The Calculus of Change Read online

  He comes closer—to see if I’m okay?—and I leap onto him. But he’s so tall and sturdy there’s no way I’m taking him down, so instead I’m just hanging on to him, my arms around his shoulders as he ducks underwater and flips me again.

  He pulls me up this time, and somehow we’re in each other’s arms. Again, it feels like kissing him is next because that’s what’s supposed to happen when two people come together and make a bright-burning torch.

  But Tate drops me.

  He clears his throat before diving and swimming away.

  In a split second I’ve experienced the elation of flying and the crush of crashing. Just like that.

  He’s across the pool, floating on his back.

  This is humiliating. And nothing was even said.

  I need to tell him I’m leaving, but I can’t swim over there because I think he’s built a force field between us, and if I cross it, I’ll disappear before I get to him. That’s what this feels like. It feels like crumbling. Like going from stone to sand.

  I swim to the stairs and force my body to move out of the water. I hear Tate stand up behind me. I don’t want to think about what Tate sees as he watches me exit the pool, skin and suit sopping wet, something like shame seeping from every orifice of me. All the places where my body has substance, fat. Rolls and dimples and no thigh gap. Maybe that’s what this is about. Maggie doesn’t have substance.

  “You leaving?”

  “Yeah. It’s getting late. I’m not sure what my dad’ll do if he notices I’m gone this late.”

  I amaze myself that I can talk without crying.

  “Okay. See you tomorrow. Ike’s?” he says.

  Ike’s.

  “Yup.” I say it like I feel totally normal. I’m not confused or crushed or wondering about everything that just went unsaid. I’m not decimated by his sudden coldness. I’m just the girl who’ll share calculus and souls with him tomorrow.

  “You’re buying,” I say.

  Me

  I stand in front of the mirror. I have on the only pair of jeans I own. I’ve resigned myself to wear the pair that show my butt crack from time to time. Because jeans companies don’t understand what it is to have thighs and a butt, all in one body! As long as I don’t bend down too much, I should be okay. I’m wearing a tight, teal-blue shirt. It dips in the chest, and I can’t help but wonder if my boobs look too big. How did I let Marissa talk me into going to Seth Bernum’s party? I can’t stand Seth Bernum.

  Seth and I have been in school together since kindergarten. We’ve been in the same classes countless times, and I could swear he doesn’t remember my name. It’s weird. And mean. I will admit he is incredibly handsome. Handsome is the only word for it. He has sandy brown hair with a spackling of freckles in the corners of his eyes. His lips are full and his jawline angular. And last year he grew. He looks like a miniature man. In a hot way. But he’s a slimy, popular, douchebag, and if it weren’t for Marissa, I’m not sure I’d even be allowed at his stupid party.

  Marissa pulls me away from the mirror and shoves a Nalgene into my chest.

  “I think the words you are looking for are thank you,” she says.

  I take a swig. “That is disgusting,” I say, wiping the liquid from my chin. “Warn me next time. What the hell is that?”

  “Vanilla vodka. It’s low calorie and delicious.”

  “It needs a mixer.”

  “Vanilla is its mixer,” she says.

  I pass it to her.

  “Can’t drink until we get there. My brother said he’d pick us up.”

  Marissa’s brother, Alex, is a real treat. He’s twenty-one and works in a bar as a host and busser. His big aspiration—he’ll tell you about it in full detail if you ask him—is to make bartender. He’s one hundred percent nearsighted. It’s like he doesn’t expect to grow up and live life as an adult. I guess I can’t blame the guy too much. He had Marissa’s shit-for-parents. I don’t get what makes him tick besides alcohol and random hookups. Maybe that’s it.

  My dad thinks I’m staying at Marissa’s tonight. Technically I am staying at Marissa’s . . . brother’s. I told him Marissa’s mom is out of town and Marissa needs someone to help her take care of the cats. He thinks we’ll be ordering pizza, eating ice cream, and watching chick flicks. In fact, that sounds like a way better plan than Seth Bernum’s.

  I sigh and apply the last of my makeup. Eyeliner. Tonight it’s thick because we’re going to Seth Bernum’s. My clothes are tighter than normal. This is all wrong except Tate said he might be there. I text him that Marissa and I are in.

  I’m buzzing when we pull into Seth’s neighborhood.

  “Hey, save some of that for me, lush,” Marissa says.

  I laugh and hand her the bottle. She takes a swig because it’s thirty seconds until we park.

  Seth’s house is the perfect replica of him. Obnoxiously handsome. It’s surrounded by manicured everything—lawns, bushes, flowers. The driveway is brick, as is the walkway. I’m nowhere near manicured enough to be here. I want to burst out of my skin. I want to splash paint on the driveway, the house, the bushes, the color-coordinated flowers.

  We can hear the boom of a subwoofer as we make our way to the door. It’s a big mahogany door. Marissa walks right in. Almost into a woman who looks like the older female version of Seth. Her heels click on the marble floor as she comes to greet us. She’s the human replica of the house. Everything manicured, trimmed, in its place. I’m wondering if the party’s off and Seth is just downstairs hanging out with a few inner-circle friends when the woman sings out, “Keys in the basket, please.”

  She’s holding a basket of car keys.

  “No one drinks in this house and gets behind the wheel.”

  What? This party is sponsored by Seth’s mom? Of course it is. Marissa pinches my elbow because she’s as shocked to be standing here with Seth’s mom as I am. She tosses the keys into the basket and smiles at Seth’s mom.

  “My brother is picking us up,” she says. “Is it okay if we come back for the keys and car in the morning?”

  “I’ll set the basket outside the front door at seven,” she says. “If kids don’t have rides, they sleep it off downstairs.”

  The basement is as egregious as the house. There are kids everywhere. The basement is garden level, leading into the backyard where smokers are congregated under a canopy of white Christmas bulbs. Everyone looks a little better in the low lights of the basement, and everyone is holding a drink; there are a variety of bottles and bowls of punch-looking drinks strewn along the bar. I’ve never seen anything like this. No wonder Seth Bernum is Seth Bernum.

  I’m assaulted by the remixed likes of Katy Perry blaring on the speakers. But I’m glad it’s dark down here.

  Marissa’s hand is on my arm, and she’s leading me to the keg. We have to wait because Jenny Sikes is doing a keg stand with three guys holding her legs higher than her head and a few other spectators are shouting, “Drink, drink, drink.” I’m not drunk enough for this.

  When Jenny is good and done, Marissa grabs two cups and says, “Chug.” I do it gladly. And then another.

  The edge is gone, and I’m talking to Justin Somebody, who’s in my English class, while simultaneously waving at Alana and a few other choir friends. Fleetingly, I think about how it’s strange I’ve never noticed English-class Justin until now. He’s kind of cute. I look up from our conversation, and in a halo of blurry vision and strobe lights, I see Tate . . . and Maggie. His hand is draped casually around her shoulders. Which are bare and brown and slightly freckled. She has a nice collarbone. I don’t even know if I have a collarbone. I’m staring but can’t be bothered to care.

  Somehow I’m at the kegs again retrieving a drink for Maggie while she stands there with Tate. They’re so at ease with each other, and I realize I’ve never actually seen them together outside school. I wonder if they love each other. And if they do, does it feel like being known?

  When I’m back with the group, I g
rab the vanilla vodka from Marissa and hand it to Maggie. If I’m drunk, she damn well better be, too. It’s insincere how buddy-buddy I’m being with Maggie, but everything feels so fuzzy and I’m in control. I think I am.

  Marissa is tugging me away from Tate and Maggie while I’m babbling about how lucky they are to have each other and making a heart-shaped frame with my fingers. We’re headed to the bathroom, but Marissa is pulled onto the couch by Josh Melling.

  I’m in line for the bathroom behind Seth Bernum. It’s just the two of us in the hallway. I’m too drunk to care about this being awkward.

  “Nice party,” I say. “The lights and all.”

  “Thanks, Aren,” he says. He’s falling-down drunk. I’m surprised he has a clue about my name.

  Seth moves closer to me. He puts a finger on my shoulder and looks down to where my bra pokes out of my shirt. “I really like this shirt.”

  Finger is still there, resting on my person.

  “Thanks,” I say. I stumble into him as I say it, because his finger on my shoulder is throwing me completely off balance.

  “Whoa there,” he says.

  Now he’s touching me more, and I have to lean into him because him touching me is making me feel crazy drunk.

  I’m briefly glad that I kept the sexy bra and panty set, and I can’t breathe because Seth’s fingers are trailing my collarbone. So I do have a collarbone. But everything is so hazy and wobbly.

  We’re stumbling into the bathroom together, laughing, and Seth says, “Wow, you have really big tits.” He kisses me and plunges his face into my cleavage. I’m too drunk to care that he just said tits, though it registered somewhere in the back of my too-smart-for-Seth-Bernum brain. He’s good-looking but a horrible, sloppy kisser.

  Wait, that was my first kiss.

  We’re slobbering all over each other’s faces, and Seth is clawing at my breasts. It feels like he’s trying to turn the handle of a stubborn faucet.

  I push Seth onto the toilet and straddle him so my breasts are in his face. His hands are around my back now, trying to unhook my sexy new bra. I don’t like it, but I can’t find the words to say so.

  “Such great tits.” He says tits again, and it’s like the second sip of a scalding hot drink, a little less scalding, a little more stupid.

  He can’t figure out how to unhook my bra, and he’s sliding clumsily off the toilet with me on top of him.

  “Can we just lay down a minute?” he says. He means lie down. Can we just lie down. I inch off him, and he smiles up at me just before passing out on the floor of the bathroom.

  And so I decide to pee. I look down at Seth Bernum as he snores on the bathroom floor. He’s not handsome from up here.

  Everything is fuzzy.

  Me

  I’m on Alex’s couch. I smell coffee, and pots and pans are clinking in the kitchen. Sound is magnified in my echoing head. Bacon. I smell bacon. I sit up and wonder how I got into Alex’s ratty old T-shirt and sweatpants. Then I realize I don’t want to think about how I got into Alex’s clothing.

  The sudden memory of Seth’s hands all over my poor breasts makes me groan. I lie back down and pull the blanket over my face.

  “That bad, huh?” Marissa says.

  “Kill me,” I say. “I smell. Horrible. Like a cow dipped in poop.”

  “You’ve smelled better.”

  She pushes an ashtray aside and sets a glass of orange juice on the coffee table. “Drink and go shower.”

  I do. Gladly.

  “Seth Bernum?” she shouts as I walk into the bathroom. I slam the door.

  I lean over the tub and turn on the faucet. I step into the shower. I can’t seem to make the water hot enough, the pressure hard enough. I know I’m trying to wash away the shame and embarrassment. I imagine watching this feeling swirl into the drain with the soapsuds. I keep visualizing the shame disappearing. It helps a little until more of the night comes flooding back.

  Tits. Slobber. Freckles. Lights. Sound. Maggie. Oh God, Tate and Maggie.

  The shower isn’t long enough, but I end it for the sake of Alex’s water bill. I wipe the fog from the bathroom mirror. The eyeliner still lingers, but at least it’s not dripping down my face. My eyes are bloodshot. I smell better.

  When I emerge from the bathroom wearing Alex’s sweats, Marissa sets a plate of eggs and potatoes on the table. And coffee. A steaming cup of coffee with milk and sugar. She smiles and slaps my ass when she passes, and I grab her arm and pull her into a hug.

  “It’ll be okay, hottie,” she says.

  “I know. Thank you.”

  “I still want details.”

  “Let me take my first bite of eggs.”

  “Only one. Then you talk.”

  After I finish telling Marissa about Tate and Maggie and Seth Bernum, she leans back on the couch like she’s going to say something revelatory.

  Then she says, “Whoa, Seth Bernum? You hate that guy.”

  Everyone Else and Tate

  It’s Monday morning and I’m walking the halls of Bentley trying not to focus on the Seth Bernum Incident when I pass right by him, surrounded by a group of friends. All guys.

  “Hey, Aden,” he says. Seth hasn’t said hello to me in the halls since . . . never. Seth has never talked to me in the hallway at school, and I liked it that way just fine. So him saying hey now? It’s humiliating. The way he stretches out the word heeey. The way his friends snicker into their fists. Does he think I’m an idiot? I know he’s making fun of me. I know what he told them.

  “Hey,” I say as quickly as I can eke out the word. More snickering.

  “Party’s moving to Ryan’s next weekend,” he calls as I turn the corner. I can barely make out the words hope you’ll be there again and the sound of his boys laughing.

  All I can hear is the word tits tits tits repeating in my head as I try to survive AP lit for the next forty-nine minutes. I look around and wonder if anyone’s heard about the big hookup with Seth Bernum and how much he loved my breasts. Tits. Cows have tits. I am a cow. And Seth Bernum is a shithead.

  Tate is waiting for me at Ike’s after school. His giant latte sits steaming next to an untouched mocha on the table. He’s reading a book for Euro. It’s the first time I’ve ever wished Tate was Marissa. I’m not sure I need Tate right now, and I wonder why he’s being so thoughtful with the mocha today. It does make sense, given the umpteen times he’s forgotten his wallet and I’ve bought us coffees, Sour Patch Kids, and fast food with my babysitting money and allowance. What a mooch.

  “What’s with the cuteness?”

  “Dunno. Thought you could use it,” he says.

  He arches an eyebrow, and I know he knows. I’m mortified. I should’ve known Tate is just enough on the outskirts of the inner circle to know about the Seth Bernum Incident.

  I sigh and sit down. “Thanks,” I say, covering my face with the cup and taking a long, slow sip. When I put the cup down, Tate is staring at me with those gray-blue eyes looking like I’m going to start spilling my guts right then and there.

  Suddenly I realize that I’m angry. He doesn’t get to know about this from me. It’s not his. It’s mine.

  “Nothing to see here.” I reach into my backpack for something to do.

  “Okay.” He goes back to reading his book, but he keeps glancing sideways at me. Any other day I’d love his attention, but today all I can think is cow cow cow when he looks at me.

  “So, how far’d you go with him?”

  Everything around us just burst into flames, and I can’t hear anything because the ringing in my ears is so loud. So loud. How far’d you go with him? I think Tate just cracked open—a tiny sliver, but still, there’s a cut where I can see something I haven’t seen before.

  Water. I need water.

  Despite the chaos caused by Tate’s question, I find the strength to get up.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I think it’s me talking, but the ringing, the flames in my body won’t stop,
so I can’t know anything for sure.

  When I get back to the table, Tate is looking at me like I owe him some kind of explanation.

  “Just needed some water,” I say.

  “Seth Bernum? Really, Aden? The guy is a douche.”

  Again I can’t focus because my emotions are rioting in my body. I’m electric because Tate cares about this. I’m furious because Tate thinks he gets to care about this. Like he owns anything about me. But doesn’t he?

  “Like you should have anything to say about it.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You heard me. Like. You. Should. Have. Anything. To say about it.”

  He shakes his head and turns back to his book. Now that I’m on fire with the rest of the room, I might as well burn with it.

  “What do you care anyway?” I want to make him say it. Tell me you love me.

  “What do I care?” He looks at me like I’m supposed to know the answer to that question. He shakes his head. “You should know how I feel about you,” he says.

  I could almost laugh. I should know how Tate feels about me.

  Right on cue, Maggie walks in with a gaggle of girls trailing behind her. I couldn’t have staged it better if I’d tried. She sees us and waves like we’re all just the best of friends. As though Tate and I weren’t about to go there. As though I’m not still on fire and the rest of the room isn’t burning to the ground because Tate cares that I hooked up with Seth Bernum and wants to know how far we went.

  Mercifully, there’s no big show of affection when Maggie and the two girls make their way to our table. Our table. I’m burning and broken.

  “Did you have fun at the party?” She takes a sip of her hot drink, oblivious of the fire surrounding her, the flames between Tate and me. I wonder what she drinks. Hot cocoa? She sets the to-go mug on the table. Of course. It’s a skim vanilla latte. “I was so drunk.”

  “Yeah, me too. It’s all a little fuzzy.” Then I add for good measure, “I’m not even sure what or who I did that night.” I look right at Tate when I say it.