Good Girls Part 23

But, I think, even with all that, I'm okay. Partly because I have Pam for a friend.

If I was looking for irony, I found it.

"Go ahead, smash it if you want," she says, gesturing to the camera in my hand. "I'd smash it. It cost three hundred dollars and I bought it myself. If you smash it, it will make you feel better ."

"It will make you feel better ," I say.

She juts out her chin. "You want to hit me?"

"Don't be an idiot."

"You hate me, and that's fine," she says. "I was going to wait until after the prom to tell you, but I couldn't stand it. All this stuff, these dresses; asking my mom over to your house. No one's met my mom. Not even the guys I slept with."

I feel like a balloon someone's p.r.i.c.ked with a pin, my skin slackening, my breath slipping from me. "I thought you slept with Luke," I say.

"What?" she says, her eyebrows flying up into her hair .

256 "I thought you were a s.l.u.t and he was a player. Then Chilly told me that you guys had been together, so I broke it off with Luke."

"Chilly," she says. "I should have hit him harder. I should have taken a baseball bat to his knees."

"Yeah, well. I blamed him for this picture."

"He's a schmuck anyway." Pause. "You really thought I'd been with Luke?"

"Yeah."

"I wasn't. Ever." Her expression says it all: she thinks I'm a lunatic. "If you thought I was with him, why did you want to be friends with me?"

"I don't know," I say. "It's not like I planned it, which is so weird because I plan everything. I just did it without thinking. Then, later , I figured we had some- thing in common. And I thought you were funny. You weren't who I thought you were." It's my turn to shrug.

How do you explain those kinds of things?

"I thought you were funny," she agrees. "For a while, I almost forgot what I did to you. I felt like someone else, and you seemed like someone else, so . . ."

"It was us, though. We were us."

"I can just say I'm sorry. I know it was mean. Really, really mean. More than mean."

"It was," I say.

"Yeah," she mumbles.

She seems like she might cry, and I won't have any 257 more people who aren't supposed to cry crying; other- wise I might lose it for good. "So," I say, "while we're doing this born-again thing, this clean-slate thing, why don't you delete it?"

I hold her cigarette while she fumbles with the cam- era. There's a beep. "Okay," she says. "It's gone."

I nod. "Good. Let's go back inside."

We start moving, faster than before. I can feel her looking at me. "That's it?" she says, "That's all you're going to say?"

I have no idea what I'll think about this tomorrow, but tonight it's clear . "That's all I'm going to say this minute."

She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders, so broad in that halter dress. She goes to take a drag on her cigarette, but changes her mind and throws it to the ground. "How about I take a new picture of you?"

"Now?"

She holds up her camera. "Why not?"

"Here?"

"No, on Jupiter," she says. "Yes, here."

I stop walking. "I guess."

"Stand sideways, you'll look skinnier. Oh, don't look so p.i.s.sy, everyone looks skinnier sideways. Now smile."

The flash is blinding.

She presses a b.u.t.ton on the camera and shows me the photo. I see a dark-haired princess person in a pretty 258 princess dress. Her smile is bright and sad at the same time, like the moon's.

"Who the h.e.l.l is that?" I say.

Pam saves the picture and drops the camera in her bag. "I don't know," she says, "but I'll send you a copy.

Maybe there are some people you could show her to."

259 Stars The final cla.s.s ranking: Audrey Elaine Porter, 2/314. During my salutatorian speech at graduation, I say that although I'm ranked sec- ond, I get to speak first, and that's got to count for something. I tell the audience that when I was told I had to write a speech, I had no idea what I would say; I'm more of a facts person, I'm more 260 of a numbers person-ask Mr. Lambright, my English teacher. How do you cram the last four years into a few paragraphs? How do you make people remember from the beginning all the way to the end? How do you help everyone understand how wonderful it was and how horrible it was and how everything it was?

So, I say, I came up with a few rough statistics in an attempt to capture our high school experience in the best way I know how. In the four years we attended Willow Park High School, there were 5,600 pencils 10,000 pens 200,000 caffeine fixes 4,700 books bought 367 books sold 165 books lost 34 books stuffed in garbage disposals 13 books thrown out of moving vehicles 63,000 homework a.s.signments 256 dogs who ate them 45,000 poor study habits 450 science experiments 162,000 unfortunate experiments with fas.h.i.+on 14,000 bathroom pa.s.ses 261 15,000 hall pa.s.ses 4,000 lame pa.s.ses 2,800 tests pa.s.sed 234,900 rumors pa.s.sed 158 stupid boyfriends 143 psycho girlfriends 222 broken hearts 64,000 crazy dreams 150,000 sleepless nights 302 phones ringing 145 phones taken 3,082 tests taken 2,000,000,001 tears cried 2,000,000,001 tears dried 3,000,000 lies 5,000,000 truths 252,000 changes of clothing 45,233,000 changes of personality 141 detentions 62 eyebrow piercings 21 belly piercings 9 "other" piercings 262 14 tattoos 5 languages spoken 3,000 papers written 75,000 instant messages 1 too many photographs 247 games lost 532 games won 56 teachers A trillion lessons 78 awards 3,000 friends 63,000 hugs A zillion words of encouragement 315 success stories Zero regrets . . .

I was told that under NO circ.u.mstances could I ad- lib it, that I had to present whatever I turned in to the princ.i.p.al's office for approval-a formal speech that included quotes by Thomas Jefferson, Thomas Edison, and one of the Popes-but I totally say whatever I wanted to say, and there's nothing that Mr. Zwieback or the rest of them can do about it. They don't even care; they give me my diploma and call it a day.

263 Plus, my speech has kicked Ron Moran's lame vale- dictorian a.s.s, thank you very much.

After the ceremony, me, Ash, Pam, Cindy, and Joelle gather in the football field with our parents, congratu- lating one another, hugging one another, and generally being stupid and giddy. My mom and dad can't stop kissing me and telling me how proud they are, and then kissing each other, which normally would embarra.s.s me to death but now seems sort of cute.

"Your parents," says Ash, laughing.

"Yeah," Pam says. "They're so happy it's disgusting."

"They're just relieved," I say. "They probably thought this year would never end. The little accident has finally graduated."

"Oh, please, Audrey. Ever since I've known you, your parents have always looked like that," Ash tells me.

"They've always been happy. Face it. They're not nor- mal."

"Don't be surprised if they spring a baby brother or sister on you while you're at college," Pam says.

"They're pretty hot, you know. For old people."

I'm trying to wrap my brain around this: my parents are happy, my parents have always been happy, my par- ents are hot, when Ash pokes me and whispers, "And speaking of hot. . . ,"

Luke is standing in front of us. "Great speech," he says. With his index finger and thumb, he flicks my 264 gold ta.s.sel and walks away before I can answer, his gown streaming behind him like a cape on a super- hero.

"Who was that?" says my mom, moving to stand next to me.

"Oh. A guy I know," I say.

The guy I know shows up at my house the next day.

My dad answers the door and, because of his dad radar , is immediately suspicious. Against his better judgment, he calls me down from my room.

I see that my dad hasn't invited Luke into the house; I have to go out on the porch. My dad stands behind the screen door for a minute, glowering like a guard dog. After he's gone, Luke says, "Your dad is going to get his lawn mower and try to clip me down, isn't he?"

"You run faster than he does," I say. "It shouldn't be a problem."

We sit down on the porch steps. He pulls out his cell phone, flicks it open, and shows me the screen saver . It's me in my wedding dress. The message I'd sent him with the picture said: "No, it's not a proposal, just an apol- ogy. I'm sorry for everything. I suck (and not in the good way)."

"Hot girl," I say. "Who is she?"

"Thought you could tell me."

"Can't help you," I say.

265 He snaps the phone shut. "Heard you guys made an entrance at the prom. Nardo filled me in."

"We did. You should have been there," I say.

"Went last year with a senior girl. I rented the tux, paid for the limo, bought the corsage, know the drill,"

he says. "I didn't think it would be worth it. Besides, there was only one girl I wanted to ask, and I was still mad at her ."

I'm not sure what to say, so I don't say anything. We sit there for a few seconds. "What are you doing in the fall?"

"Rutgers," he says. "Undeclared major . You?"

"Cooper Union. Architecture."

"Sweet. That's in New York City?"

I nod. My heart is doing an imitation of the mambo, and my head bobs along with it. A bird calls, Heeeeere birdy birdy birdy birdy, and I imagine Cat Stevens sali- vating at the living room window.

"My grandfather's bald," Luke says suddenly.

"Huh?" I say. "Random much?"

"My brother's losing his hair, too."

"Your brother? Which one?"

"Jeff."

"But he's only, like, twenty-two or something!"

"I know. He's freaking out. So's Eric. It runs in my family. My mom's dad was bald by the time he was twenty-eight. Her brother was only twenty-five." Luke puts a hand on the top of his head. "I figure I should 266 enjoy it while it lasts, you know? That's how I think about a lot of things. You should just enjoy them. I mean, maybe I'll be bald next year and maybe I won't.

I can't worry about it now. Do you know what I'm saying?"

Great. Metaphors. That's what I need in my life, more metaphors. "I'm not sure."

"We had a good time, didn't we?"

The heat rises in my cheeks. "Yeah. We did."

"Well," he says. "Except for the dumping thing. And the treating-me-like-I'm-some-sort-of-leper-horndog-for- practically-the-whole-year thing."

"Except for that. I'm sorry about that."

He doesn't answer; he just props his elbow up on his knee, his chin in his fist, and gazes at me-like he's already moved on, like all of it was something that happened a decade ago and why get all worked up over it? I think about how he tried to go down on me that one time and maybe I could have let him-it might have been okay, it might have been . . . nice.

But then again, maybe it would have been a disaster. I hadn't trusted him. I didn't know him. I didn't know myself.

He b.u.mps my shoulder with his. "I guess I shouldn't worry about losing my hair. You wanted me for my body, anyway."

"Watch it. I can always get my dad again," I say. "I'm 267 pretty sure he's in the kitchen, sharpening his knives."

He laughs. "Touched a nerve?"

"You touched all of them," I say, picking at my fingernails. "The nerves, I mean." I feel so stupid, sitting here. He's been inside me and I've been inside him. I've swallowed his spit, his sweat, and he's swallowed mine.

How do you talk to a guy after that? How do you start talking to a guy after that?

"You told me once that you'd read Moby d.i.c.k and you thought it was funny."

He nods. "Yeah, I did think it was funny. Why?"

"What else?" I say.

"What else what?"

"What else should I know about you?"

"Let's see. I'm five foot ten and weigh 162 pounds. I like dogs, moonlit walks under the stars, and milkshakes I can share with that special someone."

"You are so not five foot ten."

"You can check my license." He picks up my hand.