EXCERPT - THE STRAIGHT ROAD TO KYLIE
1. Step Back in Time
I really wish I wasn't gay right now.
Seriously.
If I wasn't gay right now, I wouldn't be having sex with Alex.
No, not Alexander.
Alexandra.
That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Jonathan Parish has done the unthinkable. Out-and-proud Christina Aguilera-worshipping, Diesel shoe-wearing, lover-of-large-sassy-black-women-and-skinny-white-heiresses Jonathan Parish is having sex with a girl!
These were the thoughts running through my head that insane night. I did not know what I was getting myself into.
Maybe I should recap.
* * *
My best friend, Joanna Marin, decided to throw herself a turning-eighteen birthday bash. Originally, her mom, Orlando-suburbanite-wishing-she-were-Winter-Park-Park-Avenue-chic divorcée Marsha Marin, was going to take her out for brunch and to a cute little boutique on Park Avenue. But, in true Marsha Marin fashion, she had to cancel on her only daughter to take over a fellow flight attendant's Orlando-Atlanta-Paris-and-back flights. This left Joanna alone on the weekend of her eighteenth birthday—alone and angry...but with an empty house and a fistful of I'm-so-sorry money. What else was there to do but throw the party to end all parties to celebrate Joanna's official passage into adulthood?
When she'd told me just before sixth period that she'd gotten a voice mail from her mom about the change of plans, we'd agreed to meet at Aretha (my 249,982-miles-young '91 Volvo) after school let out to drive to Amigo's for chips, salsa, quesadillas, and some serious planning. After ruling out a day at Disney World (too young for us—she was turning eighteen for Christ's sake!), Islands of Adventure (that was getting old—we'd bought ourselves annual passes the year before), or the beach (it was possibly going to rain), we decided to throw a debaucherous alcoholic bingefest. Yes, we were quite the original duo.
"We'll need a handle of vodka," I said, starting out our list.
"So go ahead and put cranberry and orange juice on there," Joanna added.
"And limes."
Joanna and I loved making lists. For anything. Party supplies. Party CDs. Guest lists. To us, the most exciting part of a party was hunkering down and writing out the lists. Über-cool, right? "If we're getting limes already, why not tequila and salt for body shots?" Joanna suggested. She had a tear in her eye, I think. Nothing made her happier than people licking her stomach. Give her a few drinks, and she soaked up the attention like a sponge.
"Okay. But I'm gonna want beer, too. How many people are we inviting?"
"I don't know. Do we have to know that right now?"
"Absolutely!" And I was dead serious.
Joanna blew out a horsey kind of sigh. "You are way too anal."
"People who live in glass houses and make lists for fun shouldn't throw stones."
Joanna took a gulp of her Diet Pepsi and let out a belch in response. The chips-and-salsa boy—whom both Joanna and I had been drooling over since we were able to get to Amigo's on our own—replenished our supply and chuckled. Joanna was mortified.
"Oh my God, Jonathan," she whispered. "What do you think he thinks of me now? I mean, how disgusting am I?"
Yay. Damage control. Why did my best friend in the world have to be so typically outgoing, but so spastic around cute members of the male race?
I mean, Joanna is pretty, a natural beauty who looks amazing with or without makeup—but she still feels she has to wear it to get guys to notice her. (It's always sort of bugged me.) She's got shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair that bounces when she walks, just like shampoo commercials say that hair should. Her skin is TV-star flawless, and she has pale blue eyes. She works relatively hard on her body, and that— coupled with a rapid metabolism—shows in her tight, fat-free frame. At five-foot-eight, she stares right into my matching blue eyes. But despite what she's got going for her, she never seems to get the good guys. Call it dumb luck or a curse or whatever, but it can really get to her. Which then sometimes leads to wallowing in self-consciousness, and still not getting the good guys—it's a vicious cycle, really, but if I told her about it, I'm afraid she might kill me. She doesn't take to criticism too well, no matter how constructive.
While we're on descriptions, I'll go ahead and say—toot, toot! goes my own horn—that I am also pretty, with or without makeup (although a little eyeliner for special occasions never hurts). I've got an okay body (flat tummy, cute little biceps, hard legs and ass, thank you very much), dark brown hair, and bright blue eyes. Everyone says that's the best part about me—the dark hair-light eyes combo. And even though I'd always sort of wanted to be a blond, I had to agree.
But back to my damage-control duties...
"Sweetie—"
"Don't call me 'sweetie,' okay?" she interrupted. "I love your gayness and all, but if you start using 'sweetie' then the next step is capri pants and excessive eyebrow-tweezing. I can't have a Queer Eye for the Straight Guy correspondent for a best friend."
"Easy, killer," I said. "And besides, capris went out years ago. Sweetie."
"Eat me."
"So...can I take your order?" Perfect timing. Did they train waitresses for this? Oh, well. At least it wasn't the cute chip boy.
"Oh...uh...m'kay," Joanna stammered, turning a bright shade of Amigo's-signature-salsa red. "I'll take the...uh...veggie quesadillas."
"And you?"
"Chicken chimichangas, please," I ordered.
The waitress collected our menus and told us it'd be just a few minutes. Joanna's face returned to its normal shade.
"Anyway, let's get to that guest list," she said. Apparently, spitting out a vulgarity in front of our waitress made her forget about not-so-daintily belching in front of our favorite chips-and-salsa boy. Wow. No more damage-control responsibilities. It must have been my lucky day.
If only the luck could have lasted through the weekend.
"Not too many, right?" I asked. "We don't want it ending up like some cliché high-school party from the movies, do we?" It just wasn't our style.
"No way."
"Good. Let's do it, ho."
Our parties usually had anywhere from ten to thirty of our closer friends, plenty of booze, sometimes other substances (nothing nasty), nonstop party mixes, and usually a lot of dancing. I, being the good best-gay-friend that I was, was usually the ringleader for the dance portion of the party. I'd pull people off the couch and out of their shells, and put them right up to my waist to grind the night away.
By the time our food arrived—luckily while Joanna was behaving—we had a list of thirty-three names. Probably around twenty-five would show. Figure that with the vodka, tequila, and rum (newly added to the alcohol list), everyone would consume around two and a half beers on average, which made a little more than sixty-two beers. Round it up to seventy-two to buy six 12-packs. We could always have a leftovers party. We had this down to a science. Who said math was useless?
- One handle vodka — Smirnoff
- One biggish bottle of rum — Bacardi Limón
- One biggish bottle of tequila — Jose Cuervo
- Two 12-packs Bud Light
- Two 12-packs Amber Bock
- One 12-pack Smirnoff Twisted Orange (They taste like Flintstone's Push-Pops. I had to add it.)
- One 12-pack Killian's Irish Red
- One bottle sour mix
- One bottle triple sec
That was the list for my brother to take care of. Jesse's a senior at UCF majoring in Civil Engineering, with a minor in Providing Alcohol to His Kid Brother. He takes his studies seriously.
The list for Joanna and me to take care of was:
- Six limes
- Orange juice
- Cranberry juice
- Sprite
- Coke
- Diet Coke
- Five bags chips (Unspecified—hey, we couldn't plan everything. Some things have to be left to decide on a whim, right?)
- Dip
- Salsa
- Three gallons water
- Excedrin
It was three thirty, Thursday afternoon. I was in charge of the party mixes; Joanna was in charge of the phone calls. We'd both follow up with everyone at school on Friday. We should do this for a living.
Thirty minutes later, I was heading toward the on-ramp for the East-West Expressway after dropping off Joanna. In order to afford the spacious, grandiose home that matched her impossible taste, Joanna's mom had to buy so far from the actual city of Orlando that it was practically on the coast. Forty minutes to the east was the beach and Kennedy Space Center. Forty minutes to the west was Disney. And smack-dab in the middle of her far-out house and Disney were the cities of Orlando and Winter Park, and our school—Winter Park High.
Our school is pretty much your typical high school. Jocks. Nerds. Drama Nerds. IB Kids (International Baccalaureate—our magnet program for "exceptionally exceptional" students from the area). Normal kids. A couple of (out) gay kids. A few more (closeted) gay kids. A few poor kids. Middle-class kids. Rich kids. A few very rich kids. And then the super-rich kids who didn't even know what to do with Daddy's American Express Black Card.
Winter Park has a lot of rich residents. All sorts of well-off people: big-shot lawyers, Orlando Magic players, Carrot Top (seriously). Rumor had it that even Madonna bought a house near Park Avenue for, like, two seconds, before she resold it. Winter Park's welcome/city-limits sign, which reads welcome to winter park, PLEASE DRIVE WITH EXTRAORDINARY CARE, more often than not has the last E of "care" crossed out. Cute, huh?
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