Mating Calls Page 3

  “Jesus, things really are getting outta hand here,” Lexie moaned.

  “Why? ’Cause we’re drinking together? I mean, who says we can’t drink together?” Ethan took the flask from Lexie and shot down another enthusiastic slug.

  “You’re trashed,” Lexie said, and she smiled, knowing that whatever she did or said now, it would either be forgotten or blurred out by the alcohol. Lexie reached for the flask, took another powerful swig, then handed it back to Ethan.

  “I want to be in a different educational paradigm,” Ethan said, his head dropping closer and closer to Lexie’s. “I think the system we have now is fucked up and wrong. Wasn’t Socrates, like, sipping wine and walking around butt-fucking every young protégée behind an olive tree or something?”

  “Yeah, but there are no olive trees in New Hampshire, and Socrates was way smarter than most people.” Even on the Klonopin and Jägermeister, Lexie knew she was mucking about in dangerous territory.

  “You’re smart.” Ethan took another sip.

  “I used to be smart,” Lexie said. “Lately I’ve been a little brain-dead. Like I hit some intelligence pause button or something.”

  “Maybe you need to have more sex.”

  Lexie wondered if somehow the cells in Ethan’s body mirrored the cells in Daniel’s body and thereby sensed the ungodly, unholy, unbelievable rocking sex she and Daniel had been having the past nine months.

  “What makes you think I need more than what I’m already having?” Lexie asked, and she coyly grabbed the bottle, took another slug, then handed it back.

  “I dunno. I mean, you’re lying here in a way that sends some signal to my brain that sends a signal to my dick that says you shouldn’t be lying here alone.” Lexie took comfort in Ethan’s muddled words—he was at least as far down the sloshed rabbit hole as she.

  “I don’t think you should be talking about your dick with your counselor,” Lexie said, “unless you really, really, really want to talk about your dick.” They both laughed. It was during this laughter, this happy, bubbly, Jägermeister-Klonopin foam that frothed in Lexie’s body, camouflaging the painful silence from Daniel, that Lexie allowed Ethan Waite to climb on top of her, quickly undress her, and then penetrate her.

  Lexie had forgotten what something that hard felt like. More marble or granite than flesh. Where does that go? she wondered. And it was with this dreamy thought that Lexie finally used the gritty, rough-cut side of her brain to reflect on what was happening.

  “Oh no, oh SHIT!” Lexie said, and she pushed naked Ethan off her and jumped up.

  Her hands were shaking as she pulled on her underwear and then her slacks. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Ethan said, as he started dressing himself. “You won’t lose your job or your license or anything.”

  “My job?!” The truth was, Lexie wasn’t thinking about either of those things. She was thinking about losing Daniel. Yes, Ethan might seem like a better version of Daniel, but Daniel was her future: power, stability, a lifestyle. It would be one thing for them to recover from the break-in. But how could they ever recover from this?

  “Wait, when’s your birthday?” Lexie asked. “Shit, I could go to jail!” Her hands spasmed across her back as she tried to hook her bra. She left it unhooked and pulled on her blouse but couldn’t manage the small motor skill of buttoning it.

  “I turned 18 last month,” Ethan said.

  “Oh, that’s right, thank God.” Lexie collapsed on the couch and slumped over her knees with her head in her hands.

  “I won’t tell a soul, I promise,” Ethan said, and he kissed her sweetly on the top of the head.

  “Really, Ethan.” Lexie looked up and held his gaze. “No one. Ever. No matter what happens in your life or how close you ever get with your dad. Or your mom. Or your wife one day. No one.”

  “Believe me,” Ethan said, “it’s our secret.”

  For the next few hours, Lexie barely moved. She didn’t get off the couch until her phone buzzed. Lexie ran to her desk, picked up the cell, and read Daniel Waite’s text. All good with J. now. Sorry it won’t work out for us.

  Lexie hit call.

  “Hey,” Daniel was whispering.

  “What do you mean it won’t work out for us?” Lexie said.

  “I’m really sorry,” Daniel said. “We can’t ever talk again.”

  “Is it because I broke into your house and crashed on your bed?” In spite of the Klonopin and Jägermeister, Lexie felt as alert as if her hair were on fire. “If that hadn’t happened, would you still want to leave Jen and be with me?” She cradled the phone against her shoulder, then reached to her back and quickly hooked her bra.

  “No. I had already decided to end it.”

  “I left my fiancé for you! I left my house and my things. I changed my entire life for you!”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “You said you were going to leave your wife and marry me!”

  “I love my wife,” Daniel said.

  “You are dispassionate when it comes to your wife. You’re bored numb and senseless in your marriage. Everything you have was founded on a lie.”

  “It was an insignificant lie—I read too much into it.”

  “You’ve been obsessing over it for 20 years!”

  “I love my wife and I’m glad I’m married to her. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later and explain.”

  “No, you won’t. You know you won’t.”

  “You’re right. I won’t. I’ll text later.”

  “You won’t do that, either.”

  “I’m sorry,” Daniel said, and he hung up. Lexie called back and the phone went straight to voice mail. He had turned it off quicker than she had hit redial. Lexie shoved the phone into her purse and waited to cry. But nothing came out; she was as empty as a windsock.

  She stood at the window and watched the thrusts of students trying to get to their seventh period class. It was barely 60 degrees out, yet everyone had abandoned the standard-issue blue blazer and was undressed down to their button-downs—sleeves rolled up, necks and cleavages fully exposed. Lexie felt battered by the sight of these people whose futures were completely open, where almost anything was still possible. They weren’t yet derailed from their dream-self, stuck in adulthood without a trace of the life they had originally imagined. It was all forward-moving, immense possibilities, creating an original narrative rather than backing up and trying to scratch out and scribble over what had already been written in sticky black wax.

  A year ago, Lexie had been thrilled to be engaged, subscribing to Brides magazine, spending weekend nights reading wedding blogs on the Internet with her legs crossed over Jeff’s. It was nice enough, if predictable—her life was like a TV show she might watch while folding laundry. Then it was like the channel had been changed and she was involved in a deeper, more passionate, multidemensional show. Something she couldn’t watch while simultaneously doing chores. Now, neither one of those lives was possible. Lexie was careening through her 30s with no secure future in sight, driving an almost-disabled ’99 Saab, living in an apartment with furniture donated by a board of directors, not to mention that she’d just had sex with a student. It was more than a flipping of channels. She’d completely gone off the air.

  At 6:50, Lexie straightened her clothes, put on lipstick, and brushed her hair. She had supper duty at seven, which meant she had to make entertaining dinner conversation with students. In September, the head of the school had handed out a list of topics they should cover: Nature or nurture? What is love? If there were no people on Earth would God still exist? Are animals smarter than humans? Can we really believe in anything? What role does memory play in life? Lexie looked at the list—she had checked off the ones that had already been covered. By this time of year, few topics remained. Lexie circled the one she’d ask tonight: What is virtue? She dropped the paper in her purse, then pulled out her cell phone and tapped out a text to Daniel.

&n
bsp; I fucked Ethan in my office today. He’s a way better lover than you.

  She would decide after dinner whether or not to hit send.

  No. 7

  Alexandra is in a Ross Dress for Less. Normally she wouldn’t shop at Ross, but the airline has lost her luggage, and she needs a quick, cheap change of clothes.

  As Alexandra approaches the checkout counter (carrying one yellow 34C bra, three pairs of yellow size 5 panties, one pair of size 4 pants, and two small black T-shirts), she spies Number Seven in the aisle beside her, also buying underwear.

  Number Seven is one of 48. Alexandra is absolutely certain he’s Number Seven—she could tell you this without consulting the list she’s been keeping since she was 15 years old. She could also tell you who was Number One, as there’s no forgetting the placement of Number One—Number One is always Number One. And she remembers most the details of Number Ten, for Ten was her first official boyfriend—a wrestler who wasn’t ashamed to love her. She cheated on Ten with Numbers Eleven through Fifteen (and here she draws a blank on names and faces)—and with each one (Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen), she pretended to herself that she was cheating on the unforgettable Seven.

  Alexandra assumes that, like her, Number Seven no longer lives in this overpriced (some might say hoity-toity) Southern California town. Perhaps his luggage was also lost. Alexandra is visiting her mother and grandmother for Christmas; Seven is probably doing the same. Alexandra guesses that if Number Seven were to turn his head toward her now, he would not recognize her; they haven’t seen each other in 16 years. Anonymity, however, does not free Alexandra from the tumbling wash-cycle feeling in her gut.

  Tenth grade: Alexandra (who is called Zandra throughout high school) is walking down the open-air hallway of La Mesa High when she sees Seven walking toward her. She has been watching him since he arrived at this school two weeks ago, after his family moved from Los Angeles. He looks like people on daytime television—straight, square teeth; thick, choppy hair; glinty eyes; tan. She does not look like people on television, or if she does, it’s the neighbor girl, the dork, the comic relief. Zandra is fat, blond, pale, stumpy-nosed. There are three girls in her high school who are money-earning professional models. Dozens of girls go to the local modeling school so that one day they may get paid for what they were born with. Number Seven, whose name is Ty, smiles at Zandra. It is a knowing smile. Ty obviously has heard stories about Zandra sleeping with, or giving head to, a passel of boys (always one at a time, as that was the line she decided she would not cross). Zandra knows she could never date a boy like Ty; she is aware of her value in the beauty-centric hierarchy of high school. She is also aware of the strength of teenage horniness and the fungibility of the female body. The best she could do would be to have sex with Ty, so that is what she sets as her goal for spring semester.

  Zandra’s best friend, Amy, is cute, petite, with hair sun-bleached into white straw and patches of red, scabby skin across her permanently sunburned face. Amy surfs, drinks beer with one hand in her pocket and one ringing the neck of the bottle. She cusses. Amy doesn’t care that she’s cute, and she doesn’t care that most of the girls in school are gorgeous, and she doesn’t care that Zandra is exceptionally fat. Amy cares about catching good waves and going to good parties with good beer. There is no one in this school who is anything like Amy. There is no one in this school who is anything like Zandra. They are together through process of default, although, over time, they have genuinely grown to admire each other.

  Amy calls Zandra one day in April.

  “Kegger at Henry’s,” she says. Henry is not a person, Henry’s is a beach—or what everyone in town calls this particular beach, even though a carved wooden sign near its entrance states Arroyo Burro Beach.

  “Can I borrow your blue pumps?” Zandra asks. In this town, girls actually wear pumps to the beach—taking them off when they hit the sand and carrying them carelessly in one dangling hand.

  “Will you fucking keep them?” Amy’s mother bought her the pumps to make her daughter seem more feminine. Amy refuses to wear them. She is a flip-flops girl. Year-round.

  “You wanna drive, or me?”

  “You,” Amy says.

  “I’ll bring my clothes to your house so we can get dressed together.”

  Amy plays loud music in her room while she and Zandra get dressed. Her room is actually the bomb shelter—down a narrow, dark corridor at the far end of the otherwise Spanish-style house. No one can hear a thing from her room. Bombproof means soundproof. Zandra takes a shower at Amy’s. The shower is large and industrial—big enough for six people. Zandra loves showering there because she can walk around the shower, she can lift a leg and shave it, she can sit on the built-in bench, she can shout out to Amy, who rarely showers (she finds the ocean cleansing) and who listens to her with the same automatic uh-huh as a husband might listen to a wife. In Zandra’s shower at home, she has to step outside the phone booth–size capsule to shave her legs. If she bends over to pick up the soap, her behind will push open the streaked plastic door.

  Zandra takes great care dressing herself. She puts on makeup—shadows the sides of her nose to make it appear narrower—spritzes herself with perfume, blow-dries her hair into a cap of feathers atop her head, and makes sure that her shirt shows plenty of cleavage. Amy wanders around her room singing and playing air guitar. The only fashion issue she has is whether to wear a bra or not.

  “It makes your boobs look perkier,” Zandra says.

  “It’s like wearing handcuffs,” Amy says, but she puts one on anyway as she doesn’t like the boys staring at her untethered breasts.

  At the party, Amy and Zandra stand near the keg and laugh. They are watching Bone-man Deugal climb the side of a stony cliff. He is so drunk that he tumbles down to the sand repeatedly, only to stand and approach the cliff once more.

  “He’s like Sisyphus,” Amy laughs.

  “He’s got syphilis?” Zandra asks. She is worried because three weeks ago she got drunk at a party, and she thinks, but is nowhere near certain, that she had sex with Bone-man. He swears they did everything but, and Zandra remembers doing everything but; however, she fell asleep or passed out after having done everything but and has been suspicious ever since.

  “No! He doesn’t have syphilis, don’t worry!” Amy hands Zandra her beer and decides that she will climb the cliff with Bone-man. Zandra is left alone now. She looks out at the black sea, past the mass of kids who move and buzz with the same frenetic energy as bees. Zandra is not part of this swarm. She is not even a bee. She is a giant scarab beetle who has crawled into the hive.

  “C.S.!” someone calls to her.

  Zandra looks around for the voice and sees Tom Richter, president of the Key Club, wagging his tongue at her. Lately he and his friends have taken to calling her C.S., although she has not bothered to find out why.

  Zandra waves. She is glad he called out to her; it makes her feel like they have a special connection. In truth, she knows the only connection they have is the fact that she made out with him (briefly) and gave him a hand job (not quite as brief) in a sandy, craggy cave during the last keg party at a beach.

  Tom works his way through the crowd toward Zandra. Behind him is Ty, who looks golden beside plain, Charlie Brown–faced Tom.

  “You know Ty?” Tom asks.

  Zandra nods.

  “This is C.S.,” Tom says to Ty by way of introducing Zandra.

  “What’s your real name?” Ty asks.

  “Zandra,” she says. “I have no idea why they call me C.S.”

  “For Cute Stuff!” Tom says, and he smiles crookedly.

  Zandra is flattered. Her ability to ignore subtle clues and messages is one of her better-honed survival techniques.

  “Ever been to those caves down at that point?” Tom gestures past the crowd to the spot where the cliff juts out into the water.

  “Of course,” Zandra says. “I went there with you!”

  “I was asking
Ty.”

  “Never been there,” Ty says.

  “There’s one cave down there that you can only go in during low tide. It’s so cool.”

  “You surf?” Ty asks.

  “No,” Zandra says. She can hardly look at Ty without grinning. “Amy does.”

  “You should let Zandra show you the cave.” Tom winks at Ty, then walks off.

  “Well, can’t hit the cave tonight,” Ty says. “It’s high tide.”

  “Yeah,” Zandra looks up at Ty and sways toward him. She knows that if she touches any part of his body, a shoulder or forearm, there will be the sensation of hot guppies swimming through her veins.

  “Let’s move away from the masses,” Ty says, and he leads Zandra toward the cliff, where they sit against a rock.

  Zandra’s heart is racing and she feels vaguely nauseated. She wants to run with Ty to the backseat of her car, or to a nook behind a rock, and have sex. But she is not as drunk as she usually is when she has sex. She is usually just a swampy, receptive pillow who delights in the experience of having a boy lost inside her. At times it seems to Zandra that she lives for that moment when she controls the boy, for the few seconds when he goes silent, stunned with sensation. But now Zandra does not feel like a swampy pillow. She feels like herself, and she is uncomfortable and unsure as to how she will get Ty to her car so he can lose himself in her.

  “Beer’s warm,” Zandra says, finishing off what’s in her cup.

  “Sucks,” Ty replies.

  They both stare out at the sky, at the moon, which looks like a melted white breath mint—the edges soft and fading away.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” Ty says.

  “Yeah,” Zandra says.

  “I never want to live anywhere else,” Ty says.

  “Me neither,” Zandra says. Zandra and her mother live with her grandmother in what Zandra believes is the smallest house in town. Zandra would give just about anything to live somewhere else—to distance herself from that house with the hollow doors, aluminum windows, and no dining room.