Screwed (4 page)

“You should have thought of that before. After all we’ve sacrificed for you, you behave like a common piece of trash. What will people think of us when they find out what you’ve done? Your father and I have a spotless reputation in this town, and with one careless act, you’ve managed to destroy that, you selfish ingrate. If I’d known this was how it was going to turn out, I never would’ve had a child in the first place.”

Betsy’s voice was stiff and distant, as if she were speaking to a stranger who had bumped into her on the subway. The words burned Grace like acid. She had expected her parents to be angry, but she hadn’t anticipated total rejection, a total denunciation of her entire life up to this point. When she looked up at Betsy, it was not disappointment that she saw in her eyes, but stone-cold hate. Jennifer had been right all along about not telling them, but there was no way to unring this bell. Now her mother regretted Grace’s very existence. As furious as Betsy was, Grace didn’t want to believe that their relationship was really that fragile.

“Is he that good-looking boy with the hair and the eyes you went out with a couple of times at the beginning of the summer?” asked Betsy as she rubbed at her throbbing temples in vain.

She looked down on her friends who talked about how much they needed their evening glass of wine, grape-flavored grownup medicine for women who needed to dull the aches and pains of having it all. But right now she would have given her left arm to be on her second glass of Chardonnay. Condescending magazine articles sneered at avoiding your problems by self-medicating, but now Betsy understood: whatever it took to get through the night.

“Yes.”

A woman would have to be blind not to notice all of Nick’s outstanding qualities. Even her mother, seething with anger at what she saw as adolescent defiance, could recall the extraordinary features of Grace’s fellow gutter rat. Had Nick been less physically attractive, less magnetic, would she be in this situation now? Probably not, Grace reluctantly acknowledged. The depth of her own shallowness shocked her. What more was there to say? Her grandmother, who had died the year before, used to say something about being careful not to fall for a sharp haircut. At the time, Grace had just nodded at yet another of her grandma’s outdated aphorisms, which had made no sense, like cat’s meow and giggle water. Now Grandma’s warning words echoed in her ears. Nick, in all his Abercrombie & Fitch poster glory, was nothing more than a sharp haircut.

Each hour seemed to simultaneously drag on forever and pass in the blink of an eye. If only Grace could stop time or speed it up, or, better yet, go back to that moment in the back seat, right before Nick unzipped his jeans and Grace’s brain ceded control to her body. Standing naked in the bathroom, staring at her stomach in the mirror, wrapping a tape measure around her waist to see if she had started to puff up yet was a total waste of time, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Now that she knew Nick wasn’t trekking across Italy, Grace had no excuse not to tell him about the little souvenir from their third and last date. How would she tell this guy she hardly knew that ten minutes of fumbling in the back of his Jeep had resulted in a potential lifelong connection between them? There were no words.

Jennifer’s text was informative, and unwelcome. HE’S ON THE LAKE WITH SOME CHICK, ON ONE OF THE FLOATING DOCKS. GO GET HIM.

NOW? HOW DO I GET HIM ALONE? WHAT DO I SAY? Grace texted back.

Thanks to Jennifer, Grace didn’t have the coward’s luxury of claiming she didn’t know where he was. In the eight weeks since she’d last seen him, Nick had become like someone from another planet — the popular planet — and Grace couldn’t imagine how she could speak to him, let alone tell him what she needed to tell him.

TELL HIM YOU’VE GOT A BABY ON BOARD AND YOU NEED $500 FOR THE DR.

Grace knew that Nick had a right to know about the thing, the baby. Maybe he had intended to go to Europe, but somehow his plans fell through. Maybe he wasn’t the skeevy guy she now thought he was. Maybe he hadn’t called her because he’d lost her number, or he was too busy working at the local homeless shelter, which was nowhere near the lake where Jennifer kept spotting him, but still. Maybe he would be gentle and supportive, would help her through this, whatever she ended up doing. Maybe it would all work out for her. Maybe he was secretly in love with her. Maybe the chick on the lake with him was his cousin. Maybe he would propose on the floating dock in the middle of Silver Lake. And maybe pigs could fly.

$500?? Grace texted.

THAT’S HOW MUCH IT COSTS ON AVERAGE. Not one to leave anything to chance, Jennifer had researched the whole abortion process on the Internet. With the widespread availability of the procedure, in spite of all the well-publicized opposition, it was clear that Grace was not alone in her moment of weakness.

I THINK I’M GOING TO PUKE. I CAN’T DO IT, Grace’s fingers clumsily texted back.

MAN UP, WOMAN!! I’LL MEET YOU AT THE SOUTH LANDING IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. WEAR YOUR BATHING SUIT.

Jennifer realized her friend needed to be held up and pushed forward, and there was no one else to do it. In the forty hours since Grace had broken the news to her parents, they had not spoken a single word to her. Jennifer had predicted Betsy and Brad would react badly — what else could you expect from the Cheerleaders for Chastity Belts — but even she wouldn’t have guessed that they would be so coldhearted that they would shut Grace out with a total silent treatment right when she needed them most. So much for Christian charity and the Golden Rule. Jennifer had always known they were full of shit, and it only confirmed her suspicion of religion and religious types in general.

BATHING SUIT!? DON’T MAKE IT WORSE.

HE’S IN THE WATER. YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SWIM FOR IT. DON’T WORRY. YOU DON’T SHOW YET.

After she put her phone back in her bag, Jennifer floated in the water, keeping an eye on her quarry. There was no way she was going to let Nick Salter, a.k.a. Scum of the Earth, get away with this. If Grace couldn’t talk Nick into doing the right thing, and paying for it, Jennifer was ready to castrate him with the pocketknife hanging from her key chain. Looking at her watch, she swam back to shore to meet Grace and give her a last-minute pep talk. Grace’s car was already there, under a tree at one end of the lot. When Jennifer walked up to the parked car, Grace’s forehead was resting on the steering wheel. The windows were all closed in spite of the August heat, and for a second Jennifer wondered if Grace was breathing. Frightened, she tapped frantically on the glass, and Grace lifted her head with a start.

Opening the car door, Grace said, “I’m sorry. I was trying to psych myself up. But I think I just ended up hyperventilating.”

“You’ll be fine once you confront him.” Jennifer didn’t believe that for a second, but what else could she say? Telling Grace this was only the beginning of her nightmare might be a more accurate assessment, but it would definitely not encourage her friend to march into the water. At the moment, Grace needed all the help she could get, which included lying.

“I haven’t seen him since the night we ….” Grace’s voice trailed off.

“Don’t think about that. Just give him the facts. Try not to cry. Ask him for the money. Arrange a time to get it from him, and let’s move on. The sooner you talk to him, the sooner you can get him, every little piece of him, out of your life.” At the moment, the only thing Jennifer had to offer was a confident voice and her anal-retentive organizational skills.

“If you see me flailing around on my way out to the dock, promise me you’ll let me drown.” Grace was only half-joking.

“As your best friend in the whole world, I promise to let you go to a watery grave.” Jennifer held out her hand, and the two girls sealed their pledge with a pinky swear. After giving Grace a light kiss on the forehead, Jennifer gently swatted her butt. “Now scoot. Get it over with.”

Silver Lake had been Grace’s favorite place to spend summer afternoons since before she could swim, but after today she wondered if she would ever want to come back. Now the late summer sun glinting off the water was like a spotlight highlighting her mortification. There was no place to hide, and she felt certain that all the kids sunning themselves on the patch of rocky beach could see inside her to that tiny bean that was growing larger every minute, every hour. Feeling vulnerable and fat in her skintight Speedo, Grace waded into the cool, clear water. No breeze ruffled the lake, leaving the surface like a sheet of smoky glass, and Grace cut cleanly through it as she swam toward the floating dock, wishing lakes had sharks and that one would appear and bite her in half — anything to avoid what came next, which she knew was ridiculous, because how could she be afraid to talk to someone who had already seen her naked, been inside her, and how could she be afraid when the scariest thing in the world had already happened?

Five yards short of the floating dock Grace treaded water, watching Nick and some girl wearing a bikini that consisted of a few strings and four impossibly tiny triangles of fabric. They were passing a joint back and forth. Nick inhaled deeply, and then leaned over the girl, blowing the smoke directly into her mouth. They both burst out laughing, collapsing on each other, as if shotgunning were the funniest thing in the world.

Suddenly Grace could easily see through the sparkling shell that had shone so brightly two months ago, obscuring her ability to see who he really was. Disaster had given her clarity, and now she marveled at how she could have been so into him. Yes, he did have the most incredible body, every muscle perfectly outlined under flawless skin, and his face belonged on the cover of a magazine, but was Grace really so one-dimensional that she would mortgage her entire future just to get next to that? She would never have thought so — she still didn’t think so, but what other explanation was there? But this wasn’t the moment for serious introspection; Grace’s legs were getting tired, and there was no time for cold feet. The countdown clock was ticking, and there were no timeouts in this particular game. Putting her head down, Grace propelled herself the last few feet and grabbed the slippery wood, pulling herself up so that her head was visible over the edge.

“Hey, Nick,” she called out, sucking in her stomach even though it was still under water.

“You want some?” Nick looked in her general direction and flashed his even white teeth, holding out a half-smoked joint. For a second he wasn’t sure who it was, his pot-fuzzy brain moving in slow motion, trying to remember. Oh yeah, Girl Number Seventeen, Grace, who reminded him of the little wooden angel his mother always put on top of the Christmas tree. So cute, so young. Like a warm peach, she had been so fresh, so ripe, so ready to be devoured. And those jeans, painted on — she was asking for it, and he had simply obliged.
What the fuck does she want with me now?
he wondered. Maybe he could convince her to do a three-way, but even as the fantasy started to take shape in his mind, he realized it could never happen — she was too much of a prude.

Grace was his seventeenth. If he kept up this pace, he would easily reach his arbitrarily chosen goal number of twenty-one before he graduated. He knew his square jaw and perfect proportion were the result of a lucky draw from the gene pool, but his way with the ladies wasn’t only attributable to his physical beauty. It was hard work; it took skill and patience. Coasting on natural ability was egotistical and didn’t guarantee success. Piles of books had been published on the subject: how to touch a girl in just the right place in just the right way to make her beg for it. Like teaching himself to place the ball in the corner of the soccer net — not too hard, not too soft, right between the goalie’s outstretched hands — after lots of study and plenty of practice, he had it down. Banging a girl was no different. Most teenage guys would probably admit to wanting to screw as many girls as possible, and who cared whether
they
enjoyed it — coming was for guys. He knew he was unique in his desire to make the girl think it was her idea as much as his. For this talent and dedication, his friends had dubbed him the Pussy Whisperer.

Through his pot fog, Nick thought back to the moment when he’d first slipped his hand inside Grace’s jeans, wiggling his index finger just the right way, feeling how warm and wet and ready she was. That moment, right before they did it, when he could feel how much she wanted him — that part was almost better than the actual fucking … almost, but not quite. Maybe he could convince Grace to let him back in; the second time would be way better for her than the first. She’d been so uptight, and he had to admit he’d been too focused on his own enjoyment. This time he would make sure she came.

“What? No, I don’t want any.” Grace’s clipped voice jarred him back into the present. No, she clearly wasn’t going to be up for any water aerobics.

“Okay. Whatever,” he replied, taking another drag. Maybe if he inhaled hard enough, and held his breath long enough, she would just disappear, and he could get back to, um, whatshername … Amy, that was it. Grace was a pain in the ass anyway. She was the kind of girl who wanted to make love, when all he wanted to do was fuck.

Okay?
Grace was surprised that was all he had to say. He must be so baked that he was simply incapable of registering any surprise, or discomfort, at seeing the girl he had screwed barely two months ago and never bothered to call. As he delicately pinched the tiny white cigarette, which was now so short it threatened to burn his fingers, he started to laugh again.

Bikini Girl, known to the rest of the world as Amy, put her hand proprietarily on Nick’s tanned, ripped stomach and glared at the interloper. “Can’t you see we’re kind of busy?” she fumed. Nick had just been whispering in her ear all the wicked things he was going to do to her, right here in the middle of this lake, and there was nothing better than messing around high.

Grace shook her head and breathed through her mouth. The sickly sweet smell of the pot made her queasy. She prayed she wouldn’t throw up. Ignoring the unbelievably hot girl whose hand had slid from Nick’s stomach down to his bulging crotch, Grace said to Nick, “We need to talk … now.”

“Why so serious? We’re seniors. It’s summer vacation. Come on, have a hit. It’s really good shit. Whatever’s bugging you, it’ll go away like that.” Nick snapped his fingers unsuccessfully, giggling at his own ineptitude.

“About that. You told me you were going to be away all summer. Why did you lie to me? Jennifer told me you’ve been here the whole time.”

Fearing she sounded like a jealous girlfriend, Grace bit her lip and stopped talking. There were way more important things to talk about than some stupid fib about a backpacking trip. It wasn’t like she was trying to get him back, to salvage a relationship that had existed only in her Disney Princess imagination. This was a business meeting — she needed a financial backer — and nothing more.

Nick hesitated. Clearly he hadn’t expected someone as timid as he believed Grace to be to call him out. “It fell through last minute, that’s all. You sure you don’t want some? It’s really good weed. From California.” Nick wished this girl would just chill. When he didn’t call, he’d been sending the message loud and clear that it was just a summer thing, a pre-summer thing, really, and she needed to move on.

“No, thank you.”

Even in moments of extreme stress, Grace’s manners never wavered. Manners. If only she had remembered the etiquette book’s advice to keep her legs crossed at the ankles at all times. On her thirteenth birthday, Grace’s mother had given her the
Guide to Manners and Dating for the Proper Young Lady
. It had been published sometime in the 1960s, but according to Betsy, breeding and social skills were timeless. If Grace read this book, Betsy was sure she would be prepared for anything. Not entirely true, although if her petticoat tore, her bouffant frizzed, or she got frosted lipstick on her Peter Pan collar, Grace would know exactly how to handle it. Unfortunately, the book hadn’t offered any advice about what to do when the hottest guy in school had his tongue down your throat and his hand inside your panties.

“By the way, this is Amy. Amy, this is Grace.”

Now Amy was no babe in the woods. She wasn’t the kind of girl you took home to Mother — he actually thought about stuff like that, though he wouldn’t admit it. Grace was the kind of girl you took to Sunday night dinner: good grades, perfect manners, kind of preppy. Amy, on the other hand, was the kind of girl you had fun with. She knew as well as he did that this wasn’t going anywhere serious, and she was fine with that. When she slipped her hand inside his bathing suit, it was because she wanted to, because she liked the way his cock felt, not because she thought
he
would like it and she was doing it just to please him. That made all the difference for Nick.