125 Days Before the Trip, 9:02 p.m.
I pull my TrailBlazer into my friend B. J.’s driveway and lay on the horn. B. J.’s real name is Brian Joseph Cartwright, but in seventh grade everyone started calling him B. J. We’d all just found out about the term “blow job,” and we thought the nickname was super witty and cool. After a few years, it got old to everyone except B. J. He still loves the name and refuses to answer to anything else, even from teachers.
- J. comes out of the house wearing a green bodysuit, green booties, and a leprechaun hat. I’m less concerned with what he’s wearing, and more concerned about the fact that he’s moving about as fast as a dial-up connection. We’re on our way to Connor Mitchell’s party, and I don’t want to miss a second of it.
He opens the door (slowly) and launches himself into the passenger seat of my truck.
“Whaddup, kid?” he asks. He slams the door shut and readjusts the green beanie on his head.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask.
“What the fuck is what?” He’s confused.
“This whole leprechaun thing,” I say, rolling my eyes. I readjust my sideview mirror and back out of his driveway.
“I am not a leprechaun!” he says, offended. “I’m a midget.”
“You’re a midget?” I ask, incredulous. “You’re dressed like a leprechaun. And they don’t call them midgets anymore, they call them ‘little people.’” I pull my eyes away from the road and glance at him quickly. Is it possible he’s drunk already?
“I’m a little person, then,” he says, sounding like he doesn’t give a shit. “But really, who cares? I’m going to be so wasted it isn’t going to matter.”
“The only reason it’s kind of weird,” I say slowly, not wanting to upset him, “is because it’s not a costume party. So I don’t understand why you’d be dressed up.”
“It’s not a costume party?” he asks, sounding confused again. “I thought Madison said something about going as a cheerleader.” He rolls down his window, which makes no sense, because the air conditioner is on. I don’t understand why people have to roll down their windows when the air conditioner is on, since it’s obviously hotter outside than it is in the car.
“No,” I say, “Madison is a cheerleader. Why would she go to a costume party dressed as one?”
“She said she was going to!”
“She said she might not have time to change after the game, and might need to wear her uniform to the party.” Madison Allesio is this blonde sophomore who’s in study hall with B. J. and me. She’s also the reason I’m going to this party tonight. Well, kind of. I probably would have gone anyway, since Connor Mitchell is known to throw some insane parties. Last year half the freshman class was topless in his pool. But Madison’s been flirting with me hardcore for the past month, and yesterday she was all, “Are you going to Connor’s party?” But she said it in a “Are you going to Connor’s party so I can go home with you and get it on?” kind of way.
“I don’t give a shit,” B. J. says, grinning. “I’m going to be so fucked up I won’t even care. And I’m a leprechaun, and you know leprechauns are always gettin’ lucky! Woot woot!” He pumps his hands in the air in a “raise the roof” gesture. B. J. is always talking about how much play he’s going to get, when in reality, he gets none.
We hear the party before we get there, a mix of what sounds like mainstream rap. Jay-Z, 50 Cent, that kind of stuff. Posers. I like my rap hard and dirty, none of this “top forty” bullshit. But once I get a few beers in me, and a few girls on me, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I maneuver my car into a parking spot on the street and follow B. J. up the walk and into the house.
Half an hour later, I’m starting to think this party might actually blow. B. J. was entertaining me for a while, but now he’s disappeared into the throng of people somewhere after doing a keg stand, and I have no idea where he is.
I’m sitting in Connor’s living room, deciding whether or not to get up and get another beer, when I feel a pair of hands across my eyes.
“Hey,” a female voice says behind me. “Guess who?” She’s leaning over me now, and I catch a whiff of perfume. I can tell it’s Madison from how she smells—good, and like you’d want to get her naked immediately.
“I don’t know,” I say, playing dumb. “Jessica?” I don’t even know any Jessicas. I’m such a stud.
“No,” she says, trying to sound hurt.
“Jennifer? Jamie?”
“Not a J name,” she says. She’s closer now, and I can feel her chest pushing into the back of my head.
“I give up,” I say, reaching up to pull her hands off my eyes.
Madison pouts her lips and puts a hand on her hips. “It’s Madison!” she says, puffing out her lip. She’s wearing a short white skirt and a pink halter top. I was kind of hoping she’d be in her cheerleader uniform, but she looks hot anyway. Her long blond hair falls in waves down her back. It’s all I can do not to pick her up and take her back to my truck with me.
“Ahhh, Madison,” I say. “I was looking for you.”
“You were not,” she says, sighing. “You didn’t even know it was me.”
This is what confuses me about girls like Madison. They’re hot, they could have any guy they want, and yet they spend most of their time trying to get guys to tell them they’re hot. It doesn’t make sense. It’s like they don’t want to believe they’re good-looking. Or maybe they just get off on having guys tells them over and over.
(Another note about girls like Madison: They’re good for hookups, but are not girlfriend material. Inevitably, you get tired of listening to them whine about whether or not you think they’re hot, and they have to go. Plus, if you date a girl like Madison, you run the risk of actually starting to like her, and then she will eventually end up dumping you for some new guy who tells her how beautiful she is, because she’s sick of hearing it from you. The trick is to play into their egos enough to keep them around, but not so much that they become bored. Luckily, I am a master at this.)
“I was looking for you,” I repeat. I try to look disinterested and take a sip of my drink. “You look hot.” I scan the crowd behind her, still not looking at her.
“Really?” she asks, looking pleased. She does a little twirl, and her skirt fans out around her legs. Which are really, really tan. And really, really long. I try not to stare, knowing that if I let myself get too worked up, I won’t be able to continue playing the game. Hormones are such a bitch.
“So you never responded to my MySpace message,” I say, and her face flushes. My last MySpace message was about how hot her lips looked, and how I couldn’t wait to kiss her.
“I never got it,” she says, but I can tell she’s lying. She looks over to where her friends are standing on the other side of the room. “This party is so lame.” She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I know that’s my signal.
“You want to get out of here?” I ask. “I have my truck.”
She shrugs, like she doesn’t care. “I guess. Just let me go tell my friends.”
Madison walks away, and I try to find some way to distract myself. I can’t be waiting for her when she comes back. I have to make her work for it a little. I know it sounds mean and fucked up, but it really isn’t. It’s just how things work. I look around for some situation that has to be taken care of, or some girl I know that I can later claim came up to me, not vice versa. And that’s when I see B. J. attached to Courtney McSweeney’s leg.
