Your Commonplace, Cliché-Ridden, Comedic Carrying-On

Your Commonplace, Cliché-Ridden, Comedic Carrying-On

Chapter 6

I was still kind of embarrassed by the time I showed up at Starbucks, but I forced myself to relax, taking deep breaths, in, out, in, out, in—the woman next to me was staring at me, probably because I sounded like I was about to go into labor. I quickly released my breath and shuffled past her, heading for the squishy armchairs in the corner. I passed the table where Aaron and I had had our first study date, and magically resisted the urge to reach out and stroke that charming table. Probably because that lady was still staring at me.

Honestly, didn’t she have anything better to do?

Irish appeared not too long afterward, backpack slung over his shoulder. It looked very heavy.

He slid into a seat across from me, and studied me briefly as if wondering what planet I had come from. Honestly. What was it with people today?

“So, about this math test,” I began.

He pulled his fat textbook from his bag and slammed it down on the table, then flipped it open to the chapter on limits. “Okay,” he said. “How much of this do you understand?”

I gave him a sheepish look. “Not a lot.”

He grinned. “That’s okay; me neither. Let’s just start with section 1…”

An hour later, we hadn’t gotten very far. In the last sixty minutes, I had stuck two straws up my nose and made a face that had, I am proud to admit, made Irish laugh; in return, he had started juggling a few napkin holders until one of the employees glowered deeply at him. It had sobered him up enough to study, but I couldn’t really pay attention; instead I had made one of those funny paper fortune-tellers, I had drawn an amusing picture of a talking coffee machine, and I had written a song about how much I disliked biology. (I had sung it to Irish, too, and he had been caught between laughing and gaping soundlessly at me. Obviously, my talent had rendered him speechless. I should be on American Idol; I bet even Simon would love me.) By six o’clock, I was busy pretending to make paper cranes out of napkins whenever I thought Irish wasn’t watching, although I kind of realized that he pretty much always was. At some point he slammed his book shut and gave me a look that was both entertained and exasperated, but more on the entertained side. “Are you really incapable of focusing on anything?”

Well, that was just mean. I was very good at focusing on Aaron. In fact, I could basically see him in front of me whenever I thought hard enough. I could see his beautiful blond hair, deep blue eyes, sexy man-walk…

…coming right toward me?

I jolted upright, shaking the three pathetically made paper cranes out of my lap. Irish noticed them, his mouth twisting in amusement, and then he saw Aaron. His face sobered a little and he said slowly, “Hey, man.”

“Hey,” said Aaron, who nodded at him and then turned this amazing smile on me. I mean, seriously. We’re talking the most amazing smile ever. I almost dropped dead from its brilliance. “Hey, Sabrina. Your brother told me you’d be here”

“Hi, Aaron,” I said, a little breathily. Irish was giving me a look that was partly disbelieving and partly disgusted. I kicked his shin under the table and got the pleasure of seeing his cheeks go bright pink. Teach you to make faces at me. Don’t mock true love, Irish!

“…Come?”

“Huh?” I said, staring at Aaron in surprise; he stared back at me in equal surprise. “Oh. Yeah. Okay.”

“Great,” he said, and leaned over and gave me a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. I was a little disappointed, but I tried to hide it. “Pick you up at seven.”

Wait, what?

Aaron had turned to walk away, and Irish rolled his eyes at me and remarked, “You have no idea what you just agreed to, do you?”

“I’ll figure it out,” I replied confidently, my eyes on Aaron. He had just stopped, near the door, and suddenly spun around, stalked back over to the table, face blazing, and jerked me upright out of my seat. Now, you may not have noticed, but I’m not really the most graceful person. So naturally I fell into his arms, a little bit fainting damsel-in-distress style, and he caught me, tilted me back, and kissed me soundly.

My arms naturally curved around his shoulders, holding him close, and we clung to each other with all the desperation of ardent lovers. The sun broke through the clouds to shine down on us, and angels began to sing.

No, actually, what happened was this:

I flailed, and potentially knocked some coffee over, particularly as I heard Irish make a noise that sounded suspiciously like “Gack!” but eventually my hands landed on Aaron’s shoulders and clung tightly there; his mouth moved against mine, gently pressuring my lips apart, and as we made out in a way that, despite an unfortunate beginning, had all the makings of a proper movie kiss, I thought I heard someone clearing a throat. And then I was certain I had, because Aaron quickly righted me, but he didn’t unwrap his arms from around me; they met at the small of my back and held me unnaturally close. Slightly dazed, I melted a little against him, letting him support my weight. My brain was not functioning normally, but it snapped back into action when somebody drawled:

“Well, well.”

I jolted out of Aaron’s arms, unsteadying both of us, and flushed brightly when Rachel Summers smirked condescendingly at me. That made me flush more; I was never embarrassed by myself. But she was smirking at me in the way a cat does a bird (because cats do smirk, I swear), but then I saw that her eyes were glittering with something like fury, and I nearly moaned aloud. She was going to kill me. She was going to take the fun Christmas-style mugs Starbucks had on display and crack my skull open. My brains would ooze out all over the floor, and Aaron would probably be heartbroken. And then he’d find some other pornstarish girl to love him and have his babies, and I’d have died, a virgin. On the other hand, Aaron would be heartbroken, right? So, like, he’d marry this other girl but realize she’d never be me, and spend the rest of his life pining for me. Which would be sad, but so tragically romantic. Someone would write a bestselling novel about us, and then Steven Spielberg would make it into a movie. And they could have, like, Sophia Bush play me, because she’s totally gorgeous. Or maybe Rachel Bilson? Ooh, or Alexis Bledel. I’d always loved Gilmore Girls.

“…New girlfriend, Aaron? And I really thought you could sink no lower.”

I bristled immediately. Don’t insult my boyfriend, bitch!

…Wait, didn’t she just insult me?

“Leave Sabrina alone,” said Aaron, sounding all smoldering and sexy and really hot. And kind of angry, too. “Don’t you have Barry to deal with?”

“Mm, yeah. Barry’s man enough to handle me. But seriously, Aaron… your biology tutor? Come on, baby. You can’t do better?”

“Leave my boyfriend alone!” I snapped at her, and went bright red when suddenly everybody—and I do mean everybody in Starbucks, because up until that point we had talked at normal voice levels—turned to stare at me. I shrank against Aaron, wishing I could disappear, but I said bravely, “Why don’t you just get lost, Rachel? Aaron doesn’t need your permission. He can do whatever he wants.”

Her eyes glittered angrily. “Or whoever, right?”

“Rach,” someone said—Irish, I realized, glancing over my shoulder. Of the three of us, he was the only one who didn’t look or sound angry; he just looked and sounded resigned, instead. And kind of tired. “Just go, okay?” She glowered at him. “Come on,” he said, voice low and—coaxing, I guess. Almost soothing. I felt some irritation spark in me. Why was he being nice to her? Wasn’t he supposed to be Aaron’s friend? Wasn’t he supposed to be my friend? “Don’t make a scene. Not now.”

And, shockingly, Rachel backed down. She turned to Barry Jamison, who had hovered behind her, looking awkward. She linked arms with him and dragged him out of Starbucks. I turned to Aaron, feeling uncomfortable. I had just called him my boyfriend. In front of a lot of people. After one date.

And I used to not get embarrassed by myself.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, looking almost as uncomfortable as I did. He released me at once and shoved his hands in his pockets, cheeks red. “So I’ll just see you at seven, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, and we exchanged goodbyes—and he kissed me again, this time on the lips, but really quickly; understandably, because we’d already made a big enough scene. Or I had. I sank back into my chair and turned to Irish. “Can you teach me how to do that?”

He looked perplexed. “Do what?”

“Get her to leave like that.” I was partly awed, but still kind of annoyed. Hello? He did not have to be nice to her. He shouldn’t be nice to her. She was a total bitch to me, and to Aaron. Did friendship count for nothing these days? God.

He studied me carefully, and said, “Let’s just study, okay?”

“But—”

“Sab,” he interrupted. It was the first time he had ever called me by my nickname—like we were friends. Bizarrely, that made me let the subject go. “Let’s just study.”

x-x-x-x-x

“What are you wearing?” Aaron glanced at me in surprise when I opened the door less than an hour later, dressed in the same long-sleeve shirt and jeans I had been in earlier. He was dressed in a button-up black shirt and a pair of jeans.

“Um… clothes?”

“No, I mean—you’re not seriously wearing that to my party, are you?” After a beat, he added quickly, “I mean, it’s cool if you want to, I just figured you’d be—you know. A little more dressed up. I said I’d come get you and you’d help me set up, remember?”

Ah, no. I was too busy killing Irish for making a mockery of our love. Damn. Should’ve been paying attention.

“It’s okay,” he said then, reassuringly. “We got time. Why don’t you go get dressed, and I’ll wait here? Unless you really are wearing that,” he said quickly.

Yeah, as if. And ruin this pornstar thing I had going on? Not on your life, boyfriend. “No, I’ll be back in like ten minutes,” I said, smiling quickly and literally sprinting up the stairs. I slammed the door to my bedroom shut and dove for the phone, punching in numbers as if my life depended on it. Heather picked up after five rings.

“What the hell, Heather? Why’d you take so long to answer?”

“Sab? Hey, you know about Aaron’s party, right? Because—”

“He’s at my door and I’m wearing that really old Dartmouth shirt I stole from you and I don’t have anything to wear and oh-my-God he’s here and I’m not dressed and I said I’d be down in ten minutes! I can’t transform into a porn star in ten minutes, Heather!”

“Relax,” she said soothingly, bit I thought I heard doubt in her voice. Oh, man. If Heather was doubtful, I was totally screwed. “Do your make-up like I taught you. I’ll be over there super-fast with something to wear.”

“But Aaron’s at my door! How will you get in?”

“Leave that to me.”

I hung up then and ran into my bathroom, reaching for all the little bottles and compacts Heather had left from the night before. By the time she arrived, strolling casually into my room, I resembled nothing so much as a clown, and sighing loudly, she put the toilet cover down and forced me onto it, taking some cotton balls and make-up remover out. “You need,” she informed me, wiping the blue gunk away from my eyes, “to be completely still.”

Twenty-five minutes later, I was transformed. Heather had brushed shimmering pink on my eyelids and outlined my eyes thickly in black. She had also foisted off an obscenely short skirt and extraordinarily tight tank on me, informing me that she did so with extreme misgivings. I knew how she felt. I had never worn anything so short or so tight, but it was all in the name of love, right? So I pulled on the three-inch heeled black boots she gave me and let her curl my hair into what the magazines called “Sexy Waves” and what Heather called the “Just Fucked Look.” At last I was ready go, and Heather assured me that she would sneak out the way she had come—through Gabe’s window from the back of the house—while I went downstairs to meet Aaron.

He was out on the porch, where I had left him, asleep. Like, actually sleeping. “Aaron,” I said, quietly, touching his shoulder. He didn’t stir. Oh God, what if he had died of boredom while waiting—no, he was still breathing. “Aaron,” I said, a little more loudly. “Aaron!”

“Jesus, R—” he started irritably, jerking upright, and then the words abruptly died as he took in my appearance. I resisted the urge to strike a ridiculous pose and instead hovered anxiously nearby. “Wow,” he said, looking impressed. “You look—you look really, really different,” he remarked finally. “Wow,” he added, again.

“Thanks,” I said at last, smoothing down the ruffled skirt. I had meant to ask Heather where she got the clothes, but hadn’t had the opportunity. I’d have to do it later. “Ready to go?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He was staring at my legs, and I had a sudden flash to something Heather had said in a time that seemed so long ago: “And, well, you do have nice legs. Or you would, if you bothered to wear a skirt once in a while.” And my reply had been something along the lines: “Are you freaking kidding me? It’s October. No.” Or something, anyway.

Ah, how far I had come.

We drove to his house, which was as big as I had remembered, in relative silence. Inwardly, my senses were all tingling because he had his hand on my knee. And all I could think was that it was a damn good thing I had shaved this morning, huh? Although I was cold. So potentially the skirt had been a really bad idea.

We pulled up, still quiet, and he did the whole gentlemanly thing; while I was fumbling with my seatbelt, he rounded the car and opened the door for me. I gave him a quick smile. “Thanks,” I said, at length managing to unbuckle the belt and clambered out of the car a little awkwardly. Aaron was still staring at me in a look that was too surprised to be entirely flattering, but I chose to ignore it. He was speechless at how hot I was. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

Which is an interesting quote, by the way. I mean, what exactly is that supposed to mean? It’s like, hey, if I give you a horse, don’t open its mouth, you know, because it’s a gift. But if it weren’t a gift, by all means, open its mouth. There’s probably something really interesting in there.

I brought this up with Aaron. “Why do they tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?”

He stared at me, bewildered. “What?”

“You know, like, that quote. ‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’ Why do they say that?”

He was still staring at me, gaping a little like a fish (still really hot, though), when someone said, “It’s because you’re supposed to check a horse’s teeth to see how old it is. But they tell you not to when it’s a gift, because you should just be grateful you got a horse at all, regardless of how old it is.” I turned and saw Irish seated on a porch with a few other guys and girls.

“Oh,” I said brightly. “I guess that makes sense.” Yeah, because if you a got a horse, who freaking cares how old it is? You got a horse. Jeez.

Aaron tugged on my hand impatiently. “Come on, the party starts in a while,” he said, and glanced at his friends. “Help me clean up and put shit away?”

So we did. For the next hour, we put away any expensive knick-knacks, covered some of the furniture with sheets, and set out alcohol in the kitchen. It was an important lesson in partying 101, I guess, in case I ever decided to throw a party at my house.

When Rachel and Aaron dated, she threw parties, right? Did that mean I had to, too? Crap. Getting my parents out of the house would so be a problem, and Gabe would probably tell. Maybe I could lock him in a closet? He’d still tell, though…

The doorbell rang, and Aaron glanced up. “Hey, Sabrina, can you get there?”

“Sure,” I said casually, and tried to walk sexily over the door in hopes he’d be watching me go. I glanced casually over my shoulder, and made a face—he was still pulling a sheet over the couch, not even looking in my direction. Irish was helping him and looking right at me though. I gave him a quick smile so I wouldn’t look like a total loser, and turned to open the front door.

Rachel Summers stood there, in all her glory, Barry Jamison like a purse across her arm, and a whole load of people behind her. She smiled at me, but in a not-nice way. “Move, Aaron’s Girlfriend. I brought the party.”

x-x-x-x-x

Author’s Note: Annnnd…. Chapter 6. Please review! :) (Seriously. Getting lots of message like “So-and-so has added your story to his/her favorites” combined with a number of hits but so few reviews kinda blows. If this happens to you when you write your own stories, you totally know what I mean.)