Laura Ruby - Good Girls

He takes a step closer to me, his algae eyes scraping across my chest. “Wanna hook up?”

“No,” I say.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re free, I’m free.”

I think, You’re always free . I look around the room for Luke. A mistake, because Chilly snorts.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s already occupied.” Chilly touches my cheek with a sandpapery fingertip. “He won’t mind sharing.”

I slap his hand and walk away. I can hear Chilly laughing behind me and I wish I’d thrown my beer in his face or something dramatic like that. But the drama queen stuff is Joelle’s job, not mine, and Chilly knows it. It’s why he likes to bother me.

When I’m upstairs in the bathroom, I swig the beer and check my make-up in the harsh light. I look like the Empress of the Undead, if Empresses of the Undead are pouty and pathetic. What’s the use of planning a big break-up if the person you’re breaking up with is too busy yanking on tails and poking people with pitchforks? I suddenly do not want to be at this party at all. I wonder if I should call my mom and ask for a ride home.

I’m still trying to decide when I bump into Luke in the hallway. Before I know what’s up, he’s pulled me into one of the bedrooms and shut the door with his foot.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself,” he says. He—or someone else—has taken off the white collar, so he’s all in black. He looks more devilish than the devils do. I think that if there is a real devil, he has golden hair and round blue angel eyes, just like Luke.

“What?” he says, because I’m staring.

“Nothing,” I say. “Look. I’ve got to go.”

“Come on! We haven’t even had a chance to hang out yet.”

“That’s because there are too many other kitties around here,” I say.

“You’re not jealous,” he says.

I roll my eyes, hard. He has one hand around my upper arm and he squeezes. He’s smiling, and I hate him for just a second. As usual, it passes.

“Let go,” I tell him.

“Is something wrong?”

I sigh. Everything is wrong. Maybe it’s the beer. Note to self: beer.

“Have I told you how amazing you look tonight?” he says.

I know when I’m being played, but the compliment cheers me anyway—that’s what kind of dork I am. “Thanks,” I tell him. He leans down to kiss me and I pull away. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Surprise. “Why not?”

“Just ’cause, OK?”

He doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me. My body is practically squealing with happiness. I’m sure he can hear it.

He tries to kiss me again and I turn my face. “What’s the matter?” he says, concerned for real now. His hand falls away from my arm.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to do this any more.”

“Do what?”

“What we’re doing.”

He doesn’t answer. He tips his head and seems genuinely perplexed. It pisses me off.

“I don’t want to do what we do . I don’t want to…” I look for the right words. “I don’t want to be involved with anyone right now.”

He frowns—blinking, quiet. “But I thought we were cool,” he says, finally. “I thought we were just hanging out.”

“Hanging out. Yeah, I love that,” I say. What I don’t say: I love that we’ve hooked up at every party every weekend for the last two and a half months but somehow we’re not involved. I love that we go to the same school but I don’t get much more than a “hey” in the hallways, no matter how many times your tongue has been down my throat.

Of course, since I don’t actually finish the thought, since I haven’t said anything like it before, he has no clue what I’m talking about. I stand there, watching the expressions march across his face. I can imagine what he’s thinking: Did she just say something about LOVE? Does this mean we can’t hook up? Should I hook up with Pam Markovitz instead? What’s going on???

I almost feel bad for him. That’s what devils do: they make you feel bad.

I must be staring again, because Luke’s frown smoothes out. He’s got these perfect lips, full and pink. Pretty girl lips on a boy’s rough, stubbled face. I can’t help it, I think it’s hot. And he’s so close I can smell him. Warm and clean and sort of soapy-spicy. It’s a great smell. It’s a smell that can make you drunk. I wonder if I am. Can almost two beers make you drunk?

His frown is totally gone now, and mine must be gone, too, because he ignores what I said, reels me in and kisses me. I feel the press of his chest and the weight of his arm around my waist, all those heavy bones, and I think: OK, fine. But this is it. After this, no more dumb high school hook-ups with dumb high school boys, no matter how hot or soapy-smelling they are. I’m done with this. Done.

Maybe because he can sense it, or because he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, Luke takes his time, lips barely touching, barely brushing mine. The music thumping downstairs plays a heartbeat under my feet as the kiss goes from sweet to serious—slidey and sideways and deep. Like always, a thousand flowers bloom in my gut, my skin tingles everywhere and my brains sidle towards the door.

I don’t know how much time goes by before his fingers are crawling under my various shirts and he’s pushing me backwards towards the bed. Another not-so-good idea. On the bed, he could work me up, peel off all the layers till there’s nothing left to cover me and it’s too hard to say no.

I say, “No.”

He mumbles something against my collarbone, something beginning with “I—I want, I need, I-I-I.” It makes me so mad. Isn’t it enough that I turn into some sort of panting, slobbering wolf-girl when he’s around? I should let him see all of me? Have all of me? Just because he wants it?

I plant my feet and steer him around. I put my hands on his shoulders and sit him down on the edge of the mattress.

“What?” he says.

“Shut up.”

I drop down in front of him. I can’t make him listen or understand or care, and I don’t even want to. But I want to do something. Make him feel me. Make him beg me. Make him be the naked one.

And so, I do.

With Luke’s low groan in my ears and my eyes shutting out the world, I don’t hear the door open behind us, I don’t see the flash of light.

Ash is not a morning person. She is also not a neat person.

When I get in her car on Monday morning, there are old Styrofoam coffee cups strewn on the floor and one attached to her lips. Sheets of paper, crumpled napkins, and random changes of clothes—fresh and foul—litter the backseat.

Sticking to the dashboard is a quarter of a glazed doughnut, age indeterminate. Me and Ash have been friends since the sixth grade and she’s been driving me to school since the day she got her licence, so I’m used to her morning-fog face, her bloodshot eyes, her endless coffee and the disgusting mess that is her personal universe. It’s not even so disgusting any more. I grab a handful of napkins and bravely peel the doughnut off the dashboard and dump it in the ashtray, which is filled with butts from Ash’s on-again, off-again smoking habit.

I don’t say anything for a few minutes, waiting until Ash has more caffeine in her system. After a while, she grumbles, “What are you so happy about?” She pumps the gas pedal of her old Dodge to keep it from dying out at the stoplight.

“Who says I’m happy?” I ask her.

“Because you’re not complaining about the dumb party or the itchy costume or how long it took you to get the make-up off or the fourteen thousand college essays you had to write yesterday,” she says. “That means you’re happy about something.”