Vegan Virgin Valentine Read online

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “I’ve never seen G-pa like that. He was pacing all over the house before you got here.”

  “What did my mom say?”

  “She told him to relax. She said she trusted you. He said he did, too, but it was the rest of the world he didn’t trust. They didn’t exactly get into an argument, but she definitely looked like she was losing her patience with him.”

  “Did she happen to mention anything about college classes?”

  V shook her head. “No … why?”

  “Never mind.”

  I was definitely relieved that, on top of everything, my mom hadn’t told him I’d dropped improv dance. It’s weird. I’ve always thought of my parents as this single-brained, two-bodied unit, where one is an extension of the other. But recently they’ve been seeming more and more different. I feel like my mom is giving me the space I need, while my dad is holding on so tight he’s smothering me.

  “I think I know what’s gotten into you,” V said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When G-pa asked what’s gotten into you … I think I know. I think you’re falling in love.”

  “No, I’m not! I was at Bethany Madison’s house.”

  V smiled. “Very interesting … so now you’re a lesbian.”

  I had to laugh. “Do you think that’s why my dad was freaking out?”

  “Definitely. He’s already picturing himself marching in gay-pride parades.”

  “Very funny.”

  After V said good night, I glanced in my mirror. My lips were a little puffy from all the kissing. I gathered my hair back and fastened it with a rubber band. For the first time in years, it’s almost long enough to put into a ponytail without any pieces falling out.

  I suddenly realized I was famished. I hadn’t eaten since before Letchworth. There’d been so many other things on my mind, I’d been ignoring my empty stomach.

  I tiptoed through the now-dark house and into the kitchen. I didn’t even turn on the light as I leaned against the counter, tearing off pieces of pita and dipping them into the plastic container of hummus. Okay, I’ll admit it, I was double-dipping. But no one else really eats the hummus, so I figured it was not that sinful.

  Yeah, sure, said a voice in my head. Next thing you know, you’ll be drinking right out of the orange-juice carton.

  Chapter Fourteen

  V was right. I was falling in love. James and I were falling in love. It had only been three days since Clarkson Playground, but I could tell in the way we looked at each other.

  Plus, we were doing all those things you hear about when people fall in love, like blowing air kisses and pretending to catch them on our cheeks. And quoting sappy songs because for once the lyrics actually made sense. And asking about each other’s scars and siblings and middle names. James’s middle name was Herbert, which made me laugh so hard, I actually started gagging. I ceased my choking long enough to tell him mine, Elizabeth, and when he responded with, “That’s so beautiful,” I apologized for laughing at Herbert, but he said, “No, no, I’m still not sure whether my parents realized they’d had a baby and not a cartoon dinosaur.”

  We also talked about serious things, like past relationships. It all started when we were on the phone late Monday night, after everyone else in my house had gone to sleep. I was lying in bed, running my fingers up and down my arm.

  James was telling me how that evening at Common Grounds, a light bulb blew in the bathroom and no one could reach it, even when they were standing on their tiptoes on a stool. Finally, they had to borrow a ladder from Lift Bridge across the street.

  “If you were there, you definitely could have gotten it,” James said.

  “I am the Queen of Changing Bulbs. You have to be when you’re tall because everyone always asks you.”

  “What a royal honor.”

  I stopped touching my arm. “Have you ever dated someone who’s taller than you?”

  James laughed. “Oh, no! The past-relationships question!”

  “You don’t have to…”

  “No, it’s good to talk about it … have it out there and over with. You want me to go first?”

  “Sure.”

  James told me how he’d had two big relationships in his life. One in high school, with a girl named Jessica. And one when he was twenty with a college student named Christie. They were together for a year, but now she lived in Pennsylvania and their only communication was jokes she forwarded to him and thirty other people over e-mail.

  “And to answer your question,” James said, “they were both shorter than me.”

  “Does it feel weird that I’m—”

  “Mara Elizabeth. Nothing about you feels weird. I like you just the way you are.”

  “Isn’t that a Billy Joel song?”

  “Very good,” James said, laughing. “But I’m serious. I like that you’re different from anyone else I’ve been with.”

  “I feel the same way,” I said, suppressing a giggle, “James Herbert.”

  “Stop it!”

  “It’s just so tempting.”

  “Now it’s your turn. What about your ex-boyfriends?”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  “I’ve heard you talk about one … that guy you’re competing with for valedictorian.”

  “Right… Travis.”

  “Why’d you break up?”

  I was about to give him my stock answer—We just didn’t click—but instead I decided to tell the truth. I told him how Travis pushed me to do things I didn’t want to do. I told him how Travis once made fun of the size of my chest. I told him how he eventually dumped me because I wouldn’t go all the way with him.

  “Guys can be such jerks sometimes,” James said.

  “Not all of them. Not you.”

  “Do you know that I would never push you to do anything you didn’t want to do?”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  I have to admit, I was relieved to hear that because, as we were discussing exes, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that James is twenty-two. And I have a feeling that by the time people are in their twenties, they’re not exactly walking in slow numerical order around the bases.

  But the ironic thing is that when we were alone together, all I wanted to be doing was kissing, and James was the one who recommended we take a breather. On Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, I’d gone over to his apartment after school. We mostly kissed on his couch, but we’d also kissed in the foyer and the kitchen and the middle of the living room. I’d peeked into his bedroom once, but we’d never gone in there. Sometimes I wanted to. Like, when we were on the couch and James was kissing my neck. Or when I nuzzled my head into his shoulder and he hugged his arms around me. Those were the times I wanted to press my whole body against him. But instead I’d kiss his mouth with all the intensity I was feeling inside, and he’d kiss me back, and we’d kiss and kiss until James would finally suggest we put on our coats and walk over to the duck pond near his apartment.

  I left from these afternoons with James, still tasting him and smelling him and feeling his lips. The whole first part of that week, I walked around in this fog of JamesJamesJamesJamesJames. I barely even concentrated on my homework, just did what needed to get done and not even the bonus questions. When we had a senior-class council meeting on Wednesday to decide the theme song for the prom, and people voted for Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road”—which, in my opinion, is an idiotic choice because it’s the ultimate breakup song—I didn’t care enough to speak up.

  Around the house, I tripped on chair legs and lost my train of thought in the middle of sentences. It was probably because I was so tired. The past three nights, James and I had stayed up late, talking and laughing on the phone until we both said good night, and then I slipped into a dreamless coma.

  If my parents knew something was up, they didn’t let on. My dad and I had struck a careful peace on Monday
evening. I’d apologized for not answering my cell phone the previous night, and he’d said he was sorry for being so hard on me. Then I’d told him about dropping improv dance. He’d said the same thing as my mom, that at least I was taking two college courses this summer.

  Later that evening, my mom came into my room and asked if I felt okay about what she’d told me at Letchworth. I said yes, that it’s actually a relief to know. She nodded and then quickly changed the subject to whether we should have brown rice or basmati rice with dinner.

  I never once mentioned James to my parents. I liked it that he was All Mine. My boyfriend. My choice. My life. Not the subject of a Family Meeting or any other form of Valentine scrutiny.

  All day Thursday, I had a queasy stomach and a constant pulsing in my temples. That night was the first time I was going to work at Common Grounds in nearly two weeks. Not since I’d first kissed James at his apartment, and then I’d gotten that cold, and then I’d avoided him, and now we were together. But we’d never been together around Claudia, and I was so nervous about it, it was making me sick.

  When I met James at his apartment that afternoon, he was actually the one to bring it up. He asked how I thought we should handle our relationship at work, even offered to talk to Claudia. But I shook my head and said, “No, no, no!” Claudia would DIE if James talked about that with her. Not to mention that she’d probably take me with her on her way out. And, besides, we’d only been together four days and everything still felt new and special. I didn’t want to screw it up with some huge drama. When I explained it that way, James said he understood, so we agreed to be low-key at Common Grounds, at least for a while.

  That evening, James spent a lot of time back near the roaster. I think he was trying to keep his distance. I was actually grateful for that because whenever he was nearby I wanted to touch him and whisper Herbert in his ear.

  Even so, I was feeling definite tension with Claudia. She kept snapping coffee orders at me and telling me to hurry up with the cash register. At one point, toward the end of the night, I walked back to the roaster and asked James whether I should brew more coffee or just use up what we’ve got.

  When I returned to the counter, Claudia said, “What were you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It couldn’t have been nothing because your lips were moving.”

  “I just asked if we should brew more coffee.”

  She smacked her hand on her hip, which was jutting obstinately to one side. “Is that all?”

  I nodded. Claudia turned brusquely away from me.

  On Saturday night, things got even worse. It was a busy shift, full of Internet daters. Practically every couple looked like they were on a blind date, from the way they bickered over who would treat to how they zealously exclaimed “You like chocolate, too?!!” when one of them ordered fudge cake.

  Claudia and I were so crazed, it almost felt like old times, especially since James was out most of the evening running errands. So that’s why, just after I served this lesbian couple—identical short haircuts, identical silver earrings, identical jeans, identical burgundy shirts—I tapped Claudia’s arm and whispered, “Thirty-six-year-old woman seeks her identical twin for closet rummaging and much, much more.”

  Claudia jerked her arm away from me and didn’t say anything. But then, a few minutes later, she said, “How about this one? Twenty-two-year-old café owner seeks high-school student for jailbait and much, much more.”

  I felt like I’d been smacked in the face.

  “Well,” Claudia said. “True or false?”

  “Is what true?” I asked nervously.

  “Are you and James interested in each other?”

  I stared at Claudia. My pulse was racing and my hands were clammy. She had this furious look on her face, like she wanted to pummel me. I felt so caught off-guard, I didn’t know what to say.

  “Don’t worry.” I took a shallow breath. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Promise?” Claudia asked.

  “Yeah … I promise.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  All through March, lies were pouring out of my mouth as steadily as the skies were dumping sleet onto western New York.

  When Claudia asked why I was yawning so much, I told her that teachers were slamming seniors with homework. When V questioned me about an oblong splotch on my neck—one word: hickey—I told her I’d burned myself while I was straightening my hair. When Ash Robinson noticed I’d written James Herbert in tiny letters on the corner of my government notebook, I said he’s a Supreme Court judge. And whenever my parents called my cell phone on school-day afternoons, I’d tell them I was studying in the college library, even though I was usually on James’s couch.

  After that first call, James and I had a long talk about my parents. I told him how they’ve basically made every decision for me in my life. I said that this time around I want to listen to my heart and do what feels right for me. Not to mention that if they knew James and I were together, they’d immediately jump to the wrong conclusion about what a twenty-two-year-old could possibly want from their innocent little girl. James said that I knew my dynamic with my parents better than anyone, so it was my decision how much I wanted to tell them. He jokingly asked whether my dad owned a shotgun and, if so, had he ever pointed it at his daughters’ suitors? I told him that my dad’s only weapon was a dental drill. James cupped his hand over his mouth and moaned, “Even worse.”

  One part of the lying that was getting weird was Bethany Madison. As far as my parents were concerned, Bethany and I had been hanging out a lot recently. She and the college library were my standby excuses whenever I wanted a few hours with James. Unbeknownst to Bethany, we’d studied together, gone to two movies, and shopped at Marketplace Mall.

  But I was starting to get paranoid about the fact that, other than waves and smiles in the hallway, Bethany and I had not gone to the library or the mall or the Strand Theater. I couldn’t help but wonder if my parents were noticing that Bethany wasn’t calling or coming over to our house, and I returned from shopping empty-handed and with that hickey on my neck.

  One Thursday in late March, V bailed me out on the Bethany front. I was working at Common Grounds. Claudia was, too, but had to leave early to meet up with a study group for her literature class. As soon as she was gone, James asked if I wanted to stay late with him. After the café closes every Thursday, he roasts the coffee beans for the week. He does it at night because he uses this old-fashioned roaster that puffs smoke and rumbles like a bad muffler. Last week, I kept him company over the phone while he was roasting and made him describe every step to me as he went along.

  “Now I’m pouring in the green coffee,” he said. “That’s what you call beans before they are roasted.”

  “What kind are you making?”

  “Costa Rican Tarrazu. It’s best at a medium roast, so I’ll take it out after the first crack.”

  “First what?”

  “That’s the sound a coffee bean makes when it’s roasting. For a medium roast, you take it out after one crack. For a dark roast, after two.”

  “How long will this batch take?”

  “About thirty-five to forty minutes.”

  “That long?”

  “A large commercial roaster will churn them out in ten minutes, but it’s really compromising on quality. I like to roast them slowly and steadily, to extract the maximum flavor from the beans.”

  I snuggled under my covers, my fingers wrapped tight around the phone. Who ever knew coffee roasting could sound so sexy?

  So that’s why, the following Thursday, when James invited me to roast with him and we didn’t have Claudia to worry about, I was utterly tempted. I told him to hang on a second. Then I stepped onto the sidewalk and dialed the home line from my cell phone. The sleet had finally stopped coming down and the air was dry and mild.

  V answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “What’s u
p?”

  “I was thinking about … I was thinking I won’t get home until a little later. Maybe eleven-forty-five or midnight.”

  “Bethany again?” V asked.

  Was V on to me? I hadn’t told her anything about James and, despite that question about my neck splotch, she hadn’t done any further prying into whether I was falling in love.

  When I didn’t respond, V quickly said, “You know that’s funny because Bethany called here earlier and said she was panicking about an exam tomorrow and you’re the only one who can help her.”

  What?

  V was quiet for a second. I could hear my dad’s voice in the background, like he’d just stepped into the room.

  “I know, I know,” V said, as if we were in the middle of a conversation. “I told Bethany you could probably stop by after Common Grounds. Do you want me to let your parents know you’ll be home a little late?”

  “She didn’t really call, did she?”

  V didn’t respond for several seconds, which I took as a no, and then she said, “Just keep your cell phone on in case anyone needs to reach you. Tell Bethany I said to stay calm.”

  “You’re good at this.”

  “Lots of practice,” V said.

  The rest of the night was seamless. My dad didn’t even call to check up on me. And when I got home, my parents had already gone to bed. That was a relief because my cheeks were flushed from a quick make-out session in the supply closet, and my clothes and hair were impregnated with an intensely smoky coffee scent.

  Even so, on Saturday morning, I sent Bethany an e-mail asking if she could talk in person. She wrote me back a few minutes later and said she’s home all day if I wanted to stop by. The freezing rain was coming down again, so I put on my raincoat and sneakers. My dad was at his office and V was up in her room. I told my mom I was driving over to Bethany’s. It was a relief to actually mean it for once.

  Bethany met me at her front door. She was wearing a Geneseo sweatshirt, and her scribbles of hair were held back by a paisley bandanna.