Crush Page 3

  At one point, party lines were drawn. I started to get the hang of Brendan's zany jokes at the same time that Melora Handy and the other Ponytails were making it apparent to the whole fifth grade that it was high time every girl in a training bra had a public crush on a boy. Though the butterflies had abated after we'd become friends, I still had an echo of a crush on Chase; as I became better friends with Brendan, my falling for the jock-y twin began to feel inevitable. Even though, if I'm honest, I felt possessive about both of them. We were all so young.

  “My brother likes you,” Brendan told me one day while the two of us were passing The Velvet Underground back and forth, below the oak tree. I don't remember where Chase was.

  “I like all three of us. We're musketeers.”

  “No, Avery. He really likes you. Like this.” Then, Brendan had jammed his grimy foam headphones over my ears and turned the volume way, way up on “I'll Be Your Mirror.”

  “Chase doesn't even like The Velvet Underground,” I'd said, blushing. But the seed that was planted on that first gym Friday had been watered. I'd since abandoned the possibility that my friendship with the Kellys could be more than platonic—but was it even a little possible that Chase could like me, the way Jeffy Kohan liked Corinne? It was a thrilling and strange proposition, this idea that my first-ever crush could actually love me in some new, adult way.

  But we didn't discuss the matter further. Something about my response made Brendan clam up.

  And on reflection, later, in the sanctum of my bedroom, I decided that was for the best. It was just too weird to talk to Brendan about my crush on his brother—even if we had become best friends. This exact line of thinking was why girls usually had friends who were girls, I would learn much later.

  The three of us graduated elementary and proceeded to middle school, where two more years passed. Around us, girls grew breasts. Rumors circulated. We each held the monster off as long as we could, but on the very last day of eighth grade, I worked up the nerve. It was Field Day. Chase’s hair, longer by then, framed his face—which was gathering manly definition and new angles with each passing day. It now seems insane to me that Chase Kelly made it through all three years of middle school (and one year of fifth grade) without once dating or kissing a girl. Maybe that had something to do with his single-minded athlete's focus.

  There was this Trophy Party, for those of us who'd excelled in Field Day competitions—and Chase and I, go figure, presided over the distribution process like King and Queen. Right before the final game of the intramural soccer tournament I started in on the pump-up speech. You can do it, Avery, I murmured to the little faux gold athletes on their plastic plinths. Just turn to Chase and tell him you're in love with him. Say you've wanted to be more than friends for the past three years. Then you can spend the whole summer before high-school learning how to make out. You can tan in your two-piece while he—chiseled and golden, the natural yellows popping out his hair—can dance off the diving board every morning, and into your arms each night. (I was a dramatic kid. Sue me.)

  “Chase,” I started. But I was quiet, and he didn't hear me. “Chase,” I repeated. “Can we talk for a sec?”

  It was at that moment that the Ponytails rushed toward the trophy table, giggling.

  “I can't believe we still have a Field Day,” Carrie Lundergaard was saying. “That’s, like, so elementary.”

  I was still angling for Chase’s attention, ever clueless, when the little crowd parted and Melora Handy stepped forward, like something out of a fairy tale. She was always getting these trendy haircuts—her mom was a stylist—and today she'd elected to honor our mini-Olympics with a throwback: kinked hair.

  It should have been clear to me earlier. He was one of my two best friends at that school. But I had to see it to believe it. As Melora came toward us, I watched Chase turn into a soggy, sweaty ball of pheromones. I watched him puff out his chest and set his jaw in that ironic way I liked, before flicking his hair like he just didn't care. And Melora appeared to bloom in his presence. She threw her mane back and laughed at nothing, pushing her breasts forward like she was someone's older sister. I remember thinking, even then, that it was all so stupid—the pageantry our culture demanded, this coyness about who liked who and how they showed it—but more importantly, that day I saw, firsthand, how some people look made for each other, and others don't.

  I never told Chase about my crush. Four days later, I walked in on him with one hand up a Ponytail's shirt in the girl's locker room at the public pool. As if I needed further confirmation: Chase Kelly wanted to be no one's “mirror” but Melora Handy's.

  I spent the summer and some of the fall trading tapes and records with Brendan, who never again pressed me about liking his brother. A few months into freshman year, I fell in with a more high-school appropriate clique of perturbed, smart, artsy girls who would become my surrogate family before fleeing to the East Coast for college. It's weird. You'd really think one could leave it at that. All this stuff happened so long ago. Since I had a monstrous crush on Chase, I've told other men I loved them (Gary Pinter, junior year prom) and lost my virginity (see previous). In Savannah, I did my fair share of freshman experimenting—before, of course, my world came crashing down around my ears—but how is it that I could still be so titillated by the mere memory of that boy? Those twins? I take a drag of Tara's American Spirit, letting the acrid smoke fill up my lungs. I guess you never forget your first.

  “Et voila!” Tara finally hollers, clicking her leather boots together at the heels like she's a dictator. “Welcome to Halloween-in-July, newbie. Let's get our freak on.”

  Chapter Three

  Mama Rubenstein leads me through a crowded labyrinth of costumed co-eds, and I mean literally: she takes my hand in hers.

  “Don't drink out of anything!” my new roommate hollers at me, half-joking. But my stomach drops. I feel a wave of nausea envelope my body, like that fateful breeze did Marilyn in The Seven Year Itch. Even the joke possibility of being roofied sends me straight back to the night in Savannah. I'm suddenly cold.

  “Fresh meat?” someone cries from over my shoulder. The voice belongs to a boy, but when I turn, I see an elegantly made up Glinda the Good Witch, in all her glittering finery. Tara bares her teeth.

  “And who the fuck are you supposed to be?”

  “I could ask you the same question, bitch. Does Gothika know you've been raiding her wardrobe?”

  “Fuck you, Princess—Peach?”

  “She's Glinda!” I offer, proud of myself. The Good Witch smiles at me.

  “Trevor, meet my new roomie. Savannah.”

  “It's Avery, actually,” I correct, though Tara shoots Trevor a look like I'm her toddler and I've just informed everyone I'll be living on the moon from now on. I decide to let this go.

  “Trevor, is it? So nice to meet you. Your costume is beautiful.”

  “Thanks, Marilyn. But it's you who takes the cake this evening. You've got the hair right and everything.” Trevor the Good Witch reaches out to cup one of my peroxide-perfect curls, and I can't help but blush.

  “She's as lovely as the real thing, too. Perfect. Okay,” I notice that Trevor changes subjects as efficiently as Tara. “Let me get you two ladies cocktails.”

  “That would be magical,” Tara sneer-grins.

  We don't wait for Trevor to return with whatever a 'cocktail' would be at this motley event; rather, Tara drags us further into the frat house. So far, Casa Delta Nu is as fratty as Savannah was hip. Lots of girls in nurse and French maid costumes. Sexy kittens. Sexy witches. When each one we pass shoots me the same steely glance that's half intrigued, half hateful, I'm reminded that I, of course, am dressed just like everyone else here. Which is to say—dressed to impress a guy.

  Tara says hey to a few more people. Most are men. We shuffle and shuffle through the stuffed corridors. Finally, my guide throws up her hands.

  “Fuck,” Tara groans, planting her feet in a little turreted window space that's se
parated from the rest of the party. For the first time, my fearless leader appears to be taking a rest. She draws an American Spirit from some snug fold in the cleavage of her catsuit.

  “Should I try to find Trevor?” Across the hall, a Ronald McDonald and a Snooki enter into a screaming match. A guy in a big Ketchup bottle takes a short tumble down the stairs.

  “Nah. He's probably found Zeke by now.” I can't help but love how Tara talks to me like we've been friends for years already, assuming I know everyone. Then again, maybe I do—for here comes Tatiana Brewster, from my tenth grade Pre-Calc class. She giggles as she tries to re-fasten the top buttons of her I-wanna-say flight attendant's costume.

  “This party is a total bust.”

  Tara doesn't seem to need me to respond, so I just nod. Tatiana starts to peer at me across the landing, at the same time Tara offers me the stubby part of her half-vanished smoke. Though I'm not used to this much tobacco in a single day, I take it.

  “What high-school did you say you went to again?” I ask Tara, pivoting my body out of Tatiana's eye-line. I so don't want a catch-up session right now, though the latter continues to peer at me. It's getting creepy.

  “You wouldn't know it. It's out of state.”

  “You came to SDU from out of state?!”

  Tara's eyes flash with anger. Her smile escapes. “I'm from Wyoming, and I like the beach. It's not so weird.”

  “OH. MY. GOD. IT'S YOU!” Fuck. I'd recognize that designer-imposter perfume anywhere. I turn, and find myself smothered in a cloud of Brewster's D-Cups and l'eau d'Baby Prostitute. Also, a touch of Bud Light Lime.

  “Angry Avery! We never expected to see you again!” Tatiana gushes, like we're the oldest of friends. As if there's anyone standing next to her, made complicit in her 'we.' “Didn't you get some fancy-ass scholarship to dance school, or something? In Canada?”

  “Art school. In Georgia. But I've transferred home for the fall semester.”

  Tatiana frowns, in a way reminiscent of every single day in our Pre-Calc class.

  “Why'd you do that?” she pouts. My face grows hot again. I feel Tara's gaze, penetrative and curious. Looking for something to do, I let my eyes scan the rooms around our turret.

  And that's when I see him.

  My first impulse trumps the docile, Marilyn voice inside my head—the one that's screaming, “Play coy! Wait for his jaw to drop!” Instead, I rise with my heartbeat and hustle into the room Tatiana's just vacated. “You hottie with a body!” I shriek, punching Brendan Kelly hard on the shoulder. It's like the cocktail I never received has made me ultra-bold. Perhaps it's just the opportune timing.

  At first, my old friend recoils, a look of bemusement crossing his perfect features—but I delight in watching recognition sweep over his face. I take his epiphany moment to look him up and down. It's only been a year since I saw him last, but the changes begun in high-school have clearly continued.

  For starters, there's the lip ring. The thin silver hoop he used to wear in one ear has apparently migrated south on Brendan's face. He's dressed the same—obscure, ratty band T, dark jeans to hide the stains, Converses—but his body looks different. More athletic, less scrawny. He's been working out.

  “Hey, girl,” Brendan responds, opening his bulging arms wide and pulling me into an aromatic bear hug. Which is a little weird, since the Brendan I know never wore cologne. I brush against the taut muscles of his stomach, and feel my face flush.

  His hair is shorter, too. He's wearing it high and tight, though there's just enough length that a few tendrils fall across his face and catch the light. He flicks these away with an endearing swipe of his hand.

  “Angry Avery is transferring here,” Tatiana says, having appeared in the doorframe. Tara trots up in her wake.

  “Hey, Savannah—why'd they call you Angry Avery?”

  “Because she told off a math teacher–”

  “ONE time!”

  “For being sexist as shit,” Brendan laughs, and his voice is lighter than I remember it. It lacks that stoner-y, fried sound that I actually used to find a little sexy.

  “I hate that 'girls-can't-do-math' bullshit. Ugh.” I push a blonde curl behind my ear, but let it lie when it promptly falls back across my face. Who am I trying to impress? It's just Brendan.

  “Seriously, Mr. Kelly. I am so glad to see you. Oh, man—can we hang out? I want to know everything! My Dad mentioned your band is on the radio? That's so awesome!”

  “It's pretty cool, yeah.”

  “Savannah, you never told me you had a hot high-school friend in Delta Nu!” Tara has pushed her way past Tatiana, who looks a little put out to be abandoned in the door-frame.

  I look at Brendan, who's grinning in that wry way I associate more with his brother. This room is not well-lit, but a stripe of moonlight brightens Brendan's forehead, his dark eyebrows, his greyish-green eyes. I color a little. Okay, he is attractive. He's an attractive, attractive man. But that's always been true. We're old friends. Nothing is different now.

  “We haven't been good friends in a long time, actually,” Brendan says. “But I've missed Angry Avery a whole big lot.” His eyes flick down, so fast I don't quite catch his drift. But the other two girls in the room shift uncomfortably in their teetering shoes. Brendan Kelly definitely just scoped my tits.

  Which, to be fair, are on pretty bold display this evening.

  “I've missed you, too, J.K.” I say, punching Brendan on the shoulder. “Look at you. Staying out of jail and everything. I'm so proud.”

  Brendan rubs the patch of his (round, smooth...) bicep where I've slugged him. He's making a strange face, I notice. Like a grimacing, constipated face.

  “Did I actually hurt you?” I ask, affecting worry. I mean, there's no way. It was a tap. God, he looks cute when he bites his lip like that. And that windswept, rock star hair. Fuck.

  Brendan looks at Tatiana, who's suddenly got the same expression on her heavily made-up face. Tara, unamused, shifts her weight and gives me a look I can interpret, easily: Piss, or get off the pot.

  “Do you want to tell her?” Tatiana asks. Her voice breaks as she speaks. When I turn back to Brendan, his screwy expression has broken open into an easy grin. A familiar grin. I get it before he even tells me.

  “Avery, I’m Chase,” the boy in front of me stutters. To demonstrate his good faith, he lifts the little silver hoop easily out of his lip. “It's for Halloween, you know. I'm supposed to be Brendan.” As if he's anticipating an Angry girl swipe, Chase Kelly grabs my hand. His grip—warm and slightly moist—is a whole continent of memories unto itself. His light green eyes, the ones I used to gaze into, below the old oak tree, are full of compassion.

  How could I not have known?

  “But hey. I am really, really happy to see you.” Then, the flicker happens again, and this time there's no doubt about it. Chase Kelly is staring at my breasts.

  Trevor barrels into the upstairs bedroom just moments after the Big Reveal. The abrupt change of scenery feels appropriate, for I desperately need to recalibrate. It immediately seems wrong that I'd punched Chase Kelly on the shoulder. After the pool locker room incident in eighth grade, I'd never been as physically close with Chase as I had been with his brother. The last time I joke-punched him, I was probably eleven years old.

  “You ass,” I mutter, in a new and smaller voice.

  “I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.”

  Tatiana was leaning against the wall, she was laughing so hard. Chase was smirking that ironic smile he'd maintained, apparently, since the first day we met. And it was then that everything in the room really seemed to change. It was happening. Me and Chase, adults, reconnecting, in a room. I was older, now. I could do everything Melora had.

  Tara took the hint, dragging Trevor back out of the bedroom and towards the hallway. They must have picked up Tatiana on the way, because the next thing I know, I’m alone with Chase. He leans back on his ottoman and reaches for a beer resting on the mantelpiece. He look
s me up and down again. This time, his eyes on my skin give me goosebumps.

  “Seriously, I'm sorry, Angry Avery. It was too good a test to pass up. Our oldest childhood friend can't even tell us apart!” Chase takes a slug of his beer, and I watch his throat rise and fall as he swallows. Something tells me to lean forward from my perch on the edge of the bed. Just enough, so he can see me.

  “You said it yourself, bud. We haven't exactly been friends in a long time.”

  “What's that they say? Bygones, be bygones.” Chase takes another swallow, before offering me his beer-can with a gesture. I reach for it, even though I’m not thirsty. When he leans forward, our fingers brush.

  “Now that you're an SDU gal, we can start over from scratch. You still like to run?”

  My heart flips. He remembered.

  “I still like to run, sure. Laps. Around you.” I wait for Chase to laugh at my shitty pun, but instead he just smiles vaguely as his eyes plummet back toward my neckline.

  “My brother'll be glad to see you. You and him always had—well, you guys were close, right?”

  “Before Mary Jane got him, sure.”

  Chase furrows his brow. “Who's Mary Jane?”

  The moonlight moves behind some trees, letting the room lapse into a comfortable darkness. In the dim light, it’s easier to pretend we’re kids again. Just two souls who'd connected, once upon a time, under a tree.

  “Listen, Angry Avery,” Chase starts, his voice low and gravelly, like his brother's. I lean farther forward, until I can feel the air moving around his mouth as he speaks. His breath comes fast, and it smells sweet…

  I let out a yelp, as his hand grazes my knee through the thin satin of my dress. I stand and move quickly toward the window, unsure how to feel about what’s happening.