Not That Kind Of Girl. Siobhan Vivian
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couldn’t believe what she was saying. If there was anything in the whole world I didn’t want to do, it was randomly show up at a high school party that I wasn’t invited to, full of people we didn’t like. And Autumn was delusional if she thought we’d be welcomed with open arms. Not to mention that I had made other plans for us. Better plans.
But I didn’t bother saying as much. Instead I pointed out the window at a boy kneeling on the curb, puking into a bush. “Wow. Looks like we’re really missing out on an awesome time.”
“We should pull over and make sure he’s okay, don’t you think?”
I looked at the clock. We still had plenty of time to get to the theater, but I was concerned that if I parked to check on this boy, Autumn would make a run for the house, and then I’d have to go chasing after her. So, after locking the doors, I put the car in park and rolled down my window.
“Hey. Puking boy . . . are you okay?”
The boy didn’t say anything, or even look in our direction. Instead, he waved and gave us a thumbs-up.
I turned to Autumn. “Can we go now?”
“I guess,” she said, all pouty. She turned off my radio, rolled down her window, and strained to make out the music wafting in the air.
I guess was good enough for me. I wasn’t going to wait around and give Autumn a chance to change her mind.
Autumn screamed as I hit the gas.
I pressed the brakes as hard and fast as I could, slamming my car to a sudden stop. My headlights rocked up and down the dark street. Four drunken boys stood frozen at my bumper. Mike Domski, Scott Phillips, Paul Zed, and James Rocker.
“Watch where you’re going!” I screamed, my quivering hand hovering over the car horn. The smell of burnt rubber wafted though my vents.
The boys’ movements kickstarted with uproarious laughter, as they realized imminent death had, just barely, missed its mark. I tried to inch my car forward, but we were pinned by the human roadblock, forced to witness their drunken celebration. They leaped into each other’s burly arms and sang a chorus of holy shit, dude! Mike Domski tossed aside a beer can and started humping my hood ornament.
“Get off my car!” I shouted.
“I’m trying!” he moaned. “Oh, God, I’m trying!” After Mike pretended to bring my Honda to orgasm, the laughing boys made their way up the front lawn of the party.
“Looks like Mike’s over losing the election,” Autumn said, trying to sound lighthearted. Then she added, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”
“Why don’t I just drop you off?” It came out bitchy, but I couldn’t help it.
“Forget it,” Autumn said, though she sounded like she was doing anything but.
A shaggy straggler shuffled a few quiet steps behind the pack. Connor Hughes. He stooped to peer inside my window with this curious look on his face. I could smell the beer all over him, warm and sour. “There’s a spot down the street,” he offered, pointing off into the blackness. His thumbs were threaded through holes in the cuffs of his thermal.
We locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. His were blue and watery, because he’d been drinking and doing who knows what else.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said sarcastically, then pressed my foot down on the gas.
Autumn spun around in her seat. “That could be interpreted as an invitation.”
I glanced in my rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything. Only night. My heartbeat started to slow. “We’re going to be late for the movie.”
Autumn turned back around and huffed. “You know, there’s something to be said for spontaneity.”
I didn’t even bother responding. I just drove as fast as I could away from that house.
The rest of my weekend pretty much sucked. Autumn didn’t sleep over on Friday or Saturday, but she came over on Sunday to do a few SAT practice exams together. I could tell she wasn’t feeling it. I’d look up and she’d be staring out our kitchen window, even though the timer was ticking away and she was at least five test pages behind me. Obviously, practice exams aren’t the most fun thing to do, but the SATs were in just over a month, and I wanted us to be as ready as we could possibly be.
Not that it always worked that way. Because even though I’d practiced my speech countless times, I was way more nervous than I’d thought I’d be for the first student council meeting on Monday. I kept trying to remind myself that the stresses of the election had passed. I’d beaten Mike Domski, and now I could finally get down to business.
Before heading to the meeting, I wanted to freshen up and collect myself. The perfect place to go was the girls’ bathroom near the teachers’ lounge. Other girls avoided it for the risks of getting caught talking on their cell phones or smoking a cigarette, but the lack of use meant that it was always clean. The dispensers stayed full of syrupy pink soap, and there was always toilet paper and paper towels to be found. It was my favorite place to pee. It was like an executive girls’ bathroom.
But I wasn’t alone. I opened the door to find Spencer kneeling on the radiator. Her back was arched, and she stretched her head toward the ceiling, like she was in some strange yoga pose.
I flashed her a quick smile and dropped my book bag in the well of a dry sink.
“Shhhh!”
Spencer took her finger off her lips and pointed above her head at the vents in the ceiling. A layer of fuzzy dust sat on each slit. She whispered, “Mrs. Dockey was just bitching about Principal Hurley not approving her costume budget for the school musical. She actually said that she ‘can’t put on The Wizard of Oz with fucking bedsheets and a burlap sack!’ ”
We both tried to hold in our laugher, but it was practically impossible. Mrs. Dockey was about eighty years old and completely soft-spoken. I didn’t think it was possible for her to curse like that. Then again, she did take the musical theater productions very seriously.
I rifled through my bag for my hairbrush, forcing it through the knots in my hair. I made sure my headband was perched right at the top of my head. I slicked my lips with my tube of Burt’s Bees. I looked as ready as I could be, but inside, my stomach was churning. I’d never had the chance to stand out like this before. To be a leader.
“I took your advice,” Spencer said to me. “See?” She jumped off the radiator and lifted up her skirt, flashing a pair of pink satiny petticoat underwear with layers of frills across the butt. “These were actually part of my dance costume for this can-can routine I did in a Moulin Rouge show.”
I smiled. Not the toothy kind, but the lips pressed together kind. It was . . . a marginal improvement. But I had to give Spencer credit. If she danced in outfits like that, she probably wouldn’t get nervous giving a student council speech.
“So, congratulations on winning the election. A few girls in my homeroom were planning to vote for Mike because he was cute, but I forced them to vote for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, and tucked my shirt into my skirt.
“I saw what Mike did to your poster.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Though I guess you can’t really blame him.”
Had Spencer been the one to take it down? I turned to face her. “What do you mean?”
She scrunched her curls in the mirror. “Sexual tension makes guys act like complete idiots.”
I raised an eyebrow. There was certainly tension between me and Mike Domski, but it was hardly sexual. Not even close.
Spencer gave me wink, as if I were acting coy. “Mike totally wants