Sloppy Firsts_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [48]
And so we went on to discuss: MP3, PBS, IPO, and YMCA.
"Everything a man can enjoy? Or where you hang out with all the bo—?"
Cal interrupted me as the guitar player strummed the opening riff to Kool and the Gang’s classic, "Celebration." "We’re gonna have a good time tonight," Cal spoke the lyrics, straight-faced and very, very serious.
"Let’s celebrate," I replied, imitating his uptight tone, trying not to smile.
"It’s all right," he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me onto the dance floor.
And at that moment, I really did feel like everything was going to be all right.
Cal didn’t bust the most impressive move, but he had two crucial things that most male dancers don’t have: a) rhythm and b) enthusiasm. So we danced our asses off. "I Will Survive." "Twist and Shout." "Everlasting Love." What I liked most about Cal was that he clearly had an off-the-chart IQ, but he didn’t E=MC2it in my face. He knew how to shut down his brain and have fun. I don’t know what I wanted more: to be with him or to be him.
Not thirty seconds after we left the dance floor, my dad’s eighty-nine-year-old mother, Gladdie, was hobbling toward us at a pretty impressive clip for someone with two artificial hips. She used her Wedding Walker, specially decorated for the occasion with white ribbons and silk flowers. I didn’t have a chance to warn Cal that she’s a wack-job.
"Jessie, you look bee-yoo-ti-full," hollered Gladdie.
I wasn’t sure about bee-yoo-ti-full, but I looked better than usual, which was a start. Despite its hideous cut and color, I didn’t look so bad in my dress once the seamstress built in artificial boobage. And thanks to a professional makeup job (Bethany, the Nuptials Nazi, wanted to guarantee perfect pictures), my skin looked radiant and unblemished as it has never appeared post-puberty. I’d never admit this to my sister, but I even liked how the artificial bun pinned to my head made me look older and more sophisticated.
Then Gladdie turned her attention to Cal. She let loose a long wolf whistle through her teeth. "Whatta hunka man!" she brayed. "When you two gettin’ hitched?"
Cal nearly spit his drink in her face. My face was on fire.
"Gladdie, I’m only sixteen …"
"I was only seventeen when I married your grandfather, bless his soul."
"And we just met," I explained.
"Well, you gotta meet your husband sometime. It might as well be tonight," she roared.
The thing is, I was so swoony over Cal at this point that my heart was telling me that Gladdie might be right. We had a connection, Cal and me. One that would’ve never been made if I had brought Scotty like everyone had wanted me to.
"Whoo-wee! He’s one fine speci-man," hooted Gladdie. "He really knocks my socks off!" Then she hobbled away, but not before grabbing his butt and giving it a good squeeze.
About ten minutes later, when Cal and I had finally stopped laughing, he said, "And I thought I wasn’t going to get lucky tonight," which made us laugh even harder.
Cal and I continued to have corny, Macarena-variety fun throughout the reception. Enough fun that I did something sort of stupid, but it was for a good reason. Cal kept bringing me glasses of champagne, and I conveniently placed them on another table or poured them down the bathroom sink or into the floral centerpiece instead of drinking them. But he thought I drank them all. In fact, I only had two. They made me feel light and giddy, but I pretended to be waaaaaay drunker than I was so I could test out what it was like to kiss him. That way, if our lip-lock was of the daddy longlegs variety—à la Scotty in eighth grade—I could just pretend it had never happened when he called and called and called me all summer long.
So during the cutting of the cake, when I knew all eyes would be on the beautiful bride and groom, I told Cal I wanted to get some air on the golf course. And Cal, who really was as drunk as he seemed to be, gave a thumbs-up and said, "Rock on."
We went outside. The sky was endless with stars and the air was wet with roses. Cal had