Читать книгу Be More Chill - Ned Vizzini - Страница 19

The next week, in play rehearsal, I fall into a pattern with Christine. (What does it take for a behaviour to become a pattern? One repetition, right?) I come in, grab the seat next to her and bumblingly mention a quasi-fact about music or current events or evolution, often stolen from Michael. She humours me (or maybe not, sometimes she seems to smile humour-free) with comments of her own and we build that, falteringly, into a conversation that ends five minutes after play rehearsal and then she runs off to meet Jake. Only I don’t know what to make of her and Jake. They never talk to each other during play rehearsal; he sits across the circle from her and eyes her only occasionally. Is it possible they’re just friends?

That’s one thing I hate about, uh, the world. I hate touchy-feely friend relationships between guys and girls. I hate them when I’m in them, of course, but I’m not in them too often so mostly I just hate them from outside. They’re confusing and complicating: if you’re a girl and you’re touching a guy’s leg, I’m going to assume you’re going out. End of story. If you are actually platonic friends, don’t put your heads in each other’s laps and don’t kiss each other on the lips. Right now we are living in one of the first periods of human existence where young men and women can actually be friends without pending marriage or negotiations over which family has which tracts of land. So don’t mess with it.

Christine, despite the fact that she is a prime offender of this nature, has a system of stages that she uses to keep things straight. She explains them to me after play rehearsal Friday. (One week to the dance.)

“Everybody needs to be on my system,” she says, standing by her chair in the audience rows, rifling through her bag as I keep my eyes glued to her. “It’s like, the only way.” She swishes a grin at me. “There are four stages of a relationship, see?”

“Uh-huh.” My hands are clasped over my crotch like a soccer player’s.

“OK, first, there’s Hooking Up.”

Boy. I hate that one. “Hooking Up” is what I’m supposed to be doing, one way or another. The magic phrase for two types of young Americans: unimpeded teenage sex for the Cool ones; kissing for me and Michael and the rest of the unearmarked sludge. Yay!

“—or anything,” Christine says.

“Wait, no! I missed that,” I apologise. “Could you say it again?”

“Well, I just went over Hooking Up,” she says. “Hooking Up is the first stage. That means you have someone who you’ve, y’know, hooked up with and maybe done other things with but there are no commitment strings anywhere. You don’t call this person up. You don’t sit with him anywhere. You just did what you did and that’s it.”

“What does it mean, like, sex-wise?”

“Depending on whether or not you’re a slut,” Christine says, “Hooking Up means having sex. Which I totally understand, for some people. But we’re talking about my system. Skanky girls work on their own system. You want to sit?”

“Sure.”

She continues with her elbow on the armrest between us. The armrest is dirty and her elbow is not.

“Stage two is Dating. Dating occurs after Hooking Up when you and the guy actually show up at public places together and give people the impression that you’re more than friends by kissing and touching.” That sounds like where Christine is with Jake, but I don’t want to ask. Jake is across the room talking to one of his football underlings. “Dating has no commitment either. Like, you can see other people and you don’t have to tell the person you’re Dating, see?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stage three is Going Out. Going Out is like Dating with a little more commitment. At this point, you know, sex might be a consideration, so if you are having sex with the person you’re Going Out with, then you can’t have sex with anybody else.” I like hearing Christine talk about sex. It could be sex with those toads that have other toads spring out of their backs, whatever. “But if you accidentally do have sex with someone else, then you are legally obligated—or rather, obligated by my system, which is just as good as legally obligated—to tell the person you are Going Out with. Then collectively you can make a decision on whether you want to continue the relationship, given your transgression. You know ‘transgression’, right?”

“Yeah.” Vocab pays off! “So how is Going Out different from Dating?”

“Um…let’s see…in Dating, you hold hands maybe. In Going Out, you put your arm around me or whatever.”

Huh. “What’s the last stage?”

“The best one!” Christine throws up her arms “Boyfriend—Girlfriend. That’s like, you’re totally devoted to each other, no questions asked, you absolutely cannot have any kind of contact with anybody else by penalty of whatever I decide.”

“What if it’s you who cheats and the guy who has to decide the penalty?”

“I don’t cheat.”

“Oh. That’s good.”

“I think so.” Christine smiles.

“You forgot Stage Five, after Boyfriend—Girlfriend.” I tilt my head back, feeling witticism coming on.

“What’s that?”

“Ex-Boyfriend—Girlfriend!”

“Shut up!” Christine hits me on the arm with her small balled fist. Jake shows up, shadows us both.

“Hey Jeremy,” he says, turning on his cyborg kindness. Then he looks at Christine intensely. “Christine.”

“Yeah?” She twists around. Her body is poised to punch me again but all I can see of her face is a twisted neck.

“You want to get outta here?”

“Sure!” she chirps. “Bye, Jeremy!” she turns back and kisses me on the cheek. Our first kiss. She gets up and steps into Jake, who slips an arm around her jeansencased butt as they walk off.

Going Out. At least now I know which stage I’m up against. I’m getting prepped. I think I might have a shot.