High and Dry (2 page)

“Spam folders don't spontaneously generate invites. You didn't make the cut.”

“Ellie's here, so I can be here,” I pointed out.

“She broke up with you last year.”

“Last year was a few days ago!” I took a deep breath. “Two seconds, okay? Then I'll leave.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Fine. At least serve a purpose and sign my petition while you're here.”

“What's it for? To ship you off to Vassar early or something?”

“It's to convince Principal Jeffries to let the girls' choir perform at graduation.”

Ah, graduation: the collective obsession of my classmates—save for me, of course. When you know exactly where you're going, the future holds little charm.

Maria handed me a stack of papers, and I indicated for her to turn around so I could sign it against her back.

When that was through, I found myself alone in the kitchen, turning in a circle, debating which exit was most likely to lead me to Ellie. Should I go back and retrace my steps? Or forge ahead in a new direction?

A Hispanic girl passed through on her way to the living room, her long, dark hair almost obscuring her large, hollow eyes. She
looked like a sad girl in search of a tragedy. I could steer her toward mine, but it would cost her a finder's fee.

The sad girl and I glanced at each other. I didn't recognize her and we hadn't been introduced, so I didn't say a word. Every year it gets harder and harder to tell freshmen and sophomores from upperclassmen, and it's not worth the risk engaging them to find out.

I watched her leave, then spun some more—retrace steps, or forge new path?—until someone called my name. My oldest friend, Ryder.

“Hey,” he said. An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and he fiddled with a box of orange Tic Tacs, rolling it up and down his knuckles like it was a coin and he was a bored magician. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

He was more out of place at this party than I was, and we both knew it. “Ditto,” I said.

His dark hair was just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and it stuck out a little from under the ratty, knitted black cap he always wore. His eyes were bloodshot, his nose a little red, and his T-shirt had holes in it, but he still looked like a jock—albeit a jock who'd accidentally dressed himself as a stoner.

He shrugged. “I'm a sucker for songbirds. I'm sure you can relate. Gonna win the game on Friday? Agua Dulce.” He drew the “l” out like taffy.

“That's the plan.”

He didn't say anything else right away; just looked at me with
an expression I couldn't read, empty as an ashtray in a house of former nic addicts.

“I'm heading out, but let's grab lunch on Tuesday. Off-campus? Find me if I don't find you.” Ryder walked out the front door before I could answer.

I nodded anyway, and the floor lurched sideways as I wobbled toward the balcony.

Ryder had two inches and thirty pounds on me and he could've played varsity in just about any sport, but he'd failed the drug test freshman year, and failed to care all the years after that. When I met him the summer before sixth grade, he'd been all-American wholesome in his Little League baseball uniform, a star with limitless choices, limitless directions.

As if in deference to his former capacity for greatness, the party had rearranged itself to let him pass, so the direction he'd come from was now an open path for me, too, straight out to the balcony.

I tipped my flask to lap up fresh courage, and when I lowered it, there she was, standing outside in the windy January air, her back to me, in a face-off with the moon over who was more fickle.

A guy stood next to her, leaning against the railing, speaking intimately in her ear. The balcony wrapped around the side of the house, giving them plenty of room, so why were they standing so close together, arms touching?

“Ellie,” I shouted.

The guy jumped and stepped aside: Fred from English class, looking frail and pasty like a good debate team nerd should.

Ellie turned around and stared at me. I stared back, dehydrated and dizzy. Her skin was smooth and pale. It reminded me of a cup of milk slowly being poured right before someone yanks the glass away. I was so thirsty, and she was just out of reach.

Her hands were small and tense at her sides, like doves waiting to be released into the air. Her silky black hair was pulled into a loose bun, held together by a lacquered stick with gold Chinese characters painted on it. A few loose strands framed her forehead. She wore a little bit of eye makeup, just enough to prove she didn't need any. This was the “Natural Look” magazines always advise women to go for but no girl can actually pull off. Unless they're Ellie.

I wanted to cup her face in my hands and give her a kiss hello. Her lips were wonderfully soft looking; they never left a mark on my face, almost as if she'd never been there at all, and now I realized I wished she had. Worn lipstick. Left behind some evidence that she and I had really happened.

“What are you doing here, Charlie?” Her voice was soft and low and disappointed, so soft I had to lean in to hear.

“Your brother told me where I could find you.”

A smile tugged at one corner of her lips. “He always liked you.”

“Funny thing,” I said. “You used to like me, too.”

“I still do,” she said, sounding hurt.

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“About what?” She backed up and knocked into the railing. I covered the distance between us, but not too close, never too close.

I'd waited a year to ask her out, and on our first date I knew she was too good for me, but I pretended I didn't know, and I spent the next eight months waiting for her to come around to it, too.

Two weeks and four days ago I had agreed to meet her at Café Kismet for a cup of coffee. I came with a basket of pomegranates, her favorite, picked fresh from the tree in Granddad's backyard.

She showed up with a tired, regretful expression and broke it to me gently. But she never told me why.

I sat there long after she left, till closing time, unable to move. There were plastic Christmas lights hanging all over Rancho Vista Boulevard, mocking me with their cheer while my coffee turned cold, then bitter. When I got kicked out of the café, I walked around for hours without going anywhere, just so I wouldn't have to go home. I walked until the lights spun and blurred and flickered in my wet gaze like real candles. I walked until every single one gave up and blinked off, gone as if the desert wind had blown them out.

I could think of a million reasons for her to ditch me, but I didn't know
her
reason.

“You said hi. Now you need to leave,” said Maria, tugging on my arm. She'd been head songbird since sophomore year, no small feat, and she ruled the other girls with an iron fist. Most of the time. Rumor had it there'd been a power play at the state qualifier in Pomona yesterday, but between whom I didn't know.

“I'm talking to Ellie,” I snapped. “I don't
need
to do anything.”

We'd drawn a crowd; I could sense a group forming a half circle
behind me, but I didn't care. I wasn't leaving till I got a straight answer, nontourage be damned.

“Not here, not like this,” said Ellie. “We'll talk later, okay?”

Between her and Ryder, people were lining up to talk to me later. Trouble was, I wanted answers
tonight
. “Just tell me why it's over,” I begged.

She glanced at our audience, uncomfortable. “You changed,” she said.

“How did I change?” I said, daring to inch closer.

“Well,” she said, “for one thing, you started drinking.”

The flask was not helping matters; it weighed heavy in my hand even though it was nearly empty.

“I only started drinking because you left me. That's not the reason.” I moved closer, contemptuously. “Is it because of him? Are you with
Fred
now?” Maria was right; names could be used as insults, so long as they had the right target.

I gave Fred a quick push against the railing.

“Charlie, stop,” Ellie cried, and I backed off, hands up and open, my flask gripped loosely by my thumb and forefinger.

I redirected my attention to her. “A
lincoln-douglas
? Really? After
me
?”

It was a lame-ass move, and I knew it. Even in my booze-addled state I knew it. Our school traffics in labels, but that was never Ellie's currency.

She was looking over my shoulder; she was already done. “Bridget, would you take him home? He's not safe to drive.”

Unbeknownst to me, Bridget had followed me to the balcony, and she happily accepted the task. “Told you not to make a scene,” she purred in my ear. “Keys?”

“You're not driving me anywhere,” I spat.

“Charlie,” said Ellie, stepping toward me and holding out her perfect palm.

I handed them over, and she walked past me, past the rubber-neckers, and into the kitchen to place my keys in a dish.

In the passenger seat of Bridget's Chevy convertible, I dialed Ellie's cell and poured my heart out until her voice mail cut me off. I redialed, and it said her mailbox was full. I chucked my cell onto the backseat and banged my fist on the dashboard and generally had a little fit.

When I was done, Bridget was staring at me with her big cave eyes.

“That was the craziest voice mail I ever heard.”

“Be glad it wasn't meant for you, then,” I snapped.

“I'm jealous, actually.”

“Then you match the light,” I slurred, pointing ahead.

“What?”

“Green means go. And I'm the drunk one?”

Wind shook the car, making Bridget clutch the wheel and struggle to stay in the right lane.

We have serious gusts of wind year-round. It's the distinguishing characteristic of Palm Valley, the daily traffic warning on the
electronic billboards that light up the 14 Freeway. It'd be nice to see “Coyote Attack” or “Child Abduction” messages every once in a while instead, just to mix things up.

“High Winds Ahead” loses its luster once you realize the wind's never going to be high enough to carry you away and drop you someplace else, like on the other side of the San Gabriel Mountains.

“You better not vom in my car,” said Bridget direly. “Especially not over Ellie Chen.”

“Can I vom over your driving?”

“Smart move, by the way, giving Ellie your keys so you'd have an excuse to talk to her tomorrow at school.”

“She already told me she'd talk to me.”

Bridget gave me a look like,
You naive little boy
. “Suuuure.”

We drove in merciful silence through downtown, past the civic center. The windows of all the buildings were dark, like eyes shut against the world. Maybe they were pretending they were somewhere else—different buildings in different towns, where perhaps the sun didn't shine as much, but when it did, it meant it in a way it never seemed to mean it here.

Bridget felt the need to reminisce about our past. “Ellie never thanked me, you know. Not even once.”

“For what?”

“Teaching you how to use your tongue sophomore year.”

“Maybe you taught me too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's the only thing she ever wanted to do.”

“You dated a year and you didn't have sex?” Bridget said.

“Eight months.” I frowned. “You seem to know a lot about our relationship.”

“I keep tabs on my exes.”

“How? Alphabetically? Or is it like counting sheep?”

“You're funny when you're drunk,” she remarked. “Funny and bitter. I keep tabs on the ones that
matter
.”

“Aw,” I said sarcastically.

Bridget was still running around the nostalgia track. “Charlie Dixon, soccer hottie. Why did we break up again?”

“You dumped me because I wouldn't put out,” I reminded her.

“That's right. You weren't fast enough,” Bridget said, and chuckled. “Hey, I just thought of something. If you and Ellie didn't do it, that means you're still a virgin.” She reached over and ruffled my hair. I gripped her wrist and returned it to her lap.

“So?” I said. “She is, too.”

Bridget smiled, slowly and deliberately. “You sure about that?”

“Knock it off.”

“I hear Fred's a skilled orator …”

“You heard wrong.”

But I wasn't so sure.

We reached the street between our two driveways. My heart was a lead ball, rolling downhill. I felt sick. What if Ellie
had
moved on? (Worse, what if she'd moved on
before
she dumped me?) I couldn't move. I was back in Café Kismet, paralyzed.

Bridget leaned over, all the way over, to undo my seat belt, and this somehow involved her breasts brushing against my chest. Her lips hovered above mine. They were dark red, luscious, and wet. Unlike Ellie's, they would definitely leave a lipstick mark.

“Come inside? For old times' sake?” she said.

“Why so chummy tonight?” I wondered.

She was straddling me now and I placed my hands on her hips to keep her at bay. I honestly couldn't figure out how we'd gotten into this position.

“I waited a long time for you guys to break up,” she said.

It was flattering to think she regretted losing me, but she was being awfully friendly for someone who hadn't bothered to wave back when I saw her outside her house last month. Something wasn't right.

“Well, this is my stop.” I gripped her arms and tried to dislodge her without hurting her. “Can you, um, move?”

“Sure.” She smiled devilishly and started a slow grind with her hips. “How's that?”

“Come on, Bridge, get off my lap.”

“So I'm Bridge again, huh?” The swiveling continued.

“I mean it.”

“Or what?” she asked.