7. Fourteen Years Ago
PENNY
Gavin took his flannel off, tied it around his waist, and popped the hood of my car. He was leaning over it, inspecting the engine parts.
“Lance said I might have flooded the engine.”
Still bent, he turned his head to look at me. There was humor in his expression. “Who’s Lance?”
“A microbiology major my dad introduced me to.”
“A microbiologist said you have a flooded engine?”
“Well, he’s a student, but yes.”
“Sounds like a genius. Can I see your keys?”
When I handed them over, he walked toward the driver’s side to open the door.
“I have a bunch of dance stuff in there. It probably smells bad.”
He looked back at me and smirked. His long legs barely fit in my tiny car. He turned the engine over once and there was nothing.
“It’s your battery. I have jumper cables in my car. Do you want to walk over to the other parking lot with me, and we’ll drive my car back?”
My feet were killing me at the moment. “Do you mind if I just wait here?”
“Actually, I do mind.” He looked down at my slippered feet. “I’m not leaving you alone in a dark parking lot. Come on, I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”
Was he crazy? He bent in front of me. “Jump on.”
Yes, he was crazy. When I jumped on his back, he popped me up higher like I was as light as a feather. “Thank you for doing this. Do you want my Java Hut gift cards or something?”
“I was hoping you’d let me take you out this weekend.”
I tensed up. “Gavin—”
“Penny.”
“I, um . . .”
He stopped walking so he could set me down and tie the laces of his Converse. He was still crouched when he looked up at me. Something in his expression made it impossible for me to say no to him.
“Okay, I’ll go out with you, but I’m really slammed and . . . I don’t really date . . . I don’t really have time to . . .”
He motioned to his back, “Come on, get back on.”
When he stood, he pulled my legs around his waist and said, “You’re a tiny little thing but you’ve got some legs on you.”
“I’m five-six. I’m not that small.”
“So you made out with me, went on a date with me, let me throw you in the air in your underwear—braless, I might add—and then carry you across campus on my back, but you’re still gonna put me in the friend zone?”
“I said I would go out with you.”
“I heard a whole lot of excuses in there, though.”
“I thought I was your best friend?”
“I mean, you are, but I was at least hoping for, you know, room to grow.”
My heart was beating fast against his back. There were at least five reasons why I shouldn’t have been messing around with him, especially when I was practically failing half of my nondance classes. I’d just put too much time into practicing dance. I had to. Maybe in some attempt to prove to my mother choosing dance would be worth it.
I liked Gavin and I wanted him to be my friend. I was finally making connections with people. I knew if we hopped into bed with each other, it would be over. I’d seen it a million times with the girls in high school. Guys get weird after you sleep with them.
He set me down in front of a beat-up old car with a mismatched paint job. “Okay, BFF, this is Charlize. Hop in.”
“You named your car after Charlize Theron? This thing doesn’t look like it can run, let alone start my car.”
He chuckled. “Just get in.”
The interior was pristine black leather, the dashboard was recently polished, and there were zero empty Big Gulp cups or Slim Jim wrappers in sight. He took care of his car well.
“It’s nice inside,” I said.
“I rebuilt the engine, too, and I’m saving up to get her painted. Black on black. When I’m finished, this car will be envied, coveted, and obsessed over by many.”
The engine came purring to life. “What kind of car is it?”
“Charlize is a ’67 Chevelle. She’s my girl.”
“Perfect. Then why do you need to take me on a date?”
When he came to a stop sign, he put the car in neutral and revved the engine. “Do you hear her singing, Penny? Do you hear that beautiful music?”
“This conversation is ridiculous.”
We were both laughing by this point. He studied me for a moment, like he was trying to read my mind. “You like me, though. You want to go on a date with me.” It wasn’t a question.
“Cocky much?”
“Confident. Don’t be mistaken.”
“Why do you want to take me out so badly?”
“Fishing for more compliments, are we?” He’d caught me, but went on anyway. “Obviously you’re beautiful. You have nice, you know, legs and . . . stuff.”
“You’re laughing. I don’t think I’m really your type. I think you’re messing with me. I’m not at all like Charlize Theron.”
We pulled up to my car but he let Charlize idle before getting out. “You are so my type. Charlize—at least the actress—is not. I mean, she’s gorgeous, in a blond, Amazonian, I-might-kill-and-eat-my-own-young kind of way, but I like your look better.”
“Oh yeah? What’s my look?”
“There’s something dark about you . . . and interesting. Your creamy skin, your black hair. The way you move. Your mouth.” He reached out to touch my cheek but I jerked away, breaking the seriousness of the moment.
“What do you mean I’m dark?”
He smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know. Like I want to get naked with you and a Ouija board.”
I burst out laughing.
“And your laugh . . . it’s like the sound of someone squeezing the life out of a miniature trumpet. It’s really cute.”
“That is not a compliment. I have a nice laugh. And by the way, your voice is nasally when you’re not trying to impress people.”
He held his hand to his chest like he was offended, except he was still smiling. “I’m crushed. Penny, whatever your last name is—”
“Piper.”
“Ha! Penny Piper? You’ve got to be kidding! That’s either a children’s book character or a porn star’s name. Penny Piper picked a peck of pickled pep—”
“Stop! I know, trust me. I have to live with this name. My poor sister’s name is Kiki Piper. Like we’re fucking hobbits or something.”
“Penny Piper is worse than Kiki Piper, hands down.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Thanks.”
“Just sayin’. What’s your middle name?”
“Isabelle.”
“I’m gonna call you PIP Squeak.”
“Thank you. I can’t wait.”
“And by the way, I happen to have a deviated septum. That’s why my voice sounds like this sometimes, you asshole. Now get out and help me with your car.”
As we stepped out, he pointed to my Honda and said, “Try and start it when I tell you.”
I stopped and turned to him. “What’s your middle and last name?”
“Gavin Augusta Berninger.”
“I know, right?” He shrugged one arm like he was royalty or something.
“Is that French?”
“Yeah, my dad’s family is French . . . sort of. Like, his great-great-grandfather came from France. No one in our family even speaks French.”
“Hmm, not so regal anymore,” I said.
“Whatever, Penny Piper.”
Gavin did have that creamy French skin that I loved. God, I hated my name. My mom was seriously on quaaludes when she named us. She thought our names were cute, like we would be permanent children.
Once I was in my car, he hooked up the cables and revved the engine in good ole Charlize. “Go ahead!” he yelled.
My little Honda started right up. He got out and came over to my door as I was cranking up the heater. It was freezing and felt like it was going to snow. He motioned for me to roll down my window.
“So . . . not flooded. You can let your microbiologist friend know he should probably stick to amoebas and shit like that in the lab.” He bent and looked through the window at some gauges on my dash. “Let it run for a few minutes.”
I was shivering. “I hate the cold.”
“You want me to get in there and warm you up?”
I ignored him. “Hey, aren’t you gonna be late? Did you say you have to work?” I asked.
He looked at his watch. “I’m good. I’ll unplug the cables and follow you home, okay? Just to make sure.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” he said as he was walking away.
Gavin really did follow me all the way home. After I pulled into the driveway, I got out and waved good-bye to him, but he rolled his window down.
“Wait, come here.”
I jogged over to his car as it idled in the street. “What’s up?”
“We’re gonna hang out, right?”
I dug around in my bag for a pen. “Let me see your hand. Here’s my house number and my email.” I wrote it on his palm.
He kissed it before saying, “No cell phone?”
“Not yet. I asked for one for Christmas.”
“You been naughty or nice?” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“Funny.”
“Hey, by the way, thanks for making out with me,” he said. “I gotta go. I need to get this tattooed on my hand.” He pointed to my phone number.
I started laughing. “Bye, weirdo.”
As I headed for the front door, he drove away and yelled out “Bye, PIP. I actually love your laugh. I want to hear it again tomorrow.”