Christine, despite the fact that she is a prime offender of this nature, has a system of stages that she uses to keep things straight. She explains them to me after play rehearsal Friday. (One week to the dance.)
“Everybody needs to be on my system,” she says, standing by her chair in the audience rows, rifling through her bag as I keep my eyes glued to her. “It’s like, the only way.” She swishes a grin at me. “There are four stages of a relationship, see?”
“Uh-huh.” My hands are clasped over my crotch like a soccer player’s.
“OK, first, there’s Hooking Up.”
Boy. I hate that one. “Hooking Up” is what I’m supposed to be doing, one way or another. The magic phrase for two types of young Americans: unimpeded teenage sex for the Cool ones; kissing for me and Michael and the rest of the unearmarked sludge. Yay!
“—or anything,” Christine says.
“Wait, no! I missed that,” I apologise. “Could you say it again?”
“Well, I just went over Hooking Up,” she says. “Hooking Up is the first stage. That means you have someone who you’ve, y’know, hooked up with and maybe done other things with but there are no commitment strings anywhere. You don’t call this person up. You don’t sit with him anywhere. You just did what you did and that’s it.”
“What does it mean, like, sex-wise?”
“Depending on whether or not you’re a slut,” Christine says, “Hooking Up means having sex. Which I totally understand, for some people. But we’re talking about my system. Skanky girls work on their own system. You want to sit?”
“Sure.”
She continues with her elbow on the armrest between us. The armrest is dirty and her elbow is not.
“Stage two is Dating. Dating occurs after Hooking Up when you and the guy actually show up at public places together and give people the impression that you’re more than friends by kissing and touching.” That sounds like where Christine is with Jake, but I don’t want to ask. Jake is across the room talking to one of his football underlings. “Dating has no commitment either. Like, you can see other people and you don’t have to tell the person you’re Dating, see?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stage three is Going Out. Going Out is like Dating with a little more commitment. At this point, you know, sex might be a consideration, so if you are having sex with the person you’re Going Out with, then you can’t have sex with anybody else.” I like hearing Christine talk about sex. It could be sex with those toads that have other toads spring out of their backs, whatever. “But if you accidentally do have sex with someone else, then you are legally obligated—or rather, obligated by my system, which is just as good as legally obligated—to tell the person you are Going Out with. Then collectively you can make a decision on whether you want to continue the relationship, given your transgression. You know ‘transgression’, right?”
“Yeah.” Vocab pays off! “So how is Going Out different from Dating?”
“Um…let’s see…in Dating, you hold hands maybe. In Going Out, you put your arm around me or whatever.”
Huh. “What’s the last stage?”
“The best one!” Christine throws up her arms “Boyfriend—Girlfriend. That’s like, you’re totally devoted to each other, no questions asked, you absolutely cannot have any kind of contact with anybody else by penalty of whatever I decide.”
“What if it’s you who cheats and the guy who has to decide the penalty?”
“I don’t cheat.”
“Oh. That’s good.”
“I think so.” Christine smiles.
“You forgot Stage Five, after Boyfriend—Girlfriend.” I tilt my head back, feeling witticism coming on.
“What’s that?”
“Ex-Boyfriend—Girlfriend!”
“Shut up!” Christine hits me on the arm with her small balled fist. Jake shows up, shadows us both.
“Hey Jeremy,” he says, turning on his cyborg kindness. Then he looks at Christine intensely. “Christine.”
“Yeah?” She twists around. Her body is poised to punch me again but all I can see of her face is a twisted neck.
“You want to get outta here?”
“Sure!” she chirps. “Bye, Jeremy!” she turns back and kisses me on the cheek. Our first kiss. She gets up and steps into Jake, who slips an arm around her jeansencased butt as they walk off.
Going Out. At least now I know which stage I’m up against. I’m getting prepped. I think I might have a shot.
The Halloween Dance doesn’t happen at Middle Borough High School. It happens at a bar/dance hall near the poor section of Metuchen called the Elk’s Club Lodge, a place for old men to drink and play pool.
I can’t get to the club by myself. It’s almost in Edison, the next town over from Metuchen, and Michael really isn’t going because he’s listening to the new Weezer album. There is the option of getting my parents to drive me to the dance, but I decide against that particular form of self-hatred. I dial up a car service and approach Mom as she works in the dining room, to tell her the deal.
“Hey Mom?”
“Yes Jeremy.” She doesn’t look up from her work.
“There’s actually a, ah, Halloween Dance tonight as part of school, so I’m going.”
“Really?” Mom asks, looking up. And just as her “really” is ending, Dad slips through the curtain into the dining room, shirtless. He’s eating a giant hot dog in a too-small bun. “Really?” he asks.
“Yeah!” I look back and forth between Dad and Mom. I had expected challenges.
“That’s wonderful!” Mom gets up and hugs me. “Who are you going with?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Dad asks. “Does she have, you know…” Dad pantomimes breasts with his hands and hot dog.
“Stop it!” Mom snaps. “That is not appropriate.”
“You’d be surprised, son,” Dad says. “So many divorces that I handle stem from breasts. They’re incredibly important. Make sure that the girl—”
“There isn’t a girl,” I declare.
Silence from Mom.
“Hmm,” Dad chews. “Are you gay?”
“Stop it!” Mom shrieks, scrambling toward Dad. He skitters out. “Your father,” she says, returning to her seat at the stacks of paper. “Sometimes I really don’t know. So, in any case—”
“I’m not gay. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not,” Mom smiles. “It would be fine if you were, really. We’re good parents. But you’re going to a dance?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s great. Do you need money?”
“Sure.” I had no idea they’d give me money for this. I suppose I should be more social more often.
“Here,” Mom presses bills into my hands that I’ll count later. “Go to the dance—do you need a ride? Oh wait, I’m sure you wouldn’t want one from us. Take a car service!”
“Yeah,