Vegan Virgin Valentine by Carolyn Mackler
“Does that sweatshirt mean what I think it means?” I asked as I kicked off my soggy sneakers.
Bethany smiled. “The acceptance letter came last week.”
“Congratulations!”
Just then, Bethany’s mom walked down the hallway carrying a heaping laundry basket. We chatted colleges and summer plans for a few minutes before Bethany steered me upstairs to her room.
“So what’s up?” she asked, closing the door. “Your e-mail sounded mysterious.”
I glanced around Bethany’s room. I hadn’t been over in almost a year. The last time I was here, her walls were plastered with magazine cutouts of pop stars and posters of sleeping kittens with expressions underneath like WAKE ME UP WHEN IT’S SATURDAY. But they were all gone and in their place were volleyball pendants and photos of her with a muscular blond-haired guy.
“I have a confession to make,” I said, sitting on her bed. “I’ve been using you as an alibi. In the last month, we’ve been going to movies and we’ve studied together and you’ve joined the yearbook staff.”
“I’ve always wanted to be on yearbook!” Bethany squealed, flopping down on the bed next to me. “What section did I work on? Did I put in tons of candids of me and all my friends?”
I cracked up. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but—”
“Is he cute?”
“Who?”
Bethany tugged at a loose thread on her quilt. “The guy you’ve made all these excuses for?”
“Very cute,” I said, smiling.
“Do tell.”
It felt good to finally talk about James. I told Bethany how he’s twenty-two and has his own apartment and, even though it’s only been a month, we’re falling in love, though neither of us has said the L-word yet. When she asked how I met him and I said he’s the guy who owns Common Grounds, she yanked at the thread so hard, she actually pulled it out.
“I know who that is! He’s not just cute. He’s HOT!”
I grinned. “I think so, too.”
“My boyfriend’s also in his twenties. Well, he’s only twenty.”
“That guy in all the pictures?”
Bethany nodded. “It’ll be four months on Thursday.”
“So…?”
“His name’s Keith Sawyer. Isn’t that a great name?” Bethany sighed. “Bethany Sawyer. I love that.”
So I hadn’t been the only one playing the name game. Mara McCloskey. Mara Elizabeth McCloskey. Mara Valentine-McCloskey. Mara Elizabeth Valentine Herbert McCloskey.
“He’s a sophomore at Geneseo,” Bethany said. “He’s from Long Island. We met through volleyball. He’s the bane of my parents’ existence.”
“Why?”
“They can’t get over the fact that he’s twenty, even though I’ve explained to them a hundred times that when I was fifteen, I went out with guys who were seventeen, and that’s the same age difference.” Bethany tossed the thread onto her rug. “And also … well … I told them I want to get an apartment with him next year rather than live in the dorms.”
“What’d they say?”
“Over their dead bodies.”
“What did you say?”
“I asked whether they wanted to be buried or cremated.”
“Wow,” I said, laughing.
“My mom acted all normal downstairs, but we’ve been fighting like crazy this week. I can’t wait to get out of here and be on my own.”
I nodded, wondering if everyone has a hard time with their parents senior year.
Bethany and I chatted for over an hour about our boyfriends and who’s gotten into what college. Around noon, her mom called upstairs, something about needing help with the laundry already.
“She’s pissed off,” Bethany said. “I can hear it in her voice. She can’t deal with me having any fun right now.”
As we hopped off the bed and headed downstairs, I said, “We should hang out sometime.”
“For real?” Bethany asked. “Or wink-wink?”
“How about both?”
Bethany laughed. “Do you want to see Damn Yankees together? It’s the weekend after next.”
“Sounds great.”
“Did you know that Lindsey’s in the chorus?”
I shook my head.
“She can’t stop talking about V.”
“Good or bad?”
“Omigod … great! She says V’s a star.”
“Really?”
Bethany nodded. “Broadway quality.”
Tuesday was April Fool’s Day. It was also the last night of V’s SAT prep course. They were doing this special session on the college-application process for students and their parents. It wasn’t mandatory. And they’d already handed back the final practice SAT, which V rocked to the point where there’s a strong chance she’ll surpass my score on the actual exam.
V kept saying she didn’t see the point in going to the session, especially since she’s not even sure she’s applying to college. My parents, upon hearing that, tried not to balk too overtly. Instead they calmly said that it couldn’t hurt to hear what they have to say and, hey, some colleges have great theater programs. V still wasn’t convinced, so they suggested going for half and then taking her out to a steakhouse afterward. V finally agreed, her face brightening at the prospect of a juicy tenderloin.
After they headed to Rochester, I sat at my desk and began writing up a physics lab on the heat of fusion and ice. It’s due tomorrow. Generally, I would have finished it already and by this point would just be double-checking the numbers. But lately I’ve been putting off assignments until the last minute and then turning in dog-eaten excuses for homework. And the crazy thing is that I’ve still been getting top grades.
I was in the middle of determining the percentage of error when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID, but I answered anyway. At first, I could only hear whimpers, so I figured it must be some kind of April Fool’s prank. I was about to push the “hang up” button when this muffled voice said, “Mara?”
“Claudia?” I asked. “Are you okay?”
Claudia sniffled and choked. At some point, she said something that sounded like, “Why … didn’t … tell … me–e–e–e–e–e?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t yo–o–o–o–o–o …” Claudia dissolved into sobs again.
I could hear someone taking the phone from her and then this woman’s voice said, “Mara?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Pauline. Claudia’s roommate.”
I’d met Pauline before. She comes into Common Grounds now and then, and Claudia always slips her free cups of coffee. She’s got a long, freckled nose that’s constantly buried in a psychology textbook.
“Hey,” I said, “we’ve actually—”
Pauline cut me off and launched into this story about how Claudia happened to be driving by James’s apartment this afternoon and saw a car in the parking lot that looked uncannily like mine. She got out to double-check and, sure enough, there was my bag in the passenger seat.
I was speechless. Yes, I’d been over at James’s, but the Presidents Village parking lots are on either side of the apartment complex, off the main road. You don’t just happen by them. You go in looking.
The whole time Pauline was talking, Claudia was sobbing in the background.
“Can I talk to Claudia?” I asked Pauline.
“I don’t think she’s up for it.”
“Can I at least tell her I’m sorry?”
“Sorry? How could you be sorry? You have control over your motivations. Don’t you know anything about ego and id?”
Ego and id? What did this have to do with ego and id?
“I’m just…” I massaged my forehead. “It’s just… It just happened… I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“Well, you did. You promised her there was nothing going on. Do you know what it does to someone when you betray their trust? It scars them, okay? We’re talking deep psychological wounds. But yo
The last thing Pauline said was, “You need some serious therapy.” And then she hung up.
Chapter Sixteen
Sure enough, V was a star.
On a rainy Friday night in the middle of April, Damn Yankees debuted at Brockport High School. I went with Bethany and her boyfriend, Keith. We ended up sitting in the third row of the auditorium, right next to Lindsey Breslawski’s brother, Jordan, and their aunt and uncle. My parents were two rows in front of us, my mom with the video camera, my dad with the digital camera. They’d promised to e-mail pictures to Aimee as soon as they got home.
For the past few weeks, Aimee had been a touchy subject around our house. Ever since February, Aimee had been calling on a fairly regular basis. V really wanted her to fly up to Brockport for the Damn Yankees weekend. At first, Aimee said she could do it, and my parents even offered to buy the ticket. But then, two weeks ago, she called back to say that things were getting crazy and don’t get the plane ticket after all. She never specified what she meant by “crazy,” but after my dad relayed the news, V said how Aimee never comes through for anyone and how, mark her words, whenever Aimee says things are “getting crazy,” a breakup is about to happen and, mark her words, we’re going to get a call from Aimee within the month saying she’s decided that her life’s ambition is to make cheese in Wisconsin or work on a fishing boat in Alaska.
By the end of V’s rant, her face was splotchy. She stormed up to her room. My mom followed her but came back downstairs a minute later and said that V didn’t want to talk. For the past few weeks, whenever one of us mentions Aimee, V huffs and says, “Yeah, right” or “Mark my words, a fishing boat in Alaska.” After Aimee called this afternoon to tell V to break a leg, V disappeared into her room and didn’t come out until it was time for my dad to drive her over to the high school.
But V didn’t reveal any of this onstage. When she first swiveled out in the middle of act one, people stopped coughing and picking their wedgies and passing breath mints to friends. The audience froze, their eyes transfixed on her. Some guys, like Jordan Breslawski, actually leaned forward in their chairs, though I had a feeling it was to get a better view of her cleavage.
V was dressed a lot like the movie version of Lola, in a black strapless one-piece—part leotard, part corset—with a flirty ruffle at the hips. She was wearing fishnet stockings and black heels. Her hair had been set in rollers by one of the backstage moms, so her honey curls bounced down her back, and her now-grown-out bangs were swept to the side. Another backstage mom had expertly applied her makeup, so her cheekbones were pronounced and her lips were sultry. And then, of course, there was her cleavage.
We’d had a conversation about that the night before. V was getting dropped off from the dress rehearsal at the same time as I was coming home from Common Grounds. As we walked across the driveway, I said her stage makeup looked impressive.
V paused under a yard light. “You want to see impressive?”
She unbuttoned her jacket and cupped her hands beneath the twin peaks that had erupted under her T-shirt. “What do you think? I have ta-tas! Hooters! Knockers!”
“What’s in there?”
“A push-up bra and lots of foam. Who ever knew a bra could work such wonders?”
“So you think you’ll start wearing a bra now?”
V shrugged. “It’s fun for the play, but what’s the point? There’s not much to hold up anyway.”
“Do you ever want…” I paused. “Do you ever wish—”
“That Valentine girls weren’t denied the boob gene?”
I laughed. “I guess that’s one way to put it.”
“I like not having to wear a bra. I figure one day, when I’m forty or something, I’ll probably start drooping. Maybe I’ll wear a bra then. I don’t know. I’m in no rush.”
But it wasn’t just V’s va-va-voom appearance that was capturing all that attention. It was the way she spoke in this cutely seductive voice and tilted her chin to one side and strutted around in her heels, swinging her hips. When she belted out her first number, “A Little Brains, a Little Talent,” I actually forgot that the pit band was off-key and we were in the high-school auditorium and V was Lola or Lola was V.
When she finished singing, the audience burst into applause. I could see my dad clapping, his hands raised above his head. My mom turned the video camera toward the audience, to record the response. When she spotted me, I formed the letter V with my pointer and middle finger. As I did, I realized it was the same thing as the peace sign.
The audience finally quieted down when the next scene began. I could see Bethany and Keith reach for each other’s hands. It made me wish James were here.
I’d briefly considered inviting him, if it weren’t for the fact that my parents would wonder why my boss from Common Grounds was coming to the school play with me. In the past ten days since that phone call from Claudia/Pauline, our relationship had gone to a whole different level. When I look back, it’s like we spent our first month kissing and joking around a lot. And while we’re still doing that, it now feels like there’s a new element to us, a deeper element.
After Pauline hung up on me, I’d called James at Common Grounds. I was crying so hard, I could barely talk. But I didn’t have to explain because he’d just gotten Claudia’s e-mail of resignation. He asked if I wanted to meet him somewhere or go to his apartment. I couldn’t do anything but sob into the phone. James asked if my parents were home and I choked out a no and he said he was on his way over. Five minutes later, he pulled in the driveway. As I climbed into the passenger seat of his car, he hugged me and rubbed my back until I stopped crying.
“Do you think I’m horrible?” I asked, wiping my cheeks.
James picked up my hand, kissing one finger at a time. “You’re not horrible, Mara. You could never be horrible. Maybe we should have talked to Claudia, let her know we were together, but you were just trying to protect her from getting hurt.”
“I went behind her back and then I lied to her.”
“But don’t you think she knew? Don’t you think she sensed something was going on? She drove into my parking lot.”
“But I stole you from her.”
“It’s not like we were together and I cheated on her with you.”
“But she liked you and I’m her friend and friends don’t do things like that.”
“But Claudia could have been a better friend to you, too. She must have known on some level that I wasn’t interested in her in that way. So if she sensed that you and I liked each other, she shouldn’t have held you back from being with me. That’s not fair. You can’t stand in the way of love.”
He said it.
For the first time in the History of Mara and James, someone said it. I looked at James and he looked at me and we sat there, holding hands and looking at each other. And suddenly it felt like despite Claudia and despite our age difference and despite me going away to Yale and despite all the cards that were stacked against us, we were meant to be together.
At the end of the play, the audience gave the cast a standing ovation. When V curtsied, she got thundering applause. As the curtain lowered for the final time, my parents and I headed backstage to bring V the massive bouquet of white roses that my mom had ordered from Arjuna Florist.
V was surrounded by ogling freshmen guys, but we cut through the throng and hugged her and told her what a great job she did. Her eyes got teary as she thanked us for sticking by her and encouraging her to go for it.
My dad snapped pictures of V with members of the cast. My mom chatted with Lindsey’s aunt. I scanned the faces backstage to see who I knew, waving at various kids. And then I turned my head and saw Dr. Hendrick.
He was standing about fifteen feet from me, shaking hands with Mr. B. I was tempted to wal
But then I remembered how he’d choreographed all of V’s dances and had really helped her shine. As I thought about that, I didn’t feel as angry at him. It wasn’t about me right now. What mattered was V. This was her moment.
Once V had scrubbed her face with cold cream and changed into jeans and signed the programs of three wide-eyed middle schoolers, we piled into Keith’s car and drove up to Friendly’s. Most of the cast was already there, several of them still decked out in their poodle skirts and baseball uniforms. They all waved V toward their tables, but she gestured that she was going to sit with us.
We settled into a booth, Bethany and Keith on one side, V and me on the other side. We chatted about who forgot a line and who tripped onstage and who surprised us with their hidden talent. Keith didn’t say much, just little comments now and then. But you could tell he was sweet, the way he kept gazing at Bethany and stroking her arm.
When the waitress came over, Bethany ordered mint-chip ice cream with extra hot fudge. Keith ordered onion rings and a Coke. V ordered a malted milkshake. I was about to order my usual, raspberry sorbet, when I glanced down at the menu and said, “I’d like a grilled-cheese sandwich.”
“Cheddar or Swiss?” the waitress asked.
“Can I get both?”
The waitress scribbled something on her pad and took our menus. As she headed toward the kitchen, V gaped at me. “Am I crazy or did you just order an animal byproduct?”
“I guess I’m craving cheese.”
“Next thing you know, you’ll be craving hamburgers,” V said. “The late, great vegan eating juicy burgers.”
That’s the kind of thing that used to piss me off about V, but it didn’t bother me now. I could tell she was just kidding around.
“Mmmmm,” I said, licking my lips, “with crispy bacon on top.”
“Are you serious?” V asked. “You’re really craving bacon?”
I shook my head. “Gotcha!”
“Ha! You totally had me there.”