Read Online And Then Things Fall Apart by Arlaina Tibensky - Free Book Online Page A

interested in. Freshmen, sophomores, juniors, evenseniors were fascinated with what was in his glass, and The Swallowing became an event. And it was awesome. And it made me think Matt was fearless and smart and totally antiestablishment, and I loved it.
    Every Friday, Matt drank whatever was put before him. People started to bring in things from home: soy sauce, Tabasco, hummus. The base was always milk, and bets started at five bucks. He was saving up for a laptop, so it wasn’t all pointless, but he could have paid for his first year at U of I if the principal hadn’t heard about the wagering and shut down the whole operation. It was amazing, being the girlfriend of the boy who would drink anything. It made him, and me by association, famous. And being famous was something I liked. Being known. Significant. Walking to my locker while girls looked away, suddenly bashful in the presence of a fascinating enigma: me.
    I had never had a boyfriend before Matt, really. I’d had friends. That were boys. Oh, I’d gone on dates to dances, Sno-Ball, Valentine’s, Sock-Hop, et al, just like Sylvia and Esther and Buddy and their ilk went to Yale proms, senior formals, debutante balls, etc.
    There are a lot of schools in our suburb. There’s our high school and the all girl’s Catholic college prep school and the boys-only quasi-military academy and two junior highs, all within the same zip code. Nicola and I were friends with all types of kids in the neighborhood, and in eighth grade gotasked to tons of school dances by all the guys we knew. “No strings, Keek. Promise,” they’d say.
    The thing about dances is that there are rules. You wear a dress. The boy wears a suit. The boy, bearing a corsage in a plastic container like a pet hamster in an exercise ball, picks you up at your house. Pictures are taken. A curfew is mentioned. Your parents know who, what, where, when, and why, especially in eighth grade, when parents are the ones who have to drive you there and pick you up.
    You dance to a DJ, and sometimes it’s in a big group and fun, like the Hokey Pokey but with more touching. And punk rock. The gym is always decorated with crepe paper and balloons, or the colonnade room is decorated with Christmas lights and tulle. You drink punch. If you are me, you desperately try to make small talk while slow dancing, pretending you are an extra on a rerun of
The Love Boat
because you no-freaking-way want this nice boy to think you have the hots for him just because you wanted to go to a dance. All you want is to have fun without having to get attached and emotional about some boy you learned how to write cursive with in the third grade. When you get home, you put the corsage in the refrigerator. Just in case you want to wear it the next day. And then Nic comes over in the morning and you rehash the whole night over organic pancakes and Earl Grey tea.
    Sure, I kissed a few of them. Only one with tongue—notbecause I wanted to, but I had to thrust back with my own to keep his the hell out. It was like an alien probe, for real. He was new at it—and bad at it. I know just how bad because Matt is superior. Matt knows what the hell he is doing, could teach a class at The Learning Annex on how to make a girl’s knees buckle without even trying.
    So not only was Matt my capital-B Boyfriend, but I was into being his and his being mine. Proud of it. Out of all the people in the world, or at least our high school, we found each other.
    â€œKarina,” he said right after our very first kiss, “I’ve never met a girl like you before.” And when I’m with him, I feel unique and extraordinary, and I love surprising him by being myself.
    At first I assumed he was exactly like the thousands of other Jocks I Have Known. But once I got to know him better, I realized that what I saw was the tip of the freaking iceberg. Brave, funny, a little cynical, into art. Matt is his own person,