siobhan vivian - not that kind of girl (12 page)

pimple. I touched it lightly with my fingertips hoping to feel a bump, or something to squeeze so it might go down before pictures. But it was a flat, red oval, maybe the size of a quarter, flecked with tiny purple dots of broken capillaries. It sat nearly in the middle of my neck, hovering an inch or so off my collarbone. Where Connor had been kissing me last night. A hickey. A big fat hickey on my neck for yearbook picture day. I thought of my senior portrait hanging on the library wall. All those powerful-looking girls, like the young Ms. Bee. Accomplished, serious. And then me, President Hickey. People in the future might assume that I slept my way to being student council president. That splotch sucked all the dignity out of my accomplishment. I'd be remembered forever as a slut. I ran into my bedroom, before my mom or dad could see me, and slammed the door. I threw on a crisp white oxford and fastened the buttons the way all the girls at school did--leaving three below the collar open. But the hickey shone like a red-bulbed lighthouse from the pale sea of my skin. I tried leaving just two buttons open. Then one. But the only way to completely hide my hickey was to do up every single button. The collar felt like a noose, or one of those stockades in the olden days. Like a punishment I somehow deserved.

Our gymnasium had been turned into a portrait studio. Bright lights stood tall on tripods, catching the dust flying through the air in beams projected on a rich navy velvet curtain. An artsy-looking bald man in tweed slacks stood with his face pressed into the back of his camera. We'd been called down by grade. A few juniors were left snaking along the court edge, tracing the perimeter of the gym. The flashbulb popped like a pulse. Three, two, one, POP. The photographer shouted, "Next!" The line inched forward. Three, two, one, POP. Autumn stood across the gym, head cocked to the side as she took out her braids. They left her hair perfectly wavy. Marci Cooperstein stood at Autumn's hip and, along with a bunch of other girls, dug through their makeup bags, suggesting lipsticks and blushes to each other. Marci rubbed a sheer pink lipstick across her lips before handing it to Autumn, who did the same. I leaned against the gym mats. I didn't have any makeup on, just my trusty Burt's Bees. And my hair was still wet from my shower. I cursed myself for not waking up earlier and getting ready properly. Not to mention the fact that I'd been branded. Connor came out of the boys' locker room and stood near me, pretending to read the intramurals postings on the bulletin board. "You look nice," he said. "A little buttoned up." "I have to be!" I hissed. "You gave me a hickey last night. Now my senior portrait is going to be ruined!" Mike Domski walked by us, and both Connor and I closed our mouths. But as soon as Mike was out of earshot, I laid into Connor again. "Hickeys are absolutely disgusting. It's like...when a rancher brands his cattle with one of those hot poker thingies. I don't belong to you. I don't want your mark anywhere on me." "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I swear I didn't do it on purpose." It sounded like he meant it. But I was so mad I stormed off. That was all I needed on top of everything else: To have someone see us talking, and then notice my hickey and put two and two together. I ended up two steps behind Mike Domski. I wouldn't have paid attention to a single thing he said, but then he called out, "Hey, Fish Sticks!" It was pure reflex, the way my gut seized up. I wondered if Marci would defend Autumn the way I used to, though I highly doubted it. Marci cared too much about what guys like Mike Domski thought of her. Only Marci didn't even need to defend Autumn. Autumn spun around, smiled, and said, "Hey, Domski." I couldn't believe it. Not only had Autumn forgiven Marci, but now she was actually answering to Fish Sticks? I glared at her. But either she pretended not to notice me, or she really didn't. One of the photographer's assistants clapped her hands and herded us over to the bleachers. "We're going to need everyone in the designated senior picture attire." She pulled a fistful of fabric strips from inside her apron pocket. "Ties and blazers are mandatory for the boys, so if you don't already have both on, come see me." She stepped behind a curtain and dragged a big cardboard box over to us. "And I've got black smocks for the girls. Please slide them on and make sure your bra straps aren't visible." I stepped over to the box and picked up one of the smocks. I'd completely forgotten that this was what the senior girls wore for yearbook portraits. It was like a poncho, a deep V-neck sweater that slid over our heads. Other girls around me draped them on and then unbuttoned their shirts. It left your shoulders and your neck bare. I jogged over to the assistant. "Excuse me. I wanted to see if I could take my portrait in my uniform." She looked at me queerly. "Are you a senior?" "Yes." "Then I'm afraid that's not possible." "But this is the uniform I've worn for four years. It has...sentimental value! Plus, the boys essentially get to wear their uniforms. If I can't wear mine, that amounts to sexism." I tried to sound serious, but the photography assistant laughed at me. And suddenly the reality of the situation squeezed my chest and made it impossible to breathe. While everyone else got into line, I grabbed my smock and sprinted to the bathroom. I'd stolen some foundation from my mother's vanity before leaving the house. Now I tipped my finger in the bottle and covered my fingertip in the thick, velvety liquid. Then I tried to dot some makeup along the lighter edges of the hickey, blending it into the thick center. My hands shook, I was so upset. Unfortunately, my mom's skin was a couple shades darker than mine, thanks to my Sicilian grammy. The purple oval bled out into a haze of sickly orange. Instead of covering up the hickey, it only attracted more attention to it. The tears started coming. I heard the door open. Spencer came in. "Hey, Natalie!" she said, oblivious, walking over to the sink. "Ugh. I dissected a frog last period and though I've washed my hands a hundred times, they still smell like formaldehyde." She turned to look at me, and I felt her eyes narrow on my neck. "Whoa! Who'd you get that from?" "It's a bug bite," I said, flatly. I didn't have time for this. "Right. A bug bite. In November." She dug inside her bag. "That happens all the time." I could feel Spencer lording it over my head. She knew exactly what was on my neck. She stepped forward with a wet paper towel and tucked her makeup case under her arm. "Here. Wipe that stuff off." I stared down at the paper towel as it dripped a puddle on the floor. "I'm fine," I said. "Thanks." "Natalie, quit being so proud and let me help you. Unless you want a big hickey dead center in your senior portrait." She pushed some hair off my shoulder for a better look. "So who's the lucky guy?" I took the paper towel and rubbed it hard and fast against my neck. "Look--this is a bug bite, okay? If you want to help me, great. If you don't, well, then get out of here." Spencer seemed like she wanted to say something, but she held it in and instead tilted my head back gently. Then she pulled the cap off a bright yellow crayon. "What's that?" I said. "The yellow makes your skin appear less red. I'll put this on first, then a layer of foundation, and then..." She dug in her makeup bag. "I'll put some powder on top. You and I are almost the same shade." Three minutes later, I was transformed into a good girl. Spencer dabbed a last bit of powder on my neck. "There. Your, uh, bug bite has vanished." She also gave me some lipstick and put my head under the hand dryer while she raked her fingers through my damp hair. I came out of the whole thing looking halfway decent. "Make sure you pose with your chin tilted down a little," she instructed, pulling some of my hair over my shoulder. "Don't worry. You look really pretty, Natalie." "Thanks," I said. And I was thankful, even though I couldn't look at her. The girl I used to babysit had just saved my ass big time. I went back into the gym with my smock on and my white shirt balled in my hand. Ms. Bee stood off to the side with another teacher, watching. I walked past her, and made sure that my chin was down, like Spencer had said. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Connor staring at me. Three, two, one, POP. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE We kept seeing each other. Not just weekends, but school nights, too. In secret. In the shed. Fifth time. Sixth time. Seventh. The eighth time, Connor pushed the door open and handed me the lantern. For whatever reason, he wanted me to walk in first. The itchy stadium blanket was folded in half on the floor. Unfurled on top was a puffy sleeping bag, unzipped enough to reveal a plaid fleece lining. A pillow leaned against a cardboard box as if it were a head-board, in a pillowcase with edges trimmed in white eyelet lace. "Is this your mom's?" I asked uneasily, lifting it up off the floor. It had already gotten a little dirty. I brushed away what I could. "She's got an entire closetful. She won't notice." Connor hung my peacoat on a nail. Then he pulled out a couple of tea light candles from the pouch of his sweatshirt, lit them, and set them on top of a rafter. Flickering light lit up the peaks and corners of the shed like a cathedral. "I thought we could use a warmer bed, since it's getting pretty cold out here." It was true. The last couple times, I'd been so freezing I'd lost feeling in my toes. "It's the best solution I could come up with, since you still refuse to come inside my house...." He let his words hang in the air, as if I might change my mind. I looked down. Connor had even swept the floor. There were no pine needles, no sawdust. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble," I mumbled. I appreciated the effort, of course. But I was already too comfortable in this shed, considering the circumstances. This was not a romantic cottage in the woods, and Connor Hughes was not my boyfriend. I had to keep everything in perspective or I would lose perspective entirely. "You're welcome." Connor smiled, then lifted his sweatshirt. His T-shirt went up with it, and he tossed them both into an empty red wheelbarrow. I tried not to stare. His abs were carved and defined, rippling down to the waistband of his nylon track pants. Which he also proceeded to slip off, leaving him in a pair of striped boxers and white socks pulled up to his calves. The smell of soap on his skin was intense. "Call me crazy," I said, "but you might stay warmer if you kept your clothes on." Connor laughed. "Are you kidding? This sleeping bag is rated for ten degrees below zero. I used it when my dad and I went ice fishing last winter. If you and I don't take our clothes off, we'll sweat to death." Suddenly all the layers I'd cleverly thought to put on to fight the cold--a pair of thermal underwear, jeans, two pairs of socks, sweatshirt, T-shirt, and a cami--felt suffocating. He slid into the sleeping bag. "C'mere, Sterling." I stared down at his grinning face. "I don't think I'll fit." "It's plenty big enough for two." He shimmied over and patted the empty space next to him, a sliver of room. The wind outside leaked between the cedar shingles and sent the candles flickering. It hit me that, fancy sleeping bag or not, Connor and I couldn't meet out here much longer. It would be way too cold. And though the farm was quiet now, come holiday time there'd be workers in and out of here for supplies, and customers meandering all over our private maze of pines, on the hunt for the perfect Christmas tree. Part of me felt relieved at this very clear expiration date. But I felt sad, too. I had always looked forward to winter, to mittens and colored lights, hot chocolate and velvet bows, corny Christmas songs and the search to find the best present possible for Autumn. The probability of us not exchanging gifts this year felt more real than I wanted it to. I took off my first layer of clothes--the jeans and my sweatshirt--and hung them up with my peacoat. It took some work to get comfortable next to Connor. We were squished so tightly together that our foreheads and the tips of our noses touched. It was too close to look at each other without getting a headache, so we both closed our eyes. It only took a minute for my body temperature to roar. A drop of sweat rolled down the side of my face. "Here," he said, and lifted off my thermal. The cami underneath went along with it. I probably would have been more self-conscious, except that I still had the thermal leggings and my bra on, and with the sleeping bag, he couldn't really see anything. In fact, I had yet to be completely undressed in front of Connor. His hands had touched nearly all of me, but his eyes hadn't seen a thing. Even though I was sticky from sweat, Connor didn't seem to mind. We kissed for a bit, and his hands ran lightly over my back. "What do you do when you're not here with me?" he asked. "I sleep," I said with a smile. "No. I mean, seriously." His questions made me anxious. I definitely didn't have a social life like Connor's. "Well, I'm usually with Autumn." My mind searched for other things to tell him, but I drew a blank. A pathetic blank. "She's a nice girl. I've seen her out a few times lately. How come you don't go to parties with her?" I rolled over, and then back again, trying to get comfortable. "Of course she's a nice girl. Why wouldn't she be a nice girl?" I knew Autumn wanted to be more social, but I hadn't known she was completely back in the scene. "I...I didn't mean anything by it." "Just so you know, the things that Chad Rivington said about her weren't true." I wrestled to get my arms out from underneath me. "And to answer your question, Autumn and I don't go to parties together because we're in a fight right now." I wanted add, That's why I come here to see you, but I didn't. It wasn't Connor who I was angry with. It was Autumn. And a little bit me, too. "Over what?" The sleeping bag had become a microwave. "Can you unzip this thing? I'm suffocating." Connor fumbled to get his arm across me. The zipper purled open, and it felt like coming up for a breath after a long underwater swim. "Sorry. I didn't mean to--" "It's fine. I'm just better off if I don't really think about it." "Okay. I'll change the subject. You doing anything this Friday?" I narrowed my eyes. Was he joking? "No. The SATs are Saturday morning." Connor shrugged. "Wait," I said. "You're not taking them?" "Nah." "But what about college?" "I'm not going to college." Connor must have seen the surprise on my face, because he started shaking his head, like I had the wrong idea. "Wait--that's not exactly true. I'm going to take a couple of business classes at the community college. But the family business is shifting over to me in the next year or two, when my dad retires." I said, "That's cool," though I doubt I sounded convinced. Taking over a business like the Hughes Christmas Tree Farm was impressive, but that would mean staying in Liberty River for the rest of your life. Which, to me, seemed like the worst thing possible. I tried to think of a graceful way to change the subject when Connor started kissing me again. It was like neither of us wanted to admit how different we were, deep down. So we didn't. Instead, we slithered all over each other, like two snakes in a bag. A while later, Connor got up to get me a bottle of water from a stash he'd set on a shelf. When he got back in the sleeping bag, his skin was icy. He rubbed next to me to get warm and said, "I like hanging out with you." He rolled on his back and stared up at the ceiling, as if he could see stars and not a bunch of seed bags suspended in between the rafters. When I didn't say anything, Connor pulled me on top of him. "Do you like coming here?" "I wouldn't be here if I didn't," I said. It wasn't exactly a declaration of feelings, but it was all I could give him. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX On the drive home that night, I decided that it was time Autumn and I talked. I'd given her space, maybe too much. The trick was getting to her when Marci wasn't around. Autumn must have felt the same way, because on Friday after school,