Hot Mess (2 page)

Two

“E
m, hand me the tanning oil, will you?”

I groped around without opening my eyes until I found the bottle under my lounge chair. I passed it Rachel’s way.

“Uck, I had no idea I was this pale, Emma, seriously. I look like a piece of paper. Someone’s going to try to write an essay on my—
Ahh! Omigod omigod!
”

I ripped my sunglasses off to see Rachel flapping her arms hysterically, covered in blood.

“Omigod, Rachel, you’re bleeding!” I mentally ran through how to do CPR. I’d taken a class for the lifeguard job, but I couldn’t remember any of it right now. Not like it would help with bleeding appendages, though.

“I’m not bleeding, you idiot. I’m covered in fucking taco sauce!”

I’d accidentally handed her the bottle of picante we’d poured over our midafternoon nachos. I laughed with relief as she kicked and screeched for help.

“Will you please do something? I don’t want to ruin my towel. It’s the only one that matches this suit!”

“Well,” I said, passing her my used napkin, “I could get Ajax out here to lick it off! Jaxy! C’mere, boy!”

My half-ton Newfoundland came loping into the backyard, leaving a trail of slobber in his wake.

“Gross! I’m not Jenna freaking Jameson!” she yelped with disgust as she dabbed herself off.

I put my earphones back in, waiting for her to calm down. Normally she’s really mellow, but every once in a while Rachel has a shit fit that makes Naomi Campbell look like a Sunday school teacher. I think it’s because she’s an only child. Everyone says people without siblings are selfish, but that’s not true. Rachel is the most generous person. She’d give her Chihuahua a kidney if it needed it.

“Hey, have you heard from Brian yet?” she asked, after she finished desaucifiying herself. “How’s the orientation going?”

I realized with a stab of alarm that no, I hadn’t. “Uh, no. Not really.” I bit my lip nervously, and then quickly added, “But he’s probably just busy.” What could he possibly be doing? “He’ll call by dinnertime, right?” He
said
he’d call me as soon as he got to campus. That must have been six hours ago. I felt one of my nausea-inducing panic waves hit me.

“Em, don’t stress. He so will.” She sounded like she meant it, but I couldn’t really see her eyes. She was still wearing her faux Diors, even though the sun was pretty much gone. The shades were a purchase made at the Boca flea market while visiting her grandparents in their retirement community. Ky and I call them the Velveteen Sunglasses because she acted like if she loved them enough, one day they just might turn into real live Diors.

“Really, stop the freak-out,” Rachel commanded. “Let’s think about something way more important, okay? You only have a few more days until you’re the big one-eight! We still haven’t planned anything. We’re not leaving these lounges until we figure it out.”

“Uck, I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it.” My birthdays were never something I was happy about. Wait, no—I was always amped for them, but then they always turned into a disaster. Like in second grade, when I had the bowling party and little Rachel dropped nine pounds of bowling ball on her foot, broke all her metatarsals, and had to go to the hospital. Even back then, a party just wasn’t a party without my bestie, and I was miserable for the last eight frames. I saved her all of the butter cream flowers from my birthday cake, and we spent the rest of my birthday together dipping fingers into frosting roses in the ER while her cast set. And then there was my first boy-girl party in sixth grade, where I caught Paul Wechter—my boyfriend at the time—making out with Lexi Brown in the laundry room, and
we
hadn’t even made out yet. Totally traumatic at the time, but I guess it doesn’t matter now because Lexi got sent away to boarding school and Paul turned into one of those weird goth kids that draws red tears on his face with a Sharpie and smokes in front of Burger King at lunch. They’re even at Burger King every day during the summer, puffing away and partaking in group misery. Anyway, the point is that I normally build up my birthday so much and it turns out to be the worst day of the year. But I
was
turning eighteen this year, so despite a lackluster track record, I had to do something cool.

“Oooh! I know, get everyone to go to Wild Waters and have a big pool party. They just put in that new slide, too. It’s supposed to be sick.”

I wrinkled my nose. “A water park? Rachel, I’m becoming an adult, I don’t want to be in a urine-y wave pool surrounded by thirteen-year-old boys. Besides, didn’t someone break their nose there last summer on that twisty slide thing? That’s the last thing I need: ‘Welcome to adulthood, here’s a nose job!’ We could go dancing?”

I knew that was a stupid idea as soon as I said it. I danced like a donkey on Rollerblades and Rachel was even worse. The only thing she knew about rhythm was based on Dance Dance Revolution. And a girl who danced in a perfect square faster and faster just made everyone uncomfortable.

“Um.” Rachel absentmindedly rubbed on more SPF 4. “Oh! We’ll make Jackie take her dad’s party boat out on the lake and have a booze cruise! No parents, we’ll just float around all day and tan and get drunk.”

The idea of cutting loose and splashing around with my friends for eight hours was definitely appealing but…

“Isn’t that illegal? Like, that’s considered drunk driving. I really don’t need a DUI on my permanent record the very day I become a legal adult. Besides, my parents would so not dig that, and I doubt that we’d even be able to get alcohol. I feel like everyone with fakes is going to be away the entire summer.”

The two of us sat there, reapplying tanning oil and stressing over my birthday until all the good sunlight was gone.

“Hey, wanna stay for dinner?” I asked Rachel as she examined the spot on her hip where she was going to get a tattoo—wings or a bat or something lame—the second she turned eighteen. “Kyle’s coming over.”

“Sure, let me just call the mom. Dammit, I never get the sides of my body tan. I look like an Oreo.”

We retied our tops, balled up our towels, and trekked across the lawn. Between the grease of the tanning oil and balancing the dirty plates and Nalgenes we were carrying, opening the sliding door that led to the kitchen was going to be a Herculean feat.

“Yo, Beyoncé, put that booty to use.” I motioned with my head to the door. The technical term for Rach’s body was “smokin’.” She had 34Ds and a perfectly curvy size 6 bottom to match. She complained that she couldn’t run without her tatas giving her black eyes, but I’d totally trade my entire soccer career to get rid of my chest of rib bones.

“The preferred nomenclature is
ba-dunk-a-dunk,
” she said as she shook her hips.

“Hips don’t lie!” I laughed and tried a shake of my own, but just looked like I was having a seizure.

Still balancing her nacho plate, towel, and water bottle, she gingerly hoisted her butt up to the door handle and pushed it open.

We slammed our dishes into the washer and tossed our towels over the banister to dry.

“First shower!” she hollered, bounding up the stairs. I glared at her for calling dibs in my house. “What? I’m covered in a sweat-and-hot-sauce compote. Give me a break.”

“Fine, go.” Actually, I was glad to be alone for a sec. I reached for my cell and speed-dialed “My Guy Bri.” Sometimes I even can lame-out myself. Five rings and then voicemail.

“Hey, baby doll! It’s Emma, your girlfriend, remember me? Just in case you don’t, I’m that girl back in Bridgefield with big blond hair, boobs like watermelons, tramp-stamp tattoo, and legs longer than
The Shawshank Redemption.
Or green eyes, brown hair, and legs, two of them. Anyway, just wondering how you’re doing with your first taste of college. I miss you. Call me, ’kay?”

Was I being screened by my own bf? I brushed away the thought. It was probably too loud at dorm orientation or whatever and he couldn’t hear his phone. So I did what any sort-of-crazy girlfriend would do. I sent him a text.

Hope ur having fun, Mr. College. Miss n luv u. Call when u can.

There, I’d be hearing back from him in nanoseconds.

Just then, Rachel came dripping into my room. “It’s all yours. Oh, and I kind of used the last of your leave-in.”

Sometimes I wished she weren’t quite so comfortable with me.

“Whatever,” I sighed, and jumped up. “Watch my phone. Bri’s probably going to call. Pick up if he does, ’kay? I’ll just be a hot minute in the shower.”

“Okay, I’m borrowing some stuff.” Rachel was already pawing through my underwear selection.

It was the fastest shower of my life, helped a little by the fact that I had no more conditioner, thank you very much, Rachel. I rushed back into my room still sopping. “Did Brian call?”

“What?” She was dressed in my favorite velours with her hair in a high wet knot, engrossed in whatever website she was looking at.

“Brian, did he call?”

“Oh, no. Come here. Is this girl a squirrel-faced slutbag or what?” She was pointing to the most recent comment on Danny Steinberg’s MySpace page.

“How do you know that’s not his sister or something?”

“Would a sister post about how awesome his profile song is? I mean, it’s him trying to play “The Black Parade” on guitar and singing like a dying cat. Listen to this shit.” She cranked up the volume on my crappy laptop speakers and it sounded like a prepubescent deaf Gerard Way singing in falsetto.

I shot Rachel a look of pain. “Yeah, total slut.”

I heard knocks on the door and Kyle’s screech. “It’s me!”

“Come in,” Rachel yelled. I was still in my towel, but it was just Kyle. While Rachel toured him through the highlights of Danny’s newest MySpace updates, I texted Brian again.

Helloooo! Where are you?

I got dressed in matching sweats and kissed our testosterone sister on the cheek as he weighed in on the squirrel-faced slutbag. “Yeah, she’s a sea donkey. Telling him that screamo shit is good? She’s totally trying to get some boo-tay.”

“Ladies.” I interrupted their MyStalking, standing hands on hips in the middle of my room. “Brian was supposed to call me hours ago. I just called him and texted him twice and he still hasn’t called me back. What the hell is he doing?”

“Girl, you know
what
he’s doing. You just don’t know with whom!” Kyle sassed. Normally, I loved his honesty—he steered me away from the gaucho pants trend and from trying to pop-n-lock at homecoming—but sometimes I needed some sugarcoating.

“Kyle!” Rachel snapped. “Don’t say that to her! He’s probably just busy, honey. You know, picking classes and stuff.”

Visions of Gamma Phi Whatevers with paddles and beer bongs and no curfews danced in my head. “That’s it. I’m calling him again.”

Rachel and Kyle lunged for my cell but I beat them to it and bolted into the hallway while I dialed. They didn’t need to hear the whiney girlfriend hissy I was going to throw when Brian picked up.

“Hell-oooooo?” a girl chirped. I froze.

“Brian,” I eventually croaked out. “Is Brian there?”

“Oh, he’s…” She giggled. “Well, let’s just say he’s ‘tied up’ at the moment.” And she erupted into peals of drunken laughter. “Who is this anyway? His sister?”

“This is his girlfriend!” I hissed through clenched teeth.

“Oh yeah. I think Brian mentioned you. He called you his
current
girlfriend?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, Brian, you’re so naughty.” I heard her set the phone down as her voice drifted away. “Someone’s a bad little pre-frosh. Naughty, naughty boy!”

I lowered the phone, every part of me pulsing with rage. I marched back into my room, slamming the door behind me. “Rachel, Kyle, start looking on craigslist. I need a new summer job. Lifeguarding with Brian is no longer an option.”

Three

“W
ait, what?” a very stunned Rachel asked.

Kyle looked up from Danny’s MySpace page and whipped his head around, almost poking out an eye on the popped collar of his Lacoste. “Yeah, what’s this crazy talk? What’s up with Mr. Bri-Bri.” He sang “Bri-Bri” in the same mocking tone first graders use when they sing the K-I-S-S-I-N-G song. It made me want to puke.

“Um, hello! Did you hear what just happened?” I whimpered, tears leaking out.

“No. You left the room. Did you think we were pressing up to the door like two Veronica Marses?” Even though he didn’t quite qualify as a real guy, Kyle could still be a huge dick.

“I just can’t believe it. Not even twelve hours after leaving and he’s Big Man-Whore on Campus.” I knocked my ancient Bratz collection off the shelf, still on display from when they were the It in elementary school.

The toppling of overpriced hoochie dolls triggered a best friend alarm in Rachel. She rushed over to me for a hug. “Em, what happened?”

Just then, my mom hollered, “Guys, dinner’s ready!”

I rolled my eyes and wiped my cheeks. Perfect timing. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong right now. I’ll tell you later, okay? I’m fine.” Such a lie. I was as close to spontaneously combusting as you can get without being in the Fantastic Four.

Kyle and Rachel stared at their “fine” friend.

“Hey, Em. Are you guys coming?” Mom bellowed again.

“Yeah, Mom,” I shouted back as I charged downstairs, stomping on every step. I could feel Rachel and Kyle following me, way quieter than normal. I turned around and stopped when I got to the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t mention anything at dinner,” I demanded. “I don’t want to talk to them about it yet.” They nodded silently.

We sat down to heaping plates of pasta and red sauce, pretty much exactly what I had for dinner last night at Brian’s house. I hate that, how you can be so mad at somebody and just want them out of your life completely, but everything reminds you of them. I nearly cried into the carbs.

Normally at family dinners when friends are over, I try to bridge the awkward gap that’s always there between teenagers and parents. Like, I’d bring up something that everyone could talk about—Kyle’s controversial casting as Yenta in the school’s production of
Fiddler on the Roof
or Rachel’s new Chihuahua, Jennifer Aniston. But not tonight. I let them flounder, reaching for conversation topics while I sat silently, shoveling pasta down my throat, barely even chewing. I’ve never been one of those girls who can’t eat when she’s upset.

After a few minutes where the only sound was the squishing of forks twirling noodles, Dad cleared his throat. “So, Kyle, what are you up to this summer? Hanging around Bridgefield, I’m assuming. Apparently,
everyone
’s going to be here,” he said, still needling me about turning down the resume-building, chance-for-real-growth, this-will-look-so-good-on-your-college-applications internship thing in New York. “And that reason’s compelling enough for
some
people to turn down the opportunity of a lifetime for just another summer of bronzing and bumming around.”

How is it parents know
exactly
when you don’t need to be hassled about certain things and then go straight for it? It’s like when they have kids they magically gain an instant sense of inappropriate nagging.

Kyle, also trying to ignore Dad’s totally obnoxious fatherly behavior, told the table that he was working at El Shack del Tacos as a cook for the summer.

Before my father could say something horrible about how he was wrong, I actually
could
have made a worse choice than staying home to lifeguard, I cut in with “Yeah, Kyle wants to be a chef. So this is a great first step for him.” And that’s only half true, he does want to be a chef, but this job wouldn’t be his first step in that direction. His very first step was watching the Food Network. He’s normally glued to the tube with the zeal other homosexuals reserve for Kylie Minogue. He yells “Bam” along with Emeril’s studio audience and mouths “EVOO, Extra-Virgin Olive Oil” while Rachael Ray giggles the words.

With Kyle at the taco shack, I was planning on free chimichangas during adult swim all summer long. Even though now the pool gig with Brian seemed totally unappealing, I was still pumped for Kyle’s job because it meant that now he could spit in Vile Brian’s quesadillas. Ugh, I tensed at the thought of sitting around a pool, stewing in sweaty awkwardness with Brian every day. No way could I spend my summer like that. Not even the world’s best tan would be worth that kind of stress.

“And Rachel dear, what about you?” Mom asked, trying to get some sort of conversation flowing.

“Um, well…” She hesitated, knowing that my kaiser of a father would be jumping down her throat in point five seconds. “I’m going back to Oakmere to be a counselor.”

“And your parents are happy with this? With your father’s connections, I’m assuming you’re doing this instead of pursuing a valuable internship as well. I never had the kinds of opportunities that you kids have….” For once, I found myself paying attention to Dad’s diatribe of overbearing crazy talk. Maybe New York
was
my opportunity. I mean, not for, like, career stuff or whatever the eff he was blabbing about, but just a chance to get away from my ex. God, Brian was my
ex
? Just like that. It sounded so awful.

“You know, Dad, minds can change at the last second. Maybe we
will
pursue those opportunities you’ve laid at our feet like Ajax lays dead squirrels.”

Everyone at the table shot me question-mark looks and then went back to silent eating, trying to pretend that I hadn’t just compared my father to the family pet.

Kyle, still obviously uncomfortable, wolfed down his spaghetti and then made up some excuse to my parents about needing to be home immediately for his weekly mother-son
So You Think You Can Dance
viewing. Rachel stayed and helped me clear the table and load the dishwasher. After we sponged down the table, we headed up to my room.

Both of us plopped down on my bed. “So, what the hell happened with Brian? I haven’t seen you this upset since Davey Borney made fun of you for wearing those suspenders to my bat mitzvah.”

Despite my current tragedy, I smiled at the memory. I had these clear plastic suspenders that I thought were totally awesome and wore them to Rachel’s bat mitzvah. Apparently, Davey did not think they were so hot and called me Emma Urkleman all night. I couldn’t take them off, because my skirt would have fallen down. So I just hid in the handicapped stall until Rachel came looking for me when I wasn’t there for her candle-lighting ceremony. Then, after I told her about being compared to Jaleel White, she marched right up to Davey and asked him very loudly, “Hey, Davey. Do you poop your pants all the time or just have butt cheek chafing?” She let a dramatic pause pass. “I mean, it’s got to be one or the other, right? Why else would you waddle around like a Teletubby?” She was loud enough for all the parents to hear. Davey hobbled off to the corner and stayed there through the entire Village People medley. And no one commented on my suspenders for the rest of the night.

“No, this is way worse than suspenders.” I curled up on my bed and hugged my pillow. I told her about the phone call and the girl and him not even calling yet to apologize.

“
Current
girlfriend? Who does this bitch think she is? I bet she’s some dork peer advisor who’s way too lame for anyone in her own class to date, so she gets with incoming freshmen who don’t even know how foul and untouchable she is yet.”

My haze of misery lifted a little. But not much.

“Anyway, so now it’s like, why am I even staying in Dork City, USA, all summer?” I said, my voice sounding very shaky.

“So what are you going to do instead?”

“What about going to New York like my dad wants?” I asked.

“Wow. You just decided that you’re going to do the New York thing? Like live by yourself and stuff?” She looked at me wide-eyed.

“Well, no, I was thinking
we
could do the New York thing.”

“You mean,
skip camp
?” The incredulousness in her voice and the anguish on her face would have been funny if I didn’t love her so much.

“Well, no,” I said quickly. “Forget it. You’ve been going to camp since before you were in a training bra.”

“And I was an early bloomer.” She stared wistfully off into space. “It’s been a long, long time.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, what was I thinking? Those eight weeks are your favorite of the whole year. And then you spend the other forty-four wearing your friendship bracelets, listening to granola folk rock, and reliving ‘one time at summer camp’ stories. Totally forget it.”

There was a moment of silence, very rare when the two of us were together. I could tell Rachel was thinking hard. I thought she was searching for a new conversation topic. But she wasn’t.

“Screw camp. I’m in.” She beamed from her side of my bed.

“What? What about Danny Steinberg?” I was flabbergasted.

“Hello! Why would I spend another summer making out with Danny Steinberg in poison ivy patches when I could spend it in the big city with, like, a million and a half way cuter guys? New York is like boy-toy Mecca for a Jewish girl, right?” I nodded, struck speechless by what an awesome best friend I had. “Plus, I’m getting too old for summer flings, I need to get serious. My cousin just got married and she’s twenty-four. That’s only seven years away.”

I laughed, thankful that I had a BFF who was obsessed with settling down.

“And this’ll be awesome practice for dating in the big city when I get into Columbia.” Rachel was third-generation Columbia legacy. And while her GPA and SATs might not have seemed like they were the golden key to the Ivy League, her last name and granddaddy’s checkbook opened doors at that school automatically.

I scootched over and hugged her. “This is going to be so fun! I think I need to get away from here and everything that reminds me of him.”

“Totally,” Rachel agreed. “And let’s take all that shit down.” She pointed to the Brian shrine on my nightstand, once what I loved to look at right before falling asleep. Now it was more painful than naked pictures of pregnant celebrities.

“It’s just going to upset you,” she added.

I sighed heavily and rolled over to the side of my bed with the nightstand.

As we switched out pictures of Brian and me—most of us looking uncomfortable in dress-up clothes for school dances—for pictures of my family and friends and Zac Efron, we planned out our metropolitan adventure.

“So, like do you know anyone in the Big Apple?” Rachel asked, positioning a close-up of herself in a frame that used to hold a corsage-pinning picture from homecoming.

“No one calls it ‘the Big Apple.’ Real New Yorkers call it ‘the city,’ and no, not really. Just my cousin Jacob. I haven’t seen him in years, since three Thanksgivings ago or something. But he’s really nerdy. I remember him being super into World of Warcraft and having more acne than the Olsens have hobo bags.”

“Uck, then what are we going to do there?”

“We can’t spend our whole lives only going places where we know people. If we did that, then we’d never get any farther than the outlet malls two exits away. Plus, as long as we’re together, we’ll never get lonely.”

She looked at me with a way cheesy grin. “Aww! It’s like we’re on
The Gilmore Girls
or something. But you’re right, we won’t be alone if we’re together.”

Once the Brian display was dismantled, Rachel wanted to rush home and tell her folks about our change of summer plans. I walked her to my front door.

“Bye, babe,” I hollered after her.

About halfway down the walkway, she turned around and bellowed, horribly off-key, “
If I can make it there, I’ll make it—Ba! Ba!—anywhere. It’s up to you, New York, Neeeew Yorrrrrrk!’
” As she hit the first “New York,” she thrashed her legs into wonky high kicks, looking not unlike a giraffe having a seizure. It was a bizarre mélange of a Rockette routine with the self-defense moves we’d learned in last semester’s rape awareness class. She finished the routine by yelling “I Heart N-Y” at the top of her lungs and shimmying her fingers jazz-hands style. Across the street, the neighbor’s baby started to cry.

I almost choked I was laughing so hard. “That city’s never going to know what hit it once we show up.”

“We’re so taking it by storm! It’ll be like
Sex and the City
, only we’re young and wear cheap shoes!” She high-kicked the rest of the way to her wagon, and as she pulled out of my driveway, she shouted through the passenger’s side window, “I’ll call you as soon as I tell them, okay? We’ll make more plans for the move tomorrow.”

And just like that, my summer changed completely.

My parents were ecstatic when I told them. I didn’t mention the Brian sitch at all. I played it off like out of the blue I just realized they were right—it was time to start thinking like an adult and lifeguarding was going to get me nowhere. But all the networking and schmoozing I could do at an internship would totally get me into the college of my choice, launch me into a solid career, yada, yada, yada.

Mom was on the phone with Golf Gal! Eileen in two seconds and I sat at the kitchen table and eavesdropped, trying to decipher from my mom’s side of the conversation—consisting mostly of “yep’s” and “uh-huh’s”—whether I was going to get an internship or not. Wouldn’t that be suckerrific—finally deciding to go to New York and then not be able to because I was too late for the internship? When their conversation segued into this week’s golf plan, I gave Mom a “what gives” look and she smiled, gave a thumbs-up, and continued to plan her game with Eileen. Woo hoo! Plan Summer Fabulous was in gear. I was so psyched for living in New York City by myself. I mean, with Rachel, yeah, but totally on our own. No supervision for an entire summer. It was going to be unreal. Totally the makings for an MTV reality show, except for without the LC/Heidi drama…mostly because neither of us had boyfriends. Sigh.

I snapped out of my mini-melodrama moment in time to hear Mom wrapping things up with Eileen.