Sloth

by Robin Wasserman

  Still, she sleeps.

  Adam lies motionless for a moment, watching her breathe, soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of the white sheets. Then he sits up, stands, and says good-bye.

  “I’ve got to go,” he says. “I’m sorry. But I’ll be back tomorrow. ”

  If he had forgiven her sooner, and she hadn’t made that speech . . .

  If he had caught her before she had run out of the building . . .

  If he had followed her to the parking lot, stopped her from getting into the car . . .

  He knows she can’t hear him, but he says it again. “I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Harper said, and the artificially casual tone was back in her voice. “I’ve got all the friends I need right now, and like I say, I’m fine, so you can forget that whole guilty conscience thing.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Better get inside now,” she said, staring at a point over his shoulder. “Or my mother will send the dogs out for me. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Harper, if we could just—”

  “See you around.” She turned her back on him and walked inside the house.

  Adam wasn’t ready to go home. No one was waiting for him there. So he circled around the back of his house and hoisted himself up onto their rock. He could see Harper’s bedroom window; the shades were drawn. He lay back against the cool granite, staring up at the hazy sky, tinged with a grayish purple.

  He thought he should be angry, or sorry, or hopeless. But he was just tired. He closed his eyes, and waited for sleep.

  “Dude, get up!”

  “Whuh ... ?” Reed Sawyer propped himself up and shook his head, trying to get his bearings. A thick fog hung over his brain, courtesy of a mid-afternoon toke and nap session. But gradually, the blur of noise and color resolved itself into comprehensible details, and the world clicked back into place.

  The cold, hard metal beneath him—the hood of his bandmate’s car.

  The loud voice harshing his buzz, the heavy hand shaking him awake—said bandmate.

  The big emergency—a gig, their first in weeks. Tonight. Now.

  Reed nodded to himself as the facts crawled back into his brain. He lay back against the hood and pulled out another joint. His fingers fumbled with the lighter, but it lit up, and a moment later, so did he.

  He sucked in and grinned. That first lungful was his favorite part, the sweet familiar burn spreading through his body. Peace.

  “What s with you—get the hell up!” The hand was shaking him again. His eyes had slipped closed without him noticing. Things were easier in the dark.

  “Chill, Fish,” he groaned. “I’m up.”

  “The gear’s packed up, we’ve got to go,” Fish complained. “What’s with you, man? Do you want to be late?”

  Did he want to be late? Reed didn’t want ... anything. To want, you had to think about the future, you had to think outside the moment. Reed drew in another lungful of smoke. Thinking about the future only led you to the past; it was safer to stay in the present.

  “I’m coming,” he said, digging into the pocket of his jeans to make sure he had his lucky guitar pick. “In a minute.”

  “Right.” Fish grabbed his arm and dragged him up. “Get your ass off my car. You’re coming now.” He rolled his eyes and, with a laugh, grabbed the joint out of Reed’s hand. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to share?”

  As they ambled toward the van, Fish babbled about the gig, about possibilities, new songs, recording, making it big. Pointless dreams, Reed realized that now. But he kept his mouth shut.

  The band didn’t seem to matter much to him these days. Nothing did. Not since—

  Before it happened, he’d almost gotten himself kicked out of school. He’d refused to apologize for something he hadn’t done. It had seemed so important then: upholding his honor. Telling the truth.

  At the thought of it, Reed almost laughed. What the hell was the difference? That’s what he’d figured out, after the accident. It didn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. If life wanted to kick you in the ass, no one could stop it. If the universe wanted to take away the one thing that mattered ...

  So he’d given in. He confessed, he took the suspension, went back to school. It was what everyone wanted, and that made it easy. He hadn’t stopped to think about what he wanted. Because he didn’t want anything. Not anymore.

  “We got a surprise for you.” Fish ran a hand through his greasy blond hair—he’d decided the tousled, windblown look would get him more girls. Stuck at the back of the stage, behind the drums, only his head was visible, he always pointed out. He couldn’t do anything about his face, but the hair was a constant work in progress.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want a surprise?” Fish asked, sounding put out.

  “Do I get a choice?”

  Fish shrugged. “Good point.” They’d reached the van, and Reed headed toward the driver’s seat, as always. But Fish pushed him toward the back. “Not today. I’m driving, Hale has shotgun. You’re in back.”

  Reed shook his head and slung himself into the van— nearly landing in the lap of a tall, skinny brunette who was sprawled along the length of the backseat. Her legs were nearly bare, along with the rest of her.

  “Uh . . . Fish?”

  “Surprise!” Hale chuckled and twisted around to face the backseat. “Reed, meet Sandra. We thought she could cheer you up. She’s a big fan.” Hale’s hands flickered briefly at his chest, universal code for bigness of a certain shape and form. Reed didn’t need the tip. Sandra was bulging out of a tight leather halter top, her breasts seeming ready to escape at any moment.

  “The boys told me I could ride along with you,” Sandra said, in a soft, flighty voice. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  He didn’t want to touch her; but she was lying across his seat and showed no sign of moving. He nudged her gently and squeezed himself in. She grabbed his hand. “I love guitarists,” she said, massaging his fingers. “Such a strong grip, all that flexibility—”

  “Let’s get going,” Reed said. He leaned against the dirty window and stared out at the dull scenery. He tried to ignore the pressure of Sandra’s body leaning against his, and the way her fingers were playing up and down his thigh. The bar was close. They’d be there soon.

  “Whatcha thinking about?” she asked, after a few minutes of silence.

  “Nothing.”

  He wished it were true. But every time he tried to wipe his mind, the words came back. Her voice. It was his own fault—he’d listened to the voice mail, the last voice mail, so often that he’d memorized it. And even now, wishing he could forget it, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice.

  Reed, I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I need to tell you that I’m sorry. I was wrong, about everything.

  Then there was a pause, and a loud, deep breath.

  I’m sure you don’t want to talk to me, but—

  Her voice shook on the word.

  I need to talk to you, to explain. Just call me back. Please. Because I—

  Another pause. And this one was the worst, because he would never know what Kaia was about to say. And because he knew the last two words would be the last, and she would never know if he accepted them.

  I’m sorry.

  The joint was burned out, and he lit another one.

  “The strong, silent type,” Sandra said, winding her finger through one of his curls. “I like.” She edged closer.

  He inhaled deeply, blew out a puff of smoke, and waited for the calm to settle over him again. There was no other escape.

  The timing was suspicious. An hour after the Adam encounter and Miranda called, suggesting—quel coincidence!—a night out at the Lost and Found to see the Blind Monkeys. Harper may have taken a hiatus from scheming, but she recognized the signs; so Miranda and Adam were teaming up to drag her out of the house and back to “n
ormal” life? So be it. She had her own reasons for wanting to suffer through a Blind Monkeys performance; and if she ran into Adam, at least she’d be ready.

  She just wasn’t ready to face the rest of the senior class, Miranda having neglected to mention that the band was playing the official opening event for Senior Spirit Week. That meant crowds, noise, gossip, a night of public posturing . . . and no alcohol to dull the pain. At the request of Haven High, the Lost and Found had gone dry for the night, and Harper was left with few options. She and Miranda pulled two chairs up to a tiny, filthy table and set down their Cokes.

  “This sucks,” she complained, trying to make herself heard over the noise passing as music that was blasting out of a nearby speaker.

  “What?” Miranda mouthed.

  “This sucks!” Harper shouted. Miranda just shook her head, miming frustration. It was too loud for anything else. “I shouldn’t have come,” Harper said at normal volume, relishing the strange sensation of knowing no one would hear. “I hate—” She stopped, as the lyrics became clear.

  Get out of my dreams.

  Get out of my head.

  Will I have to stick around this hell,

  When I’m the one who’s dead?

  It was a shit song, but she knew who’d written it, and why. She’d wanted to see him—not speak to him, of course, but just watch him. Reed Sawyer, Kaia’s . . . whatever. He was hunched over the mic, dark, shaggy hair falling across his glassy eyes, his voice coarse and throaty, scraping across the so-called melody.

  She’d seen this band play once before, she suddenly realized. Months before, she’d come here with Adam, desperately hoping he would finally make his move, ending their friendship and starting something new. She’d come with Adam—but she’d left alone. And Adam had left with Kaia. Harper had cried and raged, while Kaia had whisked Adam away to an abandoned motel, laid him back on a sunken mattress, and fulfilled his fantasies.

  Harper could still picture them together, in a dark recess of the bar, Kaia’s hands in his hair, Kaia’s tongue in his mouth. And the Blind Monkeys blasting in the background, shaking the floor as Harper stood perfectly still, trying not to scream.

  That bitch, Harper thought, before she could stop herself. Then she felt sick. I never should have come back here.

  “I have to get out of here,” she told Miranda. But Miranda only looked at her quizzically and took another sip of her soda. “I HAVE TO GO!”

  Miranda nodded and, totally misunderstanding, pointed off to the left, toward the bathrooms.

  Harper already knew where they were. It’s where Adam had gone that night. He’d stood up from their table, headed for the bathrooms—and had never come back.

  Maybe he’d had the right idea.

  She made it outside before realizing she had nowhere to go. Miranda had the car keys, and it was too far to walk—especially when everything already felt so sore. Maybe it would be enough to stand outside, breathe some of that fresh air everyone always claimed was so helpful. She could wait it out. Maybe, eventually, she’d be able to go back inside.

  Maybe not.

  Harper leaned against the dank brick wall of the bar, not caring about the gunk that would surely rub off on her gauzy white shirt. Her leg hurt, her head hurt, and she needed some support. The wall would have to do.

  “Who let you back out on the streets?” Kane smirked and leaned an arm against the wall, giving Harper a sardonic grin.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Just need to know who I should complain to,” he teased. She rolled her eyes and turned away—he was sure it was to hide a smile. “Good to see you up and out, Grace.”

  “Miss me?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “I wouldn’t say that—but you know I’ve got a low tolerance for boredom. And you definitely make things interesting.”

  “Gosh, I’m overwhelmed by your kindness and affection. Is this the part where you hug me and ask me how I’m doing?” Her tone was mocking, but Kane could tell she expected exactly that—and dreaded it.

  Instead, he laughed. “You have been away for a long time,” he said, shaking his head. “Why would I want to know how you’re doing? I just want to know if you’ve got a cigarette.”

  That earned him his first real smile. And a pack of Camel Reds. He pulled one out, tossed the pack back to her, and took his time lighting up. “So . ..,” he finally said. “Are we going in, or what?”

  She waved lazily toward the entrance. “You go. Say hi to the pep squad for me. And enjoy your ginger ale.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I’d rather bash my head into this wall than go back inside,” she said bitterly. “But hey, be my guest.”

  “Better idea.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her and cocked his head toward the parking lot. Translation: Let’s get out of here and get into some trouble. “ You in?”

  “Let me just text Miranda,” she said, whipping out her cell phone, “and then”—she did some rapid-fire number punching and flicked it shut again—”we’re out of here.”

  She stumbled on the way to the car, and he caught her before she fell; but he resisted the urge to help her inside the silver Camaro. She was back on two feet again—she could do it herself. Or at least, he concluded, she thought she could. He slammed the door shut, started the car, slipped in his favorite CD and turned the pulsing rock beat up to top volume, and they were off.

  Grace was a dead-end town whose residents led dead-end lives—meaning there were plenty of dark, dingy spots where you could drown your sorrows. And none of them carded.

  They ended up nestled in a booth in the back of the Tavern, a nondescript bar and grill for the over-forty set, complete with a washed-out seventies decor and surly, middle-aged waitresses who’d been working there since the decorations were new.

  Privacy guaranteed, or your money back.

  Harper, after downing half a gin and tonic—her first in weeks—was already slurring her words. Kane, more on half-formed instinct than out of any reason or desire, had opted for root beer.

  “When did you join AA?” Harper joked, flopping forward in her chair and propping her head in her hands. “Gonna leave me all alone to drown my sorrows?”

  “Someone’s got to drive you home,” he pointed out as she downed the rest of her drink and waved the waitress over for another one.

  “S’okay I’m used to alone,” she slurred, as if she hadn’t heard him. “I mean, they’re always there, everyone’s always there, staring at me. Alone is good. They should all go away.”

  “You want me to stop staring at you?”

  She let out a sharp bark of laughter, then slapped her hand over his. “Not you. You’re the only one. You . . .” She stopped talking, distracted by the prospect of fishing the slice of lime out of the bottom of her glass.

  “I . . . ?” he prodded.

  “What? Oh. You don’t give me that ‘How are you doing’ shit or ‘Isn’t it terrible aren’t you traumatized what can I do’ blah blah blah.” She made a fake vomiting noise. “You don’t care about what I do, you don’t care about anyone but yourself. Thank God.”

  “Uh, thank you?” he asked sardonically. He leaned forward. This was the moment, he realized. Kane hated nothing more than not having the answers, and ever since that day in the hospital, he’d had nothing but questions. Her guard was down. She would answer. “Where’d you get the drugs, Grace?”

  “Huh?”

  “That day. The speech. What were you high on? And why?”

  She shook her head furiously. “Not you, too!” But after a flicker of anger, she sighed loudly and slumped down in her chair. “Nothing,” she said. “I told you. I told them. Nothing.”

  “Come on, Grace,” he pushed. “They found them in your system. Everyone saw you up onstage—I heard what a head-case you were.” And I saw the way you pulled out of the parking lot. I saw the car skid out, I saw you drive away. “ You were on something.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “B
elieve me. Don’t believe me. Who cares. And what’s the difference? It’s over now.”

  “Yeah, I guess. What’s the difference?”

  He is sitting in the waiting room, breathing shallowly. The scent of citrus-scented air freshener is overwhelming—but not enough to mask the smells beneath it. Old age, decay, vomit, blood, death. He hates hospitals. He hasn’t been in one since he was a kid, sitting by his mother’s bed, pretending not to know his father was crying out in the hall.

  It’s too soon, too fast, and no one knows everything, but as always, Kane knows enough. He has his sources.

  One crash. Two girls, both thrown from the car. One with traces of psychotropic drugs in her bloodstream. One dead.

  “Mr. Geary.”

  The cop sits down across from him. It’s a woman, which he’s not expecting. She’s short and stocky in a dark gray blazer, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Right out of central casting, he thinks. Not a coincidence—she probably takes her cues from Law & Order.

  The thought depresses him.

  “I’m told that you have some information that can be of assistance to us, Mr. Geary.

  “She has a sexy voice.

  He shrugs. “I saw them leave the school,” he says.

  “Can you describe what you saw?” She doesn’t ask what he was doing loitering on the back steps when the rest of the school was stuffed into the auditorium for a mandatory assembly.

  “Harper ran out of the school.”

  “How did she appear?”

  “What do you mean?” He knows. But he’s not in the mood to help.

  “Did she seem upset? Disoriented? Ineb—”

  “She seemed in a hurry. She didn’t stop to talk. She ran down to the parking lot. Kaia was standing there, by her car.”

  “What was she doing?”

  The question hadn’t occurred to Kane before. He didn’t know the answer. He never would. “Standing. Staring. They talked for a while. Then they got into the car and drove away. ”

  “Who was driving?”