Back in middle school, we hung out with Caro for a while. Or, as J called her, Corn Syrup. I can’t remember when Julia came up with the name, but it fi t. And still did.
She gave me a look as I sat down but (obviously) didn’t speak to me. The last person in the group was the other guy who’d stared at me in history. He didn’t say anything to me or anyone else, just looked at his desk until Mel said, “Patrick, what do you think?”
Patrick looked up, shrugged, and then glanced at me before staring at his desk again. That’s when I realized that while I hadn’t messed around with Mel, I had defi -
nitely hooked up with Patrick.
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He looked at me and all this stuff I thought I’d forgotten came roaring back.
I got through the rest of class by staring at the wall and thinking about how me and Julia used to go to that twenty-four-hour pancake place after parties and eat chocolate chip pancakes and drink coffee until our wait-ress would come by and say, “So, are you going to pay your check or what?”
As soon as the bell rang I went to the nurse’s offi ce and faked cramps. They called Mom, who called Dad, who called the school back and asked to talk to me. He said, “I called Laurie and she said you really need to stick it out.”
A pause. “Honey.”
Yes, Dad has taken to trying endearments on me. It’s not working. It’s obvious he’s only ever said them to Mom and it makes him feel weird to use them on anyone else.
“Fine,” I said, and hung up. Stupid Laurie. I thought shrinks were supposed to help you, not torture you.
The nurse should have sent me back to class then but she didn’t. That was nice of her.
I should have guessed something bad would happen.
She told me to lie back down and got me a cup of water. When I was done with it she started telling me about her oldest son and how he was in Pinewood once 31
too. Then she said, “You know, I remember seeing you and Julia—” and before she could say another word I told her I was feeling better and left.
I only had one class to get through after that. It was physics, which dropped me back in with the honors kids again.
Also more group work, this time solving some problem involving rolling metal balls through some contraption and then measuring stuff. No one would let me touch anything, which was fine with me. I just sat there, and then some girl said, “Are you sure you’re supposed to be in this class?”
I tried to do that freeze-you-out thing Julia would do when she was mad. She’d turn away and act like whoever spoke didn’t exist. It worked on guys pretty well, even Kevin, and the two times she did it to me I begged her to talk to me again after less than ten seconds.
But my attempt at it? It didn’t work. I turned away too fast and caught my hip on the table with a nice hard smack. I acted like I didn’t notice my clumsiness (or the pain), ignored all the snickers at my table, and looked around the room. I actually recognized a lot of the kids from parties. They just look different when they aren’t messed up. Less human.
Mel nodded at me when I saw him and said something to Patrick, who pushed a pencil around in his hands and 32
then stared out the window. Mel sighed, gave me a small half smile, and then went back to work. Patrick kept staring out the window, even when someone at the table next to his said something, making sure my name and those of a few guys were loud enough for me to hear.
As if I didn’t already know I had a reputation. Please. I worked hard for it.
I have this theory about sex. I never told Julia about it because . . . well, because I just came up with it today as I sat in that stupid class. But I think it’s pretty good. And I think Julia would have liked it.
This is my theory:
If you sleep with one guy—well, who cares? Nobody.
It actually generates less talk than if you’re a virgin.
Two guys—same deal, unless you do both of them in the same night and are stupid enough to let someone take pictures. (Stephanie Foster!)
Once you get past two, the number of guys you sleep with gets more complicated. Say you sleep with three guys. Everyone will know you slept with ten and talk a lot of crap about you.
Four guys means people think you’ve slept with so many that every drunk or high (or both) guy will talk to you at parties because, hey, you put out for anyone.
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Past four? You’re a pathetic, diseased slut and everyone knows it, so the only guys you can get are the loser ones, and even then they’ll never call and always wear a condom because—well, look where you’ve been!
That’s why five is the perfect number. You get left alone and if you do feel like doing something (which I don’t —getting to fi ve was enough work, thank you), you can find someone stupid and forgettable and it won’t turn into drama. Or a relationship. (Which is really the same thing.)
I wish I could have told Julia this. She would have loved it. She would have had a shirt made that said “pathetic slut” in sequins. She would have worn it too, and laughed her ass off at anyone who said something.
I’ve been with five and a half guys. I always told Julia fi ve. I didn’t—I didn’t talk about the half. Not even with her.
