Afterparty(51)

“It was a different kind of invitation. But ask. Unlike some people, I’m an open book.”

“You are so not an open book!”

He says, “Ask.”

“All right, rumor has it that you were running around town with some elderly college girl.”

Dylan looks surprised, and then impenetrable.

“You didn’t just say that to Lia Graham to look cool, right?” This is supposed to come out jokey, but it doesn’t. I regret it as soon as it’s out of my mouth.

“I never tell anybody anything so I’ll look cool. Again, that would be my brother. Face next to the word ‘liar’ in Wikipedia.” He stretches himself out on the picnic table. “Not me, I don’t f*ck with people.”

“Sorry.”

“Your lack of gossip is shocking.”

More like no one ever tells me anything.

“I’m shockingly virtuous that way. You know, lashon hara. This Jewish thing with not gossiping. My dad is way into it; precludes most forms of interesting conversation.”

Dylan says, “I know what lashon hara is.”

Complete brain freeze. Of course he knows what it is, he reps Judaism at Religious Convo. Probably his idea in coming to a major make-out spot wasn’t to have a discussion of my dad’s completely cherry-picked precepts of religion.

Dylan says, “So. I could be making up a torrid affair with an older woman and you wouldn’t know the difference?”

Yikes.

“Were you having a torrid affair? If only I gossiped continually.”

Dylan blinks, which would appear to be his version of an eye-roll. “I hate to disillusion you, but guys in high school rarely get to have torrid affairs with older women.”

“Have you met Nancy?”

He closes his eyes. “Special case.”

“So what have you been doing while failing to meet your obligation to socialize at Latimer?”

“Aren’t you the girl who’s been with some bi-Continental guy that sends her French perfume and who probably doesn’t know where to find junior assembly?”

What French perfume?

“Have you ever noticed I was wearing French perfume?”

Dylan says. “Okay. When Aiden was a senior, he went out with this girl, Montana Gibson. She wrote a poem about him in Latimer Rambles that compared him to God. Roughly. Lasted all year. Then he left without saying good-bye.”

“Literally?”

“She went to Jackson Hole with her family in July. When she got back, Rambles was in the trash and Aiden was in Scotland. She went nuts. Came over and screamed at my mom. But this is Aiden we’re talking about. If Montana took his name in vain, no wonder he blocked her number.”

“He just left for college? He didn’t actually break up?”

“Moot point. Even when he’s with someone, he’s not with them. They can be at the same party, the girl is waiting for him to get back with her drink, and he’s locked in the bathroom with some whore who likes muscles.”

He peers at me. “Oh. Sorry.” He slaps his face. It’s not much of a slap. “I know. Don’t call women whores. Shit. Did I just finish us off?”

All right, so he’s not allowed to say the word “whore” ever again. But we are so not finished off. Because if it were dark, and if the hikers going up the hill weren’t going to come down eventually, and if I didn’t have to get back to school, what would I do? There are dark waves of urgency. Are un-whorish girls even supposed to feel like this? God knows, I’m not supposed to feel this or anything in the same general classification as this. I’m supposed to be up for a lovely picnic on the banks of the Thames wearing a flowered sundress from 1956, not for naked grappling in the hot, lush jungle where the Amazon veers off into rain forest.

Or on hiking trails fifteen minutes off a cul-de-sac near the 405 Freeway.

Not this.

Dylan is saying, “Yeah. I hung out with Montana a lot after that. Last year and this fall.”

I am trying to sound civilized, cool, and moderately under control. “Were you, like, her boyfriend? How old is she?”

“I was the Aiden substitute. Aiden was not happy. He comes home from Scotland for summer, he’s all over her. Then he breaks up with her for the second time in case the first time wasn’t bad enough. Montana starts hooking up with this other guy. And me.”

“Wow.”

“Aiden’s not a very nice guy. I was the revenge f*ck. Not that I’m complaining. But it would have been considerate of her to tell me.”

“I’m no doubt going to be struck by lightning for gossiping like this, but your brother is a jerk.”

Dylan says, “Girls seem to like it.”

“Explains where your aversion to bullshit comes from.”

“Explains why I like being with someone honest, with no interest in running off with my brother. You have no interest in running off with my brother, I assume?”

I put my arm around him. “Let’s see. He lives in Scotland, so I could never actually see him, and he’s not a very nice guy. Bring it on. I’m hot for one of those.”

“I thought you had one of those,” Dylan says.

Holy shit.

I have officially lied to my dad about everything; to my best friend about how much I didn’t want her boyfriend; to everyone at Latimer about my nonexistent boyfriend; and now to this guy—who apart from calling women whores is kind of perfect, and who (hint) likes honest girls—about practically everything.