Alyson ël - Saving Zoë

wondering if she should maybe just relax and let her. I mean, the fact that Teresa deigned to show up probably feels like a major coup.

“None for me,” Abby says, leaning back against the cushions and narrowing her eyes at this new, bossy intruder.

“Ditto,” I say as a show of support, even though I do kind of want some, just to see what it’s like.

And when I look over at Jenay, waiting for her to chime in, she just shrugs and holds up her cup, pushing it toward Teresa.

Apparently Teresa’s dad is a frequent flyer, which basically means she’s got a purse full of airplane minis. And with pretty much everyone drinking (except Abby and me), and the lights turned low, and the music turned up, Parker leans in and whispers, “Wanna take a walk?”

I glance over at Jenay and Chess, who are totally making out right in front of us, then I squint at Parker and go, “Where? I mean, Jenay’s parents are upstairs so we really shouldn’t leave the basement.”

But he just smiles. “I know a place,” he says, standing before me and offering his hand.

And even though it sounds totally fishy to me, I still get up and follow.

When I think of coat closets, I usually think of itchy wool and cloying mothballs. But that’s only because I don’t have three brothers. Because from the moment I stepped inside there’s been a hockey stick wedged against my butt, and it’s accompanied by the most gag-worthy smell of B.O. I’ve ever encountered. Though I’m sure it’s not coming from Parker since I don’t remember him ever smelling bad, not to mention how this entire time, both his hands have been wrapped loosely around my waist and haven’t wandered anywhere near my butt.

“Have you ever done this before?” he whispers, pulling me close.

I squint into the dark space before me, trying to make out the blondishness of his hair, the bluishness of his eyes, and the overall cuteness of his face that’s kept him solidly in the number two position, directly beneath Chess, on the “cutest boys in school” list we’ve been keeping since fourth grade. But all I can make out is the vague outline of his head, and I wonder if he’s asking if I’ve ever been in this closet before, or if I’ve ever kissed a guy before. Because to be honest, that wasn’t exactly clear. But still, I guess the answer to both of those questions is pretty much the same, no and no. So that’s what I tell him.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” he asks, his voice filled with so much sweetness and concern that I’m shocked. Because honestly, I thought he’d be in full grope mode by now. “I mean, you’re so nice. And I like you. So I don’t want to push or anything.”

I’d give anything to see his face right now, because this is not at all the cocky, loud, overconfident Parker from the lunch table, the one I assumed I’d be wrestling with. And the truth is, whether he actually kisses me or not really doesn’t matter. I mean, I feel pretty neutral about the whole thing. I’m more surprised by the fact of how he even wants to kiss me. And how he’s being so nice. And how he just said he likes me!

And I know I probably shouldn’t waste this opportunity since things like this never happen to me, and because of that, this could be my one and only shot at a normal adolescent experience. But still, I can’t help but ask, “Did you just say you like me?” I know it’s lame and insecure, but I need a little clarification, ’cause to be honest, this is pretty hard to believe.

“Yeah. I think you’re really cute, and nice, and stuff. Always have. You just never seemed very interested,” he says.

I know I should probably be satisfied with that, and just shut up and let him kiss me already, but I really need to get to the bottom of this. So I go, “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He laughs. “But it’s like, you and Jenay and Abby were always so tight that I guess I was too shy to try to break in.”

“You’re shy?” I say, unable to keep my disbelief in check.

“Yeah, but I’m working on it,” he says, pulling me even closer. “So, is it okay? Can I kiss you now?”

I kind of wish he hadn’t asked, ’cause it makes me feel really awkward to give him permission. But still, I guess it’s better than never being asked, and possibly never being kissed. So I just nod and go, “Urn, okay.”

So he does. He leans in and kisses me. First he does it with his mouth closed. Then with it slightly open. And at one point he even slips his tongue in for a little bit. Then he pulls away, and says, “Was that okay?”

I nod. But then I remember how dark it is, which means he probably couldn’t see that, so I clear my throat and say, “Urn, yeah, it was nice.”

And that’s when he does it again.

By the time I get home, the house is mostly dark. And as I tiptoe upstairs and peek into their room, I’m surprised to find my parents already asleep. I mean, normally, well, I guess normally I don’t go to parties, but still, for the last year, every time I left the house unchaperoned, I always returned to blazing lights, a flickering TV, and at least one, if not both, of my parents staying up late, playing night sentinel.

But maybe this is a good sign. Maybe things are finally looking up. Maybe my parents’ paranoid period is coming to an end. Or maybe, this is just the result of my mom’s addiction to happy pills, and my dad’s utter exhaustion.

I change out of my clothes and slip into my pink-and-white striped pajamas, then I pad into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face of what little makeup I bothered to wear. And as I peer at my reflection, I lean closer to the mirror, noticing how my lips are all red and swollen, and my cheeks all flushed and tender, and I watch them grow even redder when I realize it’s because of Parker.

I guess I just never imagined something like that would happen to me. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I planned to join a nunnery, or take a vow of celibacy, or anything crazy like that. Heck, I even assumed I’d get married someday, giving birth to the requisite number of kids. But all of that seemed so distant and far away. Like it was just one more thing on life’s big “To Do” list. Just stuff that grownups did, like subscribing to a newspaper or paying bills.

I guess I never thought about the whole attracting part of it. And how I might feel about someone. And how they might feel about me.

And it’s not like I’m hideous or anything. I mean, I’m pretty much your basic, ail-American, standard issue girl. But still, it’s not like I’m fun and sparkly like Jenay. And I’m certainly not amazing like Zoë. So I guess that’s why it’s

hard for me to make sense of that kiss. And how afterward, Parker stuck by me for the rest of the night.

When I wake up soaked in sweat at 3:06 A.M., feeling panicky, with my face all wet and my throat all tight and sore as though I’ve been sobbing in my sleep, I force myself to just lay there, slowly breathing in and out as I count, starting at one hundred and working my way down, just like that shrink suggested that time I accidentally told him about my dreams.

But even after counting, even after changing out of my damp pajamas and into clean dry ones, even after drinking a glass of water and assuring myself that there’s absolutely no reason to panic, I still can’t seem to relax enough to fall back to sleep. And then I make it even worse when I start thinking about my party, and how everything’s changing so fast in a way I once anticipated, only now that it’s happening, I’m no longer so sure.

i mean, my parents didn’t wait up, and a boy actually wanted to kiss me. And even though at the beginning of the night those two things would’ve sounded amazingly cool, now at o dark thirty, they no longer do.

Because, let’s face it, there’s comfort in being cautious. And there’s peace in the predictable.

But now, if everything’s going to be different, if everything’s going to be filled with possibility and opportunity, how will I know if I’m ready? How will I know how to deal?

And it’s not like Zoë ever worried about these things. “Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” she’d say. And God knows she doled out her fair share of apologies. But still, nothing ever fazed her. Nothing ever tripped her up. She just moved through life at lightning speed, expecting nothing but cooperation, approval, laughter, and fun.

Zoë was street smart and naive.

She was thoughtful yet reckless.

She was sexy but innocent.

She was a walking dichotomy.

And I want to be just like her.

I climb out of bed, grab my backpack, and retrieve the cobalt blue book that Marc gave me. Then I switch on my reading light, slip back between the sheets, and with totally shaking hands, turn to the first page, shivering when I see her familiar, round, loopy scrawl, and read:

This is Zoë’s diary. And you should NOT be reading it!

I knew she was right. But I also knew she had something to teach me. So I ignored the warning, and turned the page.

I don’t know why they call it the last day of school, when really it’s the first day of freedom. Cuz the second that minimum day bell rings at 12:20 P.M., there’s not a teacher, principal, or school administrator w/in 50 miles that can touch me — and that includes YOU, Coach Warner, you disgusting old pig. You think I don’t notice when you look down my top? Next year I’m gonna stick a tiny mirror down there so you can see your own ugly reflection staring back at you!!!

As usual, classes were a joke — everyone just ignoring the teachers, running around, signing yearbooks, and promising to hook up sometime during the hot days ahead. All I could do was nod and smile and go through the motions, because the whole entire time I was thinking about ditching Stephen so I can hook up with Marc.