Good idea,” I say. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He grins at me through a mouthful of strawberries.

“Anything else I can get you two?” the waitress says, appearing at our table.

“Just the check,” I say. “Thanks.”

She rips it off the pad slowly and places it down in front of me. “If you need anything else, I can always add it.” She smiles again, turns on her heel, and walks away.

“You could so do her,” B. J. says.

I pick up the check. $15.65. “Carrie,” it says on the bottom. “Call me, cutie! 555-0181.” Followed by a smiley face.

I throw a $20 down on the table and leave the check where it is.