The Spectacular Now by Tim Tharp Read Free Book Online Page B

don’t want to do it, but I don’t have the least grasp on what’s going on inside a girl once she becomes my girlfriend. Just plain girls, now, I can read like a toaster-oven manual, but let me start dating one and it’s like they reach up and slam that manual shut right in front of my nose. No more toast for me.
    Take my girlfriend before Cassidy, Kimberly Kerns. Back in the flirty-flirty stage when we were first getting to know each other, she thought I was the funniest guy in the world. I’d do this gangsta-rapper routine that she loved:

    I’m grand and I’m glorious
    I’m semi-notorious
    I’m a real instigator
    And a mammary navigator
    Listen up, ’cause I’m serious
    I drive the girls delirious
    I’m the master fornicator
    I’m the king copulator
    Down below or up above
    I’m the Sultan of Love
    Yeah, the Sultan of Love
    Yeah, the Sultan of Love.

    She’d laugh till she got cramps. But after dating for a couple of months, I couldn’t hardly get a sentence out of my mouth without her telling me I was gross or immature or some such routine. She used to tell me I wasn’t like anyone else and then, all of a sudden, she’s all about wanting to change me into her idea of what a guy should be. Why can’t you talk about something serious? Why can’t you wear nicer shirts? Why do you have to party with your buddies so much? She even mentioned something about how I ought to grow out my hair a little and put highlights in it. Can you believe that? Me, with fucking highlights?
    Before Kimberly, there was Lisa Crespo and before her there was Angela Diaz and before her there was Shawnie Brown and before her—going back into junior high—there was Morgan McDonald and Mandy Stansberry and Caitlin Casey. They were all confident, heads-up-and-look-you-in-the-eye girls in their own ways, but I always seemed to let them down for one of two reasons:
    Because I didn’t quite stack up as impressive enough to their friends in some way that was beyond my comprehension.
    Because—and this is more confusing yet—they expected me to shift into some gear that my love mobile just couldn’t seem to reach.
    When Lisa broke up with me, she said she felt like we never had a
real
relationship.
    “What are you talking about?” I asked. “We do something together almost every Saturday night. Do you expect me to ask you to get married or something? We’re sixteen, for God’s sake.”
    “I’m not talking about marriage,” she said, all pouty-faced.
    “Then what is it?”
    She crossed her arms. “If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.”
    Jesus. And she started out so fun.
    Now, thinking back on my exes is like looking at a flowerbed on the other side of a window. They’re beautiful, but you can’t touch them.
    I have no regrets, though, no bitterness. I just wonder what the hell was going on inside their brains, inside their hearts, back in those days when we should’ve been getting closer and closer. Why did they want a different Sutter than the one they started out with? Why is it that now I’m friends with every single one of them and it’s always fun when we run into each other? Why is it that girls like me so much but never love me?
    These are the thoughts flying through my head as I drive to Cassidy’s after work. I have every intention of apologizing like Bob suggested, but even though I’m sure it works like a charm for him, I don’t have a whole lot of faith in it working for me. And I’m already telling myself that’s all right—nothing lasts. Besides, there’s always Whitney Stowe, the drama star with the hot legs. Sure, she seems conceited, but I’ll loosen her up. I’ve got a way about me, in the opening stages at least.
    On the way, I stop by my favorite liquor store to make sure I have enough fortification for the task at hand. The guy behind the counter in there looks like he could’ve been the world’s first Hell’s Angel, but he’s my buddy. Never asks for an ID, says I remind him of