Stuck in the 70's Page 8

  But she wouldn’t steal from me. She’s a guest in my home. No one would stoop that low.

  Then again, she ate half a box of Oreo cookies the very first day she got here. She took Mom’s clothes. And she stole books from the school library.

  Shay Saunders is a thief. She took my money.

  And the whole time I’ve been stewing over her tonight, she’s probably been getting drunk and making out with the one guy I hate most at school.

  I pound my fist on the desk again.

  Ow. Stupid idiot Tyler.

  “Bummer I didn’t get to meet your family tonight,” Rick says over the blare of “Stairway to Heaven” on the car radio.

  I laugh.

  “I’m totally serious.”

  “Oh.”

  “How long have you lived at that house? What school were you at before?” he asks.

  “Slow down,” I say. I mean on the questioning, but also his driving. I still c an’t get over that cars d on’t have shoulder belts. Or airbags. Or antilock brakes. I could die. And it would totally suck to die in 1978, before I was even born.

  “Sorry, babe.” Rick eases up on the gas, which allows him to slide his hand up and down my leg as if he’s playing the guitar solo on the radio.

  “This song is so hot. You’re so hot,” I tell him.

  “Right back at you, babe.”

  I’ve managed to stop his questions for now. But I can’t help thinking I’m doing the same m essed-u p things in 1978 that I did in 2006.

  When we get to John’s house, only about twenty people are there. The girls are all pretty. Most of the guys are cute. The others must be athletic or funny. Led Zeppelin wails at the party too. It’s playing on an album, a giant black disk that slowly spins around on a wooden box. The scratchy music blares through speakers the size of toddlers. Most of the kids are gathered around the keg on the back porch or the bong on the orange shag carpeting inside.

  Rick and I drink beer on the couch, watch the group around the bong, and kiss. We talk to people. A guy gives us a t humbs-u p. Rick licks my ear. The room crowds with kids. I sit halfway on Rick’s lap because six people fill the couch. I play with his chest hairs and try to avoid his girly shell necklace. We drink more beer. My head gets foggy.

  A guy with hair as long and pretty as mine turns on the TV. Saturday Night Live is on, with John Belushi and Gilda Radner running around in bee suits.

  “This is life, right? I mean, live,” I shout to Rick over the TV show/Village People song/girl next to me saying she feels sick. “Not a rerun. It’s a classic. Or going to be one, anyway.”

  Rick takes his tongue out of my ear long enough to say, “Yeah, they’re gnarly.”

  John Belushi is probably just getting hooked on drugs. I should call him right now at the TV studio and tell him to stop or h e’ll die. He w ouldn’t listen to me. Especially since I’m slurring my words.

  Why was I sent back t wenty- eight years? It’s not like I’m doing any good here. I’m never going to warn people about stuff or save anyone from anything. I can barely help myself.

  Maybe I’m supposed to find my mom. Tell her not to have a kid because s he’ll be nothing but a screwup. That even when she’s sent back in time, all s he’ll do is what she does in 2006—fool around with guys and get wasted. I ’ll tell Mom I’m not worth the monthly check from Texas.

  “What are you crying for?” Rick says.

  Damn. My tears are flowing as freely as the beer.

  He puts my face against his hard chest and strokes my cheek.

  I wonder if 1978 mascara is waterproof. How shallow, I tell myself, and cry some more. “I’m sorry,” I tell Rick.

  “ Don’t be sorry. It just freaks me out to see chicks cry. Especially you.”

  I guess Rick i sn’t The Dick that Tyler thinks he is.

  “ You’re so sweet,” he says. “I’m falling for you.”

  Maybe I really can be sweet in 1978. Maybe I’m falling for Rick too.

  No. Sex is power.My mother’s mantra. Mine too. Boys are to be used, not to be loved.And look what happened to the Great Gatsby. The dude was all in love and then he died. I think I heard that, anyway. I should finish reading it to be sure.

  I also need to read those physics books and figure out how to get home. How did I even get here? How did I go from p ost-s ex bliss to 1978 shock? Think, Shay.

  Oh. My. Gawd. I w asn’t just sitting in the tub before I was zapped to 1978.

  Sex. I need to have sex. It’s the missing ingredient. Rick is my ticket home. And not a bad way to get there. He’s a hot guy and I can have sex without fear. There’s no AIDS in 1978. Maybe not even herpes. We just need birth control.

  I fling my arms around Rick’s tank of a torso and whisper, “Let’s get some champagne, take a bath, and get nasty.”

  He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Just a giant grin.

  I press myself into him, against his bulging designer jeans. “Come on.”

  “Let’s find a bedroom. Or my car,” he says.

  “No. Bath and champagne.”

  A minute later, he’s begging his friend John for champagne.

  “Get a condom too,” I whisper. The thought of having a baby is awful enough, but having a baby in 1979 who would be older than me in 2006 is so creepy that I high-five his friend when he pulls a condom from his pocket and slips it into Rick’s palm.

  John finds a bottle of champagne in the fridge, just like Jake did a few days ago, a few decades in the future. Yes! I’m going home to 2006.

  Rick opens the champagne with a loud pop. We pour it into our empty beer cups and stumble to the upstairs bathroom and lock the door.

  I run the bath water and start taking off my clothes. Rick stands frozen as I step out of my dress and undo my g randma-b ra. He sputters, “You sure you want to do this?” which I guess is pretty gentlemanly or whatever of him.

  I nod. “Take your clothes off.”

  So Rick forces his eyes off my bod, puts the condom on the ledge of the bathtub, and gets naked fast. Unfortunately, he d oesn’t take off his puka shell necklace.

  I kick aside our piles of clothes and reach my arms around his neck. He kisses me and rubs my back while I undo the clasp for those damn shells. I d on’t want my last image of 1978 to be of Rick’s foofoo necklace.

  We make out standing in the bathroom, then take a breather to climb into the tub. The warm water feels good.

  “I d on’t want to do anything you d on’t want to do,” Rick says.

  “I want to go all the way,” I whisper in his ear.

  “It’s my first time,” he mumbles.

  “ You’re kidding.” I d on’t tell him it’s, like, my fiftieth time. I d on’t ask if he’s sure he’s ready. I just get on top of him, pull the condom on him, and guide him in me.

  He tells me I’m beautiful. He says he’s falling in love.

  I kiss him so he’ll stop talking. He’s just a body to have sex with, that’s all, to get back, or forward anyway, to my own bedroom and my own friends, who never wear huge collars or talk about physics. Sex is power,I tell myself.

  I close my eyes. Rick is moaning. The water is sloshing. I’m working hard. I feel a little sick from the beer, and a little guilty about Rick, and my mind’s a lot on 2006. I wonder whether my old life is worth the trip.

  It’s all useless, anyway. The champagne, the sex, the bathtub, Rick. Even after I make Rick get out of the tub and I lie in it silently wishing myself home, I d on’t go anywhere. I’m still stuck in the 70’s. And I can’t help wishing my first time with Rick h adn’t been in a bathroom at a party when we were both drunk.

  The Dick and Shay are stumbling up the driveway. I open the door for her. The Dick stands beside her, grinning as if he just had the best night of his life.

  She waves him off and staggers into the house, bleary-eyed, wet-haired, and shivering. She appears so soft and so hard at the same time. Her shoulders slump and her feet drag, yet her black eyes have fight in
them. Heavyweight championship possibilities, even.

  “How was the party?” I point to her wet hair. “Did you go swimming or something?”

  She shakes her head and winds her way past me.

  I follow her through the hallway, into the living room, and to the good sofa we’re not supposed to use. She crumbles onto it.

  I join her, sitting straight as a Boy Scout, with a foot of space between us.

  “I tried to get home tonight,” she says. “You know, my real house. I got in the bathtub with Rick, like I did with Jake the day I left.”

  “I don’t want to hear about you and The Dick in the bathtub,” I manage to sputter.

  “It didn’t work, anyway.”

  “You stole my money,” I say.

  She just sits there on the good couch, next to me but ignoring me, which gets me even madder.

  “You got into my closet, all the way into the back of it, went through my stuff, and stole every cent I had in my bank.”

  She shrugs. “Not any of the cents. Juss, just the bills. I needed clothes. I’m sorry. It was only, like, forty-six dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money, actually.”

  “If I’m here for much longer, I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

  “Maybe instead of spending your energy on The Dick, you should try to get a job.”

  “For your information, I have a . . .” She shakes her head. “What are you, my damn mother?”

  “I bet she’s worried sick.”

  “I bet you have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her voice is shaky. Not just drunk-shaky, but sad-shaky. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “It’s okay.” I’m such a sap, I even smile at her. “I’m sure you needed the money.”

  She doesn’t return the smile. “It’s not okay.”

  “Look, I’ll help you, Shay. If you want, I’ll try to get you home. We need to research and do some real experiments, make guestimates, basically.”

  “Don’t say basically. Another nerd word. Or guesti, guesti, guestiwhatever.”

  Then she closes her eyes and falls asleep on the good sofa.

  I pick her up in my arms. She’s warm, despite being passed out cold. I want to kiss her so badly, even though her breath smells like alcohol and she just fooled around with The Dick, and my entire body is killing me getting her up the stairs. Not to mention she’d probably slap me. But, man, I want to kiss her.

  “I’ll pay you back,” she mumbles.

  “No. It’s all right.”

  I take her to Heather’s room and set her on the trundle bed. As I walk back to my bedroom, I hug myself a little, trying to keep the sensation of holding her in my arms.

  16

  I sleep in late. When I finally get up, I take a long, hot shower and two aspirin. Then I throw on some clothes and go down to the kitchen. Heather’s there, wearing a bright turquoise scarf around her neck. “You look pretty,” I tell her, then c an’t help adding, “Told you so.”

  Heather’s cheeks are flushed now. “It’s just a scarf. I thought I’d give it a try.”

  “You thought right.” I find a Tab and start chugging it.

  Tyler walks in.

  I spill my soda.

  He looks hot. Besides his improved browline, he got the hairstyle I recommended, a s ide-p arted layered cut, b low-d ried for fullness.

  “ We’re going shopping today, right?”

  I nod.

  “Awesome.” He smiles at me. His lips seem fuller, his teeth whiter, his eyes deeper.

  I spill more of my Tab.

  The shock has worn off by the time we leave. Tyler d oesn’t look so hot when he’s driving his mother’s station wagon, a piece of crap with rust spots breaking through like chicken pox.

  “In 2006, I never let myself be seen in a heap like this. This is a favor, not a date,” I tell him.

  “In 1978,” he says, “you should appreciate whatever wheels you can get.”

  The Gap is our first stop at the mall. I pick out 501 jeans for him, a flannel shirt, and brown corduroy pants. The corduroy kills me, but I have to go with what’s in now.

  He points to a rack of polyester pants.

  I shake my head. “Even I have my limits. I know polyester is in style now for some insane reason, but, like, gross. Let’s get you some surfer clothes.”

  “But I don’t surf.”

  “That’s irreverent, Tyler. Or however you say that word.”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “Whatever. You d on’t need to surf to buy the clothes.” I walk into Ocean Pacific, pull out a ruddy Hawaiian shirt, and put it up to Tyler.

  He gives me the hang ten sign. “An excellent choice. You’re a positive fountain of knowledge.”

  “ Don’t talk so fancy. Just say, like, ‘you rock’ or ‘thanks.’”

  “ You’re a rock. Thanks. To show my gratitude, let me use the coins you d idn’t steal from me to buy you lunch.”

  “Just say, ‘Buy you lunch?’”

  He points to me. “Lunch?”

  “Much better. And, yeah, lunch would be great. But I can pay for myself, at least. I still have six dollars left from what I took from you.”

  Tyler rolls his eyes. “ You’re paying with my money.” “But you realize this is not a date, right?”

  “ You’ve said that twice today. I realize.”

  We go to an Italian place inside the mall. I get a side of spaghetti, salad, and a Tab. They d on’t have lite dressing. I d on’t know if it’s been invented yet.

  As we sit across from each other, twirling our pasta, making each other laugh, I’m not sure why this is not a date and why I didn’t want it to be one. Tyler keeps putting his fingers through his hair, like he’s not used to the new ’do. I’m tempted to smooth out his hair myself. This is not a date,I remind myself and look away.

  At the next table, two of Rick’s skinny b lond-g irl friends are sipping sodas. “Look to your left real fast, but d on’t stare,” I tell Tyler. “Two popular girls from school are sitting right next to you.”

  He whips his head around and then back to me. “Wow. I hope they d on’t see me.”

  “Are you crazy? I thought you wanted to be popular.”

  “They call me and Evie ‘Dip’ and ‘Drip.’”

  “That was before your brow tweeze and haircut. I bet you were wearing dorky clothes then too.”

  He shrugs. “I guess.”

  “Ask them if they want to sit with us.”

  “Me?”

  “No, your invisible friend next to you. Of course you.”

  “I . . . I c an’t.”

  “Listen. I didn’t tweeze your eyebrows, research the perfect 1978 haircut for you, and spend the last hour and a half with you at the mall to hear you say you c an’t.”

  He sighs. “I guess I have to, huh?”

  “Move it. Oh, wait. Hold on.” I adjust his feathered hair around his face. Touching him does nothing for me. This is definitely not a date. “Okay, ask them.”

  Tyler clears his throat, then reaches over and taps the girl next to him on her bony shoulder.“I’d be honored if you charming ladies here—”

  I kick his foot.

  “I meant to say: Sit with us?”

  The girl looks him over so long and so carefully, I half expect her to pull open his mouth to inspect his teeth. “Who are you?” she finally asks.

  “Far-out,” says her friend. “It’s Tyler Gray. He looks totally different.” She talks about him as if he’s not, like, two feet away from her. “Did he get a haircut or something?”

  “I like it,” says the first girl.

  “It’s like Shaun Cassidy’s hair without highlights,” says the other girl. They both laugh at the same time and in the same way, little head bobs and quiet giggles with their lotioned, manicured hands over, but not touching their mouths. Just like my 2006 friends.

  “Hey, Shay Saunders,” the girl near me says. “Bitchin’ dress.”

  “Thanks.” It’s Mrs
. Gray’s castoff, which I dyed in a huge pot of tea and shrank in the dryer.

  “Let’s sit with them,” her friend says.

  As they slide into our booth, they introduce themselves. T hey’re Debbie M. and Debbie P. “We call ourselves the Double Ds,” Debbie M says.

  Double D my ass. More like a generous C. But Tyler’s gaze goes right to her chest and dawdles there.

  “You want to get some ice cream, Ty Ty?” Debbie M. tongues her upper lip almost as if she’s flirting with him.

  I ’ve eaten at least 500 calories at lunch. “How about frozen yogurt instead?” I suggest.

  The girls do their identical giggles again.

  “Gross,” Debbie M. says.

  “Grody,” Debbie P. says.

  “What’s the point of freezing yogurt?” Tyler asks.

  “Good one, Ty Ty,” Debbie M. says. She actually bats her eyelashes at him.

  Gawd. “Well, I d on’t want ice cream.”

  “That’s okay,” Tyler says like I don’t matter.

  As soon as we get to Swensen’s at the food court, Debbie M. says, “Ooh, w ouldn’t it be awesome to share a cone? We could each pick a flavor and get a triple scoop.”

  “ I’ll buy!” Tyler yelps before I even have time to roll my eyes.

  He pays for the ice cream and holds it up like a trophy. “Who wants the first lick of my cone?”

  I’m not sure whether his double tundra or whatever is on purpose.

  Debbie M. grabs his ice cream cone, keeps it an inch from her mouth, sticks her tongue out, and slowly licks it.

  “You should get paid for that,” I mutter.

  Tyler’s mouth is open so wide, I’m tempted to smash the entire damn cone into it.

  “Mom, I’m at a pay phone at Valley Mall,” I tell her. “Can I please use your car a little longer than I’d asked for? Shopping is taking more time than expected.” I don’t tell her that I just made a movie date with three pretty girls and that I’m hoping to hold Shay’s hand in the theater.

  “Ty Ty.” Debbie M. walks into the phone booth.