Busted (8 page)

15

E
nglish class is eerily empty, like a plague just wiped out half the female contingent. At first I can't think where they've gone, but then I remember, and it totally freaks me out to know that somewhere in the school my mom is teaching girls to avoid boys like Brandon. And me, I guess.

I wait for Paige to appear, and when she finally does I pat the seat beside me so she'll come over, but instead she rushes to the back corner of the room. I wave, but she just buries her head in her
People
magazine and turns bright red. Something about her body language makes me think we may not be repeating our date.

I'm about to turn back to face the front of the class when I'm joined by Jessica Pantley, the ditziest member of the cheerleading squad. She studies me for a moment, then unpacks a pink notebook adorned with flowers and proceeds to write down her observations: “cute dimples, honest face, minimal acne.”

“I can see what you're writing, you know,” I say.

Jessica lifts a finger to her lips to shush me, then narrows her eyes. She looks uncomfortable, as if the exertion of concentrating is overwhelming. She takes a deep breath and writes: “thoughtful, disarming.”

Until recently, I would have thought that seeing my character dissected in Jessica's pink flowery notebook is one of the oddest things that could happen to me in English class. But that was before I began to attract companions like Taylor and Morgan and Paige.

“You'd like to know what I'm doing, wouldn't you?” says Jessica in a high, singsong voice.

“I must admit, I'm slightly confused, yeah.”

“It's what I always do before I go on a date with a boy. I study his face and make some notes. That way I can decide if he's someone I'd like to be with.”

It's tempting to imagine that I've misunderstood her. But as she gazes at me with enormously wide blue eyes, the thought of being her boyfriend is actually quite appealing.

And then I remember Paige—

“I was sorry to hear about you and Paige,” she says, as though all that gazing doubles as mind reading.

“What are you sorry about?”

“Oh, about you two not working out. Paige sounded absolutely brokenhearted, but I think she'll get over it eventually.”

I look over my shoulder at Paige, who ducks beneath her
People
.

“I didn't even know we'd stopped—” I begin. But then I realize that will make me sound like a complete loser. “I guess we're just not meant to be together, you know?”

Jessica nods sympathetically and takes my hand between hers, holding me in the spell of her unwavering gaze.

“Maybe you were meant to break up for a reason,” she suggests.

“What reason?”

“Well … so that we could go out.”

Even though I'm transfixed by Jessica, I can feel Paige's presence ten feet behind me. It would be so wrong to agree to a date with Jessica less than a day after dating Paige. That would make me the worst kind of player.

“I was thinking tomorrow, after school,” she says.

God, she has beautiful eyes.

“If the weather's nice we could go to Brookbank lake.”

Blue flecked with green. Aquamarine eyes. Turquoise eyes.

“So what do you think?”

“I'd like that very much,” I tell her.

Jessica smiles and nods energetically, then places her hand on my leg.

English is definitely my favorite class.

As soon as I get home, I pull up Google and begin a new search:
breast measurements examples with images
. I've always heard people say that a picture is worth a thousand words, and some pictures are worth even more than that.

The screen fills with links to breast measurements, and images, and tips for augmentation/reduction, and all I can think is how I've been misusing the Internet until this moment.
Clearly the Web was created so that I can have information like this at my fingertips. From now on I'll treat technology with appropriate reverence.

I trawl through images of double-A cup, double-D cup, and everything in-between. There are pictures of different breast types—pert, pendulous—and detailed instructions on how to calculate your bra size. There are even warnings about the dangers of silicone implants, although the images are kind of gross so I go back to admiring the other ones.

After fifteen minutes, I've learned enough to know that Zach may have been on to something when he said Paige is barely a 32A. I close the screen, and I'm about to get up when Mom walks in and sits on the sofa beside the desk. I'm glad she didn't come in a minute sooner.

“So how was the date last night? Now that Abby's not here, you can actually try being honest.”

“It was good. I had fun.”

“So you're going out again?”

Uh-oh. I really don't want to admit that I'm going on a date with a different girl so soon. Then again—

“Yeah, I'm going on another date tomorrow,” I say, hoping she'll assume it's with Paige.

“Oh, that's nice. You must have made a connection then.” She hesitates a moment, then stands up.

I'm so pleased she misunderstood me that I conjure a broad smile, and she smiles back. But somehow her smile seems empty, like I've just told her the very thing she didn't want to hear.

16

S
he's so notoriously ditzy that I half-expect Jessica to forget our date by the time school ends the next day, but I spend the final period chewing gum just in case. The image of Paige's face as I ate the chips and salsa is still branded on my memory, and I don't want there to be any obstacles to full-on French kissing this time.

I walk out of school and there's Jessica, waiting by the main doors just like we arranged. Well, not exactly like we arranged—she's kneeling in the grass, winding daisies into a chain. When she sees me she waves, and a moment later she's wearing the daisy chain around her head and I'm wondering if this date is such a good idea after all.

Not that she isn't cute. She's wearing a figure-hugging, sky blue tube dress that ends a gratifyingly long way above her knees, and her legs are tan like she spends most of her life outdoors making daisy chains. She reminds me of a character from one of those age-swapping movies; it'd sure be easier to ex
plain her behavior if she were actually an eight-year-old trapped in an eighteen-year-old's body, even though that would make this date kind of immoral.

“Take my car?” she asks, skipping over to me.

“Uh, sure.”

“Or we could take yours,” she adds thoughtfully.

“No, I don't have a car.”

“Oh.” Her eyes grow wide and she bites a fingernail. “You probably shouldn't admit that. It's not cool.”

“Okay. How about we pretend I have a car but we'd prefer to take yours?”

“That'd work. Although it's actually my sister's car.”

“Isn't it uncool to admit that?” I say as we traipse across the grass toward the student parking lot.

“No, 'cause I'm a girl. And 'cause I have access to a convertible Beetle. That makes it okay.”

Her logic temporarily eludes me, but rumor has it that extended questioning rarely leads to clarification when it
comes to Jessica, so I let it go. And then she's opening the doors to a shiny ne
w Bug, and I think she may be right about this being the next best thing to owning your own car.

“I'm going to open the roof, okay?” she giggles, pulling back the black canvas top. She's finished before I have a chance to answer.

A few minutes later we're whistling along residential streets and Jessica, minus daisy chain, is trying to coax her hair up so that it will fly around in the breeze. She seems unsure that it's working and spends most of the time checking her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Don't you just love to feel the wind in your hair?” she bubbles. “It's so liberating.”

“I don't have much hair.”

“Oh, then you should get a wig or something. No one should miss out on this.”

Once again the tiny, rational part of my brain wants to ask her how on earth I could feel a wig, but this is Jessica, and so the best course of action is to pretend we're having parallel, unrelated conversations.

“So where are we going?” I ask, as the buildings begin to thin out.

“I think you'd look good with long blond hair,” she gushes. “It'd look kind of feminine, but I think I'd like that.”

“Are we going far?”

“Although blond might not work with your pasty complexion.”

“Do you like spring? I like the warmer weather.”

“Maybe long brown hair. I could braid it for you.”

“Long hair wouldn't be so good when the weather gets warmer.”

“I like the warmer weather. Do you like spring?”

I take a deep breath and marvel at this unlikely confluence of conversations. “Yeah, I like spring.”

“Hmmm, interesting,” she sighs, then shuts up completely. Strangely, this is an improvement.

Five minutes later she pulls into the parking lot beside Brookbank lake. She looks around nervously, gets out, and walks swiftly toward a secluded clump of trees. When we're past the first tree she grabs my hand and performs a couple of pirouettes beneath my outstretched arm.

“I like you, Kevin. I think you're funny.”

“Um, thank you. I think.”

“Do you think it's a compliment to be called funny?” she asks with sudden deathly seriousness.

“Er … I'm not sure, really. I guess not.”

“What about hunk? Would it be a compliment to call you a hunk?”

“Well, yeah, although we'd both know it's not true.”

Jessica is sweeping her foot across the ground, brushing the grass back and forth. “Hmmm. So what compliment
would
you like to hear?”

I expect to see her laughing at me, but she's actually serious. I'm beginning to reflect nostalgically on our conversation in the car.

“I don't know. Maybe interesting. Or genuine.”

Her eyes open wide and her mouth contorts. “That's
it
? Interesting or genuine? Geez, you aim pretty low. I thought you'd at least try for good kisser.” She looks away coyly. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“A good kisser.” She takes my hand and performs another pirouette.

I turn a deep shade of red. “Not really,” I mumble.

We disconnect and she plants her hands on her hips. “Ooooh, that's not a good way to put it. Way too honest. Try again.”

“Um … I … yes, I'm amazing.”

“Naaaah. Wrong answer. Kind of gross. Try again.”

“Geez, why can't I just show you?”

“Ah,” she whispers. “Definitely getting warmer.”

And then she's holding my hand again and our lips are touching, and I'm content to stay that way as long as she likes. I don't change a thing about our gentle, moist little kisses until she opens her mouth, and then I do exactly what Paige told me to do. And it works. Jessica doesn't pull away for at least ten seconds.

“Whoa, you actually
are
a good kisser.”

“Thanks,” I say, preparing to continue.

She leans back. “But your hard-on is rubbing against me and it's weirding me out.”

Why do guys have such an overtly expressive sexual organ?

“But don't worry,” she reassures me. “It's just a little time-out, that's all.” She smiles and takes my hand. “Do you think I'm cute?”

I look away. “Yes.”

“I'm glad.” She chuckles. “Ever since that Women's Studies class started, some of the girls are saying you shouldn't judge someone on their looks. But I don't see what's so wrong with being pretty.”

“No. I like pretty girls.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Ooooh, that sounded kind of weird.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Forget about it … I'm just saying it's not fair for someone to hate me just because I've got the same physical measurements as Jessica Alba, you know?”

“Hold on. Did you just say Jessica Alba?”

“Yeah. Isn't that incredible?”

Yup, that is incredible.

“That's exactly what Paige said.”

“She did?” Jessica furrows her eyebrows and stares into space. “Oh, it must have been Paris Hilton then, not Jessica Alba.” She gazes at me again. “Sorry, I didn't mean to remind you about your ex-girlfriend.”

Ex-girlfriend? My date with Paige only lasted seventeen minutes. Is it really possible to become an item in less time than it takes to shower?

“Well, anyway,” continues Jessica proudly, “I just got measured for my prom dress. And it turns out I'm a 34B-25-35. Do you need me to repeat that?”

“Huh? No, I got it.” I give her breasts a closer inspection. “Are you really a 34B?”

“Yeah, of course. Why would I lie about something like that?” She pauses as I shrug. “Here, you can touch if you want.”

I wait a moment, expecting her to say “April Fools'” even though it's almost May, but she doesn't say a word, and she's moving toward me. I swallow hard, then place my hands on her breasts and give a little push.

“Ow!” She steps back. “Geez, Kevin. It's best if you touch a girl's breasts gently. They're kind of sensitive, in case you hadn't heard.”

Actually, I hadn't heard, but I don't tell her that.

“Try it like this,” she says, gently rubbing her fingertips across the part where I imagine the nipples must be.

I take over and she smiles, and I know that I'm doing well. I'm even considerately keeping my distance so that my boner doesn't disturb her again. I begin to entertain visions of a long and enjoyable evening.

“Good, you've got it.” She removes my hands. “So, you believe me now?”

“About what?”

“They're 34B, right? It's obvious.”

“Oh yeah. 34B. Absolutely.”

“Great. Well, this was nice.”

She does one final pirouette and wanders out of the woods.

I'm trying to keep up with what just happened. It seemed like we'd made a real connection. But I don't want to sound desperate—even though I am—so I just trot along behind her.

As she gets into the car I notice a bumper sticker emblazoned against the Beetle's red paint:
I have PMS and a handgun. Any questions?

“Is that bumper sticker true?”

Jessica puts the keys in the ignition. “Which part?”

“Um, the bit about you having a gun.”

She laughs. “Is that what scares you the most?”

“Yeah, of course.”

She laughs again. “Then you don't know girls at all, Mr. Mopsely.” She's facing the passenger seat as if I were already sitting next to her. “That's really an elementary—”

I don't hear what comes after that because she's driven off without me, although she continues talking to the invisible Kevin Mopsely all the way out of the parking lot.

In the hour it takes me to walk home, I wonder how long our conversation lasted before she noticed I wasn't even there.