Love and Other Theories (12 page)

M
onday nights are the best. Yes, Mondays suck, but the dark cloud that is Monday has a silver lining in that Monday night is the night my friends and I always get together to watch our favorite show,
Mercy Rose
. It’s about a group of teenagers in the small town of—you guessed it—Mercy Rose. It’s a total soap opera loaded with scandal and betrayal, just the way we like it.

This Monday we’re at my house because my parents are going on a date—
vile
, I know—but we always try to gather at the house that is parentless so we can curse freely, drink if we want, and shout obscenities every time our favorite character, Jude, takes off his shirt.

Danica, Melissa, and I are discussing whether or not we think Scarlet will die from her mysterious, possibly life-threatening disease, and who we think should get her current boyfriend, Jude, if she does, when Shelby arrives holding a package of Oreos.

“If they drag out Scarlet’s death any longer,
I’m
going to die,” Shelby says, plopping onto the couch next to me.

“Right!” we all agree. Enough is enough. Scarlet has been crying and coughing for the last three episodes.

“You girls actually
like
this show?” my mother says, having overheard.

“It’s brilliant,” we all say at nearly the same time. This makes even my mother laugh.

My father walks past her, holding up his keys. This is his way of saying he’s ready to go.

“Enjoy
Macy Rows
! Good night, girls.” He waves at us with one hand and uses the other to usher my mother out the door. He never gets the title of the show right. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose to make us laugh, which it always does.

The second we hear the garage door close, Gregory and Jason come bounding into the living room. They’re scared of my friends, probably of girls in general, and my friends give them yet another reason to be afraid when they squeal, “Hi, boys!” and “Cute pj’s!” Gregory and Jason put up with this for one reason—we have junk food and they want some.

“Are you surviving middle school?” Melissa asks Gregory. She’s asked him this every time she’s seen him since he started sixth grade this year. He always nods vigorously, and I almost wonder if he understands that middle school really does take
surviving
. It was a brutal time, even I’ll admit. Awkward growth spurts, shiny noses, overactive sweat glands.

“Gregory is resilient,” Shelby says. She’s got my mother’s large orange mixing bowls out and is filling them with chips and Oreos for my brothers. “Do you still have that scar?”

Gregory rolls his eyes slightly, but he’s grinning as he pulls back the sleeve of his pajamas to show Shelby the long white scar traveling from his wrist to his elbow, from the day he broke his arm.

“Scars are permanent, Shelby,” Jason says quietly, looking at the ground. He, too, is grinning a little, like he thinks Shelby is silly.

“You don’t say,” Shelby says. She hands them the bowl.

Now that they’ve gotten what they came for, they’re off to their room. The deal I’ve made with them is this: they can do whatever they want in their room as long as they turn off the lights and pretend to be asleep when our parents come home. It’s no mystery what they’re doing. Not inviting girls over or smoking pot or even inventing dangerous games that could get them seriously injured,
like who can jump the farthest off the bed. No, they’re playing video games.

“It’s starting!” Danica announces, even though we’re all sitting right in front of the TV and can see for ourselves.

It’s the same thing every week with us: we all lean forward and stop chewing whatever we’re munching on during the opening recap—“
Last week on
Mercy Rose
”—
like we’re afraid that the noise of the Oreos mashing in our mouths might cause us to miss something crucial that took place during last week’s episode. We comment on each character during the opening credits. Sometimes we yell things like “Stupid whore!” and “Dumb bitch!” if a character is losing points for Team Girl—which Scarlet has been doing the past four episodes. Even if she’s dying, that’s no excuse. I’m thankful that my little brothers are too busy killing aliens to listen in on us as Scarlet’s face flashes across the screen and Melissa and Shelby yell “Dirty slut!” at the same time.

We’re predictable like this. And our consistency is comforting. Even with my rigorous schedule the past four years, I always made time for this. Our Monday nights.

I still don’t know why Shelby wanted to hook up with Patrick on Saturday night. Shelby hasn’t said anything about it and we haven’t asked. Patrick was gone by the time we woke up Sunday morning, and Shelby refused to come out to breakfast with us. “I bet you’re tired,” Danica teased her, making the mattress move up
and down with her knee. But Shelby just groaned and covered her head with her pillow.

“When do you start tutoring Trip?” Shelby asks during a commercial. Her head’s resting on the pillow leaning against Melissa. Melissa chews nervously on a piece of licorice. She really thinks Scarlet’s going to die this time.

“Next weekend.” I don’t take my eyes off the television. Partly because I don’t want to miss it when the show starts up again. Partly because I don’t want Shelby to think that talk of Trip deserves more attention than
Mercy Rose
. “Should be awesome.”

We squeeze in a few more jokes about how the only way Trip will learn anything is if I remove an article of clothing every time he gets a correct answer.
Strip Psych 101!
We make a few jokes at Celine’s expense because, despite being such a
loyal
girlfriend to Jared, Celine was always willing to do Trip’s homework—though if you ask her, she’ll spout off excuses about Trip needing a certain GPA to stay on the football team, and that as a cheerleader she cared first and foremost about winning games.

We have an extra hour to kill after the show’s over, but we’re too full of junk food to do anything but lie around on the couch. We laugh at Scarlet for being so unevolved, even on her deathbed, and wonder how many sit-ups Jude does to get his abs looking like
that
.
And I think that
this
right here is the one thing I’ll never have at Barron.

PREDICTABILITY AND HIGH school boys are synonymous. On Tuesday Patrick waits for Leila by her locker before first period. Just like we knew he would.

Leila doesn’t melt at his efforts right away—good for her—but she’s sitting on his lap come lunchtime, probably thinking he’s reconsidering that whole
relationship
thing. She knows nothing about what happened with Shelby, but she can’t possibly assume Patrick was pining for her on a Saturday night, after
he
detached from her.

Nathan and I are becoming predictable too. In Drama, when Mrs. Seymour leaves the room and Melvin gives up finding any hidden talent, we sneak backstage to make out by the prop furniture. If we’re not in the cafeteria at lunch, we’re at the housing development and Nathan’s kissing my neck and telling me I’m beautiful. I’m running my hands over his chest, his lips, through his hair, checking and double-checking to make sure he’s real.

I don’t hear from Trip the following week, and I start to think that maybe he didn’t need my help after all. I feel relieved.

“IS THERE A reason Nathan Diggs asked me what your favorite restaurant is?” Shelby says, looking at her phone.
Mercy Rose
just ended, so we’re all checking our phones. We’re
at Shelby’s house this week, crisscrossed and leaning on one another on the overstuffed couch. “Oh,” Shelby says, still staring at her phone. “He wants to surprise you on Valentine’s Day.” It’s this Friday.

Danica stretches out her leg and pushes Shelby’s shoulder with her foot. “Spoiler alert.”

Shelby shrugs. “Well, Aubrey, what should I say? Where do you want to go on Valentine’s Day? Certainly you don’t want me to tell him to take you to Stimpy’s.” Which they all know is my
real
favorite place to eat. It’s less of a restaurant and more of a diner . . . with a drive-thru.

“Solstice!” Melissa bolts upright. “He should totally take you to Solstice!”

“If he’s going to drop that kind of cash, he might as well get a hotel room,” Shelby says.

I put my hand over her phone. “Do not type that.”

She laughs. “Oh, relax, I would never dream of suggesting something that would make you miss Celine’s VD party.”

Celine’s parents always take a vacation around Valentine’s Day, so Celine always throws a party. Celine’s pretty ecstatic that this year Valentine’s Day actually lands on a Friday. I’m really excited myself, since I don’t have to work and can attend.

Celine’s parties aren’t like other parties, I’ve heard. Invitations are required, and if you show up without one,
she won’t let you in. She also doesn’t let you in unless you dress up. Jared acts like a bouncer and actually turns people away. Shelby referred to it as the VD party last year and got uninvited. Jared still let her in, of course.

“Really, though,” Shelby says, leaning toward me, “what’s the hold-up?”

The hold-up
. The truth is there is no hold-up. I want to have sex with Nathan; I want to so badly, sometimes I feel like running my nails up and down my thighs just to distract myself from the
wanting
. Sometimes I replay in my head over and over again the things we have done to each other with our one layer of separation, and before I know it an hour has gone by and I’ve been staring at the same page in my calculus book. When we’re together there’s no discussion about it, and to be honest, in some moments with him I think that we will, that we’re
about to
, and when we end up doing other things, or having to stop because of parents or curfews, it never feels like something’s lost.

Melissa pipes up at this. “Always leave them wanting more.”

“But why deprive yourself?” Danica says.

“Don’t pretend like you know anything about
deprivation
, Danica,” Melissa says.

“And don’t pretend you’re not an expert on it.”

“Whoa!” Shelby says. She’s laughing and she’s got her arms spread out like she’s ready to hold Melissa and
Danica back in their respective corners.

This makes us all laugh. We’re too evolved to really fight over something like this.

“You don’t have to wait so long, Aubrey,” Shelby says after our laughter has worn down. I know what she’s referring to. It took Trip Chapman seven months and five days to get me into bed. Prom night. Such a cliché. Shelby’s right. My situation with Nathan and my situation with Trip are completely different.

N
athan holds my face with both hands as he kisses me good night. It’s almost eleven thirty, it’s Wednesday, and there’s definitely a chance that my mother is sitting in the kitchen waiting up for me. I grip his wrist so he won’t pull away a second before he has to.

Tonight we removed the layer, went all the way, did everything two people could do under the sheets without their clothes. “Rounding home,” Danica would say. “Hooking up to the max” is what Shelby would say. When I think about telling them, my cheeks get hot.

“I guess I should go inside,” I say when we finally do stop kissing.

Nathan smiles. “Nah.” He shakes his head.

I laugh at this, louder than Nathan expected, and he raise his eyebrows in surprise though he, too, is laughing.

Right before I reach the front door, I hear Nathan’s horn and whirl around, startled. He’s got his hands in the air and he’s cringing a little. He must’ve honked it accidentally as he was leaning forward to watch me walk inside. We make eye contact again, and we both break out into the same enormous smile.

It’s not hard to hold myself together when I walk in and see my mother sitting at the counter. She slides off the stool and comes toward me, tapping the place on her wrist where a watch would be if she weren’t in her robe.

“Sorry,” I tell her. She turns away from me, so that’s the end of it. Really I’m thinking,
There’s nothing you could do to make me sorry. Ground me forever; it’d have been worth it.

I lie in bed, wide-awake. I let myself smile. I let myself squirm. I cover my face when I feel hot flashes of embarrassment—not the shameful kind, the kind that comes from thinking,
I can’t believe that just happened
.

Nathan’s hand on my back leading me into his room. His breath against my temple. His lips traveling down, stopping at my lips, edging my jawline, trailing along my collarbone. I squeeze my eyes shut because it’s too wonderful.

It wasn’t perfect “on paper,” an expression my mother uses sometimes when she wants to point out how things can look versus how things really are. It didn’t last very long, and I forgot to take off my socks. But I never expected my first time with Nathan to be good on paper. Like how the first time I rode my bike, I crashed into the mailbox, but I could still remember what it’d been like soaring through the air, and after the crash I knew what to do differently the next time. With Trip, the first time, it was too sweaty, and my whole body felt sore and sprained.

I stifle a giggle with my pillow. There’s nothing about tonight that doesn’t make me insanely happy.

It’s my hands on his face, the roughness of his cheeks because he needed to shave. The way he held me so close and I could smell every speck of cologne, ounce of sweat, remnant of detergent, the fresh mint he’d just had, knowing we’d be spending the next few hours kissing. It’s the way he said my name, the way his lips couldn’t help but smile when he said it; the way his eyes got soft. How he asked if I was nervous and then answered for me,
Of course not
. And the way he whispered to me right at the beginning, saying something I couldn’t understand, so I just nodded and he kissed me. My hands running through his hair, his breath tickling my ears, the weight of him. Lying with my head on his chest afterward while
he traced small circles on my back.

This is why we don’t write boys off, disregard them completely while they’re in high school. It’s these moments stacked up that make staying away from boys impossible.

They can make you really happy. You just can’t count on them for it.

“WHO ARE THOSE for?” I ask Nathan as he walks toward me with a bouquet of pale pink roses on Friday after school. They’re just slightly open, looking sleek and elegant.

“You don’t know her,” he says, holding them out for me.

No one has ever given me flowers, and I’ve never expected them to, so I’ve never really known my preference. At this moment I decide that pale pink roses are my absolute favorite.

“You like them, right?”

I must be beaming, because he smiles like I’ve answered him out loud with an enthusiastic
I love them!

“Dinner tonight? Before Celine’s party?” He steps closer to me to tug on a chunk of hair that never stays tucked behind my ear. “And if you’re available after school . . .” He kisses me lightly on the mouth.

Of course, Nathan’s not going to miss an opportunity to get laid on Valentine’s Day. Now that we’ve
removed the layer
, he’s no longer so apprehensive about his mother
coming home early. And we’ve started referring to his BMW as his “bedroom on wheels.” I love that he thinks he has to earn it with things like flowers and surprises. He tugs on the front strands of my hair again, something he does lately when he wants my attention. I’ve taken to pulling lightly on his sleeve when I want his. Shelby says we’re like five-year-olds.

“Okay,” I say, sticking my nose in the middle of the bouquet one more time.

“You can wear whatever you want, but I feel obligated to tell you I’ll be wearing a tie,” he adds before walking away down the hall. I can tell by the way he walks that he’s proud of himself. He’s caught me off guard and he likes it.
I
like it.

MY MOUTH DROPS open when Nathan shows up that night in a black suit carrying another bouquet. Red carnations this time. They end up in my mother’s arms since I can’t take them with me to dinner or to Celine’s party. She promises to put them in water.

“Midnight,” my mother reminds us as we leave.

I’d thought about staying the night at Shelby’s to avoid my curfew, but I know that me being picked up by a boy and not coming home until morning is something my mother would turn down right away. It’d probably make her start to second-guess all the times I stayed over at Shelby’s, if she hasn’t started doing this already.

Ten minutes later Nathan and I are pulling into the parking lot at Solstice.

“It’s not too late to go to Stimpy’s,” he says, grinning.

I just smile. I don’t tell him that it doesn’t really matter where we go.