Kody Keplinger - Shut Out

"Thank you," I said. "I appreciate it. Now can we just get out of here?"

I took a look back at the library as we drove away. I could see Cash walking across the parking lot, a streetlight casting his shadow across the pavement. When I looked away, I realized I was hugging the copy of Lysistrata like it was a prized possession.

Quickly, I stuffed the book into my backpack and, before Logan could notice anything was up, I started commandeering the radio dial.

I dreamed about Cash that night.

Not a prophetic dream where he died in a fiery car accident, or a goofy dream where we walked on Mars and ate cotton candy or something stupid like that. No, this dream was… Well, it involved me, Cash, and that library sex scene from Atonement that I wasn't supposed to be thinking about whenever Cash was around — even though I couldn't help it. And in my dream, there was nothing uncomfortable about the bookshelves.

I rolled over and slapped the snooze button, but lying there, as the dream flooded into my conscious brain, I discovered that the extra seven minutes of sleep wouldn't do me any good this morning. The shame would keep me awake instead.

I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, turning off my alarm clock along the way. I couldn't get my mind out of the dream. Even after I was done showering and getting dressed, or when I ran downstairs to catch the bus.

Somehow, having a dream like that about Cash made me feel… guilty.

"Why would you feel bad about that?" Chloe asked in our first-block computer applications class after I confided in her. "It's not like you can help what you dream about. And damn, the boy is hot. Who doesn't have raunchy dreams about him? Too bad he's such a tease. He could be the ultimate stud if he wanted, but he won't even move beyond the flirty stage with girls. Maybe he's part of some crazy religion or something."

I blushed and opened up an Excel spreadsheet to start the project we'd been assigned. I always told Chloe everything. About my family, my relationship with Randy (the parts that weren't too private, at least), my college plans, and even my dirty dreams. But there was something she didn't know about: what happened between Cash and me at Vikki McPhee's party over the summer.

"Seriously, though," she pressed, leaning over to see what buttons I was clicking to start the arithmetic functions on the spreadsheet. "Why do you feel guilty?"

"I don't know…. Because I have a boyfriend?" I offered, not mentioning the fact that I'd never had that kind of dream about Randy. "Doesn't that make it sort of wrong?"

"No," Chloe said flatly. "It doesn't. You can't help who or what you dream about. It's not like you're cheating on him. Besides, boys can do it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, checking my screen again to figure out how I'd created the assigned bar graph, "boys check out girls, talk about girls, and totally dream about girls they aren't dating, and it's cool as long as they don't actually act on it. But when a girl

like you does the same thing, she feels dirty or guilty or whatever. I don't get that."

"Yeah," I murmured. "I guess I don't, either."

There were a lot of things I wasn't getting lately. Like how it wasn't okay to like sex too much because then you were a slut, but not having it made a girl weird. Or how boys like Cash could get away with flirting too much but a girl would get trash-talked for doing the same thing. Or how my boyfriend seemed to think it was okay for him to put me second to this rivalry crap, but when I decided to do something about it, he wouldn't take me seriously.

I was starting to think I just didn't understand anything. Like there was some handbook to adolescence and dating and boys that was passed out in middle school on a day when I was absent or something. I wondered if other girls were as clueless about all this stuff as I was.

"Lissa, I'm clueless," Chloe whispered as our computer teacher, Mrs. Moulton, walked past. For a second, I was really weirded out, totally thinking she'd heard my thoughts, but then she added, "What's the difference between a bar graph and a line graph? And why does it even fucking matter? Help me over here!"

I laughed, relieved, and leaned over to help her with the assignment.

Things between Randy and me had been off since Monday night, when I'd told him about the sex strike. He wasn't giving me the silent treatment or avoiding me, exactly. He was just being… distant. He wasn't quite as touchy-feely as usual, maybe because

he'd finally realized it wouldn't work, and he didn't talk as much as he normally did when I was around.

It hurt to have Randy act so coldly toward me, but I hoped that meant the strike was working. That he was finally getting frustrated enough to do something about it. That all the boys were, and the war would end soon.

But at the moment, sitting next to him at lunch was becoming unnecessarily awkward — though I'm sure my behavior that day was no warmer; I could barely look Randy in the eye after the dream I'd had about Cash.

So after thirteen minutes of uneasy conversation had passed at the lunch table, I decided I'd had enough.

"So, Homecoming," I said loudly, interrupting a conversation Randy was having with Shane. I was sure it wasn't important, anyway. "It's this Friday. We should make sure our plans are set."

Randy looked at me, confused. "What plans?" he asked. "I mean… you have your dress or whatever, and I have the clothes you made me buy for it. What else is there to plan?"

"I think we should go to dinner first," I told him. "Just you and me. Quiet and romantic, you know? We can eat and then head to the dance."

"Sure," Randy said. "Whatever you want. Just tell me where to take you when I pick you up. Your call."

I scowled. Yeah, I thought. Because that's romantic.

"Why don't you pick?" I suggested. "And then surprise me."

"Nah," he said, poking his fork at a disgusting-looking pile of macaroni and cheese. "You said you don't like surprises."

"I don't…. But you did a great job last time."

"You just pick. I wouldn't want to choose the wrong one and then piss you off or something."

It'll be over soon, I told myself, knowing the strike was the cause of Randy's distance. The boys had figured out the plan. They knew there would be no action until the rivalry was over. The girls had the advantage. We had the power.

We were in control.

123

There is nothing more humiliating than being topless in the backseat of your boyfriend's car when someone decides to throw an egg at the windshield.

Wait. Scratch that.

Having your boyfriend jump off you, climb out of the car, and chase after the guy, completely forgetting that you're still half-naked — that trumps it.

And there is one thing even worse than that.

Having it happen repeatedly.

I rolled onto my stomach and reached an arm down to the floorboard, searching for my tank top and praying the windows of Randy's new Buick Skylark were as tinted as the ones on his old Cougar, the one he'd wrapped around a telephone pole last month. The Buick was older and used, but Randy considered the bigger backseat an improvement over his other car.

Not that it was being used at the moment.

I pulled on my top and climbed into the front seat. This was the third time the car had been vandalized — with us inside — since Randy and I had started dating sixteen months ago. The other two times had happened last fall, when the rivalry was in full swing, and both times I'd been left in the car, humiliated, while Randy chased after the culprit. Not exactly my definition of a good time.

It had been almost a year since then, though, and I'd hoped to avoid the embarrassment this time around, but apparently, I was too optimistic. Here I was again — forgotten, alone, and fighting back tears.

Part of me knew I should be mad, but I was mostly just hurt. After more than a year together, I hoped I came first to Randy. But the fact that he forgot me so easily because of a stupid egg on his car? It stung.

I shut off the sexy R&B CD Randy had been playing and flipped through the presets on his stereo, stopping at a crackling Oldies station to hear the last few seconds of "Night Moves" by Bob Seger while I pulled my messy make-out hair into the elastic band I wore around my wrist.

Thirteen and a half minutes later, Randy returned.

"Soccer fags! I'm gonna kill those assholes."

I shot him a look. He knew I hated it when he talked like that.

"Sorry," he muttered, falling into the driver's seat with a thud. He stared at the egg-splattered windshield, grinding his teeth. "I just can't believe they did that."

"You can't?"

"Well, okay, I can, but I'm pissed."

"Uh-huh."

"That's going to be a pain in the ass to clean off."

"Probably."

He turned to face me. "I hate those assholes. God, I can't believe I didn't catch the guy. Shane and I are going to have to get them back good for this."

I didn't say anything. I'd tried to explain the whole "cycle of violence" concept to Randy before, but it just didn't stick. He didn't seem to understand that retaliating against the soccer players would lead to them attacking him again. He was giving them what they wanted. Feeding into this stupid rivalry. It would never end if he kept fighting back.

Logic wasn't Randy's strong suit, though. He was the spontaneous "act now, think later" type. That was part of the reason I loved him. The whole "opposites attract" thing was way true in our case. But sometimes Randy's impulsiveness was more stressful than sexy.

He sighed dramatically before turning to me.

"So," he said, a suggestive grin sliding across his face. He tilted his head forward, letting his sandy blond hair fall into his eyes. "Now that that's over with… where were we?"

"We," I said, pushing him away as he leaned in to kiss me, "were at the part where you take me home."

"What?" Randy sat back, looking wounded. "Lissa, it's only ten thirty."

"I'm aware."

"Look, I know that guy ruined the moment, but we can start over. Please don't be pissed at me. If anything, be pissed at the guy who threw the egg."

"I'm not pissed, I'm just… frustrated."

"It's not my fault," he said.

"It's both of your faults."

"Come on, Lissa. What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "He egged my car. He ruined our moment. He could have been spying on us — on you. A good boyfriend wouldn't let some jerk get away with that."

"He did get away with it," I reminded him. "They always get away with it. Whether you go chasing them or not, they get away. So what's the point?"

I wanted to be honest with Randy. To open up and tell him how much it hurt when he left me alone like that. How worthless and cheap it made me feel. We'd been together for so long; we loved each other; it should have been easy to tell him the truth. To let it all out.

But all I could make myself say was, "I'm not cool with coming second to this stupid rivalry all season."

"You aren't second, babe."

"Prove it," I retorted.

Randy stared at me. The corners of his mouth twitched a little, like he was going to spit out a cute answer and then thought better of it. His eyes perked up once before going blank again. He had nothing.

I turned away from him, messing with the dials on his radio again. "Just take me home, okay?"

"Lissa," he murmured. His hand closed around mine, gently pulling it away from the radio and lifting it to his lips. He kissed my knuckle, whispering, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry that jerk ruined our night."

That wasn't what I wanted him to apologize for.

"I know you are."

His hand slid down my wrist and danced its way back up my forearm and shoulder, stopping when it reached my neck. His fingers cupped my cheek and turned me to face him. "I love you," he said.

"You, too."

He moved forward, and I let him kiss me this time. Just a quick, light kiss, not the kind I knew he was hoping for.

"You still want me to take you home, don't you?"

"Yes."

Randy shook his head, half laughing as he reached into the backseat and blindly attempted to locate his own shirt. "You amaze me, Lissa Daniels. Most girls would cave as soon as I gave them the puppy-dog look with these amazing eyes."