looking at books,” I say. “And I should get back to it. Let me call you later.”
“Who are you with?” B. J. asks.
Fuck. “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to infuse my voice with as much innocence as possible. He sighs.
“Who. Are. You. There. With.”
“I’m by myself,” I lie. Why did I just lie? I hate lying. I don’t believe in lying. Lying only gets you in trouble. Manipulating situations is one thing, but lying is another. My theory (especially with girls), is that if you don’t lie, you can’t be held responsible for anything bad that goes down.
Case in point: When I hooked up with Jana Freeze last summer. I told her I didn’t want a girlfriend, and that I was going to be hooking up with other people. She got all pissed off when I kissed Michelle Tessiro the weekend after. But really, it wasn’t my fault. Because she knew the deal, and she chose to put herself in that situation.
I know I sound like a slut. But I’m really not.
“You’re by yourself?” B. J. asks incredulously. “What the fuck for?”
“I told you,” I say, trying not to lose my patience, since it’s really my fault for lying to him. “I’m looking at books.”
“Dude, that’s some fucked-up shit,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m with Courtney McSweeney.”
“Courtney McSweeney?” B. J. asks, as if I’ve just announced I’m out on a date with Mischa Barton. “What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing it’s true.
“Whatever,” B. J. says. “Can you maybe ask her about Jocelyn for me?”
“Ask her what about Jocelyn?”
“Ask her what the deal is. They’re friends.” He sighs as if he can’t believe my obvious ridiculousness at not getting the plan. Which is really worrisome to me, because if B. J. is saying something I’m not understanding, that means my head is completely fucked up.
“Okay,” I agree.
“But don’t let her know I want to know,” he instructs.
“Of course not.” I don’t point out that expecting me to ask a girl I hardly know about how her friend feels about B. J. without actually telling her why I want to know is going to be a pretty hard thing to do.
“Lata.” B. J. clicks off before I can make plans with him for later. Shit.
Courtney comes around the corner, carrying Laguna Beach Season One on DVD. She holds it up and smiles at me. “Maybe I’ll give it a second chance.”
“You should,” I say, grabbing the blue DVD case out of her hand and checking out the back. What’s not to like about this show? Hot girls. Hookups. Who needs intelligent conversations and debates? It all boils down to wanting one another, anyway. So people should just hook up and get it over with.
“So…” she says, taking it back from me. “I should probably get home.”
“Oh,” I say, kind of surprised. Girls don’t usually end dates with me. Not that this is really a date. It’s more like a hang out. I follow her up to the cash register, where she purchases the Laguna Beach DVDs. Definitely not a date. Because if it were a date, I’d be paying. And we’d be hooking up. And that is definitely not going to happen.
Half an hour later, we’re kissing in my car.
the trip jordan
Day One, 12:36 p.m.
I’m heading toward the bathroom to see what’s taking Courtney so long when I see her lean over and throw up all over the floor. It’s pretty nasty, a bunch of brown chunks and green liquid. I knew that sausage calzone didn’t look right.
“Court,” I say, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot, and then leans over and heaves again. I take her cell phone out of her hand, hang up on whoever it is she was talking to without bothering to say anything, and lead Courtney past the line of waiting women (who are all staring—have they never seen anyone upchuck before?) and into the women’s bathroom.
“Jordan,” she says, leaning against my shoulder. “You can’t come into the girls’
“Who are you with?” B. J. asks.
Fuck. “What do you mean?” I ask, trying to infuse my voice with as much innocence as possible. He sighs.
“Who. Are. You. There. With.”
“I’m by myself,” I lie. Why did I just lie? I hate lying. I don’t believe in lying. Lying only gets you in trouble. Manipulating situations is one thing, but lying is another. My theory (especially with girls), is that if you don’t lie, you can’t be held responsible for anything bad that goes down.
Case in point: When I hooked up with Jana Freeze last summer. I told her I didn’t want a girlfriend, and that I was going to be hooking up with other people. She got all pissed off when I kissed Michelle Tessiro the weekend after. But really, it wasn’t my fault. Because she knew the deal, and she chose to put herself in that situation.
I know I sound like a slut. But I’m really not.
“You’re by yourself?” B. J. asks incredulously. “What the fuck for?”
“I told you,” I say, trying not to lose my patience, since it’s really my fault for lying to him. “I’m looking at books.”
“Dude, that’s some fucked-up shit,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m with Courtney McSweeney.”
“Courtney McSweeney?” B. J. asks, as if I’ve just announced I’m out on a date with Mischa Barton. “What the fuck for?”
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing it’s true.
“Whatever,” B. J. says. “Can you maybe ask her about Jocelyn for me?”
“Ask her what about Jocelyn?”
“Ask her what the deal is. They’re friends.” He sighs as if he can’t believe my obvious ridiculousness at not getting the plan. Which is really worrisome to me, because if B. J. is saying something I’m not understanding, that means my head is completely fucked up.
“Okay,” I agree.
“But don’t let her know I want to know,” he instructs.
“Of course not.” I don’t point out that expecting me to ask a girl I hardly know about how her friend feels about B. J. without actually telling her why I want to know is going to be a pretty hard thing to do.
“Lata.” B. J. clicks off before I can make plans with him for later. Shit.
Courtney comes around the corner, carrying Laguna Beach Season One on DVD. She holds it up and smiles at me. “Maybe I’ll give it a second chance.”
“You should,” I say, grabbing the blue DVD case out of her hand and checking out the back. What’s not to like about this show? Hot girls. Hookups. Who needs intelligent conversations and debates? It all boils down to wanting one another, anyway. So people should just hook up and get it over with.
“So…” she says, taking it back from me. “I should probably get home.”
“Oh,” I say, kind of surprised. Girls don’t usually end dates with me. Not that this is really a date. It’s more like a hang out. I follow her up to the cash register, where she purchases the Laguna Beach DVDs. Definitely not a date. Because if it were a date, I’d be paying. And we’d be hooking up. And that is definitely not going to happen.
Half an hour later, we’re kissing in my car.
the trip jordan
Day One, 12:36 p.m.
I’m heading toward the bathroom to see what’s taking Courtney so long when I see her lean over and throw up all over the floor. It’s pretty nasty, a bunch of brown chunks and green liquid. I knew that sausage calzone didn’t look right.
“Court,” I say, rushing over to her. “Are you okay?”
She looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot, and then leans over and heaves again. I take her cell phone out of her hand, hang up on whoever it is she was talking to without bothering to say anything, and lead Courtney past the line of waiting women (who are all staring—have they never seen anyone upchuck before?) and into the women’s bathroom.
“Jordan,” she says, leaning against my shoulder. “You can’t come into the girls’
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