Great Expectations

"I tried to hold your hand, but you'd rather hold your grudge." - Relient K

When I returned home that evening, I threw my books on my bed and dug through the box of records in the corner of my room. I needed to hear some music or I would go insane. For some indescribable reason, over the past few years, I had developed an intense and passionate love for classic rock. I pulled out Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run, set it on the turntable, and let the first track play. “Thunder Road” filled my room as I sank onto my bed and opened my Spanish book.

“You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain,” I sang quietly to myself, trying to write a composition on the history of Mexico City. The doorbell rang and I closed my textbook, getting off my bed to answer it. I knew my dad wouldn’t answer it; though he was home, he wouldn’t bother to leave his office unless the house was on fire. Even then, I’m not sure he would leave.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and realized I had left my record playing. “Thunder Road” was ending and “Tenth Avenue Freeze Out” was starting. I debated for a minute about running back upstairs to turn it off and then decided I could just start the album over. A second later, I opened the front door and was tempted to slam it shut again.

Dean Montague stood outside my door, smiling broadly. His bike was parked on the street, his backpack slung over his shoulder. “I figured you’d probably want to get that English project out of the way,” he said as a greeting.

“No,” I said, attempting to close the door. He put his hand out, keeping it open. “Go away.”

“We can’t get that project done if you refuse to talk to me,” he said. “Besides, it’s not like we picked partners. This was forced on us. You can’t be blamed for this.”

“No, I probably can,” I said, still trying to close the door. I didn’t even want to see his face.

“Come on, Juliet,” he said. “I at least want to get this started. It’s due in a week.” I gave up on trying to shut the door and allowed Dean to push it open. He was looking imploringly at me, hoping to come in.

“Fine,” I relented, stepping out of the doorway. “Fine, but don’t touch anything and don’t say anything until we get upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” He repeated. “What, you’re taking me up to your room?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’ll be easiest to work up there. It also gives us about forty seconds warning until my mom gets home and there’s a nice trellis you can climb down so she doesn’t see you here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, following me upstairs. “I know your mom doesn’t like me, but I don’t think she’d be very pleased if you failed English, either.” I remained silent as we stood in the foyer. “Do you have any food?” he asked. “I’m starving.”

“Yeah,” I said, leading him down the hall to the kitchen. “Whatever you do, do not walk down the hall to the left of you,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper. “My dad’s office is that way and if you go down there, I will kill you.”

He gave me a thumbs up and began searching through cabinets, grinning as he discovered a bag of Doritos. He continued to search through the fridge, where he grabbed a bottle of water. I gave him a sharp shove in the back and forced him out of the kitchen to the stairs. He followed me to my room. I could hear “Night” ending as I walked down the hall and by the time I pushed my door open again, “Backstreets” had begun. I picked up the needle and moved it back to the beginning of the album, letting “Thunder Road” start over.

“The Boss?” Dean said, shocked. “On vinyl?” I smiled sheepishly and opened my own bottled water. “And I’d expected you to be listening to Kanye MP3s. Maybe the Jonas Brothers and Taylor Swift, too.”

“I’ve developed a love for the classics,” I said. “It’s kind of my dirty little secret.”

Dean grinned. “You never cease to amaze me. I hope you know that.”

I smiled despite myself and sat down on my bed. Dean sat down next to me and unzipped his backpack, pulling out the worn and beaten copy of The Great Gatsby. “Did you like the book?” he asked. “I don’t think you answered me when I asked you in class.”

“I don’t like to read,” I said. He stared at me, disbelieving. “It just seems like a waste of time to me. I’ve got better things to do than read about someone else’s life.”

Dean shook his head, holding back several different comments. “Okay. So that means you didn’t like it?”

I shrugged. “I guess it wasn’t that bad. There are worse books that I’ve been forced to read. The worst so far are The Grapes of Wrath and Lord of the Flies. I could hardly choke down either book.”

Dean shrugged and opened the bag of Doritos, stuffing several into his mouth. He licked his fingers before opening his book, careful not to stain it orange. “So we’ve got to do a character analysis of Jay Gatsby,” he said. “This is going to be the best report ever.”

I stood up, grabbed my laptop, and sat back down, turning on the slim computer. “You tell me what to write and I’ll write it,” I said. I began to hum along with Bruce Springsteen as Dean leafed through the novel.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he admitted.

“How about ‘Jay Gatsby is an idiot who could have avoided being killed if he hadn’t traded cars’?” I suggested, standing up to flip the record over. My favorite song started to play and I couldn’t help singing under my breath.

“Gatsby is not an idiot,” Dean said, sounding offended. “He’s a victim of passion.”

“He was living in the past,” I said. “He loved the woman he knew five years ago; she’d obviously changed a lot since then.”

“Not really,” Dean said. Downstairs, I heard the front door click open and my mother’s heels clacked through the kitchen.

“Get out,” I said suddenly, my voice low. “Now. Hurry up!”

“What?” he asked, looking up from the book. The bag of Doritos was balanced in his lap.

“If my mom catches you up here, she is going to murder me,” I said in clipped tones.

“Have you ever told your parents the truth?” he asked suddenly as I hurriedly pulled the record off the player and slid it carefully back into its sleeve.

I turned to him. “That doesn’t matter. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you.”

At that moment, my bedroom door swung open. “Juliet, I thought I heard you talking to someone,” my mother said. Her eyes fell on Dean and an expression of extreme dislike took over her face. “What is he doing here?”

“School project,” I answered. “He won’t be here very long. I’m sorry.”

“Alright,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t get crumbs on the bed.” She closed the door with a snap and I sank down on my bed. I passed my laptop to Dean.

“Write whatever you want. I don’t care. Just don’t talk to me.”

He looked down at me. “I’m really trying to be nice to you, but you’re just being rude,” he said. “I have a feeling if you did what you want instead of what your parents expect, you’d be a much happier person.” We stared at each other, silent moments stretching like eternities. “I’ll see you later,” he said, grabbing his books and walking out of the room. A few minutes later, I heard his motorcycle roar to life and scream down the street. I put Born To Run back on and tried to forget Dean Montague had ever entered my life.