You, Maybe (11 page)

“Mom . . .”

“Please tell me you’re using protection, and I mean condoms plus something else—are you on the pill?”

“I’m not using anything, Mom.”
I am only fifteen years old. I’m in over my head as it is and I am nowhere near needing birth control.

“Josie! You have to use something,” my mother screeched. “Are you an idiot? Not using anything? That’s suicide!” She turned to look at me and the car lurched into the other lane again.

“Mom!” I grabbed onto the door handle for dear life. “Please watch the road or you’ll kill us today, before I ever get the chance to lose my virginity!”

“Oh,” said Mom. “You’re still, you’re not . . . oh. Okay.”

“Disappointed?” I asked her.

“No! That’s good. Phew. I just thought, I mean, he looks so, grown up. So big.”

“Mom!”

“What? I mean, usually you hang around with Michael, or Zandra and Tru. You just haven’t had a lot of experience and Carson Gold seems like a, like he’d want you to . . . Phew. Okay. Good. Only Josie? I don’t want to lecture you.”

“But . . .”

“Not that you’d listen.”

“I wouldn’t,” I agreed.

She gave a snorting little laugh. “Your hairstyle may change but . . .”

“Some things won’t,” I finished for her. “No.”

“All I’m saying is, go to Planned Parenthood with a friend if you won’t let me bring you to my doctor. Maybe this new friend, Alabama.”

“Emelina,” I said.

“Whatever,” said Mom. “Does she drive?”

“Definitely,” I told her.

“Fine. Get her to take you. If you’re going to do adult things you have to be adult about them. Sex is serious stuff, and I don’t mean just intercourse, either.”

“Mom!” I felt like my brain might explode. “Stop talking! I told you I’m not even doing it.”

“When you start having sex, Josie, you have to protect yourself.”

“Don’t you always?” I asked.

“Always what?”

“Have to protect yourself?”

“What are you talking about, Josephine? You know how it all works, right?”

“Yes, Mom,” I groaned. “I was being metaphorical.”

She sighed. I know she thinks metaphorical is a synonym for annoying. But then her hand moved toward me. I thought for a second she was going to hold my hand or something, so I held very still.

She just adjusted the heat. It would’ve been weird if she had tried to hold my hand, anyway.

Twenty-two

ON THE WAY
up in the car, I turned to Carson and said, “So I cancelled the party I was supposed to do this weekend.”

“Josie does birthday parties,” Carson told Margo and Frankie, who were, as usual, making out in the backseat.

“Children’s birthday parties,” I clarified. “I’m a clown, you know, magic and everything.”

“We know,” Frankie said, coming up for air. “Remember? At the Eagles game?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said. That seemed like two lifetimes ago, a different girl.

“You canceled a party this weekend?” Margo asked.

Carson reached over and squeezed my leg, left his hand there, heavy and warm. Good.

I turned around to talk to Margo. “It’s a kind of funny story,” I said, hoping it was. “The girl’s name is Daisy Dang.”

Margo smiled. I took a breath and reminded myself to talk soft.

“She’s turning five years old on Saturday, and they’d been planning on me for a month. Her parents had ordered a $100 clown cake made with my likeness on it, from a photo taken at Daisy’s best friend’s party in October.”

“Wow,” Margo said, encouragingly.

So I continued. “Yeah. Mrs. Dang cried when I called to cancel.”

“Mrs. Dang cried?” Margo asked.

I nodded. I liked playing the Emelina role. Carson’s eyes stayed on the road but Margo and Frankie were leaning forward. I continued even a little softer: “Daisy Dang’s father called me later, vowing to email every person in a fifty-mile radius with a child under ten and tell them how I had broken his daughter’s heart. He said the extent to which he was going to ruin my business would match how badly I had ruined his daughter’s birthday. He asked what I could possibly be doing that would justify my breach of contract and trust.”

“Whoa,” Margo exhaled. “What did you tell him?”

“What could I?” I checked Carson’s face. He seemed to be enjoying the story, too. “I just told him something came up. He said I should be ashamed of myself.”

“And are you?” Carson asked.

“No,” I said.

I watched for his smile, but it didn’t come. Why? I sunk down in my seat, thinking
Great, now Carson is probably angry at me.
Maybe the story wasn’t funny. Maybe it came off sounding boastful.
Oh, I hate myself
, I thought.

Margo and Frankie went back to breathing heavy in the backseat. They obviously have sex with each other.
Maybe that’s what I need to do
, I thought. Maybe that would solve the problem. Am I really ready for that? I am only fifteen! Not that I thought I would necessarily wait until I got married but, I mean, one of my best friends hasn’t even kissed anybody yet. The other, well, even Zandra hasn’t gone all the way. Carson and I have gone farther than I’d ever gone with Michael—touched each other everywhere, shirts off, pants on. But having sex is a whole different thing. How far would I be willing to go this weekend?

I should have called Zandra and Tru to discuss it with them. I just didn’t feel like I could. That made me feel lonelier than anything. I would have to figure this out alone. Fine, maybe that’s good for me. Nobody was talking to me in the car anyway so I had plenty of time to talk to myself.

I love him, I told myself. If you love somebody you will do anything for him. If I love you, Carson, will you love me? Should I do everything with you? I have never been naked in front of anybody since I stopped wearing diapers. What would it feel like to be naked with you?

I watched him drive in silence. “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“Huh?” he asked. “Nothing.”

I sat there in lumpy silence, wishing he would sweep me off my feet again, like in the beginning. What if he is already getting bored of me? What if I am getting bored of him? Yeah, right. But clearly I had done something wrong, to be getting this silent treatment from him.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling ready to cry, to offer to be dropped off on the side of the road with my suitcase and cell phone, to call my mother to come pick me up and listen to her tell me all the way home that I should never have expected Carson Gold to love me.

“Sorry for what?” He glanced over at me.

“For whatever I did wrong,” I said.

“Did you do something?”

I shrugged. “Why are you not talking to me?”

“I’m just driving.” He moved his hand from the gearshift onto my leg. “Do you like snowmobiling?”

“I love it,” I said.

He shot me a look. “Have you ever gone snowmobiling before?”

“No,” I said.

He smiled. God, I hate his smile, I love it so much.

“Hey,” Frankie piped up from the back seat. “Are we going to that rib place tonight for dinner?”

“Yuck,” Margo said. “Why don’t we pick up pizzas, like when we came in the summer? That place was great.”

“Maybe I’ll make my famous chili,” Carson suggested.

“Ew, not again,” Frankie said.

“Have you had his chili yet, Josie?” Margo asked.

“No,” I said.

“Lucky you,” they both answered, cracking themselves up. “Let’s go out, please,” Margo begged.

I was really happy I had put all my money in my wallet, just in case. I wasn’t sure how the whole thing was going to work, and I really had nobody to ask.

“What do you think, Josie?” Carson asked me quietly. He rubbed my leg. “Ribs? Pizza? Chili? What do you want to do tonight?”

“You, maybe,” I whispered. The one answer I knew I knew.

Twenty-three

Margo and I were sharing a room. She told me as we put our suitcases on our beds that during the night one of us would sneak into the boys’ room. That way, both couples could have some private time. She said it casually, like, of course. I nodded like, of course, too, silently thanking her for not mentioning the fact that of the four of us coming into the house together I was the only one with a rolling suitcase instead of a duffel bag. Or the fact that Emelina’s grandmother knew Carson so well. I wondered if that moment when Gingy wouldn’t let go of Carson’s hand and told him she had bought all the ingredients for his wonderful chili was as awkward for Daniel as it had been for me.

Emelina and Daniel, meanwhile, were downstairs with the rest of the group, some seniors who were friends with Emelina. I was pretty thankful to have Margo around. She was on teams, too, so they all knew her. Not that anybody was nasty or snide, in fact the opposite: Everybody was extremely friendly to me, all smiles and
Love your coat—is it vintage?
No, I had answered, just old. They all cracked up. Turns out I’m funny. I was trying to relax. These people were just nice and gorgeous, why should that repel me?

Margo used the bathroom first, then I went, and I have to admit I was relieved she was sitting on her bed waiting for me when I got back to our room. “Your hair is different,” Margo remarked, as we went down the stairs.

“Last time I cut it myself,” I admitted.

“Really? I liked it,” she said. “This is nice, too, but that was more, you know . . .”

“Different?”

“Yeah.”

When we got to the great room, everybody was playing poker. Margo sat on the arm of Frankie’s chair. I kind of hovered near Carson, who was deep in concentration. He laid down a card and collected the pot of chips. “Yes!”

“Lucky hand?” Margo said.

Carson grabbed me by the hips and pulled me onto his lap. “Yes,” he said. “Very lucky. Both of them.”

So it was all okay, and I coasted on that for the rest of the evening. He felt lucky to have me there, and that made it all worth it. I helped him cut up habanero peppers and plum tomatoes for his chili, which really wasn’t so bad (though I only had a little; if your mother works in the gas-relieving industry, you become wary of beans) and turned down a slice of pizza (for similar reasons). Carson wrapped his arms around me as I washed the dishes, and then snuggled with me under a blanket in front of the fire. I felt his fingers tracing the bottom hem of my sweater.

“Yawn,” he whispered.

I yawned. He yawned. Soon everybody was yawning, stretching, mentioning how tuckered out they were and how they were looking forward to an early start.

“Everybody talks about teenagers staying up all night,” Pops said, standing up. “You all go to sleep before we do!” He headed toward his bedroom.

“Or at least to bed,” Gingy said, with a glint in her eye, and followed him in. “Sleep tight!” she called. “Emelina, I’ll be in to give you a kiss in a little while.”

“Okay, Gingy,” Emelina said, grinning. “Let’s go to bed. Who’s coming with me?”

A bunch of guys raised their hands. Their girlfriends swatted them down. Emelina grabbed one of the girls and they went off to Emelina’s room, holding hands. We all watched her go, then headed our separate ways. As I followed Margo into our room, I saw Carson lingering at the door to his and Frankie’s. He was watching me. I slowed down, held onto the doorframe. We stared at each other for a minute, then went to our rooms to change, and wait.

Margo went to the bathroom with her cosmetic case and a little bundle of pajamas to change into. I sat on my bed and tried to call Zandra on my cell, for an ego boost. No service, not one single bar. I felt a little like I did the first time I went on a sleepover, when I was six and didn’t sleep one bit because I felt a million miles from home. I reminded myself that I was fifteen now, not six, and it didn’t matter that I was far from home. My parents had the address and phone number up here; Carson had written it down for me to give them on a plain white index card and I had taped it to the kitchen wall where we don’t have a bulletin board. It’s only two days. And two nights. I am fifteen years old! Anyway, there wasn’t going to be an emergency. If there were, they could just call me at the number I left for them, if they can’t get through on my cell phone. No problem. And I could always ask Gingy if I needed to call them. Which I wouldn’t.

I pulled out my pajamas and sat in a yoga pose to calm myself down. I had brought the flannel pants with yellow duckies on them, and an orange camisole with a built-in bra. Not the most comfortable thing to sleep in but I thought a T-shirt might look too dumpy. When Margo came out of the bathroom in a pink tank top with little tennis racquets crossed above her left boob and matching shorts with “love-love” scrawled across the butt, I realized I may as well have packed the comfy T-shirt. My stuff wasn’t the right stuff anyway.

She sat on her bed with crossed legs.

I knew I should shut up and go to the bathroom but I hesitated. “Can I ask you something?” I asked her, redundantly. “I need a, sort of a, girlfriend lesson.”

“Sure,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Um, so, you’re in love with Frankie, right?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

She thought about that for a minute, then said, “I’m happier when I’m with him. I’m stronger, more daring, more open. You know how when you’re ten, you are so much who you are? When I was ten I was like the senior of being a kid. I was into sports, of course, but I was also into politics, I read the paper, I organized a recycling drive, I did cartwheels just because I felt happy. Didn’t you?”

“Well,” I said, “I have never done a cartwheel. Maybe I’ve never been that happy.”

“No, you know what I mean. I was strong. And then in middle school I don’t know what happened exactly but I kind of got scared. I was tense a lot, and I started watching the other girls more than the news. And me—I used to inspect myself in the mirror, agonizing over every flaw.”

“You have flaws?” I asked her. “You’re perfect.”

“My eyes are too close together, my lips are like a duck’s, one of my ears is pointy . . .” She showed me. It was true. “Please. But the thing is, when I started going out with Frankie, he liked my pointy ear. I used to hide it all the time, in fear that somebody would see it. He calls it my elf ear. I don’t know.” She flopped down on the bed. “And he needs me, too. He has never said the words
I love you
to anybody but me. He doesn’t decide anything without asking me, because he trusts my judgment so much. Even about college. Well, partly because I’ll apply early wherever he goes. He’s my best friend.”

“Wow,” I said.

“When I’m not with him,” she went on, the words rushing out of her, “I think about him all the time—what he would think, or say, how he would calm me down and help me roll with it, with whatever. And when I’m with him, it’s just—easy. This might sound weird, but I’m more like I was when I was ten. Minus the cartwheels, plus a little, you know, different kind of physical stuff. I guess I know I’m in love with Frankie because I’m more like myself when I’m with him.”

“Sounds like love,” I admitted.

She flipped onto her stomach and looked at me. “How about you, with Carson?”

Before I could answer, there was a very faint knock on the door. She jumped up to open it and let Frankie in. “Hey, elf,” I heard him whisper.

I picked up my pajamas and my cosmetic bag. “Bye,” I said, on my way out. I don’t think they heard me. In the bathroom I changed, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and reapplied a little bit of mascara. I wadded up my clothes and shoved them, on top of my cosmetic case, into a corner between the sink and the bathtub. Sneaking down the hall to Carson’s room, I heard the floorboards squeaking like cannon booms.

The door opened before I knocked. Carson was standing in a white T-shirt and white boxers and his ragg-wool socks. He pulled me into the room and kissed me, his arms closing the door behind me and then wrapping me up, pulling me close. We kissed standing there in the middle of room for a few minutes, until he pulled gently away. He took off his T-shirt. There was my earring, still hanging from the string around his neck. I touched it with my finger. He took my finger and kissed it lightly, then pulled me gently toward the far bed.

I followed him, but when he sat down, I stayed standing. He pulled gently on my hand, and said, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I whispered.

“Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not.” I started lifting the bottom of my camisole, edging it above my belly button, taking my time. His eyes flicked from my belly to my eyes and down again, and when they didn’t come back up, I turned around and let him watch my back as I pulled the camisole off. I turned my head to make sure he was still watching.

“Oh, Josie,” he said.

“It’s all coming off,” I whispered, crossing my arms over my chest. It was absolutely freezing in there. “I want to be completely naked with you.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you, Carson.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Do you love me?” I asked. “Tell me you love me.”

“Josie,” he said.

“What?” I was starting to shiver.

“Come on. Come here. You’re shivering.”

My teeth started to chatter. “That’s a no? You don’t love me?”

Carson stood up. I scrunched down on the floor and grabbed my camisole. “Josie, why are you doing this? Come on. Do you want to fool around or you want to fight?”

“Say it,” I said. “Say you don’t love me.”

I watched his feet, so near my head, in their adorable socks. His toes gripped the floor and then relaxed. “I don’t love you.”

I pressed my camisole against my naked chest. “Why did you drag me up here? Do you know what I did for you?”

“Not the martyr routine again.” He walked away. “I asked if you wanted to come. Whatever you did, you did for yourself, not for me. Don’t blame me for your choices, Josie. I mean really. Grow up.”

I swallowed. He was right. “But I love you,” I said, my voice sounding weirdly strangled. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

I didn’t wait for his answer. I dashed out of the room with the camisole pressed against my naked body, praying nobody would be in the hall, and ducked into the bathroom. With the door locked, I pulled on my camisole, and then my sweater from my pile of clothes. I climbed into the cold, dry bathtub and had a long silent cry.

When I was all cried out, I looked at myself in the mirror for a while. Then I sat on the closed toilet, trying to plan my next move. It was Friday night and I was stranded in the Poconos, with no way to get home, and nobody to love me. He doesn’t love me. I considered crying about that all over again but I guess I was done.

If Carson comes to the bathroom, I will forgive him, I decided. I can’t make him love me. I don’t really even need that. I love him. That could be enough, and maybe eventually he’ll love me. Less than two weeks ago he said he thought he could fall in love with me. Maybe what he meant tonight was that he doesn’t love me yet, that he needs more time. Obviously. And I was rushing him. I was pressuring him.

I am such a jerk. Why am I so pushy? I don’t need to forgive him; I have to ask him to forgive me! What did he do wrong? I asked him a question and at least he respected me enough to answer honestly. Most boys would’ve been like sure, whatever, I love you, keep taking off your clothes. Not that I’m such a prize, naked, but if you believe some people, boys don’t care. Well, but that’s not true, I don’t think. Michael wouldn’t say he loved me just to get me naked; he just loves me. And Carson could’ve, but chose not to. Did I want him to lie? I should go apologize for freaking out like that, for rushing him, for blaming him. I should beg him to start the night over, fresh.

But I can’t go back in there
, I thought. I will not be that girl chasing him around. No, not me, no way.
Maybe he’s gathering the courage to come back in here right now,
I thought. Maybe he’ll make some sort of grand gesture to show me he may not yet love me, but he is now teetering on the edge of falling in love with me.

I stood up fast and washed my face. He could be in here any second. No swollen eyes! Yuck! How could he love me when I look like a monster? I filled the sink with icy water and plunged my face into it. I stayed in there holding my breath for as long as I could stand it, then did it again and again until I had a headache. I dried off and applied my makeup as carefully as I could, curling my eyelashes, smudging on just a subtle bit of shadow.

Beside my feet was Margo’s cosmetic case. I opened it. Yes, lip gloss. I used some and put it back carefully. She wouldn’t mind, probably, I told myself. She’s so nice. Frankie loves her. They’re best friends. Why aren’t Carson and I best friends?

When I was as good as I could make myself look, I sat down on the toilet to wait. I allowed myself to check my watch only at five-minute intervals, telling myself if I checked in under five minutes, I would jinx it and he wouldn’t come.

After half an hour I started considering the possibility that he wasn’t coming anyway. After an hour I washed the makeup off again. My face felt raw from so much scrubbing in one night. I crawled into the bathtub and pulled the shower curtain closed. There were frighteningly lifelike pictures of goldfish on the liner, and a white terry curtain outside. I counted the goldfish to keep from being scared or sad. I got lost in the sixties a few times but kept counting until, eventually, as the light started coming in through the window above my head, I fell asleep.