The Crew

Untitled part 5

Chapter Five

It was deep in the night at the punk party, at Lorenzo's, after I returned from the bathroom, three-quarters drunk, that I spotted the mysterious chick I'd seen that first night right before being set on fire.

The upstairs living room was packed with people. Crass—this English punk band—played loudly, interweaving with rambunctious chatter. Talk filled the room. Smoke undulated everywhere. Bottles clinked. If you closed your eyes it all sounded like nothing, just languid, garbled language. Cannon, thankfully, was preoccupied, talking to D.D. in the corner, facing the other way.

Ghost Girl was standing outside, on the balcony, alone. Wind blew her short clipped hair around. She wore blood-red lipstick, blue jeans, Chuck Taylors. A leather jacket, new, too big for her small frame, was wrapped around her.

She and I locked eyes, her giving me that stare. You know that stare, the one that fixes on your soul for what seems to be forever, but truthfully only lasts a second.

Leaning against the railing, intensely eyeing me from her perch, her hand rose as if from out of the void. A single sexy finger lifted and she pulled it toward herself twice, indicating I should come to her. The waves crashed behind her in the distance, white froth simmering and spreading as the tide rose. No one else seemed to be in the room. Almost in a state of shock—in the same kind of trance I'd been in when I first met her at The Squat—I walked over.

"Meet me outside in five minutes," she whispered. "You go now. I'll come after."

She sounded assured, confident. Building pressure pulsed from somewhere deep down inside of my belly. A girl, showing interest...in me? Anticipation etched its way inside of my gut. I both wanted something to happen and didn't. To say it was outside my comfort zone would be an understatement. But some part of me yearned for this, needed it the same way I needed Cannon's friendship.

I trudged across the room, away from the group, seeing Cannon still talking to D.D. as I left, not seeming to notice my Great Escape. I became a silent apparition, floating, disappearing down the stairs and into the full moon night. Outside, I tromped around Lorenzo's garage and started down the street, sand butting up to the asphalt. A surfer's paradise, the waves crashing only 50 yards away. What now? What if she didn't come?

Just as I was beginning to worry, I heard the muffled shuffle of shoes on sandy street. I turned around and there she was, the tiny Asian who hung out with the berserk punkers from St. Andy's Prep. Without a word, she approached and slid her hand into mine, as if she'd been expecting this all along. Her palm was warm; it fit into my hand like it was meant to be.

I didn't want to do this. It was too terrifying. No. I needed this. I'd been waiting forever. All the girls at school, freshman year, who'd passed me up. They'd smile, that fake grin, then go for the cool guys, the jocks, the sports dudes.

We walked along the street by the sand a while, not speaking, the tension rising in my chest like when I'd first stage dived at the show. I had no idea what to do or say. My palm felt like some slimy, sweaty wad of flesh. I wanted to yank it away, go back to my comfort zone, but I also wanted to shove her against a parked car, make-out for the first time.

I slowed down and stopped, her arm stretching as she kept moving. "Wait," I said.

Smiling, perfect white teeth, she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. "What?"

I tried to speak but no words came out. Again. Nothing. Then I said, "Why'd you tell me to meet you?"

Her smile became tweaked. She flipped her bangs. "Why not?"

My breathing sped. I swallowed. "You're...I don't know." I paused, searching for the words. Humility always worked. "I'm new. I'm a nobody. And besides...who are you?"

Ghost Girl stepped toward me. She got real close. Slowly, she lifted her hands and lassoed them around my waist. I felt her forearms clench my torso. I understood right then and there why boys went psycho for girls. Irresistible. It was like some toxic, sexual energy.

"I don't think you're nobody. Cannonball and Demon seem to have taken a real liking to you. The last few guys that tried to join lasted less than a day."

I swallowed. "I'm not much beyond that."

She pulled herself toward me. Her body was clamped to mine. I heard her beating heart, felt her soft breasts squished against my chest. My mind went into overdrive. This was beyond being set on fire, beyond the show, beyond anything. Wasn't I supposed to be the one making the moves? I looked away, at the sand, trying to remain calm. The image of her hand ripping off that piece of bark from the cypress tree at The Squat that night played in my mind.

Her hand rose, gripped my chin, and moved my face toward her. Our eyes caught.

"I've seen Cannon with you. The way he talks to you. He respects you. I've never seen him like this."

Her body got even closer, arms wrapped around me tight. Her breasts heaved against my chest. My dick stirred and I was certain she felt it, but if she did she said nothing. I wanted to cry or scream or dance or run or...something. Anything. But no: I only wanted to be right here right now. This was spectacular. Perfect. Like the punk show, like drinking, like everything: I'd never done this before. Not really.

"Jack," she said, staring madly into my eyes.

My mother had said my name just the other day, but this was so much different. One had stemmed from suspicion, pessimism, criticism, disappointment. And the other? It stemmed from lust. From desire. From yearning.

I sensed my hand shaking. Why was I such a pansy? Because, I answered myself: You've never done this before, Jack.

Her hands crawled from the back of my waist, up my spine, to my neck. Her fingers were warm on my nape. She caressed the skin. She pulled my head down to her. Before I knew what was happening we kissed; our mouths were dancing, her tongue slithering around my tongue, exploring, lips smacking, French kissing.

In the heat of it, not thinking, tabula rasa, I got carried away and lifted my hand, seeking her breast. She halted, snatching the invading flesh.

"Later, Jack." She clasped my hand with both of hers, grinned a weird, all-knowing grin, and let my hand drop; it thudded against my thigh like a piece of metal.

As she turned and walked away, leaving me absolutely stunned (and happy!), she made it maybe 10 feet and then stopped, turned, and said, "By the way. I'm Sarah. I go to St. Andy's. I should've mentioned: Cannon has a thing for me. He's been trying to make me his girl for months."

I had crossed my brother.