Why can't I get just one . . .
--Violent Femmes
_________________________
When Allison Reynolds showed up at his elbow after school, waving his lock in her hand and just staring at him, John Bender wondered that he wasn't more surprised. She stood there, swaying softly, speaking to him as if he'd been late for an important meeting he'd forgotten. "C'mon Bender, we're going out somewhere to smoke cigarettes, corroding our lungs while our dates engage in healthy after-school involvement."
John nodded. "Orders received. Should I be scared?"
"Depends on how you respond to interrogation. And on how many cigarettes you have."
Bending down to grab a book, John looked over his shoulder. "Anyone ever tell you you might need to work on your sales pitch?"
Allison shook her head. "What sales pitch? I don't speak."
John smiled, straightened, then gave her a little shove on the shoulder. "How times change."
"Quit your slacking, Bender. You're even slacking from slacking." Allison was in his face and in his space. Nothing she said sounded casual, the way it would when someone else said it. It all sounded like a pronouncement. But that was cool. He liked her. He shoved into her side a little, pushing slightly, causing her to trip up, and then she shoved right back into him, and in this way they made their way down the hall to the back entrance.
As John ushered Allison to a choice spot under the bleachers, bowing low, Allison raised her long skirt and curtseyed. She delicately took a cigarette from the box and smiled as John lit it.
Allison blew an experienced-looking smoke ring and asked, "So is this where you bring all your girlfriends to make out with them?"
When John had stopped coughing, he managed to get out, "Trust me, not what I had in mind for right now."
"Not with me, maybe, but what about the blonde girl with very large breasts you had draped over you at lunch? Did you come out here with her after lunch?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I didn't have anything draped over me at lunch except this scarf. And her name is Michelle and she's a friend of mine."
"Huh. Claire and I must have been hallucinating then cause it looked so much like she was a more or less frequent sexual partner of yours and that she had her hands all over you and I also heard you had your head buried in her chest before that. It was probably one of those mass hallucinating things like when half of Nicaragua sees the Virgin Mary in toast or, like, aliens in the parliament or something except in this case it was just, you know, the two of us and anyone else who happened to glance your way at any time during lunch. Just one of those freak things. I'm sure as soon as I explain that Claire will feel better."
"It's none of Claire's business either," growled John. He was looking down very hard.
"Course not." Now Allison was speaking very quickly. "That's probably why she was so relieved when I was able to show her a good hiding place for when she was crying after lunch. Probably she didn't want anyone to see her crying about something that was so obviously none of her business. I know all of the secret places to cry in school. That's why I'm going to be such a valuable new friend to her during this time while she's falling in love with a guy who's crazy about her but not enough to, like, risk anything at all to be with her or take his head out from in between some other girl's tits, at least in public."
"Trust me. I haven't gotten near tits all week, ok? And for your information, Claire is not falling in love with me, and that's one of the main reasons I'm risking plenty. Plus I saw her after lunch, she wasn't upset, she hadn't been crying, we had a great time, and you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Are we done?" John made like he was about to walk off but he didn't actually go anywhere. "Claire doesn't have any problems letting me know stuff bothers her, ok? Plus I can tell when she's been crying." He kicked at the ground with his boot and muttered, "It's not like I haven't made her cry before."
"You know," said Allison conversationally, as if nothing difficult had been said at all and they were talking about the weather, and so for once, everything she was saying sounded completely casual, now that nothing she was saying was, "one of the things that makes Claire such a great new friend for me, besides the fact that she will actually speak to me, is that I learn so many great cosmetics secrets."
John was looking at Allison with wide eyes. "Are you planning on sharing them with me now? Because although I feel like I'm doing ok on my own, cosmetics wise, I'd pretty much welcome any different topic right now. Like I'd call my aunt to talk about her bunion surgery and it would be a step way up from this chat."
Allison tossed her cigarette and went on as if John hadn't spoken. She started rummaging through her bag and bringing out little tubes and sponges. "Like this, for example, is a little spongy pad, and if you put cold water on it and then just dab it under your eyes gently, it helps take away any puffiness. And this," and she held up a little plastic bottle, "as you probably know is Visine, which is so useful for getting any telltale redness out of eyes if you've been smoking pot or, you know, doing anything else that might make your eyes red. And this," she triumphantly waved a beige colored tube, "is, like, $20 for an ounce or something, Claire got it at Saks but she said I could have some because her mother gets pissed off when she doesn't charge enough makeup there. And it is the best under-eye concealer in the world, you could not sleep for a week or cry for an hour and then you just dab some of this on on and look fresh as a daisy."
She threw everything back in her bag and took a deep breath. "Isn't that interesting? She's such a great friend". Allison reached into John's coat pocket, grabbed the pack of cigarettes and the lighter, took another one out, and lit it.
"Nice scarf," she said.
John Bender took a deep breath and slid his large frame down one of the bleachers' supporting poles until he was sitting on his crumpled coat. He was pissed off, pissed Allison horning in like this, making him see and own up to things he already knew somewhere and was working very hard at ignoring and she was pushing him, pushing him toward doing things and saying things that, for whatever reason, he did not want to say—not to her, not to Claire, not to himself. But he didn't want to blow her off, in part, because he knew she was working out what it meant to be a friend to Claire and was even, in her own completely bizarre way, trying to show she cared about him and because, more selfishly, he hoped that she did have, maybe in her bag jumbled with the concealer and the flavored lip gloss, some secret girl knowledge that would help him figure out what the fuck. Period.
"It is a very fucking nice scarf. It is the nicest fucking scarf in the world, nicer than anything I own except the fucking diamond earring that she also gave me. Ok?" His voice sounded incredibly angry and nasty, even to him.
Allison's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I can see why you'd be so pissed off. What a bitch."
John felt like flipping her off but didn't. She was goading him and he didn't know why.
"It doesn't matter how much you dress up a frog, ok? Frog doesn't turn into a prince. It's just a matter of time before she realizes it. At least I'll get a scarf out of it, you know?"
"You're not a frog, except for being kind of slimy at lunch, and Claire doesn't really have any shortage of princes, if that was what she was after. If she wanted someone that wasn't you, don't you think she'd have options?"
John stood up and started pacing. "YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW CLAIRE STANDISH HAS FUCKING OPTIONS?" He slapped hard at a metal bar. He thought he might cry, and he thought he might hit something, and he thought he might strangle this strange girl in front of him. "Look—Michelle is a friend, we've been friends for a long time and I wasn't doing anything with her that Claire doesn't do with her fucking jock buddies in the hall in front of me, ok"
Allison nodded. "Oh. So, Claire had sex with fourteen jocks and nuzzles their secondary sex organs the halls?"
"Stop SAYING things like that! I'll have to fucking MURDER you and I LIKE you!"
Allison kept right on talking as if she'd never stopped, as if no one had said a thing. "Huh. What a good actress. Cause she had me convinced with all that virgin stuff on Saturday. So. I take it back. I can see how that must hurt you, her flirting with her prior sexual partners in front of you, especially since you're probably all kinds of insecure about, like, your experience compared to hers."
"Right. Claire insecure. She has so much to be insecure about. And fuck you twice over." He started shaking the bars so the entire bleachers rattled. "She may be a virgin but she's pretty much a genius in that whole area, ok? And she's not suffering from any lack of evidence that the stuff she does gets to me, ok? Enough said? And as far as anything else, she's the fucking queen of the school, everyone loves her—she's go her options, she's already got her reserve dates lined up, ok? For when she gets sick of me? She lined them up in front of me."
Now Allison was standing up too, waving her cigarette around so wildly that John figured he'd have to be really pretty careful not to lose an eye. And she was shouting, now, too, her eyes alternately wide as saucers or narrow as slits. "Oh, so. I keep misunderstanding. You told her, then, that you wanted to be all exclusive with her, and you didn't want her to see any other guys. You basically told her, you wanted to be, like, her steady boyfriend, because the thought of her being with other guys makes you sick. But she really didn't want to commit. She said she wasn't like that, didn't believe in it—basically, she hedged. So you figure—she really might want to keep fucking those jocks, at least on the side, when she's not with you."
John was working everything he had to keep from hitting Allison. Because he did not hit girls. Or she'd be flat on the ground. And she just kept talking.
"Or you figure, at least, you know, she wants to keep those options open, in case you yourself aren't really enough. Ok. So I get it now. I can see why you're resentful. But you're trying to be understanding, hoping maybe she'll come around. Because you like her so much, cause you just care so much, you're every day changing your whole life around, you're willing to put it all on the line, and you're just hoping she'll catch up, and you figure you just don't have much of a choice except to be with her on her terms."
"Fuck you, Allison. That's not how it is with her."
"No shit, Sherlock." And Allison blew another perfect series of smoke rings. This made John throw his pack of cigarettes, narrowly missing her head.
"No, idiot, I mean, that's not—you know what I mean. And I know what you mean, and that's not how it is with her, either. She gets over this weird thing with me—when—one week? maybe two? However long she gets off on making out with the burnout in the broom closet, you know? It's not like you and Andy. It's not like we're together, like we'll admit it. So she gets sick of it. Realizes I smell funny. Whatever. And she goes back to her daddy's BMW, and her prom, and her duets, and her date reserve, and her college prep. But me? I can't even go home because I don't want anyone who's been in my fucking house near Claire, ok? So how do you think Claire is going to feel if she sees it? Or her parents, once they figure out where the hell I come from. She has no fucking clue about my life."
John took a deep breath. "But those girls are my friends, ok? Yeah, we fool around. Sometimes. And yeah, it's fun. But so maybe, maybe I feel different about Claire. Maybe I want to kill every guy who looks at her, and since every guy looks at her, I want to kill the world. But what am I supposed to do? How do you break up with your friends? And like, Claire and I are this big secret, as far as putting everything on the line goes. So what, I'm supposed to just say to these girls who have always liked me, in public, sorry, I can't tell you why, but don't fucking touch me any more, cause I'm secretly exclusive with the girl who's queen of all the kids who shit on you, who look down on you because of stuff I do with you, which we both like, and even though I always told you I'd never be exclusive with you, cause I don't believe in it, now I'm fucking apeshit over the virgin prom queen, like I've finally found someone who's worthy of the glorious John Bender? Do you have any idea how badly that is going to fucking hurt those girls? And I'm supposed to somehow do that? And then Claire gets sick of me and I've hurt all these people for nothing and I'm left to go back to what, exactly?"
He slid down the pole again and just sat there, staring into space.
Allison sat down too. When she spoke, her voice had that kind quality he remembered from the other day, she sounded much less crazy, much nicer, much more like a friend and John realized this might make him cry.
"That does sound harsh. And it does sound, I have to say, pretty hard to explain to someone like Claire. I mean, I get that. But what really interests me is, how do you know Claire will get sick of you in a week?"
John just gave her a look. He gestured to himself, his clothes, and then the world around him. "Cause I'm a rocket fucking scientist."
Allison was talking faster. "I mean, it's not like these kinds of things haven't crossed my mind with Andy—but I just figure, even if he gets sick of me, goes back to his old life, I tried, and I gave it my all, and—maybe it works out. But if it doesn't, I was happy for that time, anyway. Which I wasn't before. And which, however many friends you had, you weren't before either. Cause I'd seen you before too."
John didn't answer. Now Allison's voice was wavering a little. "Doesn't—doesn't Claire try to let you know she cares about you?"
She waited for an answer, but John couldn't give her one, because he was just stuck in a loop of all the things Claire had done, day, after day, to let him know she cared about him. Which was, in some twisted way, the source of his panic.
So Allison went on. "Cause she does with me, and she tries something different every day, and she—she's thinking about it, you know? Like, what would be a good thing to try, to be my friend? I don't think anyone's really, well, I know no one's done that for me before. Maybe that's part of how she got popular, because, she can make people feel good, not like—just bad, like some of those girls. I mean, you should have seen your friend Kenny at lunch, I thought he was going to swoon or break up with his girlfriend, and she just said two words to him . . ."
"Great," John muttered. "Now I have to kill him too and I always liked the guy."
"Not all her friends are like that, you know? Some of them are just mean, and they are going to be mean to Claire because of us. Like that Ruth-Ann, who's just laying in wait to hurt Claire, because she's talking to people like you and me. But Claire keeps talking to me, and—I'm pretty sure she'd talk to you too, or she will. She's making progress, she's thinking—she's like, coming slowly out of this cocoon, or something. But with me—I mean, she doesn't do it, because she doesn't have any other friends—obviously. She does it because she likes me, and because I think—"
And as he looked at Allison, he could see she was crying and smiling at the same time, "Because there's something that she sees in me that she isn't finding in other people, that and, she knows—I need a friend, and she likes making me feel good—like that makes her feel good. She held my hand in the hall, John, and everyone was staring and she still held it, because she knew—I needed it for a minute. And John, she's thinking about you a lot more."
For the second time that day, John Bender could feel a tear trickle out of his eye, "It's cool she did that, it really is, but she doesn't hold my hand in the hall, Allison."
And then her voice was sharp again, and she whipped around to face him, "Yeah, I wonder why. Since you yelled at her that she didn't need to worry about what people would think about walking down the halls with you, because it was never going to happen. But you can't see why she might be insecure, because you're so insecure, it's like there's no room for any other insecurity in the entire world."
John scrubbed furiously at his face with his hands.
"You know what she told me, along with the make-up secrets? She told me that probably, if a little bit of a person wanted to have sex with someone, you might as well go and do it even if you knew you really weren't all the way ready, and it would probably be ok if it meant that the boy you wanted to have sex with a little bit, the boy you wanted so bad whether you wanted all the way or not, it would be worth it if it meant he wouldn't go and sleep with someone else while he was being nice and understanding and waiting around for you to have sex with him, since you couldn't possibly expect that just you, yourself, who you were and what you were really comfortable and wanting to do, would be enough for someone like him."
John leaned his head back until it hit the pole. He felt another tear. He couldn't handle it, he couldn't handle it that Claire might do that with him and not want to and he'd be too worked up to know the difference. "I swear to fucking God, Allison, that is not from me. I would rather die than have her—have her do one thing she didn't want—I'm so careful. I try to be so careful. If I go—if I get even a little bit too—I just stop. I say sorry. I let her call all the shots, I swear to God. I know I say all kinds of shit that makes me look the opposite but now I would rather die than have her do that. I would rather never touch her again. And I'd rather touch her fucking hand than fuck any girl on the planet."
"Did you tell her that?" whispered Allison.
"Maybe not—in so any words. But I tell her, yeah, I tell her."
Allison nodded.
Then John said, in a small voice, smaller than any voice he'd ever heard come out of his own mouth, "Did she say she felt like I was trying to get her to do stuff she didn't want?"
And this time, Allison shook her head. "She said you weren't."
"So where does it come from?"
Off Allison's look, he held up his hands. "Right. Stupid question. So what do I do?"
"Take some of the pressure off."
"But I didn't put it on!"
"So?"
"She likes doing—she likes it. Allison, I wasn't born yesterday. I can tell when a girl likes something. She likes it."
Crossing her arms in front of her, Allison looked at him steadily, contemplating. "That's not the kind of pressure I meant but—how can you tell?"
John was about to flip her off, but then he remembered, she was a virgin too, with her first boyfriend, and might be asking about these things for more than one reason. "What, you want a blow by blow? Elevated breathing, certain sounds and—she tells me—plus, she laughs. She smiles. She looks—she looks so fucking happy when she's with me, sometimes, and we hardly even get to be together, and half the time I'm probably being an asshole. But she looks so happy, like glowy happy. And she squeals and hugs me and tells me I'm cute. Me, that I'm cute. Ok, so maybe she's delusional, but I swear—she likes it, ok?"
"Huh. But you—you don't feel good?"
"I feel like God. Except having much more fun cause I don't have to worry about running the universe and she's—she's amazing, it's like you said, like, she's always thinking up stuff to do for me, to remind me she likes me, like she knows I'm gonna forget, and she gets all, like protective—her, protective of me, and she's funny, and she just—she gets me, like, gets exactly what to do—I feel so fucking good, I never—"
He stopped. He looked down.
"So why are you crying?"
Then he went on, swallowing hard. "So when—when she figures it out, that, like, I'm not what she thinks it's just—it's gonna hurt so fucking much, and then—anything, whatever thing I had before, which wasn't much but when I didn't know how good something could feel, it was ok—but now anything else is just gonna feel that much worse. Because I'll know, now, what I'm missing. And every time she walks out of the room, I see that, and I feel that, and I know every one of those guys is so much more—could give her so much more, and I just panic."
"So it's not that you think, she wouldn't be enough for you."
John shook his head. He hated this. He couldn't believe he was saying this stuff. He couldn't believe this was him out here, with a girl, and instead of copping a feel he was crying about a different girl. His eyes had closed, but when he opened, he saw a chin very close to his and some still pretty intense looking eyes staring at him in an even more intense looking way.
"John, when was the last time you had a good night's sleep?"
"I don't know. I passed out at Skins' last night, on his fucking basement floor. I was sure I'd fucked it up with Claire so bad, I kept smoking joint after joint to try and get rid of that feeling, to get rid of her face and then I—I got up this morning to find cherry chapstick, and if you ever tell anyone, I'll rip your head off, I don't care if you're a girl."
"You got cherry chapstick?"
"Shut up. I just wanted her to—telling her stuff wasn't maybe working."
Allison held out her hand and pulled on John's sleeve. "C'mon. Before you meet Claire. She said to tell you she might be a little late. Let's get you a new shirt."
"I'll be fine. I don't wear new clothes. I don't have any money, I have to buy Claire a soda. She gave me a diamond and cashmere and I have to get her something."
"John. I have enough money to buy you a new t-shirt at Woolworth's. You'll feel better. It sounds stupid, but you'll feel better showing up to meet Claire in a t-shirt that you didn't sleep in on a basement floor stoned off your ass trying to forget her. C'mon. You bought flavored chapstick. You get it about the little things."
John let himself be pulled. "I'll pay you back." He felt in his pocket, realized something was missing. "And pick up my smokes."
To his surprise, she bent over and picked up the pack of cigarettes he'd thrown at her, took one out, and handed him the pack. "You always smoke this much?" he asked.
Allison shook her head. "I almost never smoke. But when I do, I smoke this much." She leaned in to him and whispered, "I kind of like extremes."
"There's a shock." He lit her cigarette.
They walked across the fields, past the school entrance, and across the street to Woolworth's.
As they walked, Allison said in that weird new casual tone, "If you mean that scarf to be hiding that bruise on your neck, you need to adjust it."
John rolled his eyes. "Allison. I don't have to hide it from anyone I'm going to see this afternoon. Ok? Do I pass?"
"Yes. This time. Which is good. I'd hate to have to kill you."
"Claire told me specifically that she asked you not to kill me."
"Well. I'm pretty sure I just betrayed her a little already. What's one more thing? But if you tell her I said any of that, I'd have to kill you twice."
"Only once, remember? Because you don't have to kill me about my neck. Why'd you betray her, then?"
"Because I thought about it a lot, and I figured that not betraying her a little would have been betraying her worse. And sometimes you have to take a little risk, even with other people's feelings."
"Gee, what could you be referring to? You're so cryptic and creepy, you speak in riddles."
Allison smiled, secretly. "But don't worry. I didn't tell all her secrets. There's still some surprises left."
"I have no doubt."
They walked in silence a few moments. Then he asked, "Why did you pick up the cigarettes I threw at you?"
"Because I made you throw them with my cryptic creepy ways." And she pushed into John, just a she had in the hallway. John pushed back. "And John, everyone knows there's reasons why we might sometimes need to cut you some slack."
"Allison, I don't know how to break this to you, but that little chat back there? That wasn't slack that was being cut. What was being cut was more like my fuckin' balls off, ok?"
Allison blew more smoke rings. "See, you're only able to say it like that, that because I cut you some slack."
"Huh?"
"I'll show you." They were at the door to Woolworth's, Allison stubbed out her cigarette on the brick wall and they walked in. Allison made straight for the back of the store where the party favors were. She walked up to the counter where they sold balloons. "One balloon please."
"Color?"
"Black."
"Whatever you say, miss."
John watched the man behind the counter shaking his head as he gave her a black balloon on a black ribbon. Allison smiled, took the sheet that said what she had to pay for the balloon, and drew John towards the men's apparel section. When they were in front of the t-shirts, she motioned for him to pick some. "Get some underwear, too. And some socks. Change in the back of the store, and give me the stuff you're wearing. I'll wash it and bring it to you tomorrow. Oh. Look. Workpants. Those are ok. Get those too. I'll wash everything you have on."
"Allison, you don't have to do all that, ok? I mean, I can do my own fuckin' laundry, you know? Plus you don't have that kind of money."
"If I thought I had to do it, believe me, I would never do it. Remember why I got detention? If you did your laundry, you'd probably have to go home, and then you'd think Claire shouldn't go near you, which would make her sad. So I'm really doing it for her, not for you. And I have plenty of money. It's my runaway money, you know? And usually" and she lowered her voice, "It's pretty easy to save, because I don't really have to pay for stuff, you know? Paying is this new thing I'm trying."
John shook his head. "That's right. I was forgetting that you are a complete and total basket case for a minute. And can I have my lock back?"
Wordlessly, Allison handed him his lock. And his wallet. And his roll of lifesavers. "Wild cherry. Very cute." She said. "Don't worry. I didn't have any of those. I imagine you don't like sharing."
John put his things back in his pockets, chuckling. "Good guess."
Then she said, "And you should really do what I say. Remember," and then, as John watched, transfixed in spite of himself, Allison expertly untied her black balloon and put it to her lips. She breathed in, held her breath for a moment, and then breathed out as she said in that high pitched heilium voice, but otherwise dead serious,"Just remember, if I hadn't cut you slack, you would have been talking like this."
His entire body shaking with laughter, John grabbed the balloon. He inhaled some helium too. "You mean I would have sounded like this? Just like this? Do I still sound threatening?"
Allison took the balloon back. "Dick Vernon will never mess with you again. But lay off now. I don't think it's the voice you want for your date."
*****
Claire was running late because she had had to catch up with Andy, to make sure things had gone ok with him and Vernon hadn't, in fact, had him kicked off wrestling. It could still happen, she knew, but she felt like that would have been a really big price to pay. Andy'd wanted to do this thing, it had even been, in large part, Andy's idea, but now that it came down to it, Claire was nervous, because she liked Andy and she hated Vernon and didn't want Vernon to pick this time, of all times, to play the stand up guy when he could be screwing with John Bender. Plus now, maybe, with the idea from lunch, they'd be able to get by without Andy sticking his neck out at all. But he was adamant about going through with it, said he was going to do it anyway, and so someone should benefit from it, if possible.
So she'd seen Andy, and it had all gone down the way they thought it would. He was going to catch the last part of practice. And now Claire was running to meet John.
Of course she'd had a difficult time at rehearsal. Because it was actually a little distracting to be singing a love song while thinking about giving a hickey to John Bender in the boiler room. That is, the love song was annoyingly distracting from the memory, which was kind of amazingly good. It had been like a perfect moment, boiler room and all, she knew she was doing something perfect for John and she knew, she just knew that she was making him feel amazing, that there was no room in his obviously blown mind and totally turned on body for any thoughts of any other girls. Maybe not for any thoughts at all.
At least, that had been what it was like for Claire. For a while it didn't seem that time meant anything at all, it was just her hands wrapped in cashmere and the taste and feel of John Bender's skin on her lips, between her lips, between her teeth, against her tongue. There were the rhythms she fell into as she sucked on his neck and the rhythms that he started in return as he lightly stroked her sides and then her ass, which felt so good, so natural, she didn't even think of stopping him. And all the while, she'd loved the thought that what she was doing with her mouth on his neck would show up on him, that she'd be able to know, and so would he, and so would anyone else, that it had happened, that he'd let her do this, that he'd wanted her to. And her entire body, too, had felt turned on, tingly, powerful.
So it was hard to think about anything else, she was going to see him in an hour and a half, and then an hour, then forty-five minutes, then just thirty, and every one of them dragged. And knew she would figure out a way, as soon as she possibly could, to taste his skin again.
And finally, finally, she walked the last block to the diner, she looked in the window and there he was, still wearing his coat, large frame hunched a little awkwardly on one of the counter stools. He turned on the stool as she walked in, leaned back a little with an arm on either side, his legs a little spread and bent from balancing on the stool. He gave her that sideways smile that liquefied her insides as he said, "There's that cherry on top I was hoping for."
His coat hung open so she could see he was wearing a bright white shirt, a little tighter than his usual baggy thermals and flannels. Claire thought he looked incredible. The white made a sharp contrast with his skin which looked darker and really, really good. More lickable, even. Her stomach started doing flips, like all the butterflies were back in force, they just kept getting more and more plentiful. So she kept right on walking, she walked right up to him, eased right between his legs, leaned into him, and licked him by his ear before she whispered close into it, "Hi, John. Sorry to keep you waiting." And then she kissed him, very softly, on the cheek.
John had his hands lightly on the sides of her legs as she stood between his. He looked up at her with a kind of dazed expression, "If hi is going to be like that, you can keep me waiting any time."
As if recollecting where they were, he swiveled his stool, Claire still between his legs, to face the stool next to him. He eased Claire back onto the seat but kept her legs between his and took her hands to steady her as she sat down. Once she was sitting, he kept hold of her hands and swung them back and forth a little as he swung back and forth on his stool, nudging her legs first on one side, then on the other side with his own. He was just staring at her, looking at her all over, up and down, and up again. But he was also being, like, gallant. She couldn't believe what was happening. They were sitting at a counter holding hands. It was like what teenagers did in old movies, and John Bender was doing it with her.
And then he looked at her more seriously, in the eyes, and held onto her hands, stroking them gently with his thumbs. "Really, Claire, if you just, keep saying hi to me, like that, or like however, I don't have any problem with waiting for you, for—for whatever. Or if ever. You know, you just take whatever time." He looked down, having trouble, obviously, and Claire couldn't really speak either. When he looked up, though, looking nervous, and unsure, and so far from his usual cocky that she thought her heart might break right on the spot, for some reason, like maybe happiness, she looked right into his eyes and just hoped he'd see that feeling. And then he said, very quietly, "And it's not like it's just waiting, you know, I mean, it'll be great here when ice cream comes but it—it feels good like this too, you know, like, even just—like this?" and he looked at their joined hands.
And at that, Claire could feel herself break out into a huge smile, and then she felt her own hand, as if of its own will, travel up to the hem of his shirt and tug at it a little. She let her fingers run up the material, up over his stomach to his chest and back down.
She swallowed, hard. "You got a new shirt, John. You got a new shirt for taking me out."
John Bender then actually blushed. In front of her. Red. "Yeah, well, Woolworth's finest, you know, nothing's too good for my Princess." Claire knew he meant to be ironic, and to be cutting himself down, but the fact that he blushed combined with his use of the word "my" in front of a name he used for her made her breath stop and her whole body buzz even harder than it had before. She knew it was a little messed up that she liked it so much, but she loved it.
So she let her hand travel from his shirt down to rest on his thigh, not too far up, not trashy, but definitely there, on his thigh, meaning to be there. His eyes widened, and then she said, "Well, if that's what Woolworth's can do for you, then all those guys are wasting their money at Ralph Lauren, because your Princess thinks you look good enough to eat."
She felt as John's entire body tensed at her words, his eyes got even wider and his grip on her other hand tightened. Then he let it go, he put both hands on her thighs, leaned in to her, and spoke softly but very intensely into her ear, "And then there's the possibility that you'll say and do something like that, and then all bets on the whole waiting thing, will be totally off, since I am, after all, a seventeen year-old guy and not a geriatric fucking monk, and there's the possibility that instead I will be white knuckling it until the second I can drag you out of here and have you pinned up against the nearest alley wall, screaming my name, and what the fuck are you trying to do to me, Claire Standish?"
Claire gently pushed him back, looked him in the eye, and trailed a finger along his coatsleeve. "I'm trying to remind you, John Bender, that while you're waiting for an ice cream sundae, there's nothing to stop you from enjoying, say, a root beer float with me, or a—cherry coke, or—a whole variety of other things. From what I hear, they have a big menu, there's a lot of different things we could try. I mean, I might not like all of it, but it should keep you from getting bored."
"Claire, do I look bored to you?" John's eyes looked a little wild and his breath was coming very fast, his hands were shaking a little and she had to say, he looked anything but.
Smiling, Claire shook her head. "Really not."
"Good. Because 'bored' is not a word that comes to mind within ten feet of you. Insane, maybe. Turned on out of my fucking skull, definitely. But not fucking bored. And that's without your moving or saying anything at all. So you don't have to worry about doing anything to keep me interested, ok? Because that pretty much takes care of itself as long as you keep breathing." John sounded a little exasperated but Claire thought it sounded extremely hot.
"John. What if I like root beer floats? I mean, we know I like root beer, I bought the lip gloss, right?"
"Good point. Mae? Mae! Mae, I need a root beer float, two straws, and I need it, like, yesterday. I need it so fast it would make your head spin. No time to lose, Mae, do you hear me?"
He sounded completely insane. Claire started giggling and swatted at him. "John, you sound crazy."
"Yeah, well. At least I don't sound fucking bored. Mae? Mae! I also need an ice cream sundae. This should come after the root beer float. I want, two big mounds of vanilla ice cream, covered with hot fudge, and—and some really hot, sticky caramel, lots of whipped cream, and a great big cherry on top. Two spoons." He looked at Claire. "You'll like spooning afterwards."
"John, I can't believe you just turned ordering a sundae into like, an x-rated movie."
"So what, I ordered. And Cherry, you turned a clean t-shirt into an x-rated movie. Cherry, I'm telling you, you're gonna love it on top. Mae? Mae! We need a side of cherries with the root beer float, too." He turned back to Claire. "Because I cannot fucking get enough of that wild cherry and I don't mind waiting for a sundae but I am more than happy to take whatever I can get right now."
Mae, a broad, friendly looking woman who did, as a matter of fact, look a little bored if also amused, came out of the kitchen holding a large root beer float topped with a cherry and a small metal dish of cherries on the side. She placed it between them, put two straws and two spoons on the counter, and nodded at John, gesturing with her head towards Claire. "So, you finally found a lady friend?"
"Sssh. Mae! You're gonna make her think I don't bring girls here all the time, c'mon, you're going to blow my reputation!" John looked horrified.
Mae frowned, shook her head and looked at Claire. "Sweetheart. He never brings girls here. I'm always asking why he doesn't find a girlfriend to calm him down a little, but you're the first I've seen."
Claire could feel herself coloring and she knew she had some kind of stupid smile all over her face, but she couldn't stop from looking at John. John, however, was frantically making ridiculous expressions and gesturing towards Claire, then putting his finger to his lips and gesturing "keep it down." "Mae," he whispered in a loud voice, "ssh! She's gonna know I'm a cherry here!"
Mae gave him a strange look but Claire was laughing, remembering the scene with Brian from Saturday. "Remember, I think it's ok for a guy to be a cherry," she said.
"Mmm. That's right, I forgot," John said, stuffing a cherry in his mouth and rolling his eyes back into his head. Then he licked his lips, and then he slowly licked his fingers as he stared at Claire's mouth and said, "And I think it's ok for a guy to eat a cherry, so you see, we have so much in common." And Claire swatted at him and called him a perv, but could not stop laughing.
Mae, shaking her head, made her way back in the kitchen, but not before swatting John on the head. "I suppose you think you're cute," she said, over her shoulder.
John shook his head vigorously. "Nah. Red here thinks I'm cute. I think I'm a scary as hell badass criminal bad boy she wants to slum with."
"Hm." said Mae, "then I guess you're both crazy."
Claire didn't like the slumming comment. She opened her mouth to say something, but John put his hand on the inside of her thigh, not high up, and just stroked her slightly. "Here," he said, as if his hand didn't exist, "have a cherry, they're great with a little whipped cream on them," and he took the cherry from the top of the soda and put it in her still open mouth with his fingers. His eyes suddenly looked a lot less joking and Claire could feel the touch of his hand on her thigh in every single molecule of her body. So she closed her mouth around his finger and quickly swirled her tongue around it, then let her teeth graze the tip of it as she pushed it slowly out through her lips with her tongue.
Claire chewed the candied fruit slowly as John stared at her with an open mouth and one of those looks in his eyes that half made her want to run away and half made her want to throw herself on him. Instead, she said, demurely, "You're right, that is good. See? I never even knew I liked them. Never even tried." She put her head to one side and smiled.
John's eyes widened for a minute, then narrowed. Claire felt a little giddy, like she'd won something. But then he asked, in a similarly demure tone, "so which do you like better, Claire? Blowing them, or just making them squirm?"
Drawing back, Claire felt like she'd been slapped. How dare he suggest—that she had done that? When he knew, and she was just trying to show him, she was willing to try—new things. . . .But as she looked at him, he had the two straws and was turning them in his hands. Off her look, he said innocently, "The straw wrappers, I mean. What did you think I meant, Claire?"
"Very funny," she said, and she tried to roll her eyes but she couldn't quite pull it off. She swatted him in the head, too. His voice had a little edge to it, though. She didn't know why, she had thought he'd just like it. Cosmo made it sound like guys would really like it if you did stuff like that. She felt a little flustered, and looked down.
John kept right on talking. "See, I woulda put money on you choosing—just based on personal experience—making them squirm. The wrappers, you know how, when you get them all tight and then with just a little—touch—of water, in the case of straw wrappers, how you can make them squirm? But now, I'd say, maybe I got it wrong, and you have a little more experience with blowing them than I thought. Not like there's anything wrong with that, and not like it's any of my business. And hey—we don't have to choose, right? I mean we can blow wrappers, we can make them squirm for fun, while waiting for the sundae, right? Nothing both of us haven't done before, right? It's not like you have to pretend you haven't." He was looking down a little fiercely at the straws in his hand, and suddenly the combination of the passion in his voice—which she also recognized was laced with something like hurt—compared with the straws in their paper wrappers made Claire giggle a little. John looked at her and tried to force a smile.
And then Claire got what as going on. She took a spoon, dug it into the float and got a spoonful of ice cream and root beer. She put it to his lips but he wouldn't open. "Come on, scary as hell burnout crush, don't pout over your straw wrappers. This is really good, here. Just enjoy it." He looked steadily at her, then opened his mouth and let her push the spoon in.
"Mm." He nodded.
Claire put the spoon down and took his hands in hers. They felt stiff and he didn't really move them, although he didn't draw them away. She took the straws from out of his more or less clenched fists and put them on the counter. "You don't have to strangle the poor things." She stroked his hands, then put her hand up to his face and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "You know, John, not like it is any of your business, but you might be interested to learn that there's this women's magazine, my mom gets it, that gives all kinds of really detailed advice on—different ways to eat . . . fruit."
John grabbed at her hand and looked down. "Really," he said.
"Really," said Claire. "Not like it's any of your business."
John nodded. He looked like he was trying to say something and he was holding her hand so tightly it kind of hurt. "So, like, you might have learned—"
Claire nodded.
"But why—why would you be reading something like that?" He was still looking down.
"Oh, come on, a girl—even a pristine girl, you know—gets curious. Besides," and here she looked down, not sure that what she was about to say was a good idea, but wanting him to know, anyway, "maybe I want you to wait for the main course and I don't want you to get bored or—you know."
"You don't have to—"
But Claire started tapping on the straw in its wrapper, easing the paper as it crumpled down. She put the straw in the soda and took a sip, watching John watch her do it. She smiled around the straw and he smiled back, shaking his head. Then she took the straw out again, placing her finger on the tip at the end, and dropped tiny drops of root beer on the crumpled paper, turning it into a worm. "Look at that," she said innocently, "see, I did always kind of like that. Maybe—maybe I more think of it as writhing, at least, when you make me—" but then John was kissing her, he tasted like ice cream and root beer and cherries and John Bender, and it felt so sweet, hot too, but also just sweet, his lips moving over hers and both their tongues a little shy, suddenly. When he broke the kiss, he took the other straw, ripped the top of the paper off, and blew the sleeve across the room.
Claire slapped his hand. "Hey, I was gonna do that."
John shook his head. "You don't have to."
Looking at him, Claire felt herself smiling. "Thanks, John, for saying that, I know I don't have to blow the paper off a straw. But that I have done, lots of times."
"Claire, I never want you to feel like you have to—do anything you aren't completely crazy about with me, ok? I'm so far from bored, I just don't even, I'm so into you, that would be impossible . . . Help me out here, Claire, I suck at this."
"No, you don't." Then one side of her mouth quirked up with an idea. "You suck at this," and she put his straw in the float and put it to his lips, "right here."
John smiled a little ruefully, then nodded and drank, and then Claire put the other straw in her mouth and drank from the other side of the glass, resting her hand gently on John's knee.
"Thanks for pointing that out, Claire," John said dryly, taking a break, "I was getting all confused about straws and . . ."
"I could see that," and she smiled.
Looking down again, John said, mumbling slightly, "Claire, be serious a minute. I was really out of line, a minute ago. I know it. I'm sorry."
"So was I, I guess, with the cherry, that—that didn't work so well. I thought you'd—just like it. I didn't mean to make you mad."
"No, see, that's why I was out of line. That could never make me mad. Look, just fuckin' enjoy this, ok? I'm out of line plenty and I don't always admit it. Or, mostly ever, ok? Like I'm way behind just on the day, and we both know it. But you—believe me, liking it is no fucking problem, I liked it, ok? I'm still liking it. You were just, you're so fucking sexy, and instead of just enjoying it, I—you were so good at it, I had to start thinking about how or who you learned it for, or from, like that should matter, which it shouldn't, but I just didn't like thinking about it."
John had said all of this very fast, very softly without looking up or moving. Claire didn't know what to say, he looked so lost, and tired, and young, and mad at himself, and she couldn't really tell him he was wrong, because he wasn't.
"John—I can relate, you know. I didn't like—at lunch, I mean, never mind, let's just say I can figure out how that might feel, ok?"
"No, it's more than that, not liking thinking about it turned me into a prize asshole, which doesn't take much, maybe, I don't know why I'm like that with you, when I'm trying to be—so much better. I never felt like that before, like any of this, I am a total cherry, and I'm sorry."
"Hey, remember, I think it's ok for a guy to be a cherry."
He nodded but as she watched him, still unable to meet her eye, hair fallen down in front of his face, and she thought of his swagger, how cool, and confident, and cutting he could be—and she couldn't help but think how far away that seemed right now, when she'd been watching it and wanting it just a few minutes before. She wanted that cool, confident, swaggering bad boy, he turned her insides to liquid and made her pant with wanting him. But she also thought, when she fell in love with John Bender, which seemed like it was probably inevitable if she could just keep him from bolting in some fit of wanting to protect her, or himself, from being really happy, if and when she did fall in love with him, she knew that what she saw right then, that fidgeting, hunched over boy in a big awkward body, that boy who was now taking another drink of soda at a counter and trying and failing to get the nerve to look at her, that boy was going to be to blame.
So she leaned over and took a spoon of ice cream and root beer and ate it. As she had thought, that made John look up, and though he couldn't meet her eyes, he seemed very interested in watching her eat. And then she made a decision. "Why don't you come over to my house after this. I mean, you know, just to watch tv or something. Just for a while."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"I don't know, if that was trying to make fun of you, I don't think I was doing a very good job. It sounded more like I invited you to my house." And then it was Claire's turn to be unable to meet anyone's eyes. What had she been thinking? He probably had evening plans. He clearly wasn't always a soda pop kind of a guy, and she knew it. He probably couldn't wait to get out and blow off some steam, smoke weed, maybe—find someone who did know more about other kinds of blowing, just to finish what Claire could only really start. She felt a tremor in her voice as she spoke and she hated it. "Look. It could be some other time, I mean, I understand—it was a dumb idea, I mean, we're spending all this time together now, you know? I didn't mean to push you like that. I'm so happy you—you brought me here for soda, I'm so happy to be—I just, I was liking spending time with you, I didn't mean to be clingy, I—"
"Claire, did I say I didn't want to come over?"
Claire shook her head no but couldn't raise it.
"Claire, can you please look at me?"
She shook her head again. But then John's hand was on her face, on the side of her chin, stroking it gently before even more gently turning it back to his.
"Claire, sweetheart, can you please understand that the weird world you apparently sometimes visit in your mind, where I am somehow bored with you or wouldn't want to go home with you if you really thought that would be ok, can you please understand that weird world has nothing to do with reality"
Leaning into the feel of her hand on her face, Claire decided she could look into his eyes, and maybe actually that the problem was more that she couldn't stop, because they were beautiful, and she was lost in them. She could feel herself smiling, "I'll try. But only because you said 'please' again and called me 'sweetheart.'"
"Did not."
The kitchen door opened and Mae appeared with the sundae as ordered. "Listen, canoodlers. Your on your own now, but dinner rush starts soon and you're going to have to cool it if you don't want the workmen giving you tips as a floor show, if you get my meaning."
Claire blushed, but John nodded, moving his hand and smacking it on the table. "Gotcha, Mae. No time like the present, then." Mae went back to the kitchen, and as soon as the door swung shut, he took a cherry, dipped it in fudge sauce and held it out to Claire. She looked a question at him. He nodded, suddenly looking pleading and serious even though he was trying to sound like it was a big joke. "Don't stop," he said, "you have no idea how much I'll hate myself if you hold back on me because of what I said before." So she took the cherry and his fingers between her lips and sucked the cherry and his fingers into her mouth. Then she sucked the syrup off his fingers and watch transfixed as his eyes glazed over.
"I wouldn't want you to hate yourself, John," she said, and she picked up another cherry, dipped it in chocolate sauce, and held it out to him. She watched, fascinated, as he looked at the cherry on her hands, then looked at her, his eyes now dark, and focused, and a little wild looking.
"Claire, are you sure you want me to do that?"
She met his eyes. "Yes. Show me what it feels like. It looks like it feels good." And she kept watching him, his eyes on her deep, and steady, as he took her hand and guided it to his mouth. He kept watching her as he took her fingers into his mouth and closed his around it. His tongue swept over her fingers, curling around them and stroking them, enveloping them, and then sucking. His eyes looked like sex. Claire could feel this up her arm, throughout her whole body, she could feel it on her breasts and between her thighs and she felt her eyes close. Then he did what she'd done, pushed her fingers out of his mouth with his tongue, letting his teeth graze them, and she opened her eyes except then he held onto her hand and bit the tip of her forefinger slightly, then licked it, gently, so she could see his tongue on her and his eyes staring into her face and then she just nodded, yes.
Still holding her hand, he leaned over and spoke in her ear again. "See, Cherry, that is what I want. That is what I want more than any other thing. I don't feel like I need any other sundaes. All I want out of life right now is to put that look on your face, again, and again, and again. Are you ok with that?" He pulled back and watched her intently.
Claire felt herself nodding. Then she took a spoon and dug into the sundae. "I mean, duh, John Bender."
"Check! Check! I gotta hurry up and pay for this! Eat up, Standish, we've got places to be!" He turned to her, suddenly looking out of his mind delighted. "Do you think we could watch basketball?"
Smiling again, Claire nodded. "Duh, John Bender."