Minutes later, I am sitting in Courtney’s apple red convertible, top down, as we bullet down A1A. I turn up the volume, letting the music mingle with the wind and the purr of the engine. We sing—no, shout—along to familiar songs, and intermittently, we look at each other and sing to one another—especially the mushy love songs—and then giggle at our stupidity. I hate to admit it, but there is something magical about driving down A1A in a bright red convertible, singing, laughing, and just being silly and seventeen. And for a brief moment, I forget the anger and the sadness.
As we head deeper into Daytona Beach, guys take notice of us. Seeing two girls, scantily clad, elicits a rabid response from the opposite sex. Courtney thrives on the attention and always dresses the part. Me? I’d rather be decked out in a T-shirt and basketball shorts, but tonight, I have on cut-off jean shorts and a skimpy tank—courtesy of Courtney’s wardrobe. Not what I would choose to wear, but I left the apartment in such a rush that I didn’t have time to repack from basketball camp.
Even though Courtney and I have different shapes—I’m a long rectangle, and she’s a classic hourglass—we can share clothes. They just have a different effect on our bodies, from hugging to hanging. I look down at my chest—or at least where it should be—and wish I had a push-up bra with me. I read this article about body types a few months back, and it said to accentuate the chest in order to create the illusion of having a fuller shape. But at an inch over six feet and weighing in at 150, I am tall, thin, and definitely all legs. No illusion about it, I look like a basketball player—good thing I can actually play.
We pause at the red light, and a hollowed-out jeep, full of shirtless surfer boys, stops next to us. One leans out the passenger side door. “You,” he emphasizes, “are like nectar from the gods.” His words, aimed at my blonde best friend, awaken the jealousy demon.
Then the light turns green, and Courtney hits the gas; she crosses the intersection and swerves in front of the jeep. She searches for more confirmation and gets it from some college boys in a silver SUV, locals crammed in a muddy pick-up truck, and horny businessmen sporting a white Ford Taurus. The Ford sidles up next to us. An old, bald guy points at a high-rise and hollers, “Room 5-2-2, honey!”
“Bleh.” Courtney cringes. “He’s like our dad’s age.”
Then she takes a quick left into an old residential section of Daytona Beach where houses, painted in shades of stale hi-liters, crowd the streets. Courtney inches down the road where cars line both sides. Soon a silver sedan slips out into the street and leaves an opening in front of a pale pink house.
Courtney takes the spot. With the engine still purring, she cuts the music and turns toward me. “Cal, I know you’re really upset right now, but try to have fun…okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” I mumble, folding my arms across my chest.
“And I’m sorry about Mike. I don’t know the whole—”
“Listen.” I turn and face her. “I didn’t come here to talk about it. I came here to get away from it.”
“I know that.”
“Then don’t bring it up.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t bring it up.” She lifts up her hands. “I won’t say anything...I won’t say anything at all.”
“Good.”
“Good,” she echoes.
Silence creeps between us, yet I hear her intermittent sighs over the hum of the air conditioner while a truck sputters down the street. Then I notice some people sitting in a circle of lawn chairs, partying it up on the front yard. One guy gets up, staggers a few feet, and tosses a stick to a dog.
“So, uh…” Courtney begins. “There’ll be lots of hot guys in there. That should cheer you up!”
“Huh?” I turn and then follow her gaze. Her eyes fall on an aqua house across the street. “I’m not like you.”
She takes offense. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” I slip in a little attitude. “I don’t need a guy to fill some void in my life.”
“I don’t have any voids in my life.”
“Yeah, I forgot.” I channel my inner sarcasm. “Your life is so perfect.”
“I didn’t say that, Cal, and don’t take this out on me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, you did. You brought it up.”
“Oh, whatever,” she huffs. “Just forget it.”
“Good.” I gaze across the road again and watch the guy toss a stick into the road. The dog rushes into the street and plays dodge car with oncoming traffic. I hold my breath until the dog returns safely to the yard.
“Do you just wanna’ go back to my place?”
I turn and look at her. “Yeah, I didn’t want to go out anyway. It was all your idea, remember?”
“Fine.” She kills the engine and hands me her keys. “Go back to my house. Have fun!” She opens her door. “I’ll just have Ian drive me home.” Courtney gets out and marches in front of the car; then she opens the passenger-side door. “No, forget it. You’re not leaving.”
I just stare at her, thinking evil thoughts about killing her. Courtney Valentine has to be one of the most annoying people in human history. I slip out of the car and she gives me a fake hug—a millisecond middle-school hug that says “sorry” with the sincerity of a thirteen-year-old girl. “Thanks for changing your mind.”
“You’re really pissing me off, you know that?”
“So sorry,” she offers and extends a palm. “Keys, please?” I drop the keys in her hand, wishing I could keep them. I would not think twice about leaving her sorry butt at his party. I glance around at the neighborhood. Okay, maybe I would think twice.
Courtney slips back in the car to put up the top, gets out, and then presses the lock button on the remote key several times. Then she places a hand on my shoulder, attempting sincerity. “I’m sorry…but you know I’m not good at this.” She shrugs. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here and all, but I don’t know what to say to you.”
“That’s the whole point, Courtney. Don’t say anything at all.”
“Nothing?”
“Well, nothing important.”
“You mean, you just want to engage in shallow, meaningless conversation?”
“Yeah,” I say, pretty much meaning “duh.”
“Well, that’s my specialty.”
“I know.” I point at her and offer a sardonic smirk. “That’s why I came to you.”
“Well, then.” Her eyes twinkle. “Let me tell you all about Ian. He is so unbelievably…” Courtney rambles on about the new guy as we amble toward the aqua house. We head up the driveway where healthy weeds sprawl out of the cracks. The neglect eats at me, reminding me of what happened to our house after my dad moved out. I push back the memory and curse my mind for its uncanny ability to construct an instantaneous bridge between the painful past and the present.
That’s why I envy amnesiacs: They can erase the past and start over again. Well, wouldn’t that be nice?
I also envy people with money. No matter what they say, it really can buy happiness. Trust me, I know. My family used to have money—lots and lots of glorious money. Now we just have debt. When my mom pays the bills, she sits at the kitchen table, hunched over, and shakes her head, mumbling some nonsense about me getting a job. I’m not a spoiled brat, but I play basketball on the elite circuit. I’m good, really good, and the coach waives most of the fees. So it doesn’t cost her that much. But if I quit the team, it would cost me my future, which, right now, is all I really have…
…which brings me back to amnesia…
If I only had a future, and not a past, I could focus all my energy on basketball. I’d be unstoppable. I conjure up thoughts of my own awesomeness and picture myself flying toward the net in a spiraling jump shot. I slam the ball into the basket, and the crowd roars with enthusiasm.
“Well, do you?” Courtney interrupts.
“Uh…do I what?”
“Want to go to the game?”
“What game?” I ask.
“Forget
it.”
“Good.”
Courtney and I reach the front door, but she doesn’t knock. She opens the door, marches across the threshold, and snakes through the packed crowd. I follow and try not to take a whiff of the foul ambience: a manly meld of locker room sweat, stale beer, and pepperoni pizza. We step deeper into the family room where the music vibrates the walls and drowns out conversations. Courtney stops in front of a tall, blonde guy. He is insanely cute with his disheveled, sun-streaked hair and body-building physique. His chest swells under his tight, grey T-shirt, and Courtney rushes in for a hug. She finds his lips, kisses him gratuitously, and then turns to face me again. “Callie, this is Ian. Isn’t he hot?”
I smile, somewhat uncomfortably, and notice how Ian winces at the introduction. He steps forward with an outstretched hand, and I accept his warm handshake. “Nice to meet you, Callie,” he hollers above the bass. “Courtney’s told me all about you.”
“All good, I hope.”
“Yep, nothin’ but,” he returns. “Can I get you something to drink?” He pantomimes a glass and tilts it toward his lips.
I shake my head, but Courtney always wants one.
Ian leans closer to me. “You don’t drink?”
“Nope, not anymore.”
Ian smiles broadly. “Really? That’s cool.” I wonder why this impresses him since he happens to be holding a bottle of beer.
For over a month now, I have sworn off alcohol and pretty much avoided the party scene altogether. Our close friend Chloe was date raped at a party—one that happened at Courtney’s house nonetheless, and it was pretty obvious that the culprit slipped a Rufie into her drink. Just thinking of that night makes me want to be anywhere but at a drinking party, but I say nothing and follow Courtney and Ian into the cramped kitchen. Ian rifles through the fridge and returns with a couple of beers and a bottle of water for me.
“In case you get thirsty, Callie,” he says in my ear. Then he slides back with a warm smile and then I place him; he’s one of those good-looking guys who gets all the girls but still remembers what his mama taught him.
Really, I prefer that kind; my last boyfriend, however, required training. Not to be mean or anything, but he was not a quick learner. After months of dating, I would still stand in front of the door and wait for him to open it. More often than not, he would make some snide remark like “What? Your arm broken?”
I look up at the perpetually smiling Ian and thank him for the water.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” he replies with a wide grin.
Then a guy saunters up behind Ian and clasps his shoulders, and Ian turns to start up a conversation with him. I shout-whisper my approval in Courtney’s ear. “I like him. He seems nice.” I leave out the “hot” part, since Courtney might get all possessive on me. She’s weird like that. She always asks if I think her man is hot, but if I agree with her, then she thinks I want him.
“Yeah, he’ll do,” she returns with a sassy smirk, “for now.”
“Oh, that’s nice.”
She spreads her hands to the side and smiles. “Well, you know me.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She drops her jaw, acting offended.
Then I shake my head and shrug.
Some friendships make sense; some don’t. Courtney and I don’t make any sense, but history explains our connection. Courtney has been best friends with Chloe Preston for years, and Chloe dated my brother Landon several summers ago. Their middle school romance didn’t last long, but Chloe and I formed a close friendship. And being besties with Chloe means being friends with Courtney.
Now, Chloe Preston gets my total respect. For starters, the girl can really move on the court. She may lack finesse, but she makes up for it with effort. Back in middle school, back before we had drinking parties every weekend, Chloe, Courtney, and I used to play H-O-R-S-E at Rob Callahan’s house. Rob, Courtney’s next-door neighbor and Chloe’s boyfriend, had the go-to house in middle school—basketball net, huge pool, and the cookie-baking, glass-of-lemonade kind of mom.
When we played H-O-R-S-E, Courtney would get out with five consecutive misses. We’d all crack up when she got “HO” because, even back in middle school, she was, well, a bit of a slut. Chloe, however, would hang in there, always celebrating with each basket. Then Rob and I would duke it out, and every once in a while, he would actually beat me.
Those were the good years of friendship, the simpler years. That was when I could be friends with Courtney and not wonder why. Now I wonder why, adding it to all the things that don’t make sense in my life.
I take a sip of water and watch as Ian turns back around. His friend, about my height and decent looking, moves next to me. “So what’s your name?”
“Callie.”
He nods. “My name’s Doug. That's ‘god’ spelled backwards…” He pauses to wink. “…with ‘u’ all wrapped up in me.”
My mouth pops open. “You did not just say that!”
He starts chuckling. “Ah, I’m just kidding with you.”
“Good.”
Doug eyes my water. “So…can I get you a real drink?” His voice drops lower as he slides closer to me. Then I realize his age—probably early twenties.
“Nah, I’m good.” I take another sip of water.
“You live ’round here?”
“Nope.”
“On vacation?”
“Something like that.”
“How long?”
“A few days.” I shrug. “Maybe longer.”
“That’s good.” Doug inches closer. “Real good.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, and it slides slowly down my bare arm. “You having a good time?”
“Um…I just got here.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grins. “I saw you walk in.” He leans in closer. “I mean, what guy wouldn’t notice a girl like you?”
I freeze, not sure what to say. I lift my water bottle, about to take another sip, when the crowd shoves me toward Doug. Water trickles down my tank top and pools in my bra. Doug steadies me by sliding a hand across my lower back.
“It’s really crowded in here,” I shout. “And loud.”
“Yeah, you wanna’ go somewhere else?”
“Um…” I glance above the crowd, searching for Courtney and Ian.
Doug leans in closer, his arm resting across my back and his hand cupping my waist. “Like my bedroom?” His suggestion slides out with his beer breath. “That way we could get to know each other…better.” His hand moves under my tank top and his fingertips trickle across my skin. “Know what I’m saying?”
“Uh…no…I mean yes…but no.” I turn and search for Courtney. “I need to find my friend.”
“Okay, but don’t go too far,” he begins with a low snicker, “or I’ll have to find you.”
I bolt from his grasp and start searching for Courtney and Ian. I holler “excuse me” to an unyielding mass of partiers, but no one seems to notice, or move, for that matter. I squeeze through the sweaty bodies and feel a sudden urge to take a long, hot shower. As I glide through the family room, some random guy grabs my butt. I turn to say something, but he and his moronic friends just laugh, so I narrow my eyes and mouth an expletive. When I open the sliding glass door, I discover Courtney on the porch, pressed up against a wall. Ian’s driving his tongue down her throat, and her hands tug at his shirt, exposing his tanned back. Ian and Courtney keep at it, looking like they could do it vertically if given a few more minutes, so I cough to announce my presence. Ian glances in my direction and takes a sudden step back. “Um, we were just…uh…” he begins.
“I know what you were doing. I’m not five, you know?”
He juts out his jaw and nods before he takes a few sips of beer.
I step toward Courtney. “I’m ready to go.”
“Why?”
“Because this party sucks.”
The door slides open and a few more people add to the head count on the back porch.
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“Yeah, it’s getting a little out of hand,” Ian admits after he chugs the rest of his beer and adds it to the collection on the patio table. “How ’bout we head to the movies?” He glances at his watch. “We could make a midnight showing.”
*****
The Secrets We Keep Page 2
