The S-Word (6 page)

Then his fingers went all over Lizzie and I didn’t feel like cradling his head in my hands anymore.

He calls my name: “Angie,” lilting sweet.

His voice, more than anything, is what gets to me.

But my legs take me away from Drake, away from the heartache I feel when he’s near, and my body has no choice but to follow.

I’ll come back for him later.

I MET DRAKE
around the time I met Lizzie, but in elementary school he was just another boy carrying cooties and destroying rosebushes with a stick. I didn’t really think of him in that way until the summer after seventh grade. He returned from vacation looking like a different person. He was taller, his olive skin was tanner, and his mother had allowed him to grow out his hair. It curved on the ends, falling into his pale blue eyes and calling to me.

Touch me, Angie,
that hair said.
Run your hands through my luscious locks and find heaven there.

(Warning: Trips Down Memory Lane May Lead to Over-dramatizations.)

But still, the guy was hot. I was hot for him, and I wanted to talk to Lizzie about it. Too bad I didn’t know what to say. Sure, I
could wax philosophical for hours, but love? Lust? Where would I even begin?

Thus began my relationship with Tennessee Whiskey.

I know what you’re thinking. Kids? Liquor? No way! Relax. I’m not saying I was an adolescent boozehound. I didn’t start sleeping around or driving drunk. The alcohol didn’t even lead to harsher drugs. In a curious twist of irony, it did exactly what I wanted it to do. It helped me talk about my feelings.

(Results may vary.)

So there I was, thirteen and on the way to Drunk Town, sitting cross-legged on the floor of my bedroom and chatting Lizzie’s ear off. And, okay, I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning my undying passions for Drake, but I was rambling about my parents’ divorce for the first time.

“It’s just so sucky. Like, ridiculously sucky. I have to live here at Dad’s and, like, see my mom twice a month? That’s some high bullshit.” Okay, I’ll admit it: the alcohol was affecting my vocabulary skills. At least Lizzie didn’t seem to mind. She just sat there, rocking a little, and pouring another shot when I got too embarrassed to speak.

“Okay, on three,” she said, holding up her glass. “One. Two.”

“Three!” I swallowed the liquor too quickly. It burned all the way to my stomach. “God, that’s foul.”

“I kind of like it.” She poured herself another. “It burns, but it’s good, like cleansing.” She tilted the glass against her lips, tossing back her head. She looked like a professional, hair flying behind her, all blond and shiny. Just looking at it made me want to hack off my messy brown waves.

“Show-off,” I said as she slammed down the glass.

“Keep up.” She poured another drink. “And keep talking.”

“About what?”

“Whatever. I like it when you talk to me.” She smiled, all sweetness. She was practically swimming in a pair of my jeans and an old black tee. Since her dad still insisted on dressing her like a little girl, she’d taken to wearing my clothes whenever possible. Eventually it became routine for her to stop by every day before class. No one wants to show up to middle school in her Sunday best.

Of course, there were all kinds of middle school sins to avoid. Showing up ugly. Showing up fat. Showing up the wrong skin color or the wrong sexuality or from the wrong part of town. The wrongness Lizzie felt in a pink frilly dress was the same wrongness felt by girls in skirts “too short” or clothes “too baggy.” It was the wrongness I felt when I looked in the mirror and found a hundred flaws without even trying.

Sitting in that bedroom, looking at Lizzie, I was all too aware of my wrongness. “I’ve talked enough,” I said. “It’s your turn. Tell me something secret. Who do you like?”

“Who do I like?” Lizzie sputtered, and she wasn’t even taking this shot. “I don’t—I don’t have a crush.”

“I totally believe you,” I said in this obviously insincere voice. “Hey, we should start a liars’ club.”

“Shut up.” She punched me in the arm, blushing hard. “Why would you even ask me that?”

“Because you’re so painfully transparent. Come on, Lizzie. Tell me.”

“No.” She held a pillow over her face, hiding.

“Tell me.”

“There’s nobody!”

“Liar.” I grabbed a pillow of my own, smacking her with it. “Tell me and I’ll tell you.”

She peeked out from her fluffy sanctuary. “You like somebody?”

“I might.”

“I . . .” She shook her head, mussing her hair on the pillow. “No, I can’t.”

“Oh my God.” I rolled my eyes. “Okay, give me a hint. What color hair does he have?”

She was silent. Finally, voice muffled, she said, “Brown.”

My heart did a flip but I tried not to dwell on it. Lots of guys had brown hair. In fact, most of the guys at our school had hair that was brown or brownish black.

“What color eyes?” I asked, my voice so casual you’d never know I was freaking out. “If you even know.”

“Blue,” she said without hesitation. I guess now that she’d opened up she wanted to see things through.

But I was starting to feel hot, uncomfortably so. The open window just wasn’t doing its job. Even worse, my brain wasn’t doing its job, which was to calm me down when I started to feel too much. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe a part of me already knew she’d set her sights on the boy of my dreams. The boy who, if given the choice, would choose Lizzie in a heartbeat, because her wrongness could be erased with a simple costume change and my wrongness went as deep as my bones.

And I’d be crushed.

“Okay, your turn,” Lizzie said, surprising me. “What color hair does your crush have?” And she kept looking at me with that sweet face and I knew I couldn’t say it.

“Blond,” I lied.

B
EFORE I LEAVE
campus, I stop off at the office to tell Ms. Carlisle that Freshman Forgetful remembered her locker combination. And, since I’m there, I use the student computer to look up the local listings for Higgins. There are three, but only one with an address next to Lizzie’s.

As I dial the number to the Higginses’ landline, I wonder how many people looked up Lizzie’s number in a similar way, calling her house in the middle of the night. Whispering taunts they wouldn’t say to her face. I mean sure, it wasn’t nice of her to sleep with my boyfriend, but I was the only one with the right to be mad. Did they think they were helping me somehow? Who did these people think they were, the morality police?

Talk about hypocritical.

And then there’s Marvin. Marvin thought Lizzie was his soul mate, and now he’s acting all secretive. Methinks there’s a story there.

Nobody answers at his house. I leave a quick message asking
him to meet me tomorrow for lunch. Hopefully, the possibility of a lunch date will trump his fear of my kicking his ass.

I can’t imagine a girl has asked him out in the past four years.

After that I’ve just got time to kill, hours and hours until the blue light of morning. Late afternoon used to be my favorite time of day. Now I can’t get enough distraction to pass the time. I just end up thinking of Lizzie, and crying, and then hating myself for it.

This time I’ve got my key in the ignition and my phone in my lap when the tears start to blind me. I’m telling myself to
calm down
and
get it together already
and digging my nails into my thighs because sometimes that centers me. But today it’s not helping. Nothing’s helping, and I feel myself spinning out in every direction. I feel the car moving and it’s not. I’m just sliding backward into this murky swamp and my limbs are too heavy to move and there’s
nothing
that can help me.

I feel like Lizzie’s emotions are slipping into me. I feel her despair, her inescapable desire to feel nothing. To be nothing.

Maybe she really is haunting me.

I shake my head, run my hands through my hair, wipe the mascara out from under my eyes—any stupid thing I can possibly do to keep myself busy. If I can sidetrack myself long enough, this feeling will subside.

I’m getting very good at this.

And with these shaky movements I push my Lizzie-the-ghost thoughts away. The pages Jesse gave me are on the seat next to me. Material. Tangible. Someone living brought them to school with a purpose.

The ghost thoughts are just there to distract me.

To make me feel like she’s still around.

And she’s not.

I’m alone.

I drive home with nothing in my head. I watch the movement of the streets. I manage not to hit or be hit. Though it’s wholly unnecessary, I remember to breathe. I perform the tasks required of me to keep my heart beating.

That’s all anybody can really ask of me.

Mom’s out when I get home. She has me all week. For five days I’ll curl up in the lap of luxury. Then it’s off to broken fences and a leaky roof across town with Dad. I’m rich. Then I’m poor. Then I have money again. It took the longest time for the kids at school to make up their minds about me. I suppose it’s hard to treat someone appropriately if you don’t know what her classification is.

This wasn’t a problem for Lizzie, of course. She liked me for my personality.

I thought she did.

The house is dark, and I keep it that way; Mom’s golden walls look too bright with the lights on. Between the vaulted ceilings and the green-and-gold stained glass windows, you’d think the woman lived in a cathedral.

I don’t belong in this pristine place.

I flip on the TV before I even take off my shoes. God bless America’s number one drug of choice. From there it’s two hours of mind-numbing reality TV followed by game shows not commonly watched by anyone under eighty. At seven I order takeout from Huang’s Formal Palace. At Mom’s house, dinner falls under my short list of responsibilities. By the time the week’s over I’ll have takeout coming out of my ears, but it’s better than ramen or macaroni with powdered cheese.

Mom doesn’t get home until after nine thirty. I’ve eaten and am half passed out on the green velvet sofa by then. In my head, I’ve kept a running tally of the number of times I’ve thought of Lizzie in her open casket since I got home. Right now I’m at
eleven and a half; if I can change the subject in my brain before an image fully forms, I only count it as a half.

The day of her funeral I had the tally up to three hundred and twelve, so I figure eleven and a half is pretty damn good. And I’m able to eat again, at least in small portions, so that’s good too.

Mom looks mildly annoyed to find me on the couch. After a ten-hour day at the office (corporate law, business suit, killer heels) she’s all about the couch and a bottle of wine. Red, of course. “White is for people who don’t know what they’re drinking.”

I scoot over so she can plop down.

Mom frowns. “If I can’t stretch out my legs I might as well get into bed.” She runs her hand over my head mechanically. Anytime Mom makes contact it feels like I’m being soothed by a cyborg. Damn it if the cyborg isn’t doing its best to mimic human affection. But there’s something missing.

“Huang’s,” I say, pointing to the kitchen.

“Honey.” She’s shaking her head. Her hair doesn’t move, it’s got so much hairspray in it. “You know I can’t do carbs.”

“I got you meat. All meat!”

She purses her lips. “We did Huang’s twice last week.”

I cross my arms. “You get here first, you order,” I say because she has no possible retort. Dad got greater custody in the divorce because she didn’t want it. She’s only taken over because a work accident messed up his knee. She’s even paying him alimony. People at school find that hilarious, for some reason.

Of course, I’m the idiot who trusted Kennedy with that information.

Mom’s frown lines deepen. “Fair enough,” she says, looking at her hands.

Hmm. Capable of feeling guilt. Therefore, not a cyborg.

“You didn’t overtip?” she says as I roll off the couch. Mom slides into my place, smiling for the first time since she arrived.

“Of course I did,” I say. Rich people stay rich for a reason, but my soul dies a little if I tip below twenty percent.

I pull a bottle from the wine rack and hold it out for her. She takes it with this movement that is, like, pure instinct.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, cradling the wine to her chest.

“Mmm-hmm. ’Night.” I kiss Mom on the forehead like she’s my teenage daughter and carry my bag to my fake-furnished room. When Dad had his accident, she filled it with posters of boy-bands and these creepy collector’s dolls. And I have to pretend to like it because, you know, Mom’s trying. But Jesus, Mom. Even at twelve I had better taste.

So now, before I go to sleep, I have to choose between staring at a fourteen-year-old one-hit wonder or a doll that could come to life at any time. You’d think this would help distract from the Lizzie-casket thing, but it just gives me more to worry about. Maybe if she’d gotten me one of those gigantic teddy bears, I could sleep with it on top of me, like some sort of furry guardian.

These are the things I think about at night.

I try to focus on the bumps in the ceiling, the way I focused on the road driving home. But my mind has been numb for as long as it can handle and now the thoughts are spinning. The faces of people I interrogated today dance through my mind. I like to think of it this way, as interrogation. Like this is some kind of official investigation. Like I’m not just wasting my time. I cling to the idea that justice might bring me some kind of reprieve.

Didn’t work for Batman. But it might work for me.

Sigh.

Now come the bedsheets, the comforter, the fancy pillows. I burrow under the covers to hide from whatever lives on the outside. Lizzie’s pages are beckoning to be read, over and over again, until I’ve got them memorized.

Every time I read them, I feel worse.

I hate this so much. Lying here doing nothing. So many hours wasted. I should be preparing for my meeting with Marvin.

Scratch that.

I should be kneeling at Lizzie’s grave, begging forgiveness for the way I treated her. So I didn’t write SLUT on her belongings. I still didn’t come to her defense when the school tore her apart.