“And she ignores me!” B. J. says. Courtney leans over farther. Her shirt slides farther up her back. I try to figure out how close I need to be to get the best view without her actually hearing my conversation. Is it insane to be having these thoughts about her? Probably. I mean, I’m supposed to be kicking it to Madison. It’s just that Courtney’s fun to be around. She takes my mind off all the shit that’s going on at home. Which is good.
“Hello?!” B. J. asks on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Jocelyn ignored you.”
“I can’t believe it!” he says. “That’s fucked up, dude.”
“Girls are fucked up,” I say, shrugging. “Do you like her?”
“Not anymore,” he says, not sounding like he means it. “Not if she’s going to act like a shit.”
“She’s messing with you,” I say. “Just ignore her right back.”
“But I don’t want to fucking ignore her,” B. J. says. “I want to hook up with her again!”
“I know,” I say, sighing. “But if she’s going to play it all cool, the last thing you want is to come off as Psycho Obsessed Asshole.”
A Barnes & Noble employee, a young guy in a green apron with pierced ears almost bumps into me. “Sorry,” I say.
“Where are you?” B. J. asks suspiciously.
“At the bookstore.”
“The bookstore? What the fuck for?”
“I’m, uh, looking at books,” I say. “And I should get back to it. Let me call you later.”
“Who are you with?” B. J. asks.
Fuck. “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to infuse my voice with as much innocence as possible. He sighs.
“Who. Are. You. There. With.”
“I’m by myself,” I lie. Why did I just lie? I hate lying. I don’t believe in lying. Lying only gets you in trouble. Manipulating situations is one thing, but lying is another. My theory (especially with girls), is that if you don’t lie, you can’t be held responsible for anything bad that goes down.
Case in point: When I hooked up with Jana Freeze last summer. I told her I didn’t want a girlfriend, and that I was going to be hooking up with other people. She got all pissed off when I kissed Michelle Tessiro the weekend after. But really, it wasn’t my fault. Because she knew the deal, and she chose to put herself in that situation.
I know I sound like a slut. But I’m really not.
“You’re by yourself?” B. J. asks incredulously. “What the fuck for?”
“I told you,” I say, trying not to lose my patience, since it’s really my fault for lying to him. “I’m looking at books.”
“Dude, that’s some fucked-up shit,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m with Courtney McSweeney.”
“Courtney McSweeney?” B. J. asks, as if I’ve just announced I’m out on a date with Mischa Barton. “What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing it’s true.
“Whatever,” B. J. says. “Can you maybe ask her about Jocelyn for me?”
“Ask her what about Jocelyn?”
“Ask her what the deal is. They’re friends.” He sighs as if he can’t believe my obvious ridiculousness at not getting the plan. Which is really worrisome to me, because if B. J. is saying something I’m not understanding, that means my head is completely fucked up.
“Okay,” I agree.
“But don’t let her know I want to know,” he instructs.
“Of course not.” I don’t point out that expecting me to ask a girl I hardly know about how her friend feels about B. J. without actually telling her why I want to know is going to be a pretty hard thing to do.
“Lata.” B. J. clicks off before I can make plans with him for later. Shit.
Courtney comes around the corner, carrying
Laguna Beach
Season One on DVD. She holds it up and smiles at me. “Maybe I’ll give it a second chance.”
“You should,” I say, grabbing the blue DVD case out of her hand and checking out the back. What’s not to like about this show? Hot girls. Hookups. Who needs intelligent conversations and debates? It all boils down to wanting one another, anyway. So people should just hook up and get it over with.
“So…” she says, taking it back from me. “I should probably get home.”
“Oh,” I say, kind of surprised. Girls don’t usually end dates with me. Not that this is really a date. It’s more like a hang out. I follow her up to the cash register, where she purchases the
Laguna Beach
DVDs. Definitely not a date. Because if it were a date, I’d be paying. And we’d be hooking up. And that is definitely not going to happen.
Half an hour later, we’re kissing in my car.
Day One, 12:36 p.m.
I’m heading toward the bathroom to see what’s taking Courtney so long when I see her lean over and throw up all over the floor. It’s pretty nasty, a bunch of brown chunks and green liquid. I knew that sausage calzone didn’t look right.
“Court,” I say, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot, and then leans over and heaves again. I take her cell phone out of her hand, hang up on whoever it is she was talking to without bothering to say anything, and lead Courtney past the line of waiting women (who are all staring—have they never seen anyone upchuck before?) and into the women’s bathroom.
“Jordan,” she says, leaning against my shoulder. “You can’t come into the girls’ bathroom.”
Four women at the sink are gaping at me openly. “It’s okay,” I say to them. “I’m just helping my friend. She’s not feeling so well.”
“We’re not friends,” Courtney says, and then throws up again into one of the sinks against the wall. It’s not the best move, saying the guy who’s taking care of you isn’t your friend, but I let it slide since she’s obviously in distress. I pull her hair back from her face.
“Do you have a hair tie?” I ask her, ignoring the stares of the woman at the sinks. What is their problem? Do they not see that she’s sick? You’d think they’d be rallying around me, excited I was so obviously concerned that I would risk a trip into the women’s bathroom. Maybe it’s a new kind of crime, guys pretending they’re friends with random girls who get sick at rest stops, so that they can sneak into women’s bathrooms and get a peek at…I look around. At middle-aged women washing their hands.
Courtney hands me her bag, and I riffle through it, looking for a hair tie. Makeup, notebook, mirror…why do girls need so much stuff? I pull Courtney’s hair back from her face, trying to gather it in a ponytail. Her skin feels smooth against my hands.
“Let me do it,” Courtney says, taking the hair tie away from me. Her fingers brush against mine, and my heart rate speeds up again. God, I want her so bad.
She pulls her hair back, then leans over the sink again and gives one final, silent heave. I rub her back until her body stops shaking.
“You okay?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. She’s gripping the sides of the sink so hard that her knuckles are turning white. “I’m okay. I just hate throwing up.”
“Will you be okay in here for a second by yourself? I’ll go get you a bottle of water.”
“Okay,” she says, not really sounding like she means it. I look around the bathroom. The floors are dirty and there are random paper towels and toilet paper strewn around the floor. It smells like exactly what you’d think a thruway rest stop bathroom would smell like.
“Actually,” I say. “Why don’t you just come with me? We’ll get you some water, and then you can sit in the back of my truck. Some air might make you feel better.”
“Okay,” she agrees, and starts walking shakily toward the door of the restroom. I go to put my arm around her like before, but she shrugs me off. “I’m fine.”
Ten minutes later, she’s sitting with her feet hanging over the side of my open truck back, sipping water slowly, and looking a little bit better, although really pale.
“I should call Jocelyn back,” she says. “I was talking to her when I started throwing up.”
I feel relieved that she wasn’t talking to Lloyd, which is completely ridiculous. Courtney and I are over, and no matter how much I still want to be with her, it’s not going to happen. And she deserves someone who’s going to make her happy. If Lloyd does that for her, I really am cool with it.
My phone starts ringing in my pocket, and I check the caller ID. Courtney’s dad. The fucker will not leave me alone. Every five minutes with him.
“I’m gonna take this,” I tell Court. “Are you going to be okay for a few minutes?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll call Jocelyn back so she doesn’t worry.”
I walk safely out of Courtney’s earshot, and then open my phone. “What?” I say. He may have gotten me to break up with Courtney, but as far as I’m concerned, the power he has over me stops there. Well, that’s not exactly true. Because he keeps calling me.
“That’s not a nice way to answer the phone, Jordan,” he says, sounding cheerful.
“Yeah, well, I’m not in exactly the nicest mood right now,” I say.
“Oh, and why’s that?” he asks, sounding amused.
“Because you keep calling me.”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was going okay,” he says. “That the trip was proceeding safely.”
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I say, not mentioning the fact that Courtney just spent ten minutes throwing up into a sink.
“Jordan, you know I’m not trying to be a dick about this,” he says, sighing.
“Yeah, spare me,” I say, watching Courtney from where I’m standing. She looks really small and really pale.
“I’m not,” Mr. Brewster says. “I just want Courtney to be happy, and I really think this is the best way to go about it. And Jordan, I think you know that telling Courtney what happened really isn’t going to serve any real purpose.”
Other than to make her hate me, I think to myself. And it’s true. If I told Courtney what I knew, she would hate me even more than she does now. And having her hate me because she thinks I dumped her for another girl is much better than having her hate me because of what I know.
“Well, you don’t have to worry,” I say, swallowing hard. “I’m not going to say anything.”
“Thanks,” Mr. Brewster says. “I really do appreciate it, Jordan. And I
am
going to tell Courtney. But on my own time.”
“Whatever,” I say. I snap my phone shut and take a deep breath. After a few seconds, I turn back around and head back to the truck. I cannot wait until this trip is over.
Day One, 1:47 p.m.
I’m going to throw up again. “I’m going to throw up again,” I tell Jordan, feeling it rising up in my throat. We’re back on the highway now, and he signals and pulls over quickly to the side of the road. I open the door and lean out, throwing up onto the pavement. This is so disgusting. Seriously. I hate throwing up. I have this really bad phobic fear of it. I go to great lengths not to throw up, and until today, I hadn’t thrown up since the fourth grade. Fourth grade! That’s like eight years. It’s a real phobia, too. Throwing up, I mean. I know no one likes to throw up, but it’s proven that some people are really scared of it. Like me. And some celebrities. Matthew McConaughey, I think.
“You okay?” Jordan asks, and I feel his hand on my back.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” I lie, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Gross, gross, gross. I’ll bet his MySpace girl never throws up all over herself when they’re together. I’ll bet they’re too busy having sex to eat anything that might cause her stomach to get all sketch.
“You sure?” Jordan asks. “You don’t look okay.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say, slamming the door shut.
Jordan hands me a napkin. “Uh, here,” he says, “you might want to wipe your mouth.”
I take the napkin from him and turn away, wiping the drool off my mouth. Have I mentioned this is really disgusting?
I throw the napkin into the ashtray and push the seat back again, reclining all the way back. It’s actually very easy to trick yourself into not throwing up. You just lay back, perfectly still and straight, close your eyes, and try not to move.
“Hey, Court?”
“Yes?” I ask, trying not to move my mouth in case it sets off some kind of motion wave to my stomach.
“Listen, I think maybe we should check into a hotel somewhere,” he says, sounding hesitant, like he doesn’t want to piss me off. “You’re obviously sick, and you need to rest.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “And besides, it would mess up the schedule.” Is he crazy? We’re already way behind thanks to his lollygagging this morning. Plus the traffic. Plus the long bathroom lines at the rest stop. Plus my throwing up.
“Are you sure?” he says, “Because I saw a sign a few miles back for a Days Inn coming up.”
“It. Would. Mess. Up. The. Schedule.”
“Okay,” he says, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure?”
“YES.” Of course I’m sure. I’m not going to let throwing up stop me from getting to college on time.
Two miles later, after we’ve had to pull over three more times so I can throw up, he pulls off at the next exit and follows the sign that says
DAYS INN
. I don’t stop him.
So this is really awkward. Jordan’s checking into the Days Inn, which is a completely and totally unscheduled stop, and the front desk clerk has assumed we want one room. This place is kind of sketch (the clerk asked us for how long we wanted the room, and I think he meant in hours), and there are some very scantily dressed girls standing outside. Which is weird, because it’s four in the afternoon. Definitely not late enough for prostitution. Although maybe I’ve been conditioned by the media to think prostitutes only come out after midnight. Like this one special I saw once about hookers who frequent truckstops. They call them “lot lizards” and they only come out at night.
“Yes,” Jordan says. “We’ll take the one room.”
“No,” I say. “We’ll take two.”
The guy looks nervously between the two of us. “No, we won’t,” Jordan says, turning out to look at me. I’m sprawled in one of the chairs in the “lobby,” which is really a foyer. I have vomit on my shirt, my hair is coming out of my ponytail, and on the way in here, I almost fell over and Jordan had to take my bag. “Court, you’re sick. I’m not leaving you by yourself.”
“Fine,” I say. “But two beds.”
“Of course,” Jordan says, rolling his eyes.
Of course two beds. I forgot for a moment that Jordan has a girlfriend. One who he obviously loves enough to leave me for, which means there’s no way the thought of sharing a bed with me would have crossed his mind. For the first time, I wonder what his girlfriend thinks of the fact that Jordan is here, on a trip with me. She’s probably one of those super-secure girls who is all confident in her relationship. How annoying.
Conversations About Me Jordan Had with His Girlfriend (A Deluded Fantasy by Courtney Elizabeth McSweeney):
Jordan:
So I’m stuck going on this trip with Courtney.
Mercedes:
Okay.
Jordan:
Just so you know, nothing’s going to happen.
Mercedes (starts taking her clothes off so she and Jordan can have sex):
I know.
Jordan:
You want to have sex again? We just finished two hours ago.
Mercedes (climbs on top of him):
Yes.
(Pauses.)
This Courtney girl or whatever her name is, she’s not cute, is she?
Jordan:
No.
Mercedes:
Cool.
Jordan picks up our bags and starts down the hall. “Room 103,” he says, reading off the card the front desk guy gave him. I’m concentrating on making it down the hall without passing out, since the floor seems to be spinning. I’m watching my feet (which are cased in very cute purple sandals) as I move one in front of the other, trying not to lose it. One. Two. Step. Step. Ha, like that song by Ciara. “I love it when you one, two step.” Although I don’t think Ciara was trying to keep herself upright while walking down a hotel room hallway with her ex-boyfriend who she was still in love with when she wrote that song. I think Ciara was having dance parties and fun and all sorts of really good things that had nothing to do with nausea or horrible road trips.
I lean against the door frame as Jordan slides the plastic card into the electronic sensor that will let us into our room. A green light flashes and he holds the door open for me. I push by him, and as I do, my chest brushes against his, and for a second, I lose my breath, but then I’m past him and it’s over. I slide onto one of the beds and drop my bag onto the floor.
Whoever was in the room before left the air conditioner on full-blast, and it feels good. I’m hot. I lean back on the bed and close my eyes.
“You okay?” Jordan asks, plopping himself down on the other bed.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He picks the remote off the floor and turns on the TV. The sounds of ESPN come blaring out of the speakers.
I pick my suitcase up off the floor and head to the bathroom without telling him where I’m going. I take a long, cool shower, then change into a pair of soft pink pajama shorts and a black spaghetti-strapped tank top. I feel much better. I pull my cell out of my purse. Three missed calls. My dad. Jocelyn. And Lloyd.
Shit. Lloyd. I almost forgot about him.
Whatever, I’m not going to think about that now. La, la, la. Just going to call Jocelyn back. I dial her cell number.
“Hey,” I say when she answers. “Did you call?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I wanted to see how you were feeling.”
I hear the sound of car horns honking in the background.
“Uh, Joce?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
“I’m tailing B. J. to McDonald’s,” she says, sounding satisfied.
“Tailing B. J. to McDonald’s?” I repeat dumbly. She can’t be serious. Who does that outside of Veronica Mars?
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m following him to see if he goes to Katelyn’s.”
“Who?”
“Katelyn Masters. Who he hooked up with freshman year?”
“Why would he be going to see Katelyn Masters?” I ask, confused.
“Because she left him a MySpace message that was semi-flirty, and then today he was very vague about what he was doing. So I headed over to his house and waited outside until he left. And now he’s at McDonald’s, and I’m following him to see where else he’s going.” MySpace is seriously going to be responsible for everyone losing their minds.
“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to see you?”
“No, not at all,” she says. “I’m staying far enough behind him, and besides, I’m in my mom’s car.”
“Why are you in your mom’s car?” Jocelyn has a perfectly good car, a black Honda Civic, which her parents bought her a few months ago as an early graduation present.
“Duh,” she says. “Because I don’t want him to figure out I’m following him.”
“Hey, Joce?” I say, trying to sound gentle. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to ask him where exactly he’s going?”
“Courtney,” she says, sighing in exasperation. “I can’t ask him! He’ll think I don’t trust him.”
“You obviously don’t.”
“Asshole!” Jocelyn screams. “Sorry, some guy tried to cut me off while turning in to Home Depot. What were you saying?”
“I don’t remember,” I say, scared by Jocelyn’s sudden road rage.
“Oh, right, about B. J. and me. How I don’t trust him.”
“Why would you want to be with someone you don’t trust?”
“I wouldn’t. But what if I confront him on it and it turns out not to be true, and he breaks up with me because he thinks I don’t trust him?”
“But you don’t!”
“True.” She considers this. “But it could be all my own psychosis.”
“Probably.”
More car horns honking. “I gotta go—I think B. J.’s coming out of the drive-thru, and I don’t want to lose him.”
“I’ll call ya later,” I say, clicking off.
I look at the phone and consider calling Lloyd, but then I slide it back into my bag. I’ll deal with it later.
When I get back to the room, Jordan’s sitting on the bed, flipping between a poker tournament and a baseball game.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m fine.” The truth is, I don’t know if I’m fine or not. Suddenly, I feel totally exhausted, like I can’t even move. I haul myself up onto the second bed, pull the covers down, and grab one of the pillows from the top of the bed. I move it to the bottom. I like to sleep upside down on beds. Plus, the way the room is set up, the TV is closer to the bottom of the bed, so it makes sense. Not that I care about watching poker. But I wouldn’t mind watching the baseball game.
“Who’s playing?” I ask Jordan. My eyes feel really heavy, and my throat feels scratchy from throwing up so much.
“The Devil Rays and the Yankees,” he says softly, looking at me. I meet his eye for a second, and then look away. Jordan and I spent almost every night this summer watching the Devil Rays on TV. And on one of our very first dates, we went to a game. Whatever. Not thinking about it. “Do you want to watch something else?” he asks.
“No,” I say, my eyes closing. “I’m really, really tired.”
“Yeah,” he says. “You should probably get some rest.”
“Probably,” I say. I must have fallen asleep in about two minutes, because the next thing I know, I open my eyes, and the clock says it’s four in the morning. Which means I’ve slept for like fifteen hours. My stomach feels hollow and tired, like it’s been through an ordeal. Which I guess it has. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. And then I realize Jordan’s next to me, sleeping, his arms wrapped around me, our legs tangled together under the blanket.