Tell Me Three Things(24)

Me: He compared himself to Lou Reed, but in a cute, self-deprecating way.

Dri: He’s better.

Me: Groan.

Dri: Fine. Not better. Hotter.



“Who are you texting?” Liam asks, and I quickly tuck away my phone. I don’t want to embarrass Dri, though, truth be known, I get the feeling he has no idea who she is.

“My friend Dri. Well, her name is Adrianna. But everyone calls her Dri,” I say. He shrugs. Not interested. “She’s cool. She was sitting at the lunch table when you came up today.”

Again, no reaction. I wonder what he’d say if I told him that she knows his birthday, which colleges he’s applying to, and his favorite cafeteria foods. That in her head, they have a complex and fulfilling relationship. No matter that it’s purely one-sided. I think Dri might even prefer it that way. There are the girls like Gem and Crystal, fearless about guys and orifices and secretions, and there are the girls like Dri and me, who are terrified of rejection and mechanics and unfortunate angles. We realize just how far we still need to go till we can call ourselves women.

I may own my vagina, both in theory and in practice (we are on a first-name basis, Vag and me—Scar’s idea, by the way, not mine; no, not even a little bit mine), but that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of its appetites. For a moment, I imagine Vag’s almost-blank résumé. Sixteen years: closed for business. Hobbies and interests: cheesy romance novels, collecting information about Ethan, Ethan Marks.

Oddly enough, I have no problem imagining having sex with someone (say, Ethan, Ethan Marks), but it’s not unlike imagining my Academy Awards speech. It’s something I can perform perfectly in my head—with both charm and agility and just the right dose of modesty—but it’s a speech that not only will never be delivered, but maybe shouldn’t be. Will I, one day, be able to sleep with a guy and not feel horribly awkward and tortured and not wonder what it all means? I assume so. But right now, the thought of that sort of exposure seems unimaginable, and mostly, if I’m totally honest, nothing short of terrifying.

—

“So you’re from Chicago, right?” Liam asks, and I wonder how he knows. We don’t have any classes together, since he’s a senior. Did his mom tell him? Is he Somebody/Nobody?

“Yeah. I just moved here,” I say.

“How do you like it?” he asks. He gathers his hair into a ponytail and then sets it free, again and again. The movements so precisely the same each time, it’s like watching a Vine.

“It’s okay. Still adjusting, I guess,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, and wonder if this counts as a scintillating-enough conversation to be reported to Dri. I wish I had more interesting things to say to Liam. My fear of saying something stupid often leaves me saying almost nothing at all. He doesn’t seem to have much to say himself. “You know, still meeting people.”

“I should introduce you to my girlfriend, Gem. She’s cool as shit. She’s a junior too.”

“Oh, Gem. Yeah, I think we have a few classes together,” I say, and I’m pretty sure I pull off the whole casual I kinda know who your girlfriend is thing. What I don’t say: Your girlfriend sucks.

“Don’t worry. It’ll get easier. It’s always hard to be new,” he says. “Like, you know, my band. They were all together since, like, middle school, and I only joined last year. It was weird at first because of this whole crazy thing. But now they’re like my brothers. You should come hear us play.”

“Totally. Sounds like fun,” I say, and I mean it, if only because I’ll be able to bring Dri along and solidify our friendship.



Me: He says he was new to his band, but now they’re his brothers.

Dri: Yeah. There was some Oville drama for a while. Sad story. But now they’re all good.



Not sure how a high school rock band could have a sad story, but I’m sure I’ll hear it in all its glorious detail from Dri later. I feel like the kids at Wood Valley have enough money to be immune from truly sad stories, but of course that isn’t true. Not everything is for sale. I flash to my mom, bald and literally rotting from within, too weak even to squeeze my hand, and a wave of nausea hits me. It’s always been easier to remember her sick, maybe because that was the most recent iteration or, more likely, just the most searing. I blink, and thankfully, the image is gone.

“We’ve got a gig in a few weeks playing a party. It’s not a huge rager or anything. Just a chill time. You should come,” Liam says, and I feel the lightness of anticipation; I may actually have something to do on a Saturday night. It would be fun to get out. “It’s at Gem’s house.”

Oh. Yeah. So not going to happen.



Me: Invited me to a party they’re playing in a few weeks. Was going to say we should go but—

Dri: WE HAVE TO GO!

Me: It’s at Gem’s.

Dri: So what? When Liam is around, Gem is a whole different person. Esp once she sees him talking to you.

Me: No.

Dri: Who cares what she says about your jeans? This is Oville. You’ll love them.

Me: If I ever call them Oville, shoot me.

Dri: Cranky is not the same thing as charming, you know.

Me: Of this I am aware.