Perfectly Good White Boy (11 page)

But Neecie didn't notice Kerry. She said she was hungry and didn't want to go home. Which was why we were here. At IHOP. IHOP, of all places! But I didn't mind IHOP. I'd never gone to IHOP with Hallie. Hallie tended to avoid things like pancakes because of the sugar and carbs. She was a little crazy about her body and nutrition. I've never given one shit about nutrition; I ate like I was trying to fill out my chest hollow or something. I slopped up my Rooty Tooty Fresh 'N Fruity like it was my goddamn job.

“Thanks again for coming to pick me up. My car's getting fixed.”

I shrugged, and then she went back to her pancakes. Which she ate all tidy. Cut in this perfect grid. And which was a short stack that was taking her ninety-nine years to finish. I'd eaten three times the amount of food in half the time it was taking her to deal with her little two pancakes.

“Why didn't you just have Kerry take you home?” I said, joking.

“Ugh, gross. I hate that guy.”

“Well, he doesn't hate you, just so you know. He thinks you're cute.”

She set her fork down. “You're kidding, right?”

I shrugged. I suddenly didn't want her to know about this. I just wanted her to beware without giving her the specific details.

“I would have walked home before I'd ask that asshole.”

“He's not an asshole. Mostly.”

She shook her head, like she didn't believe me. “He's the reason I tell Wendy to put on country music. It's my private passive-aggressive revenge. Jesus. He really thinks I'm cute?”

Now I laughed.

“I'm glad you were around, because Ivy's mad at me,” she said. “Honestly. I just hope you're not weirded out by me or anything. But yeah, I would have had to call my mom, probably. Or begged Wendy for a ride. I just . . . normally I'm not like this.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Bugged. Asking people I barely know to eat pancakes with me and pick me up.”

“Going into the sex store with Tristan,” I added.

Her face did that red thing again, completely red, from the neck up. It looked like a rash. Or a disease. Except I was watching it happen in real time.

“He didn't go with me,” she said. “He's not eighteen yet.”

“So he made you go in there
for
him?”

She looked down at her little squares of pancakes.

“It's so dumb. I can't even explain it. I mean, it's . . . Is my face all red?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” she said. She pulled a little tube of cream out of her bag, started rubbing it all over her neck and face. It smelled like grass. Or plants. And girly stuff. I wondered if it was medicinal or something. I tried not to stare but kind of failed.

“I suppose I should probably tell you the whole long sad story of Tristan and me and how this happened.”

“If you want.”

“But you'll probably be like Ivy and get annoyed with me.”

I admit, I was pretty much dying of curiosity to hear the whole story. Mostly because it was so weird, and thinking of her doing it with Tristan Reichmeier—much less
anyone
—was still pretty hard to for me to accept. But while I was wanting to know how the hell everything happened, I also wasn't super eager to hear about how they were secret star-crossed lovers and how it was all “different” with them or some other crap.

“I won't get annoyed.”

“Yeah, right,” she said.

“You can tell me whatever you want,” I said, all casual, like I didn't care.

“Okay,” she said. Then she was quiet, just ate the rest of her pancake squares, and when the waitress brought the check, I took it and paid it while Neecie went to the bathroom. And then we left, and it felt all weird and date-y because I'd paid and she was thanking me and we were walking out together and I even held the door for her, because my mom was sort of insistent about that kind of thing. My dad too. He was a prick about being a gentleman even when he was totally drunk out of his skull.

We got in my car, and Neecie sighed and smiled while she put on her seatbelt.

“I totally love this car,” she said. “It's like sitting on a sofa. It's so soft. It's, like, a sofa on wheels or something.”

I shook my head, started the car. “It used to be my grandmother's,” I said.

“What?”

I looked at her.

“It's easier for me to hear if you look at my face when you talk,” she said.

“Oh.”

“I mean, I have hearing aids now, so it's not like junior high. You don't have to clip a microphone on your collar. Remember that?”

“Kind of.” I sort of felt dumb that she brought this up. So bald, too, like it wasn't a big shameful deal.

I repeated what I said about the car, this time looking directly at her, and she nodded.

“It does smell kind of grandmotherish,” she agreed. “It's so clean too!”

“You don't have to tell me anything about Tristan, Neecie,” I said. My hands were on the gearshift, but I felt like I couldn't talk while looking at her and drive safely at the same time. “It's totally not my business and I don't even . . .”

She interrupted me. “You're nice,” she said. “I should totally tell you. Even if it's kind of a long dumb story. It'd be interesting to see what you think.”

“I'm not exactly qualified to give boyfriend advice.”

“Tristan's not my boyfriend, though,” she said. “You can drive, Sean,” she added, pointing to the gearshift.

I reversed and started driving.

“Ivy's got one opinion of the whole thing. Ivy's got a whole set of opinions, really.”

“About Tristan?”

“About guys in general. Are you really joining the Marines, Sean?”

I was surprised. Again. I nodded, since she didn't have to hear nodding. And I didn't want to explain the whole thing, either.

“Wow. That's pretty crazy.”

“Why?” I asked. A little pissy.

“I just never thought about doing something like that. Personally. It's a little strange, in general. Not that you doing it specifically is weird. You'll have to tell me more about it. If you want.”

I nodded. I wasn't going to talk about it yet. Not because she was a jerk or anything. Just, because. I couldn't.

“Where do you want to go now?” I said. “Home?”

“No,” she said. “Can we go to your house?”

Now I felt like the one all flamed-up and embarrassed. I didn't really want her to come to my shitty house. I had no idea what her house looked like. It was Friday, which meant my mom had a bunch of Al-Anon crap she went to with Steven-Not-Steve. But maybe not. Maybe she'd be home after all. Maybe Neecie would walk into a big wedding planning session with Krista and her thong sticking out of her tight jeans?

But I didn't feel like saying no. Back even when we lived in our old house, when my dad was living with us, I always said no to anyone coming over, even to Eddie. I didn't want anyone seeing my dad all shitty, even if he wasn't always shitty. You just never knew, really. But wedding planning was better than my fucked-up dad sprawled all over the living room. And maybe Neecie's house wasn't anything great? Maybe her parents were shitty too?

“All right,” I said. “I don't know who's home, though. My mom might be there with her boyfriend.”

“That's fine,” she said. “Mine's probably home with hers, too. But my sisters are the main thing I'd like to avoid. I just can't handle them blabbering at me lately. Let's go to your house. I want to see how the real Sean lives.”

Chapter Seven

The rental was empty when we got there. Otis was nuts, though, jumping up on Neecie, and she petted him a lot, saying she didn't mind, but I didn't like him doing that and banished him to his bed in the living room. Neecie followed him into the living room and looked at all the books on the shelves that my mom had finally unpacked and asked about them and I was like, who the hell knows, I don't read that much, and then she gave me shit for not reading but in a nice way, and then I asked if she wanted anything to drink, because I wanted some orange juice right then, and she said no, but then she had to ask about Brad and Krista, because the kitchen table was covered in wedding shit, this time little mini flowerpots and packets of seeds.

“What is she trying to grow?”

“First it was poppies. Orange ones. She wanted the wedding to be pink and orange colored or something. Until my mom's boyfriend told her that poppies were, like, the symbol of war and death. Now it's something else. Something pink? I can't keep track of it all.”

“Where's your room?” she asked.

“In the basement. Kinda. It's not really a basement. It's just downstairs.”

“Is your room super clean?” she asked. “Because your car is always super clean. For a guy, that is. Or is it a shithole?”

“Well . . . yeah.” I was sort of surprised she was that direct. The whole rental was a total shithole, as far as I was concerned.

“So now I want to see it.”

“Why?” I said. But I led her downstairs, and she flopped on my bed, which was sort of made since I'd pulled most of the blankets off.

“Not as bad as I imagined,” she said. “You should see Tristan's room.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Because there was no world where I wanted to see Tristan's room, ever, so I just kind of stood there, looking at all the crap on the floor, which Otis helpfully sat down on and wagged, as if he were poolside at some swank hotel and not laying on a pile of dirty clothes. He looked up and panted at Neecie as if to say,
Isn't this the greatest? Sean's room's the best! He totally lets me hang out here all the time! It's pretty awesome! I'm so happy you're here! You should pet me!

Neecie walked around, though it wasn't like my room was giant. I didn't really know what to do. I could have turned on the TV, I guess. Or some music. But I was just sort of stupid-feeling about the whole thing. Our house wasn't nice; my room wasn't cool. My Xbox was seven million years old; it'd been old when Brad gave it to me. I imagined Tristan's house. His parents were divorced, so he had two houses, plus a house on Prairie Lake. There'd been lots of parties at that lake house. It was the kind of lake house that looked like it belonged on the beach in Miami. There was even a gate and a security system.

I looked down at our security system, who was wagging and sniffling Neecie's ass while she looked at something on my desk. Great.

She held up a little photo of Hallie. Taken that day at her cousin's cabin.

“Is this your old girlfriend?”

“Hallie. Yeah.”

“Is Hallie short for something else?”

“I don't think so. I think it's just Hallie. What's Neecie short for?”

“I am never telling you that. Never ever ever.”

“That bad, huh?”

Neecie shrugged, ignored me, looked at the picture again. “She's pretty.”

“Jesus!” I said, turning around. “Why does every girl say that?”

“What?” Neecie turned around. “I couldn't hear you.”

I felt embarrassed, didn't want to repeat myself, but did, because it seemed unfair of me to not tell her when she had been so clear with me earlier about what she required in order to hear.

“I don't know,” she said. “Maybe, jealousy? Maybe, just, we're describing stuff? Or trying to be nice?”

“Why be nice?” I asked. “Hallie—whatever her real name is on her birth certificate—dumped me. Plus, it's not like she's around to hear you say she's ugly.”

“She's not ugly, though.”

“Yeah, but that's not the point! Like, why do girls always talk about that shit?”

“What shit?”

“I mean, girls. Why do they think about that shit all the time? Who's cute, who's not. Who's fat, who's skinny. Who gives a damn?”

Neecie looked down at Otis, who was now seated at her knee, his tail wagging along the floor and scattering a pile of crunched-up Global Studies homework.

“Clearly your dog and I give a damn,” she said, reaching down to pet Otis. “Don't we, Otis? We totally give a damn.” She petted him around his ears and collar, just exactly where he liked to be petted, and he wagged even harder.

“Otis?” I said, kind of loud. “Otis doesn't give a shit about how anything looks. Otis'll eat his own crap if you let him.”

“Gross, Sean!”

Then the door slammed and my mom called, “Hello? Sean? Are you here?”

“Fuck,” I muttered. “My mom's home.”

“I'm downstairs!” I yelled back.

“Will she get mad if I'm in here?” Neecie asked, suddenly all nervous. “Can you have girls in your room?”

“I don't know,” I said, honestly. “It's never exactly come up before.”

“Your girlfriend never came over to your room?”

“She didn't like to.”

“Why?”

“She said I was a slob.”

“Wow, that's kind of bitchy,” Neecie said. “Sorry,” she added when I rolled my eyes. “Listen,” she said, putting her hand on my wrist. “Just tell her I'm gay. That's what my mom thinks. That's how I keep her off my ass about guys and going to prom and whatever.”

“You told your mom you're
gay
?”

“No, I just let her assume that.”

“
Really
? How is that
better
than just not having anyone like you?”

Since that came out kind of harsh, I pretty much deserved the shitty look she gave me.

“It's
better
than her knowing about me doing it with Tristan at science camp last summer.”

“You had sex at
science camp
with Tristan?”

She nodded. “He wasn't at science camp. He was just at the U for some hockey thing, but we were in the same dormitory for two weeks.”

“I'm not telling my mom you're gay.”