Fiona and Jane(22)

“I don’t care,” Fiona said suddenly. “He’s such a—just a boy. I’m over high school guys, you know?” She ran her fingers through her hair, raking a tangle that didn’t exist. “I knew he liked me,” she said. “But there was no way I—” Fiona shook her head and sighed. “I didn’t tell you before. But we’ve like, I don’t know. We made out.”

“You what?” I said. “With Won? When?”

She nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes fixed on the road. I stayed silent while she signaled left and swung back onto the freeway.

“You’re not mad, are you, Jane?” she said. “It’s seriously not a big deal.”

I didn’t know what to think. I told myself it was no big deal, just like she said.

“It just happened.” She glanced over at me quickly. “I was going to tell you, but—”

“Do you like him?”

“No. It’s Won.” She frowned. “Oh, Janie. You didn’t—you don’t—”

“What? Me?” I laughed a little. “Him? No way. Gross.”

“Right,” Fiona said. I was waiting for her to laugh, too, but she didn’t. “Well, he’s not—completely gross. Actually he does this thing with his tongue—”

“Ew,” I cried. “I really don’t need to know.”

Now she was laughing. “Sorry.”

It was no big deal, I repeated to myself. They kissed. Fiona and Won kissed each other. I realized I’d been clenching my fists. I let go of them softly. A strange feeling throttled me.

We passed by a sign on the side of the freeway announcing Cal State Long Beach, next exit. Fiona signaled, then moved into the right-hand lane. All of a sudden I felt nervous about what would come next.

“Do I look okay?” I considered my outfit: an oversized T-shirt with maroon and green horizontal stripes across the chest, a pair of dark blue jeans, black socks, and black Vans with black laces.

“Use the lipstick in my purse,” Fiona said. She was wearing a white scoop-neck baby tee tucked into tight black jeans that flared at the ankles. “Can you check the directions?”

At the next stop sign, Fiona reached over and put a hand on my arm. “This is going to be fun, okay? Let’s just relax and have a good time.” She sounded so confident. Fiona always sounded confident. “You look great,” she added. “I mean it. You really do, Jane.”

I squinted at Sung’s handwriting on the napkin.

“You look like one of those people in the CK One ads. Cool ’cause you’re not trying so hard to be something.”

I flipped the visor down and studied my face in the tiny rectangle mirror. My eyes weren’t bloodshot anymore. I found Fiona’s Toast of New York in her purse. I opened my mouth just a little bit and applied the brown color with soft strokes. The girl in the mirror pressed her lips together into a thin straight line, then puckered them in a kiss. I slapped the visor shut. Did they make out here, in Shamu? Just be cool. You hear that, Jane? No big deal, I said to myself. It was no big deal.



* * *



? ? ?

Sung’s directions led us to a motel near the Long Beach Airport, a two-story stucco building painted salmon pink, with ocean-blue window trims and doors to suggest a seaside resort theme. A large black satellite dish rested on top of the roof, which was missing more than a few of its terra-cotta tiles.

Fiona maneuvered Shamu into an open parking spot. We sat buckled into our seat belts for a moment after she shut off the engine.

“Should we have a plan?” Fiona said. “A signal. If we want help from each other, or—”

“We don’t have to go up there,” I said.

“How about this?” She held up two fingers in a V and pressed them to her chin.

“We can turn around right now, and go home. You can sleep over—”

“If either one of us gets in trouble, just do this,” she said. “And we’ll leave right away.”

I mirrored her, held my fingers up to my chin. The digital clock on Shamu’s dashboard read 9:45.

“Ready?” Fiona unlatched her seat belt.

“Remember, I have to be home by midnight,” I said.

“Home by midnight,” she said. “I won’t forget.”



* * *



? ? ?

The white boy who opened the door to 205 wore a black Raiders beanie. Tiny silver hoops dangled from both his earlobes.

“Sung’s UCLA friends? Come in, come in.” He stepped aside for us. “What’s your names? I’m Koala,” he said.

“Koala,” Fiona repeated. “Like, the marsupial?”

“Damn, girl,” he said with a laugh. “What’d you call me?” Koala threw an arm out and gestured at the guys who sat on one of the beds. “That’s Johnny, and the butt-ugly one over there’s Viet.”

There were two queens in the room, each covered by a pink comforter patterned with white conch shells. Pink ruffle skirts grazed the tan carpet, which still bore vacuum lines. A McDonald’s bag rested on the nightstand between the beds, the bottom stained by oil blots. A few crumpled napkins and balls of yellow wax paper lay scattered next to the bag.