Vegan Virgin Valentine (10 page)

I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed.

That night in bed, I kept thinking about James.

STOP!

I flipped from side to side. I tried lying on my back. I tried lying on my stomach with my arms above me. I tried curling up with the pillow over my head. But no matter what I did, James wouldn’t leave my mind.

STOP! STOP! STOP!

James is my boss,
I’d tell myself.
He’s twenty-two, the same age as Aimee’s boyfriend, for God’s sake. He’s shorter than me. He has no immediate college plans and he lives in an apartment in Brockport and he graduated from high school when I was in seventh grade. He has a ponytail. A short, ponytailed twenty-two-year-old high-school graduate.

Mostly, though, I was thinking about the fact that Claudia loves James, which makes me a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad traitor. Worse than V because I didn’t even love Travis. But Claudia loves James. Even if it isn’t reciprocal, she loves him.

Then I’d tell myself,
No, no, I haven’t done anything with James, especially not like what V did with Travis. So I’m still innocent, right?

Right,
I’d say.
You haven’t done anything with James. You are innocent. Nothing has happened. NOTHING.

But as I lay awake in my bed, I was definitely thinking about it.

My dad called four times on Saturday night. The first call came around seven, as he and my mom were driving across Tampa to dinner. After the usual did-you-eat-are-the-doors-locked questions, he asked if V was home yet.

“No,” I said. “I think she’s still at play practice.”

Truthfully, I had no idea where V was. We hadn’t seen each other since our fight yesterday. I was assuming she’d written her letter of apology and was back at rehearsal. But when I’d woken up, she was already gone and I hadn’t heard from her for the rest of the day.

Three minutes later, my dad called again. “I reached her on her cell phone. She’s at Pizza Hut with members of the cast.”

“Oh.”

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“That’s my job,” my dad said.

Two hours later, he called again. He and my mom had just ordered dessert and he wanted to see if V was home yet.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Have you spoken with her?”

“No.”

“Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes,” I lied.

Five minutes later, another phone call.

“V’s at Friendly’s,” he said. “They went up there for ice-cream sundaes.”

“That’s nice.”

If my dad heard the sarcasm in my voice, he didn’t say anything. He told me that if V wasn’t home by eleven, to call him back. As we were saying goodbye, he reminded me that they were catching an early-morning flight home, so if I needed to reach them, leave a message on his cell phone and he’d get back to me during their layover at JFK.

When I hung up, it hit me that a cell phone in the hands of the wrong person could be pretty damn annoying.

V didn’t get home until after eleven, but I wasn’t about to call my dad. I was sitting at my desk, organizing my folders so I’d be ready for school on Monday. Travis used to make fun of how I went through my binders every week and recopied notes that were messy and alphabetized articles and highlighted things that teachers said might show up on exams.

I heard a car pull into the driveway and voices in the kitchen. A few minutes later, I heard another car and then another. The television blasted on. It sounded like the
Damn Yankees
DVD. As the smell of bacon wafted into my room, I finally headed out to investigate.

Five people were squished onto the couch and two more were pretzel-wrapped around each other on the comfy chair. None of them was V, but aside from a few scrawny freshmen, I knew most of their names. They were all drama-rama types. As they watched
Damn Yankees
, they were shouting out the lines along with the characters.

This junior named Nevin glanced up at me. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” I said.

“You live here? In V’s house?”

“Actually,” I said, “V lives in my house.”

Just then, the smoke detector went off and someone started shrieking. I ran into the kitchen and was momentarily taken aback by the chaos. Sneakers and boots and crumpled socks were all over the floor. Dishes and flour and eggshells littered one counter. On the other counter sat two more drama-ramas—Andrea Kimball shrieking and Brian Monroe sipping directly from the carton of orange juice. Ash Robinson—who’d been appropriately cast as the reporter in the play—was sitting on a stool. Leesa’s older brother, T.J., was holding a spatula over a griddle of pancakes. The other frying pan, overflowing with bacon strips, was smoking like a volcano, but no one seemed to notice because all eyes were focused on V.

V, whose back was to me, was stretching a mop way up in the air and repeatedly whacking the smoke detector with the mop’s stringy head. She whacked and whacked and whacked until finally it split open and the shrill alarm sound stopped. For a second, no one said anything. And then T.J. adjusted the heat on the bacon. Brian handed the juice to Andrea. V lowered the mop but continued looking up at the disabled smoke detector.

“Did you have to be so violent with it?” I asked.

V turned around and smirked at me. “Who are
you
to talk? You’re Miss Domestic Violence!” She jousted the mop stick in my direction. “But you can’t hurt me now because I am armed and dangerous.”

“Will you quit it?” I hissed, glancing around. No one seemed to be paying attention except for Ash, whose eyes were ricocheting between V and me.

“I’m only teasing you,” V said. “You just shoved me a little. It’s not like I’m going to get a restraining order or—”

“Stop it!”

“You can’t take a joke, can you?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t.”

I headed into the laundry room and put on my coat and laced up my boots. I could see V mamboing behind T.J. and breathing heavily onto his neck. Andrea and Brian were getting into a debate about whether it’s called a “pancake turner” or a “spatula.” Ash was watching everything intently.

I grabbed my car keys and slipped outside. I’d been planning to drive around and listen to music, so I was annoyed to see three cars blocking mine in.

“Mara?” Ash peeked her head out the back door. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you going anywhere in particular?”

“Nope.”

“V and T.J. sure seem to be hitting it off. I ran into Leesa in the mall last night and she said that—”

I cut Ash off. “I don’t want to hear about V, okay?”

Ash stepped onto the driveway. “Why are you being so hard on her? Don’t you appreciate how she stuck up for you?”

“Stuck up for me?”

The yard lights were on, so I could see Ash smile. “I’m sure you heard how Ms. Green kicked her out of practice yesterday.”

“She told someone off, right?”

Ash hugged her arms across her chest. “That’s putting it nicely. I’ve never heard so many four-letter words in my life. That choreographer looked like he didn’t know whether to run for cover or strangle her.”

“Choreographer?”

“Dr. Hendrick.”

Oh. My. God.

I vaguely remember V mentioning that Ms. Green had hired someone from the college to choreograph this year’s musical, but I never for a second imagined it would be my sweat-soaked improv dance teacher.

Ash went on to tell me how at play practice yesterday, Dr. Hendrick was choreographing a complicated routine for V’s first song. It’s a funny number, so the whole cast was watching. When V got everything perfect on the first try, he made some comment about how V couldn’t possibly be related to a “simply horrendous dancer by the name of Mara Valentine.”

I sucked in my breath. “What did V say?”

“Well.” Ash paused for emphasis. “V went totally
Godfather
on him. She told him—and enter about twenty swear words here—what she would do to him if he
ever
talked about one of her family members again.”

“No way! That did NOT happen!”

Ash nodded. “Ms. Green said she felt bad kicking V out because Dr. Hendrick was completely inappropriate, but she had to set an example, you know, for the rest of the cast.”

My head was spinning with confusion. I couldn’t believe Dr. Hendrick had dissed me in front of the
Damn Yankees
cast. And V had defended me? I’d have guessed that she would have seized the opportunity to publicly trash me, to say that I wasn’t only a bad dancer, but also a repressed baby who hasn’t cut the umbilical cord.

Ash was staring expectantly at me.

“I’m going for a walk,” I said.

Before Ash could get in another word, I headed down the driveway.

I knew exactly where I was going, but I wouldn’t let myself think about it.

Instead, I burrowed my hands into my coat pockets and started walking. The sky was pinkish and overcast. The houses were dark and the sidewalks were empty and, aside from the occasional passing car, Brockport was asleep.

I took a right on College Street and a left on Main Street. I walked past the brick building where I went to nursery school and past Arjuna Florist, where I got Travis’s boutonniere for the Winter Ball last year. I walked past Common Grounds, which was closed for the night, and past the post office where I sent off my Yale application. I paused in front of the massive iron lift bridge that spans the Erie Canal and connects Brockport’s north and south sides.

I slowly crossed the bridge, careful not to look down at the wide gaps through which you can see inky dark water. The sidewalk was choppy as I walked down the hill on the other side, past Pizza Hut, where I’d had my final bite of cheese before I became a vegan. Finally, I rounded West Avenue and headed into Presidents Village.

I’d been to James’s apartment once before. Last spring, Claudia and I went over to pick up our paychecks when the computer at Common Grounds was broken.

Claudia. I couldn’t think about Claudia right now.

I walked along the narrow path until I found the right apartment. It must have been after midnight, so I knocked lightly on the door, almost hoping James was already asleep.

“Yeah?” James’s voice said after a moment.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

“Is somebody there?” he asked.

“Me,” I said. My throat was so tight it came out like a squeak.

Silence.

“Mara?”

Yes, Mara. I have come to your home in the middle of the night. I am insane.

I heard footsteps crossing the floor, and then the lock clicked and a groggy-looking James was standing in the doorway. His hair was loose around his shoulders and he was wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and faded jeans with a nickel-sized hole in the thigh.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you sleeping?”

What was I saying? Of course he was sleeping!

James shook his head and said, “No, no, that’s fine.” But then he let out this lion-size yawn.

I had to laugh.

He smiled. “Okay, maybe I was. But I fell asleep reading on the couch, so it’s not like I went to
bed
or anything.”

“I was just going for a walk and I thought—”

“You don’t have to make excuses,” James said, grinning. “I know why you’re here.”

“What?”

“You want another cup of Famous McCloskey Chamomint Tea. McCloskeys have come to expect this over the years. You give someone one cup and then, every day, they’re knocking at your door. But that’s why we only share it with people we like. So come on in … I’ll make you a cup.”

“Are you sure?”

James opened the door wider. I stepped into his apartment. He reached behind me and took off my coat. As he did, his hands lingered on my shoulders for an extra second.

James hung my coat over the back of a chair. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Make yourself comfortable.”

I took off my boots, lining them up neatly by the door. Then I padded into his living room, which was filled with more books than Seymour Library. I sat on the couch and folded my legs under me. There was an open copy of
The Poisonwood Bible
on the couch. Very interesting. When we were talking last night, I told him that that was my favorite Barbara Kingsolver novel. He said that although he owned a copy, he’d never read it. Even more interesting was that I drove over to Lift Bridge this morning and bought
High Fidelity
because James had told me the previous night that it was his favorite Nick Hornby novel.

James carried two mugs into the living room. I couldn’t help but notice how his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders. I glanced at the hole in his jeans. I had this sudden urge to touch it. I sat on my hands.

James placed one mug on the table next to me, pushed
The Poisonwood Bible
off to the side, and joined me on the couch. He leaned over and set his cup on the floor at his feet.

“Do you like it?” I asked, gesturing to the book.

“It’s hard to get into, but I have a feeling it’s going to be worth it.”

“It’s definitely worth it,” I said.

The hole in James’s jeans was on the far side of me, out of my direct line of vision, so I freed one hand and reached for my tea.

“It’s really hot,” James said. “You might want to give it a little more time.”

I put down the mug and set my hand on my lap. We were both staring straight ahead, like passengers on an airplane. It felt awkward, which is weird because James and I are usually so comfortable around each other. But then again, we’ve never been alone in an apartment in the middle of the night with one of us wearing jeans with a hole in the thigh.

“You know,” James finally said, “I put on one of those tag-cut-out shirts today and it itched me so much I had to take it off. I thought of you.”

“That’s so funny,” I said, “because I opened a new box of soymilk this morning, and it splashed out of my cereal bowl, and I thought of
you
!”

James laughed. “It’s nice that we think of each other in such special moments.”

“I thought of you other times, too.” As soon as I said that, my heart skipped a beat, realizing how it sounded.