Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [11]
In the past, this wasn't an issue. A lack of parental supervision is what allowed Marcus to lead his former life of drugging and male whoring. (The opposite situation in my household explains why I was 9944⁄100 pure until I turned eighteen.) Mrs. Flutie has always worked at a day-care center, which is ironic and sad because it means she was too busy taking care of other children to keep watch over her own. And when he's not restoring historic vehicles, Mr. Flutie has always been out on land, air, and sea escapades. It's the elder Flutie's need for speed that has led to our sex-free predicament, as a broken leg suffered in a Jet Ski skirmish means he'll be couched for most of the summer.
Of course, there are other options. Like a motel room. We're both poor, though, and I can't get over the sleaze factor. And I just know that we would bump into one or both of our parents in the parking lot just like it always happens in bad movies.
Or outside somewhere. But I have this irrational fear of insects crawling up inside places they should never be.
Or the Caddie. It's a '76 with a ginormous backseat designed for consequence-free couplings. But I don't have an autoerotic fixation, I guess. I simply can't let myself go in his car.
These are my hang-ups. Ultimately, our extended celibacy is mostly my fault.
It doesn't seem to faze Marcus. “We've got all summer,” he said again tonight, after we had exhausted all the sweaty, partially clothed Cadillaction.
I was still breathing heavily and had trouble getting the words out. “How can you be so calm? Don't you want to have sex with me?”
He reared back, hitting his head on the fogged-up window, surprised by what, to me, was an obvious accusation. “Of course I do. But if this isn't the way you want to have sex with me, then I must accept that we aren't going to have sex. I have to let go of that desire.”
“So you don't want to have sex with me!”
“I won't if you insist on keeping up this conversation!”
But he was smiling as he said it, and I obliged with a laugh, though right now I don't think it was that humorous.
the eighteenth
In our relentless pursuit of things to do instead of having sex, today Marcus and I visited an outdoor exhibition held at Allaire State Park by the New Jersey chapter of the Church of Creativity and Song. Their creed: “Finding spiritual enlightenment through fine arts inspired by music.” Um, okay.
With its forest of pine and oak trees, wildflower-tangled meadows, and cool, rushing waters of the Manasquan River, it would be hard to find a freak show with a more lovely setting. Among the more interesting installments were a series of pipe cleaner depictions of Michael Jackson's noses through the years, lanyards (allegedly) made from locks of Jim Morrison's hair, and a portrait of Bono painted entirely with breast milk. Yum. As we passed from one insane stall to the next, I heard the strains of a nasally, Brooklyn vibrato, wringing every ounce of melodramatic emotion from each syllable . . .
“I've been up, down, tryin' to get the feeling again / All around . . .”
“Barry Manilow!” I shouted, running toward the music.
I have a soft spot for the Copacabana Man now, but it wasn't always that way. For years I complained about my mother's embarrassing habit of blasting Barry on the stereo whenever she did her down-and-dirtiest housework. But that was before Barry crooned with cheesy gusto at two key points in my relationship with Marcus: on our first nondate, when Marcus tauntingly nipped my lip instead of kissing it (When will our eyes meet / When can I touch yoooooouuu?), and later, at Gladdie's retirement home, when Marcus assured me that my failed relationship with Len was for the best, as it would help prepare me for the true love I deserved (I'm ready to take a chance again / Ready to put my love on the line with yoooooouuu . . . ).
Here was an entire tentful of decoupaged objects devoted to none other than the Showman of Our Time. Plant