From Butt to Booty (15 page)

“The face?” he asks. The bandages are off and the bruises are going down, I tell him. Why did he call? Other than I’m his girlfriend and it’s expected.

“Good,” he says.

The silence is killing me. “So?” I can almost hear him trying to get the words out.

“So?” I prompt again.

“Yeah, so. I was wondering.” He trails off like he’s losing cell reception, but not really. More like he’s losing nerve.

Is he breaking up with me? Can he do that? What else could he possibly want to ask me that requires this much lead-up? “What?” Oh, I sound bitchy. Must fix. I lighten my tone. “What’s up?” Better.

“Um … well, when do you think you’ll be ready?” He sounds all sweaty and nervous.

Not exactly what I braced for. “Ready?” For what? Space travel? A movie? Plucking the eyebrows, again?

He huffs out an exasperated, “You know.”

Holy-Mother-of-Penis-People, do not make me play this game. “No. I don’t really know.”

He mumbles. Sounds like he’s actually getting a little ticked off. “Yes, you do. When will you be ready for … ya know.”

Am I a moron? What the hell is he talking about? “Spell it out.” I don’t like to decipher; if I liked it, I’d do those crossword puzzles my father seems newly in love with.

“Sex.” He sounds like he’s bowing down and submitting himself to my level. Like it’s so far down.

“Sex?” Where did this come from?

“Yeah, when are you going to be ready?” He’s gathering momentum like a television evangelist.

When am I going to be ready? I don’t know. It’s not like a switch pops on and then there’s a blinking light that says “open” in red and blue neon. “I don’t know. Sometime?”

“Sometime? That’s kinda vague.” Now he sounds even more discombobulated.

No crap it’s vague. Perhaps if we talked about his kissing technique, I might feel more inclined to have him thrusting other appendages my way. I try reason and rationality. Logic, even. “It’s not like we’ve been dating very long.”

There’s so much that happens between kissing and intercourse. I mean, isn’t there years of stuff to do before you get to penetration? Petting and stroking, oral, dry-humping … I feel like Emily Dickinson counting the ways, or maybe that was Byron, or was it Shakespeare?

What’s with the rush? We haven’t mastered tongues with clothing on—why does he think we can be any good at sex?

“You don’t know.” Now he’s pissed at me and I don’t know what I did wrong. Okay, I have an idea the correct answer to the question is “now, right this second,” but come on, he couldn’t have honestly been expecting that … could he?

I try a different tack. “Are you ready?” This ranks as one of the stupidest questions that has ever come out of my mouth.

“Yep.” He sounds like he’s been a monk for decades and is tortured. Like the dude came out of the womb ready for whoopee.

What can I say to that? I need to get off the phone. Think. What will get me off the phone? I don’t want to have this conversation. Give in. Give in. Live to be a virgin another day.
“Soon?” I’m lying. I don’t know. Soon seems like a good answer. It’s not like I’m telling him I want to be married or anything.

Relief floods the line. I can almost feel the blood rush to his ever-ready in anticipation. “Soon? How soon?”

Even I can feel the tension level decrease. Who knew one word holds so much power? “Soon.” The word that rang around the world. “You want a date?”

“That’d be great. Like the fourteenth or twentieth. Or whatever.”

You’re kidding, right? I’m supposed to give a date I’m going to be ready for sex?
Does he realize how ridiculous this is? Really, who asks this kind of question? I’m trapped in a reality TV how-stupid-can-you-be episode.

Be honest, or lie? I’m going to shoot for the middle and see what happens. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s cool. Just thought I’d ask.” He chuckles like it was all a joke. It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt serious and weird. “Talk to you later.”

“ ’Kay.” Are we finished talking?

The click of the phone pops in my ear like a firecracker. That’s why he called. All he called about. A date for sex. I feel violated.

I feel dirty. I feel pissed off.

When will I be ready for sex? For nipple action? For going down and playing Popsicle with a penis?

When will I know? I can say I’m not ready to be naked with Stephen. I’m not ready to remove my watch with him, let alone my socks. That boy ain’t getting nowhere soon. So why am I dating him? Should it just be about the sex? If you’ll have it, then date him, and if not—don’t? What if you don’t know? I don’t know.

Lucas? Lucas I’d like to get completely naked and roll around in the sun with. Okay, only if I looked like Scarlett Johansson when naked. Not that I know what she looks like naked, but she fills out clothes better than I do, so she must look better naked.

So am I ready for sex, but it’s completely dependent on the person I’m considering having it with? I thought if you were ready, it meant ready no matter who, what or when? Could readiness actually factor the who into the equation?

Mr. Slater’s butt has a bit of a disco beat going on. Huh. Wonder if he ate too many bran flakes this morning.

“I’ve received several phone calls from concerned parents this week. Seems some of you don’t understand our term project and need guidance on how to proceed. I am going to speak slowly and repetitively, so I don’t have to talk to your parents again this year.” He sighs like there’s actual physical pain in having to repeat himself. “This semester’s main paper will be a focus on the who in comparison to someone on the list I gave you.”

“The Who?” Old-school rock boy in the back gets all excited.

“No.” Slater stamps on him. “There are quintessential questions every writer must answer. You know these, kids. They’ve been hammered into you since third grade. Mr. Speltic, name one of the five essential elements.”

Corey’s face freezes in a comical if pitiful expression. “Who?”

I swear Slater rolls his eyes in response.

“Very good. We’re talking about who, what, where, when and why.”

Oh, those. I knew that.

“You will be writing a twenty-five-page paper answering the who question. Who are you? What will history remember about you? Are you taking full advantage of every opportunity or are you sleepwalking through life? A writer must know himself inside and out, his biases, his fears, his deepest desires—”

“Jessica Biel!” Drake yells from the back of the room.

“Mr. Duscoe, you will stay after class.” Slater’s feeling a little harsh today.

“A writer must understand what drives him. You will have to get into yourself. Dig deep. I am expecting great things, people. Great things. The due date will be no later than May twenty-fourth; however, you can always turn the work in as soon as you’ve completed the assignment.”

Snickers throughout the class. I don’t think anyone has actually ever turned this assignment in early.

“We will take the rest of the period to brainstorm possible topics for inclusion in your paper. I will be walking around and I will count your ideas—you will have thirty-five distinct topics about you before you leave this classroom. And don’t BS me, people. I’ve seen it all and I will not be grading on a curve so you kids can get As on this paper. You know my standard—it’s up to you to reach it.”

He smacks a ruler against the wall. “That’s your guidance. Get busy.”

My GPA is screwed.

“No way,” I say as Mom hands me the already-opened envelope.

“It’s true, dear. I’m so sorry, I know you were hoping for more.”

I got a 163? She’s kidding, right? I so didn’t score a 163 on the PSAT. I’d banked myself at least a 190. I’m stupid. That’s the answer. All these years no one has loved me enough to sit me down and tell me that I’m really plain dumb. I’m not a Brain, I’m a Belch.

“Is that bad?” she asks, hesitating like I’m going to scream in her face. Tempting.

“It’s not good.”

“I’m not sure it’s bad. I read this article about what parents should expect and anything over 165 is a good score.”

“According to
Parenting
magazine?” And can we subtract, please? I’m pretty sure 163 is not above 165.

“It was
Woman’s Day
, but still.”

“It’s not even borderline Merit scholar, Mom. I can get into State with this score.”

“Doesn’t everyone get into State, even the druggies?” Leave it to my mother to point out this glaring truth.

“Well, yeah.” So much for spinning it like the White House.

“Okay, you take it again.” She shrugs like landing on the moon was especially easy as well.

“Again?” Chills break out along my spine and goose bumps flap along my arms.

“You’re unhappy with it. Can’t you take it again?”

That’s like making Lincoln free the slaves again. There are some things that should not be attempted more than once.

“Again?” I squeak. Must think. Must think.

“Gert, honey, are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“I’m not suicidal, Mom.” I don’t think I’m suicidal, but I haven’t really had time to weigh the options.

She shoos the air with her hands. “I wasn’t worried about that. But I have never seen you so upset.”

Probably because you’re rarely home
.

“Thanks for opening the letter before me,” I say, just to stop the flow of parental concern.

As predicted, she bristles. “I thought it was important.”

“Whatever.” I clomp up to my room.

How badly do I want a better score? Badly enough to retake the test? Badly enough to study for it? Badly enough to risk doing worse the second time around? What happens if you do worse? Do they keep track? Do they have a list of decreasing scores, like a blacklist? I bet there’s a list.

I slam my locker door shut, hoping the dent in it will go away with the extra force. Stevie isn’t here to walk me to Ms. Whoptommy’s, which is weird.

“What’d you get?” Adam pauses long enough to backpedal. He’s so going to run into someone doing that.

“On what?” I’m hoping the whole class didn’t get their scores at the same time. It will so suck if this week is all about who scored what on the test.