by Sandi Ward
Hmmm. That doesn’t seem like a great idea. What if Sam tries to kiss me when we get to the house, in front of Lisa? What a disaster that would be. Plus, he’s been drinking. His cranberry and vodka drink is right on the table next to us. “No, no, thanks. We’ll be fine. Let me ask Mark. He was my date, and I don’t want to ditch him again. Stay and have a good time. I’ll see you later. I might not come back to the party. If I don’t, I’ll talk to you on Monday morning, when you pick me up—”
“No,” he interrupts. “No, if you don’t come back, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Sam and I have only spoken on the phone a few times. It gives me butterflies to sit in the kitchen talking to him, curling the cord around my hand, while my mom hovers and flits around the stove. “Yes, okay. Call me,” I say with a look back at him—but pulling away, knowing I need to make Lisa my priority now.
I stumble through the crowd. Everyone is staring, and not trying to hide it. My gown has big dark splotches down the front where it’s wet. I try to keep my head up high. Nothing to see here. Just two idiotic sisters fighting on prom night. I’m a fool.
I find Lisa upstairs, sitting on a bed in what must be Ellie’s room, which has ice-blue walls and is overloaded with stuffed penguins. I would find the room amusing if Lisa wasn’t beside herself, a puddle of tears, clutching a tissue to her nose. I grab the whole box of tissues, sitting next to her to rub her shoulder.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t understand how everything could go so right tonight and yet go so wrong.
She’s inconsolable. “Why did you leave me? Where did you go? Did you really go to the beach?”
“Yes. I mean, we didn’t go to the beach downtown. We went up to White Beach. I’m sorry. Sam just wanted to get away from everyone for a while.”
“But why? Did you guys go to . . . ?” She can’t say it out loud.
I swallow. I understand. Saying it out loud makes it true. If we don’t say it, maybe we can all pretend it doesn’t exist for just a little while longer. Maybe just until tomorrow.
“No, we really did go to talk.” What am I supposed to say? We didn’t have sex, but we did say I love you to each other? How does that make it any better? “Never mind. I’m sorry I left you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She gulps in air. “I know Sam loves you. He’s always loved you. But he’s one of my only friends. And now I’ll be shut out. He’s only going to want to hang out with you this summer, not me, now that you’re getting all serious. Then you guys will disappear to California and have an amazing life and I’m going nowhere.” Rubbing her face with the back of her hand, she just ends up making her face more of a mess. “No one is ever going to love me like that.”
I shake my head. “No, Lisa. Don’t say that. That’s silly. Of course, someone will love you. And I’m not going to California. I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying sorry.” She wipes her nose. “Whatever. I’m already over it. I just thought . . .” Lisa dabs the tissue at her eyes. “I just wish it hadn’t all happened tonight, like this.”
“Me too.”
Great. This will be our lifelong memory of the senior prom. We’ll both have to carry these moments around for the rest of our lives. Sam and I disappearing for hours, arriving late to the party, and acting all lovey-dovey exactly like Lisa asked me not to. Lisa devastated, getting drunk, and throwing a beer on me—the smell of which is not going to escape our mother—and crying her eyes out.
In the game of which sister “wins” in high school, I guess I win.
And yet, of course, I don’t win. I lose. Because I feel terrible.
“Let’s find someone to take us home.” I stand and reach out for her hand. “Come on. I’m sure Mark will drive us.”
She doesn’t take my hand. “I’ve gotta go to the bathroom and get a drink of water.”
“Okay. Maybe wash your face while you’re in there.” I don’t mean to sound critical, but if our parents are waiting up for us, it would be better to have some semblance of normalcy if possible. I’m not looking forward to explaining the whole night to our mom and dad.
She gets up, exits the bedroom, and stumbles down the hall. I turn the other way and almost bump directly into someone tall.
When I look up, it’s Peter Kuhn. Blond hair, parted on the side, every strand in place. My partner in art class, the one who sketched my braids in such beautiful detail.
“Hey, Peter. You look nice.”
Nice isn’t even the word for it. Unlike a lot of the boys who are clearly in cheap rented tuxedos that don’t quite fit them correctly, Peter looks perfect. He could be right off a Hollywood red carpet or something.
“Thanks.” He shoves his hands into his front pockets. “You look nice yourself.”
“Where’s Dana?”
“She’s hanging out with some of her friends. I’m just wandering aimlessly around. This whole party is bizarre to me.” He looks down over the balcony at the chaos below. “It’s funny, because everyone’s getting wasted. In Germany, kids our age drink with their parents all the time, so they don’t need to go out to a party and chug alcohol until they puke.”
“Oh. Yeah, you must think we’re all pretty lame.” I start thinking about Lisa, and suddenly I’m embarrassed for her—for all of us. “Well, I’m glad you came to the party anyway. Did you see there’s a grand piano downstairs? Maybe you should play a few songs.”
He smiles. “Yeah, I saw it. But I don’t think anyone’s going to appreciate it if I turn off Van Halen and start playing Beethoven.”
I laugh. “I guess you’re right. Say . . . have you seen Mark Tindall? Do you know who I mean?”
Peter nods. “Yeah, he’s down in the basement playing beer pong.”
“Ugh. Is he drunk?”
“Ummmm . . .” He looks back over his shoulder, as if he might need to see Mark again to really gauge his drunkenness. “Maybe. I mean, he was yelling and running around the table. And he was singing show tunes at the top of his lungs. So I’d say that’s a solid maybe.”
“Okay.” I feel the energy draining out of me. Maybe I can get Mark to just lend me his car, and Mark can catch a ride home with Sam later. I guess I’d be okay to drive.
Peter must see my face fall with this news, because he frowns. “What’s the matter?”
I try to lighten up. “I was going to have Mark help me take my sister home. She’s super drunk. She’s the one who threw a beer at me,” I say, gesturing down toward my wet dress. “And she’s having an awful night. Thanks to me.”
“Thanks to you?” He scoffs. “I doubt it’s thanks to you. You’re a good student, right? Debate team, math team . . . ?” He squints. “You don’t strike me as a big troublemaker.”
I laugh again. Wow, he actually knows something about me. I’m flattered. “But I am a troublemaker,” I say, swatting his arm. “I’ve been nothing but trouble since I arrived in high school four years ago. You don’t know me very well, do you?”
He smirks. “No, I guess I don’t know you that well. Not yet, anyway. So, do you want to sit down somewhere and talk? Maybe your sister could just sleep it off on a couch or something.” Bowing his head, he leans toward me. “You know, I always meant to make another sketch of you. But we never made plans to get together. Maybe we could meet up this summer.”
Something about the way he says this and looks at me makes my cheeks hot. Peter seems more confident than most of the boys in my grade, half of whom can barely put a sentence together. I can’t help but smile, and he smiles back.
It’s dazzling. Honestly, his smile could stop traffic.
But I have a boyfriend. A very sweet boyfriend.
“We should definitely do another drawing sometime. I’d like that. One day. For sure. But I can’t sit and talk. I really need to get Lisa home. Right now.” I poke his arm. “Hey. So . . .” I realize that Peter’s sober—definitely more sober than Mark or Sam or probably anyone else at this party. “Do you think you could see if Mark will give yo
u his keys and lend you his car for a few minutes?”
And that’s how Peter and I end up on either side of Lisa, helping her down the stairs. She’s not a big girl, yet she’s surprisingly heavy when she suddenly lurches into me and I crash into the railing. Ouch.
Peter goes to the basement to get Mark’s car keys from him, and we’re almost out the front door when Sam comes hurrying up to us. He grabs my elbow.
“Hey. What . . . ?” He looks Peter over from head to toe, with a skeptical look on his face. “I thought you were going to get a ride from Mark.”
“I was, but I ran into Peter. He’s sober, so I asked him.”
Sam frowns but doesn’t say anything. Something passes over his face, and I realize it’s the same emotion I saw when he asked me why I was going with Mark to the prom. When I saw it then, I wasn’t sure what it was. But now it’s magnified, and I recognize surprise. Distress. Jealousy.
Sam steps up, getting right in my face. “Can I talk to you privately for a minute?”
Oh, dear.
“Sorry.” I apologize to poor Peter, who is left babysitting Lisa by the front door. “I’ll be right back. One quick minute.”
“Come back soon, lovebirds,” Lisa calls out, slurring her words.
When Sam turns around in the hallway, I unleash on him. “What? What’s wrong?”
He gives me a look. “Why are you leaving with that guy? You trust him?”
“Peter? Are you crazy? He’s super nice.”
Sam steps closer and glares at me. “Is it your plan to drop Lisa off and then come back? You’ll be alone in the car with Peter on the drive back here. I don’t like it.”
It’s a little intense, and I stumble back. “My plan? I don’t have a plan. For the love of God, Sam. Don’t be an idiot. You don’t like it?”
“I don’t want Peter driving you anywhere. I’m sorry, but I just don’t. He’s obviously interested in you. I know he is.”
“Why do you say that?”
He presses his lips together, as if to try to stop himself, but then can’t help continuing. “We were talking at lunch one day, and he was asking all about you. I shut it down. I told him to back off. He should know better than to talk to you.”
“You what?” I put a hand on my head and pull at my hair, which is starting to fall loose from the tight bun I had it in earlier. I’m sure it got disheveled when I was with Sam in his car earlier, but now it’s really a mess. Between that and my wet dress, I’m a wreck. “OH MY GOD. You are so out of bounds. You told Peter he shouldn’t TALK to me? What is wrong with you? Why are you ruining everything?”
His eyes grow wet. “Me?” he asks, quieter. “Seriously? You’re leaving the party with another guy, and you’re asking me why I’m ruining everything?” He stops himself, mouth hanging open, like he’s too shocked to go on. “I knew it. I just knew it. I knew when you wouldn’t even talk about California that—” He turns right, and then left, unable to get out a coherent thought. “The minute I leave, you’re going to find someone else, right? You wanna go out with someone like Peter?”
I try to stop myself, but I can’t help it. I yell, “NO, of course not. I love you, Sam, but suddenly you want me to change every plan I’ve made for my life so I can go to California with you? That’s not something a person can just decide on the spur of the moment.”
His face shows disbelief. “But if you love me . . . why not?”
My head is spinning. I’m overwhelmed and exhausted. “We can’t talk about this now. I have to get Lisa home.” I whip around and storm off to rejoin Peter.
Sam beats me to the front door and opens it so Peter and I can get Lisa out of the house and down the front steps. I’m not surprised when Sam follows us to the street to help us find Mark’s car.
“Sam,” I beg, “go back to the party. Just go.”
“I want to help. Please, Annika, let me help. I’m Lisa’s date. And I’m the one who always helps her out, right? So you don’t have to worry about it. I should drive her home. Let me take her. At least, let’s take my car. Come on.”
“Fine.” We turn around and walk the other direction to his mom’s crappy, disgusting car. I’m too angry to look at him. After he unlocks the doors, I get Lisa settled in the backseat. She’s got her head in her hands, giggling about absolutely nothing. “Give me your keys, Sam. You’ve had too much to drink.”
Sam looks at me, then over at Peter, and back to me again. I can see the heat in his face. But then his voice softens, trying a different angle. “Annika, why didn’t you ask me to take you guys home? You didn’t have to go find someone else. Peter doesn’t need to come with us. We can handle it.”
“Noooo, I want Peter,” Lisa whines, her arms reaching out to him. “Peter, please ride with us. Keep me company. Don’t leave me alone with them. I don’t want to be alone with the lovebirds. They make me ill.”
“Yeah, sure.” He smiles at her drunken plea. “It’s okay. I’ll ride along. No big deal.”
I turn to him. “Thank you for coming with us. Can you sit in the back with her? Make sure she’s okay?”
Peter looks from me to Sam. “You’re sure you don’t want me to drive?”
“No,” Sam and I say at the same time.
I turn to Peter and put my hand on his arm. “It’ll be fine.”
I remember this moment. It’s crystal clear in my mind. Peter is standing in the street and looking into my eyes and he believes me. He hears me say, “It’ll be fine,” and his eyes agree with me.
It’s the last time he stands on two legs.
“Look, I’ll drive.” I yank the keys out of Sam’s hand. I’m so mad at him that I can’t even see straight. Sam jumps in the passenger seat when I immediately start the engine. I pull quickly out into the road, to demonstrate to Sam how goddamn incompetent he was in his inability to park the car in the first place, and then start talking to Peter as if everything is completely normal.
Peter seems like such a nice guy. He’s a great listener and seems entranced by whatever nonsense I babble at him. It makes me sorry that I haven’t made any effort to get to know him better up until this moment. Lisa sits slouched down in the back, sulking and muttering to herself. At one point, she lies down across the backseat and puts her head in Peter’s lap, which is awkward. I hope she doesn’t completely pass out. The fact that she stretches out means Peter has to slide over and sit right up against the side of the car, his knee touching the door.
Sam keeps glancing over at me as if he doesn’t recognize me. He seems confused—worried—by how energetically I’m talking.
Maybe I am talking too fast. But I’m simply trying to be extra perky and friendly to Peter to make up for my sister’s completely embarrassing lack of social graces. Peter doesn’t know Lisa the way Sam and I do.
Peter is nodding at me, and Sam is watching me talk, when I see the flash of headlights out the back passenger side window, suddenly just behind Peter’s head. Henry McKean, hurrying back to the party in his pickup truck after a run home for more liquor, drives through a stop sign and comes flying into us at the intersection of Summer and Beach streets.
The force of impact sends me flying sideways, and my head slams against the window. Miraculously, a concussion is my only injury.
Sam is jolted, and I find out later he dislocated his shoulder. But he’s wearing his seat belt and he’s also, for the most part, okay.
Peter is not so lucky. He’s not wearing a seat belt. I don’t think it would have mattered anyway.
He’s at the point of impact, and he gets the worst of it. His body absorbs the blow and protects Lisa from injury.
Shattered vertebrae, broken ribs, a severely damaged leg.
In an instant.
* * *
After the immediate impact of Henry’s truck slamming into Sam’s car, Peter doesn’t cry out or beg for help. There are no words. He simply gasps desperately for air, as if he is drowning.
That sound. I will never forget that sound. It
is the sound of someone in searing pain unlike anything he’s ever known.
First, there’s the crash, metal exploding on impact. But then I hear Peter breathing heavily, as if it’s his lungs that are collapsing and not his leg that is crushed. A tremendous breath in, a staggered breath out. Air in, then out. I glance back, dizzy and terrified. I see his clear eyes open, but focused on nothing. In shock, blinded to anything else but the pain. His breathing is the only sound in the car for a moment, until the rest of us begin to move.
That sound. It still haunts me. A deep gulp as he takes air in. A halting, shaky exhale. Like someone sobbing with no tears. Like someone scared to death.
Then, the click of a seat belt. A car door opening. Someone bolting out of the car, and the next thing I know, Sam opening my door. His arms are around me and he whispers in my ear: Here we go. Hang on, sweetheart. I’ve got you.
* * *
The last time I see Sam, he’s standing by my gurney in a hospital hallway. His face is streaked with tears, but he’s not crying anymore.
He leans down close and takes my hand. “Are you okay? Listen. Sweetheart. Just listen.”
“Where’s my mom and dad?”
“They just got here. I asked if I could have a minute to say goodbye.”
My head aches. Sam is slightly blurry. “What? Goodbye?”
“I pulled you out of the car before the cops arrived. I told them I was driving,” he says near my ear, so no one else around us will hear. “It’s my car. They believe me. So it’s okay.”
“Sam.” I grip his hand as tight as I can. “No. Please, no. Not again.”
“Lisa was too drunk to remember anything. She was passed out at the time of the accident. And I already spoke to Peter before he went into surgery and he agreed. He understood.”
“Surgery?” I try to sit up, alarmed. “What happened?”
“He’s injured badly. It’s his back and his leg. Henry McKean drove right into us. But you were drinking and so was I. So I gave my statement to the police, and they used the Breathalyzer so they know—”
