Two-Way Street (14 page)

Day Two, 5:19 p.m.

I can do this. I can pretend I like Lloyd. I’ve been in school plays before. Well, not since junior high, and even then it was just a bit part that was akin to being in the chorus. I didn’t have any actual lines or anything. But still. I had to act through my facial expressions.

I’ve been standing outside Lloyd’s dorm for about ten minutes, my pink duffle bag slung over my shoulder and my cell phone in my hand. I want to call him, really I do, but for some reason, I can’t. Technically, I can’t get into the building unless he comes down to get me, since they have some sort of swipe card system to get in the dorms. I guess it’s for security reasons, although there have already been two helpful students who have offered to swipe me in. So much for secure dorms.

“Courtney?” I turn around and there’s Lloyd, standing behind me.

“Oh!” I say. “Hi! I was just about to call you.” I hold up my cell phone, to prove my point. It’s not like I’m lying. I really was about to call him. Or at least, I was about to
try
to call him. And effort should count for something.

“I came down, just in case you couldn’t find the dorm.” He wraps his arms around me and I lean into his body. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmurs into my hair. I bury my face into his neck and try to make myself feel something, anything for him. I wrack my brain for all the things I loved about him while I lusted after him for the past six years. His arms, which I always thought were really buff, now just feel…I don’t know, hard. Okay, not the arms, not the arms. Hmm. I used to spend a lot of time thinking about kissing him. But now that I’ve actually kissed him, I can’t really think about what it would be like anymore, because I’ve already done that. And it wasn’t bad exactly, but it wasn’t great either. Nothing like kissing Jordan.

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” I say, sort of meaning it. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Lloyd and I, but being out of that car can only be a good thing.

“Let’s get your stuff inside,” Lloyd says. He takes my pink duffle bag, and I follow him into the dorm.

Two hours later, I feel like I might want to kill myself. It all started when I got a glimpse of Lloyd’s closet. For some weird reason, Lloyd must have decided that when he unpacked all his stuff, it would be a good idea to start with his clothes. Actually, not all his clothes, but just his polo shirts. So now his room is pretty bare, but his closet, which is open, has all these polo shirts hanging in it. For some reason, this seems weird to me. I keep thinking about this one time when Jordan called Lloyd “Polo Boy” by accident in front of me.

I was on the phone with Jordan, and I clicked over to the other line, and when I came back, Jordan was like, “Was that Polo Boy?”

And I was all, “Who?”

And Jordan was like, “Nothing.”

Apparently he and B. J. call Lloyd “Polo Boy” and he accidentally let it slip. He thought I’d be pissed, but I wasn’t. At the time, I actually found it really, really funny. But now, looking at all the shirts hanging up in Lloyd’s closet, something about it is kind of…disturbing. Does he not like any other shirts? Does he even have any other shirts? I think I saw him in a T-shirt once. When we were in the same gym class.

“So I see you unpacked all your clothes,” I say, running my hands down the line of shirts in the closet.

“Yup,” he says. He’s sitting on the bed, and I know I’m supposed to probably go sit down next to him, but I’m afraid if I do, he might start trying to kiss me or something, and I really, really don’t want that to happen. I’m hoping that maybe if I hang out with him a little longer, I’ll start feeling more comfortable. This is, after all, the very first time we’ve hung out since we hooked up. And hooking up with him couldn’t have been that bad. I mean, it went on for a while. We were making out for at least an hour or two, and I can’t see myself doing that if it was really, really bad.

“Cool,” I say. For some reason, I can’t stop looking at his shirts. Or touching them. I’m, like, stroking his shirts right now. Over and over, like some sort of shirt pervert.

“Come sit down,” Lloyd says, patting the spot on the bed next to him.

“Okay,” I say uncertainly. I sit down next to him.

“So what do you want to do tonight?’ He takes my hand in his, and interlaces his fingers with mine. I don’t know what to do. I have no plan. I figured Jordan would be hanging out with us, at least for a little while, and that I would have to pretend to be interested in Lloyd when I really wasn’t. But now, I realize that was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever thought in my life. Jordan and Lloyd don’t like each other. Why would we all hang out?

“Uh, I don’t know,” I say, looking around the room. I realize I’m supposed to sleep here tonight, and suddenly, I feel like I’m going to throw up.

“Maybe just hang out here,” Lloyd says. His index finger is now making circles on the back of my hand. I try to slide out of his grip without him noticing, but I think he thinks I’m stroking his hand, because he grabs it. Hard. Normally, I like a guy who knows what he’s doing, but this feels, um, kind of weird.

“Or maybe we could go somewhere,” I say. “Like to a movie.” Actually, wait, bad idea. Visions of dark movie theaters and Lloyd rubbing my hand definitely does not make me feel comfortable.

“A movie sounds good,” he says. His mouth is against my neck now, and I can feel his breath while he’s talking. Which you think would feel good, but for some reason, I’m now thinking of Lloyd as being Polo Boy, defined only by his polo shirts, and therefore, his breath has now become polo breath. I am definitely about to have another breakdown.

“Or!” I say. “You could show me the campus.” A walking tour sounds good. A walking tour sounds very safe, something high school kids do with their parents. Something that we’d have to be standing up to do. Although I suppose people do kiss and make out (and have sex?) standing up. But it would be in public. So it would be limited.

“You really want to see the campus right now?” Lloyd asks. He turns my head toward his and kisses me. He’s kissing me. Right now, his tongue is in my mouth. I’m kissing him back. It doesn’t feel horrible, but it doesn’t feel right either. It’s like we have no kissing chemistry or something.

“Lloyd,” I say, breaking away. “I think we should go somewhere, I mean, we have the whole night to…” I’m trying to figure out a way to say “hook up” without actually saying “hook up” when I suddenly realize that I don’t have to hook up with him. Jordan is gone. I don’t have to pretend to want to hook up with Lloyd.

“I’m sorry,” Lloyd says, talking into my neck. “I don’t want you to think I just want to mess around.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. In a way, it actually might be better if he does just want to hook up. Because then, when I tell him it can’t happen, he won’t be that upset. It won’t be like there are feelings involved or anything. He’ll just be like, “Oh, okay, I’ll just find some other girl to hook up with. La, la, la.” And then we can go back to being friends. Friends that have kissed. And made out a little. And then visited each other at college, where someone decided they didn’t want to hook up anymore. Hmmm.

“Because I really do like you, Courtney,” he says. “I never told you this, but when you were with Jordan, it made me realize that I’ve had feelings for you all this time.”

“Oh.” Great. I look at Lloyd, and suddenly, I feel like a horrible person. What am I doing? Messing with my best friend’s head so that I can make some guy who made up a fake girlfriend jealous? That’s completely and totally insane. It’s like I don’t even realize who I am anymore.

“Lloyd, listen,” I say. “I can’t stay here.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, looking confused. He takes my hand again.

“I just can’t stay here,” I repeat. I feel like I’m suffocating. I’m thinking about Jordan making up the MySpace girl, and being here with Lloyd, and I just can’t take it. I need to get out of there. Immediately.

“What are you talking about?” he says.

“This,” I say, gesturing. “I just…I can’t. I’ll call you later.” I pick up my bag, sling it over my shoulder. I need to get outside. Fast.

Lloyd calls after me, but I ignore it, and once I get outside, I feel much better. I take a deep breath. That was the right thing to do. I couldn’t stay there, especially after he told me that he liked me. That would have been cruel. And horrible. But now I realize I have no plan. I don’t know where to go, where to stay, or what to do. I head back to Jordan’s car, figuring at least that’s sort of a central location. And maybe he’ll be hanging out there for some reason, and I’ll just be able to weasel my way into spending the night in his brother’s room.

But when I get to where Jordan’s car was parked, he’s not there. And his car is gone.

Day Two, 6:43 p.m.

I’m sitting in a motel down the street from Middleton contemplating my life when my cell phone rings. It’s B. J., and I want to ignore it, but from what I could tell, he was at some party and he might need help. Not that there’s anything much I can do from North Carolina, but still. He could have alcohol poisoning or something. Plus, if he’s not in any kind of trouble, I’m going to bitch him out for telling Jocelyn I told him she was the one following him. How is it that I am away from home, and yet I still have all this drama? I’ve spent the past half an hour on the computer in the lobby, on Courtney’s MySpace page, reading the comment Lloyd left her, and then scrolling back through ALL her comments, trying to find some clue of exactly what happened. Did they have sex? I checked his page, too, but she hasn’t left any comments for him since they hooked up. Although ominously enough, he’s changed his “relationship status” from “single” to “in a relationship,” which is slightly suspect. The information age is so psychotic—without the cell phone and Internet, I would be drama free right now.

“Yeah,” I say into the phone, hoping my tone conveys the idea that I’m pissed, but will still help him if he’s dying.

“’Sup, kid?” B. J. asks. He doesn’t sound like he’s alcohol poisoned. I kick my shoes off and sit down on the hotel room bed. I hate hotel rooms. There’s something unreal about them, and temporary, like you’re on borrowed time or something.

“Nothing,” I say, making sure to keep it short.

“Listen,” B. J. says. “I’m drunk.”

“Okay.” He’s talking, which means he can’t be too drunk. So he’s probably calling to apologize. I’m upset that he didn’t call until he was shit-faced, but I guess a drunken apology is better than no apology at all.

“I have to tell you something,” B. J. says, sounding nervous. I consider telling him I already know, but then decide it’s more fun to make him squirm for a while.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” I pick up the remote and turn on the TV. That’s another thing about hotel rooms. You have to pay ten dollars to order movies. Movies should come with your hotel room. It should be a perk, like the pool.

“First, let me just say that I’m really, really sorry,” B. J. says.

“Mm-hmm,” I say. I flip through the channels, wondering if the Devil Rays game will be on TV in North Carolina. I turn to ESPN, but for some reason, they’re showing the Cardinals game, which makes no sense, since the Cardinals play in St. Louis, and Tampa is much closer to North Carolina than St. Louis is. I wait for the little bar at the bottom of the screen to show the game update.

“And I want you to know that I wasn’t thinking when I did it. It’s just that Jocelyn really had me by the balls.”

“Okay,” I say, sighing. Tampa’s losing 4–0 to the Yankees. Fucking Yankees. I’m actually glad that the game isn’t being shown now, because if I was watching it, I’d get pissed.

“So,” B. J. says. “Uh, the thing is, that I kind of told Jocelyn about the MySpace girl.” Pause. “But don’t worry, she’s not going to tell anyone,” he adds quickly.

“You told her what about the MySpace girl?” I ask, sighing. This MySpace girl is really starting to become a pain in my ass. It’s impossible to remember what I’ve told people about her. It wasn’t as simple as just telling Courtney I had a new girlfriend. I had to tell other people as well, to get the word out. In fact, the only one who knows the truth about the whole thing is B. J. I didn’t plan the MySpace girl well enough—I should have written down all her vital stats, so that I could keep track of who I told what to. I wonder if I should stage a MySpace breakup.

“I told Jocelyn about her,” B. J. repeats.

“Yes, B. J.,” I say, forcing myself to keep my patience because I know he’s drunk. “But what did you tell Jocelyn about the MySpace girl?” Fifty bucks says whatever he told Jocelyn, Courtney already knows. Those two tell each other everything.

“I told her the truth about her. About how you made her up.” I’m sure I’ve misheard him.

“I’m sure I’ve misheard you,” I say, muting the television. B. J. is not that stupid. He wouldn’t do something so ridiculously stupid. Would he? I think about all the stupid things B. J. has done in the past, and suddenly, I feel sick.

“Now, don’t start freaking out,” B. J. says, sounding nervous again, because I’m sure I sound like I’m about to flip the fuck out. “Jocelyn said she wasn’t going to tell Courtney.”

“And you believed her?” I ask incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?” I add, borrowing a line from my brother. “They tell each other everything! Every single thing! Courtney probably knows how big your dick is!”

B. J. gasps. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m yelling or because Courtney might know how big his dick is. Probably a little bit of both.

“I can’t believe you told her!” Suddenly, I’m irate. This uncontrollable anger is coming over me, and I think it’s everything—the whole situation with my parents, my brother kicking me out of his dorm, being in this fucking hotel room when the Devil Rays are losing to the Yankees, the whole situation with Courtney and the MySpace girl…I’m pissed off. More pissed than I’ve ever been in my life. And at that moment, Courtney’s dad decides to beep in on my call waiting.

“What!” I say when I get to the other line. I don’t even bother telling B. J. to hold on. Either he’ll figure it out or think I hung up on him. Either way is fine with me.

“Hey,” Frank says. He always acts like we’re the best of friends, which could quite possibly be the most annoying thing about him.

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to check in, see how the trip is going,” he says. “I tried Courtney’s cell phone, but she’s not answering it.”

“It’s over,” I say, not realizing I mean it until the words are out of my mouth.

“What is?” he asks, sounding confused.

“I’m telling her the truth.” And with that, I hang up on both B. J. and Courtney’s dad, shut my cell phone off, and head out of the motel to find Courtney.