Wicked Jealous: A Love Story (25 page)

I cocked my head and smiled back. “Okay.” Uh-oh. What was happening to me? What was this . . .
girly
feeling that was coming over me? So he smiled at me. So what? And so what if the smile made him even cuter? I wasn’t the kind of girl who could be won over by that. And even if that’s what it felt like at the moment, I couldn’t go there. I was not going to lose control and let my hormones kick in and get all moony over a boy. Especially when the boy in question listened to
Justin Bieber
. I needed to remember that. If I could, it would all be fine.

A few minutes later we were seated at a table at Milk with a slice of blue velvet cake between us.

“You know, I think you’re right,” I said as I tried to take a regular-sized forkful of the blue velvet instead of doing what I wanted to do, which was just dive headfirst into the thing. “This might quite possibly be what my friend Cookie would call ‘the grenade.’”

“Huh?”

“She means ‘the bomb.’”

“Isn’t ‘the bomb’ like so late nineties?”

“She’s fifty-five.” It was taking everything in me not to suggest we get a slice of the vanilla bean tres leches cake, too. And some oatmeal butterscotch cookies. Apparently, I didn’t feel the need to binge on baked goods only when I was sad or anxious, but when I was excited as well. Who knew?

“I told you,” he said. “So you trust me now, huh?”

Another smile. Okay, this was not good. Because those smiles—they were kind of dazzling. They had this way of rattling my brain a little so that I felt like I was having these mini-strokes and the world stopped for a second and I couldn’t think. And while I was pretty sure those were the reasons that people did drugs, I didn’t like that out-of-control feeling. I liked being
in
control. Even when I used to lock myself in my room with sheet cakes, I was
controlling
the out-of-control feeling I got from doing that.

“Yes. I trust you,” I replied. Were we talking about the cake, or were we talking about something else?

“Good. I’m glad.” Another smile.

I stared at the cake as if it held all the secrets to the universe. Which, not so long ago, I had really thought it had. “Can I ask you something?” I asked quietly.

“Sure.”

I looked up at him. “Why’d you ask me out?” Ever since the night of the party, I had been wondering that. Jason Frank could’ve gone out with any girl. Well, any girl who liked dating boys instead of girls. Although rumor had it that Dakota Fincher, the president of the LGBT chapter, had a crush on him, too. And seeing him smile at me, I understood why.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I mean, it’s not like we’re really in the same orbit. We go to the same high school, but we’re in totally different crowds. You’re one of the popular crowd. And I, actually, I don’t even
have
a crowd.”

He shrugged. “I wanted to get to know you better. You always seemed nice. Even, you know, when you were . . .” He motioned to the cake.

“When I was fat?”

“Well, yeah.”

At least he was honest.

“And now that you’re, you know . . .” He motioned in the air.

“Not fat?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And, you know . . .”

“You can see my face because my hair’s not hanging in it?” I suggested.

He smiled. “Yeah. And the glasses. The glasses are hot. In fact, when I saw you wearing them, that was the clincher.”

I blushed. Who knew that nerdy-looking glasses would prove to be the thing that got me a date?

“Plus, my mom’s always going on about how great you are.”

Oh God. Did
Cheryl
do this? Was this a mercy date? “So you asked me out because of your mom?” I asked. This was so embarrassing. If this was a mercy date, I was transferring. So what if it was my senior year. It’s not like the three that had come before had been fun-filled and I’d miss anyone other than Nicola.

“No. Not at all. I asked you out because I wanted to go out with you, okay?” he said defensively.

“Okay,” I said, slumping down. Way to ruin the date. Had I ruined the date? Would it be totally wrong for me to take out my iPhone and Google “signs that you’ve ruined a date” right in front of him? “Does your mom know we’re here?”

He nodded.

Oh great. I was going to get an earful at Zumba for not telling her beforehand. I needed air. Or water. Or a piece of gum in my mouth in case he tried to kiss me later. Which, to my surprise, suddenly didn’t seem all that bad. “I’m going to go to the bathroom.” I stood up so fast I almost knocked my chair over. “Be right back.” Once I got there I found that not only was my face all flushed (which, when you had skin has pale as I did, was more like blotchy) but my teeth—and tongue—were
blue
. No wonder he was smiling at me—it was because he probably wanted to burst out laughing instead, but knew that if he did, I’d tell Cheryl and then he’d get in trouble.

After trying to scrub at them with water, but only managing to get my T-shirt all wet, I gave up and went back to the table.

“My mouth is all blue,” I said.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“But yours isn’t,” I said.

He shrugged. “Maybe it only happens the first time you eat it?”

“But you didn’t say anything.”

He shrugged. “It’s kind of cute.”

I sighed. I so did not understand guys. Not like my brain was in any state to attempt to try at that moment anyway.

The good news about having come in separate cars was that I didn’t have to worry about a full-on makeout session in his car where the windows—and my glasses—would get all fogged up. (When you were a glasses-wearing person, did you take them off when you kissed? I had totally forgotten to Google that.) The bad news was that after he walked me to my car, we stood there talking about whether, when you realized a parking meter was broken, you had to put a note on it or else get a ticket. We were talking for a while, when I realized that I had to pee because I had forgotten to do that once I had realized my mouth was blue.

“I guess I should let you get home,” he said after we had nothing left to say.

“Yeah. I guess,” I said, shifting my weight to my other leg in an attempt to hold my bladder.

“Well, this was fun.”

“Yeah. It was,” I agreed. Actually, I wasn’t sure “fun” was the word I would’ve used to describe it. “Nervewracking,” yes, “okay,” at times, but “fun”? Eh.

“We should do it again.”

“Yeah. We should.” Had that mini-stroke thing taken away my ability to make conversation?

We stood there some more. Finally, when the silence got too uncomfortable, I reached for the door handle. “Okay then. I’m gonna go then I guess.” As I opened the door and moved to get in the car, he lunged toward me and put his hands on my shoulders. Which startled me and made me push the door toward him—
hard
—smacking him right in the stomach.

“Uff,” he moaned as he doubled over.

“Oh God! I’m so sorry!” I cried. “Are you okay? Here—let me help you,” I said as I lunged at him, twisting my ankle in the process and clinging to him as I started to drag him down. Luckily, he yanked me up before we both ended up on the ground, leaving us almost nose to nose. We were so close that I could smell fresh peppermint coming from his mouth (it was nice to know that even though he was popular, he worried about his breath, too).

“Sorry about that,” I murmured.

“It’s okay.”

And then it happened. As he tilted his head to the right and leaned in, I tilted mine. The same way. Until I realized that was wrong and tilted it the
other
way, at the exact second that his nose was coming toward mine, which meant that they collided.
Hard
.

“Ow!”
I cried as we ricocheted back from each other.

“What the—?!” He took his hands away from his nose. “Is it bleeding?”

I shook my head and took mine away, too. “No. Is mine?”

“No.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “I just—” Did I tell him the truth? That I had never kissed a boy who wasn’t literally in a magazine before? “I have this weird neck problem. Where I can’t bend it to the left. But the problem is I forget about it a lot. Especially when I’m about to kiss someone.” Apparently, no, I did not tell him the truth.

“That’s okay.” He began to lean in again.

I leaned back. “What are you doing?”

“I was going to try that again,” he said, a bit impatiently.

“Oh okay.” That time I didn’t turn my head. I kept it very, very still. At least until his lips hit mine and started moving around a little, which made me realize that if I didn’t do the same, he’d definitely be able to tell that I didn’t have a lot of experience with this stuff. Luckily, something took over—like how you never forget how to ride a bike, or, in my case, you forget for a little bit and almost have a panic attack until you remember—and I remembered how to kiss. Even though I had never done it before.

The kiss seemed to go on and on, which was fine with me. I even seemed to know intuitively how to breathe while doing it. And when he slipped his tongue into my mouth, it wasn’t slimy or disgusting, like I had feared it would be. It was just a tongue. Finally, after a while he stopped and pulled back.

“Wow. You’re an awesome kisser,” he said.

Thank you, Jesse Eisenberg
. “Thanks,” I replied. “So are you.” At least he seemed like he was. The mini-stroke thing started up again. I just hoped it didn’t happen when I was driving.

We just stood there and grinned at each other.

“Well, I guess I should let you get home,” he said again.

“Yeah. I guess.”

That time when he leaned in, I tilted my head the opposite way from him so there was no bumping. There was just more kissing, until some car slowed down and someone yelled, “Get a room!” out the window.

“Now I really think I should go,” I said breathlessly.

“Okay. I’ll text you.”

“Bye,” I said as I jumped in the car and watched him walk down the street to his.

I knew one thing—spending a Thursday night making out with a guy was a lot more fun than eating snack cakes.

nine

The thing about all those how-to-get-a-guy articles is that once you get them (even if it’s just getting them to kiss you), they don’t mention the part that comes
after
that. Probably because it’s so horrible that if they did, girls would steer clear of guys and become nuns or lesbians. Although I had a feeling that the horrible part happened if you were a lesbian, too.

It was, like, post-kiss, everything changed. But instead of my life turning into one extended music video directed by someone cool like Sofia Coppola, it was more like a horror movie.

“You know, a watched plate never warms,” Nicola said at Coffee Bean a few days later as we sat with the Zumba Brigade and I obsessively checked my phone every minute and a half to see if there was a text from Jason.

“I think you mean ‘a watched kettle never boils,’” Cookie corrected. She took out her notebook. “But I like that watched plate. It’s catchy. Even if it’s not particularly hip.”

“I know, I know,” I moaned, turning off my iPhone and placing it in my bag so I wouldn’t be tempted. I had no idea what was wrong with me—while pre-date I had been only mildly intrigued by Jason, post-date and, more importantly, post-kiss, my obsession ballooned like my fingers did when I forgot to use low-sodium soy sauce.

“Who are you waiting to hear from, honey?” Marcia asked.

I glanced at Nicola. Luckily, Cheryl had had to run to a waxing appointment, so she wasn’t there, and I didn’t have to tell her about how I was freaking out about kissing her son. But even so, I couldn’t lie to these women—they were like my family. “I’m waiting to hear from—”

“This boy she went out on a date with the other night,” Nicola finished.

At that, all the women stopped what they were doing and leaned in.

“Boy? Who is it?” Gwen demanded. “Is it Blush?”

“What?! No!” I cried. “It’s . . .” I sighed. I had to come clean. “Jason.”

They all looked blank. “Jason who?” Cookie asked.

Really? They had to make it this hard for me? “Jason Frank.”

“That’s so funny—Cheryl’s son is named Jason, too!” Rona said. “What a small world.”

“It’s the same Jason,” I said, slinking down in my chair. And reaching into my bag for my iPhone and turning it back on to check to see if there was a text.

I was pretty sure the gasp that went up could be heard over in Japan.

“Tell! Tell!” Cookie cried.

“Everything,”
Marcia added.

Which I did. Well, other than the hitting-him-with-the-car-door part. “And he said he’d text, but he hasn’t.” I clicked on Facebook.

“What are you doing?” Nicola asked.

“Checking to see if he wrote some sort of cryptic status update that only he and I would understand,” I replied.

Gwen shook her head. “Guys don’t do that. That requires way too much thinking.”

“Did you check any of your horoscopes online to see if they had some insight?” Marcia asked.

I nodded.

“His sign, too?” Cookie asked.

I nodded. Talk about humiliating. I had stooped as low as astrology.

“It’s the oxytocin thing,” Gwen explained as I began to pick at Nicola’s ginger scone.

“What are you talking about? There weren’t any drugs involved!” I said.

“Not
oxycontin
. Oxytocin. From kissing. They call it the ‘cuddling hormone,’” she explained. “It’s also released when a woman breast-feeds.”

“Between the oxytocin and the dopamine, it literally affects your brain as if you’re on drugs,” Marcia added. “So when it starts to wear off, the reason you get all obsessed is because you want to kiss him again so you can get high again.”

“Who says I’m obsessed?” I asked as I reached for my iPhone. Before I could pick it up, Nicola’s hand swooped in and grabbed it. “Okay, fine, I’m obsessed.” I sighed. “I never would’ve kissed him if I had known this. You know, there really should be some sort of warning disclaimer or something when it comes to this stuff,” I said. “Like those stickers they put on prescription pill bottles that say you shouldn’t operate heavy machinery or go out in the sun when you’re taking it.”

Cookie patted my arm. “It’ll be okay. It’ll pass.”

“When?” I moaned.

“Well, when my Harry and I started dating, it took him three weeks to call me to ask me out for a second date,” Cookie said. “About two weeks and three days into it, I gave up and started to forget about him. So see, there’s hope.”

I sighed. I wasn’t sure if I could take another day of this craziness, let alone two weeks. Plus, what was I thinking? He was Jason Frank, Testosterone Twit. Popular Person. Ramp Sitter. And I was . . . not.

Even if he liked to kiss me, it’s not like there could ever be a future for us. What would his friends say? What would
my
friends say? Okay, fine—what would my friend, singular, say? Right then I heard Nicola’s voice in my head, as clear as could be. And what I heard her say was that I wasn’t the Fat Girl anymore. I was no longer allowed to hide out and sit on the sidelines in one of those low-slung webbed lawn chairs that were impossible to get out of and watch the world go by. I had to
participate
in life—not watch it on a TV or movie screen or, better yet, on the screen inside my head. And sure, sometimes it wouldn’t work out. But maybe sometimes it would. I mean, if anyone would have told me not even a year earlier that I’d be living with seven guys and would have had my first kiss right now, I never would’ve believed them.

Sure, maybe things with Jason would prove to be a total and complete mess . . .

But maybe they wouldn’t, and I had to let that happen, too.

Still, later that afternoon the obsession was still there. In fact, it had gotten worse, to the point where I was finally forced to do something I had a feeling I might very much regret—confide in my roommates about what was going on. After suffering through being filmed on a mock date in front of them, it’s not like I had a lot of dignity left to begin with. What was the harm in losing the rest of my dignity? Plus, maybe they could help.

“I’m a little confused,” Doc said, after I stumbled and mumbled through what I had tried to keep a CliffsNotes-length version of the oxytocin poisoning I had been dealing with post-kiss but had ended up being an unabridged one. “What exactly is it that you’re asking?”

Narc shook his head. “Dude. You’re being so . . . girl-like. I have to say, I’m a little disappointed,” he said sadly.

“I know,” I moaned. “I can’t help it. I guess what I’m asking is . . . do you think . . . would it be okay . . . if I . . . texted him?”

From the horrified looks on their faces, I was guessing that was very much
not
okay.

“Not, like, a
long
text,” I said. “Just like a hey-was-thinking-about-you-and-just-wanted-to-say-hi text.”

Wheezer actually started to wheeze at that.

“Okay. Fine. What about just a text that says ‘hey’?”

They continued to look mortified.

“Then I guess calling is out of the question, huh?”

Max cringed. “How did I not know I had a crazy stalker chick for a sister? This is so embarrassing.”

“What?! I am not a stalker!” I cried. “I didn’t even do anything. And I’m
not
going to do anything!” I reached for some Nutter Butter cookies and shoved two in my mouth. “Except eat!”

“Simone, I’m going to let you in on a secret,” Thor said. “Even though I’m a huge foe of hypocrisy, double standards, and anything that keeps any group down while giving the white man even more power, when it comes to relations between males and females, at the end of the day, you will be much better served if you follow one simple rule.”

“What?”

“Just be the girl and let the guy come after you.”

I cringed. “That’s completely sexist!”

“I know. But I’m looking at it from a biological point of view. It’s programmed into our DNA,” he replied. “You have to let him be the hunter and let yourself be hunted.”

I cringed. I’m sorry, but that did not sound fun at all. In fact, it sounded very painful.

“Once you’re a couple, you don’t have to do that,” he went on, “but that first communication post-date? It’s a good idea. After that, knock yourself out with all the communication you want.”

I looked at the guys, who all nodded.

“And when he does finally text you or call you, you need to wait at least twelve hours to respond,” Wheezer said.

“Twelve hours?!” I cried.

“But if you could wait twenty-four, that would be even better,” Max said.

“Even I know that,” Noob added. “And I’ve never had a real girlfriend in my life.”

Just then a text came through.

All it said was “hey,” but that was enough to make the jackhammers that had been going nonstop in my chest suddenly stop. “It’s from him!”

“What does it say?” Narc asked.

“It says ’hey.’”

“’Hey’ is good!” Thor said.

“It’s
awesome,
” agreed Noob.

“So what are you going to write back?” asked Max.

I plopped down on the couch. “I don’t know. I’ll text him back later.” Now that I had heard from him, I felt calm again. I still didn’t think I’d wait twelve hours before responding—that just seemed crazy. Now I could breathe again. At least until I began to worry about what I would write back, and then have to suffer through waiting for him to write back, and whether he’d ask me out again, and what would happen at the end of that date.

With that, the jackhammers started up again.

No wonder I had avoided this dating stuff for so long. It was as if I knew intuitively all along that it was trouble.