Now and Later

The Trouble with Firsts-1

The Trouble with Firsts

THE FIRST TIME I rode a rollercoaster, I ended up with vomit in my shoes. Ian Chang dared me to ride with my hands in the air. When I refused, he sat behind me, voice loud and taunting in my ear. I clutched the bar and worked to keep the bologna and cheese in my stomach.

Ten seconds after the ride had come to a complete stop and we were standing on the platform, Ian threw up all over my shoes. His vomit soaked all the way through to my socks. The rest of our seventh grade orchestra screamed and ran away.

Our director looked like she wanted to throw herself onto the rollercoaster tracks. “Oh, Mattie.” She clutched her hands together and stared at my shoes as if I’d purposely made vomit spew from them.

“Don’t worry,” Ian said. “I got this.”

With each step down the stairs, my shoes made a horrid squishy sound, and I left a trail of smelly vomit prints. Ian used the remaining few bucks of his cash to buy me a pair of flip-flops. We threw my shoes and socks in the garbage. For the rest of the day he hung out with me, since I still smelled like vomit and no one else would come near me. We rode the antique cars five times and used the last of my money to split a snow cone.

That day, he went from being the annoying boy who stole my violin rosin to something else—what, exactly, is hard to say. He’s still annoying. He still takes my violin rosin. But ever since, we’ve shared a music stand in orchestra and a lab table in honors science.

This is why first period physics is such a rollercoaster ride. Monday morning, when Ian plops down at our lab table, I don’t even get a hello. All I get is, “You haven’t asked him yet, have you?”

“How would you know?” Two can play this game.

“He doesn’t look like the happiest man alive,” Ian says. “That’s why.”

He knows I want Marcus Prescott to ask me to prom. In a perfect world, Marcus would. Of course, in a perfect world, he would say more than two words to me.

My plan: ask Marcus out first.

In theory, this is brilliant. In practice? I’m back on that rollercoaster, only this time, I’m the one about to vomit. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then the path to prom is strewn with crepe paper streamers and petals from dying corsages.

The thought of Marcus forces blood to my cheeks. “I’m afraid he’ll say no.” I am deathly afraid.

“He’s a guy. He’ll say yes.” Ian gives me a duh sort of look. “It’s what we do. Here, I’ll prove it.” He turns to face our physics class and raises his hands like he’s addressing a political rally. “Poll for the guys,” he says. “If a girl asks you out, do you say yes?”

The room erupts in agreement. Guys laugh and I hear a few “Yes’s” in response.

I shrink in my chair, hoping no one connects me with Ian’s question.

“She does the paying, too,” someone says. “Right?”

“Of course.” Ian gives me a significant look. “Told you so,” he mouths, and plops back down.

The class settles. Then, from the back, “Yeah, unless she’s a dog.”

My face burns. I keep my eyes straight ahead, refusing to even glance at Ian. He’s all bouncy arms and legs next to me, trying to get me to look at him. I won’t. I can’t. There are some things you don’t want people to see. Right now, my expression is one of them.

Ian grabs my notebook. Across the top of the page, he scrawls: You are NOT a dog!!!

He underlines NOT three times, just so I get the point. But he’s written it across my physics homework. That’s due today. In five minutes.

Now I glare at him.

“But it’s true,” Ian says. “You’re actually—” He stops.

I fight the urge to place a finger beneath his chin and close his mouth. Only one thing can cause a complete Ian system shutdown. I swivel in my seat in time to see Rebecca Rinaldi glide into the room. Sure, most girls walk, but not our Rebecca. She floats, head perfectly tilted as if the prom queen tiara already perches there. She is high school royalty to Ian’s court jester.

Here’s something else about me and Ian: When it comes to crushes, our reach exceeds our grasp.

“You haven’t asked her yet, have you?” Sure, I’m being smug, but I know it’s true. Ever since Rebecca broke up with Colin Matterson, half the male population of Fremont High has been scheming to ask her to prom. Not that any of them have the nerve.

This especially includes Ian.

“It’s all about timing.” He waves a hand in the air. “And the right gesture.”

“What if someone gestures first?”

Ian looks at me like I’ve said something obscene. “Colin put out the word that anyone who does has a death wish.” He sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, stealing some of my smugness. “Thins out the competition.”

“So. You have a death wish,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind for our final project.”

Ian laughs. “Come on, if I ask her, Colin will think it’s a joke.” He grins at me, all charm and laughing eyes. I can tell this is part of his plan. “Who takes me seriously?”

No one. But even as I think this, his face has never looked so solemn.

THE FIRST TIME I saw Marcus Prescott, my velvet orchestra skirt was pooled around my feet. It was the ninth grade band and orchestra fall concert. I stood with the other strings while the band streamed past, all shiny horns and gleaming woodwinds. I saw this amazing looking saxophone, carried by this amazing-looking boy with blond hair that dipped into his eyes, so I spun. Something snagged. Then, pop!

My thighs got cold, my feet extra warm. Unlike seventh grade, no one could run away. The boys snickered and the girls gasped. But Ian was there, grabbing for his violin case, letting it thunk to the floor. While everyone went, “Shhhh!” he opened the case to reveal my violin rosin and several safety pins. He pinned me so my skirt bunched up in the back. Then, as if to make it all better, he lifted his cummerbund. There was his own wardrobe malfunction. Keeping his pants up was a series of interlocking safety pins. He looked so proud.

Even today, I don’t know if Marcus ever got a peek at my pantyhose. But music is the reason I’m standing between the orchestra and band rooms on Tuesday morning. Well, music and Marcus. He likes to grab one of the practice rooms before first bell—something I know with stalker-like precision.

I’m clutching my violin case to my chest like it’s my shield. When footfalls echo down the hall, my fingers grow slick. Marcus comes into view, and the case nearly slips from my grasp. My heart pounds. I’m convinced Marcus can hear it. He slows down. Then he stops. In front of me. He smiles.

“Hey, Mattie.”

Music, Marcus and Mattie. How perfect does that sound? We’re made for each other. I know it. It’s this knowledge that pushes me through everything—the fear gripping my throat, my terrible luck with first times, the unbelievable way he’s looking at me. All of it.

“Hey.” The word comes out shaky, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “I hear you like movies.” And by “hear,” I mean Ian asked for me without letting Marcus know he was asking for me.

Marcus nods.

“The Campus Film Society is doing their spring film festival.” I shrug, going for casual. “They’re playing some good ones on Thursday.”

Last night, my best friend Claire and I decided Thursday was the best first-date night. No competition with Friday night plans or Saturday parties, but close enough to the weekend to count as a real date.

I hold my breath, but Marcus doesn’t say anything. All that happens is a slight smile tugs at one corner of his mouth, like he’s waiting for something—or waiting for me.

“Would you like to go?” My words sound almost breezy, considering the vice grip on my stomach. I’m surprised I haven’t hurled all over his shoes. “With me?”

For a moment, he merely stares. Then I find my answer in the smile that tugs at both corners of his mouth.

THE FIRST TIME I ever drove our car, I backed into our mailbox. There’s still a dent, above the left fender, that Dad never bothered having fixed.

“It’s part of the legacy,” he says whenever Mom brings it up.

Now I wonder if Marcus will notice the dent. Of course, he might never see it. My hands shake so hard, I can barely make the turn for his driveway. Then, when he’s all buckled in, I can’t seem to find reverse.

“Relax,” he says.

My cheeks flame. I’m certain I’ll throw up, right here. In the car. On Marcus. It’s only when I pull into a parking lot on campus that the tension leaves my shoulders and my stomach settles. Fremont State College is like a second home. Dad teaches physics here. I grew up riding my bike around the mall fountain and playing hide and seek in the department lounge.

When both the cashier in the Student Union and the guy taking tickets call me by name, Marcus looks just the tiniest bit impressed. All my misgivings melt away. This really is the perfect first date.

“You pick the movie,” I tell Marcus. Our choices are limited to an action flick with an aging, Hollywood bald-guy type, a documentary, and a 1950s musical.

My heart sinks, just a little, when he chooses the action movie. I thought for sure he’d pick the musical. We share a bag of popcorn and our fingers meet as we both search for our next handful. It takes me at least thirty seconds to recover each time this happens, and I lose all sense of the plot. His choice doesn’t seem so bad after all.

He doesn’t put his arm around me, but he sits close. His body warms mine. He’s a mix of sweat and spice, like warm gingersnaps. I decide this is the way a boy should smell.

On our way out, we fall in with a group of college students who think we’re freshmen here on campus. The topic turns to majors (of course), and thanks to both Dad and honors physics, I can fake-talk my way through freshmen level courses.

“Who’s your advisor?” one guy asks. He’s cute in a scruffy kind of way. “I got Collins. Man, what a dick.”

Okay. Now? He’s just scruffy. “I haven’t really declared yet,” I say. “But I know who you’re talking about.”

Sure, I know Professor Collins. I know him so well, I’ll be seeing him when I get home. Marcus looks like he’s about to burst. He grabs my hand and we run toward my car. He’s laughing when we get there.

“Classic,” he says over the roof of the car. “You should’ve told him who your dad is. I would’ve loved to have seen his face then.”

I think we fly all the way to Marcus’s house. But in the driveway, I have a three-second heart attack. Do I get out and walk him to the door? Lean in for a hug? A kiss? But Marcus flings open the car door and bounds up the porch steps before I can even kill the ignition.

He waves, then vanishes inside. Thus, our official first date ends. I survived. I think. Maybe my trouble with firsts is all in the past.

ON THE FIRST DAY of Kindergarten, I left my lunch on the floor of the car. Someone stole all my glue sticks, and the teacher kept calling me Matilda instead of Mattie. Boys from my class chanted, “Matilda, Matilda” on the playground until the older kids took up the cry. By the end of the day, the whole school knew my name.

When my mom picked me up, she was pleased I’d made so many new friends. I couldn’t tell her that not only was I the girl with no real friends, but I had zero glue sticks to show for it.

The next day, my “cubby buddy” passed me one of her glue sticks, the purple kind with glitter. We’ve been best friends ever since, and Claire has never once called me Matilda.

So of course, it’s Claire who’s sitting beside me when on Friday, Marcus swings by our table at lunch. “Hey, man!” he calls out, the perfect imitation of a frat-boy wannabe. “What’s your major?” Then? He winks and keeps going to his regular table.

Claire clutches my arm. All the other girls around us have that gaping mouth, wide-eyed fish look.