A lot of guys like parties for one reason: girls. Not that I blame them. I mean, until Clara became my girl, I was just like them. Wanting. Hoping. No shortage of beauty to look at. Tight pants and short skirts and shiny hair and big... smiles.
What did you think I was going to say?
Clara loves parties. She's one of those people who knows everyone's business. She'll probably get wasted tonight and I'll take her home and tuck her into bed and tell her a less embarrassing version of events in the morning. There she is, by the pool table. No, not that one. The one beside her. The beautiful one. Long blond hair, big blue eyes that aren't just blue, but have a ring of green around the middle. Like the ocean when it rains. And maybe you think that sounds cheesy, but that's what girls like to hear. Nobody wants to be generic.
Anyway, I've got my girl. And I like parties for a whole different reason. To watch. Not in a creepy way, but I like watching people. They do a lot of stuff when they figure nobody's looking. And they do a lot of stuff when they know people are looking, too.
Like, Colin Riggs and Beth Hall over there by the stereo. They're acting all nice when people come over, but whenever it's just the two of them her eyes go all squinty and she turns away from him and he gets another beer. I can almost guarantee that when they leave the party, she'll rag on him for being drunk and he'll tell her to stop being such a buzzkill. She'd be even more pissed off if she knew that last time she went to the bathroom, he grabbed Alana French's butt.
Over there, the two idiots who are wasted off their asses and working out on Todd's dad's exercise machines? Well, the moron walking backwards on the treadmill is Trevor Johnston. In about ten seconds, he'll probably fall over and crack his dumb head open. The other one on the bike is Chase Redgrave. He acts all shy at school, but at parties he's hitting on everyone else's girl.
And over there—by the patio doors. That little guy, William Malcolm. His hand has been crawling up this girl's skirt all night. I have to hand it to him—bold move. Not something I'd do in public. Not even something I've done in private, at least not yet.
I wave at Clara, and she winks at me. This is why I fell for Clara in the first place. She's the same person here as she is at school. The same person at school as she is at my house. The same person she is at my house when we're hanging with my friends. Same person, all the time. And that's a rare quality.
I bet people think we're a mismatch. She's in the thick of all the action and here I am, reclining on the same Laz-E-Boy I've been sitting on all night, nursing the same can of beer I started with. When we first started dating, she told me her friends thought I was hot, but it took them ages to actually talk normal around me. It was like they were on their best behavior, afraid to say the wrong thing. Clara said they got like they around all her boyfriends. Yes, all.
That's what's funny, though. Clara has dated a lot of guys, but never anyone seriously. People don't see that. People just see the reputation. If they looked closer, they'd see how reserved my girl is. A peck on the cheek in the hallway. No public displays of affection. Clara sure won't be dragging me into one of those empty bedrooms to rip my clothes off. And I'm cool with that. It's alright. When she's ready, I'll be ready.
Clara blows me a kiss, and I catch it. That's the closest we'll get to kissing in public. I never miss a single one of her kisses. She once said her favorite thing about me is how "attentive" I am. "You notice everything," she said after I ordered for her at a restaurant, telling the waiter about her seafood allergy before she had to say a word. "You're like, Super-Boyfriend."
I'm cool with that. But the truth is, it's not that hard for me to be "attentive." I'm probably the only kid at Milton High without a cell phone, not because I can't afford one but because they're a waste. Not just a waste of money, but a waste of everything else. Brain cells. How many times have I seen some fool with his eyes glued to a stupid game, not noticing the girl who wants him to talk to her? Or a kid so into his text messages that he practically walks into oncoming traffic. I'm not going to be that dumbass who misses an opportunity because he's busy updating his Facebook status.
I drain the last of my beer and stand up, stretching my arms over my head. At six-five, I'm the tallest guy in the room. Of course, the coaches were all over my ass to join the basketball team when I started at Milton four years ago. They dogged me about it and bugged me to try out each season, but it's just not for me. I'm a lover, not a player.
"Hey," a girl voice says from behind me. "Orlando, right? I just wanted to say, that pro-abortion speech you gave during the debate? So epic."
I turn around. She's small and blond and not in any of my classes. "Thanks, Britney," I say. "Much appreciated."
Her eyes widen. She's surprised that I know who she is, but I know her name because I know everybody's name. "I guess we've never actually formally met. I'm Britney Ames." She holds out her hand and grabs mine, and her handshake's actually decent for someone so tiny.
"Orlando Lamar," I say. "Yeah, there's a lot of issues I could talk about for days. I just think women have the right to choose. You know?"
She nods like the bobblehead on the dashboard of my car. Her head looks too big for her body. That's the look for girls these days, I guess. Not for Clara. Clara's got a bit of meat on her bones, and I like that. There's nothing like running your hands down a woman's hips, cupping her butt in your hands. (Well, Clara only let me do that once. But there was nothing like it.)
"Well, Orlando, I'd listen to you talk about anything, any day. I'll be at the next debate, for sure."
"I sure hope so," I say, right as my eyes flicker up and see Clara frowning at me from across the room. I hold up my hand in a wave, as if to say girl, chill out, because that's one thing about Clara I'm not crazy about. She gets jealous. Maybe it sounds like flirting, but it comes out naturally. I'm like that with every girl. Students, teachers, crossing guards, salespeople at the mall. My old man calls me a charmer and says I'm just like him. "I told your Ma we should've named you Romeo," he once said, "but she loved As You Like It. I knew she got the wrong Shakespeare play."
Britney's still talking about the debate, yapping a mile a minute with her hands clutched around her Solo cup. I'm looking at her but not listening because now I'm thinking about my dad, about what my Ma said when she moved out. You're just like your father.
I nod and smile, because that's another thing I got from my old man. Perfect teeth, the kind people pay for. After Clara and I had been dating for a few months, we were walking home from a movie date and she hopped on my back like a little kid, with no warning at all. "You know," she said. "If we ever have kids, we'd make the cutest babies ever. And they'd have your smile."
I had laughed, even though it was really random and not something I liked to think about. The whole idea of growing old and settling down and having kids freaks me out. Anything that advertises itself as for life can only fall short. If there's one thing my folks taught me, it's that nothing lasts forever.
"Anyway," Britney says, whipping out her phone. "If you give me your phone number, I'll invite you next time."
I say the numbers automatically. I don't want to be rude. Plus, this means nothing. But then, as she's asking me how to spell my last name—"is it Lamar like Kendrick Lamar, or like La-More?"—Clara comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist, just a little too tightly.
"Babe," she says. "I need to talk to you. Outside."
Ouch. Outside is never a good thing. She's pulling me by the hand, across the basement, out the walk-out screen door, practically yanking my arm off. My girl's a lot stronger than she looks and when she digs her nails in, that shit hurts.
"You don't listen," she says when we're around the side of the house beside a shitty-ass barbeque and a sorry excuse for a lawn chair. "I keep asking you to please not flirt with everything that wears a skirt. And there you go doing it again, right in front of me. Giving her your phone number? What do you do when I'm not in the same room?"
I lean against the brick. "That wasn't flirting," I say, resisting the urge to add, and she was wearing jeans. "That was talking. She liked how I was in the debate, that's all."
Clara crosses her arms. Her eyes are all squinty and her lips are sucked in and turning white. "I'm sure that's all she liked. Your debate skills."
I shrug. "That's all it was. You know I love you. You shouldn't ever get jealous. It's you and me." I reach out my hands and tug on her fingers, force her to uncross her arms. They hang down at her sides and she's not fighting me and hey, we're alone, so it's the perfect time to make up. I'm good at that.
I trail my fingers down her bare arms. It's kind of cold out here and she has goosebumps. Then I wrap my arms around her waist and drop down to my knees. My head comes up to the spot just below her boobs so I lift her shirt up slowly and kiss her stomach, just little kisses, but she twitches because I know she's ticklish there.
I know a lot of things about Clara. Random stuff. Like she only drinks this one kind of tea, Earl Grey, and she dumps like a pound of sugar in it before taking a sip. She hates pickles. She has lived in four different states—Colorado, Michigan, Florida, and now California. She's crazy about reality TV. She cries when she watches The Voice.
I know she likes when I stand up to my full height like I do now, and pick her up like she weighs nothing, letting her feet dangle near the ground. Sometimes she whispers stuff in my ear while I'm kissing her neck, cute stuff. I love you more than I did five minutes ago. You're my Superman.
"My dad's moving out," she says so quiet I barely hear it.
That's one thing I didn't know.
She wraps her arms tight around my neck and tucks her face into my neck. I can tell she's crying because her cheeks are all wet.
"It was his idea," she says. "He's always staying late at the office and taking clients out for business dinners. Or so I thought." She sniffs and clutches the back of my neck. "My mom begged him to stay. It was pathetic. She knew the whole time. It's like, she lets him walk all over her and get away with anything. I'd never do that."
I shuffle over to the shitty lawn chair and sit down, hoping it holds up. Clara's curled in my lap like a baby. My baby. I'd never hurt her.
She grips the collar of my shirt. "I'm not going to make you promise to never break up with me. That's unrealistic. I'm not going to get all clingy on you, either. It's not like you know what I'm going through. Just promise you'll never cheat on me. Because I won't lay down and take it like my mom did."
I swallow. My mouth is dry and my throat feel scratchy. I've never told Clara about my parents before. About why Ma left. I don't like talking about that kind of stuff. I don't know why I want my friends to think I have some perfect family. I just do. But Clara's different. I can trust her. I can drop the lines and let my guard down, that stupid saying they use in the self-help books Ma left in the bookshelf, like she was coming back for them.
I open my mouth to say it, even though my heart's pounding like crazy, but Clara's lips are all over mine, still wet with her tears. She braces her hands against my shoulders and straddles my lap and the lawn chair rocks back into the fence. In the house, I can hear the boom-boom-boom from the bass and some people laughing. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to forget about them. About all of it. About the girl my dad was hooking up with behind Ma's back. Girls, plural. Some of them in college, not that much older than me.
"Make love to me," Clara whispers, biting my earlobe.
Say what?
She grabs the bottom of her shirt and pulls it up but it gets tangled in her earring and she starts swearing. With the shirt halfway over her head, her hands go to the fly of my jeans. Until I reach out and stop her.
"This isn't right," I say, taking both her hands in one of mine. "You don't want this. You're upset. You'll regret it."
She pulls her shirt back down and yanks her hands away. She's pissed. She chews the end of her thumb like she does when she's thinking hard about something.
"You don't know what I'll regret," she says. "Maybe this is the one thing that does feel right. Maybe this is like, the peak of my life, and it all goes downhill from here. So excuse me for wanting something good to happen." She shakes her head and her hair flies around her shoulders. "You wouldn't know. You have normal parents."
Tell her. Tell her, dummy. But what do I say? Actually, my Ma doesn't take trips for business. She's on a permanent trip. That cornbread she makes that I bring you at lunch? I made it. I've been pretending. I got good at it.
I open my mouth to say it, but "you're my girl," comes out instead. I didn't even mean for it to. I meant to say all the other stuff, but it's like my mouth had other plans and didn't bother to let my brain know.
Clara smiles, but it's a sad smile where the corners of her mouth turn down instead of up. "I know I'm your girl," she says. "You're my guy. I'm sorry, I'm just freaking out. There's so much going on." She leans her cheek against my chest and I kiss the top of her head.
I don't know how long we sit like that. Long enough for my wood to go away. Long enough for Clara's tears to dry up on my shirt and her breathing to go back to normal. I hate when girls cry. I know what to say every other time, but not when a girl's in tears.
Finally, the patio door opens and a bunch of voices travel out, along with shitty techno music. "Clara?" Someone yells. "Clara, are you out here? We've looked everywhere. We're doing flip cup. Hurry up!"
Clara straightens up and rubs underneath her eyes, then combs her fingers through her hair. She smiles, a big blinding one this time. "Do I look like I've been crying?"
I rub my thumb over a black spot under her eye. "Nah. Just like you've been out here messing around with me."
She kisses me on the cheek. "Let them think that."
Then she's gone and I can hear her voice too, and I know for the first time Clara's not being the same person with me as she is with everyone else. Her old man took that away from her. Her old man gave her something she needs to hide behind a fake smile. Betrayal.
I stretch my legs out and stare at the sky. There's tons of stars out tonight. I don't know what any of them mean.
When the patio door closes, it gets pretty quiet again. I think about not going back in the party. I don't want to watch Clara pretend to be happy. I don't want to run into any other girls and say the wrong thing. I don't want to feel that urge, that tug, that flicker of a smile, that damned desire to flirt. I want to shake it off like water after you go swimming. I want to dry it off me and be done with it.
I get up and walk to the other end of the backyard. There's a shitty garden back here overgrown with weeds. Maybe that's like a metaphor for life. If you don't do things right, it gets choked with bullshit until nothing good can grow.
I hear laughter coming from behind the shed, one deeper laugh and one goofy high one. Probably two people doing what Clara wanted to do with me. Then one of them tells the other to shut up.
"Seriously, Patrick, it was the best night of my life. I don't even think I need to sleep with Lacey anymore. Not if I can keep sleeping with Mercedes. At least, until prom, if you know what I mean."
The other guy laughs—no, giggles like a damn girl—and says shhh. I flatten myself to the front of the shed. I don't know why I don't just walk back to the party. I don't care what these two chumps do, or who they do it with.
"Did she wear that nightgown thing? With the heels? Spill it, Reid. I'm the one who told you about her. I want to relive the fantasy."
"Even better. There was one of those garnet belts, like in the Victoria's Secret catalogues I jerk off to."
They give each other a high-five. "Dude," the second guy, Patrick, says. "I think you mean garter belt. I wish Marla would wear something like that."
The sound of a beer can crumpling. "I think you mean who cares. It was only on for five seconds."
I know who they are now. Patrick Myles and Connor Reid, dumb jocks from the basketball team. And it sounds like they're both cheating on their girlfriends.
With the same girl.
I stay crouched at the front of the shed when they trample out through the garden, stepping on all the weeds and flattening them into the dirt. Everyone's a cheater. Last week, I caught some kid cheating off my geometry test. Yesterday, Clara cheated on some new diet she's on. My old man cheated on my Ma. Clara's pop cheated on hers. These idiots are cheating on their girls and laughing about it.
And then there's my secret: I've cheated on every girlfriend I've ever had. So I'm no better than they are.
Samantha Radley, back in eighth grade. Stella Sherman, two years ago. Madison Delaney, last year. It wasn't because I didn't like them. Hell, I thought I loved all of those girls. But then someone else came along and I liked what I saw and I was bound to screw up anyway, so what was the point of pretending? Sad thing is, my old man looked almost proud every time some new girl came over after school. I could see it in his eyes. That's my son.
I gave some girl my phone number tonight. Maybe I liked flirting with her. Maybe I like being good at it. But I want things to be different with Clara. I want her to be my only girl. But is cheating like that whole nature versus nurture thing? If so, it's already in my blood like a damn disease.
If so, I don't have a chance in hell at keeping my promise to Clara.