Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend

“Who is that?” Holly asks, her big brown eyes already redrimmed from the pot.

“Rose can tell you all about her, can’t you, Rose?” Robert says drily.

Matt grabs the hose off the ground and struggles to stand up, nearly falling into the pool. He loses track of the spray, drenching his own shoes.

“Conrad, are you really gonna let your sister mess with your initiation?” he asks, staring at Regina.

His sister? The party punching bag is Regina’s brother?

Matt looks back at Conrad.

Conrad says nothing.

Matt turns the hose on him.

Regina goes for Matt but Anthony catches her, pinning her arms and spinning her around. He leads her away and she doesn’t put up a fight, her face blank, her body slack as he talks into her ear, his dark eyes hard.

I can’t believe Regina is walking away while the swim thugs are drowning her brother. If anyone could take them on, it would be her. What’s she doing?

Matt and two thuglets grab Conrad and hurl him back into the pool, even though he’s still choking. As soon as Conrad hits the water, Matt spits out one final “Faggot!” then loses interest and wanders off. His brainless underlings trail after him.

“What’s with all the homophobia?” Holly asks, looking up at Robert for an explanation. “Is it always like this out East?”

“Union’s special,” Robert answers. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Um, shouldn’t we do something?” she says, turning toward the pool.

“We’ll just end up in there with him, and you’re too stoned to swim, darling,” Robert replies. I nearly gag for multiple reasons, not the least of which is Robert calling his girlfriend darling like he’s a 1940s movie star. “The guy’s a swimmer,” he continues. “I’m sure he can find his way to the surface of a pool without our help.”

“Okay,” Holly says uncertainly.

I follow her gaze to the water and see that Conrad is making zero effort to swim—in fact, less than zero. He’s letting himself sink.

“See ya, Rose,” Robert says, taking Holly’s hand.

I look at the cup Robert’s still holding. “Wait, you’re not going to drive right now, are you?” I ask.

For a second, I see the old Robert, the one who was always looking for my approval, even after I kept not giving it to him. But the new Robert surfaces quickly. “Holly’s driving the vintage Mustang tonight.”

I look at Holly, who seems embarrassed again, then at Robert. “So she’s too stoned to swim but not to drive?”

“It’s okay,” Holly says. “We can just walk to my house from here.” Holly glances one last time at the pool. “So cool to meet you, Rose! See you at school on Tuesday,” she adds as Robert pulls her into the crowd that has no interest whatsoever in the fact that Conrad Deladdo is intentionally drowning himself.

Although, to be honest, drowning oneself is not a surprising response to one’s first Union High party.

I should do something.

The thing is, after last year, I want to keep a low profile, and I definitely do not want to be the party buzz-kill again.

Plus, he’s not really drowning—he’s just messing around.

Right?

I look at the pool. I can’t see him anymore from where I’m standing.

I wait a second for him to come up. I wait another second. Nothing.

I go to the edge of the pool and look in. Conrad is still drifting down, as if he’s being pulled to the bottom by some current I can’t see. He looks up at me and it seems like our eyes meet through the water for a second. Then his close.

I drop to my knees and reach into the water to grab him but of course I can’t get to him. I lean forward a little more, and the inevitable happens.

From across the pool, Tracy yells my name but it’s too late. Someone shoves my shoulder and I fly face-first into the glowing blue water.

My first thought is, I’m destroying the dry-clean-only silk T-shirt Tracy lent me after practically making me sign a contract in blood, promising that nothing would happen to it.

My second thought is, I didn’t realize how much the noise of the party was making my brain hurt until I ended up in the pool. It’s so peaceful down here—all the music and the yelling get lost beneath the sound of my pulse and the blood in my veins. It’s perfect.

I haven’t felt this calm in more than a year. For a while after my dad died, I had these weird episodes that my mom said were panic attacks—they felt more like rage attacks to me. They’re mostly gone now, but sometimes, out of the blue, I’ll be doing something totally normal when suddenly I see these crazy-violent images. I have no control over it.

Here, under the water, I don’t feel like that can happen. Maybe I need to spend my life floating around in a pool.

Conrad looks like he feels the same way. But he also looks like he might be turning blue from lack of oxygen.

I swim down to him and reach for his arm. He yanks it away and gives me the finger.

So much for underwater tranquility.

What did I ever do to him?

I grab his arm and pull as hard as I can. Conrad fights me for a second but then lets me win. As we break the surface, a crowd of people at the edge of the pool is watching Tracy calmly shred Matt, who, of course, is the one who pushed me. I know that without having to watch the instant replay.

“…and get her and that freshman out of the pool or I’ll throw you in myself.”

A big chorus of “Oohs” goes up from the crowd. Matt is too drunk to formulate any kind of retaliation, so he just does as he’s told, stumbling to the edge and reaching for Conrad. Conrad is lifting himself out of the pool for the second time in less than an hour when someone shoves Matt aside, sending him sprawling again, and holds out a hand. Conrad looks up and half laughs, half snorts, like he’s disgusted.

“Go help your savior-complex girlfriend,” he says. “Leave me the hell alone.”

I’m trying to figure out who the savoir-complex girlfriend is and why she needs help when I’m lifted straight out of the pool and set down—dripping wet, mascara running, silk T-shirt and white capris probably see-through—on the deck. The warm hands feel familiar on my arms, and I know who it is instantly. But even though I’ve been waiting an entire summer to see him again, it still takes me a second before I can look up into the beautiful, furious face of Jamie Forta.

dissidence (noun): conflict; discord; warfare (see also: the general state of being in Union)

2

IT’S A STRANGE FEELING TO BE STANDING IN A DRIVEWAY at a keg party, fully clothed but soaking wet and wrapped in an oversize towel, talking—or not talking, as the case may be—to the guy who may or may not like you and who you haven’t seen in months, who is standing next to your worst enemy, who may or may not be his ex-girlfriend. Throw in the pacing, wet victim of a Union High hazing and a few onlookers, and you’ve officially got a three-ring circus.

I’m shivering as I wait for Tracy to get our stuff so she can drive me home. Jamie Forta is two feet away and he looks totally different. He’s tan, his arms are super cut and his hair is sort of dark gold—he looks like he spent the entire summer at the beach. He looks…beautiful.

I imagined a bunch of scenarios for when I finally saw Jamie again, but I didn’t think he would ignore me, which is what he’s been doing for the past few minutes. But why would I think that he’d do anything else, when that’s exactly what he did all summer?

He didn’t return my calls after the night he spent in jail, and he wasn’t allowed to come back to school to finish the year. After a few weeks, I started to think that I’d imagined him. I could almost convince myself I had, until I thought about the kiss. That kiss was the most real thing ever—there’s no way I could have made that up.

Which takes me back to wondering why he didn’t call. It’s infuriating.

But no matter how hurt or mad or whatever I’m feeling, Jamie looks amazing and I can’t stop staring at him.

Neither can Regina, which Anthony Parrina has just noticed as he heads up the driveway on his way back to the party from a beer run.

He doesn’t look too happy about what he sees.

Anthony puts down the case of beer he was balancing on one massive shoulder and wraps a possessive arm around Regina. “What, no chain gang for you tonight, jailbird?” he says to Jamie. “Oh, right, they only let the juvie kids work road crew during the day. I honked at you once on the highway in your little orange vest, but you didn’t wave to me,” Anthony says, making a fake sad face.

I can’t tell if there’s any truth to what Anthony is saying because Jamie’s face is a mask. Jamie’s dad is a cop—a cop who left his son in jail overnight to teach him a lesson—and I wouldn’t be surprised if he arranged for Jamie’s community service to involve spending his whole summer in the blazing hot sun fixing the town’s potholes.

I look at Regina. She is staring hard at Jamie, as if she’s trying to tell him something, but Jamie keeps his eyes on Anthony. I have no idea if Jamie and Regina have talked about what she did to him. But they do live next door to each other, so that probably answers my question.

“What, you got nothin’ to say, Forta?” Anthony challenges.

Jamie and Anthony have unfinished business. Jamie used to play hockey for Union with Peter until he got kicked off the team during the big Union vs. West Union game for high-sticking Anthony in the neck. I saw it happen, and I always figured it was some stupid trash-talking thing. But now I’m starting to think it was something bigger.

And Anthony is dating Regina, who Jamie grew up with and has…what? Liked? Gone out with?

Been in love with?

Jamie slowly turns to Regina, not taking his eyes off Anthony until the last second. When his gaze meets hers, concern fills his face. How can he possibly look so worried about her after what she did to him? What is going on?

“You okay?” Jamie asks Regina in a low voice, as if they’re the only two people in the driveway. That weird, blank look comes across Regina’s face again as Anthony tightens his grip on her and smiles like he won a prize.

“She’s fine,” Anthony answers for her. “It’s Conrad who don’t look so good.” He sort of chuckles.

Anthony is a total meathead.

Jamie turns to watch Conrad pace back and forth on the same spot, water still dripping off his rolled-up jeans.

“Conrad,” Jamie calls out.

Conrad stops. “Don’t you fucking talk to me.”

“Don’t swear at Jamie,” Regina warns. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak all night.

“Oh, that’s great, ’Gina, stick up for the guy who treats you like shit. Should I start calling you ‘Mom’?”

Conrad is shivering in his wet red shirt, which is bleeding pink streaks on his white jeans. His eyes land on Anthony, and I’m hoping Conrad will just keep his mouth shut, for his own sake. I can’t tell whether he has tears or pool water on his face, but the overall effect is the same—with the bleeding shirt and the streaked face, he looks like he’s slightly out of his mind.

“Take him home,” Jamie says to Regina.

“You know what, Forta?” Anthony interrupts. “You don’t get to tell her what to do anymore.”

Jamie takes a step toward Anthony. “And you do?”

“Stop acting like you actually give a shit about us, Jamie,” Conrad snaps.

“I said watch your mouth,” Regina says.

“All right, kids, don’t make me send you to your rooms.” Anthony suddenly sounds annoyed and bored. “I’ll drive you home. Just don’t get my interior wet.”

“Why would I get in a car with you? You’re even more of an asshole than Jamie.”

“Conrad, if you don’t stop talking shit about Jamie—”

“Why you gotta defend Forta, Regina?” Anthony asks.

I can answer that. Because she loves him.

But of course she’s not going to admit that to Anthony.

Regina goes mute again. Anthony grabs her arm hard enough to change the color of her skin, forcing her to turn toward him. For one weird moment, I actually want to pry his hand off her.

“Let go of her,” Jamie warns.

“Fuck off, Forta,” Anthony says. He takes a step toward Jamie, his chest puffed out, fire in his eyes.

Jamie doesn’t budge. It occurs to me that someone who has just finished community service probably can’t afford to get into trouble again. I should get between them, like Jamie did for me last year with Regina. But based on the way Anthony just grabbed her, I’d say the presence of a girl between him and the person he wants to punch isn’t much of a deterrent. So instead I just blurt out the first thing I can think of.

“Conrad, your shirt is staining your pants.”

Everyone turns to look at me as Conrad looks down at his pants. The red is now more of a general pink wash than individual streaks. “How symbolic,” he says.

“Tracy and I can drive you home if you want to get those in the wash before they’re ruined.”

The wash? I’m talking about washing pants right now? What is wrong with me?

He snorts. “You are the reason this all got so fucked up in the first place,” he says, waving in disgust at Regina, Jamie and Anthony. “I’d rather walk.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Anthony says, looking at Conrad. “What are you talkin’ about? Who’s the reason everything got so fucked up?”

Conrad gestures to me with his chin. “Her.”

Anthony points at me, his eyes practically bugging out of his head. “This is Forta’s little freshman? The girl who went screamin’ to the principal?”

He looks like he can’t figure out whether to laugh or punch me. In my head, I’m telling him that I’m actually a sophomore now, which, if you pass your classes, is what happens after you’ve been a freshman, generally speaking. But in reality, I’m totally embarrassed and freaked out. It never occurred to me that someday I’d be face-to-face with West Union’s hell-on-ice star hockey player and would have to answer for getting him thrown out of the prom after he went to all the trouble of taking off his skates and putting on a tuxedo.

I wonder if Jamie will come to my defense if Anthony decides to kill me here and now.

“Matt just passed out,” Tracy says as she comes around the corner of the house with our bags. She takes one look at Conrad’s now-pink pants and visibly cringes. “Were those Marc Jacobs?” Then she looks up at his face. “Are you okay?”

I don’t realize I’m expecting Conrad to smile at Tracy gratefully and thank her for asking until he glares at her like she’s an idiot. “Do I look like I’m okay?” he asks.

I want to tell him that I know how it feels to be targeted. But I know it’s not the same thing. I kissed someone I shouldn’t have kissed. Conrad, on the other hand, was just being himself at a team party—a team that he’s supposedly a member of.

“Is somebody going to drive you home?” Tracy asks.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” he snaps.

“Probably because no one wants to fish you out of the pool again,” she says.

“Well, I’m not getting in a car with either one of them,” he replies, referring to Jamie and Anthony, who are still standing face-to-face with about an inch of space between them.

It is simultaneously totally hot to see Jamie like this—is that weird?—totally depressing to know that it’s not me he’s defending and totally awful to think that the school year hasn’t even started and already Jamie is in a situation that could land him in serious trouble.

“Fine. I’ll drive you home,” Tracy says. No one moves. Tracy looks around at our cozy little group and then back at Jamie. She raises her eyebrows in surprise and possibly approval of the new-and-improved version—Jamie 2.0, I bet she’s going to say later—that she didn’t notice by the pool because she was too busy yelling. Without taking her eyes off him, she asks, “You coming with me, Rose, or…?”

Jamie turns away from Anthony and makes eye contact with me for the second time tonight—or rather, for the second time since June. I can’t read anything in his expression to give me a single clue about where I stand with him.

What else is new.

“Uh…” I eloquently begin.

Jamie looks at Regina and says, “You call me if you need me.” He gives Anthony another long, hard stare, and Anthony bares his teeth in what’s supposed to be a grin. Jamie heads down the driveway. Regina watches Jamie go, a flicker of desperation in her eyes as if she wants nothing more than to go with him. Anthony grabs the case of beer at his feet, slings his arm over her shoulders and drags both the beer and Regina back to the party.

Jamie gets in his car, slams the door hard enough to set off the alarm on the SUV he’s parked in front of, and takes off down the street.

I watch his taillights get smaller and smaller.

The first time I rode in Jamie’s old, green car was when he drove me home on the third day of school last year. He did it only because Peter had asked him to look out for me, but I didn’t know that at the time and I thought maybe, just maybe, Jamie Forta might think I was cute or something. It was kind of a terrifying prospect. I babbled like an idiot the whole time.

When I realized Jamie knew where I lived without me having to tell him, my stomach dropped out like I was on a roller coaster. Sitting close to him made me so nervous I couldn’t put a sentence together, but I still managed to memorize every detail I could about that ride. The car smelled like rain. The hood had been polished with something shiny and when the sun hit it, the glare was so bright it hurt my eyes. The seats and the floor were clean enough to eat off. It was clear that Jamie loved his car.

Now that I think about it, I bet Jamie cares more about that car than most of the people in his life.

Possibly more than all of the people in his life.

But definitely more than me.

“I already said I’m not getting in a car with her.”

Conrad, standing next to the red Prius that Tracy’s dad got her for her sixteenth birthday in July, points at me. Tracy rolls her eyes and leans into the backseat, clearing away some junk. Tracy wouldn’t appreciate my calling her magazines junk, but they’ve been stomped on and sat on, and pages have been torn out and folded over and marked up, so they’re junk in my book. Last year was all about Teen Vogue and Lucky, but this year Trace is reading Vogue and Elle, with the occasional InStyle thrown in, “because not everyone gets couture.”

Thanks to my trusty PSAT app, I surreptitiously learned that couture means custom-made, high-fashion clothes. I have to admit that there are some occasional topic-specific gaps in my vocabulary. My dad—Mr. Vocabulary himself—would not have been pleased. But the fact that I have a PSAT app on my phone would have gone a long way toward redeeming me in his eyes, I’m sure.

“Conrad,” Tracy says as she extricates herself from the backseat to move her magazines into the trunk, “Rose ended up in the pool for you. So maybe try a little gratitude. Sit,” she commands, pointing to the mostly clean backseat and dropping several torn-up GQs in the process. “Love your shoes, by the way. Stuff paper towels in them when you get home so they dry in the right shape. They’re Gucci, right? And those pants are Marc Jacobs, aren’t they?”

Conrad doesn’t miss a beat. “Stop talking about my clothes. You’re making me self-conscious.”

Tracy looks shocked, like she can’t conceive of a world in which Conrad wouldn’t want to talk about fashion. I think this is actually less about stereotyping and more about Tracy forgetting that not everyone cares as deeply and passionately about fashion as she does. Whatever she’s into takes over her entire worldview. She was like that with cheerleading last year. And Matt, unfortunately.

Getting dumped by Matt after she lost her virginity to him was the best thing that ever happened to Tracy. Well, okay, not the best thing. Actually, it was terrible. But as soon as she was forced to accept what a loser Matt had become, she realized she was spending too much time worrying about what he—and everyone else—thought of her. She vowed never to do that again, and she hasn’t looked back since. Her obsession with fashion isn’t just about magazines and being pretty. Tracy wants to be a designer someday, or an editor at a fashion magazine, or a…something. According to her, her education has already started. She reads every fashion magazine she can get her hands on, follows about twenty different blogs, and spends more hours on Lookbook than most gamers spend playing Call of Duty 17, or whatever number they’re up to.

I envy her. She found her thing and is already figuring out how to do it.

Actually, if I think about it, I’m not that far behind her—at least not in terms of knowing what my thing is. I just have to…start doing it.

When I was thinking of auditioning for Damn Yankees, I sang in front of the mirror and discovered that I look like a giant freak. When my mom’s shrink, Caron, asked why I hadn’t auditioned after I’d said I was going to, I just shrugged. Then she declared that I’m depressed.

Brilliant, right? But Ms. Shrinky-Dink had a point. I was excited about auditioning. And I was disappointed—in myself—when I chickened out. So I’m going to that Anything Goes audition, even if I look like the world’s weirdest weirdo when I sing.

“What are you doing with all this shit?” Conrad says, looking down at the issues of GQ that Tracy dropped.

“I like fashion,” Tracy answers, sounding a little peeved as she grabs the magazines and puts them on top of her pile. She dumps the magazines in her trunk and takes out the blanket from the monstrous roadside emergency kit that her dad bought for the car—there are enough supplies in there to survive simultaneous natural disasters. “Here,” she says, handing it to him.

Conrad wraps the blanket around himself and with one more nasty look at me, slides into the backseat. Tracy slams the trunk shut and gets into the driver’s seat. I barely have my seat belt on over my wet towel when Conrad starts in.

“So was it guilt that made you pull me off the bottom of the pool?”

Tracy eyes Conrad in her rearview mirror. “If anyone should feel guilty, it’s your sister. She was the psychotic maniac last year.”

“That’s not what I heard,” he mutters.

“Two sides to every story,” I reply.

“All right, let’s hear your side. How did someone like you manage to steal my sister’s boyfriend?”

Conrad’s question rings in my ears as I turn off the air-conditioning that came on full blast when Tracy pushed the car’s power button. My teeth are chattering because my skin is still wet. I hope my mother isn’t waiting up for me when I get home. If I have to explain to her how I ended up fully clothed in a pool at the party, she’ll probably call Caron to schedule an emergency midnight session. That’s Kathleen for ya.

I’ve been calling my mom by her first name—Kathleen—in my head. It makes me feel better for some reason. Less “depressed,” you might say.

“Hello?” Conrad says, still waiting for an answer.

If I were a different person, I would see this as an opportunity, as Caron likes to call complicated situations. An opportunity to tell my side of the story, or something like that.

But really, it just sucks to hear Conrad ask a variation on the very question I spent most of the summer asking myself: What would a hot guy like Jamie Forta ever see in someone like me?