Sloth (24 page)

Her voice faded, and she was out. Kane rolled his eyes. He was wide awake, despite the fact that he’d been sitting up most of the night. Not to keep an eye on her, he told himself. Just because how the hell was he supposed to sleep sitting up, leaning against a giant, lumpy rock, with a girl passed out on top of him.

And not even a real girl—just Harper.

She was a mess. Not that she’d ever admit it. She wasn’t a whiner; she didn’t cry and cling to you like she’d fall down if you weren’t there to hold her up. She’d rather crash.

And let him pick up the pieces.

No one had made him stay, of course. No one was making him stay now. And no one had made him untangle himself from a horny Harper and sit her down on the rocks, forcing her to calm down and stop groping him. He’d ditched the action to tend to her, keeping her out of trouble and pretending he didn’t notice her tears. And he had no one to blame but himself.

It was the party of the year, and he’d spent the whole thing tending to drunken
friends
. Being solicitous. Exercising
restraint
.

Kane didn’t do hangovers. But the thought of all that wasted potential was enough to make him sick.

Achy and bleary-eyed, Beth stepped through her front door—and into an ambush.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Are you okay?”

“What were you thinking?”

“Why didn’t you call?”

Beth sighed, ducked her head, and waited for the yelling to stop.

“Well?” Her father loomed over her, fuming, while her mother slumped onto the frayed living-room couch, her eyes rimmed with red. Beth supposed she should feel sorry for causing concern, but all she had to offer was surprise and a mild disgust.

“Well what?” she asked. “I told you I was going to a party. I stayed over.”

Her father s eyes widened. She knew what they’d been expecting. Sweet, mild-mannered Beth, always responsible and always apologetic. She was sick of it.

“Do you know how we felt when we woke up and saw you never came home last night?” her father boomed. “Do you know what we thought?”

“That you’d actually have to make your own breakfast for once?” Beth snapped, horrified as soon as the words popped out of her mouth. But there was no taking them back, and she didn’t particularly want to.

“
What did you say?
”

“You heard me.”

“Beth, Beth, sweetie.” Her mother shook her head sorrowfully, giving Beth her well-practiced martyr look. “Things around here are hard enough without... we really expected more of you.”

Beth wanted to kick something. “Too bad!” she cried, all the stress of the last week shooting out of her. “I’m seventeen, Mom. I’m not your maid, I’m not your babysitter, I’m not your cook, I’m your
daughter
, and sometimes I screw up.
Deal with it
.”

“That’s it!” her father shouted. “Go up to your room. Your mother and I don’t have time to deal with your temper tantrum right now.”

Cue the guilt: Her parents both worked triple shifts and were constantly exhausted. The twins took a lot of work. The house was always a mess. It was Beth’s responsibility to pitch in and shut up. She knew all that—but today, she just didn’t care.

“I’m out of here,” she muttered, turning her back on her parents.

“Don’t you disobey me,” her father warned. “Get back here.”

“Or what?” Beth kept her back to him, not wanting
him to see the tears threatening to spill out of her eyes. “You’ll punish me? You’ll disown me? If it turns out I’m not one hundred percent perfect, you’ll just stop loving me?”

“Beth, what are you—?” Her mothers voice broke. Beth forced herself not to give in to the inevitable tears. She slipped out the door before her father could issue any more threats or her mother any pleas.

I’m not who they think I am, she told herself, getting into the car without knowing where to go next. Better they find that out now.

Tyson versus Holyfield.

Bush versus Gore.

Jennifer versus Angelina.

As all-time grudge matches go, they had nothing on this.

In one corner: Miranda Sellers, five feet of fighting force powered by jealousy, humiliation, a world-class hangover, two months of repressed anger, and eighteen years of repressed everything else.

In the other corner: the undefeated champion Harper Grace, aka the Terminator, aka the Beast, aka the Ice Queen, who would settle for nothing less than unconditional surrender.

Ladies, come out fighting—and try to keep this fair and above the belt.

As if.

Miranda and Harper circled each other warily, each waiting for the other to land the first blow. Harper had the home-court advantage, which only meant that she had nowhere to escape. Miranda had shown up at her door,
dragged Harper up to her bedroom, and now, behind closed doors and with a bleary-eyed ferocity, was ready to pounce. On the wall behind her hung a bulletin board covered in photos of the dynamic duo s greatest hits: junior high dances, makeover-themed slumber parties, crappy double dates, and triumphant after-parties. It was a vivid documentary record of their friendship; but at the moment, it was irrelevant.

Miranda swung first. “How could you?” she asked, pacing around Harper in a tight circle.

“What?”

“I saw you with Kane,” Miranda snapped. “It was disgusting.”

“So?”

“So you know how I feel about him.”

Harper landed the first blow. She laughed. “So maybe I don’t care.”

“That’s obvious,” Miranda retorted. “You don’t care about anything.”

Point to Miranda.

“What do you know?” Harper yelled, her face turning red.

“Nothing!” Miranda shouted back. “Because you won’t
let
me!” She paused, and sucked in a lungful of air. “I’m supposed to be your best friend,” she said quietly.

Harper threw her hands in the air. “Since when? Last month you hated me, this month you love me. Gosh,” she said sarcastically, opening her eyes wide in confusion. “I just can’t keep track.”

“Last month you screwed me over and were a total bitch about it!” Miranda snapped. “This month . . .”

“Yeah.” Harper scowled. “This month you’re back, because you feel sorry for me. Like I need that!”

The gloves were off.

Miranda wanted to cry. But, instead, she balled up her fists, wishing she could land a real blow.

Harper felt the anger explode from her, and it was such a blissful release to finally let it go that she didn’t care who was in the line of fire. She didn’t care who she was really angry at—Miranda was there, and she made for an easy target. It just felt so good, after all these weeks, to shout, to scream, to unclench her muscles, to drop the fake smile.

To let herself
feel
.

It was almost worth it.

Even when Miranda pounded her fist against the wall, slammed through the door, and left Harper alone.

Here is what Miranda remembered as she walked down the driveway to her car, trying to keep her face turned away from Adam’s house, and trying not to cry:

The sneer on Harper’s face and the ice in her eyes.

The sound of Harper laughing at her pain.

And, most of all, Harper’s words.

“Maybe if you weren’t so goddamn annoying and in my face
all! The! Time!
”

“Stop pretending you can understand anything about

me!

“I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you!”

And here is what Harper remembered as she sat on the edge of her bed and let the numbness seep back in:

Miranda’s eyes blinking back tears.

Miranda’s voice shaking as she spit out everything she’d been holding back.

Miranda’s attack, the words they both knew were true.

“Why is everything always about you?”

“Of course I felt sorry for you—why else would I pretend you weren’t such a bitch?”

“I’ve been your best friend for ten fucking years—you barely even
knew
her!”

Mostly, both girls remembered the end.

“You want to be miserable? You want to be totally self-destructive and pathetic and blow off anyone who tries to help?” Miranda asked, disgusted. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Harper opened her bedroom door and waved her hand like an usher. “Don’t let me stop you from leaving.”

And with that, they were both down for the count.

Reed was on his back under the truck, monkeying with the exhaust system, when she came into the garage. He could only see her feet and ankles: thin, black pumps with a low heel; pale, delicate ankles growing from them, narrow enough that he could probably encircle each with one hand. He’d seen those feet before.

“Hello? Is anybody here? Hello?”

For a moment, Reed considered hiding under the truck until she gave up and went away. And he might have, if his wrench hadn’t slipped out of his fingers and clattered to the floor. After that, he had no choice.

He wheeled himself out from under the truck and sat up, wiping his greasy hands against his jeans. Beth was still wearing the same outfit she’d worn the night before. It had looked perfect at the party; here, surrounded by chains and toolboxes and busted carburetors, it didn’t fit.

“What’s up?” he asked, not really wanting to know.

Her face was flushed and tearstained, and her hands kept flickering toward her head. She would twirl a strand of hair, tuck it behind her ears, put her arm down, and then, a moment later, start twirling again, as if she couldn’t help herself. “I didn’t know where else to go,” she said simply. “I thought . . .”

She looked so lost and fragile, he just wanted to go to her and hug her. He wanted to fix her problem, whatever it was.

But why? he asked himself. What’s she to you?

“Can we, uh, go somewhere?” Beth asked, her lip trembling.

Reed shook his head. “I got a lot of stuff to do here,” he said. “You know.”

“Maybe I could just hang out for a while?” she asked, almost pleading. “I really just need—”

“No.” It would be too easy to be happy if she were there. And he shouldn’t be happy, not with someone else. “I told you, I’ve got stuff to do. You’d be in the way.”

“Oh.” She looked like he’d punched her. “Okay.” She began backing out of the garage, her eyes whipping back and forth, searching fruitlessly for something to focus on. “See you around, I guess.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Whatever.”

Then she was gone. He felt like an asshole. And he hurt.

He hadn’t lit up since the night before, and now, as the pain crept back into his brain, seemed like as good a time as any. He grabbed his stash out of the glove compartment and wandered outside, sitting on a small ledge behind the garage. He’d have plenty of privacy.

It was a familiar, soothing routine, parsing it out, rolling
it up, sealing the blunt with a swift and smooth flick of the tongue.

A few deep breaths and he’d be able to float away, beyond all the pain and all the shit. It would stop hurting.

Reed brought the joint to his lips—and stopped.

He still missed Kaia when he was high. It was a dull, faint throbbing, like a bruise that’s turned invisible but has yet to fully heal. Not like now, when the pain was sharp and clear.

The pain was the only thing that was clear, and it burned everything else away. Maybe instead of putting the fire out, this time he should let it burn. He hadn’t cried when Kaia died, or yelled or pounded his fist into a glass window, as he’d wanted. He had just smoked up, and that made it all go away.

Just as he’d made Beth go away.

Reed didn’t know why he couldn’t let her get close.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t forget the touch of Kaia’s fingers on his neck—but could no longer picture her face.

He didn’t know if there was some time limit on what he felt, if one day he’d wake up and things would be right again—and he didn’t know what he was supposed to do if that never happened.

He stuffed the joint into one pocket, and the plastic bag into another. He was tired of being confused. Maybe, just for a while, he’d stay clear. It was worth a try. And if it was too much, relief was no more than a few lungfuls away.

In the back of Miranda’s closet, behind the stash of liquor, cigarettes, old issues of Cosmo, and a single pack of condoms
that she enjoyed owning but had no expectation of using anytime soon, there was a stack of cardboard boxes. There were seven of them, each labeled in black permanent marker; one for each year, stretching back to sixth grade, and one extra for everything that had come before.

Every year, Miranda set aside an empty desk drawer and filled it with all the detritus of life that most normal people threw out. When the year ended, she dumped the contents into a box and started her collection over again. There were the obvious—ticket stubs, photographs, birthday cards—but everyone with the slightest pack rat tendency saved those. Miranda had an eye for the more subtle mementos: take-out menus, empty cigarette boxes, fliers for concerts she’d never attended, notes passed in class, detention slips, matchbooks, napkins, receipts, anything that might someday bring faded memories back to full color. Her mother liked to call her “the connoisseur of crap,” but as Miranda saw it, she was curating the museum of her life.