Drain You (13 page)

“You must think he’s really great, huh?” Whit asked.

I shifted in my seat. “So?”

“So nothing.” Whit put his hands on the steering wheel and looked ahead at the empty street.

“What, he’s not?”

“No, he’s awesome.” When Whit said it, I could tell he meant it.

More silence, more weirdness.

“Told you I’m boring.”

“Yeah,” he said, and laughed. “This sucks, dude.”

“Let’s talk about the ways in which you’re a screwup now that we’ve exhausted the topic of my sorry-ass life.” I stretched my legs out on the dashboard and picked at a tiny scab on my thigh. “You dropped out of college? So you’re an academic failure?”

“Maybe this would be good for our next hang-out.”

I dropped my legs. “Fine.”

“It’s late.”

It was like four thirty or something and James, wherever he was—assuming he was still in the Pacific Standard time zone—wasn’t even awake yet.

“Yeah.”

Whit jiggled his key chain hanging in the ignition. The members of this family could not get rid of me fast enough.

I reached for the door handle, then paused. “You want
my phone number or what?” It was lame but whatever. Had to ask.

“Yeah, you want mine?”

“Have it.” I finally opened the door, grabbed a pen off the dash, and scribbled my digits on his hand. “Call if you feel like it.”

“I’ll call tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, we have to make plans for tomorrow. Know what you want to do? And don’t say Mel’s Drive-In, we already did that.”

I knew what I wanted to do.

“Nothing too boring,” he warned.

I nodded, shut the Camry door, waved, and watched Whit take off.

Okay, Libby
, I thought,
make it through tonight. Libbits Casey Block, just make it through tonight and we’ll be solid.

At dinner my mother stared across the table at me with a smile that said,
I know what you’re up to, missy
, but in a totally, like, okay-with-it way.

“So,” my mother said, blowing on a piece of steamed broccoli speared through her fork, “tell your father what you did today.”

“Um, you know. Hung out with a friend.” I shoved the hot vegetable into my mouth, hoping it’d scar my
tongue and render me unable to elaborate on the matter.

My father nearly choked at my casual use of the word “friend.” This was
news
. It was, like, the headlining topic of tonight’s local news. Then I had to endure this:

“You did? That’s so great, Quinny.” Dad.

“She did. Isn’t it wonderful?” Mom.

“Is this person special?” Dad.

“Do we know this person?” Mom.

“I just think it’s really positive.” Dad.

“Would this person like to come over for dinner?” Mom.

“We thought, well, we were worried, for sure.” Dad.

Whoa.

“Are you guys retarded?” I asked, actually expecting an answer.

“Quinn.” My mother held her fork in the air, using it as a wand to conduct the words: “We are not ‘you guys,’ we’re
Mom
and
Dad
.”

“Yeah.”

The thing was, and even I couldn’t really express this in any way that would make sense to anyone, it
had
been a pretty good day. Skip the health-food-store part and the crying-in-the-car part, but past that—all through and even up to the part where Whit sort of kicked me out of his Camry—was actually nice. So I didn’t really want to talk about it too much, because if I couldn’t understand it myself, then I didn’t want to ruin the not-so-bad vibes
I was feeling by analyzing them to death. I just wanted to go upstairs, drink a Diet Coke, jump on my bed, listen to some songs that reminded me of this exact situation, and in a mainly relaxed way wait for Whit to call. That’s how I would have done it…before. And not just before James left, but before he came along too.

Normally this would also be the juncture when I peaced out of the dining room. My plate was basically one-fourth finished, I felt like I had nothing left to say but dull, passive-aggressive things, and my parents had switched their attention from my hang-out to such amazing topics as what was in the mail and who called and who left a message and how good
is
this bok choy! But in the past week I’d set this new precedent where I acted like an actual member of the family, so I decided to just sit it out till the end. Yesterday my parents were so bummed for me, and today they were so pumped for me. Ugh, the guilt was so boring.

I clanked my fork against the plate. “His name is Whit. He’s pretty cool, he’s a nice guy, he’s my friend. We’re hanging out tomorrow.”

My mom reached across the table and lightly yanked on one of my braids. “See, was that so hard? It didn’t kill you.”

“I think it’s great,” my dad said, and winked.

Then, as if I’d shown them an X-ray of my mended
heart with a doctor’s note saying everything was fine, my parents moved on. Something besides the bills
had
come in the mail. Invite to a Fourth of July party at the club near Griffith Park, and suddenly I was old news.

I didn’t have to wait long for Whit to call. Even his ring sounded confident. I was lying on my bed reading an article in an old issue of
Sassy
magazine about the perks of dating older guys. One, confidence. Two, loyalty. Three, experience. Gross.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi, you,” Whit said.

“Are you in your bedroom?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve been in that room.”

“Did you get yelled at for trespassing?”

“Only after I tried on your shoes.”

“You tried on my shoes? That’s nasty, dude.”

“I liked all your stuff. I liked your life.”

“Well, my stuff isn’t my life.”

I looked around my room. My stuff was, like, pretty much my entire life. Once I’d added James’s blue T-shirt to the archives, my stuff meant everything to me. Total definition.

“Care to elaborate?” I asked.

“Obviously. Who doesn’t want an excuse to go on and
on about themselves?”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

That made him laugh, and we laughed together.

“Hey, Whit?” I said after we were quiet again.

“Oh, you want to get serious, don’t you?”

“I need your help.”

“Done.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too.”

“This isn’t a normal favor to ask. It’s awkward as hell, and totally out of line, but I’m desperate. And it can’t wait.”

“That’s cryptic. Translation, please?”

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”

“Becoming clearer…”

“And James won’t want you to do it.”

“Explain, lady.”

I tried to hold back, but it came out in a gush. I told him everything—it already felt so natural to—
except
…for that end part, that last bit, when Stiles told James he’d come after his family if anyone messed with Libby again. That we had to leave them completely alone or something terrible would happen to the Sheetses.

I couldn’t tell Whit about that stuff or else he wouldn’t help me. But I also wouldn’t have asked for his help if I didn’t believe that Sanders and Stiles would only come after
me
if something went down, not him or Naomi. Not
James, because James wasn’t around.

But otherwise I told him everything, the past, the present, and my plan for the future, where we raided their lair during the daytime and rescued my best friend. And the cherry on top: Libby’s aunt Lynn in the desert. Crucial witness protection pad. I rambled and rambled until I hit a crescendo and couldn’t think of anything else to add.

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Whit said nonchalantly.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, they’ll be asleep. It’ll be fine.”

“And we just go…get her?”

“Yeah. I know how this works.”

“Then that’s it?”

“Then we can listen to
The Chronic
in my car.”

“I think Libby actually likes that album.”

“And then eat some pizza.”

“Wait. Pizza? Milkshakes? Are you trying to make me fat?”

“Yes.”

“That’s unique.”

“I’ll pick you up at two. Wear something big so you can eat a lot of pizza.” Then he hung up.

I liked Whit. I loved James. I guess older guys
were
my thing. Confidence, loyalty, and experience. Not so bad.

Maybe I woke
up before noon, but maybe I never fell asleep. I was exhausted or I was wired. I was both. There is no getting ready to do the stupidest thing a person could ever do. So I did the only things I could do. I fastened twenty necklaces around my neck for armor; I drew on so much eyeliner I looked like a sobbing drunk raccoon on a tequila bender; I plowed through a third can of soda.

I felt alive, wildly so, because I was scared out of my mind. My heartbeat thumped out louder and louder and crazier and louder to all the hibernating vampires in the Los Angeles hills. My insides were insane, ribs rattling, lungs hyperventilating, my whole human teenage form dissolving into a permanent panic attack. At two, when Whit was supposed to pick me up, I thought I might die or shatter or explode or melt—whatever happens to a
person when they’re never going to be the same again.

Then I heard a car horn honking twice from the street. I peeked out the blinds. Whit was thirty minutes late, sipping from a Starbucks cup, his head in his hands, looking sleepy.

I hurried down the walkway and into the Camry.

And we were off. Whit sipped his coffee and shot me a bleary smile now and then as we wound through the hills. I stared out at the houses passing by. It felt like we were going eight miles an hour. If a car could crawl, Whit’s was on its hands and knees.

I couldn’t unclench my insides. I needed origami to unfold. I wanted to rip paper into confetti.

“What’s going on with this?” Whit tugged on the giant Mickey Mouse tank top I was wearing as a dress.

“Distraction tactics.”

He looked from the road to my naked thighs, then back to the road. I looked down at my lap too. The color of flesh; I was still human.

“Distraction achieved.”

“What are you wearing, a Celtics jersey?” He was. He had on a green-and-white jersey with those stupid cute jean shorts from yesterday and his nasty Converses. Kobe might have actually been comforting. Even Shaq would’ve been cool. “Traitor.”

“Imagine how crazy they’ll go when they see this.”

I nearly choked. “You said they’d be asleep.”

Whit sipped from his cup, shrugged.

“No.” I grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. “You said you ‘know how this works’ or something. That’s what you said.”

He pulled his arm away and adjusted his glasses. “They’ll be asleep, it’s daytime. Chill. Let’s listen to something.”

I dug through his CDs, not really paying attention to the writing on the spines.

“Not
The Chronic
, though,” he said. “That’s for our victory slice.”

Ugh, pizza.

I picked up the first CD in the pile, but when I moved to slip it into the player, Whit grabbed my wrist. I followed his eyes to the object in my hand.

“Not that one either, okay?” It had hearts all over it and stupid shiny stickers.

“Okay, fine.” I put it back.

We were both on edge and a long way from some pizza-Dr.-Dre-confetti-Libby rescue celebration.

Who knows what album we settled on? Sounded like the last thing I’d ever hear.

Finally we cruised to a stop in front of the twins’ guesthouse. It was three. Outside it was hot and sunny and
normal. Inside the car it was a panic room.

I tried to relax my muscles and visualize my plan working, but now that we were here I couldn’t. So my only choice was to pretend the plan still made sense.

“Don’t turn off the car,” I said, putting my hand over Whit’s on the gearshift. “Keep it running. I’ll be ten minutes, tops.”

He shook his head, shut off the engine, got out of the car, and started walking down the long, narrow drive. I almost tripped over myself sprinting to catch up.

“What the hell?” I grabbed his jersey and yanked backward. “Stay in the car.”

He spun around and glared at me, his face stern but scared. “No way.”

“Seriously,” I whispered, shaking. “Just stay in the car.”

“You’re not going in alone.”

“Someone has to keep the car running.”

“They’re going to be asleep. They have to be.”

I started to argue more, but Whit silenced me in a crushing bear hug. James had never held me like this. Maybe no one had. He shoved his face in my hair. I could smell his hot coffee breath on my cheek. For one moment it was the only thing in the world.

“Listen,” he said. “If you see Libby, you’re going to lose it. I have to be there.”

I didn’t have a choice. I could only trust him.

I nodded. He let me go.

“We’re going to grab her and bail, that’s it. That’s all.” He stared at me, inches from my face.

I nodded more. Whit’s lips began to slowly open, like they would for a kiss, but he spoke instead. “Okay, Quinn?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Then he turned, and we silently walked the rest of the way to the guesthouse’s front door. Then Whit’s hand was on the doorknob.

I closed my eyes.

James.

I love you.

Then Whit turned the knob. There was a tiny click sound and it opened. Stupid, trusting, supernatural Spaders.

He gently pushed the door inward, and we peeked inside. There was dead silence except for the dull drone of the refrigerator. Everything was the same: the same couch, the same kitchen countertop, the same heavy curtains pulled tightly shut. And with the curtains shut, it was cool and way dark. Whit left the door open and we stepped inside, trying not to make a sound.

I stood by the door and looked around. Whit tiptoed
toward the main set of curtains and slowly pushed the thick drapes to the outermost edges of the windows. Blinding sunshine poured in. I reached over and fingered the heavy, multilayered fabric of the curtain. It felt like the stuff they used in Vegas hotel rooms so you can’t ever tell what time it is. But you could tell now. It was bright as hell.

This was going to work.

Suddenly Whit froze. “Where is she?” he whispered.

I shrugged. My eyes drifted to the lone long, dark hallway.

Whit followed my eyes, counted two closed doors and one open bathroom door, then collapsed into a chair, his hands rubbing his face.

I looked down the hallway again. She was in bed with Stiles. Duh, my God, I hadn’t even considered that. I felt my whole soul fall away. I sank to the carpet.

Whit snuck over to me and grabbed my shoulders, scream-whispering, “Why didn’t you tell me that she’d probably be in bed with him?”

I went limp. I went empty.

“Damn it, Quinn. Damn it.” There was dread in his voice.

He got up and went into the kitchen. I heard him opening some drawers. Seconds later he was back in front of me, holding a butcher’s knife. This was getting too slasher.

“What are you doing?” I said, trying not to understand
why Stiles and Sanders had kitchen utensils when they didn’t eat.

“I’m going into their room.”

“Whit, you can’t.”

“Shut up and get under the window.”

“What?”

“Get. Under. The window.” He pointed to where the sunshine was flooding in. “Now. In the light.” He started to wrench me to my feet.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay.” I crawled in front of the window and let the light wash over my body. Lying on my side, I pushed my knees into my eyes hard, until I could see spots and stars rushing through blackness.

With my head buried in the carpet, I could hear Whit’s footsteps carefully padding down the hall. I counted seventeen steps, then nothing.

Then I heard his feet stalking back my way and felt his hands on my shoulders.

“It’s locked, we’re leaving.”

I couldn’t move.

“Quinn, get up! The door is locked. We have to go.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He said nothing.

I said, “I’m sorry” twice more. I stared down at the floor, at perfect peach carpet, at nothing. At failure. I moved to stand.

And there was a sudden, small creak. But it wasn’t from me. It was from away. From down the hall.

Whit went rigid, his hand tensing on the knife. The creak creaked longer, the sound of a door. Opening.

“What,” Whit started to whisper. He leaned to peek down the hallway. I snuck in behind him, hugging up against his back. We craned our necks into the path of the hall.

Libby, in faded green cotton underwear and a holey Nine Inch Nails shirt I’d lent her weeks ago, was shuffling into the hallway, out of the cool darkness. She looked wan, anemic, barely there, a photocopy of a ghost.

I saw her like that for a single frozen moment: It was my best T-shirt, on my best friend.

Whit dropped the knife and whisked down the hall and scooped her up into his arms and mouthed,
Go, go, go, go, go, go
at me as he speed-walked back across the living room and out the front door. He and Libby were in the front yard before I could even get my legs to move, but once they did, they ran. I slammed the door, leapt down the four steps onto the grass, and raced for the car.

We had Libby,
we had her
.

Outside it was hot and sunny and normal, and I kissed the dashboard of the Camry as Whit sped out of the canyons and down toward the highway.

Every few minutes I turned around and checked for vital signs in the backseat. Libby’s pulse was a crawl. I could only feel it beat about three times a minute. If I hadn’t already seen her physically moving in the hallway, I might’ve thought there was a chance she was actually dead. Our triumph wasn’t pure. Things were too twisted, too dark. No call for confetti.

Whit tried to act confident. “She’ll be okay,” he said several times.

I nodded. I wanted to believe him.

“Where is it again?” he asked once we were on the 10 heading east.

“Joshua Tree. Lynn knows we’re coming.”

Earlier this morning, sometime between my second panic attack and third Diet Coke, I’d dug up the number for Stella Block’s sister. Libby and I had visited her a couple of times together in junior high. She’d retreated to the desert about seven years ago to read chakras, live on sprouted food, and believe in the oneness of whatever. When I called, she acted like she remembered me, sort of. I told her Libby was in a bad way. That was all Aunt Lynn needed to hear.

I looked back at Libby again, dead asleep or just dead, her long legs folded up under her in an uncomfortable position. Whit caught a glimpse of her splayed out in his rearview mirror and patted me on the lap. He was,
at that moment, the closest friend I had in the world.

“I brought one of Naomi’s dresses,” Whit said, pointing to the back. “It’s under the seat in a bag.”

I rested my head on his shoulder. “Thanks, Whit.” I meant it so much.

“Sure.”

“How did you know she’d be, like, half-naked?”

“I didn’t. I thought she’d be covered in blood.” He forced a small laugh, but it didn’t fly. “Sorry.”

I turned around and looked at Libby some more. The
Downward Spiral
shirt she had on was bunched up around her waist, exposing her underwear. Her skin looked waxy and sort of translucent. I could see the thin veins running up her thighs. Her bracelets were gone. I tried to remember the color of Libby’s eyes. Brown or something.

“I’m not an expert on this stuff, you know,” Whit said. “He and I don’t really talk about this kind of thing.”

“What do you guys talk about?”

“I don’t know. How to deal with my parents.” He half laughed. “School. Girls. Whatever.”

“What does he know about girls?”

“Not much.” Whit looked over at me and smiled. “Don’t worry, I do most of the talking.”

Obviously. I reached back into the CD case and grabbed the one with hearts and stickers and junk all over
it. The cover read
LOVE SONGS FOR WHITLEY
, in handwriting sweeter than soda. I held up the plastic case as evidence and arched my eyebrows. “What do
you
know about girls?”

“A little.”

I frowned.

“Too little.”

“Yeah, right. You’ve got two high school chicks in your Camry right now, you must know something.”

“Normally I’d say that doesn’t count for much, but since you’re both wearing only T-shirts and underwear, I’ll take the points.”

“Good call.” I high-fived him.

Cool beans
, Libby would’ve said.

I stuck my head out the window and let the highway wind blow my hair in a billion directions. Ugh, smog. I pulled my head back in and rolled up the window.

“So…how’s Naomi?” I’d been wondering, why not ask?

Whit shrugged. “Naomi’s…Naomi.”

“Right…”

“I just mean she’s the same as before.”

“Before what? Before she met me?”

“I suppose there
are
only two ways to divide history: that which came before Quinn, and that which came after.”

“Works for me,” I said, mussing up Whit’s hair till he
pushed my hand away. “But, like, what was her deal?” I bit at my thumbnail. “Before everything.”

“Like another brother, kind of. Tough and smart. And she was sweet, too, in her own way.”

I muttered, “That’s news,” but Whit ignored it, staring ahead into the highway.

“Losing James was worse on her than it was on me.”

“You two are still close, though.”

“I don’t know. I don’t really think she likes me that much anymore. And I know she doesn’t like James.” He gave a weak smile, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Naomi used to always want things to be so perfect. Even when stuff was normal, I never thought of us as a perfect family or anything, but I think she did.”

“Naomi’s still perfect.”

“She’d be stoked to hear you think so.” He laughed a short
ha
sound, and after that there was nothing but the steady muted hum of transportation.

A few miles later I reinspected the mix CD. “Should I pop this dude in?” I shook the jewel case, made it do a little dance on the dash.

“What’s playing now?” He pretended to strain his ears to hear through the silence in the car. “I love this song.”

“Sorry”—I read the name on the spine with only the faintest, tiniest, barely noticeable hint of
jealousy—“Courtney, but the Joni Mitchell concert is over. Time to go home.” I shoved the CD in between my seat and the door. “Whoops.”