Chapter Two
Layla
I drag myself through the front door of our house. My legs feel like lead; Coach Mallard was a real tyrant today. My voice is a little sore from yelling but that’s the sacrifice of being a cheerleader.
The last thing I want to deal with is my mom’s glowering expression as soon as her attention lands on me. Her work phone rings. “Be my Valentine; how may I help you?” my mom says cheerily into her phone. I should mention it’s fake cheer, because there is a deep scowl on her face at the time. Her finger motions downward, indicating that I should sit.
I slump into her office chair and sigh. “Well, Dolores, did you read the pamphlet I gave you on how to strike up a meaningful conversation, dear?” she asks.
My mom is a matchmaker. Julie hates what our mom does for a living. She calls it poison to the soul. I think Mom’s job is pretty cool; she’s finding people love. Mom claims it’s her calling. After our dad died a few years ago, Mom needed to get a job. She started working at this matchmaker service, and got really into it. They got a kick out of her last name being Valentine. Of course, once she started pulling in dough out the wazoo for that place, she realized she could make more on her own. Enter the creation of “Be My Valentine, where your perfect person is just a click or phone call away.”
Mom hangs up the phone a few seconds later and then narrows her eyes at me. “What were you supposed to do today?”
“Take out the recycling and the trash.”
“So why is the recycling and trash canister still against the garage?”
I huff. “I forgot. I had to get to school. Coach Mallard is breathing down the whole cheer squad’s neck about the state competition.”
“And what does that have to do with the one chore you have around here?”
“Mom, I’m really sorry. I won’t forget again.”
“I know you won’t, because you’re grounded. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your sister covering for you the last few times.”
I clamp my mouth shut. Dang it. “I’m really sorry.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your sister, who’s been picking up the slack for you. In fact, as a tradeoff, I think you will have to do her chores and your own for the next two weeks.”
“W-what? But I have homework and cheer practice!”
“We all have things we have to do, Layla. This is about meeting your responsibilities, not slacking off and expecting someone else to take care of it for you. Or if you prefer, I can ground you for three weeks. What will it be?”
I grumble. “Extra chores.”
“Good. Go start on your homework.”
A knock prods my door open a smidge. Juliet peeks in, and I want to launch a pillow at her face. “What do you want?”
“Um … can I talk to you about something?”
“No. Especially not if you’ve come to gloat about me getting all your chores.”
She flinches. “I’m sorry … I was mad. I’ll talk to mom. It’s cool. I know you have way more going on than me. You don’t have to do my chores.”
“I’m going to. I don’t need a reminder of all the things you do better than me.”
“Ugh. It’s not like that, and you know it. I get crap all the time for not being more active in school and more social.”
It’s true she does. Sometimes I think our mom likes to pit us against each other so we both try as hard as the other. Juliet is book smart and great at soccer. Me. Well, I’m the more flexible one and good with people. I cheer and do gymnastics, and I’ve got over ten thousand followers on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Juliet has no social accounts. Even our 80-year-old grandma has Facebook. But Juliet thinks sites like that are just a waste and eats brain cells like crack kills a person. My twin is very unique.
I frown. “I’m tired. Can we talk later?”
“Yeah, sure.”
She closes the door, and I glare at my algebra. The numbers are so jumbled; I have to calm myself and focus. Numbers always look wonky to me. Sevens and ones look the same. Fours and Nines look the same. Threes tend to look like Eights.
Adam sometimes laughs at me when I try texting without using my voice app because it looks like a drunk person typed it. But the wonderful app on my phone can’t help me pass Algebra. It certainly can’t help me muddle my way through English.
A lot of people, especially in our family, believe Juliet got all the brains. Maybe they’re right. Heck, I didn’t even start talking until I was four. By the time I was in first grade, I was just learning to read my own name. I’ve been to tutors and specialists, and not much helps. There is no cure for Dyslexia. I just have to take longer breaks than normal students.
Maybe that’s why I focus better at sports. No one is asking me to find x while flipping in the air. No one is asking me to read when I’m working on the balancing beam.
My phone pings, and I sigh. Great, a text message. I turn on my app and it sounds off in a generic voice. Message from Adam: Hey U. R U grounded?
I use the microphone and say: Not exactly. Have to do extra chores.
Adam: That Sucks. No party Friday?
Me: Not sure. Can we do something else?
Adam: Babe. Srsly? I want 2 prty.
Me: I get that. Trying to get Homework done. TTYL
Adam: Can’t I g2g2 zzz.
That’s bullcrap. He doesn’t go to bed until at least twelve. It’s only seven. At least I think it is. I chew on my lower lip.
Me: Yeah Ok.
Adam: Heart U.
Heart? No love? What the heck?
I don’t bother to acknowledge him. I push my phone aside. He’ll get the hint his lack of typing out “I love you” really ticked me off.
My phone pings again. I don’t look at it immediately. After about four more pings, I can’t ignore it anymore and look. He sends me a pic of him making a kissy face at me. My resolve wanes a little. The next picture is a selfie; with his left-hand he makes the universal sign for “I love you.” I melt a bit but still refuse to answer.
Adam: Sry.
Adam: Luv u.
Me: I’m sorry too. Just stressed.
Adam: We could correct that :-).
I hate when he hints at sex. He’ll put on a whole pouty act because I refuse to go all the way. Why does waiting for a right moment have to feel like a ticking time bomb? What’s with it with guys thinking they’re only awesome if they go all the way with their girlfriends?
Me: I told u. I’m not ready.
Adam: I know. When u r I’m here.
I want to say ‘really, then why keep mentioning every chance you get?’ But this will lead to a fight so I simply take the cowardly way out.
Me: I have to finish this homework. Love you.
Adam: Luv ya too. Sweet dreams.
I set my phone aside and stare at my math. The whole sex thing has me in a way worse mood. We’ve been together for almost a year. I don’t want to be that corny girl who gives it up on prom night. I don’t want to wait until I’m married either, I just … I’m scared.
All my friends who’ve done it said it was super painful the first time and you can’t even enjoy it. They also claim every time afterwards is amazing. Still pain before doesn’t make me want to try it any time soon. If I’m being completely truthful though, pain isn’t the only thing holding me back. What I’m really terrified of is losing Adam afterwards. I already feel like our relationship is on its last thread with his constant pressure. Then with him being so distracted, he can’t even hold a conversation with me anymore. I’d be completely mortified if I did share that experience with him and he just dropped me as easily as the snap of a finger.
Every single one of my friends who gave up the v-card to a guy they were dating said it was like that’s all the guy was after—nailing the virgin—because they broke up quickly after. Some waited a week, some a couple days, others less than twenty-four hours. That is what I’m terrified of: that Adam will go from this wonderful, amazing person to a grade-A douche. And I’ll forever remember him as that guy who took my virginity and left me.
I stare mindlessly at my homework. I’m never going to get this done if I keep letting myself get distracted with texts and worrying about sex. Around nine, I finally finish my homework and then I turn in.