Between

by Jessica Warman

  Alex seems to be thinking about something, too. He’s quiet for a long time as we walk. Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Hey, Liz? When we were talking earlier, at my house, I thought you said you didn’t sense that something bad was going to happen to you.”

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “But how could that be?” he asks. “I mean, even Caroline knew. How could you not have had any clue?”

  “I didn’t say that, not exactly. I said I was familiar with death. But I was telling you the truth, Alex. I mean, I don’t remember feeling like anything bad was going to happen.”

  “Think,” he says. “Try.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? How am I supposed to try?”

  “You know how. Close your eyes. What do you see?”

  Nineteen

  I am seventeen years old, a junior in high school. I can tell because there’s a copy of Cliffs Complete Macbeth on my nightstand, undoubtedly for English class. The CliffsNotes are untouched. My face looks like I haven’t slept all night; my skin is blotchy, my eyes bloodshot and shaky in their sockets. I look awful. I’ve been lying in bed with the covers pulled up to my chin, staring at my ceiling, waiting for the sun to come up. When I finally put my feet on the floor, I take a long moment to press a hand to my stomach, another hand to my forehead. Obviously, I’m not feeling so hot.

  Normally, I’d get up early and go for a run, but not today. Today, I get up and take a shower. I get dressed. I’m wearing new jeans; the tags are still attached to the waistband. They’re skinny jeans, which are so in right now, with rhinestone detailing on the back pockets and a low-rise waistline that shows off my flat stomach. I pair them with a short, flowy pink halter top that Nicole bought me at a high-end consignment shop in Manhattan and a pair of patent leather kitten heels (the rhinestones on the heels are a nice touch combined with the detailing on the jeans); I look great. I’m sure that I know it, too. I remember standing in front of my full-length mirror and just staring at myself. Sometimes it would occur to me that I might not have this body forever. But it’s here now: toned, lean, lovely. I use my measurements as my locker combination at school: 34-23-32.

  Hair and makeup takes a good forty-five minutes every day, and even though it seems that I feel terrible now, I go through my routine as usual: a four-step skincare regime that was customized for me by a dermatologist, even though I’ve never had a problem with acne. My pores are almost invisible. There’s cleanser, toner, moisturizer, and under-eye cream. My mom, I remember, used to spend plenty of time staring in the mirror, lamenting the dark circles under her eyes. Not me. From a very young age, I was well versed in the concept of preventative maintenance.

  Then there’s foundation, bronzer, blush, and a dusting of loose powder to set everything in place. Again, the shades are all custom: three times a year, Nicole takes Josie and me into New York City to visit a makeup artist whose clients are by appointment only. We have the best of the best. My father rolls his eyes at the tediousness of our routine, but he always shrugs eventually, saying, “Girls will be girls.”

  There’s eye shadow, three shades of it: a neutral base for the entire lid, a lowlight that runs close to the eyelashes, and a highlight across the browbone. Then there’s blending and eyeliner. False eyelashes with pre-applied glue that stick so well they feel like a quick attack of bee stings when you peel them off. One coat of mascara; wait a few seconds, comb it out, then another coat. There’s a careful application of lip liner, matte lipstick, and gloss. Finally, I put on a pair of half-carat diamond studs that belonged to my mother. Unless I’m wearing another pair of earrings that belonged to her—her silver-and-diamond chandelier pair is a favorite of mine—I almost never go anywhere without them. They were a gift from my father for their first wedding anniversary. In a year, I’ll be buried with them.

  My hair is a whole different story. Unlike Josie, who has been cursed with limp, dull locks, I’ve got this amazing blond hair that only needs a good blowout and some brushing in order to fall perfectly into place. My hair was always my best feature, I think. It definitely wasn’t my feet.

  My parents aren’t home, so it’s just Josie and me at the breakfast table. It must be Saturday or Sunday; we don’t look in any hurry to get to school. Josie’s drinking orange juice, eating an English muffin smeared with peanut butter, and paging through a copy of People magazine.

  “That’s garbage. That crap goes straight to your ass, you know.” I must mean the peanut butter. Of course I mean the peanut butter.

  “Shut up. It’s protein.”

  “It’s all fat. You glob it on like it’s nothing.”

  She pauses in midchew. She’s still wearing her pajamas. “What are you all sexed up for? Aren’t you going running?”

  I lean against the granite countertop. I cross my arms and stare at her. “I’m going to see Richie. I need to get the car fixed.”

  Silence. With a tight expression, Josie stares at what’s left of her English muffin before pushing the plate away. She drums her acrylic fingertips against the table.

  “How is Richie going to help you with the car?”

  “I talked to him last night. He knows a mechanic who does body work.”

  “Liz. Are you sure it was a good idea to involve Richie? We have to be careful.”

  “I am being careful.”

  She studies her manicure like she’s examining the polish for chips. “I don’t know about that. If you screw this up—”

  “I’m not going to screw it up! Nobody’s even going to know where we went. I mean, except for you. I’ll have the car back before Nicole and Dad ever know it was gone.”

  She raises a plucked eyebrow. “Really? You’re certain you’ll have it back within two days?”

  Two days until my parents get home. They must be out of town.

  “Yes,” I say, “I’ll have it back before then.”

  “And what happened to your car, Liz?”

  I bat my eyelashes. “You know what happened. When we were at the outlets last week, I hit a parking meter. Richie already saw it at school. It’s just a small dent.”

  “But Dad would kill you if he knew you damaged the Mustang.”

  I nod slowly. “That’s right. He’d be furious.”

  “So you have to get it fixed right away without anybody knowing.”

  “Yes.”

  She glances at the kitchen clock. “What time is he expecting you?”

  “The shop opens at nine. The guy is a client of his.”

  “A client. You mean like …”

  “A customer, yeah.” What I know I mean is that Richie supplies the guy with drugs. Maybe weed. I probably didn’t ask specifically, because I don’t want to know. All I can tell is that this guy’s doing us a favor: fixing the car quickly, taking product instead of money, and keeping everything hush-hush.

  Richie must understand the predicament. The Mustang was my seventeenth birthday present. I didn’t even have my driver’s license yet—just my permit—but my father had it waiting in the driveway on the morning of my birthday, a huge red ribbon tied around the body. I’ve only owned it for a few weeks. Technically, according to Connecticut law, I’m still not supposed to drive with passengers, even though my friends and I do it all the time. My dad trusts me; he expects me to be safe. He’d go berserk if he knew I already smashed the car.

  “Wait a minute,” Josie says, standing up. She goes to the cupboard in the far corner of the kitchen, peers into it for a few seconds, and emerges holding a giant blueberry muffin in plastic wrap. “Here,” she says, holding it toward me.

  I make a disgusted face. “Ew. You expect me to eat that?”

  Muffins, I think, as I’m watching the two of us, are notorious for their high fat and calorie content. It’s smart to avoid them.

  Josie rolls her eyes. She shoves the muffin into my hand. “Obviously not,” she says. “It’s for Richie.”

  “Oh.” I stare at it. “Okay. Thanks.”

  On my way
out the door, I glance over my shoulder to see Josie still in the kitchen. She’s slumped in her chair again, eating peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon.

  “Boys don’t make passes at girls with big asses!” I shout. I remember I used to tell her that all the time.

  “Screw you, Barbie!” she shouts back.

  I must know Richie’s parents aren’t home, even though it’s the weekend, so I don’t bother knocking on his front door. He’s still in bed. I take a minute to stare at him, peacefully asleep, hair messy and face shiny with oil, hands pressed together in an almost prayerful gesture between his cheek and the pillow. I love him so much that, even as a ghost, it sometimes still hurts me inside. Watching myself as I watch Richie, I want to crawl into bed with him and stay there forever, wrap my arms around his warm sleeping body for a hundred years, until everything occurring in the time surrounding us has slipped into distant memory.

  Instead, the alive me slips off my heels and tiptoes to his side. I brush the hair from his forehead, and when my fingertips touch him, his eyelids flutter open.

  “Hey, beautiful.” He yawns. “It’s morning already?”

  “Mm-hmm. We have to go.”

  He gets up, plucks a pair of wrinkled jeans from his bedroom floor, and pulls them on. A T-shirt, a sweatshirt, a quick run of his hand through his hair, and he’s ready.

  “What’s that?” he asks, nodding at the muffin, which is still in my hand.

  “Oh, right.” I toss it to him. He catches it with one hand. “For you. Breakfast.”

  He grins at me. “You’re so thoughtful. You take good care of me.” He puts the muffin on his nightstand. “I’m not hungry yet; I’ll eat it later. You want to get going?”

  I wrinkle my nose at him. “Aren’t you even going to brush your teeth?”

  He shrugs. “You got any gum?”

  “We’re a terrible match, you know.” But I dig through my purse, toss him a stick of spearmint gum.

  “You ought to dump me then,” he says, chewing. “Go out with a polo player.” He blows a bubble. “You’d have fun with a guy like that. You could go shopping together, get facials, manicures …”

  “I already have enough girlfriends. Besides, your good looks make up for your lack of grooming.” I kiss the tip of his shiny nose. “Love you.”

  Richie sighs. “I know. I’m irresistible. It’s a curse … and a blessing.”

  As we’re walking out the door, I stop. “Wait a minute. Deodorant?”

  “I thought I’d let you fully enjoy the allure of my natural pheromones.”

  I frown. “Richie. Please. For me?”

  He laughs. “Wait till you see who’s going to fix your car. Then you can lecture me about personal hygiene.”

  I drive the Mustang to the garage, following Richie as he leads the way in his car. On the outskirts of Groton, in a section of town I know I normally wouldn’t have been caught dead in, there’s an auto body shop called Fender Benders. The place seems empty at first; it’s nothing more than a huge cinderblock building with a bunch of garage doors, tools lining three of the four walls, and a few glaring fluorescent lights overhead. A radio in the corner of the room plays a fuzzy broadcast of the news from NPR. The whole room reeks of smoke, and there’s a lit cigarette burning in an unmanned ashtray beside the radio. A fat, drooling bulldog who obviously needs a bath is chained to a support beam in the center of the room. There aren’t any people around, let alone cars.

  My heels click against the cement floor, creating an eerie echo. “Richie.” I giggle, clearly nervous. “Where the hell did you bring me? This is like a circle of hell.”

  “It’s my family’s business. But thanks, sweetie. Appreciate the compliment.”

  I turn around to see a tall, chubby man standing in coveralls and work boots. His hands are filthy, several of his fingernails bruised black. A pair of safety goggles is perched atop his very greasy dark hair. An unlit cigarette is tucked behind his right ear; a lit cigarette dangles from his lips, and I can’t even imagine who the one burning in the ashtray might be for. His name—VINCE—is embroidered on his coveralls.

  Standing beside Richie, alive, it is impossible for me to hide my disgust. And I don’t blame myself—Vince isn’t a man; he’s a specimen. I take a step closer to Richie, hooking my arm tightly around his waist, and pinch his side. He winces; I must have pinched him hard, to make sure he knows I’m not happy.

  I stand on my tiptoes and press my mouth to Richie’s ear. “I want to leave,” I whisper. It’s clear I don’t care that Vince can see everything I’m doing, and that he might even be able to hear me.

  “You want your car fixed or not, Liz?” Richie murmurs. “Calm down. Be cool.”

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?” Vince keeps the cigarette between his lips while he talks, exhaling through his nose. “You ain’t used to hanging out in this neighborhood?”

  The dog sits up like it’s been startled and barks loudly. It rushes toward us, but gets yanked back by the chain. It stands on its hind legs, panting, drool hanging in thick foamy strands from its black gums. Watching the scene play out, I almost gag. I’m surprised to realize that I wish Alex were with me. His presence would be comforting—or at the very least, distracting—right now.

  “That’s just Rocky,” Vince says, grinning at my apparent disgust. “He’s a good dog, ain’tcha, Rocky?” To Richie, he says, “This is really your girlfriend?”

  Richie shoves his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, she’s really my girlfriend.” He flashes an apologetic smile. Watching myself, observing my dull expression, I can guess what I’m thinking: I always knew that Richie’s extracurricular activities meant he spent time around some unseemly people, but I never imagined anything like this. I’m probably going to take a shower as soon as I get home, trying to wash the stench of the place away.

  “Well. Let’s take a look at this car. You need it fixed quick, right?”

  “I need it fixed, like, yesterday,” I clarify. “It was a birthday present. I hit a parking meter. There’s just a tiny dent in the front fender, so I’m sure it will be easy to repair.” I look around the empty garage. “You don’t seem all that busy.”

  “Huh.” Vince narrows his eyes at me. “What’s the matter? Don’t want Daddy to find out you wrecked the car? Afraid he’ll take away your platinum card for the weekend?”

  I glare right back at him. “I go to high school. I need a mode of transportation.”

  Vince licks his lips, slowly, and curls his mouth into a sick-looking grin. “Can’t you just ride your broomstick?”

  We leave my car with Vince and his promise that it’ll be done within twenty-four hours. Once Richie and I are in his car, he sits quietly for a minute, his eyes closed. The stereo plays “Scarborough Fair” by Simon and Garfunkel, which is Richie’s favorite band. The CD is part of a mix that I made him a few months ago. Small details like these, which materialize in my mind seemingly out of nowhere, always bring pangs of sadness that border on desperation. If only I had known how little time we had left together. Things would have been different, I’m certain of that. I would have held his hand more tightly. I would have listened more closely to the song lyrics; I would have tried to appreciate their meaning and significance. After this track, I know there’s a Radiohead cover of Carly Simon’s “Nobody Does it Better,” which is our song. Every word of it is honest-to-goodness truth between us; I understand that now. But back then, I was so distracted—because of what? My car? My preoccupation seems so painfully absurd.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask him, digging through my purse, emerging with a tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. “You’re so quiet.”

  “Liz.” He stares ahead at the Fender Benders parking lot, where Vince is leisurely strolling around my car, taking a good long look at the very minimal damage. “You didn’t have to be so rude. You were being a prissy bitch.”

  “Don’t call me a bitch. You didn’t tell me we were going to the asshole of the universe.”
I offer him some hand sanitizer. When he declines, I grab his hand and squeeze some of the clear goo into his palm. “Now rub your hands together,” I order him. “Richie, I can’t believe you actually do business with that guy. He’s trash.”

  “Then why didn’t you just tell your dad about the car? So what if he was upset. What’s the worst that could have happened? You get grounded for a few weeks? Besides, you hit a parking meter. It isn’t a big deal.”

  I notice that my hands are shaking slightly. “I don’t want to have to deal with my father. You know he spent a lot of money on the car. He would have insisted we file a claim. This is way less trouble, trust me.”

  Richie shrugs. “Whatever. I’m just saying, you could have at least been polite to the guy. He’s doing you a huge favor, and you treated him like dirt.”

  “I treated him like dirt because he’s dirty!”

  “He’s a human being, Liz.”

  I cross my arms. “Take me home.”

  We drive back to Noank in silence. But once we reach our street, Richie pulls his car into his driveway, shuts off the engine, and reaches over to touch my cheek.

  “You were right,” he says. “We are a terrible match.”

  I frown, but there is a hint of a smile on my face, in my eyes. “What do you plan to do about it? Break up with me? I’ll date a polo player, and you can date … I don’t know. Who would you date?”

  He smiles. “Nobody. If I couldn’t have you, I wouldn’t want anybody.”

  I take his hand in mine. “Really?”

  “Really.” And he kisses me on the forehead. “Remember? We fit.”

  “That’s right.” I rest my cheek against his. “We do fit,” I whisper, my lips close to his ear.

  We sit quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of each other’s skin, before I pull away and ask him, “You’re sure? Even though I’m high maintenance? Even though I’m a prissy bitch?”

  He doesn’t answer. He says, “How did you hit a parking meter, anyway? You’re usually a pretty good driver.”