Two-way Street
: Chapter 10

123 Days Before the Trip, 2:18 p.m.

Courtney McSweeney is acting like I don’t exist. We’re sitting in math class, and I’m watching her text on her phone through her pink Abercrombie hoodie, and I’m starting to get a little annoyed. Not one word. She hasn’t even looked at me.

I raise my hand while Mrs. Novak is going over the homework.

“Yes, Jordan?” she asks.

“I had a question on number nineteen,” I say, which isn’t true. I don’t even know what number nineteen is, but whatever. Mrs. Novak doesn’t know that, and hopefully it will get Courtney to look at me. But she doesn’t. She just keeps texting. I realize I’m really, really annoyed, which is weird. I don’t get annoyed when girls blow me off, especially if I have no interest in them.

“What’s your question, Jordan?” Mrs. Novak asks, looking at me suspiciously. I usually don’t raise my hand in math. I usually don’t raise my hand in any class. It’s not that I don’t know the answers. I just replace it unnecessary.

“Can we go over the whole problem?” I ask. “Courtney and I were actually discussing how this assignment was a little tricky.”

“Sure,” Mrs. Novak says, and starts going over the problem Courtney keeps texting, still not looking at me. What the hell is her problem? Actually, what the hell is my problem?

I even made sure I came into the classroom right as the bell was ringing, just in case she had any ideas about us talking. One time sophomore year, I hooked up with this girl (a freshman, figures) who was in five of my classes. It was a nightmare. Every time I’d walk into class, she’d be sitting at my desk, waiting for me, so we could “chat” before the bell rang. That’s what she called it—” chatting.”

“I just want to chat,” she’d say, only her idea of “chatting” involved her asking me ridiculous questions like “Don’t you ever get bored with shoes? Since you’re a guy and you don’t have many choices?”

I learned that if you’re in a class with a girl you don’t want to talk to, you sneak in just as the bell rings. That way, you avoid having to interact with her. But Courtney hasn’t even looked at me. Not once. Even when I mentioned her name.

So when the bell rings signaling the end of the period and the end of the school day, I wait until she walks out of the classroom, and then walk up behind her, pulling on her hood.

“Hey,” I say, when she turns around.

“Oh,” she says, looking surprised. “Hey.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” I say, trying to keep it light. “So is this how you usually treat guys who buy you a meal?”

She smiles. “What do you mean?”

“By ignoring them.” I smile back, to show her I’m not bothered by it.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she says, holding up her phone. “I was busy texting.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt whatever secret business it is you were working on.”

We’ve reached her locker now, and she starts to turn the combination dial. She’s biting her lip while she does it, and I suddenly have the urge to reach over and bite it for her. Her lip. Not her locker. God, I’m losing it.

“So,” she says, sliding some books into her bag. When she does that, it reminds me that the school day is over, and that I might actually have to go home now. Which sends me into a mild panic. After I left Courtney’s house on Saturday night, I drove around for a while (okay, a long while), and by the time I got home, it was four in the morning, the rogue car was gone, and my mom was asleep. I slept until around seven (well, tossed around in my bed), and then grabbed breakfast at Dunkin’ Donuts and started driving. And driving. And driving. I drove until eleven, called B. J., and spent the day at his house, helping him nurse his hangover and playing Xbox. I ended up crashing at his house, and this morning stopped at my house only when I knew my mom had already gone to work to take a quick shower and change my clothes.

The day, so far, has been a normal Monday at school, but I’m shot. I feel exhausted, but for once, I’m not looking forward to getting home and taking my Monday afternoon nap. I don’t want to go home. Now. Or ever. The other thing I realize is that I want to hang out with Courtney. Right now.

“Hey,” I say, leaning against her locker and giving her my most charming smile. “What are you doing now?”

“Going home,” she says, sliding her backpack over her shoulders and slamming her locker door.

“You want to hang out for a little while, get something to eat or something?”

A look of surprise crosses her face, and she frowns. “I can’t,” she says firmly. She turns on her heel and starts walking away from me. Which, of course, just makes me want to chase after her. I grab her backpack and pull her around.

“Why not?” I grin.

“Why?” she says.

“No,” I say, sighing. “Why not?” What is it with this girl?

“I mean, why do you want to go get something to eat with me?” She puts her hand on her hip, like she’s challenging me. She’s wearing a small silver chain bracelet and it slides down her wrist.

“Because I’m hungry?” I say. Obviously the best answer isn’t “Because I caught my mom having an affair and I don’t want to go home.” Besides, it’s not like I’m lying. I am hungry. And I do want to hang out with her. Plus, why is she challenging me? Who says shit like this?

She turns and starts walking away again. “Courtney!” I’m literally chasing her now, making my way down the hall and through the throng of people leaving for the day.

“Yeah?” She turns around.

“What is your problem? If you don’t want to go, just say it.”

“I don’t want to go.” She crosses her arms in front of her.

“Fine,” I say. “Then that’s all you had to say.” I turn on my heel and start walking down the hall.

“Jordan!” she calls after me, and I almost don’t stop. But she says my name again, and I turn around.

“Look,” she says, “I’m sorry. It’s just been a weird day, that’s all.” She bites her lip. “If you still want to go…”

“Don’t feel like you have to do me any favors,” I say, still a little pissed. “It’s not a big deal. If you don’t want to go, you don’t want to go.”

“No,” she says, pushing her hair away from her face. “I do want to go. But I’m buying.”

“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “Then let’s go.”

Half an hour later, we’re sitting in my truck, eating drive-thru food from Taco Bell. I wanted to go to a real place, but she was adamant that we go for fast food. This chick is really strange, because then she wouldn’t even let me take her INTO the restaurant, and instead insisted on eating in my car.

“So,” I say, “thanks for ignoring me today.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” she says, looking uncomfortable. She shifts in her seat. “I was just paying attention.”

“Right,” I say. I take a bite of my Taco Supreme and look over at her. She’s barely touched her food. Plus, she keeps giving me all these one-word answers. I grope for something to say that will force her to engage in conversation with me.

“So,” I say. “Tell me about your parents.”

“My parents?” she asks.

“Yeah. Why you don’t have the same last name as them, if and how they’re involved in the whole drug trafficking scheme, any neuroses they may have, if you hate them, etc.”

“It’s really not that scandalous,” she says. “So if I tell you, it may ruin the whole thing. Maybe I should keep it a secret, so you’ll think I’m mysterious and engaging.”

“I already think you’re mysterious and engaging,” I say, taking a sip of my soda.

“You do?” She turns to me, and the sun shining through my windshield hits her hair and illuminates her face. She smiles. “Why?”

“Why what?” I say. Suddenly I feel weird. For the first time, I realize I’m in a car with a girl. Not only that, but it’s just hit me that Courtney’s fucking hot. Not hot in the way Madison is, with her revealing clothes and huge amounts of lipstick, but hot in the sense of…I don’t know. Just hot. An overall package of hotness.

“Why am I mysterious and engaging?” she asks, sounding exasperated.

“Oh,” I say. “Because you ignored me in math today. And no one ever ignores me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Right. No one ever ignores you.”

“Well,” I say, looking at her out of the corner of my eye. “Sometimes girls do ignore me. But it’s only because they want me to think they’re ignoring me, so that I’ll want them.”

“Maybe they’re ignoring you because they don’t want you.” She shrugs. “Maybe they’re just weirded out by the fact that you’ve basically ignored them for four years of high school, and then started randomly taking them to drive-thrus and diners at weird times.”

“Except I don’t usually take girls to random drive-thrus and diners at weird times.”

“Where do you usually take them?” She’s smiling at me now, and I smile back.

“The backseat,” I joke, and the smile vanishes from her face. “Whoa,” I say, “just kidding.” This girl is such a hardass. “Lighten up, Court.”

She takes a small bite of her taco and stares out the window.

“So,” I say. “Your parents? What’s the deal?”

“My dad isn’t my biological father,” she says, shrugging. “He adopted me last year, but I just decided to keep my last name. Didn’t want to have to go through the hassle of changing it, but I might at some point.”

“That’s cool,” I say, hoping she doesn’t ask about my parents and what the deal is with them. No way we need to get into the fact that my mom is screwing around on my dad. “Is your dad a good guy?”

“Yeah,” she says. “He’s great. He’s been married to my mom since I was three, so I don’t really know anything else, you know?”

“Cool.” I take the last bite of my taco and throw the balled-up wrapper back into the empty bag. “So what should we do now, Court?”

“Why do you keep calling me ‘Court’?” she asks.

“Because,” I say, shrugging. “It’s my new pet name for you.”

“As opposed to your old pet name?”

“Yeah, my old pet name,” I say, miming that I’m texting someone on a phone. “‘Weird Text Girl.’” It’s a gamble, but it pays off. She reaches over and pushes me playfully, and I block her hand. I realize again how good she smells, and I swallow. No way I’m going to start hooking up with Courtney McSweeney. That’s just insane.

“Are you flirting with me?” I ask.

“No.” She looks shocked and moves back to her side of the car. “Not even.”

“You totally were.”

“Sweetie,” she says, turning to look at me. “If I was flirting with you, you’d know it.”

She raises her eyebrows at me, and I realize she’s probably telling the truth. If she were flirting with me, I’d probably know it. I’m also really, really turned on.

An hour later, we’re in the DVD section at Barnes & Noble, debating whether or not Laguna Beach is a good TV show. I somehow conned her into coming into the bookstore with me, which wasn’t that hard since it’s right next door to Taco Bell.

“They’re like talking mannequins,” Courtney says, shaking her head. “I have no idea how you could remotely be interested in this show.”

“I didn’t say I was interested in it,” I say, rolling my eyes. This is a lie. I watch it all the time.

“What night of the week is it on?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Wednesday,” I recite without thinking. She smiles smugly.

“That doesn’t mean anything!” I protest. She slides the DVD of Laguna back onto the shelf and turns around.

“Whatever.” She shrugs and starts walking toward the Action/Adventure movies.

“Everyone knows Laguna Beach is on Wednesday nights! All you have to do is turn on MTV for half a second. There’s commercials on all the time.”

“Fine,” she says again, shrugging.

“And so what if I watch it?” I say, “It is what it is.”

“Ridiculous is what it is. They’re like pod people.”

“Okay,” I say, switching tactics. “Did you watch The OC?”

“Totally different,” she says.

“Oh my God, not even!” I say. “It’s the same thing. Only one is written for television, and one is reality TV.”

“The OC is completely different,” she says. “Because even though the characters are rich and materialistic, they at least have intelligent conversations. They have issues. Dilemmas. Debates!”

Hmm. She has a point. I’m trying to think of a good Laguna debate that didn’t involve the Kristin Cavallari/Nick Lachey situation in the media. My cell phone rings before I can think of one, and I pull it out of my pocket.

It’s B. J. I hesitate. It’s probably rude to answer it, but Courtney’s not going to want to hang out with me forever, so it’s a good bet that at some point, I’m going to need to head over to B. J.’s to avoid going home. In which case answering the phone is going to be in my best interest.

“Do you mind if I take this?” I ask. “It’s kind of important.”

“No problem,” she says, turning back to the movies. She kneels down to get a look at something on the bottom shelf, and the back of her shirt rises up, showing her back. I swallow.

“Whaddup?” I say, flipping my phone open and walking a few feet away from Courtney.

“Dude, shit is going down,” B. J. says, sounding like shit really is going down.

“What is it?”

“So I just got out of the gym, right?” B. J. stays after with the football team every day to work out, so I’m assuming that’s what he’s referring to.

“Yeah,” I say.

“So when I leave the school, there’s Jocelyn, in the parking lot with Krista Crause and Tia Biddlecome.”

“Okay,” I say, already starting to become bored with this story. I’m a little bitter about B. J.’s whole hookup with Jocelyn, since after I got him coffee the other night and drove him home, he ended up going to Jeremy’s party anyway. So while I was catching my mom cheating on my dad and acting insane about Courtney McSweeney, B. J. was out partying without me. I try to catch a glimpse of Courtney’s bare back again by glancing around the display of Star Wars DVDs. She’s still leaning. She has a nice ass. I wonder what kind of underwear she wears, if it’s a thong, or maybe those boy shorts. Something lacy, maybe.

“And she ignores me!” B. J. says. Courtney leans over farther. Her shirt slides farther up her back. I try to figure out how close I need to be to get the best view without her actually hearing my conversation. Is it insane to be having these thoughts about her? Probably. I mean, I’m supposed to be kicking it to Madison. It’s just that Courtney’s fun to be around. She takes my mind off all the shit that’s going on at home. Which is good.

“Hello?!” B. J. asks on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing. “Jocelyn ignored you.”

“I can’t believe it!” he says. “That’s fucked up, dude.”

“Girls are fucked up,” I say, shrugging. “Do you like her?”

“Not anymore,” he says, not sounding like he means it. “Not if she’s going to act like a shit.”

“She’s messing with you,” I say. “Just ignore her right back.”

“But I don’t want to fucking ignore her,” B. J. says. “I want to hook up with her again!”

“I know,” I say, sighing. “But if she’s going to play it all cool, the last thing you want is to come off as Psycho Obsessed Asshole.”

A Barnes & Noble employee, a young guy in a green apron with pierced ears almost bumps into me. “Sorry,” I say.

“Where are you?” B. J. asks suspiciously.

“At the bookstore.”

“The bookstore? What the fuck for?”

“I’m, uh, 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.