The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

Hmmm. I go through my mental roster of unattached guys in the school. About fifty percent would be classified as breathing and male, twenty percent as possibles, thirty percent as out of my league or attached to the equivalent of a prom queen or slutty cheerleader. Roxanne is practically jumping up and down on her seat and I know she can’t wait to tell me. “Fine. At least if I don’t like him I’ll be prepared with an excuse to turn him down.” I raise one eyebrow. “So who is it?” I’ve got a no friggin’ way ready on the edge of my tongue.

She leans forward and lowers her voice into the sultry tone. “The Pocket Chippendale.”

I’m taken aback. It’s someone I’d never even considered. But I’m intrigued. “Really. Do tell.”

“He’s in my history class. Last week I heard him say he had his eye on a certain redhead. This morning I heard him tell a friend he was going to ask said redhead to the dance. I’m assuming he’s talking about you since the only other redhead in the entire school is Carla and she’s built like a Coke machine.”

“Yeah, but recently I heard her say that she lost forty pounds.”

“Pffft. That’s like throwin’ a deck chair off the Titanic. Anyway, since you’ve got the same look in your eyes as you do for my mother’s lasagna I’m guessing that you’re probably going to say yes.”

She’s right. Given a nanosecond to think about it and the fact I’ve been a romantic camel this semester, the thought of an evening with a guy who’s beyond cute is pretty appealing.

Oh, I guess I should tell you who Roxanne is talking about and his very appropriate nickname. Will Carlisle is a smart, polite senior who is the main reason the wrestling team outdraws the football games at this school. Hell, even the cheerleaders show up. The Chippendale half of the name comes from his chiseled physique which cries out for a bow tie and cuffs, but sadly those aren’t allowed at high school athletic meets. Every time he wins a match he rips off his shirt and throws it in the air like that gal in the Olympic soccer game years ago. The running line with the girls who go to the matches is that they’d like to perform a thorough search of his body for an ounce of fat. Throw in thick dark hair, piercing hazel eyes and dimples that run the length of his cheeks when he flashes his megawatt smile, and you could easily see him showing up at bachelorette parties dressed as a UPS man with the ultimate package.

The other part of his nickname, Pocket? Will is five feet two.

I quickly do the math. The four inch heels I’ve been dying to wear would take me up to five-nine. I take a mental inventory of my closet, shoving the heels aside and searching the back for a pair of flats.

“So,” says Roxanne, breaking my trance as she bites a carrot stick. “You like?”

I slowly nod. “Yeah. It’s not Ryan or Jake, but I like.”

Her smile widens. “I thought you might, and I’m glad. I think you’ll be good together. Hell, if you didn’t want him I’d take him. So, waddaya gonna wear?”

I shrug. “I dunno.”

“Sure you do. You’ve got that great emerald green halter dress with the peek-a-boo slit that shows off your boobs. You look spectacular in it.”

She’s right, it’s my best color and my nicest dress. As for the quick flash it offers of my chest, it should be noted that any male taking advantage of said flash will not be disappointed. However, while I have nice boobs, Roxanne has what boys call a rack. Big difference.

Still, there’s one problem with the outfit. “I do love that dress, but the matching shoes have four inch heels.”

“So?”

“Sooooo, I’ll be a head taller than him. He’ll be looking right into my chest.”

“Hence, the peek-a-boo slit.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes.

“What’s the difference?” she says. “Guys look at your chest when they talk to you anyway, so he may as well be at eye level. Look, I’m taller than just about all my dates and I still wear heels that make me six-four. Besides, those legs of yours should never been seen in flats.”

“Nice compliment coming from a girl they call—”

“Don’t! Say it!” She puts up one finger and glares at me.

“Fine. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. Speaking of the dance, has Ryan—”

“Yeah, and I told him I already had a date.”

“Do you?”

“No, but I’ll ask someone out today.”

God, I wish I could be like her. “By the way, you said if I didn’t want the Pocket Chippendale, you’d take him. Seriously?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“You’d be more than a foot taller in your heels.”

Both eyebrows go up, her eyes fill with lust as she gets this faraway look. “Yeah, but it does present some very interesting possibilities.”

“Slut. So, who you gonna ask out?”

“Don’t know yet.” Roxanne licks her lips as the tall, hunky junior who just transferred here strolls by and smiles at her. He places his tray on the next table so that he’s facing her.

“You’ve got that look. You’re going to confession this weekend, aren’t you?”

She gets up, picks up her tray and starts to head for his table. “Bless me, Father, for I am about to sin.”

***

“Are we going to Jersey again this Saturday?” I ask, as I load the stainless steel dishwasher that matches the other appliances in the kitchen.

“Probably not,” says mom. I can see her putting on her bling in the reflection as she gets ready for her seven o’clock client. “Why?”

“I’ve, uh, got a date Friday night. Didn’t know if I could sleep late Saturday or if I needed to get home early.”

She completely misses the implications of what I asked as a big smile grows. “A date, huh? Ryan taking you out?” Her voice goes up into a happy lilt.

I finish putting the glasses on the top rack, close the dishwasher door and turn it on, then turn to face her. “Unfortunately not, mom.”

She stops adding bracelets and her eyes narrow into a glare. “It’s not that Jake character, is it?” (It should be noted that the previously happy lilt in her voice has morphed into that of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.)

“No, someone you don’t know.”

“Name, age, arrest record.”

Good God. “I’m having the CIA black ops team put together a dossier for you. They should be here any moment. His code name is Falcon.”

“I have a right to know who my daughter might be…cavorting with.”

“Well, I won’t be…cavorting…with a hooligan, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact I doubt I’ll be doing any cavorting at all.”

She folds her arms and stands up straight. “Watch it, missy. I’m still your mother.”

I exhale and roll my eyes. “Fine. His name is Will Carlisle, he’s a senior, very smart, captain of the wrestling team. Father’s a cop, so he doesn’t get in trouble.”

“Long as he doesn’t get girls in trouble.”

“Give me some credit, mom. I have no desire to push around a cereal covered toddler in Wal-Mart when I’m eighteen.”

“So…a wrestluh?”

“It’s not his career choice, mom. He wants to be a lawyuh in the fyoo-chuh.”

She shoots me a sarcastic grimace at my attempt to mimic her accent. “My daughter, the smartass. But a lawyer is good,” she says, enunciating the word. She gives an approving nod, the demonic voice apparently having been exorcized. “Well, I guess he sounds okay. You like him as much as Ryan?”

“I don’t like anyone as much as Ryan. But Will is nice and I haven’t been on a date in forever and I wanna get dressed up in something besides a cape. Besides, if I wait for Ryan to ask me out I’ll end up like the cat lady down the street.”

“Does this…Will…have any powers?”

“Nope, just a guy. Can’t read the future, can’t unhook my bra with his mind, can’t see the afterlife.”

“Speaking of which…how are you doing with what you saw this weekend?”

“I’m having trouble sleeping. Have you heard anything from The Summit yet?”

“No, but Sebastien told me they would definitely have some news by the end of the week.”

***

I’m pinning my strawberry tangles up on one side, giving me an asymmetrical look. Roxanne’s idea, and I must say I like what I see in the gold-framed mirror that sits atop my incredibly cluttered vanity. The style is very unique. Sorta slutty, but good. Might even keep it for school.

My train of thought is broken as Mom’s voice comes floating gently up the stairs.

“JILLIAN! YOUSE GONNA STAY UP THERE ALL NIGHT FUTZIN’ WIT YOUR HAIR, OR WHAT? YOUR DATE’S HERE!”

I toss my comb on the vanity, proclaim myself as hot as humanly possible (which is probably luke warm to the average cute guy), and head down the stairs.

Mom is waiting on the landing, looking up at me with a puzzled look on her face. I can tell she’s already made up her mind about the Pocket Chippendale. Mom wants tall, sweet Ryan. Well, join the club and take a number.

I get halfway down the stairs and see my date standing next to the front door wearing a huge smile. “You look amazing,” he says.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I say, admiring his outfit; a perfectly tailored blue blazer that shows off his incredible shoulders, khaki slacks, pale blue shirt and yellow tie. “You clean up pretty good yourself.”

He moves toward the bottom of the stairs and takes my hand when I reach the landing. I stand next to him and mom’s face drops as she takes in the couple heading off on a Friday night date.

To say I’m towering over him is putting it mildly. The top of his head comes up to my shoulder. That little slit in my dress is right at eye level and he steals a glance. And smiles.

Then he looks up at me, obviously used to this situation.

***

A nice dinner, decent conversation, and a few dances later, I’m at the punchbowl getting a refill while my date takes a bathroom break. Ms. Henshaw, the old crone assistant principal, is channeling the Wicked Witch of the West with her wrinkled gaze as she makes sure some hooligan doesn’t spike the citrus punch which would result in serious cavorting. The music is not ear-splittingly loud, and thankfully not rap, a welcome change from the usual teenage gatherings that reach the decibel level of a jumbo jet with music lyrics that make little sense. So you can actually talk to people. Crepe paper streamers in the school colors, blue and orange, crisscross the ceiling while an old fashioned disco ball in the center sends a stream of reflections around the softly lit facility. It’s nice to be out with a guy; I’m having an okay time, but no fireworks.

“Hey, Sparks.”

I turn and find Ryan behind me, hands in pockets, smiling. Damn, he looks good in a suit. Math formulas, quick! “Hey, yourself.”

“I was hoping to get you alone.”

Okay, now I’m really confused. What the hell is this? Alone for what, a makeout session under the bleachers? Has seeing me with another guy made the jealousy light bulb turn on? “Well, you got me all to yourself for a few minutes. By the way, who’s your date?”

“Don’t have one. Just came with some friends.”

You gotta be kidding me. What a waste. All I can think of is he’d rather be here without a date than ask me out. “Oh. I just assumed—”

“Listen, about Will. I happened to stand next to him earlier and I picked up some stuff he was thinking about.” He lightly touches my forearm, sending Roman candles through my body and stealing my breath for an instant. “He’s got something in mind that’s more than a goodnight kiss.”

Great. I want him as a boyfriend and he wants to be big brother. “Geez, Ryan, a girl doesn’t need a mindreader to figure that out. He’s a teenage boy. Of course he wants more than a kiss. You all do.”

I catch a glimpse of Roxanne on the dance floor and suddenly I’m channeling her spunk. I move closer, near enough to smell his Polo cologne, tilt my head down so that I’m looking up at him through my lashes like the bad little girl I desperately want to be, and give him my best soulful look while doing all I can to drop my voice to something sultry. “You know, Ryan, you wouldn’t have to worry about other guys I’m dating if you’d ask me out.”

There, I said it. Did he get the message? C’mon, take the hint. Wait for it…

“I just thought you should know, that’s all.”

Annndddd…cue the palm slap to the forehead.

“Thanks, Ryan, I appreciate it.”

Ryan’s cell rings and he excuses himself just as Roxanne reaches the punch bowl. She notices he’s there and Will is not. “So…What’s the story here? You trading up?”

I shake my head. “The latest episode of the young and the clueless. If I were the type of girl trying to make Ryan jealous by showing up with another guy, and I’m not, it wouldn’t work. Long story.”

“So how are you and your eye candy getting along?”

“Eh, okay. I mean, he’s really cute and all but I don’t feel…it.”

“It?”

“It. You know, sparks, fireworks, electricity.”

She hits me with her faux Jewish mother accent, which is pretty spot-on. “You want I should fix you up with an electrical workuh? I know I nice boy in the union looking for a shiksa.”

“Bite me. Will’s fine, but—”

“Hey, we’re seventeen. We’re not looking for Mr Right yet. You don’t have to marry the guy. Have some fun. Ravish the little thing. Take the initiative. How often is a girl who weighs a buck fifteen gonna be able to play amazon?”

“True enough.” I look around the room and don’t see Roxanne’s date. “By the way, speaking of fun, where’s your escort?”

“I gave him his exit visa.”

“What happened?”

“TSTL.”

I decided to give it back to her. “Yeah, but you’re not looking for Mr Right yet. Have some fun. Ravish him.”

“Honey, I aint goin’ to confession for a crash test dummy.”

***

The conversation is a little forced as Will walks me home. Probably because I’m busy thinking of Ryan.

We reach my front door, its thousand watt porch light probably confusing pilots trying to land at JFK. This electronic middle finger at Al Gore is mom’s little reminder that even though she’s in her bedroom upstairs and the living room is free, she knows there might be some cavorting going on involving her daughter and a guy who escaped from Munchkinland. And she could, at any moment, decide she needs to bake an apple pie in the middle of the night and come bounding down the stairs.

“I had a good time tonight,” he says, turning to face me.

“Yeah, me too.” (Fingers crossed behind my back.)

“I want to thank you.”

“Hey, you’re the one who took me out for dinner and dancing. I’m the one who should be appreciative. So thank you, Will.”

“I didn’t mean that. I mean, you know, thank you for not…” His words trail off and he looks to the side.

“For not what?”

Now he stares at the ground, one shoe playing with a pebble, the super confident captain of the wrestling team having disappeared. “I mean, every time I’m on a date the subject comes up. So thanks for not mentioning it.”

Oh, the height thing. Rox told me not to say anything, and I haven’t, even though a slow dance left his face in a rather uncomfortable position for me. But still I play dumb. I reach out with one finger and tilt his chin up. “Will, I had a nice time and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You know. It’s the elephant that’s always in the room when I’m on a date.”

Finally frustration gets the best of me. I’m tired of this wheel-of-boys game and landing on lose a turn

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.