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Ashley P. Norton

Excerpts from The Chocolate Money
(Published September 18, 2012. You can find it at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and IndieBound. And yes, there's a Kindle edition)

I: Cardiss • II: Meredith

Meredith

SEPTEMBER, 1983

Holly and I go back up to our room. The door next to ours is open. We walk over to investigate, hover in the doorway. Two girls sit on the floor in the middle of the room. Talking.

     “I think I should just break up with him. Better act before all the top guys get taken.”

     “But Cape is a top guy.  It’s only been five months. Plus, it would piss off your parents.”

     “I don’t care. I’m not going to date someone just because Mumsy likes him. Pathetic. I don’t do charity cases.”

     “Cape is hardly a charity case. He’s one of the best looking guys at school. And he is really into you.”

     They notice us, pause their conversation.

     “Come in!” one of the girls says. I’m not sure whether we should sit or stand. Sitting seems to indicate an intimacy Holly and I don’t yet possess with these girls, and standing just seems awkward. Like we are at a cocktail party and have not been offered drinks. Better to err on the side of doing a flyby than acting like we really relish this invite. We stand.

     The girl who invited us in has long blond hair, which is wet. White terry cloth robe with the initials KIM monogramed in light peach. She’s very tan. One that suggests not lying inert in the sand, but letting the sun chase you as you pursue expensive, summer activities. Waterskiing. Sailing. Whacking a tennis ball with a taut racquet.

     She has a pedicure. Not the do-it-yourself kind, either. Toes are immaculately painted a baby blue, the color of hydrangeas. Skin around her heels is smooth. She’s slathering her legs with a white cream. Her application is so generous that I can smell it where I am standing. Honey? Lavender? Unlike Holly, she isn’t just getting herself clean for dinner. She is Getting Ready. I’m not sure what motivates her. A standard she generally maintains? The male population of Cardiss?

     I wonder if there are many girls like her at Cardiss. If so, I don’t have a chance. I may be fluent in French, can read a three-hundred page book in a day, but I don’t own a blowdryer or even one brick of eyeshadow.

     The other girl in the room seems more like an accessory to KIM than a person in her own right. She’s about as tall as the blond girl but is whittled down to bones, sharp and angular just like the models in Vogue. In this New Hampshire setting, however, she doesn’t look fashionable, but ill.

     Their room is decorated in such a way that it looks like they have lived there for years. I wonder how they have achieved this on the first day. Persian rug and upscale magazines strewn about the floor: Vogue, W, Vanity Fair, Tattler. A huge advert for Pommery champagne takes up half the wall over one of the beds, and there are books stacked in a rattan baskets which are placed around the room. I spot Middlemarch, Madame Bovary, (in English, I note), Lolita, and Great Expectations.

     Their beds have beautiful comforters. KIM has a snowy white down duvet and white scalloped pillows. There are also baby pillows with her monogram in peach. On her wooden bedside table (it looks like an antique and must have been sent from home) she has silver frames with pictures of what I take to be her parents, and friends from home. There’s also a silver julep cup that holds a dozen black felt tip pens.

     The skinny girl’s bed is covered with a maroon paisley bedspread, and has green pillows that pick up on the forest green in the pattern. I recognize these sheets as being Ralph Lauren. Their lack of frills indicate they were designed for a boy, but they look intense and cool to me.

     Holly is now weirdly quiet. I’m not sure if she is suddenly missing her parents, or on seeing this room, is now doubting the foot warmers her mom made. She pulls at her sweatshirt, tugs it down towards her waist. It no longer seems as comfortable. KIM breaks the silence.

     “You must be Holly,” she says, looking at her, “And you, Bettina.”

     “How did you know that?” Holly asks.

     “No offense, but Iowa City looks different from Chicago.”

     I want to say, “How?” baiting her for the compliment, but don’t wish to insult Holly.

     Holly is however eager to play this game. Show that she is also able to pick up things about people without being told.

     “And you’re Kim?”

     “Kim?”

     “It’s on your robe.” I wince for Holly.

     KIM laughs.

     “No. Kim? Can you imagine? I’m Kingsley Meredith Ivory. But I go by Meredith.”

     “Oh,”says Holly, both sorry she guessed wrong and not understanding why Kim is such an absurd name for this girl we have just met.

     “I’m Jess,” the other girl says, sparing Holly any further embarrassment. “Join us, sit.”

     I like her. She’s doing her best to make us feel comfortable. Meredith might be her friend, but not at the expense of other people. Holly and I sit. The four of us now form a circle on the floor. Part of me wishes we could avoid any further conversation and just play duck, duck goose.

     Meredith continues, “You’ll see that Bright is much better than a dorm. We don’t have to wait for the shower, there are no dud girls, and Deeds pretty much stays out of our hair.”

     “Deeds?” I ask, not sure if she is a student I haven’t met or a teacher.

     “Deirdre McSoren. Our resident dyke. I mean dorm head. Don’t walk around in any state of undress. I caught her checking out my tits once. Totally freaked me out. But you will see for yourself at our dorm meeting tonight.”

     Jess laughs. She wraps her hands around the front of her chest, as if to protect herself. She has even smaller boobs than I do. Her laugh is more like a cough. There’s no levity in it. Just hard air pushed out. She’s eating baby carrots from a Ziplock bag. As if they were medicine instead of food. Meredith turns to Holly.

     “So, Iowa, we were just discussing boyfriends. Do you have one?” Meredith is just like Babs. Boys are really the only thing that really count as interesting.

     “No.”

     “Why not?”

     “Well, I went to Junior Prom with Stan, but it was more of a friend thing.”

     Meredith gets excited about this. I can see why. Proms represent so much optimism and planning. All those corsages and puffy dresses. No exposure of legs or cleavage, just miles of satin hanging down the girls’ bodies like curtains hanging to the floor.“Stop right there. Prom? I must know all.”

     She looks at Jess and they both smile as if this is the funniest thing they have heard in years. I take the fact that they start on Holly as kind of a compliment. As if Meredith divines I am going to be a harder case. I am and am not. I want Meredith to like me, but I also want to fuck with her superiority a bit.

     “Well, Seniors get to have theirs at the Hilton, but the rest of us just have it in the school gym.”

     “Do the seniors get the marquee outside by the highway? Does it say ‘Congratulations Graduates!’?”

     “Yes!” Holly says.

     “I always wanted that for my wedding,” Meredith says, as if letting Holly in on a big secret. I both want to smack Meredith and laugh at the joke.

     “My aunt Deb and uncle Ray had that. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. I mean, I think it comes with when you rent the venue.” Holly sounds as if she is really trying to pass on information to Meredith. Reassure her.

     “So. Back to prom. Did you fool around in the back of the limo?” I know this detail also makes Meredith laugh. She pictures, as I do, White. Stretch.

     Holly is completely shocked.

     “Of course not,” says Holly quietly.

     “No?” Meredith continues, “Why not? Not the right venue?”

     “No, I just don’t...” Holly looks to me. I look back, waiting, just like Meredith. I want to say, Welcome. Life without Mommy.

     “Oh, dear,” Meredith pronounces, determined to keep this drama going. “Don’t worry, you will have plenty of opportunities at Cardiss.”  She turns to me.

     “Shut the door.”

     I do so. Wonder what I will tell her about my sexual past, given that I don’t have one. Unlike Holly, nothing stops me from making one up.

     Meredith grabs a beach towel, blue with white stripes from underneath her bed, also monogrammed. Throws it at me.

     “Put this under the door frame, will you? Deeds has gone out for her daily run. I need a smoke. Open the window. Please.”

     Meredith reaches under her bed and pulls out a plastic Hello Kitty! Tupperware box that contains a pack of Marlboro Lights, a pink Bic lighter, and a glass ashtray. A smoking kit. How cute.

     At least I’ll finally get to smoke. I am almost dizzy from lack of it.

     Meredith tips the pack to Jess who takes one. Holds it in the direction of Holly, who waves it away. Meredith gestures to me, but I shake my head away and reach down the front of my shirt. Pull out a leather pouch that I wear around my neck in lieu of a purse. It holds my Marb Reds and a gold Cartier lighter that Babs gave me for my thirteenth birthday. The lighter was expensive. You could buy a whole season of clothes for what it cost. Like most of the times Babs spends money on me, it was directed at pissing other people off. She knew the other mothers at Chicago Day were horrified that I smoked, and this was her way of saying she didn’t give a fuck.

     I know Holly does not recognize that it’s Cartier. Probably thinks the gold is fake. Won’t figure out yet that I am not on scholarship after all. Meredith does though, and I can tell she is impressed.

     I turn the box of cigarettes upside down and begin slapping them on the palm of my hand, packing the tobacco. Meredith stares at me for a good second.

     “Nice, Bettina. I didn’t expect a Chicago girl to smoke.”

     “I picked it up in France,” I risk. This isn’t the story I signed off on with Holly.

     “Did you go to Paris on a trip with your school?”

     “No. I have family there.”

     Meredith puts her cigarette in her mouth. I can tell she smokes for effect, not the nicotine itself. She is overly dramatic when she lights up. Doesn’t seem to pull hard enough to care about filling her lungs. The gesture works on Holly, who also seems a bit let down that I’m in on it.

     “Do you speak French?” Jess asks.

     “Yes. Fluently.”

     “Perfect,” says Meredith. “I got a C in French last year. Spoiled my average. Deeds doesn’t give me any points for being in her House. You can help me.”

     “Sure,” I say, though it wasn’t really a question.

     “OK,” says, Meredith, “Back to where we were. I have a big decision to make. Last spring, I started dating this boy, Cape. Supposed to be a test drive, but he thought it was long haul deal. He’s from New York and I’ve known him forever. He’s hot, but major needy.”

     “Cape?” Holly asks. “As in Cod?”

     Holly gets gets it wrong. Again. Doesn’t understand how Preppy nicknames are esoteric, have to be explained in most cases.

     “No,” Meredith says, trying hard not to laugh. “When he was little, he wore his Batman cape all the time, even to bed, and his mother nicknamed him Captain Cape. It became just Cape and it’s been that ever since. Anyway, this summer. One night in East Hampton, I decided to push things a bit further. Complete disaster. Seriously.”

     Holly looks up at her, considering. She has never met this kind of girl before. One who has a summer house and can discard boys at whim. Didn’t even knew they existed. But she knows this is her chance to join in, redeem herself for being from Iowa City. She is, after all, a good listener.

     “So what happened?” she asks.

     Pleased by the suspense she has created, Meredith takes a deep drag from her cigarette. Attempts to inhale the smoke from her mouth through her nostrils. Probably has practiced this many times in front of a mirror at home. The effect’s not lost on Holly. She will try a cigarette by the end of term.

     “Well, Holly, I’m not sure.” Holly looks so happy Meredith finally calls her by name, she almost claps. “But I’ll tell you. See what you think.”

     “Last week of summer break and I’m at Pruett’s house, drinking B&D’s. It’s past midnight when Cape comes in and asks me if I want to go for a walk on the beach. He never drinks, which is kind of boring, but whatever.”

     “B&D’s?” Holly asks, determined to master this new language.

     “Bacardi and Diet Cokes. Anyway, Cape and I drive to Maidstone. I have a pretty good buzz going and am thinking about maybe going for a swim in the ocean. I start to take my top off, and then trip. But because it’s Cape, I don’t feel embarrassed at all. He takes my elbow, and then once he’s sure I’m steady, he leans into me and says, ‘Meredith, I think I love you.’ He then reaches toward me and starts petting my hair like I’m some kind of cat. I think this is just too funny, and start to laugh. But because I know that is just too mean, I put my hands up to my face and make it sound like I’m crying.

     “Crying?” Holly says. I know that Holly, like me, has yet to elicit such a declaration of love from a boy, and we are both eager to hear the rest of the story.

     “Then Cape puts his arm around me and starts kissing my ear. I can’t stand ear kissing. All that spit and heavy breathing. It’s like porno for dogs. I just want him off me, so I push him back into the sand, unbuckle his belt, and give him the best blow job he has ever had. I’m really good at blow jobs. They are like my specialty.”

     I’m really good at blow jobs, they are like my specialty? Jess has a neutral expression-- I know she has heard this story before-- but Holly’s face is all pinched together, as if she is trying to figure out just how many blow jobs Meredith has given to make them her “specialty.”

     I can tell Meredith likes our pauses; they add to the suspense.

     “I’m good because I don’t get distracted; I’m totally single-minded about the whole thing. Sometimes guys try and touch my tits when I blow them, thinking they’re giving me something for the effort. Like it is some kind of pay as you go, but I’m just like, no, don’t mess up my rhythm. So of course, with Cape, the harder I suck him, the more sentimental he gets, calling me “Mere” with these little “ohs!” and whimpers in there.

     “I think this is a major victory for me, because if you saw him, you would think he was cool and could keep his shit together during a blow job. But when he comes, he keeps gulping air and making these little noises. I swallow of course. That’s what separates the women from the girls. It’s really just like hot salt water but thicker, like salad dressing. Then I put everything back in his boxers where it belongs and zip up his khaki shorts. Cape pulls me up next to him and kisses the top of my head, my cheeks. I think he’s going to cry for real, which is just not my thing. After about five minutes, he seems composed, and ready to make another speech. I can’t deal and tell him I really need to get home.”

     I start to feel sorry for this boy she has made cry on the sand, even though I have never met him. “I know what you mean. It’s so lame when guys don’t know you are supposed to take turns. You go down on him; he goes down on you.”

     Meredith looks slightly off-kilter, as if I’m Cape grabbing her breasts when she’s trying to tell her story.

     “Well, Cartier,” she says, balancing a deep inhale with a full-on look into my eyes. “I just can’t wait to see what follows you home.”

The Chocolate Money was published on September 18, 2012. It is available via Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and IndieBound. Yes, there is a Kindle edition. Be sure to check out Ashley's primary presence on the web at www.ashleyprenticenorton.com.