Hancock Park (13 page)

“I
'm going out with this boy I met at P & H,” I told Amanda on the phone the Saturday afternoon of my date with Aaron.

“A date! With who?” But before I could answer, Amanda had continued with, “I have news, too. At my dad's opening last night, I hooked up with this actor from the play.” This was a new Amanda entirely. Old Amanda never talked about hooking up like it was as casual as going out to lunch. It seemed like she was becoming an entirely different person. Then again, maybe I was, too.

But even though I seemed to be making an unlikely transformation into a popular, dateable girl, I hadn't gained any fashion sense. I had no idea what might be an
appropriate first-date outfit.

“I'm leaving soon,” I told my dad that afternoon. It was the end of my week with him, and I hadn't spent more than five minutes at a time with him.

“Where are you going?” he asked, eyes glued to the computer screen. “Over to Mom's?”

“No, I have plans.” A date, I reminded myself. I had a date. But somehow, the thought of telling my dad I had a date seemed too weird for words.

“I just have to finish reading this one brief and then I'll be right with you. Wait just a sec, okay, honey?”

No, not okay. I walked down the hallway in a huff. This was one of those moments I talked with June about. According to June, I'm supposed to remind myself that I don't need him. I want my dad's attention, and I love my dad, but I am a complete person with or without him. And I don't need anyone else's validation to be a great person.

That's what June Kauffman says I am. Sometimes she switches it up and calls me gifted, and when she does that, I say that maybe she's overestimating me. But she says she's not.

I slammed my bedroom door shut, hoping the noise would startle my dad. When I got no response, I continued into the dressing room, flipping on the light switch as I walked. Sliding open the door to my closet, I began to tear through clothes, tossing onto the floor in front of me any shirts and skirts that I thought might work.

Finally, I had a pile of tank tops, polo shirts, jeans, and
sweaters lying in front of me. And none of it would do. I wanted to look casual, but not grungy; sophisticated, but not as if I were trying too hard. I wanted to be Alissa Hargrove, who had a personal stylist, or Courtney Gross, whose closet was full of clothes because her stepmother couldn't ever pass up a designer sale.

My outfit problems, I decided, could be boiled down to Whitbread. During the school year, I get it in my head that all articles of clothing I purchase should be either navy blue or white, because that's what I wear five days a week. The idea that I might need clothes to wear on the weekends always manages to escape me; I'm too busy trying to buy the right clothes to make my uniform look effortlessly chic with a tinge of I-just-rolled-out-of-bed.

So, I had plenty of navy sweatshirts, but for a date, that wouldn't work. I dug a black V-neck out of the pile and stood up, holding it to my chest and staring in the mirror. The front was cut deep enough to create the illusion of cleavage, but was showing my nonexistent cleavage on a first date too risqué? I didn't want to seem like I was asking for it.

I pulled on my skinniest jeans and tugged a cable-knit sweater over my head. Finishing the look with some ankle boots I had taken from my mom a while back, I decided I was ready.

And, with perfect timing, that was exactly when my phone rang. I ran out of the dressing room and into my bedroom to answer. “Hello?”

“Honey, hi, it's Mom. Where are you?”

“Dad's. Just getting ready.”

“You're going out with that boy tonight! I forgot. Why don't you stop here on your way out? I could help you get dressed.”

My mom would seem to be the perfect personal stylist, but knowing her, she might go overboard. I wasn't sure how to graciously decline my mother's clothing advice, and I didn't want to meet Aaron at the movie theater wearing a sequined top or diamond necklace.

“I just featured this great new designer on my show. She makes super-comfy dresses. I brought a few home; you could wear one tonight.”

“I don't know….”

“Just check them out. This designer was telling me that her stuff is all the rage with girls your age. She's been featured in
People
three times this month.” As stupid as I knew that was, I was sold.

And, as it turned out, the dress actually was perfect. Mom dug a pearl necklace out of one of the moving boxes, but I declined. I accepted the offer of lip gloss and gave myself a once-over in the lobby mirror as I waited for the valet to bring my car to the front.

The black dress fit snugly enough to be flattering but not so tight as to look slutty. I had changed into flats because, as my mom reminded me, I was going to be doing enough walking around that I wouldn't be comfortable
in heels. With the finishing touches of mascara and more peachy lip gloss, I set off.

It was rush hour, which was a good thing for me because I was running early. The Grove, my destination, is one of those slightly ridiculous Los Angeles locations. It's an outdoor space that was designed with some sort of Tuscan theme in mind. At least it has a fresh vibe and better ambience than the nearby indoor mall, the Beverly Center. The Grove's buildings are a distressed cream color with intricate tiling on the roof, and a two-story trolley travels down the “cobbled” streets, picking up shoppers at one end of the mall and depositing them at the other. All told, the trolley trip takes about three minutes. It would be shorter, but the driver makes a few stops to extend the experience. In the middle of the central courtyard, there's a large pond where fountains spurt water high into the air. My mom and I went to the Grove the day it opened. An outside mall on our side of town was a big deal. Plus, Nordstrom was having a sale.

 

As I took the elevator down from the parking structure, I stared into the sliver of mirror and tried to examine and assess my reflection.

I just hoped that I looked good enough.

Aaron was standing on the bridge that crossed over the fountain, leaning back against one of the rails. His hair was just as shaggy and unkempt as I remembered, and he
wore a white T-shirt with baggy khaki shorts. He smiled when he saw me.

“Hey,” I said, unsure of how to act with a boy I had spent a whole evening with (even though I couldn't remember it all).

“Hey back,” he said, beginning to walk with me across the bridge and toward the new luxury movie theater.

“So, how was the rest of your week?” I asked.

“It was fine.” He shrugged. “What movie do you want to see?”

We were standing beneath a large marquee right inside the movie theater's vault-ceilinged lobby. “I don't know. What do you want to see?” I had become attuned to the fact that picking a movie was apparently a point of contention between couples.

“You pick,” Aaron told me, flashing a smile.

So I picked the historical romantic comedy that was supposed to, surprisingly, have important political undertones.

“Two tickets for
Henry
,” Aaron told the woman behind the marble-top counter, removing a square black wallet from his back pocket.

Was he going to pay? Was I supposed to offer to pay? The woman behind the counter gave me a wink, and I suddenly felt very uncomfortable. It must have been clear that we were two teenagers on a date. If I turned around I would probably find some older couple looking at us and
whispering, “How cute.”

So I didn't turn around. And I let him buy the tickets.

After a stop at the concession stand, we walked down the hall and into Theater 12. And, in the darkness, standing in the aisle, I felt my stomach flutter once again.

“So, where should we sit?” he asked. This was a question with meaning, I knew. If we sat closer to the front, it meant we were really going to see the movie, but if we sat closer to the back…well, maybe movie-viewing wouldn't be the only activity going on.

All of a sudden I felt a little like an adult and a lot more like a child, all at the same time.

“I picked the movie,” I told Aaron, whispering beneath the coming attractions. “You pick where we sit.” I followed Aaron to the right side of the theater, and then down the aisle as we headed toward the back. He stopped a few rows from the back wall.

“This good?” he whispered.

Heart racing, I nodded.

 

I could barely concentrate on the movie and almost failed to catch the major plot points because I was so aware of Aaron sitting right next to me, Aaron sharing my armrest, Aaron offering me popcorn. I accepted the popcorn, leaning over him to reach the bucket. He smelled fresh, like aftershave. My arm brushed his as I reached over, and a little electric shock shot up my body. I allowed my right
arm to dangle over the armrest. His hand was on his knee, just inches beneath my fingers. The movie was almost over and I was staring at the screen, when I saw his hand move up just the slightest amount, and suddenly, his fingers were interlaced with mine. I closed my fingers down on his hesitantly, unsure whether I should look at him and smile, like I wanted to, or continue focusing on the movie. I watched the king of England dance around a ballroom for a few minutes. Aaron had begun to stroke my hand with his thumb, and I couldn't believe what was happening.

Then, when the credits were about to roll, he kissed me. I don't remember how it happened exactly, but I remember turning in to face him, and him leaning forward, and it was then that my heart started pounding. My lips met his, tentatively, and all I can remember thinking was
Shit. My breath must smell like popcorn.

Just one day later, I thought back on the evening and realized I couldn't remember what it had felt like to be kissed. All I knew was that I wanted to do it again. The night before hadn't ended at that first kiss. The first kiss had turned into a second, and then Aaron stuck his tongue in my mouth and I realized just how awkward, and not particularly sexy, making out was. The idea of it was better than the act itself. I had to spend most of my time trying to figure out what to do with my tongue and where to put my hands, one of which was trapped underneath my leg, squished between the armrest and my body.

Oh, and then there was the issue of being in a public movie theater. It wasn't at all how I imagined my first kiss (sunset at the beach), but aside from occasional nervous glances toward the rows in front of us, I was content.

That night, I wrote in my old diary for the first time in a long time.
Diary,
I wrote,
I finally feel like a normal teenage girl.

“S
o, are you really dating that Stratfield guy?” Taylor asked me in Advisory on Monday morning. Taylor had asked me about my weekend, and I, reluctantly, had told her about Aaron.

I had also told the Trinity about my date, but only Courtney knew that Aaron had been my first kiss. With Alissa and Kim, I had tried to act as if it were no big deal. I was nervous about telling Taylor—nervous that, for whatever reason, she wouldn't approve.

“Well, I mean, we went on
a
date. I don't know if that means we're dating.” I couldn't help getting excited about the prospect, though.

“Well, um, congratulations, I guess.”

 

The next week, at the next Model UN meeting, I announced our committee assignments. The upcoming conference in Berkeley was a team delegate conference, which meant that each delegation was composed of two people.

“I'm really excited about this,” I told the girls sitting in the desks in front of me. The room was so crowded that a few sat on the floor. I couldn't help being impressed with myself. Club turnout had increased—and I hadn't needed Amanda to do any recruiting. She had said she would—that if I needed help she would send out messages to Whitbread girls, even though she no longer was one.

I had declined her offer for help. Finally, I had enough confidence in myself and in my club to post flyers around school advertising the club and suggesting that girls join. And join they did.

More and more girls had started coming to MUN meetings recently, ever since the flyers…ever since Aaron. And, even more important, some of them were actually interested in international affairs. One ninth-grade girl even came up to me after a meeting, asking if she might be able to research the militarization of space. She was really interested in that topic, she told me.

Mr. Elwright was busy fumbling with some maps over the whiteboard, desperately trying to pull down the one that showed Africa. Every time he pulled one map down, another clicked open, and he had trouble rolling both
back into place. It was like a scene out of a sitcom.

“As you all know, Whitbread MUN isn't just about debating issues. We're going to actually make a difference.” I was so glad we had been assigned Uganda. Mr. E. had warned me we might get some nation like Canada.

How boring.

I gave a glance toward the Trinity. Courtney was smiling, Kim's face was entirely blank, and Alissa was nodding along with my words. They had made it to the meeting on time that day, for once.

“I've done a little background on the issues plaguing Uganda. AIDS orphans are a major problem, as is clean water supply.”

Kim raised her hand. Her eyebrows were scrunched together, and the hand that wasn't raised was busy twirling a strand of long, highlighted hair. “Wait, shouldn't they have plenty clean water? You know, because of…” Her voice faltered.

I pursed my lips together and gave a glance back at the large map of Africa that Mr. E. had finally managed to pull down. A surplus of clean water in Uganda? “No, um, why?” I asked.

Courtney whispered something into Kim's ear, and Kim's hand shot in the air once more. “Duh!” she said. “Because of the Niagara Falls!”

Taylor dropped the fork from her mouth and started to laugh. Alissa turned around and gave a harsh look to Taylor.

I was trying to stifle laughter myself. It wasn't proper to laugh at someone, I knew. And it certainly wouldn't win me any friends either. “Niagara Falls?” I asked, a chuckle escaping from my mouth. I tried to disguise it as a cough and glanced toward Mr. E. His lips were tight in a grimace.

“Obviously. There's tons of water there.”

I spoke before thinking. “Yeah, there is plenty of water at Niagara Falls. But we're not representing America.” My tone was probably cutting, and Taylor broke into another round of almost-silent laughter.

Kim and Courtney had no idea what was going on. Alissa butted in, “It was just a joke! I didn't know diplomats had no sense of humor.” Turning around in her chair, she winked at Taylor. I wondered for a second if that wink was meant to be friendly. Then, I found myself being glad that the wink and the narrow-eyed look hadn't been directed at me.

It clearly hadn't been a joke, but I didn't want to pursue the issue any further. The mother of one of the girls in the room was a well-known celebrity gossip columnist. And I didn't want it getting out that I had gotten in an argument with Alissa Hargrove (over geography, no less!). Especially since we had just become friends. Even if Taylor kept shooting me questioning looks from her spot in the back row.

At the end of the meeting, I was at the podium, organizing my papers. You can take the depression out of a
girl, but the OCD will never go away. Taylor approached me on her way out.

“You know, you're not as Hollywoodified as I thought,” she said. This coming from an aspiring actress who was the daughter of an Academy Award–winning costume designer. Of course, it was true that she didn't lower herself to jumping through any Whitbread social hoops.

Unlike, well, me.

“Your eyes really lit up when you started talking about Uganda. You're not one of them. You're better than that.” Taylor gestured to the Trinity, who were sitting on a bench outside the classroom, waiting for me.

I hoped I was better, that I would never place so much importance on a sample sale or a movie premiere, but I still wanted to fit in. To be
one of them
. I was tired of being the weird Smart Girl.

But was Taylor criticizing me and my social decisions?

Kim rolled her eyes and beckoned me from the door.

“The three bimbos are calling you,” Taylor said, turning to shoot a look at the Trinity.

“Hey! Just because you're jealous doesn't mean you have to be obnoxious.” I gathered my papers and left the room in a huff. As I walked to class with the Trinity, Alissa said, “Taylor thinks she's better than everyone. News flash—she's not.”

“I know! She's so annoying,” I lashed out, still feeling the sting of Taylor's words. “And get this,” I added, “she thinks we're actually friends.”

Alissa laughed. “As if you'd ever be friends with her. You're so much cooler than her.”

I was cool. Alissa Hargrove said that
I
was cool. I had gone out with an extremely attractive, very popular boy, and I was friends with the most popular girls in school. Life was good.