Damage - A. M. Jenkins [29]
“He’s so irritating,” Heather says when you get “He always acts like I’m such a bimbo. You know blames me, don’t you? Just because his little girlfriend told him off at my party last year. Like it was my fault she got puke drunk.”
“I don’t think he even remembers—”
“I’m hot,” Heather interrupts. “Could you turn the air?”
It’s not really that hot; not since the sun went down You think it’d be a good evening to drive with the windows down, to let the warm grass smells wash around. You don’t like the way she makes you feel about your best friend.
But you roll up the window and obey.
As soon as you start the engine, Heather twists rearview mirror around and peers into it, fluffing picking at her bangs. “Curtis needs to stop acting like he’s so virtuous. Everybody knows he and Kat broke because she didn’t want to have sex, and he did.”
“I don’t think that’s what happened.”
“That’s what I heard, and I believe it.”
There is a story about Curtis—the story about him crying in the tack room when his dad ran off with Tiffani-with-an-i—that might make Heather see him in a different light. It’s why Curtis takes sex so seriously, even now, even though he’s about to turn eighteen. It’s why Kat was the only one he ever did it with; he was crazy in love with her.
Problem is, you can’t tell the story. For one thing, it’s not yours to tell.
What “everybody knows” is partly true. It’s true that after a few weeks of “doing it” Kat wanted to back the whole relationship up, while Curtis—having gotten used to enjoying all the benefits—wanted to keep things the way they were. By the time Curtis was ready to agree, Kat was off on a “if-you’d-really-loved-me” jag, and it was too late.
You didn’t see that it was anything to break up over In your opinion, Kat might just as well have asked him give back her lost virginity. Kat was lucky to have Curtis in the first place. She could have gotten any of the hundred other guys you know who don’t see sex as the first step on the road to matrimony, three kids, and Suburban.
But you can’t tell Heather any of this. She wouldn’t understand; she’s a girl, and besides, it’s obvious she doesn’t care to see it any way but hers.
Heather stops picking at her bangs and pulls her purse up off the floorboard. You reach for the mirror adjust it so you can back out.
“Wait a minute.” She digs in the purse, pulls out small brush, and starts fluffing again.
So you shut the engine off and roll down your window again.
Then you sigh.
“It’s just so humid,” Heather says, as if that explains something.
You lean back against the headrest and try to get interested in watching Heather and her hair. She must feel you looking at her, because she glances at you. You don’t bother to give her a smile, and she examines a moment before returning her gaze to the mirror.
She starts fishing in her purse again. Her hands make a scrabbling, shuffling noise as they search and dig some mysterious girl thing.
This—waiting for hair to be brushed—is the price dating Heather. This, and avoiding your best friend.
“Now, don’t be mad.” Heather snaps her purse shut, drops it onto the floorboard. She slides over, tucks her arm into yours. “It just kills me when you get all frowny and quiet. It’s like, God, I’m going to be the first person in the history of the world that Austin Reid doesn’t like. I’d die.” She lays her head on your shoulder. She’s light against your arm, and she’s not wearing any perfume tonight; there’s only the faint scent of her shampoo or lotion—something clean and sweet.
“I know I’m a snob,” you hear her say. “That’s why I’m counting on you to be a good influence.”
Well, it’s not like you aren’t used to being around people with strong opinions. One thing Heather and Curtis have in common is that they’re both opinionated. Honest, too.
The only real difference between them, you think, is that Heather’s thoughts seem to fall out of her mouth without much presorting. That’s all Curtis does, is sort.
It feels awkward, just sitting