Intermission

Chapter Eighteen

The week after returning from Les Misérables finds Noah swamped, working around his midterm exams. We have phone contact, of course, but it’s not the same. Luckily, my own teachers pile on enough end-of-the-quarter homework to keep me busy while we’re apart.

I’m elbows-deep in a Physics assignment—literally, since I’m lying on my stomach on the living room floor with papers all around me and my textbook open. Mom and Dad are at some medical symposium or something, and Gretchen is home for spring break, keeping watch over the house.

In other words, me.

We’ve been doing our best to ignore each other, but when she plants herself in my direct line of sight and expels that huffy look at me! breath, I oblige.

“What.”

Her purse is slung over her shoulder, and she’s holding a small bunch of grapes in her hand. “I’m running into town to get some ice. You need to have this mess cleaned up by the time I get back, got it?” She pops a grape into her mouth.

“Why? And it’s not a mess, it’s homework.”

“I don’t care what it is, get rid of it. You need to clear out tonight. I’m having some friends over.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“So? I’m on spring break, baby. Every day is Saturday!”

“I still have Western Civ homework after this and an English Lit test on Thursday. I need to study. Can’t you and your friends go somewhere else?”

“Nobody else’s parents are out of town.” Gretchen sorts through the collection of books on the table.

“Fahrenheit 451. I remember that one. Very depressing.” She sets it aside and then picks up my little pink Bible.

“Hey, that’s mine!” She opens it to the presentation page.

“Oh. Guess not. I used to have one just like this. I got it from my Sunday School teacher, I think.”

Gretchen tosses it on top of my open Physics textbook. I let out a huff and move it to the side.

“Mom said you were getting religion all of a sudden. You’re doing a Bible study on Wednesday nights or something?”

I nod. “At Fellowship Community Church.”

“Why? Never mind. Don’t care.” Gretchen shrugs. “Mom thinks it’s a phase. Like when I dyed that blue streak in my hair for Homecoming school spirit.”

“It’s not a phase.” Could this family be any more messed up?

“Whatever. Look, you need to get your stuff cleared out, okay? My friends are gonna be here soon.”

“But I need to study!”

“And you can. Anywhere but here. I could be drinking daiquiris in Cancun right now, but Mom decided you needed some adult supervision while she and Dad are gone. Apparently, you have a new friend she’s worried about.

A boy.” Gretchen crosses her arms and gives me a wicked half-smile.

“And she wants me to keep all the bad boys away from sweet little Faithy-waithy.”

“Then stop inviting your creepy friends over. Problem solved.”

“Well aren’t we getting sassy!” She sits down, cross-legged, almost on top of my open textbook. “So who’s this new boy she’s so worried about?”

“Noah Spencer. But she doesn’t need to worry. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Noah Spencer?” Gretchen’s eyes go wide, and she freezes, holding a grape two inches from her lips. “You don’t mean the Noah Spencer? The one who was in my class?”

“Yes. And he is totally respectable. Ask anyone.”

Gretchen laughs, eats the grape, and pulls another that quickly disappears into her mouth, even though she’s still laughing.

“First of all, stop eating those before you choke. Secondly, what’s so funny?”

“Other than Mom being worried you’re going to get knocked up by Noah Spencer?

” She snorts. “Noah is the polar opposite of a ‘bad boy.’ At least he was back in high school. Totally nice guy. Polite, almost to a fault. When he moved here, all us girls thought he was pretty hot stuff, you know? He’s super cute. ”

As if I hadn’t noticed?

“But what with the drama queen thing and the fact that he turned pretty much all of us down when we asked him out, a lot of us just assumed he was gay. Except he was soooo religious. But, whatever. Stranger things have climbed out of the closet than a preacher’s kid who likes show tunes.”

“Oh, so if a guy’s not into you, he’s automatically gay?”

She purses her lips sideways, looking up at the ceiling as if checking an internal database. “Yep. Pretty much.”

“Well, he’s not.”

“You would know, apparently.” Gretchen arches an eyebrow and pops another grape into her mouth. “But I never would have taken Noah for a cradle robber.”

I clench my teeth so hard it shoots pain up into my cheekbones. “He’s not a cradle robber.”

“Whatever.” My sister leans forward, gives me a big grin, and then bites down on a grape without closing her lips. Juice squirts me right in the eye and leaves a path across my textbook.

“Knock it off!” I pull my hand across the page.

Gretchen sing-songs, “Sorr-rry,” and then looks at her phone.

I sigh. “What time are your friends coming?”

“In about an hour, probably. So pack up, little girl. Like I said, I don’t care where you go. Just go away.”

Gretchen digs around in her purse. “A-ha!” She holds up a small foil square and then tosses it on the floor, beside my Physics book. “Play with Noah Spencer if you must, but play it safe, you hear?”

I gape at the shiny little square. “Is that a—?”

Mother of . . . she did not just casually toss a condom out in Mom’s living room.

Yes, she did.

“I can’t believe you just . . . That is so nasty.”

“No, it’s practical and smart. You don’t want to wind up with some disease, do you?

Or pregnant?” Gretchen picks up the condom, reaches across me and my stuff, and tosses it into the open book bag just beyond arm’s reach.

“I get it. Noah’s a good guy. But you can’t even count on the good ones to be prepared.

We girls have to look out for each other. ”

“I don’t want that thing! I am not . . . doing that.”

“You keep saying that, kid.” Gretchen’s voice softens. “But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, just in case you change your mind.”

“But I—”

“You don’t need to get so defensive. I’m just trying to look out for my little sister.”

The tips of my ears heat, and I make a mental note to get rid of the condom the first chance I get.

“I’m out.” Gretchen slings her purse over her shoulder, and the softness of a moment ago is swept away. “Be gone when I come back, ’kay?” She bats her eyes.

I slam my textbook shut, grumbling, “As if I’d actually want to be here with you and your creepy friends.” But she’s already sashaying out of the room.

After shoving the books into my bag, I grab my car keys and a light jacket. On my way out the door, I call Jenna and suggest a combination study session/dinner trip to The Smoked Salt Grille in Sommerton.

Hey, if I have to study elsewhere, I might as well see my favorite waiter, right?

“I dare you to order the barbequed ribs,” Jenna teases me after Noah takes our drink order.

“Are you kidding me? What a mess!”

“A delicious mess. Come on, Faith! We could split an order.”

“No way.” I arch an eyebrow at her. “You wouldn’t eat ribs if Cole was our waiter.”

“True. A barbeque sauce goatee is not exactly attractive.” Jenna plays with the end of her long blonde ponytail as she gazes at the menu. “So what are you going to get?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, maybe if you studied the menu a little bit more than you studied the waiter, you’d be ready when he comes back.” Jenna sighs so melodramatically a stranger might mistake her for the wannabe Broadway star instead of me. “I should have known you were just using me to see Noah.”

“They have big booths here.” I tap my pencil against her Fahrenheit 451 study guide. “We can spread our stuff out and study while we eat.” Still, I grin. Caught. “Getting to see Noah is a bonus, of course.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

I didn’t notice Noah’s approach from behind, but from the smirk on Jenna’s face, she saw him coming. I try to kick her under the table.

“Missed.” She grins. “Best keep those sports skills on the stage, Ace.”

Noah places a large Mountain Dew in front of Jenna, but before setting my iced tea down, he reaches for the salt and sprinkles a light coating on my beverage napkin.

“You remembered!”

“At The Smoked Salt Grille, we aim to please. Jenna?” Noah offers to salt her napkin as well.

“No thanks. Salt is meant to season food, not paper products.”

This argument is as old as our friendship. My brother taught me the trick when I was five. “It helps the napkin not stick to the bottom of the glass.”

“I know,” Jenna concedes—a rare thing, indeed, “but it looks dumb, and I’ve got my rep to think about. I’ll let my napkin stay sticky and save the salt for my French fries, thank you very much.”

Noah tosses me a wink. “Are you ladies ready to order?”

“Yep.” Jenna nods. “Faith wants the baby back ribs.”

“No, I don’t.” I kick Jenna under the table. This time, I don’t miss.

“Ow! Okay, okay. Faith is still deciding, but I want the baby back ribs. And a box for the leftovers.” She sticks her tongue out at me.

By the time Noah has gone through Jenna’s choices of side dishes, I’ve picked a sandwich off the menu.

“All right, ladies, I should be out with your food in a few minutes.”

Jenna watches over my shoulder as Noah walks away. “He’s pretty cute.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Good shoulders. Nice butt.”

“All true.”

“Have you told your parents you’re going out?”

“We haven’t actually ‘gone out’ yet.”

“What about all those trips up to the waterfall?”

“They don’t count. I mean, it’s not like we’re going on a date. He doesn’t pick me up or drop me off. My dog comes with me. Not a date.”

Jenna’s look is dubious. “You have picnics, right? And you discuss acting stuff and Jesus stuff and hopes and dreams stuff—just guessing here . . .”

I nod.

“And I know he holds your hand and you hug and kiss and—”

“You make it sound like we’re just going up there to make out! It’s not like that at all.”

“I know.” Jenna takes a sip of her soda. “That’s what makes it such a romantic stinking date!”

“It is romantic, but I still say it isn’t a date.” I grin, but . . . she has a point. Still . . . “We’re hanging out. We haven’t gone out, like on a real date, yet.”

“Real-schmeal.” Jenna rolls her eyes. “Do you know how many girls would kill to have the sorts of dates you and Noah have? Dates where a guy just wants to talk—and listen to you talk—about stuff you care about instead of just wanting to get into your . . .” Jenna breaks off with a scowl.

“Well, a lot of girls would love to be in your,” she makes air quotes, “not-a-real-date shoes, Faith Prescott.”

I stare at my friend. “Do I need to kick Cole in his man parts?”

“What?” Jenna sputters, choking a few coughs of Mountain Dew.

“Not really. Not yet. But he’s not exactly romantic, you know?

” She sighs. “Cole never wants to just talk anymore. It’s just all about the kissing.

All the time. Honestly, I’m getting a little tired of having to take concealer with me when we go out. ”

“Concealer? Why?”

“To hide the evidence of chin burn, m’dear.”

I laugh. “Chin what?”

“Chin burn. You know, it’s like carpet burn from a guy’s stubbly chin rubbing against yours for an extended period.

Cole’s a hairy guy. I mean, he’s been shaving since seventh grade or something.

He’s got a good start on a five o’clock shadow by two in the afternoon.

By nine or ten, it’s like rubbing sandpaper on my skin.

Translate that into a twenty-minute make-out session, and I practically need face camo before I go home. ”

Noah often has stubble, but I’ve never . . . “How come I never have that happen when Noah kisses me?”

“If I had to guess, it’s probably because kissing isn’t recreation for you guys like it is for Cole and me.”

“Recreational kissing.” I laugh. “Is that a new sport?”

“If it was, Cole and I would win the state title. Maybe the nationals. ESPN would be all over us.” She snort-laughs. “While we’re all over each other.”

“Gross. Remind me to change the channel that day.”

“Like you’d ever watch ESPN on purpose, anyway.

” Jenna snorts again. “But seriously, the way you describe kissing is totally different, kind of foreign to me. For you guys, it seems like it’s more like .

. . like the punctuation at the end of a sentence.

For us, it’s more like the whole paragraph.

Chapter. Most of the book, actually. Probably. ”

She laughs, and so do I.

“But you get it, right? Cole and I kiss because we like kissing. You and Noah kiss because you’re just being in the moment or something.” Jenna picks up her glass. The napkin sticks to the bottom.

I laugh. “Serves you right.”

“I don’t care if every drink I ever order sticks to my napkin. I will still think you’re a freak for salting yours.” Jenna peels the napkin off the bottom of her cup. “What were we talking about before we got sidetracked with the kissing stuff?”

“I have no idea. Studying for our Fahrenheit test?”

“No . . .” Jenna fiddles with her straw. “But that’s probably a good idea. Quiz me.”

I look over my notes and start in with some questions.

“This is boring,” Jenna moans after about fifteen minutes of studying. “And you never did say why you haven’t told your parents about Noah yet. Didn’t Ryan make you promise to tell them as soon as you got back from Des Moines?”

“Yeah.” At Jenna’s look, my defenses rise. “I’ll tell them. I will. Soon. But it’s different with my parents. You know how they are. I have to wait for just the right moment. Ryan gets that.” Although, in truth, he probably assumes I’ve found that moment by now.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now, hush. Mr. Perfect is on his way over here with my baby back ribs, and I intend to give them my full attention.”