Confessions of an Almost-Girlfriend by Louise Rozett Read Free Book Online

“We did, Rosie. But only because I had them. He
was only thinking about himself. So not worth it. Be glad you’re
still a virgin.” She points at a bottle sitting on the edge of the
tub, knowing that of course I had already forgotten all about it.
“Don’t forget to use that leave-in conditioner.”
Tracy closes the door behind her, leaving me standing in
the room of mirrors in my bra and the loose-fit white capris I
borrowed from her—I couldn’t get my runner’s thighs into her
skinny jeans if I covered them in cooking oil. I turn to face the
shower curtain and peel the damp clothes off, trying not to catch
a glimpse of myself—I don’t feel like seeing my naked body in
the mirror while wondering if it’s weird that I’m still a virgin.
I’m a fifteen-year-old high school sophomore—it shouldn’t
be weird that I haven’t had sex yet. But somehow, when Tracy
points out that I’m a virgin—which has happened more than
once since she slept with Matt—it feels weird.
Once the water gets hot enough, I stand under it for at least
10 minutes, feeling the heat soak into me. It’s the warmest I’ve
felt since Jamie pulled me out of the pool, his hands hot against
my skin, his eyes practically on fire with anger.
Is he mad at me? He’s the one who stood me up, I keep reminding myself. So what is he so pissed off about?
Caron says I have to stop feeling like everything is my fault.
And she follows that up with a question about whether I feel
like Dad’s death was my fault. My mother always looks like she’s
going to vomit when we get to that part.
I turn off the shower and dry myself while I’m still standing
behind the curtain. Then I put on the yoga pants and T-shirt
and get away from those mirrors as fast as I can.
Tracy is on the floor, meticulously working her way through
Vogue with a Sharpie in one hand and a pad of Post-its in the
other. I sit down next to her and get to work on a back issue of
Elle, carefully tearing pages out that Tracy has marked by folding the corner down.
I have no idea why she wants some pages and not others, because all the models and outfits look pretty much the same to
me. But as Tracy carefully explained when I first started helping with her magazines, each outfit is an individual work of art
that needs to be studied. When I looked skeptical, she reminded
me of the monologue Meryl Streep has in The Devil Wears Prada,
where she smacks down Anne Hathaway for laughing at a bunch
of magazine editors who are trying to describe the specific shade
of blue on a belt. I knew the speech she was talking about—when
I first heard it, it made me see fashion as a kind of art, and I’d
never thought of fashion that way before.
As I play the role of Tracy’s assistant, I take a look around the
room. A year ago, I would have been on her orange shag rug and
she would have been in the beanbag chair, asking me whether or
not she should sleep with Matt. Now, the shag has been replaced
by a flat black rug with gray lines that I think are supposed to
be flowers, and two clear plastic armchairs sit where the beanbag used to be. And we’re doing something meaningful—or at
least, meaningful to her.
To be truthful, I don’t actually know what we’re doing.
Tracy’s walls are covered with magazine pages and blog
photos, but they’re not just taped up as part of a collage, like
they would be in most girls’ rooms. She has painted one entire wall with special magnetic paint so she can use these tiny
magnets to hang up the images, which she moves around daily
and covers in different colored Post-its. Sometimes she’s written
a word or a phrase on the Post-it like “Bubble!” or “Blue sky”;
other times, just letters.
If I ask her what she’s doing, all she says is I’ll find out soon
enough.
We’re not supposed to be keeping secrets from each other this
year, but she looks so happy when I ask about her project that I
decide not to remind her about that.
“So, Peter went back to