The Wild One (24 page)

But then I remember last night, and the fight with Julia. I stayed in bed all day, having hangover dreams that tasted of regret and vomit. Now it's evening, and about ten minutes ago, I came down to the kitchen where Pia and Angie are playing cards. I'm eating buttery toast, very slowly.

“Please don't tease me. I can't take it. I'm hanging on to sanity by a tiny thread, and I swear, it's this close to breaking. I was such a penis last night.”

“You were not! Your texts were hilarious. Everyone needs to go crazy sometimes.”

“No…” I shake my head, then quickly stop, because it really hurts. “I tried to kiss Topher, and he's dating a Bratz doll—”

“Wait. What? Start from the beginning.”

So I tell them the whole story. About Julia fainting (“That girl is on a one-way track to a quarter-life crisis,” comments Pia), about trying to kiss Topher seconds before his girlfriend turned up (“And he never mentioned her to you before? What a fucktard,” says Angie), about throwing the beer at Eric (they both shout with joy at that) and, finally, my absinthe-driven self-annihilation at Potstill.

“How come you don't like Joe?” says Pia. “I love that dude.”

“Joe is great,” I say. “But he's a total womanizer, you know?”

“He is? Are you sure?” asks Angie. “You know, when you're with him, you can't stop smiling.”

“Really? Well, that's just because he makes me laugh. Anyway, it doesn't matter, because Joe is not into me like that. He said we're just friends. It's better that I like Topher.”

Angie and Pia exchange a look.

“Just what,” says Pia carefully, “is so great about Topher?”

“He is…” I pause, thinking. “He's
Topher Amies.
You know, he went to my high school and everyone worshipped him. Ask Julia.”

“No one worships people once you're out of high school,” says Angie. “That shit doesn't mean anything. Is he really a good guy?”

“He made me a sandwich once.”

“Has he responded to your drunk texts?” asks Pia.

I close my eyes, reliving the horror. “No. But he was going away today, you know, with his girlfriend. She was nice … she said that I helped him pass his class—”

“Why?” says Pia. “What did you do? Write his paper for him or something?”

“No. I only edited it,” I say.

“What?” explodes Pia. “I was kidding. You really did his homework for him like some kind of helicopter mom?”

“Dude, Topher is using you,” says Angie. “I'm sorry, but he is.”

Before I can reply, Madeleine comes in from her evening jog. Oh, shit.

“Hey,” she says, opening the cupboard and taking out her little mason jar of homemade trail mix.

I need to apologize to Maddy for texting Pia and outing her without her permission. For being a nightmare when I was drunk and trying to play drums on stage. For everything.

“Um … Maddy?—”

Maddy turns around and meets my gaze. My stomach drops.

At that exact moment, Julia marches in, pink-faced with the heat and the walk from the subway, rigid with tension, still with her little backpack from work, her ponytail slightly askew. Is she still angry at me? Or about something else?

She walks straight up to Maddy.

“Why didn't you tell me you're gay?”

Oh.

Shit.

There's a long pause, as everyone in the kitchen holds her breath and waits for a response.

I guess Pia told Julia about my text. Why didn't I just shut up and wait for Madeleine to tell us when—or if—she was ready?

Madeleine turns back to the trail mix. “Because it's none of your fucking business?”

Angie looks up. “It's kind of is, if you've come out to the entire world except us.”

I clear my throat. “Um, Angie, I thought you said it's no one's business except mine what I do with my vagina?”

Pia chokes slightly on her wine.

“This isn't just a vagina thing,” says Angie. “This is a life choice thing.”

“It's
my
life choice vagina thing,” says Madeleine. “Not yours.”

“But I thought I was your closest friend!” Julia's voice breaks. “We used to talk about guys. You had a boyfriend at college. You—”

Madeleine still hasn't turned around. “Why do you have a problem with this?”

“I don't have a problem with it. That's not the point!”

“Then what the fuck is the point? It's my life.” Madeleine is trying hard to sound under control, but I can see her hands shaking.

I feel sick. Julia and Madeleine never fight; it's not the way it works. Madeleine and Pia might fight, and Julia and Angie, but never Julia and Madeleine.

“I think Julia just means that we wish you were a little more open,” says Pia, surprisingly gently. “We're all so close but we didn't even know this about you—it's like—it's like—”

“It's like we don't know you at all,” says Angie.

Madeleine is grinding her teeth with tension. “Of course you know me.”

“Bullshit,” says Pia. “Show us your arms. Show us what's under those long sleeves you always wear.”

The entire room goes quiet.

Madeleine doesn't turn around.

Julia and Pia and Angie exchange looks. I don't get it … Why do we need to see Madeleine's arms?

And by the way, Julia hasn't even looked at me yet. In this really pointed way. She just keeps arguing with Madeleine, with her body positioned so Angie and Pia can see most of her face, and I only see her back. You can read the exact relationships in a group of girls just by studying body language, who looks at who, who looks back, and who laughs at whose jokes … Every little nuance is rich with meaning. And Julia is letting me know she's still angry with me.

“Show me your arms, Madeleine,” repeats Pia. “I want to see the scars.”

Scars?

Suddenly, Madeleine throws the glass jar, hard, at the kitchen floor. It shatters, and bits of trail mix fly up, hitting us all like shrapnel. Then she strides to the doorway, pauses briefly, and turns to face us one last time.

“If you were really my friends, you wouldn't treat me this way. You'd just let me live my life.” Madeleine is fighting for control, trying not to cry. I've never seen her so close to losing it. “Everything is hard enough for me right now.”

“We're here! Talk to us!”

“I don't want to talk to you!” screams Madeleine, then calms herself down, visibly shaking with the effort. “You can't force me to confide in you, Julia. You are not the boss of everyone in the damn world. You've been controlling poor fucking Coco for years, and look how that's turned out.”

“What?” I say.

“I don't need to take this shit from you,” says Madeleine. “I'm moving out.”

Madeleine walks out of the kitchen, slamming the door after her.

No one says anything.

“Fuck!” Julia is incensed. “Why does everyone always want to move out? It's the same fucking thing over and over again. Now it's just me and the party twins and my goddamn sister.”

“Party twins?” repeats Angie in a bored voice. “Fuck off, Julia.”

“Actually, your goddamn sister is moving out too,” I say quietly.

A silence follows my words.

Then Julia speaks. “
What?
”

I stand up.

“I don't want to be around you anymore. Our whole relationship is full of lies. You're taking drugs to handle your life in New York. Fine, that's your business. Want to hear my business? Last year, I slept with Eric, and I got pregnant. And I had an abortion.”

Julia gasps. Pia and Angie are suddenly frozen still, hardly breathing.

I keep talking. “I didn't tell you, because I knew you'd never understand. What does that say about us? What does that say about our relationship?”

Julia is so stunned she can hardly speak. “You did? But—”

“I don't want to hear your judgment right now, Julia,” I snap. “At the end of the summer, I'm moving back to Rochester to live with Daddy. I don't want to live with you anymore.”

A long silence follows my words.

And I think I shocked myself as much as everyone else when I said it.

But I don't want this anymore.

I want my old life back. From before any of this happened. Before everything got so complicated. Before I started trying to be wild and made my life such a mess. When I didn't have a love life or sex life or personal life, when I didn't get drunk and text dumb shit and try to kiss guys who are way out of my league. When all I did was read and bake and eat and everyone looked after me because I was too young and too stupid to look after myself.

I'll move back to Rochester, back into our family home, and get a job in a preschool. Any job. I don't care. I'll do it after the Potstill Prom next week, so I can make sure that everything works out for Joe. Nothing is keeping me here. No one is begging me to stay.

I stare at the table, unable to meet anyone's eyes, waiting for someone to say something. But there's just silence. Total silence.

Then Julia walks out.

She doesn't even slam the kitchen door behind her, which is weird, since that's the kind of thing she'd usually do. Just leaves quietly, without a word. I can't hear her feet on the stairs either, which must mean she walked out the front door.

I look up at Pia and Angie, who are staring at their cards.

Suddenly, I feel like the kitchen walls are closing in on me. I can't bear to sleep in this house tonight. I can't hang out here tomorrow. I need space.

So then I do something that is probably the worst idea ever.

I text Joe.

 

CHAPTER
29

So I kind of moved in with Joe for the past few weeks.

But it's not like that.

I just don't want to be at Rookhaven right now. Anyway, this is only temporary.

Tonight's the Potstill Prom. And tomorrow I go home to Rochester.

I haven't told Joe yet. He'll be cool with it, of course. But I don't want to distract him from the prom. He's been working obsessively on the audio system in the bar. Every moment that I haven't been working this week, I've been making decorations. This is Joe's big chance to impress Gary with how huge the bar could be as a live music venue. I really want it to work out for him.

Joe's apartment is a tiny walk-up studio, way down at the bottom of Red Hook, a world away from Rookhaven. There's a galley kitchen and a small bathroom. He goes in to Potstill around noon every day to open the bar. Most days I head back to Rookhaven mid-afternoon to shower and change for my evening shift at the bar, safe in the knowledge that my sister and everyone else is already at work so I won't have to see them, It's like a totally different, totally new life. And I love it. That's our average day.

I haven't seen any of the girls in weeks. I haven't spoken to them. It's like we're all just trying to pretend the big fight didn't happen. And that we don't actually know each other. It's weird, and I hate it, and I know I'm cowardly for not doing anything about it, but … I'm scared. What if I asked them if we could all make up and be friends, and they told me to get lost? I haven't heard anything from Topher either. I guess he just got my drunk texts and rolled his eyes. I wonder if he showed them to his perfect girlfriend. I wonder if she laughed.

Urgh.

This morning I woke early because of the hot sun coming through Joe's bedroom window. So I snuggled up to his back like a little bear, matched my breathing to his, slow and steady, and drifted back to sleep.

When I woke up again a few minutes ago, Joe was already gone. No note, nothing.

That's okay. I am not living with him, not really, even though the past few weeks of co-habitation might make it feel that way. He's not my boyfriend. We're just friends with benefits. Including a place to crash when you need it.

I hear the front door slam, and moments later Joe walks in, carrying coffees and bags from the bakery down on Van Brunt.

“Okay, you have a choice of whoopie pie, cinnamon bun, or pumpkin chocolate chip loaf,” says Joe. “A special breakfast because today is prom, and you need to keep your energy up.”

“Um … a cinnamon bun, please.” I smile lazily and reach for my coffee.

“I'm having the pumpkin chocolate chip loaf, because—”

“It's the manliest, butchest choice?”

“That's correct.” Joe grins at me.

I take a bite of cinnamon bun. “Wow, that's good.”

“I love watching you eat,” says Joe. “You take little nibbles and then pause, really intensely, like you're
really
tasting it.”

“Joe! Don't ever tell a girl you love watching her eat!” I throw a piece of cinnamon bun at him.

“Now you're in trouble…” Joe throws himself on the bed next to me and pins me down, and then grabs the whoopie pie from the bag and tries to force it into my mouth.

I try to push him away, but I am laughing too hard, and before I know it, there's whoopie pie frosting smeared all around my mouth.

“Oh, you have a little something on your lip. Let me get it.”

Joe kisses me, big sloppy kisses that are as much about slurping up the frosting on my lip as kissing me.

A little fire lights up inside me, just like always when we kiss, and suddenly I can't help but pull him closer, and then … well, you know.

“Are you excited about the Potstill Prom tonight?” Joe says, a while later.

“I'm like, totes psyched,” I roll over on the pillow and sigh happily. “It's going to be the best nonofficial prom ever. And I have a surprise for you.”

“What?”

I pause, eking out the enjoyment. “I wasn't sure whether to tell you, or just surprise you, but then I read this thing that surprises are really overrated because what we enjoy most about a thing is the
anticipation
of a thing, and—”