Crash Test Love (3 page)

“No.”

“Oh, come on! That’s what al the models do.”

“No, Mom, it’s not.”

“Yes it is.” She places the watering can on the ground and nishes the donut in one bite. Then she poses. “Do it like me.”

“You are insane,” I say, trying not to laugh. “Dad, please just take the picture.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, steadying the camera. I smile. “There we go. Gorgeous.”

“I seriously doubt that.” I get into my car (the only good thing that has come from moving to Long Island so far) and close the door. My mother cal s my name. “Yes?” I say through the window.

“Good luck, honey,” she says, kissing the glass. “We love you.”

I don’t respond. By the time I leave our neighborhood, I have exactly twenty minutes to get to school.

East Shore is bigger than Mercer, my last high school. The outside is covered with bricks, the inside in beige paint. There are tons of windows and hal ways that seem never-ending.

I arrive about half an hour early. I’m nervous. The dean introduces himself and prints out a copy of my schedule. A freckled girl who looks like she could’ve been in one of the Gremlins movies is instructed to show me around. We’re barely outside the dean’s o ce when she tel s me she was named after Marilyn Monroe. “People say I remind them of her al the time,” Marilyn says, motioning for me to fol ow. “Minus my limp. We have very similar demeanors.”

We strol toward what I assume is the senior hal way. “Where are you from again?” she asks.

“Chicago.”

She nods. “The Windy City.” We pass a few rooms and Marilyn points out which ones my classes are in. “Most of the sciences are upstairs, since that’s where al the labs are. The cafeteria is down this way, to the right, and so is the gym. Back there’s the student parking lot. Come on, I’l show you how to open your locker—it’s sort of tricky.”

you how to open your locker—it’s sort of tricky.”

I wonder if Marilyn and I wil be friends. I doubt it. Not because of her braces or her wet-dog hair, either. The truth? I’ve never had a problem landing a guy, but girls tend to be cat y and mean, and I’ve always had trouble making girlfriends. It took nearly two years for Amy Goldstein (who I now consider my BFF) to realize I wasn’t trying to get close to her so that I could steal her boyfriend, Trevor (who was gross, by the way); I just wanted to be her friend. There’s no doubt in my mind that the girls at East Shore High School wil be exactly the same as the previous girls in my life. Maybe worse.

“It must be awful to move senior year,” Marilyn says. “If my parents ever did that to me, I would kil them. Lizzie Borden style.” She frowns. “No o ense.”

“It’s okay.” I don’t exactly blame her—moving does suck. “I’m trying to be optimistic.”

“That’s smart,” she says. “And East Shore’s as decent a school as any, I guess. Do you have a boyfriend?” Boyfriend. The word zings me. I must make some kind of face, because Marilyn stops in the middle of the hal and blushes. “That was real y forward of me. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I tel her.

I did have a boyfriend.

Ben Harrison. My signi cant other of the past year (and three months) who told me two days before I left for New York that we should “take a break” because it would be “real y hard to keep in touch … you know, especial y with the time di erence.” I’m pret y sure Ben and I won’t be get ing back together, seeing as how we haven’t spoken since I got to Long Island. I count in my head how many text messages I have sent (12) and how many I have received (1).

“No,” I respond. “I don’t.”

Here’s the thing: I have this problem with men. Wel , boys. I get at ached. Real y at ached. I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count; each time, I swear o dating until someone new and amazing sweeps me o my feet and makes me forget al the hard parts of fal ing in love. I am a relationship phoenix: I crash and burn and then I rise and start again. Ben was by far my most serious boyfriend, and I’m exhausted—from crying and trying to gure out what went wrong and how I can possibly x it. I real y thought we had something special, but the fact that he didn’t even want to try and stay together shows how lit le he felt in the end. Long distance sucks, but if you love someone, don’t you at least want to try?

“Wel , there are a few guys at East who’l make your head spin,” Marilyn says. “Some of the seniors are dreamy.” The last thing I’m interested in is another boyfriend. However, an image of the guy I met at Erica’s Sweet Sixteen pops into my head. Henry. I wonder what he’s doing right now.

“Since you’re new, though, just a piece of advice: you’l want to steer clear of the J Squad.” By now, we’re at my locker; Marilyn shows me how to enter the combination and continues talking. “They’re these three senior girls. They cal themselves the J Squad, which is retarded because only two of their names start with J, but whatever. Jyl ian, Jessica, and London. They’re way snarkilicious, and everyone sort of worships them.” She bangs on the metal door and it opens with a squeak. “Here you go.”

“The J Squad,” I say out loud, trying to picture them. I knew a lot of popular girls back in Chicago who took pleasure in torturing some of the less at ractive girls. I was never cool enough to be one of them, but I was also never lame enough to be one of their victims. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a group of friends like that.

“What do they look like?” I ask.

“Oh, you’l know them when you see them,” Marilyn says, “but don’t be pissed if they don’t like you right away. Or ever. I’ve heard some crazy stories about stu they do to girls who try to be their friends. They’re pret y exclusive.”

“Are you friends with them?” I ask.

Marilyn snorts. “De nitely not. First, I’m only a sophomore, and second, I don’t need to spend time with a bunch of girls who … wel , you’l see.

They can pret y much make or break you, Garret .”

“Don’t worry about me,” I say. “I’l be ne no mat er what. Besides, they sound kind of sil y.” Then I ask: “So, what period do you have lunch?” Marilyn tilts her head. “Look, you seem real y nice, and I don’t know what your last school was like, but at East Shore upperclassmen don’t real y talk to underclassmen.”

“Says who?” I ask.

Marilyn rol s her eyes as if to say the J Squad. “Hanging out with me would be social suicide. Trust me.” She glances at her watch. “I’m late meeting someone. Good luck.”

She scurries away, and I’m left completely alone. I try to remember how to get to my rst class, but I can’t seem to concentrate. No mat er how ridiculous the J Squad sounds, al I can think about is becoming one of them.

BRITNEY SPEARS LYRICS RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD DURING THE FIRST DAY AT A NEW SCHOOL

“All eyes on me in the center of the ring just like a circus …”—Circus

“Sometimes I run, sometimes I hide.”

—Sometimes

“Hit me baby one more time.”

—… Baby One More Time

School sucks and is mad boring. I try making friends, only no one seems interested in get ing to know me. This is both ridiculous and unfair because I’m decent-looking, smart, and not a social d-bag. But for whatever reason, the facts that I’m: Not from New York

A senior

total y work against me. Perhaps the “new student” intrigue factor might’ve worked when I was a sophomore or even a junior, but these kids seem resigned to their same old (boring) friends and their same old (boring) lives. There is, apparently, no room for change.

I don’t particularly care that my lab partner in physics wants nothing to do with me (“I’m applying early to Cornel . I need to focus”) or that I don’t particularly care that my lab partner in physics wants nothing to do with me (“I’m applying early to Cornel . I need to focus”) or that when we have to pair o in phys ed, I’m the odd person out and have to do crunches without anyone holding my ankles. (At least, I tel myself, I don’t have cankles.) And it’s not that anyone is making fun of me or being outright rude; it’s simply that an invisible line exists between belonging and not belonging, a line that seems impossible for me to cross.

I eat lunch alone. Wel , not completely alone. I choose a table occupied by two girls and a cluster of empty chairs. The other tables over ow with friends who’ve known each other for years; the cafeteria, it feels like, is made up of laughter and music coming from the headphones of people’s iPods.

“Hi,” I say, taking out my lunch (which I brought from home) and placing it in front of me. “I’m Garret . Is it okay if I sit here?” They nod.

“So … what are your names?”

The girls smile at me. Tel me their names. When I ask how long they’ve been going to East Shore, they respond with “Since forever,” and in the moment it takes me to remove a turkey sandwich from my brown paper bag, they shift their arms and talk quietly in what I think is Korean, holding a conversation in which I am not invited to participate. It would, I think, be easier if they’d just tel me to go away. The silence is what stings.

After lunch, I wish I could just “Relax, Take It Easy” (Mika, 2007). My binders and books from the morning get replaced with fresh ones for the afternoon. This is when I see them.

The J Squad.

Marilyn was right. It’s clear who they are from the way they’re dressed (which is not so di erently from anyone else at East Shore but seems entirely unique) and the way they walk: with purpose. They’re also gorgeous. Two of them have long blond hair with waves and curls and body and bounce, hair that moves as if it’s alive. The third has a cropped black haircut that stays perfectly in place as if by magic (or some seriously intense hair spray). They have tight jeans and tight shirts and expensive-looking shoes that click methodical y against the tiled oor in the senior hal way. Their boobs are semi-to-decently big, their skin is lightly baked from the summer, and as far as I can tel , they aren’t wearing any makeup.

Their bodies seem to be in perfect proportion. They look like every trio of popular girls from every teen movie that has ever existed.

I am overwhelmed with jealousy.

They notice me (!) before continuing to their lockers, which are farther down the hal from mine. I think about my table in the cafeteria. About the girls who did not want to include me. What would I be doing if I were back in Chicago? Probably making out with Ben or walking to the nearest Starbucks with Amy.

I turn my at ention back to the J Squad. They are laughing and smiling and look incredibly … happy. I’m about to approach them when my eye catches on a gure who takes my breath away.

Right there is an incredibly gorgeous guy who is absolutely, for sure, staring at me. He’s wearing a pair of snug, faded jeans and a yel ow T-shirt that, if T-shirts could speak, would say, “Take me o . I know you want to. No need to be gentle.” He is tan and muscled and his hair is messy and slightly gel ed. His cheeks are smooth and his eyes are dark. He is angular and sexy and everything about him drives me crazy.

He is also familiar.

He’s the guy I met at the Sweet Sixteen. The one who I was immediately at racted to. Who left suddenly with no hint that I’d ever see him again.

The one I’ve been (sort of) thinking about ever since.

He goes to my school.

Henry.

HENRY

INT.—EAST SHORE HIGH SCHOOL, TUESDAY, FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

I freeze when I see her. What is she doing here? I think back to the party and remember her mentioning that she’d just moved, and it al clicks into place. She now goes to East Shore. I do not know what to feel, so I feel nothing. I just watch.

NIGEL

I can’t t any of my books in this backpack. It’s too small.

DUKE

That’s what she said.

NIGEL

What?

DUKE

That’s what she said. It’s a joke.

NIGEL

I know. It’s stupid.

DUKE

Your mom’s stupid.

NIGEL

Henry, make him stop.

DUKE

Yo, Enrico. Isn’t that the girl you banged last week?

Never in a mil ion years did I imagine I would see this girl again. Garret . I’d hoped I would, but I have hoped for a lot of things in my life. I know from experience that hope does not equal happening.

DUKE

You all right, Enrico? Henry? Hello?

ME

I’m ne.

I blink. She’s stil there. Wearing a black shirt and a dark pair of jeans. She looks gorgeous. The vibe in the hal way changes, as if a but on has been pressed and everyone around me stops, waiting to see what I wil do. If I act happy to see Garret , then she means something to me. If I act nonchalant, then she means nothing.

What wil I do?

GARRETT

Henry?

I push Duke and Nigel away but I know they are not out of earshot.

ME

I, uh, didn’t expect to run into you.

GARRETT

Ditto.

ME

So … you go to school here?

Dumb, dumb, dumb. Why else would she be here?

GARRETT

Yeah. Well, it’s my rst day. But yeah.

ME

Are you liking it?

GARRETT

It’s okay. I haven’t really made any friends yet. It’s … really good to see you, Henry. It’s nice to run into someone I know. Well, someone I sort of know.