Drain You (5 page)

I stared at the bareness, wondering. Something was so wrong, but I couldn’t place it. The walls were off-white and old-looking and totally barren, but that wasn’t the problem. I wobbled a bit and it hit me: no windows. There were no windows anywhere. It was a face without eyebrows, too weird.

“Sorry there’s nowhere to sit. I’m not here often.”

“Where do you sleep?” I had to know where I would
sleep if I slept over. If I slept over tonight, for instance.

“On the floor, in the walk-in.” He pointed to a sliding closet door over on the far wall. “I like confined spaces when I sleep. Creature comforts.”

I sat down on the rug and patted the spot in front of me. James sat too, stretching his long, thin legs out. He messed with his hair, and then he reached around me and tucked in the tag of his blue shirt, under the neck. I felt his touch, and it was awesome.

“Thanks for coming over,” he said.

“Thanks for…inviting me?”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m like an island.”

“Like Aruba?”

“More like Cape Fear.”

I gestured to the room, to the empty walls. “So, what? You hate fresh air?”

“L.A.’s too bright. And I sleep too late.”

“I sleep till dinner and I still have windows. There’re these things called blinds. Ask Naomi about them.”

“Thanks for the tip,” he said. “So, how were the hats?”

“The party was a total stain. Pun intended. Libby looked great, but she’s dating one of those jerks who spilled their wine on me, so I know she’s a mess.” I rolled my eyes and said, “And now Morgan’s pissed at me for—” and then I stopped myself, realizing I didn’t want to talk
about this in front of James. “So, whatever. It was lame I even went. I should’ve come here.”

“No, I should’ve come with you. Or at least made Naomi go. We suck at going to parties.”

“Me too. I never want to go out, but when Libby says ‘party jump’ you just say ‘how high?’ and pull it together.” I noticed I was tapping my foot, which I only did when I was nervous. “She’s, like, my best friend.”

“Sure,” he said, and then to stop the tapping he started stroking my foot. “Well, next time I’ll come for protection.”

“Just from Morgan, please.” Then I nodded and said, “Or
for
Morgan.
From
me.”

And that was it, the conversation about my night was over. I could tell James had zero intention of offering up his own evening’s activities, but for some reason I felt okay about it. Things seemed somehow simplified up in this little glowing box.

I leaned back and lay flat on the floor, using a sweatshirt hoodie for a pillow. “What’s boarding school like?”

He moved over and lay alongside me, both of us facing up. There was a cobwebbed ceiling fan, but it wasn’t on.

“It’s like…nonboarding school,” he said.

“Duh. But is it weird living there? Don’t you miss being home?”

“Sometimes, but school’s pretty cool. I mean, I get along with everybody.”

“Do you have a roommate or something?”

James leaned up on his side, on his elbow, facing me. “Luke.”

“Do you let him have the bed?”

“No, he has his own closet to sleep in.”

“Right.” I didn’t know if I’d ever know when James was kidding. Never? Always?

I realized it was way too hot: My shirt was damp, my skin glistened with sweat. “Can you turn that fan on?”

“It’s broken.”

“Great.”

I propped my knees up to let them air out. I was dripping.

“Hey,” he said. “Give me your arm.”

“What arm? I’ve melted into the rug. I’m a puddle resembling a girl.”

“Just give it to me.”

I held out my arm for him and James took it, his left hand at my elbow, his right around my wrist. “Stay still,” he said, and then, “Don’t move,” as he lowered his face to the crease where my arm folded. He kissed the crease with his open mouth. I felt his tongue, maybe his teeth, the soft wet inside of his lips. Then he pulled his face away.

“Now close your eyes,” James said, “and tell me when my finger gets to the kiss.”

I closed my eyes. He moved his finger up my arm, slowly, and sometimes it felt like he moved it backward too, down my arm again, toward my wrist.

“Now,” I said, my eyes still closed, my voice nothing but breath.

“Not even close, dude.”

I opened my eyes and saw he wasn’t even halfway up my forearm. He was closer to my palm than my elbow. “Damn,” I said. I dropped my arm a little in his hands. I could still feel the sticky wetness on my skin.

“James,” I said.

“Yes?”

“I might never leave this house. It’s my favorite house ever.”

“That’s okay,” he said.

“Really?”

He nodded. “All I need is the closet.”

“James,” I said.

He nodded.

“Don’t sleep in the closet.”

He laughed. “I don’t tell you what to do.”

“Yes, you do. You told me to stay still.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s awesome you did.”

We didn’t say anything for a while, and then he said, “You should go back to Naomi.”

“Why?”

“The sun will be up in less than an hour.”

It was a weird way of putting it, but he was right, it was so late it was early.

“And I can’t tell Naomi about this?”

“Negative.”

“But I’ll see you at breakfast in a few hours?”

“Double negative.”

“That means a positive, right?”

“I was told there’d be no math on this exam.”

“I won’t even look at you,” I said, knowing that’d be the hardest part.

“I’m a late sleeper.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I’ll be awake tomorrow night.”

“I have a shift.”

“I’ll be awake after your shift.”

“It’s a date, dude,” I said, obviously flirting. So obviously.

He gave me a “Don’t get ahead of yourself, dude” look, and then he said, “We’ll take a walk.”

“Now?” I said, and stood up.

“Tomorrow night, Quinn. Now, you go.”

I knew I wouldn’t be getting any good-night kiss. His
affection was too random. A future goal: Next time I took my shirt off in front of him, he wouldn’t be looking away.

I walked down the narrow staircase and heard James shut the door behind me. The sky was purple and red, getting lighter, making room for the sun. I grabbed my gray tank top out of the dirt and shoved it in my pocket. Hadn’t needed that cherry ChapStick after all.

When I slipped back into Naomi’s room, she barely stirred. I took off my shorts and squeezed into the sleeping bag, zipping it up over my head. I thought of James on the floor of his tiny walk-in closet. I touched his T-shirt to my underwear. Before I fell asleep, I sniffed the fabric again, but the smell of my sweat covered up his scent.
Blues for a blue T-shirt
, I thought, and closed my eyes on the weirdest day.

During the few
short hours I did sleep, I dreamed of Libby. Somehow she had slipped her way into a subconscious overflowing with images of James’s mouth, hair, eyes, voice, hands. But the dreams I had of her weren’t just collages and cobwebs of the previous night’s events, and they didn’t seem like premonitions of events to come. They were just echoes of real-life Libby. Me and Libby lying on beach towels by my pool, her in an American flag print two-piece. Libby at Video Journeys, renting a video, asking my opinion of it, but I don’t recognize the title. Libby just floating around places I always am, doing things we always do, with no particular agenda. One final image lingered with me—it was the one swimming beneath my eyelids as I opened them to Naomi’s empty room. In it, Libby’s in front of my house, in the street,
dancing like a spirit, or a ghost, a see-through memory. She’s there, but she’s not. I lay on the floor in my sleeping bag for a few minutes, not moving. Somehow I knew Libby wanted to be thought of, she wanted to be remembered, just like she had since we were nine years old. And just like since we were nine, not only in dreams, I gave in to her.

At noon I got up. Upstairs Naomi was sitting by herself at the kitchen counter, reading. “Hey,” she said. “You missed the morning.” She gave me breakfast anyway: a bowl of Kashi with soymilk and a cup of loose-leaf Darjeeling tea with agave nectar. Even the meals here were exotic. I’d never be able to wake up to a Diet Coke and plain rice cake again without feeling deprived.

Later, after breakfast, Naomi walked me to the door to say good-bye.

“Stop by the video store sometime,” I said. “I know someone who works there, and I hear she practically
gives
videos away.”

Then I waved and walked toward the car, and she leaned against the door frame, waving back.

With her eyes on me, I couldn’t sneak back up those narrow stairs. I felt self-conscious about even glancing up at his room. I got to the Lexus and reached for the door handle, and it opened instantly. I groaned at my
irresponsibility: I’d forgotten to double-click the thingy, so the car had sat unlocked all night long. And someone had taken advantage and set a small folded note on the driver’s seat.

Naomi was still at the door watching me, so I just sat on the piece of paper, started the car, and drove away slowly, past the house, the hydrangea bushes, the basil plants, the garage, that tiny white box that sat on top of it.

When I’d driven a couple of blocks and was turning onto the main canyon road, I reached under myself and pulled out the folded page.
quinlan
, it said on the outside, in the simplest lowercase letters.

I’d read it thirteen times by the time I parked the Lexus in our driveway and turned off the car.

Until this moment my life’s plans had been: graduate from high school, go to Paris, marry Leonardo DiCaprio, die in my sleep. But to have James want me was even better. Take away Leo; burn me alive. My chest hurt.

I didn’t wait outside my house that night for anyone to pick me up for work, because no one was coming.

My walk to Video Journeys was relatively peaceful.
I tried to prepare suitable responses to every possible scenario with Morgan, even one that ended in the video store exploding. I tried to expect anger, sadness, sarcasm. Mostly I expected him to ignore me, so as not to incur any anger, sadness, or sarcasm. I didn’t, however, expect him to ask Jerry’s son Alex to cover for him, making me more anxious with anticipation for our next shift together. So I’d forgotten to expect torture.

Alex was fine, but he did everything for me before I could even think to do it. He answered the phone on the first ring, greeted each customer at the first sound of the front bell, and restocked all the videos the moment they dropped in the return slot. Without even dumb busywork to distract myself, I could already tell this shift was going to drive me nuts. I tried to just zone out and straighten boxes and wait for that occasional customer who actually asked a question to my face.

Normally when I worked with Morgan I never took a break, because the whole thing was a break. But with Morgan gone I racked my brain for a legit excuse to take fifteen in Jerry’s office.

I went to the counter where Alex was standing and said, “Hey, can I check the calendar in the back for second? I might need to move a shift.”

Alex waved me to go ahead without even paying attention. Whatever. Morgan had to come back to work
at some point. He couldn’t call in sick for a month. If I had to spend the rest of my summer stuck alone here with Alex—or worse, Jerry—I’d quit. I’d take that temp job at the
Times
my parents were always encouraging me to consider. I’d wear panty hose and sensible work apparel. I’d get rides to the office with my father.

Hold it. No way. Not in this reality.

I dialed Morgan’s number.

“Hello?” He sounded annoyed already.

“Hi, dude.”

“Why are you calling me? Aren’t you at work?”

“Yes. Without
you
. You know, you totally could’ve worked today, nothing happened. It’s like, not even a thing, I promise.”

“Oh, you’re
kidding
, right?”

I was making it worse, and about to make it the worst: “Morgan, you know you’re amazing.”

“I don’t have to listen to this.”

“But think about if you even really like me. I mean, in your mind you could have just created this spark that you don’t even feel. Like maybe it’s just that I’m always around, sometimes half-naked, super needy, and you just…sort of…made the wrong connection. Out of boredom. Totally normal.”

“You’re unreal,” he said, as if amused.

“Morgan, listen. We have this unspoken thing. So, it’s
like you can’t speak it. You can’t say it out loud. It’s an undercurrent. It’s not understandable to us.”

“I do
not
have to listen to this.”

“Morgan, let’s just forgive each other. Please.”

“You’re the one who’s bored.”

“I know.” I knew.

“You’re the one who can’t understand it.” He was raising his voice. “You’ll end up kissing me one night during count-out just to have something to do. Then I’ll have to forgive you for using me and you can forgive me for taking advantage of you.”

Silence.

I wanted to deny it but couldn’t. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands. Morgan mattered to me; he always had. I couldn’t lose him. It was my most selfish and darkest secret. I never wanted to hear him say he loved me, but I had to believe he felt it. My breathing was ragged, my crying audible, but he said nothing.

“I’ll quit,” I said. “You’ll never have to be alone with me again.”

“No, you won’t,” Morgan said, and sighed, but he wasn’t saying it to cheer me up. He was reasoning with himself.

“Can’t everything just be the same? If you think maybe I’ll come around one day, then can’t you just come back to work so we can hang out and go back to normal?”

I didn’t know what I was saying. I was scum, the lowest, and no one was there to slap me or smack the phone out of my hand.

“You’re a brat.”

And then, guided by nothing, prompted by no one, I became the lamest person alive: “You know who’s really cute, and cooler than me, and has a better body and would be totally into you?”

Total, awful silence.

“Naomi Sheets,” I said.

“Quinn. You’re a psycho.”

More tears fell out of my eyes. “I know. I know.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“You should.”

He did.

Whatever real love I had for Morgan—no matter how skewed and small and mostly self-serving—I had to force myself to let it go. And even though it made no sense, I had to cry a little longer for Morgan. Right then Alex opened the office door and saw my face, puffy and wet.

“Go home. I can close out alone tonight.” He looked away from me, at the schedule on the wall.

“Why?”

“It’s not a request.”

I couldn’t call James to change our plans, because he had no phone. I’d just have to go home for a few hours
and walk back here at eleven, meeting him out front as if I’d worked a full regular shift.

So I collected my stuff, collected myself, and wandered outside, feeling ridiculous for being sent home after two hours of uselessness. But I deserved punishment. Even if it didn’t fit the crime.

When I reached my house and saw three unfamiliar cars parked in our driveway, I put two and two together and guessed that my parents were having guests over tonight. I also guessed that my mother would probably kill me if I crashed her party looking this way: splotchy, post-sobbing, like an extra from
Les Miz
.

Fortunately, the eight adults in the dining room were too busy with appetizers and Riesling to notice me sneak past them up the stairs. I climbed into bed and hugged a pillow over my face and crashed. Later, when I willed myself awake, I was covered in sweat. I looked over at my clock and panicked: 10:56.

I sprang out of bed and started searching for a shoe I hadn’t seen in weeks but that somehow seemed crucial for my meeting up with James. In my rational mind I knew James wouldn’t just leave if he didn’t see me outside the video store at exactly ten past eleven. He’d probably wait a while, or even start walking to my house, and then we’d meet in the middle. That’d be the best-case scenario.
Almost romantic, really. Worst-case scenario: James goes home. If that happened, I’d have to sneak out after my parents were asleep, take the Lexus without permission, and deal with the consequences tomorrow. Worst, worst-case scenario: James bails to do whatever weird stuff Naomi alluded to last night and I can’t find him. Then I’d have to call her again, invite myself over for the second night in a row, lure her to fall deeply asleep, and sneak off to the garage studio to wait for him, thereby confirming Morgan’s theory that I was both a brat
and
a psycho. What a drag.

Seriously, I needed that damn shoe.

I only had half a minute to give myself a once-over in the mirror. I was wearing a short, ripped, white cotton button-down dress with the first three buttons missing, but it came across less as scandalous and steamy than it did just sloppy. My earrings were tangled up in my hair, and all my chain necklaces had somehow coiled together into one fat knot. I gave up on finding the cute shoes and so settled on my dirty flower-print ankle-high Docs, unlaced, with no socks. The sweat from my nap plus basic summer night body heat had smeared my black eyeliner into raccoon chic and my cheeks into crazy flushed rouge pots. My skin felt like damp flypaper. The fabric of my dress was so thin I could see my black underwear and bra in the mirror but now it was 10:59, so I had no time to change.

I noticed a half-empty Diet Coke on my bedside table and chugged it. The taste was warm and flat and syrupy and reinforcing. I was ready to sprint for my life. Instead I tripped down most of the stairs, dropping my keys and bag onto the tile foyer floor.

“Quinny?”

My father’s voice.

I pivoted, calmly, in his direction. Eight adult-y adults were sitting in the den, in silence, staring at me. My father stood up from the white leather couch.

“Where are you going?”

“It’s cool, Dad.” I tried to smooth out my dress, wondering just how transparent it might look under the chandelier.

“So, you’re leaving then?” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively. A very well-dressed woman in a pashmina sweaterdress sitting next to my mother took a sip from a glass of white wine.

“I’m…not even here. I’m, like, at work right now anyway.”

The couples looked from me to each other to my parents, then down at their wineglasses. Beverages in the white room? My mother was probably beyond edgy. I could detect serious vibes being thrown my way:
Do not cause a scene. Do not cause a scene.

“Morgan’s here to pick me up,” I said, super casual.
My mother relaxed visibly at the sound of his name.

“That’s her little boyfriend,” she explained, and the couples nodded in understanding.

“Grab a long-sleeve, sweetie,” she said, standing up and guiding the guests out the sliding door to the backyard patio.

“Be back whenever,” my father said, following her.

Would it always be this easy?

“Right…,” I said, suddenly alone.

I dashed down the stone steps, my mind racing, trying to calculate the odds of James’s whereabouts. I was past the tea lights and nearly to the street before I noticed Libby lying on the hood of her car, parked across the road, in front of our neighbors’ house. I froze. Libby didn’t typically come to my house. And right now I really didn’t have time for her visit. I looked down the long, dark canyon road to my left: Video Journeys. Somewhere, James. And then I looked to my right: Libby, in a nightgown, sprawled across her hood, barely visible under a streetlamp, at eleven on a Sunday night. Damn it.

“Libby, this better be so good. You better be a pregnant runaway with diabetes right now,” I said, walking toward her. “Drive me to Video Journeys.” I went to the passenger side and opened the door. “Get in.”

“Why?” she asked, sounding dazed, or drunk. “Why aren’t you there now?”

“Dumb reasons,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Then why do you have to go back?” She leaned over on her side, facing away from me, and curled her long legs up under her.

“Libby, what are you doing here? I’m sure whatever it is we can totally talk about it later. I just have to go meet someone at the video store. Like, right now. So, either take me or don’t, but I gotta go.” Time was not on my side. I pictured James loitering in the Video Journeys parking lot, checking where his watch would be.

“Whatever, Quinn,” she said. And then, “You know Morgan can wait.” She laughed in a drugged, distant way. “He’ll wait foreeeever for you, you know….”

“Seriously, dude? Are you on planet Earth?” But when she finally rolled over to face me, I could see that she wasn’t. She was not on planet Earth.