Sticky Fingers (5 page)

“I worked backward. Rather than figuring out whom I should use as a role model and then trying to apply it to whatever it is I’m supposed to be learning at Brown, I focused on what I want to learn, then picked a person.”

“How to tap a keg in under thirty seconds?” I tease. “You must have picked a Busch. Or one of the Coors.”

“Wiseass.” He leans back in the booth, raising one leg and then the other onto the opposite bench
so his feet are resting beside mine. “Anyway, since I want to major in poli-sci, I decided to pick someone political. At first I thought I should find some famous Brown grad to write about, but that’d be too obvious.”

“Too much of a kiss-up?”

“Exactly. So I went with Walter Mondale.”

I give him a
come off it
look, then realize that he’s for real. “Um, you want me to read an essay on Walter Mondale? I know nothing about the guy, other than he’s from Minnesota or Wisconsin or something. He was vice president for Jimmy Carter, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, grinning. “All you have to know is that he faced challenges—which is an easy topic to write about—and that he’s a role model because he faced those challenges with dignity and grace: all those buzzwords that admissions officers live to read on application essays.”

“But why
him?”
I mean, couldn’t Scott pick a president, like a normal person would? Or at least some Massachusetts person we actually know something about?

He gets this completely self-satisfied look on his face. “Mondale’s son went to Brown.”

I should’ve known. “How’d you find that out?”

“I Googled ‘Brown’ and ‘famous alumni,’ and there he was. Plus, I figure Mondale’s good because no one else will write about him. My essay will stand out from all those ‘ooh, my soccer coach is such a great guy’ and ‘I’ve always wanted to be just like my dad’ essays everyone else submits.”

He wipes a few coffee drips off the table, then two-points the napkin into the garbage can. “So will you look it over? Make sure it reads smoothly?”

“Um, sure.” Although, he sounds like he knows what he’s doing well enough without any help from me. He also sounds like he’s spent a lot of time thinking about Brown.

“Hey, I told you, Harvard’s my first choice,” he says, clearly having known me long enough to know where my train of thought just went chugging. “But I’d be stupid to just apply to that one school and assume I’m going to get in. I mean, it’s
Harvard.
Nobody can call Harvard their safety school. But don’t worry, all right?”

“I’m not worried,” I lie. “I know you’ll get in.” Do I look that desperate to have Scott at college with me? I must. I certainly feel it.

Which is bass-ackwards, seeing as I’m balking at having sex with him.

I look over at Courtney and Mat, then back to Scott, whose cell phone is now beeping at him with a text message. He’s turned away from me and is digging through his jacket, which is lying across his backpack on the floor beside the booth.

While he scrambles for the phone, I can’t help but stare at his perfect back, complete with extrabroad shoulders and smooth skin in the space between his hairline and the top of his shirt collar. If we weren’t in front of the huge windows at Dunkin’ Donuts, I’d lean over and wrap my arms around his waist right now, spread my palms wide across his abs, and then kiss that spot on his neck.

And I have to wonder—can you love a guy, really and truly love a guy, and not want to sleep with him? Okay—not
not want
to, but to question whether it’s the right thing to do? Even after you’ve been together for more than a year?

I swig the end of my coffee in one long gulp. I’m probably just getting paranoid. Scott’s not getting into Harvard, my getting jumpy about sex, the fact Courtney and Mat seem not to have the slightest issue with either school or sex, the fact Courtney and I have hardly talked in the last week … it’s all messing with my brain, and I’m getting nervous about things I normally wouldn’t worry about so much.

“Hey, it’s my mom,” Scott says, sliding his arms into his jacket, then pocketing his cell phone. “I’m supposed to get home so we can go to my aunt and uncle’s in Sudbury for dinner. Call me later?”

I nod and kiss him good-bye, and he’s out the glass doors before I can even yank my feet off the other bench. Courtney and Mat give him a halfhearted wave through the windows, but his departure doesn’t really seem to register with them. And they don’t look like they’re going to stop their counterside lovefest anytime soon, even if I’m now sitting here all by myself.

I wish Scott could have stayed.

“I’ve gotta go too,” I call out, hoping I sound casual. “I’ll catch you later, ’kay Court?”

Courtney has one arm draped around Mat’s waist, and her hand is dipping much farther south than it should, given the fact they’re standing within five feet of a stack of kiddie cups and a huge cardboard ad for the latest Disney flick. And given that Mat’s store manager sometimes cruises by the parking lot just so he can look in the windows and make sure everyone’s hard at work. So I’m surprised when she gives me a look like she’s shocked I’m going. “Where are you headed?”

“I have student council stuff to do,” I lie. Well, it’s not really a lie. I have to balance the senior class’s checkbook now that all the bills are paid from Winter Ball, then log everything and get it to the senior class sponsor. But I still have a few days to do it, and it’s only going to be a ten- or fifteen-minute job, tops. And the only reason I do it at all is because no one else wanted to be class treasurer, and my trig teacher from last year begged me to run—and convinced me by telling me how great it would look on my college applications.

I toss my empty coffee cup into the trash, then pull on my jacket and loop my backpack over my
shoulder. Thank goodness I brought my own car instead of catching a ride with Courtney to come over here and meet Scott.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Courtney asks. She looks a little sad, and I wonder if I should wait a few more minutes to see if she wants to hang out at my house with me and talk, like she promised to do last week—though it’ll look odd if I stay, at this point, since I already gave them the student council story.

Mat frowns and adds, “Really, we didn’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re not being rude, and yes, I really have to go.” I give them a smile that hopefully isn’t too fake. I really want them to be happy—I
like
that they’re happy—but with everything strange between me and Scott, watching them is just not what I need to be doing.

“I do need to talk to you,” Courtney says, pegging me with a look as I push open the door and let in a blast of ice-cold air. “Will you be home tonight?”

“Sure.”

But as I turn on the heat in my Toyota and wait for it to warm up, I look back through the glass windows. Mat’s laughing and trying to straighten his maroon Dunkin’ Donuts polo shirt at the same time Courtney’s flicking the back of it, acting like she’s going to rip it off right there for anyone who drives by to see.

I realize that it doesn’t matter where I go—home, Starbucks, some moon orbiting Jupiter—Courtney’s not going to call, and she’s definitely not going to come over.

I back out, then drive to the edge of the lot, which is empty except for Mat’s car, Courtney’s car, and a couple cars that I think must belong to people staying at the Red Roof Inn next door. As I wait for the line of traffic to break so I can pull out and head home, I reach up and finger the necklace Courtney gave me. And I tell myself to be happy she has a reason not to call.

“Hey, I couldn’t wait to call,” Courtney says, and I’m doing a double take that she’s on the line all of five minutes after I’ve walked in the door, given Mom the
requisite update on my day, and tossed my backpack on my bed. “I tried a couple times already, but your answering machine picked up.”

“I had to go back to the school, remember?” I actually did go balance the senior class checkbook, since it wasn’t like I had anything else to do. But that explains the four hang-ups on my answering machine—all time-stamped within the last hour.

“I wasn’t sure if you really had to go, or if you were just trying to be nice. Anyway, I didn’t mean to ignore you at Dunkin’ Donuts. I thought Scott would hang around longer, and I wanted to talk to you after I talked to Mat.”

“I totally understand your need to
talk
to Mat. Don’t stress about it.” I sit down at my computer, flick the mouse to shut off the screen saver, then double click on the icon for my e-mail program.

“It’s not what you think. I mean, yes, I pretty much want to rip his clothes off every second I’m with him, but I actually did need to talk to him tonight. And to you, but apparently we ran you out of there. I’m really sorry ’bout that.”

She sounds strange, like something serious is
going on. So ignoring my e-mail (the little flag says I have twelve new messages, hooray!), I say, “First off, I told you, you didn’t run me out of there. Second, it’s not like I haven’t seen you and Mat make out before. I’m cool with it. Third, what’s going on?”

“Well, I have some news. Kind of good, kind of bad.”

My instant fear is that she got pregnant, but I dismiss that thought even as it comes to me. She’d be way more panicked. But the longer she lets the statement hang, the more worried I get.

Oh, man. She probably got caught ditching class. She had the guy who sits in front of her in her AP lit class turn in her final paper for her this morning because today’s class was low-key and completely skippable—a preview of what books we’ll be covering after Christmas break.

“Courtney? You still there? What happened?”

“Oh, I’m here. Just trying to figure out how to phrase this for best effect … bottom line is that my parents finally decided to get a divorce. Surprise, surprise!”

“Holy—” I have tears in my eyes before I can
even process what she’s saying. This isn’t even in the realm of what I expected. And even though she’s telling me in a jokey way, I know she’s completely serious. And she has to be upset. “A divorce? Oh, Courtney, that’s awful! When did you find out? How are you doing?”

And how can any part of it be good news?

“They told us officially yesterday, but I kind of knew it was coming.” Courtney sounds pretty calm as she explains, “My sister clued me in last week. She said Mom and Dad were arguing about it in their room when they got home from the Christmas party, and she couldn’t believe I didn’t hear it all. I guess I wasn’t paying attention, ’cause that was a couple hours after Mat and I first—well, you remember. Anyway, Anne said that from the conversation she overheard, the divorce has been in the discussion stage for a long time. Apparently, she was right.”

I am just floored. “Why didn’t you tell me? I can’t believe you kept that inside for a whole week—especially with midterms and everything else going on.”

She takes a long slurp of her drink, then lets out
a sigh. Well, I think it’s a sigh and not a belch, which she’s done on the phone before. “I dunno. I guess I thought Anne was imagining things. You know how much my parents nitpick and fight. It’s just who they are—I can’t remember them ever
not
arguing. But when they launched into the whole talk after we finished dinner last night, well, let’s just say I figured out real fast that they’re serious. They explained that Dad is going to be moving to an apartment in town. His lease has already started.”

I can’t believe this. “That’s so fast.”

“I know.” I can feel her frustration through the phone line as she says, “I guess it’s in Brookline, so he can take the T in to work. For now it’s just a trial separation, but they seem pretty sure that it’s going to end up being an official divorce and they wanted us to be clear on that point. The separation is just to be absolutely certain, before they hire lawyers and do all that stuff.”

“Courtney, I’m so sorry.” I really am. I’ve known her parents forever. Their getting divorced … well, it’s kind of like my own parents getting a divorce.

“Thanks, Jen. I’m bummed, but you know, I tell
myself it’s for the best. It’s weird”—her voice hitches on the word “weird,” but she goes on—“and that’s the good news in all this. The weird part. They’re being so
nice
to each other. Saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and acting like they’ve been best buds for years. It’s like they’re both happy about it. I can’t even explain it.”

I hear her take another long drink, then she says, “Maybe—this is Anne’s theory, anyway—they’ve wanted to get divorced for a long time but were waiting for me and Anne to get out of the house. But now that they’ve decided to just go ahead and do it, it’s not hanging over them anymore. They’re both … I dunno … kind of relieved.”

It’s whacked, in an understandable sort of way, but I’m guessing it’s not making it any easier for Courtney and Anne. “Well, I’m still really sorry. Do you … do you need to come over or anything? Get out of the house?”

“Nah.” I hear the start-up noise of her computer. “I spilled everything to Mat right after you left Dunkin’ Donuts, and I think I got most of it out of my system. At least for today. And, actually, things
are pretty cool over here right now—everyone’s living in their own little world and keeping their minds on their own business. It’s quiet.”

“Wow.” Courtney’s house is never quiet. “Well, just in case you didn’t realize it already, I’m here if you need me. And I hope it all works out.” Not just for them, but for her.