MIA MANIA
By Van Casey
Mia Mania. Copyright © 2011 by Van Casey. All rights reserved. The author may be reached via email at VanCaseyIII@gmail.com.
The cover was designed by Streetlight Graphics.
First Smashwords Edition: January 2012
LICENSE NOTES
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
DISCLAIMER
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Table of Contents
Dedication
To Mom and Dad. Here's to countless nights of laughter, literature, and love.
Chapter 1
Lyle
(Senior Year. Monday Morning.)
I don't know if all my friends wake up with boners. But since I consider myself an average seventeen-year-old I've got to assume I'm not the only one waking up with a Louisville Slugger blasting out my boxers. But I've never asked this question, so I can't be certain. What I do know is that I wake up every single morning with the majority of my body's blood buried in my penis. Sometimes it actually gives me a headache. Boners and headaches. These are my wake up calls.
What's worse is that my mother usually barges into my bedroom before I've had a chance to deal with my puffed up ding-dong. And because there's no real excuse for why the comforter is erected by a tent pole, each day begins with her knowing that I was dreaming about touching the sweetest prize on God's green earth: Mia Hampton's milky white and totally forbidden breasts. Or if it's been a particularly good night, I've journeyed south into that mystical jungle where God built the holiest and most mysterious temple of them all: the female vagina.
And so it was that on April twenty-ninth, Mia and I were once again tangled up in each other's legs on the fifty-yard line of another holy temple: the Highland Park Football Stadium. Why I had chosen such a public place to make sweet love to Mia is something I'll never know. Especially since it was during the halftime show of the Homecoming Game and the marching band had to carefully step around our naked bodies in order to perform Michael Jackson's Beat It.
But there we were. Her breasts shining like stars hung from heaven and my sweaty, nervous hands preparing to cup those perfect breasts. Since I've never touched a breast in real life my dreams are limited by my mind's ability to imagine what the texture would be like.
I consider all relevant factors:
1. Naked boobs I've seen on HBO.
2. Narratives of my sexually advanced friends.
3. What I can remember from my years as a breast feeder.
Conclusion: A breast probably feels like a red Jell-O cube or a huge hard-boiled egg, if it wasn't so slippery.
I kiss Mia's neck in an effort to distract her from my spider like fingers as they begin the treacherous crawl from ribs to boobs. A second later my fingertips transition from hard body to soft and I realize my sweaty hands are leaving a trail on her snowy skin. (Sexy stuff is supposed to be hot and gross, right?) My hand flares when I reach base camp and feel the weight of her breast.
Wait. A. Second.
Something's not right. Her boob doesn't feel anything like Jell-O or eggs. It feels like . . . what? Well . . . actually . . .? It feels like my penis.
"Lyle. (Mom brushes my shoulder) Lyle. (Mom pats my cheek) Lyle! (Mom yells) Wake up, son!"
I open my eyes to see my mom staring down at me with a confused but mostly irritated expression. I've been sleeping on my stomach and the left half of my lanky body is hanging off the bed. It's then I realize my hand isn't anywhere near Mia's delicious breast but instead is groping a leather Spaulding basketball lying on my bedroom floor.
"It's a quarter past seven Lyle," Mom continues. "Now get out of bed or you're going to be late. And stop molesting that poor basketball. Unless of course you plan on fixing it breakfast."
"I wasn't molesting her," I say. "It. I wasn't molesting it."
"Well, whatever you're doing, you'd better stop and get in the shower. I made you biscuits and they're getting cold."
"Monday is a no carbs day," I say. "Egg whites please."
"You can have egg whites when the scale cracks one-forty," she argues. "Biscuits today big boy."
"If I hit one-forty just shoot me."
"You're worse than a girl."
"How many girls do you know trying to run a four-minute, seven second mile?" I say.
"Boatloads. Now get up."
"No undies," I declare proudly. "I'll get up after you leave."
"I bought you expensive pajama pants for Christmas and you never wear them."
"I'll start tomorrow."
That's a lie. I've found that my dream life is intensely more erotic when I sleep in the nude. BONER!
"Do you think there's anything," Mom asks me," under your covers that could surprise me?"
"I have no idea but it's grossing me out that you asked," I say. "Please get out of here." I throw my pillow at her. "I'm hungry and Dr. Reamer said that if I'm late once more this term he's going to make me memorize and recite some Frost poem in front of the entire class. I absolutely cannot have that happen."
"Are you late that often?"
"No! He just hates any guy not on the football team."
"He's one of the coaches, huh?"
"They all are!"
"All right. Well if you hurry and get dressed I'll drive you."
"Thanks, but B and Z are picking me up."
"Okay," she says. "So you're awake, the death biscuits are waiting downstairs, and you have a ride to school. My work here is finished. I'm off to the shop. We're getting the new Amanda Hocking book today and I want to make sure everything is in its place. I'll see more traffic tonight than any other day of the year."
"My mother." I raise my coiled fist. "The best-last-hope for independent bookstores in America."
"Sweet boy," she says, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "Don't be late."
"Yes ma'am."
Mom turns and walks out of my bedroom and back down the stairs that lead directly into our tiny kitchen, which doesn't need to be big because it's just the two of us since my dad died a couple years ago.
Heart disease.
He was only forty-five years old and from all outward appearances fit to be king. The doctors told my mother and I there was nothing that could've been done for him, even if the condition had been detected early. Pops simply had a bad ticker. Those are the actual words the doctor used. Bad ticker. Like it was a burned up clutch in an old Mustang. That's when I first learned that words possessed a mind-bending, bone-crushing, life-screwing-power. I'll never forget the sound of those words.
Bad ticker . . . Bad ticker is burned on my brain like a tattoo. If you cut my head open you'd see it sizzling there.
Anyway, that was two years ago and my mom and I are getting by pretty well considering we lost one third of our family in a singular doomed heartbeat. Not that money is king, but it helps that dad was a pretty slick lawyer and left my mom with a jack ton of scratch. We aren't rich by MTV standards but dad prepared for the worst. And when the worst came knocking . . . well . . . he made sure we were taken care of. So unlike most families who lose their breadwinner, we didn't have to wrestle grief and the mortgage. We just grieved. We grieve still. Dad was a good guy. I miss that punk.
When he died we lived in Aledo, a blip town west of Dallas. I was born there and had never lived anywhere else. A month or so after the funeral, my mom—like all widows with an only child—began pouring every ounce of her attention into me, the only man left in her life. She decided that Aledo was no longer good enough for my education and that we were moving to the wealthy and prestigious Highland Park neighborhood in north Dallas. The richies call it HP. I didn't want to move but when I looked into my mother's eyes I saw there was more than high SATs on her mind. She needed a change. She needed out of our house and I understood why. Blank page. Fresh start. Preserve old memories in old places. Create new memories in new places so old memories never get dirty. I got it. I get it.
I wasn't too torn up over the whole deal. The moving part. Not the dad dying part. That part killed me. It's just that Highland Park is only an hour and a half from Aledo so it's not like mom was taking me to Afghanistan or anything. I still see my old friends sometimes. Speaking of friends, when I moved to HP I got not one but two best friends: B and Z.
B(obby) and Z(ibby) are far and away the second best thing to come out of the HP move. The first being Mia Hampton but I'd never admit this to B and Z. It'd be too much for them too handle right now, what with their parents getting divorced and all.
B and Z are twins. Not identical but as close as you can get without matching private parts. Which makes it really surprising that the three of us became friends because I'm absolutely terrified of twins. Always have been. The idea just creeps me out. I lock twins in the same dirty closet as clones, zombies, and robots. SCARY!
And since I mentioned closets, this is probably a good time to tell you that B (obby) is gay. Homosexual. Queer. Whatever you want to call it. B doesn't mind any of these labels but he doesn't, however, endorse faggot. William Byrd called him the F Word last year when B missed a wide open lay up in Gym. "Why do you always have to be such a fag, Bobby?" he said. "Can't you at least pretend to have balls every once in a while?"
I could actually hear B's heart breaking. B loves basketball and tries really hard at Gym, but he sucks. I love him but he is terrible at sports. He makes that Star Wars kid on YouTube look athletic. Watching him dribble is certifiably painful.
So I got suspended for breaking William's nose. It was the first time I'd ever gotten in real trouble at school, but I didn't care. Still don't. Some things are just worth it. But I am on probation for my entire senior year as a result of the carnage, which means if I throw another punch I'll be expelled. No questions asked. Zero tolerance. Z(ibby) says the infamous punch saw my stock on the Female Locker Room Exchange rise sixty points. That's great and all, but I'm still masturbating.
B and Z are seriously the best friends I've ever had. I honestly don't know how I ever got by without them. I met B on my first day at HP when he leaned over in English and said, "New boy? You did not just walk in here wearing Gucci loafers!"
I didn't know they were Gucci. They were my dad's. "Ah," I said, "I guess I did. Is that bad?"
"Are you kidding me? They're totally bad ass." He smiled that infectious smile of his and said, "I'm B."
"Oh, good," I said, genuinely relieved. "Thanks. Lyle. My name's Lyle."
A tap on my shoulder and a deep voice from behind us interrupted. "Careful new kid. B is short for bitch. Captain Queer Bait up there is our token homo."
B didn't hesitate a second. "It is so great to see you William. How's your sister doing? I haven't seen her since she sucked my dick."
Kids did not talk this way in Aledo. Especially at eight o'clock on a Monday. I was horrified.
"Bobby," William said ferociously, "I'm going to kick your ass before the end of this year. I can promise you that."
"I don't doubt that Billy," B replied coolly. "Seriously though, tell your sister to call me next time she's home from Duke. Her mouth just might be the thing that converts me to pussy."
We've been friends ever since. How could I not respect a guy willing to stand up to a bully like William Byrd? The dude has a mustache. B barely weighs a buck fifteen. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
I was, however, a little concerned about the gay thing. I'd never even met a real gay before moving to HP so I was naturally curious about the dynamics of our friendship. I mean . . . B loves boys. A lot. Says he's never been attracted to girls. Never. No blood movement whatsoever. I can't even begin to wrap my mind around this concept. It takes all my energy to keep my penis from blasting through my jeans and torpedoing any cute girl within range. We couldn't be more different in this department. All I think about is girls. Girls! Girls! Girls! B couldn't care less.
That's when Z entered the picture. It was still my first day and I must have looked really lost because Z, who is not known for helping anyone, took pity on me. She didn't even ask if I needed help. She just walked by, snatched my schedule, and said, "Follow me lost lamb."
And I did. "I'm Lyle," I said as we walked at a plate tectonically inspired pace.
"Yup. You met my brother this morning."
I saw the resemblance immediately. Both B and Z have smooth olive skin, dark wavy hair, and bright, watery blue eyes. "Your B's sister?" I asked.
"Twin," she said, clearly bored by my question. "That's your class there." She pointed across the hallway.
"Thanks. This place is huge."
"Your next class is up the stairs at the end of the hall. Second door on your right. See ya."
"Wait a sec!" I blurted out.
She spun around and said, "Zibby. But you'll call me Z like all the rest."
"That's actually not what I was going to ask," I corrected her.
"No?"
"I was wondering if . . . well, I don't really know how to say this."
"He just wants to be your friend." She crossed her arms. "If he liked you, he wouldn't have said anything. He's shy like that."
"Thanks . . ." I groaned, my voice thick with guilt. "Can you do me one more favor? Would you not . . ."
"I won't say a word."
"Thanks."
Z's always been like that with me. Cutting me off and all because she knows what I'm going to say before I do. Sometimes I think we're all triplets. But I'm definitely glad we're not because if there's anything scarier than twins, it's definitely the freaks born en masse. Look, the vagina was designed for one baby at a time. At least that's what Google says.
B's honking now so I gotta get downstairs. I grab my backpack and tear a biscuit in half. I wasn't kidding about the carbs. I run outside and hop into the backseat of B and Z's shared Chevy Tahoe.
"Good morning clones!" I yell to them.
Both B and Z say nothing. B puts the truck in drive and pulls away from the curb.
"What's wrong? Are yawl fighting over panties again?"
B doesn't mind when I make a few gay jokes.
Z still says nothing but B looks at me in the rear view mirror and says, "Mia Hampton has a sex tape."
Chapter 2
Lyle
Now that's an early morning shocker. And I don't like surprises in the morning, unless of course they're wet dreams. (I've had exactly thirteen of these bad boys. Just FYI.)
"A sex tape?" I say. "What do you mean, a sex tape?"
B's focusing hard on the road and avoiding my eyes in the mirror. I lean forward to stick my head between the two front seats and say, "Z, what is he talking about? Is this a joke?"
"No joke," she shoots out the corner of her mouth while staring intently at the passing landscape that she has memorized. A moment later she adds, "It's on Perez Hilton."
"Bull!" I scream.
B fishes his iPhone from his pocket and hands it to me without speaking. The celebrity blog is already pulled up and I see a picture of Mia on the set of her new movie looking gorgeous in a polka dot bikini. The caption reads: Will the real virgin starlet please stand up? On the photo Perez has cleverly drawn an arrow aimed at Mia's crotch and scribbled open for business!
I'm in total panic mode now and no longer able to speak to B and Z.
So I guess this is a good time to explain that Mia—in addition to being the most beautiful girl in H.P. and the reason my penis is only flaccid in church and at track meets—is also a movie star. And a bonafide one at that. She's had her own television show on the Disney Channel since she was twelve and last summer her box office smash Angel Warrior 3: The Mystery of the Cursed Halo, grossed one hundred and fifty million dollars.
I have twelve bucks saved up for my first box of condoms and a six-pack.
In other words, if her physical beauty isn't enough to intimidate me, the fact that she's the wealthiest self-made teenager in the country pretty much takes care of it. Last year Forbes put her net worth at ninety-five million dollars. I didn't know we had that much cash in the United States. Mom says some guy named Bernie stole it all.
B eventually reaches over, yanks his phone back, and says, "You okay?"
I still can't speak. How could this have happened? Mia is a virgin like me. Everyone knows this! It was on the cover of Rolling Freaking Stone.
"Lyle . . .? Earth to Lyle!"
"Have ya'll seen it?" I whisper.
Z looks at me sharply then says, "Do you really think we'd be taking you to school if this fornication was on the Internet? We'd be rushing you to the psych ward to have your obsessed self locked in a padded room."
"So how does Perez know it's real?"
"He doesn't," B clarifies. "Just dirty rumors at this point. Some douche is allegedly trying to sell it to a filthy porno site."
"What douche? Who?" I scream. "The guy who's on the tape with her?!"
"Calm down," Z says. "No. It's not. It's the same idiot who sold the Kim Kardashian tape. And no one is saying who the other guy is yet."
"It's not real," I declare. "There's no way it's real. Mia would never do this sort of thing."
"Oh please Lyle!" Z rolls her eyes at me. "I know you're even more infatuated with the screen gem than the rest of the planet, but you're gonna have to wake up at some point and grapple with the fact that Mia Hampton is not the perfect virgin princess you fantasize about. She's been working in Hollywood since she was like ten years old. She has as good a chance of being a virgin as B has of someday playing in the NBA."
"Easy, sister!" B croons in his best soprano. "I've gotten a lot better, haven't I Lyle? I'm gonna shock the school this year with my hardwood skills."
"Pretty sure you've already done that, brother," Z says.
"Yeah." B giggles. "Well, my other hardwood skills."
I'm not sure if all twins are this disgusting but I bet they are, you know, being genetic degenerates and all. Look, if this sex tape news is for real, then this is by far the worst day of my life, because I don't just have a crush on Mia Hampton. I want to marry her. Yeah, you heard me: Marry. Give her babies. Open all her doors. Do all her dishes. Clean all her parts in the shower. She's the one. The only one for me. And I've known it from the first moment I laid eyes on her.
I've been in love with Mia for over two years. It was my first semester at H.P. and I was sitting in English class when she walked in. I had never seen her before and so I thought she was a new student who'd just moved to the area. But when she walked in Mrs. Colston said, "Welcome back Mia. There's a seat for you in the corner. Right next to Lyle."
I couldn't believe my luck. Mia smiled, flipped her hair, and walked straight for the empty seat. By the time her perfume hit my nostrils my loins were thumping.
As this was our sophomore year most of us were simply trying to survive that awkward physical morphing from kid to teenager. Braces shone from our smiles, acne littered our chins, the boys' voices cracked, and the girls' chests were flat. But not Mia. Mia was already gorgeous. She had long brown hair that fell to the middle of her back and she was taller than most of the boys in class, including me. She was a woman among children. I really couldn't believe she was our age. For a second I worried she was retarded or something. But then she spoke and erased all my fears.
"Hello there," she said to me like an angel singing the most beautiful chorus of praise.
"Hello." My voice cracked.
Mia slid her backpack under her chair and whispered, "I'm Mia."
"I'm Lyle." I waved.
"You're new, right?" she asked. "I mean, you weren't at H.P. last year, were you?"
"No. I mean, yeah . . . I'm new. Just moved from Aledo."
"Groovy." She smiled brightly. "Welcome to H.P., country boy."
And that was it. She opened her spiral and began taking notes like everyone else.
I did not.
The presence of her long body mere inches from mine was far too much for my rapidly multiplying reserve of testosterone. I couldn't concentrate on "Hamlet" and Mia at the same time. Impossible! She had the greenest eyes I'd ever seen and her legs ran for miles south of her crazy-short-khaki-skirt. I spent the rest of class breathing heavy and staring at the freckle on her left knee.
Freak out!
I was in love. And it was love at first site . . . so don't believe the haters. I plan on confessing this to Mia on our honeymoon. She'll find it beyond romantic. I just know it. Unfortunately, I soon discovered I wasn't the only boy in H.P. obsessed with Mia. Actually, it was more like all of America. The gang of boys drowning in her hallway wake after class was staggering.
That evening B invited me over and filled me in on the fame issue. I never watched much television in Aledo so B showed me Mia's show on his DVR. Afterwards, I rushed home and demanded my mother subscribe to the Disney Channel. She was visibly concerned that her fifteen-year-old-son, fresh home from his new gay-best-friend's-house had an immediate desire to watch Disney. But after I explained that the star of Mia Mania sat next to me in English class, well, she understood. And was relieved, I think.
B also explained that I shouldn't waste another second thinking about Mia Hampton because even though she grew up in H.P. and went to school like regular kids when she wasn't filming, she had never dated a boy. Not one. Ever. I asked why and B said she wasn't allowed to date until she graduated from high school. Something about crazy stage parents obsessed with their daughter's career not being sidelined by an unwanted pregnancy. (See Miss Jamie Lynn Spears. You can Google it.)
I didn't care about any of that. Like I said, I was in love and nothing was going to keep me from Mia. That night when I got into bed all I thought about was Mia.
Mia! Mia! Mia!
I had never been so excited to get back into English class. I needed to see that freckle again! And Mia didn't disappoint. Each day she radiated more beauty than the day before and drove hooks deeper into my heart. And I don't think it was any coincidence that she started crossing her legs away from me, which exposed another freckle: this one north of the knee. Whoa! Thighs . . . creamy creamy thighs!! Sometimes I'd imagine them wrapped around my hips and I'd be forced to ask Mrs. Colston for a hall pass. Bathroom break! Go ahead and judge me if you want but don't think for a second I'm the only kid using the handicap stall with the built-in lotion dispenser for this purpose. Even eighty percent of women confess to solo love. (WebMD it if you don't believe me.)
But something else was happening. Something important. Mia, who was not known for talking to boys, actually liked talking with me. At least in English class that is. Everyday we'd joke around and she always laughed at my jokes. And I mean all of them, even when they were directed at her deep-raspy-man voice. We just got on well with one another, plain and simple. We were best friends from the very beginning.
Back in the here and now B has parked the Tahoe and I'm fighting the urge to go home and swallow my mother's entire prescription of Ambien. It's then I remember that I have less than a week to prepare for the City Championship and my will to live faintly returns. This Friday I'm racing in my final high school track meet and it's my last chance to win a scholarship to the University of Texas. The head coach for Texas Track and Field, Pete Brown, will be at the race to watch me run and has promised me a spot on the team if I can post a four minute, seven second mile. That's five seconds faster than I've ever gone. So my fingers crossed pretty tight. In other words, this week is crazy important and I've got to stay focused on my workouts, even if my future bride has become a porno star.
I unbuckle my seat belt and start getting out of the truck when B and Z both turn around and give me another weird look.
"What?" I ask, terrified at the thought of receiving any more catastrophic news.
"There's something else," B says purposefully. " Something you need to know before we go in there."
"Dear Lord," I sigh. "What is it?"
"She's back," Z states flatly. "She'll be in school today."
"That's impossible!" I reply. "She's filming in L.A. and won't be home until the summer. Same thing every spring."
"You really do know way too much about her life," Z says. "But that's beside the point. Look, she came home early because of the scandal. She's supposed to be in class today. Production on her show got suspended and her parents wanted her out of Hollywood, pronto."
"Holy shit," I say. "I can't believe any of this."
"We just wanted you to know the scoop," B says.
"Yeah," I say. "Okay . . . thanks."
"We both know how you feel about her Lyle and we didn't want you blindsided this morning," B explains. "And we know how important this week is for you with the race and everything . . ."
"What he is trying to say," Z interrupts, "is that we love you. Don't let any of this distract from what you need to do on Friday. Four zero seven, baby! Four zero seven! We know you're gonna kill it."
"Yeah," I say absently. "I appreciate your concern. Come on, let's go to class."
Both B and Z know me better than anyone on the planet. So they of course know how crazy I am about Mia. But what they don't know, what nobody knows, is that I snuck into Mia's bedroom every night of the fall semester.
Chapter 3
Lyle
I wish shit storm did the trick, but it doesn't. I've never seen the school in such a panic. Absolute uproar. The first give away that something was awry should have been the Channel 8 News van parked in front of the fountain. But it wasn't. Not today, that would have been too normal, too expected. I hadn't closed the Tahoe's door before I heard the chatter of unhappy mothers. They were everywhere. The parking lot looked like a kindergarten on the first day of school. Every student I saw, besides the three of us, were being escorted into the building by at least one parental figure. Some were even holding hands.
"What in the hell is going on?" I ask.
"Word spreads this fast?" Z says.
"OMG!" B says. "Guess I'm not the only queer checking Perez before coffee."
It's really pretty amazing. We're walking now, buried deep in a throng of hysteria and the self-righteous judgment spewing from the lips of hacked off mothers is something else:
"I knew it. I just knew it. Something like this was bound to happen. It's not right, letting a girl her age run around Hollywood with all those skanks and man whores."
"I don't care how successful that little tramp is, I will not stand by and allow her dirty name to spoil H.P. and all the good Christian kids who make this school great."
"Her mother's a slut, she's a slut. End. Of. Story."
It's taking all my self-control to not go ape shit on these women and defend Mia's honor. Mia is not a slut. I should know! Did anyone else here climb through her bedroom window every night this past winter? I don't think so! I mean, if Mia is such a slut, then how come I'm still a totally legitimate virgin? You getting me? But as it currently stands my penis is as innocent and clean as the baby Jesus. No sin. No sir.
But I can't say any of this of course. And for the first time ever it's killing me. Sure, when Mia and I shared our inaugural kiss in Pierce Parks' darkened garage I wanted to call CNN. But I couldn't. What happened was this: I'd gone out to the garage for a Coke and she followed me.
"Oh, hey . . . Mia. Thirsty?"
"I don't drink soda," she said.
I swallowed hard. "Of course not."
We were facing each other now and standing so close that our noses were almost touching. I'd only kissed one girl before that moment, but I knew it was go time. With the refrigerator door ajar, providing just enough light for me to see her face, I touched Mia's cheek and pushed my lips against hers. Thank God I'd hit a growth spurt over the summer and was finally taller than her.
Our lips played dead for about ten seconds while our hearts did their best to explode.
Then we heard laughter from the party and Mia jumped and walked directly back into the house without saying a word. I sat the Coke back in the fridge, stole a beer, and took a victory walk.
I kept my mouth shut about the incident for several reasons. For starters, I didn't know what the heck had just happened. But I was pretty sure that if I said anything, I'd never feel her breath on my face again. And to hell with that! I found out later that in addition to Mia's parents' no dating rule, her contract with Disney explicitly states she can't date anyone until her 18th birthday. I'm no lawyer but that doesn't sound legal. I used to hear my dad talk about unconscionable contract terms and how they're unenforceable or something. Pretty sure that one qualifies. Whatever. I plead the Fifth.
Not a single soul on God's precious sphere knows about Mia and Me. And that's just the way it has to be. Sometimes it sucks, but I'm willing to wait for Mia. Willing to pretend there is nothing between us beyond a schoolyard friendship. All for the hope and promise of Mia turning 18 and the two of us being called up from the sexual minor leagues of dry humping. Not that I'm complaining. I'll never forget the first time I felt her hips move under me.
We were in her bedroom lying on the floor making out—an activity we started two weeks after our first kiss. We still hadn't talked about the garage incident but when she saw me at school she'd wink when no one was looking. Oh shit the joy! One day she slipped me a note that read, "How well do you climb? My window's unlocked."
I became Spiderman.
During our inaugural hip grinding session, she somehow flipped over on her stomach and I managed to straddle my legs around her butt. I brushed her hair to the side and started kissing her neck. I had no idea what I was doing but her skin tasted like dessert in my mouth. After a minute of us sharing the ecstasy of lying atop the opposite sex for the first time, I heard a moan and her butt moved up into my groin. I immediately reciprocated and pushed my hips down and felt myself wedge in between her butt cheeks. We started slowly, picked up the pace, and I was done before my infantile mind could even process the significance of the moment.
All Mia said was, "You zipped up back there?"
"Uh, yeah," I said between heavy breaths.
We both lay there together, like human bunk beds, until she shifted and I rolled off her and onto the floor.
"I love you Mia."
"I love you."
She looked at my crotch and said, "Looks like you peed your pants."
"Oh shit!"
I should have been embarrassed but there was something so sweet about Mia that I wasn't. We both knew we'd opened a new door in our lives and my wet jeans were our badge of honor.
"You'd better go Lyle," she suggested.
"Kiss me again."
I eventually left and ran the entire two miles home with a hand over my fly and unbridled joy over my face.
~ * * * ~
"Lyle?" Z says to me. "Are you hearing me?!"
"Huh? Sorry . . ."
"There she is!" B grabs my arm and pushes my chin with just his index finger. "That's her Escalade pulling up to the curb."
"Yeah, I know Bobby. Jeez, they're gonna mob her. This is insane."
And it was. A disgustingly massive group of paparazzi, legit news reporters, students, parents, curious onlookers, and school administrators converged on the black SUV like a pack of rabid dogs. Mia's driver, Mr. Q, had to creep the Escalade along to keep from flattening the idiots.
"Come on," I say. "I can't watch this."
I start walking away from the sea of turmoil but only Z follows me. B is too caught up in the circus to be persuaded to leave. He loves this kind of "dramz" as he puts it.
"Don't worry about this shit Lyle," Z says. "Do you have any idea how many girls there are gonna be at Texas next year? I mean, especially if you're on the track team? Good Lord, you're not gonna remember Mia's name by mid-terms."
I'm starting to freak out but I need to play it cool because if I don't, Z will be on me in a second. "Yeah, true," I say. "But there's one major problem with that proposition."
"What's that?"
"All the sorority girls in the world won't ease the pain of a Z-less life."
"Oh please," Z laughs. "You and I both know I'd go completely mental if I stayed in Texas for college. God bless this place but Christ knows I need to escape."
"NYU ain't gonna know what hit 'em."
"God, you are so country."
Z grins to make sure I know that she loves this about me.
"We're still on for Sadie Hawkins on Friday?" she asks me. "You're not going depresso on me over this Mia melee are you? Because it'd be really great, for once, to not take my gay twin for a date."
I stop walking. "Z, you do know that every guy in H.P. thinks you're hot, right? You could ask anybody and they'd freak."
"Shut. Up."
"Of course I'll go with you," I say. "Unless things don't go as planned on Friday morning. In that case, I'll be busy at the bottom of White Rock Lake."
"You're as dramatic as B. Keep your head up today Lyle."
"See ya at lunch."
Z strolls off down the hall toward first period English, but I doubt if she'll actually attend. I guess you can say Z is a genius of some sort. She aced the SAT. President's Scholarship to NYU to study biology. Which means she's pretty badass in the academic department. If I were betting I'd guess she's headed back to the Tahoe to read a book by Chekhov or some other foreigner I'll never understand.
Anyway, I'm not a genius so I actually need to attend class. But not just because I have to work hard for my grades but because attendance is a part of my probation terms. Remember William Byrd's shattered nose? Yeah, I'm not allowed to have any unexcused absences. One class skipped and I'm immediately dropped from the track team. If that happens I hope my penis just instantaneously explodes to complete the meltdown of my life. Whatever. I make sure I'm in class on time.
I'm at my locker grabbing my U.S. History book when I hear my coach, Tucker Bush, calling my name. Tucker's a real piece of work. He's what we call an H.P. lifer. Grew up down the street, graduated from H.P., and couldn't wait to get back home just as soon as college ended. Tucker's only twenty-three years old and by all accounts should probably be running professionally somewhere. But Tucker's lazy. Real lazy. He loves booze and despite his affluent upbringing, hates the English language. Did I mention his last name is that Bush family?
"There's my ace in the hole!" He yells. "Mi numero uno. Que pasa, slim?"
"Hey, Tuck."
I shut my locker and start walking toward my classroom in hopes that Tucker will leave me alone. But I'm not that lucky.
"Hey, hold on a sec buddy!" Tucker hurries alongside me. "How ya feelin'? This is a big ole week for us."
"Yup," I say, not concerned in the least. I have more important issues on my mind.
"Oh come on! I know you're more excited than that." He grabs me by the shoulders. "This is the race you've been buildin' toward for two effin years."
I stop walking and say, "I know Tuck. I know. I'm just having a bad morning. I'm . . . I'm just . . . irritated is all. But I'll be fine."
Tucker eyeballs me pretty good before saying, "Hot shit! Mia Hampton's got your balls, don't she? And do not lie to me."
"No! What? What are you talking about?"
I start walking again.
"Lyle," he says sternly. "Get your skinny ass back here. Right. Now."
I'm always conflicted when Tucker gives me a firm order. I mean, is he really an authority figure? Does he possess any actual power over me? Because if I reported to Principal Partain half the crap Tucker has said and done in my presence, I'm pretty sure he'd be arrested. But despite his Guinness book record of offenses, I can't ever forget that if it weren't for Tucker, I'd still be running a five-minute mile. I owe him everything.
And so I turn around.
"Ya upset about this booty-tape bidness?" he asks quietly.
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't be a goddamned idiot," he says to me.
"Can we please," I ask through clenched teeth, "not have this conversation in the hallway?"
Tucker whips his head around dramatically to hammer home the fact that there is nobody in the hallway. Everyone is at the Mia show.
I sigh before saying, "Mia and I are friends and I don't like when rumors are spread about her. It makes me mad. Is that okay with you?"
"Well sure it is buddy. I understand. Yeah, I forgot that you . . . uh, tutor her sometimes, right?"
"We're friends." I correct him.
"That's what I said. Look, I need your noggin' at the track this week so I'm gonna shoot you straight. Treat ya like a man, comprende?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Sex tape is real."
"How do you know?"
"Done seen it."
Chapter 4
Lyle
"How?" I say.
"How'd ya think genius? My damn eyes is how."
"I mean how Tucker? When? Where? How?"
"Boy, you need to calm your ass down. How don't matter none. What matters is that I seen it, and it's real baby. It's muy real. Which means Mia ain't worth your time."
I think I'm about to barf my death biscuit all over Tucker's stupid face. My heart is racing and I just can't believe any of this is true.
"Hey, ya okay Lyle?" Tucker says. "Lookin' pretty pale."
"Why," I say softly, "are you telling me all this?"
Tucker takes both his hands and grabs my shoulders. "Because," he says, "H.P. is gonna be a zoo this week with sexual speculation, okay? But I need your focus to be on nuthin' but runnin' four blazin' fire laps on Friday. Nuthin' else. Ya worked too damn hard the past two years to screw this up now. It's balls to the wall time."
As ferociously upset as I am, I know Tucker's right. Besides slipping my peen into Mia's hoo-ha, there is nothing else I crave more than to run track for the University of Texas. And I know that Friday is my final chance to make that happen. I have to keep my crap together.
But I also need to know if Tucker is lying. "You and I both know," I begin, "that I've never given anything less than every ounce of my sweat and blood to this track. Nothing has or ever will change that. But you have to give me something on this. Make me understand, so I can put it away."
Tucker's thinking this over pretty good and I know I've called his bluff. Stupid people are terrible liars. "Billy," he whispers. "My cousin called me last night from L.A. He clued me in."
"Billy Bush?" I say. "As in the TV personality, Billy Bush?"
"God help me son. Lower your damned voice!"
"Billy Bush called you and told you the tape is real?"
"That's what I just said, ya retard."
There is no way Tucker is telling the truth. I absolutely refuse to believe Mia is in a sex tape. Actually, I refuse to believe Mia has even had sex. Trust me, we've discussed the issue at length and on more than one occasion. But I'm too upset to tell you about that now. What I can't figure out is why Tucker is lying to me. It doesn't make any sense. And while I do know Billy Bush is related to my idiot coach, he's never once mentioned that they actually talk to one another. But if the tape is real, then it would make sense for Billy to call Tuck, since he works at Mia's school.
I can't decide how to proceed, so I bail.
"Whatever Tuck," I mumble. "I have to get to class."
"So we're good right?" He smiles at me. "Be at the track and ready to work at four sharp?"
I give him thumbs up and walk off.
In class I'm the only kid on time. Literally, it's just Dr. Reamer and me.
"Surprised you're not out with the others," he says looking down at me over his bifocals.
"Why is that sir?" I reply.
He cocks his head. "Isn't Bobby your best friend?"
"Yes, sir."
Dr. Reamer walks over to the window and says, "I don't think the ambulance has pulled away, so if you hurry . . ."
I'm already running.
Chapter 5
Lyle
The crowd was pretty big when I first walked into school. It's now become a Robert Pattinson mall appearance. A helicopter makes it impossible to hear anything. I can't even see the ground. I'm pushing shoulders and trying hard not to roll my ankle on the sea of feet I'm treading on. Just trying to get closer to the flashing lights and Mia's Escalade, which are parked next to each other. But before I get there an elbow stabs me sharply in the back and I go down hard.
"My bad Lyle," William Byrd says to me. "It's a madhouse out here."
I stand up, brush myself off, and say, "No problem Bill. I guess you've been looking forward to that."
"Just warming up Lyle." He slaps my shoulder hard. "You're gonna pay for what you did to me, you skinny little bitch."
"You hurt Bobby," I say, letting his insult roll off my back. "So I hurt you, and I got suspended. The score is settled."
"Far from it," he replies.
"Fine." I look him square in the eyes. "But just for the record. You lay one finger on Bobby and I'll send you and your crooked nose right back to the E.R."
"You sucker punched me Lyle," he says defensively. "It won't happen again. So just for the record, I still owe you one."
The look in William's eyes unnerves me. No doubt about it, I broke the wrong guy's nose. William is as hard a kid as you're gonna find in H.P. He's the starting middle linebacker for the football team and looks the part. His six-foot-three frame carries about two hundred pounds of muscle, and his feeble mind carries just enough anger to allow him to follow through on any threat of physical violence it makes. In other words, he's a loose cannon and I'm surprised he hasn't already kicked the crap out of me.
But I don't have time to get my teeth kicked in today, so I just smile at the punk and continue my journey deeper into the mob and toward the ambulance.
Sometimes being skinny is incredibly helpful. Running track is obvious. I'm always comfortable no matter how jam packed the airplane is. Mia and I can fit in any chair together. And I can always squeeze my way through a crowd. I've never once stood in the back of a concert. So after another minute of weaving and contorting my wiry frame, I'm able to break free.
Mr. Q is standing outside the Escalade talking with two police officers when I walk up to them. One of the cops, a female, tells me to get back onto the sidewalk. But Mr. Q says, "Hey Lyle, thank God you're here."
God gave Mr. Q the deepest voice in his mysterious bag of creation, so when he speaks, everyone listens—even cops. So I ignore the cop and keep on walking.
"Your little buddy and I had a mishap," he says to me while the female cops gives a nod to let me know it's all right that I continue walking over. Mr. Q is clearly in charge of the situation.
When I reach the group I see a stretcher on the far side of the Escalade. And of course B is lying on it. But he's not dead or even injured for that matter. He's all smiles and chatting up a beefy EMT with a nametag that says "Luke".
"What happened?"
"We were pulling up to the curb," Mr. Q explains to me. "And Bobby got a little too close to the action. My bumper nicked his leg and he went down."
"Excuse me, Mr. Quiz," the male officer interrupts. "Despite the slow speed at which you were traveling at, we're going to have to take you in for questioning since a minor was struck by the vehicle."
Mr. Q looks to me for some help.
"One second please?" I say to the cops.
They both nod in agreement.
As I turn to walk toward B I look in the Escalade through the un-tinted windshield and see Mia sitting in the backseat. She's wearing over-sized sunglasses and when she sees me, she smiles. I can't see her eyes but I know precisely how the corners are crunching up. I have every centimeter of that face memorized. I smile back at her.
When I get to B he says, "Oh Lyle, thank God you're here! That man tried to kill me!"
"Are you hurt?" I say.
"What? Didn't you hear me? I was hit by the truck. No! I was run over by that psychopath!"
"Is he injured?" I ask Luke.
"His leg has a scratch and he's seems pretty rattled by the ordeal but . . ."
"He's okay?" I interrupt him.
"Yeah," Luke admits. "He's fine."
I take B by the arm and lift him off the gurney and walk back to Mr. Q and the cops. "Tell them you're not hurt and that Mr. Q is free to go."
"But I don't know if I am!" B cries. "That Escalade was coming so fast and I . . ."
"Bobby," I say sternly. "I'm serious."
B rolls his eyes. "I'll most likely survive. But I'm going straight to our family doctor after school. And if I have so much as a single nightmare about this incident you'll be hearing from my parents' lawyers. They have like fifty of them right now because they're getting divorced."
I don't even know what to say. B is always dramatic but this is over the top, even for him. During this escapade the mob has taken advantage of the cops being distracted and have now surrounded the Escalade and begun snapping photos of Mia and rocking the truck like a bunch of hoodrats in a riot.
"Okay Mr. Q," the female cop says. "You're free to go. Get this truck out of here, and do it now. Do not let her exit the vehicle at this entrance. Go around back and we'll personally escort the student into school."
"Yes ma'am," Mr. Q replies.
"As for you young man." The cop gives B a look of warning. "Stay out of the street."
B just flutters his fingers at Luke. I yank his arm and steer him back into the crowd. But B slips his skinny arm out of my hand and breaks free. He rushes over to a group of students who've been watching the action from the curb and begins to immediately embellish the morning's events.
I once again begin the journey of elbows and kicked heels back into school when my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and stop dead in my tracks when I read the text from Mia: I've ruined everything.
Chapter 6
Lyle
Text messages from Mia are the best and worst things ever.
Nothing compares with a late night text from L.A. to let me know she's thinking of me. Or an: OMG! You're never gonna guess what went down on set! Or: WTF! Get your cute butt to LA. I neeeeeeed U.
I'm convinced earth would stop spinning and be sucked into a black hole if she didn't send me these messages.
The downside is that I can't text her back. Like ever. It's too risky. Mia's mother is with her twenty-four seven, and if she ever saw a text from me she'd know I was more than Mia's tutor and all access to her would be swiftly and unapologetically cut off.
This is our ruse. My dad went to Yale and my mom owns a bookshop. I'd read all of Shakespeare by my fourteenth birthday. I'm not super smart but I'm well read. In high school this passes for super smart. At least in the eyes of Mia's mother who is far more concerned with what she'll be wearing to the Emmys than her child's education. This is also why and how Mr. Q knows me. I'm the tutor.
So every high attached to a blissful text is followed by the low of not being able to reciprocate. It's torture. Absolute and total misery. But right now I'm debating bucking this particular rule and firing a text message back. I mean, what the hell is going on? But . . . I won't. And I never will. The only Mia Rule I violate is the one she asks me to: sneaking in her bedroom at night. Other than that, I play by the book. I do everything Mia's way. She's that important to me and I can't loser her. Ever.
I'm back in the building now and things seem to be returning to normal. Kids are actually filing into classrooms and I hear annoyed teachers pleading for students to take their seats and shut up. As I round the corner to Dr. Reamer's class I peer through a window and see the chopper make one last circle before flying off into the oblivion. I can't help but wonder what important story it's off to cover next? A seven year old probably stole a car or something.
I'm about to walk back through Dr. Reamer's door when I get another text from Mia: Come out back. Pleeeeze.
Dammit. I hold up short of the classroom and take a peak inside. Not everyone is back and Dr. Reamer is still sitting at his computer fiddling with some papers. I have a few minutes, maybe. But I'd make it fast.
Out back Mr. Q and the cops are all standing outside the Escalade but Mia's nowhere in sight. Once again, the cop tries to stop me from approaching. "I'm sorry son but I need you to turn around and go back in the school."
The back window of the Escalade rolls down and Mia says, "It's all right. I need to speak with him." Again, the cop gives me the nod, as if I need it. I walk straight by the adults and Mr. Q opens the passenger door for me and I hop into the leather bucket seat on the passenger side. Mr. Q shuts the door and i find myself looking at Mia for the first time in two months.
She immediately grabs my hand and says, "Hi Lyle."
"Hello." I squeeze her hand tight. She takes off her sunglasses and I notice that her eyes are all puffy around the edges and red where they should be white. "Rough morning?"
"You have no idea."
"You're right," I reply, pulling my hand away. "I have no idea."
"You're angry. I know. I know. I would be too if I were you."
"Is it true Mia?" I ask her. "Ten minutes ago I wouldn't have dignified these rumors with a question, but your text just now . . . well, I don't even know what to say. What am I supposed to say?"
Fresh tears well up on her eyes and one streams down her cheek. Then someone raps on the window. I roll it down and Mr. Q says, "The officers need to escort you in now or they're going to leave."
"I'll walk her in," I say to him. "The frenzy has subsided. She'll be fine with me."
Mr. Q looks to Mia for confirmation and she nods.
"You're the boss," Mr. Q says to Mia with a wink.
I roll up the window.
"There was one night," she begins to say.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I can already feel my chest tightening and I know I'm going to die just like my dad.
"It was the wrap party for Cursed Halo," she continues. "I had one vodka sprite, and you know I don't ever drink. I don't Lyle. You know that. But I was so tired and happy to be finished and crazy excited to come home and see you and . . ."
"Stop," I say. "I can't hear this right now. I really can't. I'm sorry. And I have to get back to class. We're going to have to talk about this after school."
"Oh no!" Mia says. "I totally forgot about your no tolerance rule. You can still run this Friday, right?"
"Let's hope," I say. "But I need to go, I'm sorry. Come on. I'll make sure you get to class safely."
I open the car door to get out but Mia doesn't follow me. "No," she says suddenly. "You just go. And hurry! I'm not going in there. I thought I could, but I can't. I'll have Q take me home. But come over after practice if you want. I'll tell mom you're bringing my assignments."
"Fine," I say, stepping out of the car. I look back at Mia once more before shutting the door. She gives me a weak smile and flashes I Love You in sign language.
I give her an even weaker peace sign and dart back inside.
Chapter 7
Lyle
Fudge me. Dr. Reamer is already at the podium talking about the upcoming 2012 presidential election when I walk into class. I move quickly without making eye contact and go directly to my empty desk.
Please don't be pissed. Please don't be pissed. Please don't be pissed.
"Well . . . Lyle?" Dr. Reamer says to me.