Whip It (8 page)

“Head rush,” I say, trying to regain my breath and my dignity.

“This album will do that to ya.”

“It’s incredible. I never heard it before now.”

“Really?” he asks, with interest. “So what do you think?”

Now, if you are the type of person who experiences deep feelings of embarrassment mixed with cringiness when someone makes a complete fool of herself, I suggest you skip ahead. Otherwise, here are the gory details.

“Well,” I say, “you know how sometimes people are all, ‘Man, this the best album on the planet! You have not lived until you have heard this!’? And then you listen, and you’re, like, ’Whatever, I’m so not impressed’? But, other times, you hear a band for the first time, and it’s so good it just makes your stomach hurt in the best way? Um, I guess this is one of those times. Or whatever.” My latent social filter finally kicks in, and I bite my lip to keep from embarrassing myself any further.

Señor Smolder asks a simple question, and I manage to launch into a breathless soliloquy, exposing all my dorkiness right out of the gate. But maybe he has a thing for dorky girls because he just smiles.

“Okay, who are you, and where did you come from?” he asks. (I’ve been wondering that my entire life. Get in line, pal.)

“I’m from Bodeen,” I confess. “I know, not cool, but—”

“As in the tiny hick town?” he asks.

No, as in the thriving metropolis of all things awesome.
“Yeah, but I’m just working at this stupid barbecue place to save for college,” I explain. The more I tell my ’official story,’ the more it feels true. Sometimes, when I’m hanging out in Austin, I actually forget that I still live in Crapville and attend Crapville High. Especially when flirting with a boy like SS. Wait—oh, my God. Is this flirting? I think it might be. I’m having a flirting breakthrough. Sweet Jesus, hallelujah! The curse is over!

But before SS and I can get into the nitty-gritty of our gettin’-to-know-ya chitchat, a guy’s voice calls from the backyard.

“Oliver! Get your skinny ass out here! Eddie’s guitar is in your trunk!” Oliver turns back to me.

“Hey. What are you doing in approximately three minutes?” he asks.

“Hmm . . . no plans,” I offer.

“Cool. Meet you back here.”

“Sure,” I say. And with that, he turns and dashes out of the room.

Oliver! His name is Oliver! I love him already.

The Worst Timing Ever

I
sprint to the bathroom to pee, swipe my pits with some borrowed stink-patrol (gross, but I’m desperate, so don’t judge), and apply just a dash of not-trying-too-hard lip gloss before meeting my dream date back at the stereo. While I’m not really down with the whole “nice to meet you, want a blow job?” mating ritual that seems to define all Bodeen High romances, my heart is beating jackrabbit fast. Just the thought of Oliver has my bra practically undoing itself.

In an effort to avoid any spontaneous slutting out, I give myself a stern look in the mirror. “You can make out with him, but
that’s it
,” I tell my boy-crazed reflection.

“Who are you, my mother?” retorts a familiar, if drunk, voice from behind the shower curtain. I turn and yank back the curtain to find Pash in the arms of a skinny Mohawk boy (of course).

“Babe Ruthless!” she shouts, throwing her drunken arms open wide. “There you are!” Her hair’s a mess, she’s got lipstick smeared up one cheek, and her bra is hanging out of her back pocket.

“Savage and I were looking everywhere for you,” she says, waving to the equally disheveled boy, who has an identical lipstick smear on his cheek. “But now we’re going to the store because we have the munchies, and Savage wants some beef jerky.”

Savage? His name is Savage? The boy’s so skinny even I could take him in a street fight.

“Do you have any idea how much I loooooooove you? You’re the best friend ever!” Pash yells, as though she were trying to chat with me from two towns over. Only, I am standing right in front of her as my eardrums take a beating.

“You are seriously blotto, and there’s no way you are driving,” I say, snatching the keys out of Pash’s hands.

“Not me—you. Because you are my best friend, and I loooove you, and I drive you everywhere, so now you can drive me.”

Pash stumbles out of the bathtub and into my arms. She can barely stand, and Savage is no use in the helping-me-hold-up-my-drunk-best-friend department. It is at this moment that Pash’s face runs through a quick color wheel of hues before landing on a not-so-healthy-lookin’ green. I know what comes next.

I quickly spin her toward the toilet, throw open the lid, and try not to be grossed out as the poor girl pukes her guts out. The same cannot be said for Savage. He raises his arms in surrender.

“I’m out,” he says as he steps over Pash and makes his exit. Pash catches her breath and looks up.

“I guess when you puke in front of a guy, the relationship’s over.” She sighs.

“I think, when his name is Savage, it never began,” I add.

Pash laughs and starts puking again. All I want to do is get back so I can hang out with Oliver, but somehow the idea of letting go of my best friend’s hair while she’s throwing up in order to hook up with a boy (even though he’s crazy hot) strikes me as evil to the core. I’m only evil in a superficial way—I can’t sink that low.

I cross my fingers and toes, hoping Oliver will wait, but by the time I take care of Pash and get back to the party, there’s no sign of him. And trust me, I do a full-on FBI missing persons search all over that house, covering the darkest reaches of the back and front yards. Alas, no Oliver.

However, I manage to glean some key facts about my elusive subject. Oliver’s nineteen, known as a total sweetheart among the Derby Girls, and he just so happens to be the bassist for a band called the Stats, local up-and-comers whom Emma describes as “the greatest band ever, if you’re into that whole emo, skinny-boy, rocker thing.” I am, I admit it.

When Pash and I finally crash at 5:33
A.M
. on Rocktavia’s living room floor, with only a single blanket and a tiny throw pillow between us, she keeps asking if I hate her.

“Do you hate me? Do you hate me for getting wasted?”

“No,” I say, teasingly. “I hate you for getting wasted and not sharing with me.”

“I’m a crappy best friend,” she whines.

“True, but you probably saved me from a gorgeous boy who could break my heart six ways to Sunday.”

“Sounds hot,” she whispers, on the verge of sleep.

“Ridiculously.” I sigh, before finally dozing off myself.

The Stink of Pink

W
hen the Pashmobile finally drops me off the next morning or afternoon or whatever time it is, I am beyond exhausted. The sun burns my tired eyes like a freshly chlorinated pool, and it takes every ounce of energy I have to walk to the front door. I’d rather crawl.

I just want to shower, fall into bed, and sleep forever—not only for the much-needed shut-eye, but for the Oliver dreams I know await me. (I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was looking forward to it.)

I take exactly one step into my bedroom before realizing larger forces (literally) have been working against my grand plans for a lazy Sunday afternoon. There is a pink suit hanging from my closet door. I repeat: There is a pink suit hanging from my closet door. A little pink jacket with a little pink skirt, set off by a trio of pink rhinestone buttons.

Here’s the deal. I. Don’t. Wear. Pink.

No sooner does my stomach start to churn at this color invasion of my personal space than I see Brooke standing in the doorway wearing
the exact same suit.

“
There
you are!” she sings. “I was just about to phone up Pash’s mom and see what was takin’ you so long. We don’t want to be late.”

“For?” I ask, clueless to what this pink-suit–conspiracy thing is all about.

“I’m supposed to believe you forgot about the Miss Bluebonnet Mother / Daughter Brunch,” Brooke says, her hand on her pink hip.

Shit! The Mother / Daughter Brunch from Hell that sounded so scary I immediately put it out of my mind? That thing is today? Like, right now? At the exact moment I need some sleep and alone time with my Oliver thoughts? Dear God, thanks for hating me. You suck. Love, Bliss.

“I didn’t forget,” I manage to choke out.

“Good. You didn’t have a stitch to wear, so I thought I’d surprise you,” Brooke says, holding the pink suit up to me. “You’re welcome,” she says, before leaving my room.

Sometimes I feel like I’m just a supporting player in the movie starring Brooke. The script was written way before I showed up, and anything I do that deviates from the story just gets ignored. Of course, I’ve been miscast in the role of the eldest of two pageant prodigies, but Brooke doesn’t care. The show must go on.

And it is this philosophy that finds me half an hour later standing in the living room wearing the dreaded pink suit. (I’m pretty sure that, twenty years from now, when I’m in a therapist’s office suffering a total mental breakdown, all my problems will be traced back to this exact moment. This moment will cost me a lot of money.)

Oh, and for all you pink lovers out there, don’t take it personally that I hate your favorite hue. I have my reasons. For instance, there are girls who are so fierce that wearing pink makes them look that much cooler (especially when paired with black-and-white-striped tights or a skull choker). On those badass vixens, pink becomes an in-your-face dare that says “hey, world, even in the girliest of colors, I’m still cool as hell, so don’t fuck with me.” But I, Bliss Cavendar, am not one of those girls. I’m so uncool that even if I were covered in the toughest tattoos, just a touch of pink would still make me look like a rah-rah cheerleader. I need all the black I can get.

Hence the silent scream I feel as I enter the living room dressed like a Barbie career girl (not that Barbie even has a career). Brooke gasps in parental triumph.

“Oh, honeybunch, you look sweeter than a Fredericksburg peach! Doesn’t she, Earl?”

She turns to Earl, who, for the moment, is in his own movie. In this riveting scene from Earl’s life, he has planted his ass, and his undivided attention, on the TV screen as the Dallas Cowboys go head-to-head with the Denver Colts.

I don’t know much about football, but when I see one player take his opponent down with a gruesome flying tackle, I can’t help but have immediate, newfound respect. Any derby girl worth her skates would kill to throw a block like that.

“Awesome block!” I shout. Wait, did I just say that out loud? In front of my parents? Rewind, erase. Hand quickly goes over mouth.

Too late. Earl stops, turns sloooowly away from the TV, and looks at me.

“Since when did
you
like football?” he says with suspicion and maybe a touch of hope. If Earl suddenly discovered another football fan in the house, it would be like hitting the jackpot in a lottery he never even entered. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for Earl winning the lottery, but not at my expense. I don’t want to get his hopes up, so I quickly cover.

“Oh, um, I don’t like football,” I say. “I just can appreciate the action,” I add, stumbling.

“Let’s get a move on or we’ll be late,” Brooke says before the conversation can get any weirder.

And off we go in our matching mother / daughter outfits. Stop laughing—it’s not funny. It could happen to you.

The Brunch from Hell

I
really hope wherever you are and whatever awful thing you’ve done in your life (tortured the family cat when you were five, etc.), may your Karmic payback never include going out in public dressed the same as your mother. Nobody deserves that.

I am forced to “mingle” (i.e., observe) and try not to retch as a dozen mother / daughter duos flaunt themselves in the Swan Room of the Bodeen Country Club, which is completely tacky but has delusions of grandeur.

Corbi and her mother, Val, work the room like self-appointed royalty, and everyone seems to
ooh
and
ahh
with their every gesture. It’s so gross.

Even my attempt to take cover by the punch bowl gets thwarted when the dynamic duo struts up, all smiles and fake
good luck
s. As Val and Brooke exchange polite conversation (pretending they don’t want to kill each other), Corbi just looks at me mouthing “loser” over and over. She’s a class act, that Corbi.

Later, we wander through a hall where the Miss Bluebonnet organizers have arranged a “gallery of girls.” That’s a fancy way of saying they’ve taken pictures from all the winners throughout the years, blown them up, and put them on easels for all to see.

And then I see my mom’s picture. There, in black and white, is a poster-size shot of Brooke’s crowning moment. And guess what? Despite the bad ’80s fashion and sky-high hairdo, she was gorgeous. I guess she still is, in her own way, when you think about it (I just usually don’t because her pushy behavior eclipses her beauty). I’m fixated.

“Mom,” I say in awe, “look at you.”

“The bigger the hair, the closer to God, we used to say.” She sighs, slightly embarrassed.

“Whatev. You’re a total hottie!”

“No. That was a long time ago. Now it’s yours and Shania’s turn.”

Okay, so how weird is this? I’m in public, strongarmed into wearing a mother / daughter outfit from hell, which, on the one hand, makes me hate her more than ever; on the other hand, I’m suddenly struck by this sadness I feel for her. Like, it’s somehow crystal clear that she lives through her daughters because she doesn’t feel so great about herself. And I wonder why I’m only sixteen and it’s obvious to me, and she’s forty and it’s beyond her grasp.