Drain You (2 page)

“Hi,” I said, but he ignored it and started walking down the road, away from the video store’s lights. Naomi and I didn’t move until he half turned and called out over his shoulder, “Let’s go.” And since he meant her and him,
not all of us, I still didn’t move.

She seemed to have collected herself somewhat, and most of the blood was wiped off, so she looked at me and mumbled, “Sorry,” then walked away, following James down the black canyon road.

“Bye,” I said, but like it was a question.

The whole walk home I tried to make sense of not only what had just happened, but of Naomi as a side character in the entire context of my life. I couldn’t do it, though. There were no specific memories of her at school, in the halls, in the junior/senior parking lot, during lame assemblies, gym—which we’d had together two years in a row—not so much as a single roll call stood out. She wasn’t invisible; I always knew she was there. But she was like so much other background high school scenery once the summer hit—a palm tree in the library quad, teachers’ notes on the dry-erase board, stickers on a locker—foggy, distant, unreal somehow.

Naomi Sheets had this whole life locked away, and however it was in actuality—full of lessons and lavishes, or strangeness and solitude—I envied her those secrets. She was thoroughly unteenage, unrevealed, and unlike me.

I thought for a second about Morgan and felt bummed, then normal. Probably just stress mixed with too many
Diet Cokes and Triscuits. My parents’ cars were lined up in the driveway. The cactus garden was too manicured, the tea lights leading up the walkway to our front door an illuminated set of parallel lines. I sighed, let my shoulders slump, kicked a rock.

But the rock didn’t roll.

James. He’d stopped the rock with his foot. “Nice house,” he said, and bent down, tossed the rock lightly in the air, caught it, then tossed it to me. I let it fall at my feet, never lifting a hand.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“What do you mean?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Hanging out.”

“Hanging out,” I repeated. “Where’s Naomi?”

James said nothing. He did nothing.

“Your sister’s hell of weird. She never even told anyone she had a brother.”

He shrugged. “Well, she does.”

“Are you, like, at Cresby?” I said. Then, “Are you, like, in high school?”

“Something like that.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay. Well, I’m Quinn, I live here, this is my rock.” I lifted the rock. “But you know that, so…”

“I know who you are.”

“Have we met or something?”

“No.”

Then silence. Lots of silence.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“I just wanted to make sure you got back safe.”

“It’s not the Valley, dude, it’s supersafe.”

“Right.”

“So what happens now?”

“You go inside and I go home.”

“Well, this has been a ton of fun,” I said, and pulled my flannel closed, held it at the neck, then folded my arms.

“Are you cold?”

“It’s eighty degrees. I’m sweating over here.”

He laughed. “But you’re not wearing any pants.”

“Whatever,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“It looks good. Your legs are…”

But then he stopped. And when I realized there was no adjective coming, I also realized I was holding my breath. It was like “good” meant more than “good,” which it didn’t. It was like “good” meant “beautiful” or “stunning” and had a capital
G
and was spoken in a low, smoky voice. He could have finished,
Your legs are…unevenly proportioned for your height and weight
, and it wouldn’t have muted the chiming bells of “good.”

“Cool,” I said.

He shrugged. Again.

He said he was going to go but he didn’t go, then he didn’t say anything else, and so we just stood there. For a second I wondered if I should invite him in. We could sit on the white leather couch in the white living room that my mother had pretty much declared “off-limits” to me and my friends. We could sink our toes into the perfect white plush carpet and clink around the clear Venetian glass candies on the untouched coffee table. And under the bleached-out nouveau riche paintings with titles like
Endless Malibu Morning
and
Abstractions in Milk
, James could say “good” a hundred more times, or nothing at all.

Then I said, “You can come in if you want,” but when I stretched out my arm to gesture toward the front door, the automatic porch light suddenly flashed on, and for the first time all night I saw James for real.

His hair was dirty blond and stringy, and half in his eyes. He looked like he’d been in bed all day; or else never made it to bed last night. His eyebrows were darker than the rest of his hair, and his eyelashes were too long, making his face seem almost feminine. Like a greasy pretty boy. Like a Calvin Klein model. His left ear had a diamond stud. His eyes were colorless, maybe gray, but I couldn’t really tell. James was wearing an old, ripped, plain white V-neck T-shirt, a little too baggy. The collar was stretched, there was a tear on
the top of the shoulder seam, and a simple gold cross on a gold chain hung around his neck. He wore jeans with the knees frayed, ringed with slight white strands of shredded thread, and he tucked them into a pair of beat-up high-top black Converses. He was not a boy like Morgan. No way he was seventeen.

“I’m not coming in,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “It’s cool, though.” Then he turned, walked away, and was gone.

I lifted my arm to wave good-bye. It hung limply in space.

I dropped my keys on the counter, because it was something normal I would’ve done. I stomped upstairs for the benefit of my parents, and when they heard me, the amber light from under their door turned off.

I lay like a starfish on my bed, fully dressed, my Docs unlaced. First I ran through the early, normal parts of the day—breakfast, TV, the pool—but lost perspective as my night came into view: new releases, Wet N Wild, James Spader, Naomi Sheets with bloody hands and baby barrettes in her hair, some secret brother with a look collaged from my actual dreams, album covers, better than Keanu, weirder. Then a fast-forward, to future days: listless shifts at Video Journeys, new exhibits at the LACMA, double features at the New
Beverly, frozen yogurt at Penguin’s, in Malibu, in the canyons, wherever. The endless summer.

But beneath my lashes, beneath the translucent lids, were silver veins and James’s face. And into sleep he walked alone down the road, in silence, looking good.

Through the blinds
the afternoon sun burned horizontal slits onto my face. I opened one eye to spy the contents of my trashed bedroom, and it was worse than my parents ever accused, but whatever. My stuff, my mess, my problem. The edges of a Björk poster were peeling up. Some Snapple bottles were knocked over, and their paper labels—which I’d scratched off while watching MTV—were scattered on the floor in a crooked peace sign. I had a big thrift-store chair once. Like, I knew it was still there, but all I could see in its place was a mountain of clothes. Precarious stacks of V. C. Andrews and Baby-Sitter’s Club books threatened to fall off my desk. Empty Starbucks to-go cups, pictures from Libby’s birthday, old
Sassy
magazines, drawings I’d done of a long-haired Anthony Kiedis as a winged angel, a half-eaten box of
Girl Scout cookies, all laid out and forgotten. Seriously gross. I wanted all that junk cleaned up, but the actual ass-moving involved wasn’t worth it. So instead I just cleared a path of open carpet from my bed to the door. No prob.

It was one o’clock when I made it downstairs in my Video Journeys shirt-turned-nightgown. Everyone was gone, so I ate the strawberries in the fridge right out of the carton without washing them. Then I talked to myself in a British accent, jumped on the couch, flipped through some channels, drank a Diet Coke. I grabbed a phone book and started thumbing through the
S
s. There were two Sheets residences, but I didn’t have the guts.

At three Morgan called on my private line.

“If this is Matt Damon, leave a message. If it’s Ben Affleck, lose my number,” my recorded voice said.

“Hey it’s Morgan, I’m with Matt, he says hi. Did you and Naomi make out last night? Yeah, right. Let’s drive to work together tomorrow. Matt says bye. Bye, Quinn.”

I stuck out my tongue.

Later, by the pool, I soaked up the last hot rays of the day. I had a few conversations with James in my head, playing both of our parts with equal intensity. I was careful not to say too much when I was acting his role, in order to keep things realistic. Weirdly, I was worse at playing myself.

I sank into the shallow end, dunked my head back, and let my hair fan out on the top of the water. I turned up Ice Cube, “It Was a Good Day,” on my stereo, floated like a corpse, hit play again, listened again. Underwater, I told James he could have a free rental every night I worked. And the nights I didn’t work I’d figure something out. The promise rose in bubbles to the surface. Then the song faded out. I let the CD play into the next track, and dripped dry on the concrete while swaying to the beats.

At six the sky turned purplish magenta. I’d hardly sweated and barely browned. The chlorine made my hair look like my mother’s did in the seventies, so I snuck into her giant walk-in to try on some clothes. In the hidden box marked
SKINNY
I found kimonos, an Eagles concert T-shirt, leather Wilson’s shorts, and other impossible reminders of her earlier coolness. I grabbed the silkiest thing I could find and, as an afterthought, one of my father’s big cardigans.

When I was still alone at seven I noticed a note Scotch-taped to the microwave:

But the strawberries were the only fresh food in the
fridge, so I couldn’t really be blamed for eating them. For dinner I settled on tomato soup, saltines, and Diet Coke. Salt plus salt plus rat cancer. Whatever.

Nothing good was on TV, and I’d run dry on imaginary stories about Naomi and James. I hadn’t crossed the pathetic line yet, but I was hovering close above it. I went from room to room, just picking up things and putting them down. I tried on a big Lakers jersey, French braided my hair, unbraided it, then collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

It was only ten, but I drifted into a light sleep anyway. An hour later I resurfaced, hazy and starving. I rolled over and grabbed the phone and laid it on my ear while I punched the number two speed dial. Morgan picked up instantly.

I said, “Hey, it’s me. Got your message.”

“Where were you?”

“Poolside.”

“Want a ride to work tomorrow?”

“I’m gonna walk.”

“Come on.”

“Fine. Pick me up.”

“Cool. Why didn’t you call? My parents are in Maui. I called you,” he said.

“I was busy doing awesome stuff. Today was a good day,” I sang, not at all like Ice Cube.

“I called you,” he said again.

“Morgan, what are you doing…right…now?”

“Trying to fix my cousin’s old Nintendo. It sucks.”

“You have to, like, blow on it, dude.”

“What?”

“Like, blow on it. The cartridge.”

“Why?”

“It fixes it.”

The conversation died for a few seconds, and there was just breathing. Then I heard the Tetris theme song playing faintly on his end. I was starting to feel drowsy again when he said my name into the receiver.

“Mmmm?” I half asked.

“I can hold the phone up to my radio, they’re playing that Cure song you like,” Morgan said.

“Okay. Just, like, turn it up.”

“Don’t drool when you dream of me.”

“What…ever…”

Then three things happened at once: Morgan said, “I love you,” Robert Smith began to serenade me, and my mother spoke to my father loudly enough to wake me even if I had been asleep.

“She’s in here, Elliott. Passed out in this nasty mess.”

Friday at two in the afternoon, was it even possible? This time my mother had taped her note to my cheek:

The lingering smell of chlorine on my body was nice, so I skipped the shower. Black eyeliner, mascara, a chug of mouthwash, watermelon Lip Smacker, and I was out of the bathroom in two minutes easy. My boss, Jerry, was gone for three weeks attending some pyramid scheme seminar, so tonight I could ditch my Video Journeys shirt and go civilian. I piled my mess of long hair under a black bowler hat and put on cutoff shorts, a black bikini top, ratty Vans, a mood ring, six chain necklaces—dangling peace signs, a quartz crystal, a vintage car key—and big hoop earrings. I tied my dad’s cardigan around my waist for the walk home. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the way out the door, my eyes widened. The words “casual Friday” were a staggering understatement.

Outside it was a total scorcher, so I sat in some shade on the front lawn and listened to my Discman, waiting for Morgan and his budget Dodge Shadow. I tried to draw some band logos on the sides of my sneakers. I wrote “MADE YOU LOOK” on the back of my left hand in purple marker. On my right ankle I drew a fake rose tattoo, then licked my finger and tried to rub it off just as I noticed Morgan pulling to a stop in front of my house.

“You can’t wear that to work,” he said as I jumped into the front seat next to him.

I gave him a fake frown.

“And don’t pretend to listen to music,” he said, pulling my headphones off my ears.

“Morgan, I’ll do anything you want if you just…chill.”

“Really? Okay, then tell me everything that happened the other night with Naomi.”

I slipped down in the seat and picked at my nails, imitating boredom. “Done, dude. Nothing to tell. She kind of spazzed out on me for a minute and then walked home.” I shrugged.

“Right.” He paused. “And there’s one more thing,” Morgan said, glancing over at me, “that I want you to do.”

I squinted at the sun, bracing myself. “What?”

“Will you just please wear a name tag?”

“Sure. Anything you want.” I turned away and watched as the palm trees, dry brush, and scattered mailboxes became the video store parking lot, too quickly.

We’d been watching
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape
for what felt like two and a half hours when it finally struck me to ask, “Where…is…everybody?” I swept my arm from left to right and back again across the store,
illustrating the total absence of customers, of kids, of anybody. “It’s Friday night. I’m, like, beyond confused at the lack of interest in our entertainment emporium.”

Morgan was eating Apple Jacks out of the box, numbly, and it all reeked of bad work ethic.

“Um, Earth to Morgan Crandall.” I tapped the back of his head. “Aliens have landed, taken over the bodies of our customers, directed those bodies to who knows what Blockbusters in the city, and left us here to die of boredom.”

“I’m not bored,” he said. “Maybe everyone driving by saw your outfit through the window and figured we were closed for an employee beach trip.” Though he’d landed a zinger, Morgan didn’t gloat. He stayed glued to the TV screen.

“Ha. Ha,” I said.

I slumped down to the floor and stared at the untouched racks of new releases. It was only halfway into our shift, but I already felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu starting to wash over me. That sense that one day soon I’d have to give up and give in to the current, to the Morgan-and-me undertow. I mean, he wasn’t without certain…attributes. But he was shameless, and he’d spent the better part of the night trying to position himself at eye level with my bikini top.

It must have been another two hours of Gilbert
dragging his feet before the store’s doorbell finally rang. Usually on weekend nights I had to hole up in the break room for half my shift in order to avoid every high school weirdo, eighth-grade crush, and ex-best friend in Topanga Canyon. But the visitor was Libby, so I ran to greet her with the glee of an unleashed pug.

“Quinn, this is a really strong look for you,” Libby said. She pulled on one of my bikini strings. “You’re wearing a name tag on a bathing suit. Crandall must’ve wigged out.”

“You are both just so scared of fashion.”

“Whatever. He loves it. He’s kind of a blond Depp, you know?” Her eyes went from the TV to Morgan and back to the actor on the screen. “Just date him already, he’d die from happiness.”

“Yeah, brilliant idea, Libby.”

Libbits Block had been my closest friend since the fourth grade, when she invited me to watch her dad’s famous rock band play from the backstage wings at the Palladium. We ran around the greenroom stealing all the Cranberry Juice Cocktail the band had requested on their rider and then chugged until our lips were swollen and ringed with red. At midnight, once the sugar crash hit, we were in each other’s arms taking best friend forever oaths, spitting into each other’s palms, braiding our hair together in alliance. We learned to skateboard while
holding hands, got into New Wave before anyone else, and went to the movies as each other’s dates. By junior year we weren’t quite as inseparable, just more realistic about the word “forever” and the significance of fluid exchange. Whereas other people
followed
Libby around, I just
was
around, and that made it easy for us to keep hanging out. Plus, neither of us was very good at making new friends. And we had history.

So I loved Libby, but in a vintage way. Like a childhood blanket, or my dad’s mac and cheese. A deep love, but not one you tap into on a daily basis.

Libby lived a “charmed life”—as my mother would put it—being the daughter of a not exactly aging rock drummer and his not exactly un-hot costume-designer wife. The Blocks were totally understanding when she dyed a Manic Panic hot pink streak into her perfectly layered hair and cut her entire sneaker collection into flip-flops, or shandals, as Libby called them: half shoe, half sandal. Her parents totally bought it because they were royally hip, and Libby was their unassuming princess.

And no matter what she did to try to screw up her natural beauty—the aforementioned pink streak, ripped clothes from Barneys, occasional goth makeup—nothing ever worked. Libby was runway ready, tall and stick thin with a doe-eyed expression of world-weariness. She got more catcalls and “hey, babys” than even she cared for,
leaving Libby with way too many male admirers but only one real female friend. So she hung out with her family mostly, making her seem entirely untouchable to everyone except her boyfriends. Regardless, she was still into me, and I wasn’t ungrateful for it.

“Where
is
everybody?” Libby said, walking up and pirouetting a graceful 360 by the front register.

“That’s what I said,” I said.

“My mom’s in the car having a cow about something, I totally can’t hang.”

Through the window I saw Stella Block calmly reading a Danielle Steel novel by the small car light. Libby was reading descriptions on the backs of movie boxes in no visible hurry.

“I heard from someone that you hung with Naomi Sheets the other night.” Libby didn’t look up from the videos. Morgan shoved more Apple Jacks into his mouth. A customer I hadn’t noticed two aisles over loudly dropped a stack of video games.

“How is that even possible? Isn’t there usually, like, a one-week delay period before the rumor mill kicks in?”

“God,” Libby said. “Is it that big a secret?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Hey, I don’t even care. Just thought it sounded weird. No pressure to spill.”

For the second time today I dodged the same bullet.

“Whoever told you,” I said, pinching Morgan’s arm since Libby had gone back to reading, “was making a big deal out of nothing. Naomi was freaked about something, but it didn’t even matter because her brother was there to take her home.”

“Her brother who?”

“Just her brother.”

“Sure,” she said, holding her gaze on me for a second. Then she remembered something. “I’m actually having this party tomorrow night to celebrate. You know, a summer solstice thing. The twins are coming, and Dewey and Cooper, and Nathan, and some girls too, I think.”

Of course there wouldn’t be any girls but Libby. And me.

“Stiles and Sanders are coming?” I asked.

The Donnelley twins and their two best friends had graduated when we were sophomores, leaving behind a legacy of sexy sketchiness. None of them went to college—none of them went anywhere—preferring instead to continually lurk around the high school scene. The twins were both into Libby—which wasn’t surprising because they were always into the same things, they were basically the same person—but in order to keep the peace, Sanders had backed out of the running last year. Stiles and Libby were on and off, sleeping together casually and then pretending not to care when they ran into
each other accidentally at concerts or parties—which they did more and more often these days. She was tight-lipped about their time alone together, even to me, and I knew some house party crowded with other possible suitors and cling-ons wasn’t a likely place for her to dish new heartfelt confessions. Still, it seemed unfair to make Sanders a witness. But whatever. Libby didn’t approve of my holdout from Morgan, and I was in no position to challenge her motives with the twins.