Siobhan Vivian - Not That Kind Of Girl

“Get off my car!” I shouted.

“I’m trying!” he moaned. “Oh, God, I’m trying!” After Mike pretended to bring my Honda to orgasm, the laughing boys made their way up the front lawn of the party.

“Looks like Mike’s over losing the election,” Autumn said, trying to sound lighthearted. Then she added, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

“Why don’t I just drop you off?” It came out bitchy, but I couldn’t help it.

“Forget it,” Autumn said, though she sounded like she was doing anything but.

A shaggy straggler shuffled a few quiet steps behind the pack. Connor Hughes. He stooped to peer inside my window with this curious look on his face. I could smell the beer all over him, warm and sour. “There’s a spot down the street,” he offered, pointing off into the blackness. His thumbs were threaded through holes in the cuffs of his thermal.

We locked eyes for the briefest of seconds. His were blue and watery, because he’d been drinking and doing who knows what else.

“Thanks for the tip,” I said sarcastically, then pressed my foot down on the gas.

Autumn spun around in her seat. “That could be interpreted as an invitation.”

I glanced in my rearview mirror, but couldn’t see anything. Only night. My heartbeat started to slow. “We’re going to be late for the movie.”

Autumn turned back around and huffed. “You know, there’s something to be said for spontaneity.”

I didn’t even bother responding. I just drove as fast as I could away from that house.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The rest of my weekend pretty much sucked. Autumn didn’t sleep over on Friday or Saturday, but she came over on Sunday to do a few SAT practice exams together. I could tell she wasn’t feeling it. I’d look up and she’d be staring out our kitchen window, even though the timer was ticking away and she was at least five test pages behind me. Obviously, practice exams aren’t the most fun thing to do, but the SATs were in just over a month, and I wanted us to be as ready as we could possibly be.

Not that it always worked that way. Because even though I’d practiced my speech countless times, I was way more nervous than I’d thought I’d be for the first student council meeting on Monday. I kept trying to remind myself that the stresses of the election had passed. I’d beaten Mike Domski, and now I could finally get down to business.

Before heading to the meeting, I wanted to freshen up and collect myself. The perfect place to go was the girls’ bathroom near the teachers’ lounge. Other girls avoided it for the risks of getting caught talking on their cell phones or smoking a cigarette, but the lack of use meant that it was always clean. The dispensers stayed full of syrupy pink soap, and there was always toilet paper and paper towels to be found. It was my favorite place to pee. It was like an executive girls’ bathroom.

But I wasn’t alone. I opened the door to find Spencer kneeling on the radiator. Her back was arched, and she stretched her head toward the ceiling, like she was in some strange yoga pose.

I flashed her a quick smile and dropped my book bag in the well of a dry sink.

“Shhhh!”

Spencer took her finger off her lips and pointed above her head at the vents in the ceiling. A layer of fuzzy dust sat on each slit. She whispered, “Mrs. Dockey was just bitching about Principal Hurley not approving her costume budget for the school musical. She actually said that she ‘ can’t put on The Wizard of Oz with fucking bedsheets and a burlap sack! ’ ”

We both tried to hold in our laugher, but it was practically impossible. Mrs. Dockey was about eighty years old and completely soft-spoken. I didn’t think it was possible for her to curse like that. Then again, she did take the musical theater productions very seriously.

I rifled through my bag for my hairbrush, forcing it through the knots in my hair. I made sure my headband was perched right at the top of my head. I slicked my lips with my tube of Burt’s Bees. I looked as ready as I could be, but inside, my stomach was churning. I’d never had the chance to stand out like this before. To be a leader.

“I took your advice,” Spencer said to me. “See?” She jumped off the radiator and lifted up her skirt, flashing a pair of pink satiny petticoat underwear with layers of frills across the butt. “These were actually part of my dance costume for this can-can routine I did in a Moulin Rouge show.”

I smiled. Not the toothy kind, but the lips pressed together kind. It was . . . a marginal improvement. But I had to give Spencer credit. If she danced in outfits like that, she probably wouldn’t get nervous giving a student council speech.

“So, congratulations on winning the election. A few girls in my homeroom were planning to vote for Mike because he was cute, but I forced them to vote for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, and tucked my shirt into my skirt.

“I saw what Mike did to your poster.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “Though I guess you can’t really blame him.”

Had Spencer been the one to take it down? I turned to face her. “What do you mean?”

She scrunched her curls in the mirror. “Sexual tension makes guys act like complete idiots.”

I raised an eyebrow. There was certainly tension between me and Mike Domski, but it was hardly sexual. Not even close.

Spencer gave me wink, as if I were acting coy. “Mike totally wants to bone you. It’s so obvious.”

I shook my head emphatically. “Umm, no, he doesn’t. We hate each other.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Okay, maybe on the surface he hates you,” Spencer conceded. “But I bet it goes deeper than that.” She tapped a finger on her lips a few times, thinking. “He could never get a girl like you. You are so out of his league, it kills him. And all that frustration bubbles up and makes him act the way he does. Honestly, it’s textbook boy.”

It was nice to hear Spencer say such complimentary things about me, even though she had no idea what she was talking about. But it was also sort of unnerving, listening to her analyze me and Mike like that. What could she possibly know about sexual tension? She was only fourteen.

I zipped up my bag and hoisted it onto my shoulders. I didn’t want to be the last one in the library and appear irresponsible. But Spencer leaned against the sink next to mine, blocking my way to the door. She clearly wanted to talk. And maybe it would be cool to be the girl everyone was waiting for. To make a dramatic entrance. I guessed I could spare a couple more minutes.

“So, Spencer. How are your classes going?” I asked.

“Pretty good. I like everything, except for History of Modern Civilization.”

“I took that freshman year. It’s not actually that hard, so long as you keep up with the reading.”

“It’s not so much the work as it is the teacher,” Spencer groaned.

“What? Are you kidding? Ms. Bee is awesome. She’s the best teacher in our entire school.”

Spencer looked doubtful. “She doesn’t like me.”

“I’m sure she does,” I said. But really, there was a part of me that wondered if Spencer might be right. Ms. Bee was a tough teacher, and she was hardest on the girls. I liked that about her, but she definitely wasn’t going to pander to Spencer’s underwear-flashing antics. “You just have to show her that you care about learning. If she thinks that you aren’t interested, then she won’t be interested in you.” I was afraid that was Spencer’s biggest problem. She was concentrating on the wrong things. “Have you joined any clubs?”

“Not yet. I’m still evaluating my options.” It was a weird thing to say, because what did Spencer need to evaluate? If you wanted to join a club, you did. There were no limits on that kind of thing. “I really wish our school had a dance team.”