Busted (11 page)

21

I
t's getting easy to tell Mom I'll be home late. She persists in the quaint, old-fashioned notion that every time I announce I'm going out on a date it will be with the same
person as before, so I let her believe it. It's not even lying.

Kayla texts me to say that we'll be going to a movie at 7:30, and I immediately text Taylor to say we'll meet at the same theater at 9:30. Then I brush my teeth and floss and put on a J. Crew shirt that Abby says looks really good on me.

I take one last look in the mirror and tell myself that it's going to be fine. All I have to do is make sure the movie we choose is less than two hours long, and lose Kayla as soon as it ends. Yeah, it'll be fine.

Just as I'm leaving I get a text from Taylor. It says she can't make it at 9:30. I'm kind of disappointed because I think she's hot, but I'm not going to complain because it certainly simplifies logistics for the evening.

I'm almost out the door when I get a second text from Taylor. It says: “C U 8:30.”

Crap.

The rumor is true: Kayla knows how to kiss. We're sitting in the back row of a dark and mostly empty movie theater and we're certainly not watching the previews. She isn't one for small talk, it turns out, which is just fine by me because she's the best kisser so far. She's really full-on, the way I want to be, so it gives me a chance to move beyond Paige's sensitive approach and be full-on straight back at her.

“Hmmm,” she says, pulling away. “Hold on there, tiger … Try it like this instead.” She leans back in.

I try it like that. It's even better than before. For almost three minutes I feel like I'm participating in a master class.

The opening credits for the movie have barely begun rolling when she pulls away again and whispers, “You'll never believe what I just found out.”

“What's that?”

“I have the same measurements as—”

“Jessica Alba,” I say, completing her sentence. “Or maybe Paris Hilton?”

She looks hurt. “No way. Same as Angelina Jolie … when she's not pregnant, I mean.”

“I got that.”

“Yeah, so do you want to know what the measurements are?”

I attempt to sigh nonchalantly. “Sure, why not.”

“36C-27-36.”

I look down at her breasts. They do seem to be around 36C, but I know my credibility is at stake.

“Are you sure you're a 36C?”

“What kind of a question is that? That's like me asking you if you're sure your penis is six inches long.”

I'm not actually sure my penis is six inches long, but I don't tell her that.

“I'm just saying I thought you might be more like a 36A or B.”

“36A?” she spits. “What the f—”

Oops. “Probably 36B then.”

“36B? Feel these and tell me they're 36B.”

She turns to face me and I touch her breasts, but they're hidden beneath a hooded sweater, so I can't get a good read. This could work to my advantage.

“Too much padding,” I explain, shaking my head.

“Too much padding for what?”

“For me to be able to judge.”

Kayla looks away for a moment, then takes my hand and places it underneath her sweater. She lifts her bra and I'm touching her breast, and it's almost painfully erotic and—

“Are you satisfied now?” she asks in a vulnerable voice that catches me off guard.

I suppose the truthful answer is no, I want to spend the next ten minutes making up my mind, and then I want us to move on to third base. But in the dull light that flickers across her face, I can see that she's not enjoying this at all, and suddenly I feel
mean and calculating and dirty. I don't want her to think of me that way, so I extricate my hand as surreptitiously as possible.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “You were right … 36C.”

I'm hoping this will placate her, but it doesn't—she just nods curtly and turns to face the screen. I don't say anything else because her silence is cold and uninviting.

But then I look at my watch and realize it's almost eight o'clock, which gives me half an hour to develop a plan or I'll be leaving her in the middle of our date. And even though things haven't exactly gone well, that would be sure to annoy her.

And like I say, she's more muscular than me.

It's 8:10 and I haven't come up with a plan yet. I thought that Kayla might fall asleep from all our kissing, but three minutes of tonguing probably doesn't even count as a gentle warm-up for her. She's still watching the screen and we're still not talking.

I am, however, sweating.

8:20: I still haven't come up with a plan. I consider saying that I need to go to the bathroom, and then just not coming back. But if I do, then Kayla will have to inform the whole school that either (a) I'm wickedly constipated, or (b) I found more than an hour's worth of alternative entertainment in a men's restroom. Neither of which is true.

I am, however, hyperventilating.

8:25: I've come to the realization that sometimes you just have to be a man and own up to your mistakes. And mine is that I've set up two dates with different girls on the same evening, which in the wider scheme of things—nuclear proliferation, third-world famine—isn't such a big deal. I'm sure Kayla will understand.

I am, however, scanning the theater for all nearby exits.

“So, K-Kayla,” I croak. “You'll, um, never believe this, but—”

22

K
ayla shushes me and I obediently shut up. I think she's actually into the movie. Onscreen, something exciting is about to happen; I can tell because the music is eerie, with trembling violins and sporadic trombone belches. Although it's entirely possible that I'm the only person in the theater thinking about the music.

8:27: Kayla gazes raptly at the movie couple. A tear falls from her eye, suggesting that she's currently emotionally vulnerable and therefore prone to kill the first person that pisses her off.

Which would be me.

“Kayla … Kayla … ”

She shushes me again.

8:28: Kayla lowers her finger, giving me permission to speak.

“Kayla, I'm so sorry about this, but—”

Kayla's cellphone starts buzzing and she rips it from her pocket, flicking open the screen in one deft movement.

“Oh shit,” she cries, just loud enough for everyone in the theater to hear.

“What is it?”

She looks at me, aghast. “My little sister's been kidnapped.”

Okay, I have to admit I didn't see that one coming.

“I h-have to g-go,” she gasps, standing awkwardly and grabbing her bag.

“Of course. God, I'm so sorry, Kayla, I really am. I hope she shows up soon.”

I hope she shows up soon?
Did I really just say that? What a retard.

“Yeah, sure,” she grunts, looking at me like I'm a retard.

And then she's gone, and it's 8:29. I can't believe my luck. I make a mental note to thank Kayla's sister if she's found alive.

After a few seconds I exit the theater, emerging slowly in case Taylor is already waiting outside. The foyer is bustling, and it takes me a moment to see her standing beside a larger-than-life cardboard cutout of an anonymous superhero who's “KICKING BUTT ON JUNE 17!” The superhero is flanked by a couple of diminutive but largely naked women, which makes it even more impressive that Taylor commands my complete attention. Her shiny red hair ripples over the shoulders of a flowing, dark green dress, and a heavy silver chain and pendant gracefully adorn her neck. It's an outfit that would really suit Abby.

“Hi, Taylor,” I call out as I zip across the foyer.

“Oh, hi, Kevin.” She pauses, a puzzled expression etched on her face. “You'll never guess who I just saw running out of here.”

“Who?”

“Kayla. And she looked kind of freaked out.”

“Really? That's too bad.”

“Yeah. I hope she's okay.”

Just in case she's thinking of continuing her inquiry further, I cough a couple of times to distract her.

“Are you okay? Do you have a cold?”

I shake my head. “No, it's nothing. So what do you want to see?”

Taylor studies the list of movies and groans. “Geez, I hate May.”

“Huh?”

“May—I hate it. It's when they start wheeling out all the made-for-morons blockbusters.”

Nothing would make Taylor happier than to see the theater infested with a plague of costume dramas and Shakespeare adaptations. After all, she has her thespian reputation to uphold.

“Um, does anything appeal to you?”

She shakes her head and her hair shimmers like a Pantene commercial. “Not really. Actually, I'd kind of prefer to just hang out and talk. Maybe go get coffee. Would that be okay?”

Downer. Coffee shops aren't as conducive to groping as darkened movie theaters, so I'm not sure this plan is acceptable. But then I look at Taylor and say, “Yeah, sure,” because she's just that hot. And at least this way I get seen with her in public.

Her favorite independent coffee shop is a couple blocks away in what used to be a church. Signs welcome us to the Buzz Shack, where stained-glass windows alternate with garish wall-hangings spouting slogans like “Jesus Supports Fair Trade Coffee” and “How Would Jesus Caffeinate?” Taylor notices me staring at them.

“Really get you thinking, don't they?” she says.

“Huh? Oh yeah. Definitely.”

I look around and realize she's laughing at me, but not in an unfriendly way.

“I'm kidding, Kevin. I'm not even sure I'd read them until now.”

I smile back. “So how
do
you think Jesus would caffeinate?”

She pauses to give the question due consideration. “I think he'd have to go at least a double latte—you know, to keep up the pep—and I guess he'd want iced, because it was pretty hot from what I hear.”

When we reach the front of the line I order an iced double latte and Taylor has a giggling fit. When she can't gather herself after a few seconds, I go ahead and order the same thing for her. I tell the guy at the cash register, “It's what Jesus would want her to drink,” and she loses it again.

While we wait for the barista to obsess over our drinks, I steal a glance at Taylor—she is, quite simply, stunning.

“I love your dress,” I say, kind of hoping it sounds like a suave line.

“Thanks,” she purrs. “I made it myself.”

“What? No way!”

“Absolutely. I make a lot of my own clothes. Cheaper than a boutique, and you know they're going to fit.”

“That's amazing.”

I take a minute to study her dress. It's really impressive—not only does it fit her in ways I immediately appreciated, but it also lends a flow to her every movement. It even complements her hair color perfectly.

“I don't pretend to know anything about dresses, Taylor, but I'd have to say that you've got real talent.”

She smiles and plays with her pendant. “Then we have something in common, don't we?”

“Oh yeah?” I really hope she's referring to my kissing technique.

“Yeah. Don't be modest. Everyone knows you're quite the accomplished flutist.”

Ah, the flute—my partner in crime, and harbinger of doom when it comes to relationships. I hope she doesn't notice my shoulders slumping.

When we receive our lattes, Taylor invites me to pick a table, so I choose the one furthest away from the counter. It's quieter and seems a more likely venue for making out, even though there's a fresco of Jesus crucified just above our heads. When she sees it, Taylor opens her eyes super-wide and knits her thin eyebrows melodramatically, and I laugh again even though it feels a little weird with Jesus staring down at me.

“Does that come naturally,” I ask, “or do you have to practice regularly?”

“What, the eyebrows? Oh yeah, an hour a day every day. My dad always told me: Taylor, master your eyebrows and the rest of acting will fall into place. And he's right. Acting's nothing but a series of well-timed eyebrow twitches.”

She says everything so earnestly that it's almost possible to believe she means it. But then she breaks into a smile and her face lights up, and I want to kiss her really badly.

“So what about you, Kevin? Do you have to practice the flute as much as I practice my eyebrows?”

Ugh. There it is again—the flute. Not a good omen.

“Not really. Every now and then.”

“Really? I mean, I heard your senior recital last semester. I thought it was incredible.”

“You did?”

“Absolutely. I knew you were gifted, but I had no idea you were
that
good. Is it true you got an instrumental scholarship to Brookbank University?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Nothing like that,” I say, surprised at how easily the lie slips out.

Taylor looks confused. “Oh, I guess I heard wrong … So do you still play in that pop group?”

“Huh? … Oh, the quartet. Yeah, but it's nothing much—”

“I thought you guys were really good last year. You know, when you played at the school fundraiser. You had real chemistry. Are you and
Abby … close?”

Whoa. Tread carefully, Kevin. Spoiler alert!

“We're friends, that's all.”

“Hmmm, that's fortunate.”

For a moment we just look at each other, but then we start kissing for no other reason than we both know it's going to happen eventually, so we may as well get on with it. Taylor kisses delicately, so I revert to Paige mode for optimum results.

After a couple of minutes she pulls back, a sultry smile teasing the corners of her mouth. She points to a fresco on the opposite wall, depicting a nursing virgin Mary.

“I wonder if she was a 34C-25-35?”

I swallow hard. “Is that what you are?”

She turns back around to face me. “Uh-oh, I kind of let that one slip out, didn't I!”

“It's okay,” I assure her. Because, well, it
is
okay.

“Yeah, but … ” She looks away.

We sit in silence for a while. Occasionally I lean forward optimistically, but she doesn't seem to pick up on my body language; maybe her internal translator is malfunctioning or something. Eventually the silence becomes oppressive, so I say the first thing that comes into my head:

“What happened to you and Zach?”

She looks surprised, but recovers quickly. “A few weeks ago he started acting weird, saying he couldn't really commit anymore. He was a real jerk about it, so I broke up with him.”

“Um, yeah. So why'd you go out with him, anyhow?”

“Do we have to talk about Zach?”

No, we don't. Now that I've discovered her measurements, my only interest is in confirming those measurements through the medium of my own two hands. But because this concerns Zach, my self-esteem won't let me leave it alone.

“You must have seen something in him to date him for almost a year.”

“Zach can be generous.”

“That's it?”

She narrows her eyes. “You really want to know? Fine. I dated him because his dad is an orthodontist, and I got free dental work while we were dating. Satisfied now?”

“You're not serious.”

“I'm totally serious.” She sighs. “I needed orthodontic work and my family couldn't afford it. Why do you think I make my own clothes?”

I shake my head vacantly.

“Look, I'm the oldest of six kids and my dad's a carpenter, so cosmetic dentistry comes way down the list for us. But I was told that if I'm ever going to have a future as an actress, I kind of needed to have the work done, even though I hate it that crap like that might actually matter.”

I check out her teeth. They're definitely white and straight, although I still think the price may have been a little steep.

“Well, you have beautiful teeth now,” I assure her. “But I thought you were beautiful before you had any work done.”

Taylor smiles coyly. “Kevin Mopsely, I do declare you've made me blush,” she drawls in what I think is an impersonation of Scarlett from
Gone with the Wind
.

“Sorry,” I say, even though I'm not.

“Quite all right … You probably think I'm a complete slut for using Zach, don't you?”

“No way. I think you're a saint for putting up with him all year.”

“That's nice, but I don't think Zach would see it that way if he knew.” Her eyes grow wide again. “You won't tell him, will you? Promise.”

“I promise I won't tell him, although I think he'd say it was worth it anyway. I mean, he got to date Taylor Carson for most of senior year.”

Taylor looks surprised. “Thanks for saying that.”

“It's true.”

We avoid eye contact as we slurp the last few drops of our lattes.

“You know, you're a really good listener,” she says.

“A better listener than kisser?” I ask provocatively.

“Yeah, a better listener.”
Naaaah. Incorrect response. Try again.
“And that's a really good thing. Anyone can learn to be a good kisser, but not everyone's a good listener.”

I understand her logic, but it's not quite in line with my aspirations.

“I'm serious, Kevin,” she adds, watching my face. “Give me a listener over a kisser any day.”