“Is everything okay?” She rests her hands on my shoulders and looks at me with intense concern.
“Everything’s fine. Let’s go.” I take her bag from her and turn toward the exit before she can play up the “I’m with tragedy boy” thing even more.
As we navigate our way to the parking lot, I can feel how much she wants to ask me about practice, but she knows it’ll just cause a fight. And that wouldn’t look good for her.
“Where’s your car?” I ask.
“Let’s just take yours. You can stop by and pick me up in the morning.”
“Fine.”
Sheila cranks the stereo and flips through the stations to find a song she likes. Landing on some irritating pop song, she leans out the window and sings at the top of her lungs at passing drivers. I almost laugh. When we first started hanging out in tenth grade, I had some stupid argument with Coach and she couldn’t stand that I was in a bad mood, so she blasted the pop station and scream-sang at the other drivers, getting a variety of reactions, all of which made me laugh. God, we’re completely different people now. Sometimes I feel like we don’t even like each other anymore. But I guess it’s safe. It’s comfortable. For both of us. Plus, sex.
Her dad’s home, but as she said, he’s totally clueless. He’s parked in front of his computer and barely grunts an acknowledgment as we pass him on the way to her bedroom.
Before I know it, we’re rolling around on her flowery comforter, my hands threaded in her silky hair, her hands brushing up my chest, pulling off my shirt, throwing it over my head to the floor. Then she rolls me over so she’s on top and pulls her cheer uniform over her head. I’m still not used to how thin she’s gotten. When we first hooked up, there was more to her. She was a little softer in all the right places and I liked it. I know it’s a cheerleader thing to be skinnier than the next girl, but it really doesn’t do it for me. I swear my tits are bigger than hers; I don’t even know why she bothers wearing a bra anymore. Except she’s not for long. The thing pops off and she’s holding my hands against her perfectly bronzed chest—no tan lines, of course. She groans and grinds her pelvis against me and she goes to kiss me. I’m trying to get into it, but then I begin thinking about how I shouldn’t have to try—I never used to. She kisses my neck and sucks at my earlobes. This gets me into it a little more. She moans and rubs against me. And moans. And rubs.
Despite everything that’s going on, I’m really not aroused. I mean, yeah, I’m hard, but that’s just a physiological side effect of dry humping.
“It’s okay, baby. Don’t think about anything. I’ll make you feel better,” she breathes in my ear. I respond by grabbing her ass and grinding into her harder. She groans and kisses me again. This time it’s a light brush against my lips. Against my chin, my neck, my chest.
Her hand plunges under my waistband and she grabs me. “You want me to kiss it?” she says in this goddamn baby voice I’ve told her I can’t stand. I practically go flaccid right then, but her stroking continues and my dick has a mind of its own.
She raises her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
“If you want.”
She sits up, glaring. “You really don’t care if I suck you off or not?”
I shrug.
She shoves me as she rolls off and goes to retrieve our clothes from the floor. “I’m not going to do it if you don’t want it. You think I’m, like, dying to put your dick in my mouth?”
“Hey, don’t get all pissy. You offered.”
My shirt hits me in the face. I pull it on as I head out the door.
THREE
Dad trashed the kitchen before he passed out last night, and now I’m stuck cleaning all the shit off the burner before I can make myself a decent breakfast. At least he turned off the stove.
I would normally keep the noise down—no use poking the sleeping bear and all that—but his car’s not in the driveway. Which means I have to take him to the bus before school. I need to wake him up in the least confrontational manner, hence all the excessive pot-banging.
Dad finally stumbles out of his room looking like he hasn’t combed his hair, and I’m pretty sure he slept in the clothes he wore yesterday and didn’t bother changing. I ignore the barrage of inventive names he mumbles at me as he snatches the bacon and egg sandwich I made for him out of my hands and heads to my car. He’s still pretty drunk from the night before. This will be a fun drive.
With all the booze wafting from his pores, it smells like I soaked my seats in a bottle of whisky. He’s unusually quiet. This makes me more anxious than if he were ranting at me the whole way. Silence means he’s thinking, and nothing good ever comes from that.
I think we’ll make it all the way to the park-and-ride without speaking, but about five blocks before my turn, he’s finally managed to put his thoughts together.