125 Days Before the Trip, 9:53 p.m.
Courtney McSweeney is grinding on me like she’s in a number-one video on
TRL
. I reach around and pull her close to me, our bodies swaying to the music. She looks surprised, but pushes her body harder against mine. She’s always so quiet in math. And she definitely doesn’t dress like this in school. I catch Madison’s eye across the room and quickly look away, as if I’ve forgotten who she is. I’m not being a dick. Well, okay, maybe I am, but it’s only as a means to the end. The end, of course, being getting Madison to hook up with me.
“Hey,” I say, pulling away from Courtney. “You want a drink?” She pushes her hair back from her face and smiles.
“Sure.” She heads over to where the coolers are and I follow her. Seriously, she really does not dress like this at school. I’m having a very hard time not staring at her ass.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask, rooting through one of the coolers. The ice makes my hands cold. “There’s soda, beer…that’s it.”
“I’ll take a beer,” she says, sounding unsure. I twist the top off a Corona and hand it to her. She takes a sip.
“So,” I say. The music is kind of loud, and I suddenly realize I’m going to now have to be witty and charming so that Courtney looks like she’s having a good time, therefore making Madison think I’m flirting with her.
“So,” she says. She fiddles with the rim of her beer and looks down at her shoes. Great. So outgoing, this girl.
“Have you started the math assignment yet?” I ask her, figuring it’s a safe subject.
“Yeah, I’m actually done with it,” she says. I raise my eyebrows and she rushes on. “Just because that’s the one grade I’m worried about.”
“Really?” I frown. “How come?”
“Calculus is tripping me up for some reason,” she says. “So I try to get my stuff done early, and then I have my friend Lloyd look it over. He’s this total math genius.”
“Sounds like it, with a name like Lloyd.” I snort. I’m not trying to be mean, just funny, but she looks hurt. “Whoa,” I say. “Just kidding.”
“It’s okay,” she says, looking away. I catch the look on her face, though, which makes me think she’s probably sleeping with him. Or wishes she were. “Anyway,” she goes on, “I have to keep my math grade up, so I make sure I get the assignments done early so that my friend has time to look them over.”
“What’s the big deal?” I ask. “Are you wait-listed or something?” Everyone knows the grades we’re getting now really have no effect on what happens to us. By now, college applications are finished and sent, and you’re either in or you’re not. It’s a wonder anyone goes to class. I take another sip of my beer and try to pretend I don’t notice Madison watching me.
“No,” she says. “I’m going to Boston University.”
“No shit,” I say. “Me, too.” Suddenly I have an awful thought. “Are they checking grades for our senior year?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just nervous because of that whole thing with the kid from UNC.” I give her a blank look. She sighs. “That kid from UNC, you didn’t hear about this? He got accepted and then totally blew off all his classes. They withdrew his acceptance since his grades had taken such a turn for the worse.”
“I’m sure they were just trying to make an example of him,” I say. “I mean, seriously. They’re not going to kick you out of BU just because your math grade is bad.” I’m not sure if it’s true or not, but she strikes me as being the type to worry about every little thing. And I can’t have her getting upset. I need to look happy and like I’m this close to getting into her pants, which will therefore make me that much closer to my main goal, which is Madison.
“Anyway,” I say, deciding it’s time to start making my move. “You’re way too cute. All you’d have to do is send them a picture, and I’m sure they wouldn’t care if you failed calc.” She blushes and I reach out and touch her arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Madison set her drink down and start approaching us. Yes. Mission accomplished.
Before she gets there, though, a guy wearing a striped polo shirt—does anyone really wear polo shirts anymore?—approaches Courtney.
“Hey,” he says, touching her elbow. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Hey, Lloyd,” she says, her face lighting up. Ah, the infamous Lloyd. He looks like he’d be good in math. But what is he doing here? I mean, besides the obvious partying. Madison picks her drink back up and pretends not to be looking at me. Shit.
“Who’s this?” Lloyd asks, sizing me up.
“This is Jordan,” Courtney says. “He’s in my math class.” He’s in my math class? How about “I was just grinding on him like I hadn’t gotten any in months”? Nice to know where her loyalties are. I take another sip of my beer.
“Hey,” Lloyd says, eyeing me. “What’s up?”
“Not much, man,” I say, wondering when he’s going to leave. He’s screwing up the plan. I try to look bored in an effort to make him go away. It doesn’t work.
“You’re still riding home with me, right?” he asks Courtney, watching me out of the corner of his eye. What’s with this guy? He looks like he’s about one second away from taking a baseball bat to my knees. Or wanting to. I wonder if this is how serial killers start out. Wasn’t the Unabomber really good at math?
“Right,” Courtney says, glancing at me, too. I take another sip of my Corona. Hey, they don’t have to worry about me. The last thing I need is her expecting me to take her home. Like I said, she’s cute enough, and her body is smokin’, but I have my sights set on something else.
“So, George, are you a junior?” Lloyd asks, and I roll my eyes. What a tool. I know guys like him. Guys who keep a bunch of girls around, dangling themselves in front of them, but never really hooking up with them. Yet they get pissed if someone else tries to make a move. Which I’m not trying to do. But when he calls me George, I almost kind of want to, since I know he knows my name. A not-so-subtle dig. Nice, Lloyd.
“I’m a senior,” I say, and leave it at that. There’s an awkward silence.
“So, listen,” I say, watching Madison out of the corner of my eye. “I need to get back to my friends, but it was nice dancing with you, Court.”
“You, too,” she says, and for a second, I almost don’t do what I’m about to do. Because she seems like a nice girl. But then I see Lloyd giving me the look of death, and I can tell Madison is watching me, so I go for it. Whatever, if I’m going to hell, it will be for hooking up with Kendra Carlson at her brother’s graduation party last summer and then never calling her back.
“So, can I get your number?” I say, trying to sound sheepish, like I’m not sure she’s going to give it to me. She looks shocked for a minute, so I quickly add, “Oh, I’m sorry, are you two…” I look from her to Lloyd, even though I know there’s no way they’re together. Lloyd’s eyes darken. That’s what you get for calling me George, Polo Boy.
“Um, no,” Courtney says, looking even more flustered.
“No, I can’t have your number?” I say, grinning at her again.
“No, we’re not together,” she says, more forcefully this time. “And yes, you can have my number.” Lloyd’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. Did he really think she was going to say no just because of him? It’s obvious she wants him, but please. She’s not that hard up. Any girl who dances the way she does is not going to sit around waiting for a guy named Lloyd.
Courtney takes a pen and paper out of the small bag slung around her waist and writes her number down. I make a big show out of putting it in my wallet, even though I have no intention of using it. It’s mostly so Madison will see me doing it, although later I’ll tell her Courtney and I got paired up for a project at school, I was just dancing with her to be nice, and I got her number so we could work on the assignment. She won’t know whether it’s true or not, but again, that’s part of the fun.
“Nice to meet you, Lloyd,” I say, looking right at him. “And I’ll give ya a call,” I say to Courtney.
“Later,” she says, and I think briefly about what’s going to happen at school on Monday when I blow her off. Thankfully, she sits on the other side of the room in math class. And she doesn’t seem psychotic, which is always a plus. Psychotic girls are a pain in my ass. Last year I kissed this freshman girl at a pool party and she wouldn’t get off my nuts for six months. Which is why my policy is now no psychotics, and no freshmen. The freshmen thing is obviously easy to avoid, while the psychotics pose a bit more of a problem. It’s not like girls walk around with “I’m crazy” stamped on their chests.
I decide to head around the party the long way, and then sneak up on Madison from behind. How cute would that be, me doing to her the same trick she pulled earlier? But when I make my way through the crowd to where Madison and her friends were standing, the only one there is B. J. His leprechaun hat is stained with beer and he’s sitting on the ground, looking dejected.
“Dude,” I say, crouching down next to him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says mournfully. “I’m okay. I’m just drunk.”
“Sucks.”
“Yeah,” he agrees.
“Hey, you didn’t happen to notice where Madison Allesio and her friends went, did you?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, looking thoughtful. He frowns, pulls his leprechaun hat off his head, and twists it in his hands. “I think they said something about going to Jeremy Norfolk’s house.” Shit. Jeremy Norfolk was also having a party tonight, and apparently Madison and her friends took off while they were supposed to be waiting for me. I’m impressed in spite of myself, and a little bit turned on. Any girl who ditches me while I’m in the process of trying to make her jealous is hot.
“You want to head over to Jeremy’s?” I ask B. J. He looks at me, his eyes glazed over and the front of his leprechaun outfit soaked in beer.
“Yes.” He nods.
“Dude, you’re shot,” I say. “You’re not going anywhere but home. Come on.” I try to help B. J. up without actually getting too close to him. No way I want to kick it to Madison smelling like drunk leprechaun.
Twenty minutes later, after getting B. J. some drive-thru coffee and bringing him home, I decide to stop at my house to reapply my cologne and kill some time. I can’t have Madison thinking I took off after her as soon as I realized she was gone.
There’s an unfamiliar car in my driveway. My dad’s out of town, so I’m assuming it’s one of my mom’s clients—she’s a lawyer, and sometimes when she’s in the middle of a big case, she’ll have clients over to the house. I open the glove compartment and take a piece of gum out, popping it into my mouth just in case I smell like alcohol. I only had a couple of beers, but the last thing I need is to look drunk and disorderly in front of my mom and one of her clients.
“Mom!” I call, moving through the foyer, and trying to calculate how long my mom might be up and working. She’s a heavy sleeper, and our house is big enough that if my mom’s asleep, I could totally bring Madison back here with me later on. “I’m home.”
I hear some scuffling and whispers coming from the living room. I turn the corner, and that’s when I see it. My mom. On the couch, with her shirt unbuttoned. There’s some guy next to her, with his shirt OFF. And it’s not my dad. For a second, I just stand there.
“Jordan,” my mom says, smoothing her hair. She pulls her shirt closed. “I didn’t think you’d be home until much later.”
“Obviously,” I say, sizing up the guy she’s with. He doesn’t look embarrassed. Instead, he looks almost pleased. No one moves. We all just wait, not saying anything.
“It’s okay,” I finally say. I turn around and head back toward the door. “I was actually going back out anyway, so…” I trail off, not really sure what I’m supposed to say.
“You don’t have to,” the guy says. He stands up from the couch. “I was just leaving anyway.”
“I know I don’t HAVE to,” I say, turning back around. “I live here.”
“Jordan—” my mom starts, but I turn on my heel and head out to my car. I slam the door of my truck and turn the music up. Loud. I sit there for a second, expecting my mom to come rushing out after me, to explain, to tell me it was some weird misunderstanding. But she doesn’t.
After a few minutes, I turn the music down and back out of the driveway. I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m going to do. I’m so not in the mood to chase Madison anymore, and B. J.’s definitely done for the night. And all my other friends are probably at Jeremy’s party. I drive around aimlessly for a few minutes, and then I remember Courtney McSweeney’s number, written on a piece of paper in my wallet.
125 Days Before the Trip, 11:37 p.m.
So I chickened out. About telling Lloyd, I mean. But it wasn’t really my fault, because while we were leaving the party, we ran into Olivia Meacham outside, and she was all over Lloyd in one of those “I’m making it clear you can have sex with me if you want” kind of ways. Which I could never figure out. How girls can do that, I mean. I’m always terrified of giving a guy any idea I might like him, so I overcompensate by acting like I don’t. Like tonight, for example. I totally wanted to dance with Jordan. But I hesitated because:
Anyway. There was Olivia Meacham, wearing a frayed denim skirt that I’d tried on once in Hollister with Jocelyn and then vetoed because it was way too short, and a blue halter top that showed off her stomach. It’s taken me, oh, I don’t know, five years to get up the courage to even
think
about telling Lloyd I like him. Olivia transferred into our school around Christmas, and three months later she’s practically going down on him at this party.
Anyway, Lloyd starting flirting with Olivia, and the next thing I knew, she was in the car with us, and Lloyd was giving us both a ride home. And Lloyd dropped me off first. Which was kind of weird, since he made that whole production out of making sure I was riding home with him, when that wasn’t even the plan to begin with. But I’m not stupid. I know you always drop the third wheel off first.
So here I am, at home, by myself, and it’s kind of this big letdown. I really did want to tell him. And I can’t even bitch about it to Jocelyn, because she’s not answering her phone or replying to my text messages.
And of course no one’s on instant messenger, because everyone’s either sleeping or out. I download a few songs from iTunes, and then decide to see if Jordan has a MySpace. Not because I like him or anything. But because I’m curious.
“Jordan Richman,” I type into the search bar, and his profile pops up on the screen. The song he’s chosen is “Let’s All Get Drunk Tonight” by Afroman. Charming. I scroll through his pics. One of him at school, hanging out in the quad, one of him with his brother, Adam, who I recognize because he was a senior when we were freshman. And a bunch of Jordan with girls. Seriously, he has like ten pics of him with girls. Don’t the girls get mad? I wonder. That they’re on his page with a bunch of other girl pics?
I hit the back button and check out his friends. 789 friends. Quite the popular one, that Jordan. I have 117.
I scroll through the comments.
Seems like he and “Mad Madd Madison” have quite the MySpace flirtation going on. I go back and forth between their profiles, reading them. “What are you wearing?” Jordan asked her. “Why don’t you come over and I’ll show you,” Madison wrote back. Gag. They couldn’t come up with anything better than that? How lame.
My cell phone rings, and I reach for it, figuring it’s Jocelyn calling me back. But the caller ID shows a number I don’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Court?”
“This is Courtney,” I say, cradling the phone between my shoulder and chin and scrolling through Madison’s pictures, most of which show her pouting for the camera, and wearing bathing suits. Seriously, bathing suits. And she’s not in the beach or by the pool in any of them.
“Hey,” the voice says, sounding nervous. “It’s Jordan.”
“Oh,” I say. “Um, hi.” I close out the browser, wondering if he somehow saw I was on his profile, and is now calling to tell me to stop stalking him.
“You weren’t sleeping, were you?”
“No, not at all,” I say. “I just got home a little while ago.”
“Cool,” he says, and there’s a pause.
“So, uh, what are you doing? Home from the party?” Oh, yeah, that was really great. Obviously he’s home from the party, or he wouldn’t be calling me. This is why I’ve never had a boyfriend. Because while other girls are wearing halter tops and leaving flirtatious messages on people’s MySpace profiles, I’m coming up with such gems as “So, uh, what are you doing?”
“Driving around,” he says. “I dropped B. J. off and then I was going to hit this other party, but I’m not really in the mood.”
“Cool,” I say. “But why are you driving around at”—I glance at the clock—” midnight?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, sounding confused. “Just seemed fitting.”
“Um, okay,” I say.
“So,” he says. “Where do you live?”
“Where do I live?” I say, flopping down on my bed. “Jordan, I can’t tell you that! Technically, you’re a stranger.”
“I’m not a stranger,” he says. “And besides, if I don’t know where you live, I can’t pick you up.”
“Pick me up?” I say, swallowing.
“Yeah,” he says. “So you can come to breakfast with me.”
“How do you know I’m hungry?” I ask, thinking about his MySpace profile pics, and wondering if all those girls were invited to breakfast, too. I wonder if it’s one of those weird competitions guys have. Like this one thing I read about guys in college who made up this game to see who could sleep with the biggest girl. It was really, really mean. Disgusting. Maybe Jordan and his friends have some sort of twisted MySpace pics competition. If he thinks he’s getting a pic of us together, he’s wrong.
“Well, are you?”
“Starved, actually.” I
am
hungry. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to breakfast with him. I mean, hello? Isn’t this how people get stalked and killed? They sneak out in the middle of the night to meet some guy they know nothing about, and the next thing you know, no one ever hears from them again.
“So it’s all settled,” he says. “Where do you live?”
I hesitate.
“Courtney?” he says. “Please?” And there’s something in the way he says my name that makes me think he really, really wants me to come.
I sigh and reach for the jeans lying on my floor. “Twelve thirty-five Whickam Way,” I say. “And you better be buying.”
“That was so good,” I say an hour later, pushing my plate away. “I can’t believe I ate all that at one in the morning. Definitely not a good idea.”
“Ahh, it’s fine,” he says. He reaches over and uses his fork to cut a piece of the pancake that’s left on my plate. He pops it in his mouth.
“How can you possibly want to eat any more?” I say. He’s had three of his own pancakes, piled high with strawberries and whipped cream, three pieces of bacon, three sausages, home fries, and now he’s eating what’s left of mine.
“I’m hungry.” He shrugs and picks up the check, which the waitress has left on our table. He pulls out a twenty from his wallet.
“How much do I owe?” I ask. I reach into my bag and rummage for my wallet.
“Nah,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. I’m not letting you pay.”
“Why not?” he asks, cutting himself another piece of pancake. “I forced you out of your house at midnight, it’s the least I can do.”
“You didn’t force me,” I say.
He shrugs. “Well, whatever. I’m paying.”
“Thanks,” I say, sliding my wallet back into my bag, and suddenly feeling awkward. I know I joked with him on the phone about him paying, but still. Does this mean it’s a date? Who goes on a date at midnight with some guy she met at a party? It’s very weird. Is this how things work? Do girls just pick up guys randomly and then go on dates with them? I guess so, since Olivia Meacham hooked Lloyd tonight in about two seconds. Although technically, Jordan picked me up, not the other way around.
“So,” Jordan says, standing up. “What do you want to do now?”
“What do I want to do now? Um, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s one in the morning.”
“So?” he says, grinning. “It’s early. Oh, unless your parents need to have you home or something.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “It’s nothing like that.” The truth is, my parents would probably be thrilled that I’m out. My dad, especially. He’s always trying to get me to go out more, instead of just sitting at home, doing homework or playing around on my computer. “My parents totally trust me,” I tell Jordan. I reach over and take a sip of my hot chocolate, then grab two sugars from the container on the table and dump them into my cup. “It comes from being such a Goody Two-shoes for the first eighteen years of my life. They refuse to believe that I could do anything wrong, so they pretty much let me do whatever I want.”
“So you’ve built their trust to a point where they wouldn’t even consider the idea that their daughter could be text messaging when she’s supposed to be learning about cosines, right?”
I almost spit out my coffee. “Hey,” I say, “how did you know about that?” I spend almost all of math class texting to Jocelyn, since she has unstructured that period. I usually have a handle on the math stuff from reading the chapters the night before, and plus Lloyd goes over all my work, so it’s not like I’m really missing out on anything. But how does Jordan know this?
“I’m at the perfect angle to see you pull out your phone,” he says, grinning. “You do it all covert, hiding it under the pocket of your hoodie. Which, by the way, you always put on right before calc, so that you can text.”
“Everyone texts in class,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. It feels weird knowing he was watching me, that he knows something about me. Thank God he doesn’t know exactly what I’m texting Jocelyn about, because trust me, he would flip out. Let’s just say the words “Lloyd” and “sex” are used a lot. Not that I’m having sex with Lloyd. Or want to. I just like to talk about it. A lot.
“Anyway,” I say, as the waitress comes by and drops the change onto our table, “thanks for breakfast.” Jordan leaves $5 on the table and puts the rest of the money back in his wallet. So he’s a big tipper. That’s hot.
“So what do you want to do now?” Jordan asks, standing up.
“What do I want to do now?” I say. I check my watch. “Well, seeing as we’re under twenty-one, I’m thinking our choices are home or home.”
“Super Wal-Mart is open,” Jordan says, holding open the door for me. “And I heard they’re having a sale on hoodies. You could get another one. You know, to help you in math.”
“Oh, yeah, great plan,” I say. “Our first date you take me out to breakfast at one a.m., and then to Super Wal-Mart. How romantic.” He looks uncomfortable for a second. “Not that this is a date or anything,” I add quickly. “I was just messing around.” Oh, my God, could I have been any dumber? Who says that? Refers to a random call from a guy she doesn’t even know at one in the morning as a date? It’s so not a date. Dates are when the guy calls you days in advance to set something up, and shows up at your house, meets your parents, and then takes you somewhere. And everyone knows that you’re not supposed to even accept a date for the weekend after a Wednesday, because then you supposedly look desperate, right? Or is it Thursday? Whatever; the point is, this is so not a date. In fact, I’m not sure what it is. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a booty call. Booty calls always happen at one in the morning. But with booty calls, aren’t you supposed to get right to it? Like, the point of the booty call is to get naked right away, not mess around with formalities like dinner and dates. Unless this is a booty call, and I just don’t know it. And Jordan is trying to trick me into getting naked by taking me out to breakfast first, so then later, when I’m like, “That was a booty call!” he can be like, “No, it wasn’t, we had breakfast.” Like a modified booty call. It’s probably the new trend in dating.
“So,” Jordan says once we’re on the road. “You really have to go home?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking about the MySpace comments him and Mad Maddy exchanged less than twenty-four hours ago. “I should really get home.” For a second, I expect that he’s going to try to convince me to come back to his place, or worse, park the car in the Super Wal-Mart parking lot so we can mess around. I mean, why else would he invite me out? Like I said, it’s not a date, and if it’s not a booty call, then what the hell?
He pulls into my driveway. “Are you sure you live here?” he asks, sliding the car into park, but leaving the engine running.
“I’m pretty sure,” I say. I pull my keys out of my purse. “I have a key and everything.”
“It’s just that the mailbox says ‘Brewster,’ and your last name is McSweeney. So I need to make sure you’re not involved in any illegal activity, where I might be implicated since we hung out tonight.”
“What sort of illegal activity?” I ask. “Breaking into people’s houses to sleep?”
“Well, it could be anything,” he says, leaning back in his seat and pretending to look thoughtful. “This could be the headquarters for your drug trafficking posse. And all that texting you do in math is business related, and must be done during eighth period because of the time difference in certain South American countries.”
“Yeah, I’m a total drug trafficker,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m surprised your friend B. J. hasn’t told you about me—he’s my biggest client.”
“Touché,” Jordan says, grinning.
“No, but seriously, the truth isn’t anything all that shady,” I say, looking away for a second. “I have a different last name than my parents.”
“Oh,” he says. “I’m somewhat disappointed that it’s something so normal.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime,” I say, opening the door. Although if you want to know the truth, I don’t really want to leave. Which is crazy. I mean, this is Jordan Richman. He is totally not my type. Actually, I’m not his type. He likes girls like Olivia and Madison, girls that are super confident around guys and have the hookup list to back it up. My hookup list reads like this: