Anything to Have You. Paige Harbison
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Reed was our local bad boy. There was something about him that made seemingly sane girls lose their minds. He was good-looking and extremely charming when he wanted to be. But he was also an obnoxious and contemptuous, self-obsessed douche bag. Here are the top things said about James Reed:
1. “I thought he really liked me!”
2. “One minute everything was fine, and then I never heard from him again!”
3. “Fuck him! No seriously, fuck Reed.”
4. “What a jerk. I wonder if he likes me.”
Here are the top things said to James Reed:
1. “I hate you, do not ever talk to me again.”
2. “You’re an asshole.”
3. “Fine, one more time, but that’s it.”
It could be argued that I was biased, since I might have been one of those seemingly sane girls that fell for a charming line and a boyish dimple. I’m a smart girl, but I wasn’t smart enough fast enough to escape his grasp unscathed.
“Look at him, leaning on the bar, surrounded by dumb girls,” said Brooke. “Of course he’s doing that. Of course he is.”
She bit her lip, shaking her head but still staring at him.
I sometimes feared that she was one bad choice away from becoming another girl burned by him. I didn’t object on a jealous level, just because I had hooked up with him. Once I was away from him, I never again was able to see why I had been fooled by his whole shtick. I cared because he would burn Brooke, and she would be humiliated. And then I would probably have to kill him.
“How did he even...like, does he have a fake ID or...”
“Probably,” I said. “Whatever, it’s his felony.”
“I bet we could get in. I look like I could be twenty-one, don’t I?” She adjusted her clothes. “We should try.”
“I am in leggings and a sweatshirt, and I’m wearing my glasses. For one thing.”
“Exactly! You’re being...ironic. And you’re wearing thick-rimmed tortoiseshells! You will blend right in with all the hipsters! You’ll snag some guy who would probably be cute if he didn’t have a handlebar mustache, and I’ll kick Reed in the balls for you. It’ll be fun!”
“I’m wearing these so I can see, not so I can look trendy. And no need to kick him in the balls. I’m pretty sure someone else will do that for us tonight. Come on, let’s go order our food.”
She let me lead her away, her focus stuck back on me.
“I think I’ve got something here, though. That’s who you need—a slightly older guy who can understand your love of the Mamas and the Papas and who will watch your Hitchcock movies with you. That—” she pointed back at the hipster bar “—is where those guys are! Them, and a couple of skeezeballs like Reed, who somehow finagled their way in.”
“I don’t need a guy to do those things with!”
She threw her head back and groaned. “Okay, you’re right. You don’t need a guy who can necessarily do that. But you need a boyfriend, Nat. Or a boy toy at least. You are seventeen and hot, and you haven’t done, like, anything.”
“Shh!” I looked around.
“Exactly! It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed.”
“I’m not a virgin, Brooke,” I whispered.
“Basically you are. Because it was James ‘the Dickwad’ Reed, and I’m pretty sure anyone who hooks up with him is entitled to be in denial about doing so.”
“Truth. But still. I’m not looking for someone to hook up with. And even if I was, I am not going to meet him at a Bethesda bar. Plus it’s creepy. If a guy is old enough to drink legally and wants to hook up with me, he’s weird already. I’m not into pedophiles.”
“Oh, really, you’re not into—Natalie, come on. This is a three-to four-year difference I’m talking about here!”
“Eh. Still.”
“Look, I know you’re into being all independent and everything, with your reading and listening to records while you knit scarves or whatever you do instead of having a social life—”
“I don’t knit. I just can knit.”
“In an argument where you’re trying to say that you don’t need to be more social, do you really think the sentence ‘I just can knit’ is going to win?”
“I am social! I’m out right now!”
“Nat...you know I don’t count. It was only about a month ago that I invited you to a party and you said you couldn’t come because you were busy, and I came over to force you, and I found you in an apron, cooking...whatever it was called.”
“Coq au vin. It was delicious, thank you very much. And as you pointed out, winter is cold. Coq au vin is hot.”
“You’re basically a middle-aged woman. Worse than that, you’re like a middle-aged woman suffering from empty-nest syndrome. You are too young, Natalie, to be spending your nights working your way through Julia Child’s cookbook.”
I shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that you will make an effort for the next few months. Not only is it senior year, but it’s our last opportunity to do this stuff together. I don’t know where either one of us is going to be next year for sure—I’ll probably be in stupid Pennsylvania—but I know we won’t be together. And I really miss my partner in crime.”
I had nothing to say back. Brooke was rarely affectionate or sweet, and these were not the moments to argue with her.
“Especially prom,” she added, grabbing my wrist and shaking it. “Prom, prom, prom. You haven’t been to homecoming or prom since sophomore year, and I admit that it was lame that year.”
“Brooke, are you asking me to prom?” I smiled wryly at her. “The answer is yes, a million times yes!”
Instead of laughing, she looked sad. “Look, it’s not only about you having the high school experience. It’s also that mine isn’t complete without you there. Please come out more.”
In a way, I knew she was right. I should go to events like prom and all that...but I never fit in at any of those must-do high school events. I used to go to big parties, and for me the experience was uncomfortable. All the girls waltzing around in too much makeup and crop-tops they couldn’t pull off because of the beer gut they already had, and the guys flexing their arm muscles and puffing out their chests. People either acted drunker than they were, or they’d had way too much and were trying to seem sober. Any conversation you had would likely be forgotten by the morning, and any hookup you had you’d hope to forget by then. There had been a brief moment where I didn’t hate it, but I’d walked away from my Reed mistake and suddenly had seen it all with new eyes.
The top five things you hear at a party:
1. “I am so fucked up.”
2. “Who brought her?”
3. “I think I’m gonna vomit.”
4. “I am way too high right now. No, seriously, I think I’m having a heart attack.”
a) Fun subcomment: “Can I get in trouble if I’m high and go to the emergency room?”
5. “Ugh, I’m gonna be so hungover.”
And then a lot of happy squealing matched only by weepy couple-fights.
But I did miss hanging out with Brooke. We used to have fun at some of those parties together.
“Fine.”
“You