by Piper Lennox
Twelve
“Beer?”
Bram’s tone, smile, and even the way he held the can indicated nothing but a joke. But I wasn’t in the mood that night.
“I’m kidding, man. Here.” He handed me a soda from the cooler on his back deck. Half our class was here, along with more upperclassmen than I expected. A guy with a beer bong hose wrapped around his forearm bumped me, laughing out an apology as he trailed some girls to the patio furniture.
“When do your parents get back?”
“Tomorrow.” He set the beer he’d offered me on the railing, then bent down to dig out a drink of his own. “So you can spend the night, if you do feel like drinking. Just saying.”
This was about the age I realized that all those D.A.R.E. and M.A.D.D. programs in school were full of shit when they tried “preparing” us for peer pressure. In their low-budget videos and Xeroxed comics, they made us think some strange, mythical Cool Kids would appear out of nowhere and push hard drugs right under our noses, daring us to try, ridiculing us if we didn’t.
Peer pressure, I was learning, was actually more dangerous than that, because it was far more subtle. The kids weren’t stereotypes we barely knew. They were our real-life, actual friends, the people we trusted more than family at that age. And rarely did they offer anything extreme. It was always like this: just one beer. Just a puff on one cigarette. Just a little pot. No real pressure, just the opportunity. And if you said no, they usually left it alone. Until the next time, at least.
So it was getting harder to say no, because I was curious. Bram and Tanner made it look fun. I’d already given in once and now smoked cigarettes daily, craving that heat in my throat first thing in the morning, and that jittery, jolted buzz just before bed.
“Maybe,” I shrugged, and grabbed the can off the railing before Bram could right himself. I didn’t want him to know whether or not I drank it. I’d carry it around a while, first, then decide.
“If the cops come,” he called after me, “don’t tell anyone where it came from.”
I gave a thumbs-up over my head as I walked away. Easy enough, since I really didn’t know where the alcohol came from. Probably Bram’s cousin with the fake ID, who visited from the city now and then and sold us cigarettes at twice the price.
Cops were unlikely, for a few reasons. First, the Galloways’ property was surrounded by a curtain of thick trees you could smell throughout the house: dead wood mixed with fresh growth, a mix of rot and green, dry dirt and wet underbrush. When the breeze blew just right, you’d get a whiff of sap on the air.
Second: this kind of thing just happened in Hillford, the way it happened in any small town. Kids only had so many options for fun: parties, bonfires, breaking some rules—whatever helped us forget how bored we were.
When I got inside, Tanner thanked me and reached for my beer. Instinctively, I pulled it closer.
“It’s, uh.... Bram gave it to me.”
His eyebrows raised; he drew back his hand. “You’re drinking tonight?”
Unlike Bram—who’d acted like a damn Labrador on a car ride at the possibility of me joining them—Tanner just looked shocked. I pretended I didn’t notice how Hudson looked.
“Maybe just one. I don’t know.”
Tanner waited for an explanation. When I didn’t give it, he shrugged, pitched his empty beer into a trash bag looped around a dining chair, and left to get another.
I tapped my thumb against my beer and set it on the table, risking a glance at Hudson. He had his hands in his pockets and the usual reserved look on his face, impossible to read. But not to me.
Hudson’s old man was a drunk, too. The only difference between his and mine was that Hank didn’t hit him; he was a sloppy, happy kind of drunk. The kind the town clucked at and prayed for, but never did anything about.
“I don’t think I’m gonna drink it. You know how Bram is, I just took it to shut him up.”
He nodded, still eyeballing the crowd in the living room. Two senior girls in their cheerleader uniforms were bent over the back of the couch, presumably to watch television. It was obvious they just wanted to give the guys behind them a good view.
“Good party,” he said, after a minute. “Surprised you came out, though.”
“Tanner bugged the shit out of me.”
“I did not.” The crack of Tanner’s beer preceded him, ricocheting through my bones and, I’m sure, Hudson’s. “I just said, if you felt like getting out of the house for a while, this is where we’d be. You made the choice.”
“What other choice did I have? Caroline’s at a friend’s house. The fuck if I was going to hang out with Dad all night.”
“Five years today.” Hudson looked at me over Tanner’s head. “Yeah?”
I picked up my beer again. It felt right, having it in my hand. “Yeah.”
“Shit.” Tanner sucked in a breath and gave me a drawn-out cringe. “I forgot.”
“It’s fine, dude. I wanted to get out of there.” The last thing I wanted that night—besides reliving Mom’s death, via my father’s intoxicated hunt through every photo album in our house—was my friends feeling sorry for me.
“Jessica’s here,” Tanner teased, elbowing Hudson in the ribs. “Go say hey.”
He pushed him away. “Maybe later.”
“You do have an in with her now,” I reminded him, “being lab partners and all.”
“Yeah, well, what about you and Chelsea? You guys are partners for that big Mockingbird project.”
“She’s into Bram.” I didn’t add that I wasn’t attracted to Chelsea in the slightest. I wasn’t attracted to anyone, really, except in a generic, curves-in-all-the-right-places kind of way.
“I know who Lochlan’s hooking up with,” Hudson mumbled into his drink, the two of us laughing while Tanner cussed at us under his breath; Skye Michaels, his neighbor, was passing by with some friends at that exact moment.
We shut up. Teasing each other in private was one thing, but there was a certain code to it: don’t let anyone else hear. Ever.
Skye smiled at Tanner as she passed, her friends pulling her along, but halted when she noticed the beer in my hand. “Ford,” she half-teased, putting one hand on her hip, “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t. I’m not.” I turned and set it on the sideboard behind us, then showed her my empty hands, like this was proof.
“Skye, come on!” Her friends tugged on her hand, and they were gone in a cloud of body spray and laughter. She gave Tanner another smile before she left.
“Is anything ever going to happen with you two?” Bram wedged his way into our lineup. He was drunk, or on his way. Of the four of us, Bram was the wildest: first to drink, first to smoke, the loudest and the most adventurous, by far. Most of our friendship consisted of muttering, “Shut up, Bram,” or helping him sneak out when he got grounded. Which was just about every weekend.
“Who?”
“You and Skye.”
“Why would anything happen with us?”
“I don’t know. You live right next to each other.”
“And? Ford and Easton live next to each other. You never assume they’re going to hook up.”
“That’s because Easton hates his ass.” Bram laughed and eyed the can he’d given me, sweating on the table, but didn’t ask why it wasn’t open. He knew to lay off, when it really mattered.
Within thirty minutes, each of them had abandoned me to talk to far more attractive friends: Hudson risked saying hello to his lab partner, after all, and was now playing video games with her on the sofa; Bram was leading Seven Minutes in Heaven in the den, hoping for some time in the closet with Chelsea; and Tanner was playing beer pong out on the deck with Skye.
I opened my beer and sipped. The sour apple smell was enough to put me off.
Still, it felt like I should drink it.
It was all fine and good to say, “No alcohol ever,” but I couldn’t pretend it was easy—or that it magically made me the opp
osite of my dad. The true opposite would be doing what he couldn’t: having one, or a few, and then stopping. Saying “enough” when enough rolled around.
I drank. It got better about halfway through, and soon I forgot all about proving anything. I drank because I liked the buzz in my fingertips, my chest; I liked the looseness in my joints when the alcohol settled.
There was liquor in the kitchen, so I decided to try that, too. I poured some whiskey into a Solo cup and added Bram’s off-brand cola from the pantry, lukewarm and thick.
“You’re drinking?”
The hand on my shoulder scared the shit out of me. Cola splashed onto the counter, the bottle denting in my hands when I jumped.
Easton laughed and mopped up my mess with a dishtowel. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t.” I watched, a little dumbfounded, as she dipped her pinky into my drink and tasted it. Her wince made me feel guilty, for reasons I couldn’t pinpoint.
“Strong,” she commented. Then she gave me a look I’d seen before: sympathy. It was weird to see it here, in the fluorescent lights of a kitchen, instead of moonlight or the flickering flashlight in my garage. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I don’t. I mean, not really.” I picked up the cup and sipped. “Tonight’s the first time I’ve tried it.”
There it was again, that look like something in her hurt—for me. “Caroline’s birthday was yesterday,” she whispered.
I licked the soda from my lips and shrugged.
“Which means today is....”
The alcohol didn’t mix with the soda correctly; most of it hit my throat straight. I coughed and fought the gag reflex.
“Ford.” Easton put her hand on my wrist when I reached for the bottle again. “I don’t think you should be drinking.”
“Why, because my dad can’t handle it? That doesn’t mean I’m the same way.”
Easton stopped me again, this time grabbing my other hand, too. She held both for a minute, then let go and tucked her hair behind her ears, staring at our shoes.
“I don’t think you should be drinking tonight,” she corrected herself, then looked up at me. It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed how green her eyes were—but it was the first time it made something in my chest feel funny.
“Why?”
“It’s the anniversary of your mom dying. Do you really want to be that stereotypical?”
I felt myself smile. “Guess not.”
Easton grabbed a fresh cup and smiled, too, when I accepted the water she got me without a single protest.
“Say cheese!” Bram stumbled into the kitchen, a FunSaver in his hands. He held it to his eye without an ounce of grace, then snapped the picture.
“Come play Seven with us,” he slurred, stealing the last of my water. I let him. Clearly, he needed it more.
Easton and I shook our heads and said, at the exact same time, “No way.”
“Jamie’s playing,” Bram whispered, with this smile like he’d hooked her. I knew Easton had some silly little crush on Jamie, but come on: she wasn’t going to cave that easily.
“Really?” she whispered back.
Really?
Easton followed Bram to the den, the two of them hatching some plan to make sure she ended up in the closet with Jamie. “Give me a fucking break,” I sighed, but neither heard.
I grabbed the liquor from the counter and twisted off the cap. The smell made my eyes water when I lifted it to my mouth, ready to swig it straight.
“Do you really want to be that stereotypical?”
I paused. Yeah, Easton was sort of kidding when she said that; she knew I’d respond better to a joke than some sermon about coping mechanisms and proper grief. She knew me pretty well, by that point.
Still. Her question kept echoing.
Suddenly, I wished we weren’t here, instead hanging out in my garage. We hadn’t done that since before my birthday, when Dad caught me stealing his cigarettes. Got me right in the chest. It hurt for days, just breathing.
That night, Easton had read to me from The Shining, which she was halfway through. I kept the flashlight steady for her while she read. Her pace was even, and she had this lilt to her voice I’d never noticed, only interrupted by her laugh when a section got scary and I’d shut off the flashlight, teasing her. She kept hitting my arm, laughing my name until I’d turn it back on. Then she’d compose herself, thank me, and continue.
I’d wanted more of it.
I capped the liquor bottle and sighed, got another cup of water, and admitted it to myself again: I wanted more of Easton. More time, more stories, more nights in that truck bed or on her tire swing.
I didn’t want her kissing Jamie.
The den was dark when I slipped in. I saw Easton sitting near Bram on the sofa and made my way to his other side.
“Hey.” I hit his shoulder. “Put me in with Easton.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
He laughed in his throat, but I knew the favor was as good as done. I didn’t have to explain myself. At least, not until tomorrow.
I heard him prepping her, saying he wasn’t sure who she’d be with anymore; he’d just heard Jamie leave.
“Isn’t that him, by the stereo?”
Bram ignored her, pushing her toward the open closet. Silently, I followed.
The door shut.
“Timer’s set,” the girl in charge of pairing people—most likely Chelsea, since she was Bram’s partner in crime and every bit as stupid-drunk as he was—told us through the crack. “No talking. You have to guess who it is in other ways.” The last part of her sentence was stretched out impossibly long.
I heard Easton sit, so I did the same.
“Um...hi,” she whispered.
“Hi.” I kept any tone and body out of my voice, nothing but a whisper. She could know who I was when it was over.
“Should we.... I mean, I guess we should—you know. Start.”
She had to feel my heartbeat through the darkness. There was no way to drown it out or steady it as I reached forward, finding her face, and gently placed my hand against her ear.
I drew her to me, the sleeve of an overcoat pushing back her hair when our lips met.
Easton sank into it fast, I guess because she still thought, or hoped, I was Jamie. I remember opening my eyes suddenly, shocked at the way she pushed against me.
Shocked at how sweet her mouth tasted.
I put my hand against the small of her back. She kissed me harder, climbing into my lap until I was pushed against the milk crates of VHS tapes behind me. The corner of one dug into my spine. I didn’t care.
Kissing had never felt like this before, at least not for me. Those were quick flashes of sparks, fleeting, from girls who got brave enough to steal some privacy at other parties, or underneath the bleachers at school.
But kissing Easton: that was like every Fourth of July rolled into a long exposure.
Strangest of all was how this brand-new thing could feel so familiar. Then, when she reached up to hold my face with both hands, I was reminded of all the nights she’d turn my face in the moonlight, looking for bruises, cuts, the evidence of things I couldn’t say out loud.
That’s what felt familiar: the way Easton took my life and made it feel like something worth wanting. Like the coolness of her fingertips on the fever-hot bruises, she washed away all that red, all those times when I thought for sure I’d combust and break.
“Easton,” I sighed, when she kissed my neck and wound the fingers of one hand into my hair. My jealousy, or whatever propelled me into this closet, ebbed. I was just relieved: Easton was kissing me. No one else.
Then she stopped.
“Ford?” Her whisper rippled through the air. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like it was just us anymore, suspended in the dark with fireworks; I could see the faintest outline of light from outside the door, somebody’s flashlight. I felt the beat of a muffled techno song through my skin.
&nb
sp; I sat up. Another coat sleeve slapped my ear.
“Guess you’d rather be in here with Jamie, huh?” I thumbed my lips. They felt raw and numb at once.
Her hand touched my knee. I didn’t let myself get my hopes up, figuring she was just preparing to stand. Preparing to get the hell out of this closet, far away from me.
“Did you...did you know it was me?” she asked. “When you came in here?”
“No,” I lied. “I just guessed.”
Outside the door, the girl announced that we had thirty seconds left.
“Should we...” I heard Easton clear her throat softly. “...keep going?”
“I don’t know.” Yes. God, yes. “Do you want to?”
“I don’t know.” She laughed, muffling it in something, probably one of the coats. “Maybe.”
“Fifteen,” the girl announced, and the rest of the room started the countdown.
I held my breath as Easton moved close again. I couldn’t see her; I just sensed the air between us shifting, the space shrinking.
She kissed me, so much slower and softer than before. I barely pushed back. I should have been ecstatic, all over her like an animal: this was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? For her to kiss me instead of Jamie? And now she was, knowingly. But something felt off, now that she knew it was me.
The countdown ended. “Okay, time to guess!” the girl shouted.
I stared at the only part of her I could see: her green earring, lit up from the crack of light around the door; they’d turned the lights on in the den.
“Easton Lawrence,” I said, just loud enough for them to hear.
Even with the buzz of our friends and classmates, techno still thumping in the distance, I heard Easton’s breathing. Slow, but heavy.
“Ford McLean,” she called.
The door flung open, and the watery yellow lamplight swallowed us whole. A few kids cheered; most booed, insisting that we must have cheated and asked each other. We just shrugged and made our way out of the closet, letting them believe what they wanted.
The lights shut off again. This time, Jamie was the one pushed into the closet, but neither of us waited to see which girl he’d been paired with.
