From Butt to Booty (2 page)

As if there’s a choice. “Party.”

“Works. Tim’s here. I’ve got to go play host.” Adam doesn’t even try to make me feel as important as his boy toy.

“Your parents okay with this?” I’m dubious at best. They’re into coldly ignoring Adam’s gayness unless his mother decides to randomly slap him.

“They’re at the casino for an all-night bash.”

“They know Tim’s coming over?”

“Do I seem stupid to you?”

“Just asking.”

“I promised I wouldn’t have a party or drink and drive,” he says.

I understand. “And one person over doesn’t constitute a party. Gotcha.” Dealing with parentals requires omission. Don’t ask, don’t tell. Be honest, but only up to a point. Survival of the fittest.

“Right.”

I have seen less and less of Adam since Tim became numero uno. “Thanks.” I try very hard not to be jealous. Rarely do I succeed.

“Call me tomorrow.”

“Sure.” Maybe. Must ready self for sociality. I didn’t even ask
Stephen where the party is. Maybe I should have. Maybe Stephen’s parents are at the casino and he defines “party” more intimately than I do.

I wonder what Lucas is doing tonight? Lucas is Tim’s twin brother and the most deliciousness boy in the world. I drool at the sound of his name. Like Pavlov’s bell with pecs and amazing shoulders.

Clothes on. Made up. Where’s Sephora when you need its specialists?

Hair is so not Kate Beckinsale party scene. More like hostage on the twelfth day.

“Gert, Stephen is here,” Mom yells up the stairs.

I spray on a last bit of hold-till-the-end-of-the-world hair spray. Tug. Tuck. Pinch. Heels. Must walk in heels like floating ballerina, not hippo.

Concentrate on stairs. Don’t trip. Don’t trip.

“Oh, hi.” I try to act nonchalant yet completely put together. I think he buys it.

Oh, Holy-Mother-of-Old-Spice, somebody got cologne for Christmas.

“Ready?”

“Sure.” I pick up my purse, which I’ve preplaced for optimal suave factor.

“Not too late, Gert.” I can tell Mom’s fighting the urge to scrapbook this moment.

And then there we are at the empty, parental-less car. Where’s his father? I thought his parental was driving us?

“Where’s the party?” I try to sound casual and slide into the car like Audrey Hepburn.

Stephen shuts the door and pretends he doesn’t hear me. As
soon as he turns on the ignition, the bass makes conversation impossible. How can he think with this much reverberation?

“Got new speakers from my brother,” he screams in my direction. “Parents are out; Dad gave me the keys. No parents.” He has the smarmiest look on his face. Does he think parents are the only reason we’re not doing it like bunnies?

Good thing I’m adept at reading lips. I smile. Are we trying to break the speakers before MLK Day? ’Cause they’re maxed out.

I buckle my seat belt while trying not to vomit. The boy pulls more Gs in this rusty heap-o’-metal than the space shuttle. I don’t think cars are designed to do this. I hold on and pray. And try to look cute while keeping the vomit at the back of my throat.

Please tell me the party isn’t too far away. I can’t handle road-trip Stephen.

He’s slowing down. Thank God. I wonder if I can roll down my window without him thinking it’s because the entire bottle of cologne is asphyxiating me.

This looks like Jenny’s neighborhood.

I roll down the foggy window. I don’t care if it’s cold, I need the view.

This
is
Jenny’s neighborhood.

There are a ton of cars parked outside. It could be complete coincidence.

No. No, we cannot be pulling up here. He’s kidding.

“You’re joking, right? Messing with me?” I ask, but he motions he can’t hear me over Fluffy Pete’s acoustic rapping.

He brakes. Turns off the car. “This CD rocks. Did you say something?”

“Yeah, this isn’t the party, right?” Please tell me you’re really a serial killer. That works better for me.

He has the audacity to look perplexed. “So?” Now he’s going to act all oblivious to the undertones of bringing me here.

“This is Jenny’s house,” I try to point out without screeching.

“So?”

Must I paint him a mural? “This is the party?”

He doesn’t get it. “Yep. Let’s go.”

Is my reaction that hard to read? Could he possibly not know Jenny and I hate each other? Didn’t I tell him before we ever started dating? I mean, I wouldn’t put him up for a Mensa membership, but isn’t it clearly defined in the school handbook that Jenny Cohen and I cannot abide each other? Stephen was in a group project with us; he knows.

I close my eyes and try to inhale.

“Come on, Gert.” He acts like I’m the one with the problem. All he needs to do is tap his toes and he could be my father.

“Fine.” I’m sure there will be lots of people and I won’t have to face her at all. She’ll never know I voluntarily spent time at her abode on a holiday.

Stephen opens Jenny’s front door. Most of the school is here. Good. Lots of people. The stench of sugar syrup, cheap candles and alcohol blasts me in the face. Is that cigarette smoke? Pot?

Buttocks. Jenny, two o’clock.

“Hey, Jenny, thanks for the invite.” Stephen taps her shoulder like they’re on the offensive line together.

“Gert.” She nods at me.

I smile back. My brittle I-can’t-believe-I-have-to-play-nice-and-not-kick-you-in-the-shins smile. “Jenny.”

“Drinks are in the kitchen. Movies are on in the den and upstairs in the film room. Dancing in the living and dining area. A bunch of people are skinny-dipping in the pool. It’s heated.”

Skinny-dipping? I must be hallucinating. She did not just suggest naked swimming on December thirty-first. Stephen has the nerve to wink at me. If he thinks he’s getting me naked in front of half the school, he is so not even worth oxygen.

“Great.” I take Stephen’s hand and wander toward the kitchen.

“You want beer?” Stephen pulls the keg spout like he’s done it before.

“Not yet.” Disgusting. I don’t find fizzy horse urine that appealing. “Coke’s good.”

“Want rum in it?”

When did my boyfriend turn into the bartender?

“I see Maggie. I must go say hey.” I grab the Coke and move toward the dining area. I glance back to see if Stephen’s following me. Nope, he’s talking to some guys. Beer bonding.

“Drive your boy away already?”

Dear Lord, is she everywhere? It’s unholy. “Jenny, how nice to see you again.” Twice in five minutes must be a record.

What is the etymology of the word “date”? Who looked at a wizened piece of brown fruit and thought, “Perfect. Girls and boys getting together can be called dates. What an inspired idea!”

Did cavemen growl about fire and then decide tupping was fruity? And what’s with the fruity thing being gay? If heteros go on dates, then aren’t we fruity too? Who of dating age isn’t fruity?

And if we’re going for obscure fruits for naming get-togethers, why not a hot fig? Or a spicy kumquat? Or a durian?

The obvious would be to call them bananas—or if we want to be biblical, we could call them apples.

To Australians, “date” means “anus.” So what do they call a date? And do you have to be really careful around Aussies and clarify that you’re using the other meaning? And seriously, how did that evolve? Did someone get focused on anal sex and start a whole word revolution? Can you imagine being the first person who said yes to a date and got a surprise at the end of the night? That makes my toes, and my date, curl.

Personally, I think I’d like a kumquat. Can’t be nearly as confusing as dating. Although now that I consider it, what exactly is a kumquat?

“Great party,” I say. Lying is a necessary skill for high school.

“Isn’t it.” Jenny’s eyes glow red.

I wish I had my camera with me; no one will believe me when I say she’s a demon. “So?” Why isn’t she moving on to the next victim? Don’t I look paralyzed enough?

“So. Stephen?” She quirks a brow at me. I’m not sure if that’s a precursor to the deathblow or if she’s trying to be chummy.

I stick with noncommittal. “Uh-huh.” Has she forgotten we’re not friends? We will never be friends again. Ever. She killed my favorite stuffed animal at a sleepover in fifth grade. Drowned him in urine. I will neither forget nor forgive.

She crosses her arms. “He’s cute.”

Why do I feel like I’m dating her boyfriend? She seems like she’s trying to make me feel guilty. I don’t even understand why. “Yes, he is.”

She nods, never breaking eye contact. “He’s nice, too.”

What’s with the catalog of Stephen’s assets? “Oh, look, there’s Maggie. I should—”

“I don’t see her.” Jenny must have demon eyes in the back of her head, since her front set is still piercing my brain.

“I do. And I promised I would say hello immediately. So thanks. Great talking to you.” I walk away slowly, waiting for her fangs to sink into the back of my shoulder. Talk about an angry cobra. I am mongoose.

Too bad I have no idea where Maggie is. My saying yes to this darn party was all her fault. She thought I should spend New Year’s with my boyfriend instead of her. I didn’t want to, but she made me. She got this sad face and said, “I wish I had a boyfriend to spend New Year’s with.” Well, then what do you say?
Too bad—want to borrow mine?
I’m sure I should feel more possessive about him. I mean, I’m not likely to slit my wrists if he doesn’t call me—isn’t
that
real love? The melodramatic, kill-myself-on-theatrical-cue kind of love? I so don’t love him up to that standard.

Of course, I think secretly Maggie was thinking about this guy Jesse who started new this year and whom she casually brought to my surprise sixteenth birthday party. She gets all dreamy talking about him but then flatly refuses the idea that she might want to date him.

I move around a pile of bodies playing naked Twister. I’m not old enough for this party. I will never be old enough for this party.

What is that smell? “I’ll take Dead Beer for six hundred, Alex.”

I step in something sticky and crunchy. It oozes over the toe of my shoe before I can step away. It’s between my toes. I hate these shoes. I will back the car over these shoes, after I put different ones on; I’m not going to back the car over these shoes with my feet in them. I don’t think that’s possible. Plus, it’d be painful.

Smiling at guys with Cheetos stuck in their braces. Avoiding groping hands and almost avoiding pinching fingers. I rub my butt
cheek. That hurt. I shoot a glare over my shoulder, but the perpetrator could be one of many guffawing baboons. Forced chuckling at jokes I can’t catch completely. Probably for the best that I can’t hear much over the bass and amped-out guitars. Cats in heat, anyone?

I am so over acting like I want to be here. Whose idea was this? And why was I persuaded that I’d have a good time? Momentary lapse in my otherwise stellar judgment.

There must be someone here to talk to. I swivel, trying to manage the cool-vibe-photoshoot-in-Paris twirl. Nicely done. Still no one up to par.

Someone. Anyone?

I catch a glimpse of hair. A curl over the collar of a black polo shirt.

Could it be?

Lucas. Lucas is here. My heart races. My toes tingle.

He’s here. That hair. That mouth. I push through a few random hookups and almost slip on a puddle of—God, I hope that was beer—trying to get a better look.

Those shoulders. My breath hitches as my gaze follows the way the shirt caresses his lean muscles. Long strong arms. Those unbelievably manly hands that are on another girl’s butt. What?

Quick. Close eyes.

Reopen. Crapping buttocks! Same butt.

Oh, Lucas, why do you do this to yourself? With Sophie? Senior Sophie? Rumor has it she has three kids in a Swiss preschool high in the Alps. Sophie has the body of Angelina Jolie with the face of America’s Next Top Model. However, since this is her fifth year as a senior, I take comfort in knowing I probably outscored her on the PSAT. Very cold comfort.

Lucas obviously doesn’t know how important brains are to a relationship. I should enlighten him. I should bring him up to speed. Yep, I’m going to march over there. As soon as he and Sophie unmeld their tongues, I’ll explain it real slow.