Captain is the most perfect-looking boy I have ever seen. And let’s face it, I’ve seen my share of boys.
Plus, he’s so smart. I never would have thought that smart could be so hot, but it TOTALLY is. I’ve never talked to him myself. But when he recited the Gettysburg Address from memory at the Presidents’ Day assembly a couple years ago—Jesus! Totally masturbated thinking about it later. (Sorry, Jesus, for writing that so close to your name, but it’s true.)
So there I was, walking down the hall, and the Captain and I do that thing we’ve been doing for a while now where we stare and stare at each other in the middle of a crowd like it’s just the two of us. The thing that totally makes me feel like all I want to do is give him a BJ in the bathroom.
But I don’t want to do that, not this time. This time I’m going to try for something else. Something like other girls have. Who says I can’t have a regular boyfriend?
Anyway, this time, instead of looking away when I got close like he usually does, the Captain raised a hand in a kind of wave. And he said it: Hi. Out loud. I thought Tex’s girlfriend was going to barf on her shoes.
Sandy
In the end, it was the pain in Sandy’s thighs that helped the most. The harder she pedaled, the more her legs ached, the less she thought about anything—Jenna, Hannah, what had happened the last time she’d been out on the bike. That sick feeling of her body flying one way and the bike flying the other, like two halves of an exploding bomb. Or the vicious-ass burn of the concrete ripping a long strip of skin from her forearm.
For two hours, Sandy rode everywhere in town she thought Jenna might be: Sommerfield’s (the only bar other than Blondie’s that Jenna could stand), past the park up on Stanton Street where Jenna had had at least one hookup (the details of which she’d seen fit, as usual, to share with Sandy), and that shitty dump on Taylor Ave. where Jenna bought pot sometimes. There was no sign of Jenna or her car anywhere. Sandy was panting, her throat on fire, by the time she turned in to the parking lot of Blondie’s, where Jenna worked.
Blondie’s was the least fancy place in the fanciest part of downtown Ridgedale. It had a faded green awning and frosted glass windows. Inside wasn’t much better, with stained carpeting, cracked leather benches, and St. Patrick’s Day decorations up year-round. The bartenders were as old-school as the decor. Monte, with his big belly and tight white crew cut, had owned the place for thirty years. He worked there most nights with his son Dominic, a thinner, younger version of himself. Both Monte and Dominic were big, sweet guys, the kind Sandy wished Jenna would fall for. But they’d always treated Jenna way too nice to be the least bit interesting to her.
For decades, Blondie’s had been a favorite of blue-collar locals, people just like Jenna. But in the past few months, the bar had gotten popular with kids from Ridgedale University. Some campus blog had called the usual student hangout, Truth — a bar with a small dance floor, oversize chaises, and a “mixologist,” whatever the hell that was—“cheesy poser bullshit.” After that, the university kids wanted someplace “real” to get loaded. And Blondie’s was it.
“You know what one of those kids said to me tonight?” Jenna had told Sandy as they were driving home one night after Jenna’s shift bartending and Sandy’s waitressing at Winchester’s Pub—avoiding the bike for the past week had meant getting rides from Jenna. “That Blondie’s is ironic. What the hell does that mean?”
“That they’re dicks,” Sandy had said, slipping her shoes off in the passenger seat. Her feet always ached so much at the end of her shifts that she could feel them pulsing.
“Ha, that’s funny.” Jenna had laughed hard, smacking the steering wheel. “You’re right, baby. They are dicks. Every last one of them.”
Sandy tucked her bike into the
Plus, he’s so smart. I never would have thought that smart could be so hot, but it TOTALLY is. I’ve never talked to him myself. But when he recited the Gettysburg Address from memory at the Presidents’ Day assembly a couple years ago—Jesus! Totally masturbated thinking about it later. (Sorry, Jesus, for writing that so close to your name, but it’s true.)
So there I was, walking down the hall, and the Captain and I do that thing we’ve been doing for a while now where we stare and stare at each other in the middle of a crowd like it’s just the two of us. The thing that totally makes me feel like all I want to do is give him a BJ in the bathroom.
But I don’t want to do that, not this time. This time I’m going to try for something else. Something like other girls have. Who says I can’t have a regular boyfriend?
Anyway, this time, instead of looking away when I got close like he usually does, the Captain raised a hand in a kind of wave. And he said it: Hi. Out loud. I thought Tex’s girlfriend was going to barf on her shoes.
Sandy
In the end, it was the pain in Sandy’s thighs that helped the most. The harder she pedaled, the more her legs ached, the less she thought about anything—Jenna, Hannah, what had happened the last time she’d been out on the bike. That sick feeling of her body flying one way and the bike flying the other, like two halves of an exploding bomb. Or the vicious-ass burn of the concrete ripping a long strip of skin from her forearm.
For two hours, Sandy rode everywhere in town she thought Jenna might be: Sommerfield’s (the only bar other than Blondie’s that Jenna could stand), past the park up on Stanton Street where Jenna had had at least one hookup (the details of which she’d seen fit, as usual, to share with Sandy), and that shitty dump on Taylor Ave. where Jenna bought pot sometimes. There was no sign of Jenna or her car anywhere. Sandy was panting, her throat on fire, by the time she turned in to the parking lot of Blondie’s, where Jenna worked.
Blondie’s was the least fancy place in the fanciest part of downtown Ridgedale. It had a faded green awning and frosted glass windows. Inside wasn’t much better, with stained carpeting, cracked leather benches, and St. Patrick’s Day decorations up year-round. The bartenders were as old-school as the decor. Monte, with his big belly and tight white crew cut, had owned the place for thirty years. He worked there most nights with his son Dominic, a thinner, younger version of himself. Both Monte and Dominic were big, sweet guys, the kind Sandy wished Jenna would fall for. But they’d always treated Jenna way too nice to be the least bit interesting to her.
For decades, Blondie’s had been a favorite of blue-collar locals, people just like Jenna. But in the past few months, the bar had gotten popular with kids from Ridgedale University. Some campus blog had called the usual student hangout, Truth — a bar with a small dance floor, oversize chaises, and a “mixologist,” whatever the hell that was—“cheesy poser bullshit.” After that, the university kids wanted someplace “real” to get loaded. And Blondie’s was it.
“You know what one of those kids said to me tonight?” Jenna had told Sandy as they were driving home one night after Jenna’s shift bartending and Sandy’s waitressing at Winchester’s Pub—avoiding the bike for the past week had meant getting rides from Jenna. “That Blondie’s is ironic. What the hell does that mean?”
“That they’re dicks,” Sandy had said, slipping her shoes off in the passenger seat. Her feet always ached so much at the end of her shifts that she could feel them pulsing.
“Ha, that’s funny.” Jenna had laughed hard, smacking the steering wheel. “You’re right, baby. They are dicks. Every last one of them.”
Sandy tucked her bike into the
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