Confessions Of An Angry Girl. Louise Rozett
says, “Matt wants me to go on the pill.”
Peter’s words about guys who don’t want to use condoms replay in my mind, and I instantly want to punch Matt. “That’s insane, Tracy. Why?”
“How about not getting pregnant? The pill protects better than condoms, you know.”
“Not against STDs.”
“Rosie, Matt and I are both virgins. He’s not going to give me anything.”
Apparently I’m not the only one who is intentionally dumb sometimes.
The words form in my mind, and I know I shouldn’t say them out loud. But I kind of can’t help myself these days. If I want to say something, I say it, for better or worse.
“Do you really know he’s never done it before, Tracy?”
She turns from the mirror and looks at me suspiciously.
“Do you know something I don’t know?”
“No!”
“Because if you do, Rosie, you’d better tell me now—”
“I don’t! But I’m just saying, Trace, how do you know Matt is a virgin?”
“Because he told me so. And I trust him,” she says slowly, as if speaking to someone who doesn’t understand English.
I can already tell it’s going to take her days to forgive me for this one. “Okay, okay, sorry.”
She stares at me for another second and then turns back to the mirror, brushing her straightened brown hair so hard I’m amazed it stays in her head.
“And he’s not going to cheat on me, either.”
At least she’s thought about that possibility. That’s a positive sign, even if she is in denial.
“I’m just saying that things happen. And it’s never a bad idea to protect yourself.” I impress myself for a minute—I actually sound like I know what I’m talking about, which is ironic because Tracy is way more experienced than me, as she often likes to point out. Even if she did get all her “experience” this summer. Which was basically last month.
The doorbell rings downstairs, and Tracy’s mom calls up to let us know that the boys are here. Tracy finishes putting on more eyeliner and leaves the room without another word to me. I grab the bag she lent me when she insisted I’d look like an idiot if I brought my backpack, and I follow her. It’s definitely going to be one of those nights.
* * *
Cavallo’s is packed. Matt stops to talk to some of his friends from the swim team—they’re seniors and they’re huge. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were on steroids. But as I’ve noticed these last four days, there is a pretty big physical difference between a fourteen-year-old and an eighteen-year-old. It almost makes competitive sports in high school seem like a joke. The senior who held the cross-country team’s informational meeting the other day had legs that were at least twice the length of mine.
My dad would have told me not to worry. “It’s not the length of the leg, it’s the length of the stride,” he used to say. He was always telling me to take bigger steps when we ran together. Dad made the mistake of taking me to see a half marathon when I was nine, and right then and there I decided that I was going to run the race the next September. He said he’d train me, which basically meant he spent the summer being really late for work and running twice as much as I ever did. We’d go on runs early in the morning, before it got too hot, and of course it took him a while to get me out of bed, so we never started as early as he wanted to. And then, when we were running, I’d get slower and slower as the longer runs went on, and he’d have to double back for me. I don’t think it was much fun for him, but he was pretty proud of me when I finally ran the race at the end of all that. It took me forever, but I finished. I was the youngest girl running that year.
I haven’t run since he died. Peter pulled me aside this summer after Mom had asked me for the millionth time when I was going to go for a run, and he told me that I never had to run again if I didn’t want to. But I do. I will… I think.
Robert and I grab a booth, but Tracy hovers near Matt until she realizes that he’s not going to introduce her to the swim thugs. Then she comes over, trying to look fine but mostly looking mad. And sad, too.
“So, Rose,” she says. I know I’m in trouble when she calls me Rose and not Rosie. Well, that, and also the fact that until now she hadn’t spoken to me since we left her room. “I saw you with that guy today in the parking lot after school.”
Robert looks at me. The waitress with the crazy beehive hairdo arrives to take our order. She’s famous for demanding that kids pay before she puts their orders in—including tip. We must look trustworthy, because after we order our pizza and sodas, she just leaves.
“What guy?” Robert asks.
I’m staring at Tracy. So this is how she’s going to get revenge for me saying that Matt might not be her knight in shining armor. I realize that she has had this information about me since the afternoon and she’s been saving it. Clearly Tracy has been studying Gossip Girl, absorbing lessons in how to treat your friends like crap.
“Jamie Forta. You got in a car with Jamie Forta,” she says. How interesting that, when it’s convenient for her, she knows his actual name. Her eyes are glued to Robert’s face, searching for a reaction. He must look appropriately shocked or hurt because she appears to be very satisfied. I decide to focus on the blackboard menu above the counter, even though we’ve already ordered and I know the menu by heart.
“What the hell were you doing with Jamie Forta?” Matt asks as he finally sits down at our booth. “That guy’s such a loser. I hear he’s been trying to graduate from high school for, like, three years or something.”
I used to like Matt, way back in eighth grade. But something changed over the summer when he started preseason training with the swim team. He partied with them and now he thinks he’s such a big deal, it’s annoying. I started hating him the second I realized he was pressuring Tracy to have sex. But tonight, right now, I hate him for an entirely new reason.
“He’s a junior, Matt. And you don’t know anything about him.”
“There’s definitely something wrong with that guy,” Matt says. “He’s a moron.”
“Do you know him, Rose?” Robert asks.
The waitress drops off four sodas. Matt reaches for his wallet, but she still doesn’t ask for money. He looks puzzled. I sip my root beer and try to buy myself some time.
“Rosie?” Robert says.
“Yes,” I finally say, hiccupping because of the carbonation. “He was on the hockey team with Peter.”
“Peter knew him?” Tracy asks, blushing a little bit. Matt gives Tracy a sharp look. She’s had a crush on Peter since the day she became my best friend. Coincidence? Doubtful. But maybe that’s just my cynical side coming out.
“Jamie drove Peter home once, when Bobby Passeo skated over his hand.” I know that no one here could possibly know who Bobby Passeo is, but I figure he could work as a diversion from the current topic.
“Jamie’s weird,” Tracy says, ignoring Matt. “What did he want with you?”
So much for a diversion. “Nothing. He has a right to talk to me, Trace. He even has a right to offer me a ride home.”
“He’s a junior,” Robert says, sounding alarmed.
“So what? We’re not supposed to talk to people who aren’t in our class?”
“He must have wanted something from you,” Tracy says again.
“Nope.” I am determined not to give her anything. Two can play at this game.
“Fine. Don’t tell me if you