Sarah Dessen (10 page)

She answered the door holding a wooden spoon, her brow furrowed. “My mom’s due home in forty-five minutes,” she informed me, holding the door open so I could come in. “You can stay thirty, okay?”

I nodded. Chloe’s mom, Natasha, had a strict policy of no uninvited guests, which meant that as long as I’d known Chloe there’d always been a set time limit of how long we could hang out at her house. Her mom just didn’t seem to like people that much. I figured this was either a really bad reason to choose a career as a flight attendant or a natural reaction to having become one. Either way, we hardly ever saw her.

“How was dinner?” she asked me over her shoulder as I followed her into the kitchen, where I could hear something sizzling on the stove.

“Uneventful,” I told her. I wasn’t lying as much as I just didn’t feel like getting into it. “Can I score a couple of minibottles from you?”

She turned around from the stove, where she was stirring something in the pan. It smelled like seafood. “Is that why you came over?”

“Partially.” That was the thing about Chloe: I could always shoot it straight with her. In fact, she preferred it that way. Like me, she wasn’t into bullshitting around.

She rolled her eyes. “Help yourself.”

I pulled a stool over and stepped up, opening the cabinet. Ah, the mother lode. Tiny bottles her mom had filched from the drink cart lined the shelf, arranged neatly by height and category: clear liquors on the left, dessert brandies on the right. I grabbed two Barcardis from the back, readjusted the rows, then glanced at Chloe to make sure it looked okay. She nodded, then handed me a glass of Coke, into which I dumped the contents of one bottle, shaking it around with some ice cubes. Then I took a sip. It was strong, and burned going down, and I felt this weird twinge, like I knew this wasn’t the way to react to what had happened at Jennifer Anne’s. It passed, though. That was the bad thing. It always passed.

“Want a sip?” I asked Chloe, holding out my glass. “It’s good.”

She shook her head. “Yeah,” she said, adjusting the flame under the pan, “that’s just what I need. She comes home to my first tuition bill
and
I smell like rum.”

“Where’s she been this time?”

“Zurich, I think.” She leaned closer to the pan, sniffing it. “With a layover in London. Or Milan.”

I took another sip of my drink. “So,” I said, after a few seconds of quiet, “I’m an angry, bitter bitch. Right?”

“Right,” she said, without turning around.

I nodded. Point proved. I supposed. I drew in the dampness left by my glass on the black countertop, stretching out the edges.

“And you bring this up,” Chloe said, turning around and leaning against the stove, “because . . .”

“Because,” I told her, “Chris suddenly believes in love and I don’t and therefore, I am a terrible person.”

She considered this. “Not altogether terrible,” she said. “You have some good points.”

I waited, raising my eyebrows.

“Such as,” she said, “you have really nice clothes.”

“Fuck you,” I told her, and she laughed, putting her hand over her mouth, so I laughed too. Really, I don’t know what I’d expected. I would have said the same thing to her.

She wouldn’t let me drive when I left. She moved my car around the corner—if it was parked out front her mom would be pissed—then drove me to Bendo, where I had to swear I would only have one more beer and then call Jess for a ride home. I promised. Then I went inside, had two beers, and decided not to bug Jess just yet. Instead I set myself up at the bar, with a decent view of the room, and decided to stew for a while.

I don’t know how long it was before I saw her. One minute I was arguing with the bartender, a tall, gangly guy named Nathan, about classic rock guitarists, and the next I turned my head and caught a glimpse of her in the mirror behind the bar. Her hair was flat, her face a little sweaty. She looked drunk, but I would have known her anywhere. It was everybody else who always liked to think she was gone for good.

I wiped off my face, ran my fingers through my hair, trying to give it some life. She stared back at me as I did this, knowing as well as I that these were just smoke and mirrors, little tricks. Behind her and me the crowd was thickening, and I could feel people pressing up against me, leaning forward for drinks. And the sick thing? In a way, I was almost happy to see her. The worst part of me, out in the flesh. Blinking back at me in the dim light, daring me to call her a name other than my own.

It wasn’t the drinking or the smoking that was really the problem. It was the other thing, the one harder to admit out loud. Nice girls didn’t do what I did. Nice girls waited. But even before it happened, I’d never counted myself as a nice girl.

It was sophomore year, and Lissa’s next-door neighbor Albert, a senior, was having a party. Lissa’s parents were out of town, and we were all sleeping over, sneaking into their liquor cabinet and mixing anything we found together, then chasing it with Diet Coke: rum, vodka, peppermint schnapps. To this day I couldn’t stomach cherry brandy, not even in the torts my mother loved from Milton’s Market. The smell of it alone made me gag.

We never would have been invited to Albert’s, being sophomores, and weren’t bold enough to even consider crashing. But we did go out on Lissa’s back porch with our spiked Diet Cokes and sneaked cigarettes we’d stolen from Chloe’s grandmother, who smoked menthols. (Which also, to this day, made me gag.) Some guy, who was already drunk and slurring, waved us over. After a bit of whispered conferring, which consisted of Lissa saying we couldn’t and me and Chloe overruling her, we went.

That was the first night I ever got really drunk. It was a bad start with the cherry brandy, and an hour later I found myself making my way across Albert’s living room, clutching an easy chair for support. Everything was spinning, and I could see Lissa and Chloe and Jess sitting on a couch in the living room, where some girl was teaching them how to play quarters. The music was really loud, and someone had broken a vase in the foyer. It was blue, and the pieces were still scattered everywhere, strewn across the lime carpet. I remember thinking, in my blurry state, that it looked like sea glass.

It was one of Albert’s friends, a really popular senior guy, who I bumped into on the stairs. He’d been flirting with me all night, pulling me into his lap while we played Asshole, and I’d liked it, felt vindicated, like it proved I wasn’t just some stupid sophomore. When he said we should hang out and talk, alone, I knew where we were going and why. Even then, I wasn’t new to this.

We went into Albert’s bedroom and started kissing, there in the dark, as he fumbled for a light switch. Once he found it I could make out a Pink Floyd poster, stacks of CDs, Elle McPher son on the wall with December beneath her. He was easing me back, toward the bed, and then we were lying down, all so quick.

I’d always prided myself on having the upper hand. I had my patented moves, the push offs and casual squirm, easily utilized to slow things down. But this time, they weren’t working. Every time I moved one of his hands another seemed to be on me, and it seemed like all my strength had seeped down to my toes. It didn’t help that I was so drunk that my balance was off, my equilibrium shot. And it had felt so good, for a while.

God. The rest comes in bursts when I do reach that far back, always these crazy sharp details: how fast it was all happening, the way I kept coming in and out of it, one second vivid, the next lost. He was on me and everything was spinning and all I could feel was this weight, heavy, pushing me backward until I feel like Alice, being sucked into the rabbit hole. It was not how I wanted my first time to be.

When it was over, I told him I felt sick and ran for the bathroom, locking the door with my hands shaking, unable at first to perform even that easiest of operations. Then I gripped the sink, gasping hard into it, my own breath coming back at me, amplified, rattling my ears. When I lifted my head up and looked in the mirror, it was her face I saw then. Drunk. Pale. Easy. And scared, unsteady, still gasping as she looked back at me, wondering what she had done.

“I know. They don’t know anything.” We’d been talking for about an hour now, and this was what I knew: his name was Sherman, he was a junior at some college I’d never heard of in Minnesota, and in the last ten minutes he’d progressively slid his leg closer and closer to mine while trying to pass it off as just the crowd jostling him. Now he shook a cigarette out of the pack in his hand, then offered it to me. I shook my head and he lit it, sucking down smoke and then blowing it straight up in the air. “So,” he said, “a girl like you must have a boyfriend.”

“Nope,” I said, poking at my coffee with the spoon.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, picking up his drink. “Are you lying to me?”

I sighed. This entire scenario was like the default talk-to-a-girl-at-a-bar script, and I was only playing along because I wasn’t entirely sure I could get off my bar stool without stumbling. At least Jess was coming. I’d called her. Hadn’t I?

“It’s the truth,” I told him. “I’m really just such a bitch.”

He looked surprised at this, but not necessarily in a bad way. In fact, he looked kind of intrigued, as if I’d just admitted I wore leather panties or was double-jointed. “Now, who told you that?”

“Everyone,” I said.

“I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” he said.

“I bet you do.”

“No, really.” He raised his eyebrows at me, then pantomimed holding a joint between two fingers. “Out in the car. Come with me and I’ll show you.”

I shook my head. Like I was that stupid. Anymore. “Nope. I’m waiting for a ride.”

He leaned closer to me: he smelled like aftershave, something strong. “I’ll make sure you get home. Come on.” And then he put his hand on my arm, curling his fingers around my elbow.

“Let go,” I said, trying to tug my arm back.

“Don’t be like that,” he said, almost affectionately.

“I’m serious,” I told him, jerking my elbow. He held on. “Let go.”

“Oh come on, Emmy,” he said, finishing his drink. He couldn’t even get my stupid name right. “I don’t bite.”

Then he started to tug me off my stool, which normally I would have made more difficult, but again, my balance wasn’t exactly right on just then. Before I knew it I was on my feet, then getting yanked through the crowd.

“I said let go, you fucking asshole!” I pulled my arm loose, hard, and it flew up, smacking him in the face and sending him stumbling, just slightly, backward. Now people were looking at us, in that mildly-interesting-at-least-until-the-music-starts-again kind of way. How had I let this happen? One nasty remark from Chris and I’m bar trash, fighting in public with some guy named Sherman? I could feel the shame rising up in me, flushing my face. Everyone was looking at me.

“Okay, okay, what’s going on here?” That was Adrian, the bouncer, too late as usual for the real commotion but always up for a chance to throw his little bit of power around.

“We’re just talking at the bar and we go to go outside and she freaks,” Sherman said, pulling at his collar. “Crazy bitch. She
hit
me.”

I was standing there, rubbing my arm, hating myself. I knew if I turned around I’d see that girl again, so weak and screwed up. She’d go to the parking lot, no problem. After that night at the party, she’d gotten a reputation for it. I hated her for that. So much I could feel a lump rising in my throat, which I pressed down because I was better than that, much better. I wasn’t Lissa: I didn’t trot my pain out to show around. I kept it better hidden than anyone. I did.

“God, this is swelling,” Sherman whined, rubbing his eye. What a wuss. If I’d hit him on purpose, well, then that would have been different. But it was an accident. I didn’t even really have my arm in it.

“You want me to call the police?” Adrian asked.

I was suddenly so hot, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back with sweat. The room tilted, just a bit, and I closed my eyes.

“Oh, man,” I heard someone say, and suddenly there was a hand enclosing mine, squeezing slightly. “There you are! I’m only fifteen minutes late, honey, no need to cause a commotion.”

I opened my eyes to see Dexter standing beside me. Holding my hand. I would have yanked it away, but honestly I thought better of it, after what had just happened.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Adrian said to Dexter.

“It’s my fault, though,” Dexter replied in that quick, cheery way of his, as if we were all friends who met coincidentally on a street corner. “It is. See, I was late. And that makes my sweetums so foul tempered.”

“God,” I said under my breath.

“Sweetums?” Sherman repeated.

“She clocked him,” Adrian told Dexter. “Might have to call the cops.”

Dexter looked at me, then at Sherman. “She hit you?”

Now Sherman didn’t seem so sure, instead pulling at his collar and glancing around. “Well, not exactly.”

“Honey!” Dexter looked at me. “Did you really? But she’s just a little thing.”

“Watch it,” I said under my breath.

“You want to get arrested?” he said back, just as low. Then, back in cheery mode, he added, “I mean, I’ve seen her get mad before, but hit somebody? My Remy? She’s not even ninety pounds soaking wet.”

“Either I call the cops or I don’t,” Adrian said. “But I got to get back to the door.”

“Forget it,” Sherman told him. “I’m out of here.” And then he slunk off, but not before I noticed that yes, his eye was swelling. Wimp.

“You.” Adrian pointed at me. “Go home. Now.”

“Done,” Dexter said. “And thank you so much for your cordial, professional handling of this situation.”

We left Adrian there, mulling over whether he’d been insulted. As soon as we were outside, I yanked my hand loose from Dexter’s and started down the stairs, toward the pay phone.

“What, no thank-you?” he asked me.

“I can take care of myself,” I told him. “I’m not some weak woman who needs to be saved.”

“Obviously,” he said. “You just almost got arrested for assault.”

I kept walking.

“And,” he continued, darting ahead of me and walking backward so I had no choice but to look at him, “I saved your butt. So you, Remy, should be a little more grateful. Are you drunk?”

“No,” I snapped, although I may or may not have just tripped over something. “I’m fine. I just want to call for a ride and go home, okay? I had a really shitty night.”

He dropped back beside me, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Really.”

“Yes.”

We were at the phone now. I reached into my pockets: no change. And suddenly it just seemed to hit me all at once—the argument with Chris, the fight in the bar, my own pity party, and, right on the tails of that, all the drinks I’d consumed in the last few hours. My head hurt, I was deadly thirsty, and now I was stuck. I put my hand over my eyes and took a few good, deep breaths to steady myself.

Don’t cry, for God’s sakes, I told myself. This isn’t you. Not anymore. Breathe.

But it wasn’t working. Nothing was working tonight.

“Come on,” he said quietly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“No.” I sniffled, and hated the way it sounded. Weak. “Go away.”

“Remy,” he replied. “Tell me.”

I shook my head. How did I know this would be any different? The story could have been the same, easily: me drunk, in a deserted place. Someone there, reaching out for me. It had happened before. Who could blame me for my cold, hard heart?

And that did it. I was crying, so angry at myself, but I couldn’t stop. The only time I ever allowed myself to be this weak was at home, in my closet, staring up at those stars with my father’s voice filling my ears. And I wished so much that he was here, even though I knew it was stupid, that he didn’t even know me to save me. He’d said it himself, in the song: he’d let me down. But still.

“Remy,” Dexter said quietly. He wasn’t touching me, but his voice was very close, and very soft. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”

Later, it would take me a minute to remember how exactly it happened. If I turned around and moved forward first, or he did. I just knew we didn’t meet halfway. It was just a short distance really, not worth squabbling over. And maybe it didn’t matter so much whether he took the step or I did. All I knew was that he was there.