siobhan vivian - not that kind of girl (15 page)

But we both walked toward the shed anyway. Our sneakers crunched the gravel in sync until we were stepping on fallen pine needles, and then I couldn't hear anything at all. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Way too soon, it was time to put the Thanksgiving food baskets together. It should have been easy. Except I seemed to be the only one taking it seriously. "Fire in the hole!" Ricky, one of the freshman reps, called through cupped hands, before launching a paper snowball in a high arc. Another freshman rep, Phil, shouted, "That's what she said!" The boys, squished together on a single mahogany library chair, cackled like hyenas, greasy faces beaming mischievous smiles. They tore out two more notebook sheets and wadded them up into fresh ammo. "Guys!" I darted across the library, ducking my head. "Stop!" While I'd been preoccupied getting the baskets prepped, Ricky and Phil had constructed a fort out of cranberry sauce cans, creamed corn cans, spinach cans. Nearly all the student donations had been stacked in pillars on top of their library table. They popped up over their tin wall every few seconds to launch attacks on a table of vulnerable boys across the library, who wildly swatted away the bombs with fat textbooks. Sure, it was right before a holiday, and everyone was excited to have a couple of days off from school. But somehow, I'd lost control of student council. I thought back to my first meeting, and how I was so clearly the leader. How no one would dare speak unless I called on them first, how everyone respected me. Even feared me. It was the absolute opposite these days. Ms. Bee emerged from the office, annoyed at the ruckus. She walked straight over to me. "Natalie. A moment, please." "Yes, Ms. Bee?" I sounded a little annoyed, probably because I knew she was going to lay into me yet again. And yet again, I felt I deserved it. "Things seem to be devolving here. Do you have a...a plan for this afternoon? Or are you flying by the seat of your pants?" Half her mouth wrinkled up. "I--I'm trying to..." Just then, Dave ran up and said, "Should I get everyone to start divvying up the food?" "Yes," Ms. Bee and I said at the same time. She glanced around the room, and I tried to keep my eyes up with hers. It was a disappointing sight. "Is this all we have?" she asked. "It will be enough," I said, even though I knew it wouldn't be. We needed to make twenty baskets, and there was barely enough food for ten. But what could I do? I'd tried my hardest to remind kids to bring in cans. I basically had to threaten the town grocery store into donating free turkeys. I was so happy when I convinced the bakery to give us loaves of bread, but I could tell when I'd picked them up this morning that they were already stale. Thanksgiving was tomorrow; they'd be rock hard by then. I had wanted to give people a really nice Thanksgiving. A memorable one. I wanted my baskets to be something special and beautiful, like you'd see in one of those fancy home magazines. If this were the stuff that made up my Thanksgiving meal, I wouldn't feel much like celebrating. I'd probably kill myself. "Doesn't this look great, everyone?" Spencer called out to the room, though her eyes were on Ms. Bee. She sat by herself at a nearby table, cutting big pieces of red gingham to line the willow tree baskets. "The fabric really dresses everything up. It was Natalie's idea." While I appreciated what Spencer was trying to do, I felt stupid for spending money on the baskets and the fabric, especially when I could have bought more food for the families. "Go ahead, Natalie," Ms. Bee said flatly. "Don't let me hold you up any further." I sat down next to Spencer and, in the best possible penmanship I could muster, tried to write Happy Thanksgiving on little leaf-shaped paper tags. But my handwriting sucked. If Autumn had been there, she'd have been able to do it much better. She'd done most of my campaign signs. My pen started to sputter, and I looked up to ask for another. That's when a balled up piece of paper hit me square in the face. A gasp told me it was an accident, and then the whole room quietly laughed, which made me want to kill whoever had thrown it. I glared at the boys and decided the offender in question was Phil, because out of everyone, his face was the reddest. "Seriously, Phil. You're such a boner," Spencer shouted. "Spencer!" I hissed. Ms. Bee was just across the room. "Shh." Phil jabbed his finger though the air. "It wasn't me. Ricky did it!" Ricky rushed the table. "Liar! Don't get me in trouble." Ricky tried to wrestle Phil out from behind his fort, only to clip one of the towers. In the most incredible rumble, the cans came crashing down on the floor. "Oh, my God!" I shouted, wading through the sea of metal. Cans were all over the place. Labels ripped. Some dented. A box of instant potatoes had broken open, spilling white flakes all over the floor. I sank to my knees, picked up two fistfuls and let it pour though my hands like sand. "Boys!" Ms. Bee raced back over toward me. "Natalie! I need you to lead here." "Excuse me, miss?" I glanced up from the floor. A young man with a camera around his neck looked down at me. "I'm here to take some pictures for the paper? Should I, uh, come back later?" I bit my lip and held back tears as I got to my feet. That's when Connor appeared in the doorway, in a grass-stained football uniform that looked as if it hadn't been washed a single time this season, carrying an enormous cardboard box. "Where should this go?" he called out to no one in particular. Spencer came up next to me and squeezed my arm, reminding me to speak. "Anywhere," I said casually. "Anywhere is fine." Five other uniformed JV players appeared behind Connor, also carrying boxes. "What's in there?" the reporter asked, snapping a picture. Ms. Bee craned her neck from across the library. Connor set his box down on a table and lifted the flaps. "I've got jellies and pie filling and fresh vegetables from our farm," Connor explained. And it was true. Oversize squash, zucchinis, carrots in bunches with long, ferny stems. My cheeks burned. The boxes were absolutely stocked full. I wanted to cry again, but this time out of relief. "You didn't have to do all this," I whispered when I got near enough. It took a lot of self-control to keep from throwing my arms around Connor and covering him with kisses. "I know," Connor whispered back. He was grinning like a cat, and handed me a stack of green envelopes. "What's this?" "Coupons for free Christmas trees. I thought you could tuck them inside the baskets. If it doesn't go with the whole Thanksgiving thing, that's cool. Or, I don't know, if some people are Jewish or whatever. You don't have to use them." "Connor. This is too much." As thrilled I was, I felt sick with guilt. After all, I'd practically forced him to do this for me. Connor's family made a lot of money off this stuff. There was at least several hundred dollars' worth of merchandise here. "I told my mom about your project, and she wanted to help. Also," he whispered, "they're not for the expensive trees. Just the twenty-dollar spruces we sell to people who live in apartments. Only about this big." He put his hand at my nose. Playful and sweet. Before I even knew what I was doing, I reached out to hug him. But I stopped, because Ms. Bee was watching me. Us. My arms dropped. A flash of worry crossed his face, but he smiled through it. "I wanted to make sure you were getting something out of our arrangement." He was joking. But I couldn't bring myself to laugh. "I wanted to help you." A football player came up behind him. "Shouldn't we get back to the locker room, before Coach Fallon makes us run extra laps?" "Sure. Go on," Connor said. Then, as the younger boys took off, Connor leaned in close to me. I thought maybe he wanted a kiss, but instead he asked, "Will you come to the game? It's the championship tonight. Please?" I looked over his shoulder. Even though the rest of the student council kids were all busy unloading the boxes, I was sure they were noticing. I knew that Spencer was looking. She hadn't taken her eyes off Connor since he'd walked in. I took a big step back and started adjusting things on the table, keeping my distance. "Thanks so much," I said. "We really appreciate your help." It came out stiff and formal. Connor looked hurt for a second. Or maybe just confused. Then he turned and walked out. I didn't have time to feel bad. Ms. Bee came over. "This stuff is wonderful," she admitted. But then she looked at me, kind of unforgiving. "That boy just saved you." She wasn't happy about it. She had wanted me to save myself.

After the baskets were finished, I walked over to the football game. It was already dark, and the floodlights lit up our field. The stands were full even though it was absolutely freezing outside. I knew Autumn was here. I'd seen her cuddled up under a blanket with other girls on my way over to the chain-link fence that ran the edge of the parking lot. I had my peacoat buttoned up, and I pulled my arms inside for extra warmth. My scarf was wrapped around my face, leaving just my eyes exposed. I couldn't feel my toes. I wanted to stay for the whole game for Connor, but it was freaking freezing. Plus, we were losing. By a lot. It was too far away to really see anyone, but since Connor was the QB, I could pick him out. It seemed like, with every single play, he'd get tackled. The ground was frozen, hard and unforgiving. Each time, I winced. "I didn't think you liked football." I turned to find Spencer holding two steaming cups of apple cider. I took one and said, "I don't." "I'd watch competitive chess if that's what Connor Hughes wanted to play." I kept my eyes on the field. There was no denying what Spencer had seen in the library today. "Please don't tell anyone." "Of course I won't." The wind picked up, and Spencer pulled her furry jacket hood over her curls. "Why didn't you tell me that night at the diner?" There were so many reasons, so I picked one at random. "I thought you liked him."

She laughed. "Natalie, please. I like everyone. I am very good at crushing. But seriously, what Connor did today was no joke." She jabbed her finger into my chest. "And you barely thanked him!" Anger flickered up inside me. "What did you expect me to do, Spencer? Passionately kiss him? Offer him a gratis hand job? If I'd treated Connor differently than any other student who donated food, people would start to talk. And when people start talking...they don't stop. Trust me. Ms. Bee already suspects something. I know it." Spencer looked at me like I was crazy. "Don't be paranoid, Natalie. Nobody knows anything. And all I'm saying is that you should do something nice for him."

"Do you not see me standing here, bored out of my mind and nearly freezing to death?" Spencer laughed. "I hate to break it to you, but there's no way in hell Connor knows that you're here. You're not cheering for him, you're nowhere near our bleachers. You're practically standing in the parking lot." I looked through a hole in the chain link like it was a telescope. "Connor knows," I said. "He knows I'm here." Spencer didn't look convinced. And the more I thought about it, the less convinced I was, too. The only thing I felt sure of was that the cold wind suddenly felt much colder. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE That night, Connor waited for me outside, blowing puffs of white out of his nose, like little empty thought balloons. I got out and we started walking to the shed. It was the coldest night yet. Frozen mud crunched underneath my feet. "That was some battle, huh?" "Funny that the one game you do show up at, we lose. I don't normally look that shitty out there." He sighed. "I can't believe the season's over. I'm never going to play football again." I wrapped my mittened hand around his and pulled him to a stop. Connor turned to face me. I looked at his house in the distance. "Are you sure we won't get caught?" I was nervous, but smiling in spite of it. Mainly because I couldn't wait to see Connor's reaction. He did not disappoint. His mouth dropped open the tiniest bit. "Seriously?" "It's really cold," I said with a laugh. And it was. I wiped at my nose. He gave my hand a squeeze. "Just stay close to me." We sneaked up to the side of the house and entered through a back door into a pantry stocked with bags of rice, pastas, and glass jars filled with bright and bloated vegetables suspended in a yellowish water. We passed his kitchen and slipped through a dining room with a big oak farm table with chipped white paint and an iron chandelier with tiny linen lampshades. The whole house smelled spicy and sweet, like a pumpkin pie with extra nutmeg and clove. I felt exactly like I had that first night: giddy, nervous, excited, scared. All in a jumble. When we reached the big staircase in the foyer, we stopped. Connor pointed down a hallway. "My parents' room," he whispered. And then he motioned for me to climb on his back. "What?" This, I had not expected. "The stairs are old and creaky. There should only be one set of footsteps." He crouched down. I climbed as gracefully as I could up his spine. Which wasn't very graceful at all. You never think about how heavy you are until someone tries to pick you up. I felt like a sack of potatoes. Connor sucked in a sharp breath. "Are you okay?" "Yeah. I just got knocked around pretty bad today." Connor put his arms behind his back and linked them underneath my butt for extra stability. It helped. And despite his injuries, Connor's strength surprised me. His steps sounded light and not at all lumbering as we creaked our way up to the second floor. I rested my cheek against his flannel shirt and looked at all the family photos hanging on the wall. With each step up, Connor aged. He was a bright-eyed baby with so much brown hair, it almost looked like a toupee. Then Connor as a frowning kid, maybe seven, in a dress and covered with makeup, surrounded by four older girls who looked extremely entertained. "Looks like your sisters were a couple of bullies," I whispered in his ear. "Oh, yeah. They forced me to be their Barbie doll for years." Then Connor got older, probably junior high, with the rope of an old sled over his shoulder, pulling two of his sisters, who were beautiful, through the snow. Followed by Connor wearing an apron, helping his mom in the kitchen. Finally, there was recent Connor, the Connor who I clung to, standing next to his dad, each with an axe slung over his shoulder. It felt like a time warp, catching up to this moment in fast motion. I was learning about Connor in a way I never had. I wanted to go slower, I wanted to linger on every picture. When we reached the top of the stairs, I climbed down from his back. Braided rugs covered the wood floors. "My parents can't hear us now," he said, with such conviction that I couldn't help but think of the other girls he'd brought to his room, others he'd carried up the stairs, though I tried to push them out of my head. "Carlie and Corinne are home for Thanksgiving. I think they both went out with their old high school friends, but we should be quiet just in case." When Connor put his hand on his doorknob, I realized that I hadn't thought much about what his room might look like. I made a quick guess of typical messy boyness--clothes on the floor, a pile of sports magazines, maybe a poster of a race car or a busty woman holding two frothy beer steins. But Connor's room wasn't like that at all. It was clean. Not just neat, but spotless. His mirror was streak-free, the beige carpet was vacuumed. His bookshelf had no books, but trophies of varying heights. They sparkled, free of dust. It smelled fresh, like laundry just out of a dryer, even though all his clothes were put away. I took off my coat and hung it on the back of his desk chair. There was a stack of papers in a pile--spreadsheets crowded with numbers and figures, thicker than my AP Calc textbook. "What are these?" I asked. "Business plans, budgets, projections for next year." Connor sat down on his bed. I sat next to him. "I can't believe you're here," he said. "Why? You've had plenty of girls in here before." I regretted saying it. Because I didn't want to think about Connor with other girls, and because of the way Connor had gotten mad at me for bringing up how he'd lost his virginity. This time, though, he wasn't angry. He looked at me deeply and said, "Never a girl like you." And it didn't sound corny, and it didn't sound like a line or a lie, or any of the things I would have assumed when we first got together. Things were different now. I was different, ready to accept Connor for who he really was--a good guy who wouldn't do anything to hurt me. The realization that I implicitly, unconditionally trusted him overwhelmed me with warmth. Connor reached to turn his lamp off, but I guided his arm away. I wasn't scared of the light, of what Connor was about to see. I didn't want to hide anymore. He looked up at me with wide, almost disbelieving eyes as I lifted off my T-shirt and shimmied out of my pants. I unhooked my bra and slid down my underwear. I could tell Connor saw me the way I wanted to be seen. As beautiful, as strong. I expected to be nervous, but I felt confident in a way I never had in the shed. The moment was so different than what I'd imagined. There was no fear, no embarrassment. It was pure liberation. I took Connor's clothes off, too. His body was bruised. Wounded. Fragile. I lay down next to him and touched him extra gently. But I had to touch him. When I did, my hands were suddenly too small. They couldn't feel enough of him, hold enough of his skin. I didn't want any space in between our bodies. No light, no air, but a vacuum. I rolled on top of him and let gravity press us together. Lips, chest, abdomen, thighs. I wasn't planning to have sex with him. Only now it was all I wanted. My body and my mind and all my parts shouted that this was the right thing to do right now. I needed to be with Connor. I was in love with him. And that sudden clarity triggered an avalanche. I felt overcome with the freedom of feeling the feelings I'd worked so hard to hide. I stopped talking myself out of what I desperately wanted. "Do you have something we could use?" I whispered. "Wait." He pushed my hair so it fell over one shoulder. "This isn't because of today, is it? The Thanksgiving baskets? Because I don't want it to be like that." I could have cried. I'd pushed Connor away for so long, he had no idea how deeply I cared about him. My feelings had been locked up in that shed because I was afraid to let them out. Except now, for whatever reason, I wasn't scared to show him how I felt. It was the only thing I wanted to do. "It's not like that." Sex is something we learn about in abstract, clinical concepts. Condoms come with instructions, health class provides textbook illustrations of parts and procedures. I'd known how things were supposed to go, the actions, what would physically happen between us. But the thing I'd never understood were how brightly the feelings would spark. The absolute euphoria of knowing that Connor and I couldn't physically get any closer to each other. Connor kept quietly asking if I was okay. He seemed more unsure than I was, his quivering hands holding on to me, like he was off balance. He had more experience than I did, but I could tell that what we were doing was different from what he'd had with any other girl before. The entire world fell away until it was just me and Connor. Finally. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR I woke up to the morning sun on my face and Connor's arm draped across my chest. For a second, it felt like the best thing ever. And then I shot up. Connor lifted his head, glanced at the clock, and cursed under his breath. I was already standing, putting my clothes back on. My underwear and my bra were cold from having spent the night on the floor. I could barely look at Connor. It wasn't regret. Not exactly. But all the wonderful feelings from the night before had been replaced by dread. There was no way an accident like this could have happened in our shed. It was too cold, too uncomfortable. Maybe for a reason. "I've got to get out of here," I said. "How do I get out of here?" I knew I sounded panicked and crazy. And I was. Absolutely. I needed to get back to my house before my parents noticed I was missing. Connor opened his bedroom door a crack. He sniffed out in the hallway. "My mom's already cooking." Shit. It was Thanksgiving. We usually went to my Aunt Doreen's house, but Mom always woke up early to make a pie. "I need to go. Now." Connor raked his hands through his hair. "Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'll carry you downstairs. Then I'll go into the kitchen and distract my mom while you leave through the front door." My heart wilted. This wasn't at all fun or exciting, like it used to be to sneak out to the shed. I finished getting dressed while Connor put on sweats and a T-shirt. We didn't speak to each other. Connor seemed too tired for words, and I was too wide awake to be able to choose from the thousands that were swirling with alarm in my head. As Connor carried me down the stairs, I could hear his mother whistling from the kitchen. And apparently she could hear him, too. "Connor?" she called out. He stopped and I felt both of our hearts pounding together. "Yeah, Mom?" "You're up early." "I smelled your cooking." "Well, pancakes are just about ready. Go wake up your sisters and your father." Connor let me down when we reached the bottom step. The front door stood a few feet away. "Okay," he whispered. "Listen, I--" "I'll text you later," I whispered back, then pushed him toward the kitchen. Connor disappeared around a corner, and I stayed still until I heard him talking to his mom. Then I tiptoed to the front door and pulled it open. Or at least, I tried. But it was locked. I fiddled a hundred combinations with the dead bolt and the latch on the knob, and kept pulling as hard as I could. A toilet flushed. Upstairs, where Connor's sisters were supposed to be sleeping. My hand was cold and clammy on the brass knob. I heard footsteps descending the stairs behind me. The lock finally clicked and I pulled the door open. The cold slapped me in the face. That and the brightness. It had snowed about a foot overnight. White reflected everywhere. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me harder than I intended to. The brass knocker tapped a few times. I took off running to my car, leaving footsteps in the snow, evidence the whole way. Snow soaked into my pant legs, burned my ankles. My car was covered. I pulled my hands inside my coat and wiped off just enough so I could see. Then I jumped inside and turned on the car and hit the gas, my hands, my face, everything stinging red. As I turned down the driveway, I glanced back up at the house. Mrs. Hughes stood on the front porch, watching me go. Usually when I left Connor's house, I felt better than before I'd come. But not this time. My cell buzzed in the cup holder. I thought maybe it was Connor, but it was my parents. I scrolled through my call history. My home number filled up every single slot since five in the morning. I pulled over on the side of the road, cleaned off the rest of my windshield, and let the heater warm up. I tried to come up with a plan. My thoughts kept creeping back to what I'd done with Connor, flashes of skin and rushes of heat. But instead of enjoying the memories, I was imagining lies to cover the fact that it had happened.