Shut Out

Chapter thirteen

I dreamed about Cash that night.

Not a prophetic dream where he died in a fiery car accident, or a goofy dream where we walked on Mars and ate cotton candy or something stupid like that. No, this dream was… Well, it involved me, Cash, and that library sex scene from Atonement that I wasn't supposed to be thinking about whenever Cash was around — even though I couldn't help it. And in my dream, there was nothing uncomfortable about the bookshelves.

I rolled over and slapped the snooze button, but lying there, as the dream flooded into my conscious brain, I discovered that the extra seven minutes of sleep wouldn't do me any good this morning. The shame would keep me awake instead.

I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, turning off my alarm clock along the way. I couldn't get my mind out of the dream. Even after I was done showering and getting dressed, or when I ran downstairs to catch the bus.

Somehow, having a dream like that about Cash made me feel… guilty.

"Why would you feel bad about that?" Chloe asked in our first-block computer applications class after I confided in her. "It's not like you can help what you dream about. And damn, the boy is hot. Who doesn't have raunchy dreams about him? Too bad he's such a tease. He could be the ultimate stud if he wanted, but he won't even move beyond the flirty stage with girls. Maybe he's part of some crazy religion or something."

I blushed and opened up an Excel spreadsheet to start the project we'd been assigned. I always told Chloe everything. About my family, my relationship with Randy (the parts that weren't too private, at least), my college plans, and even my dirty dreams. But there was something she didn't know about: what happened between Cash and me at Vikki McPhee's party over the summer.

"Seriously, though," she pressed, leaning over to see what buttons I was clicking to start the arithmetic functions on the spreadsheet. "Why do you feel guilty?"

"I don't know…. Because I have a boyfriend?" I offered, not mentioning the fact that I'd never had that kind of dream about Randy. "Doesn't that make it sort of wrong?"

"No," Chloe said flatly. "It doesn't. You can't help who or what you dream about. It's not like you're cheating on him. Besides, boys can do it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, checking my screen again to figure out how I'd created the assigned bar graph, "boys check out girls, talk about girls, and totally dream about girls they aren't dating, and it's cool as long as they don't actually act on it. But when a girl

like you does the same thing, she feels dirty or guilty or whatever. I don't get that."

"Yeah," I murmured. "I guess I don't, either."

There were a lot of things I wasn't getting lately. Like how it wasn't okay to like sex too much because then you were a slut, but not having it made a girl weird. Or how boys like Cash could get away with flirting too much but a girl would get trash-talked for doing the same thing. Or how my boyfriend seemed to think it was okay for him to put me second to this rivalry crap, but when I decided to do something about it, he wouldn't take me seriously.

I was starting to think I just didn't understand anything. Like there was some handbook to adolescence and dating and boys that was passed out in middle school on a day when I was absent or something. I wondered if other girls were as clueless about all this stuff as I was.

"Lissa, I'm clueless," Chloe whispered as our computer teacher, Mrs. Moulton, walked past. For a second, I was really weirded out, totally thinking she'd heard my thoughts, but then she added, "What's the difference between a bar graph and a line graph? And why does it even fucking matter? Help me over here!"

I laughed, relieved, and leaned over to help her with the assignment.

Things between Randy and me had been off since Monday night, when I'd told him about the sex strike. He wasn't giving me the silent treatment or avoiding me, exactly. He was just being… distant. He wasn't quite as touchy-feely as usual, maybe because

he'd finally realized it wouldn't work, and he didn't talk as much as he normally did when I was around.

It hurt to have Randy act so coldly toward me, but I hoped that meant the strike was working. That he was finally getting frustrated enough to do something about it. That all the boys were, and the war would end soon.

But at the moment, sitting next to him at lunch was becoming unnecessarily awkward — though I'm sure my behavior that day was no warmer; I could barely look Randy in the eye after the dream I'd had about Cash.

So after thirteen minutes of uneasy conversation had passed at the lunch table, I decided I'd had enough.

"So, Homecoming," I said loudly, interrupting a conversation Randy was having with Shane. I was sure it wasn't important, anyway. "It's this Friday. We should make sure our plans are set."

Randy looked at me, confused. "What plans?" he asked. "I mean… you have your dress or whatever, and I have the clothes you made me buy for it. What else is there to plan?"

"I think we should go to dinner first," I told him. "Just you and me. Quiet and romantic, you know? We can eat and then head to the dance."

"Sure," Randy said. "Whatever you want. Just tell me where to take you when I pick you up. Your call."

I scowled. Yeah, I thought. Because that's romantic.

"Why don't you pick?" I suggested. "And then surprise me."

"Nah," he said, poking his fork at a disgusting-looking pile of macaroni and cheese. "You said you don't like surprises."

"I don't…. But you did a great job last time."

"You just pick. I wouldn't want to choose the wrong one and then piss you off or something."

It'll be over soon, I told myself, knowing the strike was the cause of Randy's distance. The boys had figured out the plan. They knew there would be no action until the rivalry was over. The girls had the advantage. We had the power.

We were in control.

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