shirt might not have been the best choice of attire for tonight.
Chantelle didn’t scream. She just looked, smiled, and put her blindfold back on as Sarah barked, “No peeking!” at us. “Okay,” Chantelle said, “you don’t actually look like dog shit, no matter how you feel, and I think I’m going to be able to withstand your sexiness, so yeah, I’ll have coffee with you.”
So that’s how you do it. It occurred to me that I may have just grown a pair, metaphorically speaking. What’s weird is that I’m sure I had been able to do it only because I was in a grumpy, screw-the-world, I-don’t-care kind of mood. Maybe I should do that more often. “I’m glad, because, you know, a lot of people—”
“Find you intimidating. I know. You’d better have a new joke next time.”
“Got it. I’ll work on my material.”
Once we got back in our little sharing circle, I couldn’t look at Chantelle. I also couldn’t look away from her. This presented some difficulties. Fortunately, Sarah just yakked and then dismissed us without forcing us to share our feelings, which was good: mine seemed to involve a tremendous sense of excitement mixed with gut-wrenching panic, because, of course, once Chantelle saw me for who I really was, she’d be horrified, and then I’d have something else to be sad about, and, I mean, I know next to nothing about girls, but I do know that hanging your hopes on a teenage girl’s affections is a pretty dumbass thing to do. But I was doing it anyway.
Or, at least I was until Neilly freaking kissed me after youth group. I mean, yeah, it was a kiss on the cheek, kinda sisterly, I suppose, but she’s not my sister. Not yet, anyway.
If I can just…I mean, what the hell was she trying to do to me? I think she was trying to help me, but oh my God, it didn’t help. And assuming things went well with Chantelle, how exactly would I explain my whereabouts when I escort Neilly to her dad’s wedding? “Uh, yeah, I can’t go out tonight.… I have to take my sister to her dad’s wedding to Roger, the UFC guy. And before you ask, Yes, I will be attempting to cop a feel in the limo.” No, that won’t do at all.
Alone in my room later, I face a masturbatory dilemma. Neilly Foster, whose lips, let’s not forget, touched my skin tonight, and who I really shouldn’t be thinking about like that anymore, in some kind of off-the-shoulder little black cocktail dress, preferably with a pentagram or upside-down cross hanging into her cleavage, or Chantelle, clad only in glasses? My phone rings—well, actually growls, since I’ve got a Dimmu Borgir ringtone—and the screen tells me it’s Neilly calling, and it would just be too creepy to follow through while I’m actually on the phone, so I zip up and answer.
“Sis. What’s up?”
“Hey. I know you probably know this anyway, but I just want to make sure you’re…I mean, you know, I don’t want to be a bitch about you doing me a favor, but you’re not going to like—”
“Wear corpse paint and chains and bring a dead rodent to your dad’s ceremony?”
“Well, I mean, not…I don’t know what corpse paint is, but yeah. Part of the bargain here is that you kind of feign normalcy for the night.”
“Deal. But you have to help me.”
“I’m on it.”
“So if I’m having coffee with her, like, first of all—”
“Mints. Strong ones. Coffee breath is not as bad as cigarette breath or garlic breath, but it definitely comes in third.”
“What about onion breath?”
“Indistinguishable from garlic breath, so they count as the same thing.”
“Got it.”
“So make sure you pop a mint after your mochaccino. Gum won’t do, in case there’s tongue, but you have to let her initiate the tongue. If you go in for a kiss and jam your tongue down her throat, you’re done.”
“But she can jam her tongue down my throat?”
“Would you mind?”
“Are you kidding?”
“There you go. But she would. This is why you need
Chantelle didn’t scream. She just looked, smiled, and put her blindfold back on as Sarah barked, “No peeking!” at us. “Okay,” Chantelle said, “you don’t actually look like dog shit, no matter how you feel, and I think I’m going to be able to withstand your sexiness, so yeah, I’ll have coffee with you.”
So that’s how you do it. It occurred to me that I may have just grown a pair, metaphorically speaking. What’s weird is that I’m sure I had been able to do it only because I was in a grumpy, screw-the-world, I-don’t-care kind of mood. Maybe I should do that more often. “I’m glad, because, you know, a lot of people—”
“Find you intimidating. I know. You’d better have a new joke next time.”
“Got it. I’ll work on my material.”
Once we got back in our little sharing circle, I couldn’t look at Chantelle. I also couldn’t look away from her. This presented some difficulties. Fortunately, Sarah just yakked and then dismissed us without forcing us to share our feelings, which was good: mine seemed to involve a tremendous sense of excitement mixed with gut-wrenching panic, because, of course, once Chantelle saw me for who I really was, she’d be horrified, and then I’d have something else to be sad about, and, I mean, I know next to nothing about girls, but I do know that hanging your hopes on a teenage girl’s affections is a pretty dumbass thing to do. But I was doing it anyway.
Or, at least I was until Neilly freaking kissed me after youth group. I mean, yeah, it was a kiss on the cheek, kinda sisterly, I suppose, but she’s not my sister. Not yet, anyway.
If I can just…I mean, what the hell was she trying to do to me? I think she was trying to help me, but oh my God, it didn’t help. And assuming things went well with Chantelle, how exactly would I explain my whereabouts when I escort Neilly to her dad’s wedding? “Uh, yeah, I can’t go out tonight.… I have to take my sister to her dad’s wedding to Roger, the UFC guy. And before you ask, Yes, I will be attempting to cop a feel in the limo.” No, that won’t do at all.
Alone in my room later, I face a masturbatory dilemma. Neilly Foster, whose lips, let’s not forget, touched my skin tonight, and who I really shouldn’t be thinking about like that anymore, in some kind of off-the-shoulder little black cocktail dress, preferably with a pentagram or upside-down cross hanging into her cleavage, or Chantelle, clad only in glasses? My phone rings—well, actually growls, since I’ve got a Dimmu Borgir ringtone—and the screen tells me it’s Neilly calling, and it would just be too creepy to follow through while I’m actually on the phone, so I zip up and answer.
“Sis. What’s up?”
“Hey. I know you probably know this anyway, but I just want to make sure you’re…I mean, you know, I don’t want to be a bitch about you doing me a favor, but you’re not going to like—”
“Wear corpse paint and chains and bring a dead rodent to your dad’s ceremony?”
“Well, I mean, not…I don’t know what corpse paint is, but yeah. Part of the bargain here is that you kind of feign normalcy for the night.”
“Deal. But you have to help me.”
“I’m on it.”
“So if I’m having coffee with her, like, first of all—”
“Mints. Strong ones. Coffee breath is not as bad as cigarette breath or garlic breath, but it definitely comes in third.”
“What about onion breath?”
“Indistinguishable from garlic breath, so they count as the same thing.”
“Got it.”
“So make sure you pop a mint after your mochaccino. Gum won’t do, in case there’s tongue, but you have to let her initiate the tongue. If you go in for a kiss and jam your tongue down her throat, you’re done.”
“But she can jam her tongue down my throat?”
“Would you mind?”
“Are you kidding?”
“There you go. But she would. This is why you need
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