Drain You (15 page)

As we moved toward the door to leave, I stopped and stepped back close to Libby, hugging her till I’d lifted her up off the ground for a second.
One baby to another says I’m lucky to have met you
, I hummed.

But it probably wasn’t true. That baby probably wasn’t lucky to have met that other baby at all. I bet even Kurt had known that.

“See you senior year,” I thought I said to her, but when I was back in the Camry, I couldn’t remember. I may not have said anything to Libby when I hugged her good-bye.

The drive was fast. Short. Whatever. There was nobody on the highways, it was too late. Whit and I didn’t say much, but it was okay. We rolled down the windows and let the warm night air do the talking.

When Whit finally parked in front of my mother’s tea lights, it was almost midnight. My parents were totally asleep. I got out of the car and Whit followed up the stone steps, to the front door, inside, up to my bedroom. I was too sleepy to convince him I’d make it to bed on my own. And maybe I wouldn’t have. Maybe I would’ve passed out right in the foyer, my cheek pressed against the cold tile floor until morning, when my parents found me. As if my sanity wasn’t already in question. I waited to see if Whit was actually going to try and tuck me in or something.

“I thought it’d be messier in here,” he said, and yawned.

“It was.” I slunk down to the carpet.

“Going home.” Whit kicked me lightly on the leg. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Are you crazy? You want to hang out again?”

“I miss the boring times. Those were classic.” He said it wistfully, as if we’d even shared more than twenty total hours between us. “Tower Records and In-N-Out?” he asked, already halfway out the door.

“Whit, soon I won’t fit into any of my pants,” I whined.

“Like you wear pants.” He knocked once on the door frame, yawned out “Tomorrow,” and was gone.

I felt like falling asleep in my Mickey shirt and dirty sneakers and leaving all the lights on too, but for some reason glanced at my answering machine first. The red message light was blinking. I didn’t feel like dealing with it, but I pressed the play button anyway. It was Morgan’s voice, so I started to zone it out, but then I realized what he was saying and my blood drained down to my toes.

“Dude, I don’t know what you did, but the twins came into the video store tonight. Does the word ‘warpath’ mean anything to you? I told them you don’t work
here anymore. I told them you were on vacation. You better hide out, man. It was some evil stuff.”

I was already flat on the floor, so I couldn’t fall down farther. I was already on my knees, so I prayed to Santa Ana: Blow it all away.

I couldn’t sleep
until I eventually fell asleep and, once asleep, my body knew to stay asleep. I woke up briefly every other hour, just for a few minutes, to the sound of the garbage truck’s mechanical crunch or our housekeeper Carmen’s
ranchera
radio/vacuum combo or, finally, my parents sighing loudly as they stood beside my bed, staring down at me.

“I thought we were done with this.”

“Look at us, Quinn.”

I slowly pulled the blanket down to my chin and looked at them. They were dressed up for some party. My mother was carrying the tiniest clutch bag, my father held his reading glasses. Upon seeing me, their faces fell. I wondered what I looked like. How bad I’d really gotten.

“What are you doing?”

That was me.

“What are we
all
doing?”

That was my dad.

They waited. I rubbed my eyes, blinked out the moisture of old tears.

“Going to the…” My mother started out the words slowly and moved her hand as if to say,
Join me in finishing this sentence, Quinn
.

“Going to the…Going to the…”

“Hollywood Bowl!” my father jumped in.

No, that didn’t sound right.

I said, “I’m not going to the Hollywood Bowl,” but not in a defiant way. I said it like clearly, obviously, I’m in no condition to be going to the Hollywood Bowl right now, because I’m terrified and because I can’t be out at night.

“Don’t pull this,” my mother said.

“Quinn, we’ve had these tickets for two months. Can’t you put your problems on hold for one night?” My dad reached under my arms and lifted me up out of bed like a sack of flour. “How about for Harry Connick Junior?”

“Harry Connick Junior,” I repeated. No way I’d agreed to that.

“How about for your old mother and father who want to spend some time with you?”

I dropped my forehead into my palm. I let out the
smallest whimper. “We can rent a movie. We can play Trivial Pursuit.” I grabbed my father by the elbow.

But they didn’t see the pleading in my eyes. Or if they did see it, they didn’t know what it meant.

“We’re going,” my mother said.

“Get dressed, kid,” my father said.

I dropped to my knees. I wrapped one arm around each of their legs and held tightly. I pressed my head between them. I couldn’t go. And they couldn’t go and leave me here alone. I didn’t know where the safe zone was. Was my house safe? Were my parents safe outside, after dark, as long as they weren’t with me?

No one said anything.

Maybe my parents were having a silent conversation above me. Maybe through their eyes and facial expressions they were discussing what to do with their crazy daughter. Maybe something like that was happening, but it was quiet in the room.

Then I heard, “Fine,” and realized that I’d ruined my mother’s night. Week. Summer?

“They’re season passes,” my dad said, then patted my head. “The Bowl’s always going to be there.”

I let out a small gasp and squeezed their legs together. “I’ll get dressed, I’ll get dressed and come down for dinner,” I said, so happy to be staying in that the words gushed out of my mouth like a shook-up can of Coke.

As my parents wriggled free from my grip, I noticed the sun out my window dipping just below the roof. I reached out for them again, but they’d left the room. In the hallway someone mentioned something about Thai takeout and Blockbuster.

Hiding from vampires was a monotonous scene. At night. During the day my life was packed, thanks to Whit: at the MOCA downtown, the Armand Hammer, chili-cheese dogs at Oki Dog, free samples at the Fairfax Farmers Market, pretending to shoplift at the Virgin Megastore followed by a bad indie at the Sunset 5 and crappy Chinese chicken salads at Wolfgang Puck’s, trendy-band-of-the-month at the Palladium, people-watching and trash-talking at the Galleria, friendship bracelets and potato tacos on Olvera Street, car washing, lip-synching, pool dunking, anything, everything random.

Even though I’d never told him about Morgan’s answering machine message—the less he knew, the safer he was—Whit sensed my generally freaked-out vibe and seemed anxious to chill it out. He called all the time just to talk or listen to me talk, and his list for possible hang-out plans was endless. Maybe he thought that if I was too physically and emotionally wiped out from nonstop daytime activities, I’d be too exhausted to panic about
potential Libby revenge attempts and weird sounds outside my window at night.

I tried to play down my paranoia by keeping up my usual act: sarcasm, post-irony, feigned disinterest, parade-raining-on humor. But Whit knew me too well now to fall for all that. He had this rad ability to deflect everything tense and heavy and ominous about our situation and turn it into something lighter, more manageable. He did believe in supernatural stuff—both good and bad—because it was a reality in his life, but he also knew when to be human and let things be quiet. And when it got too quiet, he let me pretend like that was fine. Sometimes when we were together he’d touch me in some way, on the soft part of my forearm, or a pat on the head, or a side hug, or a high five where he held my hand and didn’t let go. But mostly he just tried to make me laugh and stay okay and helped keep my blood inside my body where it belonged.

Everything was super present tense with Whit, too. He didn’t get into prologues or origins or deep history. I assumed when he felt like opening up about what life was like as a Sheets boy in the midst of two brilliant explorers, one sexy dead dude, and an award-winning priss, he’d bring it up himself. I also assumed if he wanted to know about my far less exciting, far more normal—but getting less normal by the day—seventeen years of existence, then he’d ask. Not so much.

This would’ve bothered me before. But before, everything bothered me, so whatever.

We avoided upsetting conversation topics like Libby’s health, the whereabouts of the twins, and what would happen when the Sheetses came home or the fall semester began or the Laurel Canyon branch of Hellmouth reopened. We definitely never brought up James. We never ever mentioned Naomi. But I saw her once.

It was three days after Joshua Tree. We were on our way to Think Ink in the Valley, where Whit was going to re-ponder the possibility of finally getting his first tattoo. We had just left the Sheetses’ when he realized he’d left his driver’s license on his desk, so I waited in the Camry while he ran inside to grab it.

Whit had been inside for only a couple of seconds when I saw her. She was just finishing a jog. Her whole body moved like in slow-mo, each limb pumping in hyper-focus, covered in sweat. Then her eyes locked on mine, pure poison, never blinking. I couldn’t slip any lower in my seat without literally crouching down into the foot space, and I felt like that’s exactly what she was hoping I’d do—cower, flee, go underground. I would’ve if I could’ve.

Instead I leaned an arm on the window, forced a pathetic smile, and threw up a peace sign. Mine probably looked guiltier than Nixon’s.

When Whit passed her coming back to the car, they exchanged a few words.
Don’t murder her
, I imagined Whit saying. Then her saying,
But I want to
.

Minutes later we were out of the canyons and onto the 101, cruising north.

“God she hates me,” I said.

“No. She’s just happy you haven’t met Henry yet.”

“Who’s Henry?”

“Our other brother.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

He took his eyes off the road and put them on me. “Yes, Quinn. I am kidding you.”

I was a sucker.

And those were our days. Not un-fun, kind of cool, and filled with a decent amount of wacky field trips and comic banter. I stuck to a semi-tight schedule, though. I wasn’t exactly Cinderella, but when the clock read six, sometimes seven—but almost never later—the curtain closed, Whit dropped me off, and my nights began. And those were much less awesome.

I didn’t totally sink into my old black hole—and for that the entire Lacey family was grateful—but there was a lot of numb TV-watching and nervous hair braiding going on. Saltine-and-soda dinners were definitely back on the menu. My parents didn’t really seem to notice. Maybe because it seemed so realistic.

But most nights when dusk settled and I sat in my room, nothing could block out the thoughts that haunted me: Libby lost in the desert, bloodless and brainwashed; the twins prowling the hills for payback; James, far away and getting farther every day. My parents bustled around downstairs, listening to records with the windows open while making dinner, enjoying the summer nights. Whit called and told me what good shows were on TV, and we’d talk and kill time.

And every night I’d lie there in bed and look out at the hills behind our house, listening. I knew there’d be consequences, there had to be. Actions meant reactions. Sunrises meant sunsets. Every new day was just another new chance for Stiles to catch me at my weakest moment. My fear was too permanent, lasting longer than eyeliner, something I wore every day and didn’t wash off.

Still no sign of him. Or
him
, either.

I’m afraid I’ll forget you, James. I’m afraid I’ll forget who I was with you.

It had been a week and a half since Whit found me in the Lexus and a week and a half minus one day since we’d rescued Libby. How we’d jammed a summer’s worth of trivial activities and casual bonding into such a short span of time was a mystery and a miracle. One that Whit and I decided to finally celebrate with a victory slice of pizza.

So we went to a Round Table Pizza in the Valley on a sunny afternoon and claimed a booth in the back. We ate too much and told dumb stories and asked for refills on our unlimited fountain drinks. We got grossly stuffed and didn’t care.

“Ugh, pizza,” I moaned after my fourth slice. “No more.”

“They’ll have to roll us out of here,” Whit groaned, holding his stomach.

“James is going to dump me when he sees how fat I’ve gotten.”

“Weren’t you always fat?”

I stuck out my tongue at him. “Weren’t you saying James might be coming home soon?”

“No, I never said that.” He nibbled at a piece of half-eaten crust.

“Yeah, you did. You said he was probably coming back.”

Whit stopped chewing and got sort of serious. “Look, you know when Robert Plant says, ‘Baby, baby, I don’t want to leave you, I ain’t jokin’, woman, I got to ramble’?”

“What?” I blinked over and over.

“‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.’”

“What?” Blinking. Blinking.

“Led Zeppelin.”

“Are you, like, a hundred?”

“Yes,” he said sarcastically. Then he folded his arms. “No, I’m not a hundred, I’m nineteen, and in six months I’ll be twenty. Then I’ll be twenty-one, then twenty-two, and on and on until I’m old and gray and cussing at buildings and small children. Then I’ll die, hopefully in my sleep, and stay dead forever.”

Damn.

“Never mind.” He stared off at the arcade games.

“Whatever, Whit.”

“Yeah.”

Major tension. But the tension didn’t last long, because suddenly some stoner dude in a ragged Depeche Mode shirt was standing next to our booth, reeking, giddy, hovering over us.

“Sh-sh-sh-Sheets, Sheets,” he said like he was scratching a turntable.

Whit reacted slowly. “Hey, Jody. It’s been a long time, man.”

“It’s been
forever
, man!” Change that: super stoner. “How’ve you been? Who’s your lady?”

“Quinn, this is Jody Bennett. He’s—” Whit paused, thinking of a word, but gave up.

“Hey.” I waved.

“Hey to you.” He turned to Whit and said, pointing to me, “Nice, man.”

“So what’s up?” Whit looked tired of this already.

“Here’s the deal: You guys
have
to come to this thing I’m having.”

“A thing? Like a party?” I asked with a bit more disgust than was polite.

“Yeah! You like to party?”

I sank lower into the booth.

“She loves it,” Whit interrupted. He raised his eyebrows, daring me.

“Really?” Jody moved his red, weeded eyes from Whit to me to Whit and back to me. “
Killer.
It’s tonight at my house. You’re gonna come, right?”

“Totally, Jody.” Whit gave him a thumbs-up.

“Awesome. Don’t bogart the babe, man,” he said, looking at Whit but pointing to me again. “Do not be a Bogart.”

“No way, man.”

Jody held up both of his hands for Whit and me to high-five. When we both sort of lazily complied, Jody clasped our hands in his and then brought them together to form one giant hand-holding clump. Then he dropped the clump, put a hand on each of our shoulders, shook us lightly, bowed his head, lifted his head, said the word “tonight” like it had any other meaning than just a portion of the day, and walked away.

“Best friend from middle school?” I asked, watching him leave.

“Something like that.”

“Jody sucks.”

“Maybe,” Whit said, pretending to consider the matter. “But he’s such a lover of fine things. Like Humphrey Bogart. And parties.”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ll come?”

“You’re kidding.”

I hadn’t been to a nighttime social gathering since…since Joshua Tree. That just wasn’t something I did anymore.

“Aren’t you getting cabin fever?”

“Cabin fever, cabin flu, cabin measles, cabin mania…”

“So come.” Whit reached over and touched my hand. “Please? Jody thinks you’re”—he made quotation marks—“
nice
.”

“Jody sucks.”

But it wasn’t a no.

Whit dropped me off at six-twenty, per usual, but promised to be back by ten to drive us to the party. That gave me more than ample time to scheme a story for my parents, float in the pool, put on more eyeliner, drink a Diet Coke or two, listen to a Fugazi tape, break into a good cry, fear for my life, then pull the whole mess together with a pair of party pants. Seriously. I decided I was going to
rock these super-fitted black matador pants with little red pom-pom balls going up the sides that Stella scored from some nineties Madonna video shoot she had styled. She ended up giving them to me because they were too small for her and too short for Libby’s legs, but I fit into them fine. Just like Madonna. Madonna danced in my pants.