hug my legs clear to my ankles. I tied a red scarf around my neck; I look Parisian, maybe, and artistic. French kissing, I say to myself and picture Matt. I stood in front of my mirror and practiced my "surprise" face, eyebrows arched and eyes twinkling, for when I see Matt and say, "I had no idea you'd be here." I even practiced touching his arm nonchalantly.
With my makeup redone and fresh pink lip gloss shining on my mouth, I walk into the family room. My mom and dad are watching Dateline .
"I'm going to meet some people at the movies," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Who?" my mom asks, tilting her head over the top of the couch so that she can see me.
"Um," Stumbling over words, I say the first name I can think of. "Alex Austin."
"A boy?" My mom sits up and smiles.
"It's not a date," I snap. "He's just a friend from English class. I mean, he wears sleeveless undershirts under his football jersey." Panic is rising in my veins. I'm used to little blemishes on the truth. You look pretty today , even though it would take a blowtorch and plastic surgery to fix the person's problems. I love foreign films , even though reading subtitles while watching a movie makes my head hurt. I even lie to myself sometimes. Everyone likes you for you. You're pretty even when you cry. A boy hasn't kissed you because he's waiting for the exact right moment to fall head-over-heels in love .
Some days, the white lies work. On others, I want to scream from the top of a building and cut all my hair off.
My mom slouches down on the couch and goes back to rubbing cuticle cream on her fingernails. I think I see a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "Just be home by midnight."
"I will." I head toward the door and almost run into the wall.
"And don't forget you're a Hart," my dad yells after me.
Ugh. The dreaded line . I hate it when my parents remind me I'm a Hart. It's like they're placing the world on my shoulders and telling me to run a marathon. Or clamping a chastity belt around my waist so no boy can ever get close to my lady parts. Some days, I have a hard time being seventeen, let alone a girl with perfect posture and the vagina of a saint.
"I will," I repeat, grabbing my black pea coat out of the closet.
And then I'm out the front door and standing on the porch, the cold autumn air circling around me. I take a deep breath, letting it clear my mind, and realize I just lied to my parents. I'm meeting the one girl they would never want me to hang out with.
Something swells up in my gut. It's the same feeling I get when words come from the back of my mind and I have no choice but to put them down on paper. An uncontrollable giggle slips from my lips. This might be the most exciting thing I've ever done.
***
Lil pulls up five minutes late. I hear angry guitar music blaring before I ever see the car. Taking a breath, I force the door open.
"Hi," I say.
"Pollyanna," she nods.
"Why do you call me that?"
"You just answered your own question."
"Huh?" I ask thoroughly confused. "Well, if I asked you to stop, would you?"
"No."
I slouch into the seat and cross my arms over my chest.
"Fine, Marty ." Lil rolls her eyes. In the moonlight they're still bright blue, almost glow-in-the-dark colored.
"I like your shirt," I say appraising the gold sequined tank top she has on over black jeans. "But aren't you going to be cold?"
"Are you my mother?" she asks.
"No, I just thought you might want a sweater or something."
"I'll be fine." Lil grabs her black leather jacket out of the backseat and places it between us.
"So where are we going?" I ask. As the words come out, it dawns on me that this one answer is important. That I've agreed to go to a party with a girl I don't know, whose name sends my dad into a chicken-choking fit, who prompts Saturday morning gossip sessions in Hobby Lobby. My earlier excitement wanes and I realize the heaviness of what I've done.
Lil lights a cigarette, pulls the gear shift into drive, and smiles
With my makeup redone and fresh pink lip gloss shining on my mouth, I walk into the family room. My mom and dad are watching Dateline .
"I'm going to meet some people at the movies," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Who?" my mom asks, tilting her head over the top of the couch so that she can see me.
"Um," Stumbling over words, I say the first name I can think of. "Alex Austin."
"A boy?" My mom sits up and smiles.
"It's not a date," I snap. "He's just a friend from English class. I mean, he wears sleeveless undershirts under his football jersey." Panic is rising in my veins. I'm used to little blemishes on the truth. You look pretty today , even though it would take a blowtorch and plastic surgery to fix the person's problems. I love foreign films , even though reading subtitles while watching a movie makes my head hurt. I even lie to myself sometimes. Everyone likes you for you. You're pretty even when you cry. A boy hasn't kissed you because he's waiting for the exact right moment to fall head-over-heels in love .
Some days, the white lies work. On others, I want to scream from the top of a building and cut all my hair off.
My mom slouches down on the couch and goes back to rubbing cuticle cream on her fingernails. I think I see a flash of disappointment in her eyes. "Just be home by midnight."
"I will." I head toward the door and almost run into the wall.
"And don't forget you're a Hart," my dad yells after me.
Ugh. The dreaded line . I hate it when my parents remind me I'm a Hart. It's like they're placing the world on my shoulders and telling me to run a marathon. Or clamping a chastity belt around my waist so no boy can ever get close to my lady parts. Some days, I have a hard time being seventeen, let alone a girl with perfect posture and the vagina of a saint.
"I will," I repeat, grabbing my black pea coat out of the closet.
And then I'm out the front door and standing on the porch, the cold autumn air circling around me. I take a deep breath, letting it clear my mind, and realize I just lied to my parents. I'm meeting the one girl they would never want me to hang out with.
Something swells up in my gut. It's the same feeling I get when words come from the back of my mind and I have no choice but to put them down on paper. An uncontrollable giggle slips from my lips. This might be the most exciting thing I've ever done.
***
Lil pulls up five minutes late. I hear angry guitar music blaring before I ever see the car. Taking a breath, I force the door open.
"Hi," I say.
"Pollyanna," she nods.
"Why do you call me that?"
"You just answered your own question."
"Huh?" I ask thoroughly confused. "Well, if I asked you to stop, would you?"
"No."
I slouch into the seat and cross my arms over my chest.
"Fine, Marty ." Lil rolls her eyes. In the moonlight they're still bright blue, almost glow-in-the-dark colored.
"I like your shirt," I say appraising the gold sequined tank top she has on over black jeans. "But aren't you going to be cold?"
"Are you my mother?" she asks.
"No, I just thought you might want a sweater or something."
"I'll be fine." Lil grabs her black leather jacket out of the backseat and places it between us.
"So where are we going?" I ask. As the words come out, it dawns on me that this one answer is important. That I've agreed to go to a party with a girl I don't know, whose name sends my dad into a chicken-choking fit, who prompts Saturday morning gossip sessions in Hobby Lobby. My earlier excitement wanes and I realize the heaviness of what I've done.
Lil lights a cigarette, pulls the gear shift into drive, and smiles
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