Vegan Virgin Valentine (17 page)

I slid my phone back into my pocket. I felt like crying. I really needed to talk to Claudia, to tell her I was sorry for going behind her back, to hear that maybe, just maybe, she was willing to forgive me.

I pulled out my phone again and dialed V’s cell.

“Mara?” she asked. I could hear voices and laughing and silverware clinking.

“Where are you?”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Where are you?’”

“It’s too loud in here. Hold on.”

I could hear V saying something and then my dad saying, “What’s wrong? Is Mara okay?” and V saying, “Yeah, I think she just called to say hi.”

A minute later, V breathlessly said, “Hey, there! I just ran out to the sidewalk.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re at that birthday party for your parents’ friends. It’s a totally fancy restaurant, but get this… They don’t even serve ketchup!
Ketchup?
Can you imagine a restaurant not having ketchup?”

I laughed. “How’s it going otherwise?”

“Oh, fine. We’re going to
Hairspray
tomorrow night. And we saw NYU this afternoon. G-ma and G-pa are convinced that it’s the school for me.”

“What do you think?”

“We’ll see. So how’re you? What’s up?”

“This is probably going to sound completely out of the blue.” I paused for a moment. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry I was so hard on you … about what happened with you and Travis.”

V didn’t say anything. The light changed on Main Street and several cars whizzed by.

“V? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

“Did I totally weird you out?”

“No … I’m just thinking…” V trailed off. “I’m just thinking … you don’t know how badly I needed to hear that.”

“Really?”

“It was a shitty thing to do. I don’t know why I’m such an idiot all the time.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Well, sometimes.”

“We all do stupid things sometimes. But that doesn’t mean—”

“Not you,” V said.

Not me?!
I’m a Pavlovian dog, a traitorous inflicter of deep psychological wounds.

“Yes, me,” I said. “Definitely me.”

At first, it was weird being with James at my house. He’d never been inside before, so I felt kind of nervous. Not in a hostessy way, like I had to dote on him, and not even in a guilty way, like I thought I was going to get caught. My parents were definitely, positively in New York City. And I’d driven James over from Common Grounds, so neighbors wouldn’t see both of our cars pulling in the driveway.

I think the nerves were coming more from the collision of two worlds. My parents’ house, my report card on the fridge, my childhood. And then James, that sexy smile on his face, that hole in his jeans, the me who I am now.

I dealt with it by fluttering all over, asking James if he wanted anything to eat (no), if he wanted water (yes), if he wanted ice in his water (no), if he wanted to brush his teeth (maybe later). When I told him how we had extra toothbrushes, he laughed and said he wouldn’t expect less in a dentist’s house.

I gave him a quick tour. We ended up in my bedroom. James glanced at the framed photos of me with my family and then started looking through my bookshelf. I picked up the phone to call my parents. I decided to dial my mom’s cell since she’s less likely to answer. When I got her voice mail, I said I’m home (true) and going to sleep (false), so tell Dad not to worry and I’d talk to them tomorrow.

When I hung up, James said, “Wow.”

I shifted my makeup box so it was aligned with the corner of my dresser. “Wow, I’m becoming an expert liar?”

“Wow, you’ve organized your books in alphabetical order by author.”

“I like to be able to find everything. What’s wrong with that?”

James set his glass on a coaster on my desk and came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Nothing’s wrong with it … I love that about you.”

“You do?”

He kissed the back of my neck. “I love seeing how you do things.”

“And you approve?”

“Of course I approve.”

We kissed for a while in the middle of my room. At one point, I glanced into the mirror above my dresser. It was weird to see myself, gangly and flushed, stooping toward James. I reached over and turned off the overhead light. As I did, James took my hand and led me to the bed.

I only have a twin bed, so we squished together on top of the blanket. After a while, James reached under my shirt. But rather than pushing my shirt up in the front like I usually do, I wriggled it over my head and then took off my bra.

“You’re so beautiful,” James whispered.

“You can’t see me. It’s completely dark in here.”

“Well, I can feel you and you feel beautiful.”

I kissed James’s neck and ran my hands along his shoulders. Then I pulled up his shirt. He helped me take it all the way off. As he wrapped his arms around me, I was so drunk with the sensation of skin on skin I could hardly breathe.

“I love you, James,” I whispered.

“I love you, too.”

We started kissing again. We were both wearing jeans, but I could feel through our layers that he was hard between his legs. I pressed myself against him and we moved our hips together, slowly at first and then faster and faster.

We were still kissing and my hips were rotating and my heart was racing and there was this incredible energy in my whole body, like I could do this forever and ever and ever. But then a surging sensation spread to my arms and legs and fingers and toes, leaving me warm and breathless.

As James stroked my hair, I pressed my face into his neck, closed my eyes, and smiled into the darkness.

Three weeks later, my homeroom teacher sent me to Mr. B’s office. I was talking with Mindy Vance, the girl who sits behind me, about the music for the prom. She’d heard we’d hired a DJ from Rochester and was nervous that the songs would be “all loud and
urban
.” She spat out “urban” like it was a bitter salad green. I reassured her that there would definitely be recognizable songs. Not necessarily the chicken dance, but the prom theme is “End of the Road,” so it’s not like we’re going to get too obscure.

“Mara Valentine?” my homeroom teacher called out.

I glanced toward the front of the room. Mr. Flowers always uses my last name, even though there are no other Maras in my homeroom, and for David Vandusen and David Wolk he just says
David
and then points to the one he wants. It’s almost like Mr. Flowers has decided that he’s endured enough taunts about
his
last name, so why not inflict that on someone else?

“The vice principal sent a note up here,” Mr. Flowers said. “He wants you to report to the main office after homeroom.”

“Do you know why?”

Mr. Flowers shook his head.

When the bell rang, I headed downstairs. I must have been completely spaced out because I couldn’t figure out why Mr. B wanted to see me. But when I walked into the main office and Rosemary, smiling her Cheshire-Cat grin, escorted me to Mr. B’s door and I saw Travis Hart sitting in one of the chairs, it hit me:

This was it.

The final score had been tallied and, forever in history or at least on a plaque on the wall outside the main office, one of us was going to be first and one of us was going to be second.

“Have a seat,” Rosemary said. “Mr. B will be right in.”

As I sat in the other chair, Travis nodded ever so slightly in my direction. His long legs were sprawled out at a ninety-degree angle and his elbows were rammed into the armrests. He was massaging his temples with his thumbs, his fingers interlaced across his forehead.

The glass bowl on Mr. B’s desk was full of M&M’s. I pinched up three greens. Ever since that grilled-cheese sandwich at Friendly’s, I’ve been eating dairy again, which of course includes chocolate. I’ve even allowed myself “hidden eggs,” like in cookies and muffins.

Mr. B appeared in the doorway. His long strands of hair still revealed the comb grooves, like a recently plowed field.

“Hello, Travis! Hello, Mara!” he exclaimed, patting us both on the shoulder as he made his way to his desk.

Mr. B sat down in his chair and clasped his hands together, resting them on his Pooh-Bear belly. “I imagine you both know why you’re here.”

I nodded. Travis flinched.

Mr. B began twiddling his thumbs together, like he was having a thumbie war with himself. And then he launched into a
loooooong
monologue that included several words like
exemplary
and at least three mentions of torch carrying.

As he talked, Travis’s face got redder and redder. Just as he was saying something about how grades are just numbers, not judges of character, Travis said, “Okay, okay. We’re both great, everything’s great, now who got it, me or Mara?”

“Well,” Mr. B said, “I wanted to preface myself because your final grade-point averages were so close, only two-tenths of a point apart…”

Travis let out this throaty groan.

“But I guess I’ll cut to the chase.” Mr. B pinned one of his thumbs down with the other. “Mara got it. Mara came in ahead. She’s our valedictorian.”

“God
damn
!” Travis said, punching his fist into the armrest.

Mr. B’s smile slid off his face. “Travis, you are still our salutatorian. You’ll still be making the thirty-second—”

“Concession speech.”

“We like to call it the salutatory address.”

“Whatever,” Travis said, standing up. “Can I get out of here?”

But Travis didn’t even wait for a response. He took off, leaving Mr. B and me staring at the empty doorway.

“I’ve never seen Travis Hart behave like that,” Mr. B said, shaking his head.

I have,
I thought. That’s exactly how Travis used to act when we were together. When I told him that my jeans were remaining zipped, he’d say things like, “Sucks for me.” Back then, I thought it was my fault, that I had a major character defect. But since I’ve been with James and discovered how good things can be, I’ve realized that Travis is a temper-tantrum-throwing bully. I don’t even find him attractive anymore. His shaved head looks too puny for his body and his “charming” smile seems fake and his “easygoing” strut seems forced.

Mr. B crunched on a few M&M’s and told me how my valedictory address should run three to four minutes and that he had sample speeches in his files, if I wanted to peruse them.

As he walked me to the door, he shook my hand. “So … how do you feel?”

I shrugged.

“Too happy for words?”

“I guess,” I said.

But what I was really thinking was that, strangely, I didn’t feel anything.

My parents were definitely feeling something. That night, they made a huge celebratory dinner. Pasta primavera, French bread, salad with marinated artichokes on top. They even opened the bottle of champagne that’s been in our fridge since New Year’s Eve and let V and me have a little glass. All through the meal, they kept saying “Congratulations!” and “To our valedictorian!” Or one of them would ask, “Can you believe it?” and the other would nod and say, “Yes, of course I can!”

V didn’t say much. She sipped her champagne and picked the pasta out of the primavera and, every once in a while, touched her hands to her hair. Yesterday my mom took her to a salon in Rochester. The stylist brought up the back and blended in her bangs with the sides, so her haircut looks really striking, especially with her high forehead and long neck. My mom offered to take me, too, but I opted out. My hair is finally long enough that it’ll all stay in a ponytail, which means I don’t have to blow-dry it every day if I don’t want to.

I didn’t say much during dinner either. Partially, my head was woozy from the champagne. But it was more that I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole valedictorian thing. For all of high school, I’d been looking at it as this end-all-be-all Final Chapter of the Book of My Life. But now that I’ve flipped to the last page, there’s no music swelling, no credits rolling, no tingly happiness. To be perfectly honest, it still didn’t feel like much of anything.

After dinner, my parents insisted on doing the dishes. I carried my plate into the kitchen and said, “I’m going to take a walk.”

“Want company?” V asked.

“Sure.”

It was a warm May night, so we slipped our feet into flip-flops and headed out the back door. I was wearing a tank top and khaki shorts. V had on her mutilated jeans and a lavender T-shirt.

V and I walked down the driveway, crossed the street, and took a left. We headed to the end of the block, our flip-flops slapping against the sidewalk. There were no cars at the intersection, so we crossed diagonally to the path that runs along the periphery of the school district.

“Are you excited?” V asked as she picked up a long stick from the side of the path.

“About getting valedictorian?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know… It still feels kind of weird.”

V was trailing the stick behind her, like she was pulling a wheelie suitcase. “Well,
I’m
really happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s funny… My whole life, I’ve always heard all these great things about you. Like whenever I screwed up, Aimee would hold you up as this example of what I should be.
Mara
is a straight-A student.
Mara
got honor roll.
Mara
got into Yale. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you weren’t exactly easy to like.”

“No … it’s okay,” I said. And I meant it. It’s not like I’ve been her lifelong fan either.

“I’m just saying that I used to be so jealous of everything you had. Your grades and your parents and how you seemed like this perfect person. But ever since I was in
Damn Yankees,
I just feel like I have my thing and you have yours.”

We were nearing the Barclay School, where I went to second and third grade. We crossed the street and headed over to the huge playground that spans the lawns between the elementary schools. V was now clutching her stick in her fist, like a wizard’s staff.

“That’s one of the reasons I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she said.

“Thank
me
?”

“For not telling your parents about my smoking habits.”