Who Put This Song On? Page 6

  Suddenly something makes me jump in my seat, and I shiver. Turns out it’s just my phone buzzing in my lap: a text. I don’t recognize the number.

  Two rows behind you.

  Slowly I turn my head and scan the crowd. Immediately I spot annoying Tim McCloud, smirking in a too-big button down, and give him the evil eye. Ugh.

  I text David instead. He says he’s bored in English, talking about a David Foster Wallace story. Of course, I seethe with jealousy at his normal, real-world education.

  We just watched the snl skit from this week.

  Did you see it? With Tina Fay?

  Oh awesome

  *Fey

  yeah, I CAN SEE RUSSIA FROM MY HOUSE!

  So good! I can’t believe Sarah Palin is real.

  Yes!!!

  I know she is truly unbelievable.

  (Someone brought up Tina Fey’s impression of Sarah Palin in AP Gov yesterday, and Mr. K literally put his hand over his heart. As we were leaving class, Jenn Hanson cornered me surreptitiously and whispered, “I think I might be a Democrat, can you help me?” as if it were a wasting disease or substance addiction.)

  The spotlight on Pastor Tyler dims as he bows his head for closing prayer.

  Father God these teens are in danger every day. They are fighting a war. Father I just pray that you give them the strength and courage and discipline to be your soldiers in the face of temptation. I pray they do not give in to earthly desires. Father God I pray this in your Son Jesus’s precious name. Amen.

  We repeat in unison, well rehearsed: Amen. The room comes to.

  On my way to the yearbook room I run into Class President Kelly Kline at the center of a blindingly pink and bubbly cluster of girls from our class. I nod “Hey,” and Jenn squeals, grabbing at me, and pulls reluctant, emo me into the fold.

  “Look!” Her blue eyes pierce with delight. “Adam gave Kelly a promise ring!”

  “What?”

  “A promise ring.”

  Kelly extends her left hand and I see it, thin and gold on her ring finger.

  “I don’t get it. What does it mean?”

  She lowers her voice, and seemingly her whole body. “You know,” she whispers. “Don’t have sex before marriage.”

  “What?” Stacy Johnson squeaks in her valley girl pitch.

  Kelly spits when she repeats, exasperated, “Don’t have sex before marriage!”

  I cover my mouth as a laugh escapes. “Sorry.” I bow.

  (Everyone is so obsessed with virginity—the teachers bring it up multiple times a day. Sex, I mean. “Resisting urges.” There’s a whole lot of “saving yourself” and “save room for Jesus.” What’s wrong with having urges? You’d have to tighten all of your muscles and squeeze your eyes shut for the rest of your life to resist sinning. How can that be the good life?)

  “So,” I clear my throat, “does this mean you’re supposed to get married? To each other?”

  Kelly enacts the cartoon definition of swooning. Like, it’s disgusting how stoked she is to leap gleefully into a sexless marriage with Adam; to give up on any life that isn’t this one we’re standing in right now.

  “They don’t always mean you’re getting married,” Jenn turns to me. “It’s more of a promise to yourself. My dad gave mine to me, actually.”

  “Wow.” I nod at the silver band on her hand, dotted with one ruby gemstone. I spread my hand out before me, too, inexplicably. Obviously, it is bare. “That’s nice.”

  The Promise Ring is also the name of an American indie-rock band from the mid-nineties, whose iconic album Nothing Feels Good is one of the quintessential emo records, but I don’t say anything about that stuff because no one cares.

  * * *

  —

  At the end of the week, I’m exhausted. When I’m at school or in public, there’s a little drill sergeant in my head asking, What should you be doing? I’m hyper-vigilant like a superspy, constantly nervous about whether or not I’m blending in, whether or not I’m being too me and not enough them.

  At home, I wish I were invisible. I wish my family didn’t see me as a massive cloud of gloom and difficulty hanging over every room, every daily routine. I wish I felt nothing, but I’m on fire with anger and discomfort and a whiny pitiful temper. I keep to myself, and I hope my family knows that my silence means I’m sorry. Means Forgive me.

  This is my curse. (This, and Tim McCloud’s creepy leers, and Marissa attached at the hip to Jordan Jacobsen, reveling in her dumb new life. This and the unrelenting sun.)

  Over the weekend, waiting for a torrent of Interpol’s Turn On the Bright Lights to download, I flip lazily around The Negro and the Curse of Ham, which is indeed an independently published text promoting the beliefs of the Church of Latter-Day Saints.

  Could there really be a link between blackness and sin? The whole idea is offensive, but it still creeps me out, because as long as even one person believes it, there is a sliver of justification for how I feel. A reason for my pain, according to someone else.

  One of my pet peeves is questions that aren’t really questions, questions that inherently imply an answer. So, like, “Are black people cursed with dark skin and slavery?” It’s a question that works kind of like a jingle; it gets stuck in your head until the only answer is yes. Apparently, according to this particular book, Noah’s son Ham, whose name means “dark,” was cursed by Noah to become “a servant of servants.” The story goes that Ham’s descendants became the “negro” race. Hence, slavery. Something like that.

  Like we deserve whatever curses fall on our heads. Like we never stood a chance from the very beginning.

  TIM

  Tim is just a guy, basically. A stocky know-it-all from Mock Trial.

  It was all planned out over instant messages, our “casual hookup” last spring. His idea.

  I am a curious person and studious, and I approached giving him a blowjob as such. I let him put his pale hand under my Joy Division T-shirt. At first it was gross, then it was exciting, then it was boring.

  I guess this is a story about how I ended up in the orange groves in the backseat of Tim McCloud’s car in the first place.

  * * *

  —

  He said I was the cutest black girl he’s ever seen.

  * * *

  —

  The rows and rows of orange groves, how you can almost taste the zest, how something so simply wonderful and bright can always be growing in spite of you—that’s something I like about it here.

  THE YELLOW NOTEBOOK

  Kelly Kline may or may not have “kind of” had sex, promise ring be damned, and now she’s convinced she’s pregnant. She confesses her sin to Meg and me while we’re standing casually by the lockers waiting for the bell before AP Biology, freshly paper bag–covered textbooks cradled close to our chests. “Last Thursday,” she lowers her head in shame.

  Meg gracelessly stuffs a fistful of blueberry muffin into her mouth. “Dude, it’s only Tuesday.”

  “What about the promise ring?” I realize. “Didn’t he just give that to you last week?” Maybe it had been like an invitation, a justification. A virginity loophole, like blowjobs.

  “I know!” she shrieks, darting her eyes around. “And now my period is a day late!”

  “Wait, hold on,” I ask, certain that Sunday School has taught her nothing. “What do you mean, ‘kind of’?”

  What she describes is somewhere between second and third base. I roll my eyes.

  “Well, first of all, I’m pretty sure that’s not how pregnancy works. Or sex, even.”

  Kelly Kline is a sucker. She can be cool and fun, but she is also ridiculous. She’s been talking about her wedding since middle school. While Meg, James, and I sit sulking and stage-whispering in the back of the auditorium during chapel, she’s right up front singin
g all of the worship songs, gazing up at Adam spot-lit on stage singing with his eyes closed, like he’s the Evangelical Dashboard Confessional.

  I wish I could say I’m surprised. But I could definitely see her falling for the whole sensitive prayer-group-leader thing. Feeling the spirit.

  “You know what to do,” I say over the bell. “Talk later?”

  She nods dutifully.

  I reach into my locker and pull out a yellow spiral notebook. It’s slim and bent. Spelled out in Sharpie on the cover, and positioned next to a smiley face sticker, is the title: Love Lives, Rarr! Names of approved authors are documented in a small column on the left-hand side of the cover: Meg + Kelly, and + James + Morgan. I present it to Kelly in my open palms, an offering, an invitation for communion.

  Like everyone else, we’ve been writing tons of notes since school started. For the most part, they’re standard issue: Jordan looks cute today (James); I can’t believe Mr. K told me to be quiet AGAIN in Government (me); I just discovered this band The Clash, they’re so punk (Kelly); Where should we go for lunch (Meg)? Notes (and co-notes and group notes) can be literally anything—a list of Friday night ideas; someone’s weekend summary; a few random pleasantries on a page Meg used to practice drawing hearts; Are you mad at me? on the back of a someone’s Bible homework.

  The Yellow Notebook is in a league completely apart from that stuff—it is absolutely reserved for discussion of honest-to-god crushes and significant romantic developments related to said crushes. The Yellow Notebook was founded with a mission statement. It’s a piece of literature, a living archive, in the spirit of all the rom-coms we say we hate, the spirit of a Jane Austen novel. It exists to celebrate the unfolding of the story of love. Sagas. Confessions. Wishes. Questions.

  Kelly’s been dating Adam since their youth group went on a mission trip to Mexico the summer after freshman year, and he’s super boring, so she doesn’t have a lot to say. What with the promise ring and all. But that’s just too bad for her.

  (Last week, when she tried to slip in some comments about a Gilmore Girls episode, I immediately wrote, in the margins, “The Yellow Notebook is not the place for Gilmore Girls gossip. Write a separate note for that crap.” She wrote, I’m sorry! I promise not to do it again, Morgan. Then she proceeded to write a separate note for the Gilmore Girls gossip. I don’t watch the show.)

  The Yellow Notebook—and romance—is strictly business, and serious.

  * * *

  —

  Kelly basically kidnaps Meg and me from the yearbook room at lunchtime, forehead dotted with sweat, backpack sagging off her tiny frame. She’s, like, waiting at the door.

  “Lunch?” she begs.

  I sigh and nod. “Yeah, okay.”

  Meg blurts out a condition. “We’re getting Del Taco.”

  Kelly has clearly committed to this whole drama. Instead of asking us to lend her money, like she often does, she demands we pay for her lunch because she’s “eating for two.” I’m not letting this go any further.

  The whole drive to Del Taco, Kelly worries out loud. I put on MGMT.

  Meg groans. “Oh my Lord, you are not pregnant, Kelly! There’s nothing to freak out about.”

  “My period was supposed to come two whole days ago, and it’s pretty much always on time I think.”

  “Just chill,” Meg replies. “Tacos will cure all.”

  “Seriously, Kelly,” I say casually. “Sometimes my period is five days early. Sometimes it’s a full week late. I don’t know. Periods are weird! I used to throw up every month when I got mine.”

  Kelly shoots me a quizzical look and laughs, like she’s not sure why she’s laughing.

  Meg yawns, puts on her knockoff Ray-Bans. “Great. Let’s drop it and have fun being fatties. I’m having a chicken burrito.”

  “Hello ma’am welcoming to Del Taco can I take your order?”

  I have to maneuver my torso halfway out of Rudy to get close enough to the little drive-thru speaker because I’m so low to the ground, and top-heavy. It is no easy feat to get my boobs over the car window.

  (By the way, that’s yet another insecurity: my boobs came way too soon. In fourth grade, just a year before my period. I leveled up from a training bra with lightning speed, traded it in for a wide-strapped monstrosity that was impossible to hide under spaghetti straps, which was what all the cool girls wore, with Limited Too roll-on glitter applied to their flat chests. Nothing has ever been easy for me.)

  (My period also had impeccable timing, announcing itself on white board shorts during a class field trip to the water park.)

  “Anyway, you’re not pregnant. Just take a test if you’re worried,” I say, grabbing our bag of deluxe chili cheese fries, chicken burritos, and a bunch of tacos from a pimply middle-aged man.

  Meg squeals a little. “I cannot believe you actually had sex! What about your chastity ring?”

  “Yeah!” I gasp. “Didn’t you just get it?”

  I’m trying my best not to laugh because I know it’s not funny that Kelly is completely riddled with guilt and despair. I get it, but also, I don’t. What’s the big deal?

  “We were—we still are—saving ourselves for each other. But then he came over after church, and my mom wasn’t home, and we just got caught up in the heat of the moment. It didn’t feel wrong. We’re in love.”

  I just shake my head noiselessly as we head back to school. Meg sings “Mr. Roboto” to herself.

  “Hey you guys? No one can know about this. And not just the pregnancy scare. No one can know that I’m immoral.”

  “Oh, come on! You are super good at following the Bible. You just have a boyfriend you looooove!” I tease, trying to lighten the mood before she starts throwing verses at us.

  “Yeah we need to know more,” Meg raises her eyebrows. “You better be writing details in the Notebook.”

  “Do you really think I should take a pregnancy test?”

  “Yes, absolutely, without a doubt. Then you can just move on.”

  “Will you go with me? After school? Please?” That baby voice she uses for casual manipulation.

  I look into the rearview at Meg—we had plans to do homework at my house—and she rolls her eyes, giving the go ahead.

  “Sure, okay.”

  Meg and I are anxious to get out of the car as soon as we park. There’s just enough time before lunch is over to eat our Del Taco in peace on the benches by Mr. Howard’s room.

  “Okay, meet us here after your last class,” Meg commands.

  “Got it. One more thing, guys?”

  “What.” We don’t even turn around.

  “I still don’t have any cash. You know, for the thing?”

  “I know,” I shout back. Obviously, what I’m doing today is paying for a virgin’s pregnancy test, because this is my life.

  “Oh, this is fan-tastic,” Meg says to me, giddy under her breath. “Did she really use the phrase ‘eating for two’?”

  I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want you guys to think I’m a whore. He didn’t cum, he just put it in for a minute. But we didn’t use a condom. Anyway, I’m pretty much still a virgin under technicalities. And yes, we’re getting married and we’re madly in love.

  Somehow after school we—rather, I—manage to scrape money together to buy a home pregnancy test. The plan is to pile into my car and head to my house where we can put the invented crisis to rest over a couple of iced teas.

  We go to the Thrifty’s between Waldenbooks and Honey Baked Ham. Since I’m still a virgin (not counting blowjobs) and stranded at Vista without Sex Ed, I know nothing about pregnancy tests—which one is best, or whatever. Meg and I linger dumbfounded in the aisle full of brand labels. Kelly waits at a counter for ice cream. (In her defense, they do have amazingly good mint chip, but I’m still baffled at the distribution
of efforts among us.)

  I text David.

  Today is out of control.

  What’s up?

  Just cursed. I can’t believe my life. You?

  Eating chips.

  Amazing.

  Sorry ur smited. Will new music help?

  YES

  Check ur email girlie. And clear your calendar on Saturday. We have a mission.

  “Well,” I hang an arm around Meg and hold up the first box I see. “Should we just get this one? I think I’ve seen it on a commercial.”

  * * *

  My parents aren’t home, and Malcolm is still at JV football practice, but for whatever reason the three of us still guiltily dart up the stairs to my room when we get to my house. When she isn’t mouthing “oh my god” and “WTF” to me, Meg’s being extra motherly with Kelly, super responsible, which is great because I can’t stop thinking about David, and I really just want to gush and wonder about him.

  Meg slowly reads every instruction on the pink and white package before handing it over to Kelly and sending her to the bathroom. She walks out silently, eyes focused soberly on the carpet, and closes the door to my room behind her.

  “This is completely ridiculous,” I say to Meg, and she laughs, taking a glug of her Arizona Iced Tea. Kelly is an absolute wreck a few feet away, but it’s hard to be sympathetic when I know that no real crises exist in her world—her world makes sure of it. Also, I know what sex is.

  Kelly isn’t like me. I want the truth, even at my own risk. The coals of hatred I harbor for my town, my school—ugh, even the very ideas of babies and marriage and church and sidewalks—are really simmering, turning golden brown on each side like chicken skin, but I still live here. I don’t know why I humor Kelly, but it feels important. She needs rules, and right and wrong, and guilt. Who am I to pull the comfortable rug from under Kelly’s feet, or anyone’s? She’s happy, and that’s more than I can say for myself.