Sex & Violence (25 page)

“Kind of hard to work when you’re stuck in county lockup.”

“I might move to Boston.”

“Why Boston?” he asked, exhaling cigarette smoke through his nose like an angry bull.

“I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Well,
I
have to think about it,” Layne said. “You’re a good worker, and I’ll have to bust ass to replace you. You think people would want jobs in this shit town, but most of them don’t want to actually come to work. You’re reliable, at least. Even if you fuck up the organic bananas still.”

“Organic bananas are stupid,” I said. “You don’t eat the peel, anyway. Who gives a shit if there’s pesticide on the goddamn peel?”

“The only difference is the price,” Layne said.

“I’m sorry about Lana,” I blurted out, because I was drunk as hell. “I shouldn’t have messed with her. She’s your sister.”

“Half sister,” Layne corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“Fuck if I know,” Layne said. “She’s as dumb as my real sisters.”

We laughed and then Tim and Baker came over.

“Baker said her car’s at the parking lot by the historical society,” Tim said. “You need to go over there and jump it for her. I’ve got cables.”

“Okay,” I said. “But what if it’s not a battery thing but something else? And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Tim, but I’m hardly in any shape to jump Baker’s
bones
, much less her car.”

Tim laughed. Baker’s cheeks got super red, but she said she texted Jim and Taber to meet us there and to help out.

“Call me if you need a tow,” Tim said. “No charge. You don’t want to let that car sit there, though; the cops always tag the cars in that lot.”

We said our good-byes to Jacinta, who was holding a now-sleeping Harry and looked ready to hit the sack herself, and Layne, who shook my hand and said, “You’re an all-right guy, Evan. And I’m sorry about calling you a fag for the cupcakes.

Harry fucking loved them.”

“Don’t swear in front of your son,” Jacinta said tiredly.

***

Baker drove and I sat in the passenger seat feeling sloshy and talking way too much. About how the chocolate cupcakes turned out the best and how awesome Harry was and how I would love to have my own little boy someday and how Tim was my hero and how Baker should have sex with him instead of me, if she wanted to be non-monogramous so bad.

“It’s non-mono
gam
ous, idiot,” she corrected.

“Well, that’s how Jim pronounces it,” I said. “Maybe that’s why you guys can’t figure out how it works.”

“Jesus, you’re wasted!” Baker pulled in next to her Honda.

“Sorry.”

“I’ll forgive you, Evan,” she said, patting my knee. “If you tell me the Cupcake Lady of Tacoma story.”

I shook my head, and we jumped out to see if she had any tickets.

“Two of them, fifteen bucks each,” she said. “Not great, but not terrible.”

Then I kissed her. Because just then I couldn’t keep my hands off her.

“Evan, Jim’ll be here any minute,” she said, pushing me off.

“So?” I asked. “You’re not breaking your rules.”

“But you’re leaving.”

“So are you.”

She looked like she might cry. I didn’t want to know what I looked like.

I thought of Collette in the library courtyard, pushing me back, telling me to focus on Monday. At least that’d been a possibility. Baker’s face held the opposite of possibility. Like my drunk ass embarrassed her. Nothing I could do about that, of course. I
was
drunk, a mix of happy and angry and horny. And sad—Baker was deleting me out of her phone, and we hadn’t even fucked.

She crossed her arms over her chest and shivered a little, and then headlights pulled up and blinded her. I turned around to see a rusty pickup. From the driver’s side came a long-haired guy with cowboy boots, spitting chew into a Mountain Dew can. Randy Garrington. Had to be. Because coming out the passenger side and staggering after him was a tall blonde girl.

Lana.

Baker stared at Lana’s short shorts and long fingernails, and I felt crippled with shame. Lana was drunk. Even ten feet away, I could smell the goddamn Cherry Lick.

Randy, on the other hand, seemed completely sober. He looked amused at me, like I was wearing a Halloween costume out of season or something. He obviously thought he could take me. Which he probably could. Which pissed me the fuck off.

Now Lana was tugging on Randy as if to pull him back, though he wasn’t even moving. She looked excited and thrilled, like she was enjoying starting shit between two guys she fucked.

Lana, who never started anything, who I had to lead through getting naked? Lana, whom I felt sorry for?

“What the hell’s going on?” Baker whispered.

I didn’t answer her. I was getting madder and madder, and my arms felt like jelly, like I’d been hitting Tim’s heavy bag, and though I was completely fucking drunk, I could tell Baker was adding it up. The loadie girl, this big guy looking me over.

Which just made me madder. At myself.

“I told him not to come to the party,” Lana said, her voice all sticky and whiny. “But he followed you from Layne’s, Evan.

Evan, I’m so sorry …”

“Just shut the fuck up,” I said.

Lana froze, but Randy surged forward.

“You’re a little punk piece of shit,” Randy said, smiling.

“Funny how you act so tough.”

I didn’t think, just swung back and hit him. Right in the face. He made a sound, sort of girly, which made me think I’d done it. The lucky punch. And then, while my right hand dazzled in pain—it wouldn’t have surprised me if stars and sunlight started shooting out of it—Randy Garrington laughed. Wiped his mouth.

“Randy, don’t …” Lana shouted, sounding thrilled again.

“You started this, girl,” Randy said, easy as anything. “Now stay out of it.”

I pushed him against his truck, and the Mountain Dew can flew across the parking lot. Baker started yelling behind me, but I didn’t listen.

“You fucking cocksucker,” I said. Then, because my right hand was completely obliterated, I hit him with the left.

Which did even less than the right. Randy just pushed me off until I slid on the loose gravel of the parking lot.

“You’re not worth it,” Randy said. “It makes Lana’s panties wet to see a fight, but I’m not going back to lockup over some punk kid.”

“Randy!” Lana whined, all outraged.

“Get back in the truck!” Randy yelled and Lana jumped.

So did I. This was the first time he raised his voice, and then I just knew, by his instant pissed-off-ness, that I was
fucked
.

What people don’t tell you about fights is how quick they go if you know what you’re doing, but I wasn’t the one who knew what he was doing. Maybe it would have gone different, had I let Randy dictate the whole situation, just backed off. But I was drunk and out of moves. So I just spit in his face. After that I was underneath him, my back screaming against the gravel while he whaled punches on my face and neck, and I flailed like crazy trying get him off me. Now both girls were shouting, and there was blood in my mouth. I flinched, sure my nose was going to break on the next hit, but then the pressure on my chest eased and Randy was off me.

But I wasn’t the one who got him off me. Taber was. Taber lifted Randy Garrington off me, and I laid in the gravel like I’d become one with the parking lot. Faintly, I heard Taber slam Randy against the truck and yell at him, and then Baker was crouching beside me. Saying, “Evan, oh my god! Evan? Why did you do this? What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything,” I wanted to say. But my mouth hurt. Then Jim was there, saying, “Jesus, you okay, man?” Jim helped me sit up. Baker came running with a towel from somewhere and pressed it against my face. My nose wasn’t broken, but it hurt, and my eyes were throbbing. I thought I might pass out. And then I did.

***

When I woke up, I was in Baker’s backseat, feeling pain tingling out of me like invisible steam.

“Where’s Randy?” I asked, my mouth cracking open fresh.

“Jesus,” Jim said. “Get that towel, again, Baker!”

“Don’t worry about him,” Taber said, and he didn’t sound dopey like usual. He sounded—as cheesy as it sounds—like a goddamn man who’d handled it. I shut my eyes, relieved I didn’t have to be that goddamn man anymore.

“What the fuck were you doing here in the first place?”

Jim asked.

“My car needed a jump,” I heard Baker say.

“What the fuck was that guy’s problem?” Taber asked.

“That girl,” Baker said. “Was she the one Evan fucked at that party?”

“Evan didn’t fuck any girl from that party,” Jim said.

“Well, he’s been fucking someone,” Baker said, all pissy.

“I can’t believe he hit that dude,” Taber said. “That dude was fucking crazy.”

“My mom told me it’s not the first time he’s been in a fight,” Baker said.

I opened my eyes, wanted to protest, to sit up and explain that this wasn’t who I was. But then Jim looked back at me, said,

“He’s waking up again.” His eyes were serious and calm. “Easy, man, we’ll get you outta here,” he said, and I passed out before I could hear anything more.

Dear Collette,

What does it look like, real people getting down? Do they plan
it? Do they think about how they must look while they’re doing it? Do
they think about other shit while it’s happening, or are they strictly
focused on the matter at hand?

Do they enjoy every second of it?

Do they even think about the other person? Or just about their
own bodies? Or just about the other person’s body and what it’s doing?

Have you ever been with someone who acted one way and then
you started the getting-down process and they acted different? Like a
super-quiet chick getting all nuts and loud when you touch her? Or a
super-funny dude who’s always joking and then gets serious when it
comes to taking clothes off?

Why do people do that? I know I do that. I feel weird about it.

Shouldn’t we always be who we are, no matter what (or who) we do?

For the record, you seemed the same as you were, both ways,
whether half-naked or not. Sweet. Sexy. Nice to me for no reason I
can imagine.

Later, Evan

I barely got out of bed for the next few days. Only to eat and piss. I couldn’t shower, not because of fear, but because I didn’t think I’d be able to stand up without passing out.

One morning, my father came in my room. He looked furious and sad.

I didn’t move.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” he said. “I’m going to fill that prescription. When I get back, we’re going to the going-away brunch for the kids.”

I rolled over in my sweaty, nasty sheets and groaned, and he said, “Goddamnit, I’m serious, Evan. I’ve had enough of you lying around like this.” He stomped down the stairs, and I heard the door slam.

The prescription was for crazy pills. Yesterday, Dr. Penny had called, and my father brought the phone to my bed. She went on and on about a million things, but I could barely listen.

The main point was scolding me about getting into a fight. I didn’t think she understood what had actually happened because she blamed me for learning to box. I wanted to say I was trying to defend myself, but I was too blown out to explain it.

Finally, she said she was prescribing me some antianxiety medication. “For the trauma of the latest assault,” she said.

I got up and stood around in my boxers. Looked longingly at
Under the Waves
, though I’d already finished it. The past couple of days, there hadn’t been much else to do, since I couldn’t get out of bed but couldn’t sleep, either. My brain was a horrible mash-up of Randy punching me, of Patrick and Tate punching me, of my nose breaking, of my back slashed up by the rough gravel of the parking lot. Of Collette crying. Of Baker’s face, completely shattered and shocked.

I didn’t want to see everyone off—especially Baker—smelling like ass and blood, so I took a quick shower, my sore muscles practically vibrating as the shower walls closed in on me like a vertical coffin. I barely stopped to dry off before I dressed—

there was still something really upsetting about coming out of the shower naked. A fear I could inhabit, but not for long.

***

It wasn’t that I was the outcast of the Going-Away Brunch.

Everyone was nice to me. Gentle, even. Like I was a retarded kid who might bash his skull on a rock at any moment. The only person who said anything about it was Tom. When he saw my black eyes and busted-up mouth, he said, “Fucking bummer, man.”

Everyone at the brunch was nice enough. Still, I felt like my getting beat in a parking lot sucked just that much more joy out of what was already a sad day. Like I’d pissed in the pitcher of orange juice and spat in the egg bake out of spite. The whole thing would have been like a junior high dance as it was, seg-regated with the girls all giggly and squeaky and sad and happy at their table, except for Baker sitting at the guys’ table, on account of how she and Conley still weren’t speaking.

Baker smiled at me but didn’t say much, which was weird for her—she was always talking her head off—but seeing as she sat between Jim and Taber, I supposed she was a little hemmed in when it came to conversation. Thinking of us almost doing it, of everything that had happened in the bathroom—me taking a shower, for god’s sake—plus the chicken stir-fry and the parking lot beat down, it was a relief that everyone at our table talked about other dumb shit. It let me pretend everything was normal. Tom was talking about some guy on his baseball team who’d got in a fight with an umpire, but I barely listened. Just watched Baker eating her fruit salad and seeming as cool and comfortable as ever. I knew she wouldn’t tell Jim about us. She’d kept Taber a secret long enough, and that was actually a big deal, a V-card level violation, while everything with me was lame and shameful, pointless even. It made sense that she’d want that memory to just dribble away.

The talk turned to other things. Sports, someone’s party getting busted, the strip bar in Windham getting closed down for not checking IDs. I didn’t say much, though. Just sat there looking at Baker, since it was my last chance to really do so, and feeling thankful for how Taber and Jim had saved me. Which made me feel like a prick, because at the beginning of the summer, I’d written them off as douchey assholes.