Amends: A Love Story (7 page)

It's a truly bizarre thought that makes me
wonder just how drunk I am. After all, it's my fault she lost her
mother. But I bet she can relate to what I'm feeling right now.
Maybe there's some way I could help her, or we could help each
other.

I pull out my phone and find her on Facebook
and Google+. Her haunted eyes peer out at me from her profile
pictures. I'm not brave enough to friend her. But I do pop open my
Gmail and start writing her a note that I'm not sure I'll ever have
the balls to send.

Dear Amity, I begin. There's no easy way to
introduce myself under these bizarre and unfortunate circumstances.
I was the other driver in the accident that killed your
mother...

Chapter 7: Amity

Maggie sits on the foot of my bed with a
concerned expression on her face. "I don't think it's a good
idea."

"Why not?" I ask. "It's my eighteenth
birthday. I deserve a little fun, especially since my life has
otherwise gone straight to Hell." I pull a clingy black T-shirt—the
only clingy thing I own—out of my dresser. I'm going to wear it
with my mom's old leather skirt and a pair of kitten heels. For the
first time in my life, I—the Amityville Horror of Triple Marsh
High—am going to look pretty. Maybe even sexy. I stifle a giggle.
These days, laughing is dangerous. It can turn on me in an instant
and lead to convulsive weeping.

Maggie doesn't even crack a smile. "You're
going to get hurt," she warns. "I did a little research on him, and
it's not pretty. He has a girlfriend, and he cheats on her all the
time."

I sigh. "I know. He told me all about her.
We're just friends. We're going dancing, and that's all. In fact,
I'm going to help him stay out of trouble." I spray a
shine-enhancing chemical into my hair and watch my curls go from
dull to glossy.

Maggie rolls her eyes. "Don't be naive.
There's a reason he just happened to text you on your eighteenth
birthday. You're legal now. He'll be all over you."

"Good! He's literally the first guy I've
interacted with who hasn't called me freak or spaz or ugly. What's
wrong with a little harmless flirting, as long as it doesn't go
anywhere?" I apply thick black liner to my eyes and brick red
lipstick to my lips. Dangerous, I think. I look dangerous, not like
some pathetic orphan who's going to attend her father's funeral in
two short days.

Maggie gets up and stands next to me so we're
both reflected in my dresser mirror. She's beautiful in a
hard-edged, Gothic way. But, for the first time, I feel like I hold
my own. I look like her peer, not some gimpy, gawky sidekick. In
fact, we make an interesting study in contrasts. Short and tall.
Blond and dark. Rounded and angular. Worried and sanguine.

I smile at her. "It'll be fine. You'll
see."

She shakes her head. "What you're thinking
about isn't very sisterly. What if you were his girlfriend? I bet
you wouldn't appreciate some other girl hanging all over him—even
if she was just a friend."

"Probably not," I concede. "But she's not my
responsibility. She's Ethan's. And I'm not going to think about
her." I pause as Maggie's face settles into a sad, resigned
expression. "Does that make me a bad person?"

Maggie sighs. "Not really. Just fallible. And
human." She puts her arm around me loosely. "Just be careful, OK?
And bring enough money to take a cab home in case things get weird.
Trust me."

/////////////////////////

Ethan leads me by the hand into the Hotspot,
a new dance club north of Jasper Heights. His grip is strong, and
his hand is warm. I feel safe and somehow under his protection.
Even though the sign outside said twenty-one and over in stern
block letters, Ethan whispered something to the bouncer, who
laughed and waved us through.

As we climb the stairs towards the main bar
and dance floor, I feel the vibration of music pumping through
massive speakers. By the time we reach the top, the beat is
thrumming through my body. I follow Ethan past the dance floor to a
collection of velvet couches. We settle ourselves on a
garnet-colored loveseat, and Ethan orders two rum and Cokes from a
waitress with a nose ring. Or, at least, that's what I think he
does. I can barely hear anything.

The dance floor is bathed in flashing red
light. Bodies come together, flow apart, and twirl around in
seemingly perfect synchronicity with the beat. I am enthralled.

"Like what you see?" asks Ethan, grinning
like a coyote.

"I love it! It's beautiful. Thank you for
bringing me here." I want more than anything to get up and dance,
to lose my grief in a sea of motion and sound.

"Do you see that girl over there?" he asks,
pointing towards one of the dancers, a short, limber girl with
narrow hips, a large chest, and a liquid way of moving. "She kind
of reminds me of my girlfriend."

"Oh," I say, disappointed that he didn't ask
me to dance and not especially interested in chatting about his
girlfriend. I wonder if this is what Maggie meant when she said I'd
be hurt.

"What kind of boys are chasing you right
now?"

"N-n-no one," I reply, stammering. No one is
chasing the Amityville Horror. I'm thankful that Ethan can't see me
blush in the dim light.

"I don't believe that," he purrs, moving
closer to me. "There's got to be someone."

I'm about to launch into the whole pathetic
tale of woe that is my life as the least popular girl at Triple
Marsh High, when the waitress delivers our drinks. I take a big
gulp of mine and make a face; alcohol still tastes like medicine to
me. The rum does its job, though, loosening my limbs and
thoughts.

I decide that I don't want to sit and talk
anymore. I slide off the couch and reach for Ethan's hand.

"Let's dance."

/////////////////////////

Ethan and I are swaying and flowing, now
entwined, then not. I lean into him and move my hips in a slow
circle. I raise my arms and let him put his strong hands around my
narrow waist. When the music slows to the rhythmic thump of the
human heartbeat, I let myself collapse into his arms.

As we rock gently back and forth, he kisses
my forehead with soft, warm lips. When I look up, he tilts my head
back and presses his lips against mine. Oh my God, it's my first
kiss. We taste each other, and it's a revelation. He's hot, sweet,
and intoxicating, and I want more. He presses himself into me, and
I squirm against him. I let my hands touch his hair; it's
surprisingly soft.

When the music speeds up again, we pull away.
I am breathless. "Don't you have a girlfriend?" I ask.

"Yes, and I love her deeply."

The surprise and dismay must show on my face,
because he pulls me in for another long, delirious hug. His breath
is hot on my neck. "It's your birthday," he whispers. "Whatever we
do today doesn't count."

I recall Maggie's warning, and I know now she
was absolutely right. But I want to be kissed again and again and
again. I'll worry about the emotional fallout tomorrow. I hug Ethan
back and nuzzle his neck. We spend the next several hours dancing,
kissing, and embracing.

When he brings me home and says goodbye with
a small, chaste peck on my cheek, I feel like the most beautiful
girl in the world...and the stupidest.

/////////////////////////

I'm about to give another eulogy, this time
to a much smaller group. It's a makeshift ceremony, hastily thrown
together at the last minute. Gran said we couldn't afford the
funeral parlor, so we asked Forever Acres if we could have a small
gathering by the graveside, and they said yes.

Dad's mourners are a randomly assorted bunch.
The guys from the shop where Dad cleaned cars are easy to spot with
their red dealership polo shirts and matching phone cases. A couple
of drunks from the Tragic Monk, one of the bars where Dad liked to
go after work, stand off to the side. They're pale, nervous,
soft-bodied creatures who prefer shade to sun. One of them
discreetly vomits on a nearby grave. As I look around, I also see
several compassionate diehards from Mom's funeral hovering like
confused fairy godmothers, wanting to help but unsure what to
do.

My hands are moist, but not from fear this
time. It's a hazy, warm day that makes everything look slightly
blurred around the edges. I glance at Dad's coffin, which rests on
a bier beside an open grave. The humid air makes me think of worms
and decay, and my stomach clenches like a fist. Maggie tries to
catch my eye. She's worried about me, and so is Gran, who is
fiddling with the clasp on her purse.

I'd written detailed notes on a folded square
of paper, but I let it drop to the ground. I thought I'd be
terrified like I was at Mom's funeral, but I'm not. As I stand
before the motley mourners, I realize I'm not nervous at all.

"As you all know, we're here because my
father got drunk when Mom died, and kept on drinking, day after
day, until he passed out and choked to death on his own vomit." I
look pointedly at his casket and try for sarcasm. "Thanks, Dad."
The silent faces before me ripple with concern. Maggie's eyes grow
wide, and Gran's mouth is twists into a wry grin that could mean
anything. A bird whistles a happy, fleeting little tune. I take a
breath and continue.

"He was a great guy when times were good. He
loved my mom. Most of the time. He taught me how to fish and build
a computer from old parts. He never forgot my birthday." My breath
catches as I remember riding the fancy girl's bike with the lemon
yellow seat, the best birthday present ever. I shake my head and
blink back tears. I seize my anger like a shield.

"When times were bad, though, he got drunk
and did stupid things he always regretted later. Buying an orange
fishing hat on QVC was one of them. So was drinking himself to
death instead of attending my mom's funeral."

As soon as I say the words, an image of my
father's plastic, lifeless face pushes itself into my
consciousness. His sightless eyes are half open, and his mouth is
frozen into a never ending scream. I close my eyes and try to
visualize something neutral. An apple. A loaf of bread. Tennis
shoes. I pinch the skin on the back of my hand. I can't afford to
soften into grief. Anger, I remind myself. Anger.

"I loved him. And I hated him. He was my dad.
That's all I have to say."

/////////////////////////

Want to see a movie? Get out
of the house?
texts Maggie.

Gran's a basket case, gotta
keep her company,
I reply.

Alright, girlie. Love you. Stay tough.

I put my phone back into my purse and watch
Ethan drive. He's so calm and sure of himself, zipping in an out of
traffic. His phone is blinking, but he's ignoring it. I bet it's
his girlfriend. She's been out of town for a week, but she gets
home tomorrow. I shake that thought out of my mind and put on my
best happy-girl voice. "So where are you taking me?"

"Kid, it's a surprise. You'll love it."

We pull into a large parking lot outside
something called the Kat Club. Another dance club, I assume. We
stand in line for a few minutes, then Ethan works his magic with
the bouncer, and we're in.

As my eyes adjust to the dim
light, I realize I'm not in any ordinary club. Chairs and tables
are scattered around a long, narrow runway leading to a small,
circular platform. Akon's
Dangerous
is playing at high volume. A woman, naked except
for a sequined thong, wraps herself around a pole. She has large,
rounded breasts and long, slender legs. She looks otherworldly in
the red-tinted stage lights. I gape at her while Ethan gets us
drinks.

When Ethan comes back, I follow him to a low
table by the platform. The stripper continues her routine. The
almost exclusively male audience is rapt. They lay money and roses
at her feet. I wonder what it would be like to be the stripper, to
have that much power over men. I imagine it would be the opposite
of being me.

"You move like she does," whispers Ethan.
"You could do that. You'd be awesome."

I shake my head. My mom would have been
horrified that someone—some man—brought me to a strip club. I
imagine her scolding me and struggling to express the strength of
her disapproval while simultaneously avoiding profanity. I wonder
what the fuck I'm doing here. My eyes sting and then water. Ethan
notices.

"Kid, what's wrong?"

"I was just thinking of my mom. This is not
the kind of place she would have wanted me to go."

He smiles widely. Red light strikes half his
face, so he looks like some kind of poorly lit demon. "Well, she's
dead, right? So there's nothing to worry about."

I gasp and then sob. I feel like I've been
punched in the gut. Maggie was right. This guy is an asshole. I run
out of the club and into the parking lot, where several taxis are
waiting like vultures. I jump into the first one I see, grateful
that I listened to Maggie about always bringing cab fare.

"Where to, Miss?" asks the driver, who
appears to be at least seventy.

While I'm giving him my address, Ethan
emerges from the club, looking for me. Fuck him.

"Drive, please," I say.

"You got it, honey," says the cabbie, and I
watch as Ethan gets smaller and smaller, and eventually
disappears.

Chapter 8: Laird

I'm driving with Ember again. We're
struggling for control of my Land Rover. We lurch into the center
of the road and then back again. Off balance, I slam my foot on the
brakes, but it's too late. In slow motion, I collide with Laura
Dormer's car. The small white vehicle rotates through the air with
balletic grace and then crashes to the ground.

I leap out of the Rover and dutifully run to
the wreck. I feel like I've been here a million times before. Damn
it, I know I'm dreaming. I sit down on the wet ground and refuse to
move. I'm not going to rip the door off the car and confront
whatever horror my subconscious has placed there. I'm just not.