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“Yeah,” I said. The truth is, I’ve barely looked at all that. When you’re sunk as deep in a hole as I am, homework doesn’t seem all that important. Not as important as new jeans, anyway. “I’ll get to it tomorrow, I guess.”
“Yeah? What’d you do today, then?”
I was so busy jamming the meat deeper into the freezer that I didn’t even think about my reply. “I went shopping with Lana,” I said with a grunt. Then, FINALLY, the meat gave way, and I was able to slide the ice cream into the freezer.
It wasn’t until I slammed the freezer door shut and turned around, brushing ice shards off my hands, that I saw J.P.’s expression and realized what I’d just admitted.
“Lana?” he echoed incredulously.
I glanced toward the hallway to the media room. Empty, fortunately. Boris and Tina were still, um, occupied.
“Uh,” I said, feeling my stomach lurch. What had I done? “Yeah. About that…I don’t know where that came from. I wasn’t going to tell anybody.”
“I can see why,” J.P. said. “I mean, LANA? On the other hand, is she the one who picked out that shirt?”
I looked down at the silky babydoll top I was wearing. I’ll admit, it was pretty cute. And low-cut.
And, amazingly, with one of my new bras—and my new chest size—I actually had a tiny bit of cleavage in it. Nothing trashy, but definitely there.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, feeling myself blush. “Lana’s a really good shopper….” Which might just be about the lamest thing I have ever said. And I mean ever.
But J.P. just nodded and went, “I can see that. I think she’s found her calling. But how on earth did THAT happen?”
Hesitantly, I told him about Domina Rei, and how Lana’s mother had asked me to speak at a Domina Rei event she’s in charge of, and how Lana had thanked me for agreeing to do so, and how one thing led to another, and…
“I get all that,” J.P. said when I was done. “I mean, I can see Lana asking you to go shopping with her. She’s wanted to get in good with you for years. But why did you say YES?”
I don’t really know how to explain what happened next. I mean, why I said what I did. Maybe it was because it was just the two of us in the Hakim Babas’ quiet kitchen (well, quiet except for the dishwasher, cleaning our pizza plates. But it was one of those super silent ones that just went swish-swish all softly).
Maybe it was because J.P. looked so out of place sitting there—this big, raw-boned-looking guy in this fancy kitchen, with the sleeves of his charcoal cashmere sweater shoved up to his elbows, and his faded jeans and Timberlands and his hair kind of sticking up in tufts because he’d been wearing a hat outside. We’re having a surprising cold snap, for September. The meteorologists all blame global warming.
Or maybe it was the hot thing again—that, you know, he did look…well, pretty cute.
Or maybe it’s just that I DON’T know him—at least, not as well as I know Tina and Boris and the other friends I have left, now that Lilly’s no longer speaking to me.
Whatever it was, suddenly, before I could stop myself, I heard myself going, “Well, you see, the thing is, I’m in therapy, and my therapist says I have to do something every day that scares me. And I thought shopping with Lana Weinberger would be really scary. Only it turned out it wasn’t.”
Then I bit my lip. Because, you know. That’s a lot to unload on someone. Especially a guy. Especially a guy with whom you’ve been romantically linked in the press, even if there is absolutely, categorically no truth to the rumors, whatsoever.
J.P. didn’t say anything right away. He just sat there peeling the labe
l off his bottle of root beer with his thumbnail. He seemed really interested in the level of liquid left in the bottle.
Which wasn’t the best sign, you know? Like that he couldn’t even look at me.
“It’s weird,” I said, feeling totally panicky all of a sudden. Like I was slipping farther down that hole than ever. “It’s weird that I just admitted I’m in therapy to you, isn’t it? You think I’m a freak now. Right? I mean, a bigger freak than before.”
But instead of making up an excuse about how he had to go now, as I expected him to, J.P. looked up from his bottle in surprise. And smiled.
And I felt the sliding sensation I was experiencing subside a little. And not just because the smile made him look cuter than ever.
“Are you kidding me?” he asked. “I was just wondering if there’s any kid at Albert Einstein who ISN’T in therapy. Besides Tina and Boris, I mean.”
I blinked at him. “Wait…you, too?”
J.P. snorted. “Since I was twelve. Well, that’s when I developed this total affinity for dropping bottles off the roof of our high-rise. It was a stupid thing to do…somebody could have gotten killed. Eventually I got caught—deservedly so—and my parents have seen to it that I haven’t missed a weekly session since.”
I couldn’t believe this. Someone else I knew was going through the same thing I was? No way.
