High School Lover Read online

  “The way you look and dress, I guess. It just seems like your type of music.”

  “Yeah, I like Iggy Pop and Nirvana, too; who doesn’t like Nirvana? Actually, if you want to know about the Seattle scene, you need to listen to Mudhoney. They were the founding fathers of grunge.” Of course, he would be the authority on music, and I felt like I was out of my element when talking about it. He added, “I also like other genres, just not the crap they play on the radio. So, what do you listen to? Taylor Swift?” He said her name as though he’d swallowed something distasteful.

  “No,” I denied as I scrunched my face up, but in reality, I’d lip-synched a few of her songs as I danced around in my bedroom. “I listen to a lot of alternative music and classic rock.”

  We shared some of the bands both old and new we both liked—the Strokes, Nine Inch Nails, Pixies, Arctic Monkeys, MGMT, Radiohead, and the White Stripes.

  “Hey, this is a cool album.” He pulled out an old Rolling Stones record.

  “You want to hear it?” He nodded and pulled the record out of the sleeve as I opened the door to the cabinets of the entertainment center that held a turntable and CD player.

  We both sat down on the floor and listened and talked more about the music we had in common. I knew his interests ran a little more hardcore than mine, but it was great we could find some common ground. As we talked, he seemed a lot nicer and not so smart-assy. He told me about his fascination with vintage albums, and from what he described he had a vast collection.

  Sitting crossed-legged and side-by-side on the floor, we listened to the melancholy sound of guitar seep through the speakers as the Stones’ “Play with Fire” began.

  I turned to Andrew. “I feel like we’re having a Wes Anderson moment.”

  “The Royal Tenenbaums. Great movie.” He nudged me and said jokingly, “But you’re not my pathological lying stepsister.”

  “And you’re definitely not my disturbed, suicidal stepbrother who is in love with me.” I shouldered him back as we both smiled at each other like we shared some silly, illicit secret.

  “I thought you were working on a project.” My mom’s voice ripped through the peaceful moment. She passed through the door and approached us with a sour look on her face as if someone had shoved a stick up her ass. Unfortunately, this was her usual demeanor. She stopped in front of us with her mouth taut.

  “We were, Mother, but we finished. We’re just listening to some of your old records. This is Andrew.”

  “Hello.” Mom was polite as always, but she gave me a warning glance meaning that we would have a serious discussion later. Finally, she left us alone after subtly narrowing her eyes at Andrew.

  There was an awkward silence as we listened to the music. Finally, Andrew stood up and stretched. He had on a flannel shirt that was open over a more fitted black T-shirt, and the hem of the shirt rose and showed a flash of his tight stomach and the beginnings of his happy trail. I blushed but continued to stare nevertheless.

  “I think I better go,” he said as I made a move to stand, and he held out one hand to help me. His huge hand was warm as it enveloped mine. As soon as I was on my feet our hands dropped.

  I walked him to the door.

  “See you later.”

  He put his fist out. “Pound it.”

  “What?” My face heated up.

  “Fist bump.”

  “Oh.”

  After showing Andrew out, I passed by the kitchen on my way to my room. My mother was sitting in a chair at the large kitchen island, toying with the stem of her wine glass. Her head twisted in my direction when she sensed my presence. “I’d like a word with you.”

  I braced myself as I watched her take a long, slow sip. White wine was her favorite. She carefully set the glass down and fingered her perfectly styled, toffee-colored hair. My mom loved to draw out the suspense and make you stew and wonder what she would say. “About?” My voice broke the silence.

  “Loren, I have to say I was very concerned when I walked in and heard you two talking about suicide and incest. I don’t find it funny at all. In fact, I find it disturbing. Who is this boy? And I overheard him earlier asking for alcohol.” Are you kidding me? My mom was overreacting again. Was she spying on us? I wouldn’t doubt it. My mother was a helicopter parent times ten. She was someone to talk about drinking. She’d constantly lectured me on not drinking in high school as she indulged herself in a glass, or several, of wine almost every night.

  “We were talking about a movie, and Andrew was kidding about wanting a drink.”

  “Again, I don’t understand that kind of humor. I worry about your choice in friends. I know you and Mike are close and I’m fine with that. We’ve known Mike for years, and he’s a sweet kid. I feel sorry for him because his parents are worthless, bless his heart.” She made Mike sound like a charity case, and she was Mother Teresa for allowing him to socialize with us as though we were doing him a huge favor. Mom inhaled and pursed her lips. “I wish you would make more of an effort to hang out with people who are—”

  “Popular?” I threw it out because I knew that’s what she meant. Sonya Douglas never let me forget her high school pedigree—homecoming queen three years in a row, captain of the cheerleading squad, captain of the basketball team, class president, most likely to succeed, blah, blah, blah. She’d married her high school sweetheart, Trey, my father, who was the star quarterback. Fortunately, Dad had moved on in life and acted like a normal human being. Mom…not so much. She didn’t just dwell in the past, she dove in and wallowed in it. Maybe it was because she didn’t work nor did she have a hobby. Her hobby was gossiping with other moms about what the kids at school were doing.

  “Yes, Loren, popular. Why do you make it sound like a bad word? I just want you to associate with people who are going to be successful in life. You need to set your goals higher. You’re very pretty and, if you had a little more confidence, you could have a lot of friends. I remember a time…” My mind shut down as she told another glorified story about herself. The same story I’d heard over and over and over. I wanted to scream. Why is this so important to you? Why are you constantly on my case? Why do I always feel like we’re in a competition? But I knew she would get defensive and tell me I was being irrational. She never rode my brother like this. It seemed Doug was the ideal child who could do no wrong. Her baby boy.

  I poured myself a glass of milk. “Do you think you need to drink milk this late at night? It’s only empty calories you don’t need.” Add my weight to her list of concerns about me. She was constantly on my case about what I ate and never failed to mention those “pesky five pounds” that I needed to lose to be perfect.

  I downed the drink in silent rebellion and slammed the glass down. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Honey, don’t be angry. I’m looking out for you. You know that.” I had to admit she was a pro at making me feel like the aggressor although she was the one who kept poking me with the stick.

  “I’m not angry.” I sighed, counting silently to ten to keep my sanity. “I’m tired. Goodnight, Mom.”

  “Goodnight. I love you, Loren.” She slid out of her chair and walked around the island to envelop me in a tight hug.

  “Love you, too.” At first, I stood stiff as a board in her embrace—her words still stung—but I soon relented and accepted her hug.

  Eight Years Ago

  “You gonna eat that?” Bryan Watson—Mr. I’m-a-bad-ass-at-every-sport-in-this-school—was asking me a question. I almost pointed to myself to clarify whether he was talking to me. His hand hovered over my chicken strips as I continued mentally to pinch myself, wondering why I had his attention.

  Maybe it was for the food or maybe it was because I was sitting next to Jamie Langston, who was one of the most popular girls in school. Everyone loved her and she was very friendly. She was blonde and beautiful—the one who was consistently nominated for homecoming queen and always had an entourage of pretty boys and girls around her. She was also a cheerlea
der and she played on the basketball team, too. She’d always been nice to me, and lately we’d been talking more before and after games, sitting together on the bus ride to and from away games. We also spoke as we passed in the hallway. And this morning after practice, she asked me to sit with her at lunch.

  “No,” I barely got out before Bryan’s giant hand snatched up the meat. I stared at him as he devoured the food like a hungry lion on the National Geographic channel. He could double as Ryan Gosling…on steroids.

  “You guys coming to my baseball game?” he asked with a mouthful of food, obviously not giving a shit about etiquette.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there,” Jamie said. “Loren will, too.” My eyes widened. Okay, I guessed I was going to a baseball game with Jamie after being invited by Bryan, as if I hung out with these people on a daily basis. Never had it occurred to me that Bryan and Jamie would include me in their plans.

  The game was on Saturday afternoon, and I was sitting in the stands by Jamie and her noted BFFs, which included Leslie Lopez, a bubbly cheerleader, and Miley Smith, who was also a longtime cheerleader and whose family basically owned everything in town. If you needed to take your car in for repairs, her uncle owned the local shop. If you were sick, her father was a general practitioner. If you had issues with the city, her mother was the mayor. Her family had their hands in everything. Miley was a bitch. I didn’t know how else to explain it more simply. She’d never been nice to me.

  Even as we sat together that day, she still didn’t acknowledge me. She didn’t even seem to be pleasant to those who were her close friends, either. Why the hell would anyone like her? She was beautiful and resembled Natalie Portman, but who needed to put up with her overbearing crap? She was, however, the type of person my mom wanted me to befriend.

  They carried on conversations throughout the game, and I laughed when something funny was said. I didn’t contribute much to the discussion because Jamie was the only person I knew, and I felt like I didn’t have anything in common with the other girls. I was self-conscious about saying something stupid. Miley was dominating the talk anyway, as she rambled nonstop about her boyfriend, Steve Jennings. “Oh, Steve’s so wonderful. He’s already told me we’re going to get engaged next year after I graduate. Then, I’ll join him in Arkansas, and eventually he’ll be drafted.” Steve was a senior and a talented baseball player who’d been recruited by several colleges. He’d received a full scholarship to the University of Arkansas.

  Miley and he had been together for at least a year, maybe two. I didn’t know Steve personally. I mean, we’d had world history together the year before, but we never spoke. He always had a smug look on his face, as though everyone around him was beneath him. He seemed like the type who thought you should feel privileged he would grace you with his presence.

  Actually, I remembered him being a jerk to several kids in our class—knocking their books off their desk for the hell of it, popping them on the head with his class ring, making some of the guys’ eyes well with tears, or randomly ripping someone out of their seat and throwing them to the ground. His actions were deplorable and nobody called him out on them. All because he was the almighty Steve Jennings. But, there was a time during my freshman year that he didn’t appear so almighty, when he sheepishly walked the halls with a battered face, and Andrew had apparently been the culprit. I didn’t know much about the incident; I had only heard rumors that Andrew had some kind of jealous vendetta against him, attacking him out of the blue.

  The crack of the bat stirred me out of my thoughts as I watched the ball sail over the wall. Bryan dropped his bat, fist pumping as he rounded first. A home run in the bottom of the ninth gave our guys the win. Everyone in the stands, myself included, jumped up and cheered.

  After the game, the girls and I waited around until the players finished with their team huddle and dispersed. I was standing next to Jamie as Bryan approached.

  “We won.” He casually tossed his glove in the air, caught it, and turned to Jamie. “Did you see my home run? It was awesome, right?”

  Jamie smiled. “You know it was.”

  I nodded and added, “Your fielding was on point. Nice save in center field. Not an easy play.”

  Still grinning, he winked at me. “I know. Not everyone has my sweet skills.”

  He was watching me like he knew he was the bomb, and I was one of his groupies. I forced myself to turn away.

  One of the other guys yelled, “Hey, Bryan, Mason’s having a party tonight. You coming?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.” He again turned to us. “You girls should stop by.”

  As he waved and walked away, Jamie nudged me. “Wow, Loren. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you speak more than a few words around Bryan. You actually spoke in sentences this time.”

  “Ha ha. So funny.”

  “I’m serious. I’m going to get you out of your shell. And, you’re coming with me to the party tonight, okay?”

  “Are you my fairy godmother?” I was feeling more comfortable around Jamie the longer we were together and I realized she seemed genuine in her actions.

  “Yes, Cinderella, and I think you have a lot of potential. It’s time you see it, too. And, I think someone might have a little interest in you.” Was she implying that Bryan liked me? I almost felt like Jamie was patronizing me, going overboard on the “I’m going to build your confidence” thing. I didn’t know if a guy was interested in me or not because I’d maybe gone out on a handful of dates in my life. Most were forgettable and two were just plain horrible. One was set up by my mom and her friend who had a son my age. Let me just say that neither one of us acted like we enjoyed the experience or wanted to be there. The other date was a total disaster—a guy who’d been in my algebra II class last semester had asked me out to the movies. He picked me up at my house and, before we even made it into the theater, he went in for the kill, trying to make out. I pulled away, and he seemed pissed that I wasn’t on board with his plan. He tried a few more times. Finally, I told him to take me home or I was calling someone to come get me. He relented. We never spoke again.

  “Whatever, Jamie.” Bryan was talking to her as much as me. And Jamie was…sweet, beautiful, much more comfortable in her own skin.

  We walked through the parking lot to our cars. Jamie turned to me. “Come over to my house at six, and we’ll get ready together.”

  “Wait, Loren, one more thing.” Jamie studied me putting the finishing touches on a painting. She ran to her bathroom and came back with a tan tube. “Put some of this on your arms and here.” She pointed to my chest area above the hem of the strappy floral sundress I was wearing.

  “It’s glittery,” I said as I ran the shimmering lotion over my forearms.

  “It’s not glittery. It just gives your skin a little more shine.” After I closed the tube, I noticed she was smiling, clapping her hands together. “Now you look like a goddess.” I had to admit that I looked…nice, even pretty, as I checked myself out. I felt a newfound excitement rumble inside me as if this were the start of some new chapter in my life.

  Jamie was watching my face, seeing my reaction. “Wow, Jamie. I don’t know what to say. Thank you.” I hugged her, happy that she and I were friends. Elated that I was going with her to my first high school party. Yes, I’d heard about parties in the past, but I’d never been personally invited. When I told my mother about it, you would’ve thought I’d won homecoming queen the way she reacted. That was one of the few times I’d ever seen her so excited or pleased with me, and I relished the feeling. It was kind of pathetic on some level, I knew, but there was a part of me that wanted to please her. Okay, an overwhelming part that wanted her praise.

  “Eeeewwww, too much PDA.” Miley’s ugly voice was like a thunderstorm that erupted out of the blue on an otherwise perfect day. She and Leslie walked in and both stood in front of us to admire themselves in the mirror. I didn’t know Leslie well, but just observing her today, she seemed like she was Miley’s personal assistant, he
r bitch who seemed to follow her everywhere, agreeing with everything she said, and even dressing like her.

  “Sometimes, Miley, a little tact goes a long way,” Jamie said in her ever-pleasant tone never letting anything phase her, while I stood there silently wondering why the hell Jamie would want to associate with Miley in the first place.

  Miley fluffed her hair and started toward the door. “Let’s go, hoes.”

  Jamie rolled her eyes at me and tilted her head in Miley’s direction. We followed the “Queen Bitch” and her attendant, Leslie, out to Jamie’s car and made the ten-minute drive to the party. As we pulled up to Mason’s house, I noticed the whole street was lined with cars. Wow, this must be some party.

  We walked through the house, where people were mingling in the living room while music played in the background. And beer and liquor were abundant. I knew people drank at parties, and I’d heard rumors about which ones had gotten wasted and made an ass of themselves. But this was surreal to me because the house was already packed to the brim. It reminded me of one of the crazy parties you would see in a high school movie.

  “Hey! Y’all made it,” Bryan called out. He threw his arms around Jamie and me holding a beer in one hand. “There’s a keg outside. Help yourself.” He widened his eyes at me and examined me up and down as if he liked my transformation, too. After a few seconds, he pointed to the French doors behind us.

  “Okay. Come on, Loren.” I followed Jamie. Bryan watched me while he sipped from his cup, running his tongue over his bottom lip as he slowly brought his cup down. Omg, he’s checking me out. Right? No way! No, Loren he is. He is? Oh my gosh. Breathe, Loren! Smile, Loren! Everything moved in slow motion. I heard Debussy, saw a rainbow and maybe a unicorn, too. It was magical…until I crashed into Jamie.

  “Dang, Loren, watch where you’re going. We haven’t even had anything to drink.”