Nine Inches (30 page)

Authors: Tom Perrotta

BOOK: Nine Inches

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THE SCHOOL
bell rang like an alarm clock at six
A
.
M
.
, bringing the All-Night Party to its o
ffi
cial close.
Th
e kids in the Chilling Station stirred slowly, stretching and rubbing their eyes, then rose and shu
ffl
ed o
ff
toward the main exit. Liz took a moment to straighten the furniture and check the area for lost objects before joining the zombie procession through the hallways.

It was a shock to step into daylight, birds chattering away, the nighttime chill already receding. Even now, the kids didn’t want to leave.
Th
ey lingered en masse outside the building, engaging in a round-robin of high
fi
ves, friend hugs, and weepy farewells. Feeling lost and invisible among the teenagers, Liz searched the crowd for adult faces, but none were in sight. She wondered if the other volunteers had used a di
ff
erent exit or were maybe still inside, toasting each other with cups of fresh co
ff
ee. Either way, they hadn’t bothered to include her in their plans.

Smiling and apologizing, she wove through the thicket of young bodies, making her way toward the parking lot. She had almost completed her escape when a glimpse of a shirt — two overlapping lacrosse sticks against a
fi
eld of gray — made her stop and turn her head. It was Quinn, his arm draped around the shoulders of a girl who could only have been Mandy Gleason. He looked sleepy and happy, utterly pleased with himself, a golden boy on a summer morning.

You little shit,
she thought.

Some part of her brain was telling her to be sensible, reminding her that a high school kid’s love life was none of her business, but she was already moving toward him, pushing her way through the bystanders, not bothering to excuse herself. Quinn noticed the commotion and seemed to realize she was coming for him. He let go of Mandy and turned toward Liz, scowling like he’d already been accused of something.

“What?” he demanded, at almost the same moment she slapped him across the face.
Th
e blow was harder than she’d intended, and much louder. It cracked in the air like a handclap, a teacher’s demand for silence.

“What the fuck?” cried Quinn.

“
Th
at’s for Jenna.”

Mandy stared at Quinn with a look of almost comical bewilderment. “Who’s Jenna?”

“Nobody,” he said, like a sullen little boy. “
Th
is bitch is crazy.”

“Jenna’s his other girlfriend,” Liz explained. “
Th
e one he treats like shit.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Quinn sco
ff
ed.
Th
e imprint of Liz’s hand was already blooming on his face. “She’s just a slut.”

Liz looked at Mandy. She was as beautiful as everyone claimed, perfect skin and clear blue eyes, long legs, and a tiny waist.

“Trust me,” Liz told her. “He doesn’t deserve either one of you.”

SHE HUSTLED
across the parking lot, her cheeks burning with shame and regret. As satisfying as it had been to wipe the smugness o
ff
Quinn’s face, she knew she’d made a mistake. An adult couldn’t hit a kid, even if it was just a slap and the “kid” was more or less a grown man, a high school graduate who outweighed her by forty pounds. She’d heard of teachers getting
fi
red for lesser o
ff
enses, coaches getting arrested or sued or publicly humiliated. At the very least, she’d have to apologize to Quinn and his parents, to take responsibility for her actions, to pretend he was nothing but an innocent victim.

I was exhausted,
she imagined herself telling them.
My blood sugar was low, and I wasn’t thinking straight. I promise I’ll get counseling . . .

Her hands were shaking as she turned the key in the ignition, her nerves buzzing with adrenaline. She just wanted to get out of there, to go home and pretend she’d never heard of Quinn or Jenna or the All-Night Party. Maybe the whole incident would just disappear like a bad dream.

Oh, fuck,
she thought, as the police car appeared in her rearview mirror. It pulled up right behind her, blocking her getaway.
Th
is isn’t happening.

Th
e cop who got out was Brian Yanuzzi — who else could it be? — but that didn’t make her feel any better. He circled the hood of his cruiser and swaggered up to her door, all-business, just like the last time. She brought down her window.

“Something wrong?” she asked, trying to play it cool.

“What?” He seemed puzzled by the question, or maybe just her tone. “No, I just . . . I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed talking to you last night.”

Liz was so relieved she almost laughed.

“Me, too,” she said, a
ft
er a brief hesitation. “It was really nice.”

He bent down, tilting his head so he could see her better.

“So how’s that girl?
Th
e one with the cramps?”

“She’s okay. She just needed some rest.”

“
Th
at’s good.” He crouched lower, his hands resting on his thighs. “So, uh . . . you going home?”

She was about to say yes when she realized that home was the last place she wanted to be. She hated the mornings a
ft
er Chris stayed over, the young lovers sleeping in, then lazing around in their pajamas, trading secret smiles while Liz swept the
fl
oor and emptied the dishwasher and folded the laundry.

“Not necessarily,” she said.

“I was thinking about maybe getting some breakfast.” He straightened up, rolling his neck in a slow semicircle,
fi
rst one way, then the other. “You hungry?”

Later, in the diner, they had a laugh about how long it took her to respond to his invitation. She just kept staring at him, and he started to worry that maybe he’d made a mistake, that she was trying to come up with an excuse, a gentle way to let him down. She had to explain that it was just a brain freeze, the kind of thing that happens when you’ve been up all night. You’re in the middle of a conversation, and you check out for a few seconds, like somebody
fl
ipped a switch. For a little while, it’s like the world just stops, and there’s nothing you can do but sit tight and wait for it to start moving again.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’d like to thank Maria Massie, Elizabeth Beier, Dori Weintraub, and Sylvie Rabineau for their enthusiasm and support, not just for this book, but over the many years in which it was written. Navjeet Bal, Nina Perrotta, and Luke Perrotta told me anecdotes that later blossomed into stories. And I’m grateful to Mary Gran
fi
eld for too much to enumerate here.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Author photograph: © Mark Ostow

Tom Perrotta is the author of eight books. His
fi
rst was a book of linked stories,
Bad Haircut
, his most recent is the
New York Times
bestselling novel
Th
e Le
ft
overs
, which is being developed into a series for HBO. Two of Perrotta’s novels —
Election
and
Little Children
— have been made into acclaimed and award-winning movies, and he was nominated for an Academy Award for the
Little Children
screenplay. Perrotta grew up in New Jersey and now lives outside of Boston, Massachusetts. Visit his website at
www.tomperrotta.net
.

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers.
Th
e press immediately gained attention for signi
fi
cant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi's commitment to
fi
nding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada's pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning non
fi
ction series
Th
e CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as "Publisher of the Year."

ALSO BY TOM PERROTTA