FIVE
BIRTHDAY WISHES
Westchester, New York
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Fourth week of classes
Dear Diary,
Today is my birthday.
Yep. Nineteen years of trying to be everything to everyone and ending up as no one to myself.
How the hell did this happen?
I don’t know if I’m depressed because I feel I should have achieved more with my life by now, or because I’m a nineteen-year-old virgin who desperately wants sex.
I’m pretty sure it’s that second thing.
I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never had a truly toe-curling kiss. Never had a boy touch my boobs or my butt, or pretty much any part of my naked body, and Lord, I’m desperate for it.
Most nights I touch myself, pretending the hands aren’t mine as I search for the crashing pleasure I keep reading about in Harlequin romance novels and Cosmo. But every night I give up, because even though I can feel something building—something shining and explosive and just out of reach—I can never grasp it. It’s like I’m hovering on the edge of a sneeze, and I’m inhaling and inhaling and inhaling, but the orgasmic exhale never comes. Literally.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I’ve recently discovered Internet porn and have become obsessed with it.
At first I was embarrassed as I watched extreme close-ups of male and female genitalia thrusting against each other, but the embarrassment was quickly replaced by fascination. Horny, aroused fascination.
Mostly with penises.
Oh, the pretty penises. Not flaccid ones of course, because they’re just floppy, wrinkly, and gross. But the erect ones? Wow. Beautiful. Magnificent. Incredibly sexy.
I’m enthralled by them.
I bet they feel amazing. Is that why men are so obsessed with their own?
The closest I’ve ever come to one was the night I drunkenly ground myself against Holt, and although that felt nice, I want to feel one in my hand.
Maybe Holt will let me touch his. I bet he has a very nice penis. I bet it’s glorious, like his stupid perfect face, and gorgeous eyes, and muscled body. I bet if he entered his penis in a competition, it would win “Best in Show” and he could walk around with a giant blue ribbon stuck to his crotch.
If I asked nicely, I wonder if he’d use his pretty penis to remove my pesky virginity.
I’m willing to bet I’m the only virgin in my class. I was holding out hope that Michelle Tye was still in the “V” sorority, but she came to class the other day bragging about how she finally met up with a guy she’d been cyber-sexing, and they humped each other senseless last weekend. She whispered to me that she came four times. Four!
Good God, I’d be happy just to come once, and she gets four? That’s plain greedy.
I haven’t spoken to her for a few days. My jealous vagina forbids it.
I swear that I’m so desperate sometimes I just think I’m going to grab the next guy who comes up to me, tear his clothes off, and molest him on the spot. That I’m going to—
“Hey, Taylor. Writing a novel?”
I slam my diary and legs shut with equal panic. When I look up, Holt’s looking down at me with one of his signature irritating smirks.
“What do you want?” I say as I shove my diary deep into my bag. With much effort, I stop myself from petting his crotch.
I fan myself because, oh sweet Jesus, my face is burning hot.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman? Are you sick?”
He places the back of his fingers on my forehead. All I can think is that I want those fingers touching me in intimate places.
Yes, I’m sick. Extremely perverted and sexually sick.
“I’m fine,” I say and stand to get away from him. I wind up overbalancing and tilt toward the ground. Then his arms are around me, and my horny, deprived body is against his, and I’m trying desperately not to hump his thigh.
“Shit, you can’t even stand up today,” he grumbles. “What the hell?”
I have a moment to savor how his arms feel under my hands before he’s pushing me away and doing that thing where he exhales while running his fingers through his hair.
I have to get away from him, because if I don’t, I swear to the tiny, sweet-smelling baby Jesus, I’m going knock him to the ground and straddle him.
I turn and walk away.
“Where the hell are you going?” he calls after me.
“Elsewhere.”
“Taylor, the Benzo Ra performance starts soon. In the theater. Which is in the opposite direction to the one in which you’re currently traveling.”
I stop in my tracks. In my sex-obsessed haze I’d almost forgotten about the world-famous performance troupe visiting our school for an exclusive performance.
I spin on my heel and stalk past him. “I knew that.”
He falls into step beside me. I speed up to lose him, but there’s no outrunning his stupidly long legs.
“You auditioning for Juliet next week?” he asks.
I scoff and shake my head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no way I would get the lead. I’m probably going to end up playing ‘third partygoer from the left’ and spend the whole production doing crosswords in the dressing room.”
He stops and stares at me. “Why the hell wouldn’t you audition?”
“Because I might suck.’”
“Why would you suck?”
“Because,” I say, “I look around our class, and everyone, and I mean everyone, has more of a clue about what the hell they’re doing. Nearly all of you have had some kind of professional experience and training, while I’ve had none. I feel like you guys are all driving sports cars while I’m still trundling away on my pink kiddie bike with the training wheels.”
He frowns. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Holt, they didn’t even have a drama course at my high school. I had a couple of private acting classes with a guy whose greatest claim to fame was being an extra on The Bold and the Beautiful, and the other day when I walked in on a conversation between Zoe and Phoebe about Stanislavski, honest to God, I said, ‘Oh, wow, I love him. I think I saw him play in the finals of the U.S. Open.’”
He looks at me for a few seconds, his aggravatingly blue eyes unblinking. “Well, hey, that’s an easy mistake to make. The father of modern characterization does sound like a tennis player.”
He keeps his composure for a grand total of three seconds before his face cracks as he doubles over in laughter.
“I hate you,” I say as I walk away.
“Aw, Taylor, come on,” he calls as he comes after me.
“I tell you I’m feeling insecure and inferior, and this is how you react? See, this is why we’re not friends.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I know. Apparently my ignorance is hilarious.”
He grabs my arm to stop me, and his laughter fades. “Cassie, you’re not ignorant. Do you honestly think a casting director is going to care if you know who Stanislavski is when you go to an audition?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never auditioned for a casting director, because I have zero experience.”
“But you’ve done plays…”
“I was in the chorus of two musicals for which the only audition requirement was showing up. I’d hardly credit that to my stellar technique.”
“Well, you got into this place, for God’s sake,” he says, gesturing around him. “Out of thousands of people, they accepted you, and that wasn’t because of how many castings you’ve been to or how many lame-ass plays or movies you’ve been in. They accepted you because you’re really fucking talented, okay? Stop being so goddamn insecure and own it.”
I look up at him. “You think … I’m talented?”
He sighs. “Jesus, Taylor, yes. Very talented. You’ve got just as much chance as anyone of getting the lead role. Maybe more, because you have a sort of … intense vulnerability when you act. It’s … well, it’s kind of remarkable.”
For a moment, the way he’s looking at me is almost affectionate. Then he clears his throat, and says, “You’d be freaking nuts not to audition for Juliet. You’d be perfect.”
The phrase “you’d be perfect” resounds in my brain like a sweet, sexy echo.
“Well, maybe I will try out,” I say, practically toeing the pavement. “Even on my suckiest day I’m still better than Zoe.”
He chuckles. “That’s true.”
“So what about you?” I say, walking slowly as he falls into step beside me. “Are you auditioning for Romeo?”
He shakes his head. “No way. I’d have to have my balls removed to play that pussy.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk about one of the greatest romantic heroes of all time.”
“He’s not a hero, Taylor, he’s a limp, fickle dick who confuses lust with love and kills himself over a chick he’s just met.”
“Harsh!” I say and laugh. “You don’t believe he loved Juliet?”
“Fuck, no. He was dumped by Hot Girl Number One—Rosaline. He pines over her like a kid who’s lost his puppy, or his pussy, as the case may be. Then, through a chain of unlikely events, he meets Hot Girl Number Two—Juliet. He immediately forgets all about Hot Girl Number One and is so pathetically desperate to fuck Hot Girl Number Two that he proposes marriage to her within hours of meeting her. I mean, come on. Her vagina could offer shiatsu massage and whistle the national anthem—it’s still not worth marrying her to get a piece of it.”
I shake my head over the massive mound of cynical walking beside me in human form.
“So you don’t think there’s the slightest possibility he just fell in love at first sight?”
“Love at first sight is a myth invented by romance novel authors and Hollywood. It’s bullshit.”
“Jeez, how did you get to be so jaded?”
“I’m not jaded. Just realistic.”
“Sure you are.”
He stops and turns to me, his face all serious. “Think about it like this. Just imagine you see a hot guy. You have an immediate, powerful reaction to him. Do you love him?”
Not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this line of questioning.
“Well … I … uh—”
“Okay, I’ll turn it around. I see a girl. For some reason, looking at her is like … God, I don’t know. Like finding something precious I never knew I lost. I feel something for her. Something primal. Are you trying to tell me that what I feel is love? Not lust?”
“I don’t know. Is this hypothetical girl hot?”
“Fuck, yes. Hot in a way I never thought hot could be. Just looking at her turns me on. It’s annoying as hell.”
Okay. This conversation has taken a seriously arousing turn. Just what I need today.
“I … well…”
“Come on, Taylor. Am I in love?”
I’m looking at his crotch. “Well … uh, I don’t know. It’s hard”—God, I said hard while looking at his crotch—”to say. I mean … uh … wow.”
“Of course I’m not in love! It’s a bizarre chemical reaction that’ll pass. I’m not going to ask her to marry me just so I can fuck her.”
My mind goes to very porny places.
“Taylor!” He clicks his fingers in front of my face. “Focus.”
“So … uh … you think a strong reaction to someone of the opposite sex is always purely physical?”
“Yes. If Romeo and Juliet had happened in real life, minus the ridiculous deaths, Juliet probably would have destroyed Romeo in the end by fucking Mercutio.”
He’s dead serious. It’s funny and tragic at the same time.
“Think about it, Taylor,” he says as he leans forward. “If Romeo thought he loved Rosaline and she broke his heart, why wouldn’t he be terrified of Juliet, considering his connection to her is a hundred times stronger?”
I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe he’s brave enough to think it’s worth the risk.”
“Yeah, and maybe he’s just horny and stupid.”
“The romantic argument would be that if they’d denied their … love … connection … whatever you want to call it, they’d be hollow. Isn’t that the point of living? To find the one person in all the world who’s your perfect match?”
“Actually, Taylor, the point of living is not dying. Romeo and Juliet failed at that part.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “What you’re telling me is that if you were Romeo, you’d have walked away from Juliet.”
“Yes,” he says, unblinking.
“Hmmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s a contemplative sound.”
“Contemplating what?”
“How much you’re deluding yourself.” I narrow my eyes while tapping my chin with my finger. “Hmmm.”
He exhales and glares. “Don’t fucking ‘hmmmm’ me, Taylor, okay? I don’t need your condescending little sounds.”
“Hmmmm.”
“Goddammit.” He looks at his wrist and says, “Wow, look at the time. We have to go. The show’s starting soon.”
Right. Benzo Ra.
He walks off, and I follow, saying, “Uh … Holt? You know you’re not actually wearing a watch, right?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Just checking.”
When Holt and I emerge from the theater an hour later, we’re barely out the door before we’re snorting out all the repressed scorn that built up during the performance.
“Oh … man,” Holt says as he starts to calm down “That was the funniest thing I’ve seen since Keanu Reeves did Much Ado About Nothing.”
I wipe the laugh tears from my eyes as we walk to our next class.
“Seriously. “I sigh. “That’s a professional theater company. That could be our future.”
He laughs and groans at the same time. “It would be the ultimate torture. Those guys couldn’t actually classify themselves as actors, could they? Surely their résumé says ‘Professional Pretentious Prick.’”
We continue chuckling as we make our way into acting class. Erika is already there, sitting on her desk.
As the class settles around her, she says, “So, that was one of the most highly respected avant-garde theater troupes in the world, ladies and gentlemen. What did you think?”
The class babbles excitedly. Phrases like, “Oh my GOD, it was AMAZING!” and “SO unique! Really powerful!” and “The most stunning piece of theater I’ve ever seen!” fly around the room, overlapping.
My mouth drops open.
They loved it. They all loved it.
They saw the same collection of embarrassingly obtuse scenes as I did, and they all came to a completely different conclusion.
God, I’m such an uncultured idiot.
“Their use of stylized movement was so precise,” Zoe says excitedly. “It was incredible!”
Next to me, Holt scoffs, and Erika turns to him.
“Mr. Holt? Did you have something to say?”
“Nothing good,” he says and raises his chin defiantly. “I thought it was a pile of shit.”
Erika tilts her head. “Really? And why did you think that?”
“Because,” he says, exasperated. “There’s supposed to be a difference between random noise and movement, and theater. Even experimental theater is supposed to represent ideas and emotions. It’s not supposed to be a bunch of idiots walking around the stage like they have sticks up their asses.”
“You don’t think the performance achieved communication on an emotional level?”
He laughs. “Not unless they were trying to communicate that they were all enormous jerk-offs.”
Zoe rolls her eyes, and there are murmurs of disagreement from other members of the class.
Holt looks at them with disdain. “I can’t believe you guys didn’t think it was crap. Did you all see a completely different show? Or were you blinded by their ‘reputation’ because you’re a bunch of fucking sheep?”
I hear several murmurs of “Fuck you, Holt,” until Erika shushes everyone as she turns to me.
My stomach convulses.
No, no, no, no, please don’t ask me.
“Miss Taylor? I haven’t heard your opinion yet. What did you think?”
Oh, God.
Holt is looking at me.
I don’t want to look ignorant. I want to be accepted and say the right thing.
“Well…”
“Come on, Taylor,” Holt says. “Tell them what you think.”
“It was…”
They’re all staring. Him. Them. Erika.
“I thought it was…”
So many expectations. My head hurts.
“Yes, Miss Taylor?”
Holt’s gaze is piercing. “It’s not a hard question. Just give them your opinion.”
No matter what I say, I’m screwed.
“I thought it was amazing,” I finally mutter. “Really incredible. I loved it.”
The silence is broken as everyone mumbles their approval.
Everyone but him.
I can almost see Holt’s anger shimmering like a current in the air.
“Well, that’s very interesting,” Erika says. “It seems you’re all of the same opinion about it except Mr. Holt, and I have to say”—she gives him a surprised smile—”I agree with him.”
There are gasps of surprise.
I feel like crap.
Wrong again. Of course.
“Just because someone has a reputation for excellence doesn’t mean you should view everything they do as tacitly good. Even the finest actors in the world have had terrible performances. Just look at Robert De Niro in Analyze This.”
Everyone laughs.
Erika crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve seen Benzo Ra perform many times over the years, and I have to say, this performance was disappointing in the extreme. It was comprised of unimaginative theatrics that, in my opinion, alienated the audience rather than drawing them into the experience.”
She keeps talking, but I’ve zoned out. I feel sick.
After being at each other’s throats for weeks, Holt and I were starting to get along. Then I go and throw him under the bus because I want people to like me.
Idiot.
“So, ladies and gentlemen,” Erika says, “your assignment tonight is to write a thousand words analyzing the Benzo Ra performance and why you did or didn’t like it, citing references to other experimental theater practitioners, including people like Brecht, Brock, and Artaud. I look forward to reading your thoughts.”
She dismisses us, and before I can stumble through an apology, Holt is striding out of the room. I scramble to my feet to follow him, but he’s so damn fast I have to run to catch up.
“Holt.”
He ignores me.
“Holt, wait up.”
He keeps walking. I get in front of him and put my hand on his chest to stop him.
His face is stormy. “What?”
“You know what.”
“Oh, that little thing back there where you completely screwed me over? Yeah, I do know what. Take your fucking hand off me.”
He steps around me and keeps walking while I stumble after him.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t know what to say. I thought I must be defective because I didn’t get it. They all thought it was great. I didn’t want to seem like I was too ignorant to have the right opinion.”
He stops and turns to me. “So you think I’m too ignorant to have the right opinion?”
His expression is so intense, he’s almost scary.
“No! God, you said exactly how you felt, and I should have. I just—”
“For fuck’s sake, Taylor,” he says as he throws up his hands. “An opinion isn’t right or wrong. It’s your interpretation of a subject or situation. You can’t be fucking wrong!”
“So, if I look at the sky and have the opinion that the clouds are pink, I’m right?”
“Yes! Because it’s an opinion, not a fact, and maybe to you, the clouds are pink because you’re nuts. An opinion doesn’t need to be true for anyone else in the world but you. Stop trying to fucking please everyone, and just say what you think.”
I feel like he’s slapped me.
“And you know what makes me even crazier?” he asks, poking his finger at me. “Whenever you’re with me, you’re the most opinionated person on the fucking planet, and you constantly browbeat me with your opinion, whether I want to hear it or not. But the moment you get around those dicks in our class, you have zero fucking backbone. You’re so damn paranoid about being accepted, you turn into a sheep, just bleating along with the herd. It makes me want to slap you, because you forget about everything that makes you cool and fun and … Cassie, and you become some sort of people-pleasing autobot who tries to be whatever the fuck people expect instead of just yourself.”
He’s so worked up, he’s panting. I have nothing to say because he’s said it all.
No one has ever known me well enough to call me on my issues before, and I guess that he’s so upset means he actually … cares.
“You’re right,” I whisper.
“Yeah, I am,” he says. “So fucking quit it.”
I shuffle my feet as the quad starts clearing of people. “So, what are you doing now?”
He slings his knapsack over his shoulder and sighs. “Going home to write a thousand words on experimental theater, I guess.”
“Well, you could come to my place to write your paper. I could pick your brain, so I don’t come off sounding like an idiot.”
He thinks about it for a few seconds. Judging by his expression, he’s weighing whether or not to sell one of his kidneys.
“Jeez, Holt, I’m not asking you to get married. I just thought you could help me out.”
“Okay,” he says reluctantly. “But you owe me snacks.”
“I can do that.” Apart from the preprepared meals filling my freezer, the only food I own is snacks. My mother would be so ashamed.
We detour to the library and I grab a few books that might be useful. Then we make our way back to my apartment.
I walk into my bedroom and dump my bag on the bed before I turn to see him hovering in the doorway.
“What the hell?” I say and laugh. “Are you like one of those vampires on TV? You need to be invited in before you can enter?”
He shakes his head and walks into the room. “No, it’s just weird to be in here when you’re not either vomiting or passed out.”
“I have ‘vomiting and passing out’ on the schedule for nine o’clock. Stick around. Should be fun.”
I’m about to unpack my books when my phone rings. I fish it out of my pocket to see my mom’s number.
“Be back in a second.”
I head out to the living room, because I know why she’s calling.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Sweetheart! Happy birthday!”
I put my hand over the speaker and look over my shoulder.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Oh, sweetie, I wish we could be with you. Are you having fun? What are you doing tonight?”
“Uh, not much. Studying.”
Holt pokes his head out of my bedroom and says, “Taylor, where are the library books? I’ll start on the research.”
My mother’s talking, but I cover the phone and whisper, “In my bag, on the bed.”
He nods and disappears.
Mom stops. “Who was that?”
“Just a boy from my class. We’re studying together.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “You’re alone with a boy in your apartment?”
Oh, Lord. Here we go.
“Mom, it’s not what you think. We’re working.”
Just then Holt yells, “Jesus, Taylor, your bed is fucking uncomfortable! How the hell do you sleep on this thing? Or is that the point? You don’t want guys trying to snuggle when you’re done with them?”
I cringe, and my mother gasps.
“Mom—”
“Cassie! I raised you better than to jump into bed with the first boy you meet.”
“We’re just friends.” Sort of. “It’s not like that. Really.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“Hurry up, Taylor! I think your bed has put my back out. I can’t get up!”
I’m going to kill him!
My mother launches into a rant about how many rapes occur on college campuses, and how irresponsible I’m being, and crows that this is what happens when she’s not around to supervise me. Usually I’d just let her get it out of her system to keep the peace, but I have a tiny little Holt on my shoulder, urging me to stand up for myself.
“Mom, just stop. Whether or not I have a man here is none of your business. I’m an adult now, and I don’t need your approval for my every decision. Now, I love you, but I have a very good-looking man in my bed and I have to go.”
She’s silent for a few seconds, and I’m terrified I’ve given her a heart attack.
“Mom?”
There’s more silence. I picture my mother lying glassy-eyed in her living room, the phone still clutched in her hand.
“Mom?!”
“How good looking?” she finally asks.
I sigh. “You have no idea.”
She laughs. It’s fake, but at least she’s trying.
“Be careful of the good-looking ones, sweetie,” she says. “They’ll break your heart.”
“Mom, Dad’s good looking.”
She pauses. “Yes, well, your father sends his love. He’ll call you later tonight when he gets home from work.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I get a pang of homesickness. Despite bitching about them, I really miss my parents.
I say good-bye and feel a kernel of pride for speaking my mind. I’ve never stood up to my mother before, and I got through it without crying or killing her. Maybe Holt is onto something after all.
I smile as I walk back into the bedroom to find him sitting on the edge of my bed, bent over a book, raking his fingers through his hair.
“Wow, that looks like a thrilling read,” I say.
He jumps up in surprise. “Taylor … I didn’t mean to. It was in your bag. One of the other books had pushed it open, and I saw my name and I…”
A wave of sickening horror washes over me as I realize what’s in his hand.
I swallow embarrassment and nausea. My face blazes.
“How much did you read?” I whisper, my voice hoarse with shame.
“Enough.”
“Everything I wrote today?”
“Yes.” He pauses. “It’s your birthday?”
I’m going to be sick. He’s read it all. Me ranting about my virginity. How horny I am. How much I want him and his award-winning penis.
All of it.
“Cassie…”
“Holt, if you say ‘happy birthday’ to me right now, I’m going to destroy you.”
I cover my face and refuse to cry, but he can’t be here anymore. I can’t be near him. Ever again. Maybe longer.
“Goddammit, Taylor…” he says. “What you wrote about me? I can’t know that. I seriously fucking can’t—”
“Get out.”
I hear him exhale, but I can’t look at him.
“Cassie—”
“Get. The Hell. Out. Now.”
I hear a dull thud and I look over to see that he’s dropped the diary on the bed. He comes over and grabs his bag from the floor behind me.
When his body brushes mine, he makes a noise and pulls back. I open my eyes to find him right in front of me, studying my face. I feel like if he doesn’t stop, my skin is actually going to burst into flames.
“How is it possible?” he asks quietly.
“What?”
I press my back into the door of my closet as he moves forward and continues to stare. “How is it possible you’ve never…? That no man has ever…?”
I want him to finish the sentence, but he just keeps staring with an incredulous expression. “It’s a fucking crime that you haven’t been kissed properly.”
I stare at his chest. It’s rising and falling fast. So is mine.
I close my eyes. “You do it, then.” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop it, but I don’t want to take it back. “You show me how I should be kissed.”
I open my eyes to see him staring at me with such intensity, it takes my breath away.
For a moment, he doesn’t move, and I want to climb into the wall to escape my mortification. But then he leans forward, so slowly it barely looks like he’s moving. I think I stop breathing because my chest hurts. I didn’t know how much I wanted to be kissed by him until this moment, but now, every cell of my body craves it. Everything tingles with vicious anticipation.
Holt’s expression is serious. Eyes dark and searching. His hands go to my hips, and I lean back against the door as his fingers squeeze and release in a rough rhythm.
I finally inhale, and he’s so close now, I breathe in his warm, sweet air.
This is going to happen. Oh, God, please let this happen.
I close my eyes and part my lips, almost crying from the expectation of having his mouth on me.
But then, everything stops. His air is no longer washing over my face, and his warm hands disappear from my body.
“You really think after reading all of that, there’s any way I can fucking kiss you?” he says in a rough voice. “Jesus, Taylor, I can’t even cope with being in the same room as you.”
When I open my eyes he’s slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding out the door.
Mortification and embarrassment fill all the space in my lungs, and I slide down the wall and cover my face, wishing myself invisible.
I’m still waiting for the earth to open up and swallow me when I hear the front door slam closed.