by Barry Lyga
After a minute or two that last eternities, Roland opens up the dance floor to everyone else, and a throng of bodies joins Zik, Michelle, Rachel, and me.
We dance our way close to Zik and Michelle, who are off in a world of their own, Zik's hands plastered to Michelle's naked back, Michelle pressed against him, her body conforming to his like Africa and South America before the world's plate tectonics did the geologic shuffle.
Just then the DJ segues into a new, faster song, loud with lots of percussion and a backbeat that threatens to pound my brain out my ears.
"I stuffed the ballot box!" Zik shouts over the music, but even with the shouting, only I can hear him.
"You what?"
"For you!" he yells. "Not me!"
And then he dances away with Michelle.
The music's changed; couples around us are breaking apart, spinning off into whirls of color and clothes. Rachel isn't changing her pace, though, still clinging to me, her head on my shoulder.
I feel a surge of anger at Zik for doing this to me, for putting me in the spotlight like this when he knows that all I've ever wanted is to be invisible.
But then Rachel adjusts herself slightly against me. She's smiling. We're slow-dancing to some hip-hop song, a bubble of quiet in a sea of thrashing bodies. I look down at my prom princess and let the anger melt away.
Chapter 18
Before the Past Returns
The suite Michelle reserved is smaller than I thought it would be, but pleasant enough. Michelle and Rachel go into the bedroom and change into sweats. Zik and I just strip off our tux jackets and ties.
We order junk from room service before they shut down for the night: hot wings, potato skins with artery-clogging cheese and bacon, fried mozzarella sticks with marinara, and thick slices of cheesecake with fruit sauces drizzled on top.
We stuff ourselves with the lights out, the Tv playing a goofy romantic comedy on pay-per-view, and as we all get more and more tired and giggly, the room devolves into stupid jokes, laughter, endless snickering at half-remembered silliness from our shared childhood. I feel like my gut's going to explode from the laughing and the enormous quantity of calories I'm inhaling, but I don't care. I'm with my friends and it feels good.
"...the Spermling looked like he was gonna tackle you," Rachel says to Michelle.
"Oh! My! God!" Michelle squeals. "I know! It was so. Creepy. I think he sweated on me before Maggie got in the way."
"If he'll change my grade in sociology," Zik says, "I'd let him sweat on you."
"Oh, thanks for standing up for me, sweetheart."
"Let him sweat on you," I tell Zik.
"The Spermling's not gay," Rache says. "He's married"
"The Spermling goes both ways, all ways..." I crack up before I can finish.
"He was like..." Zik starts, "'Let me help you with that sash...'" and mimes pawing between Michelle's breasts. Michelle squeals and bats his hands away.
"Yeah, he didn't come after me, you'll notice," Rachel says. "How could he resist these?" And she looks down her sweatshirt. "They're here somewhere..."
By four in the morning, I'm so tired that I'm laughing at things even when no one's saying anything. I'm such a sleep pussy. Rachel and Michelle are still going strong, and Zik's antsy but awake. The Tv is still going, playing some HBO special on sex, so there's a constant parade of naked fat people on the screen.
Finally, Rachel and Michelle traipse off to the bedroom to change. Zik and I strip down. I sleep in boxer shorts, but I throw on a T-shirt since I'll be with Rachel. We shove the detritus of our party into the trash can, filling it to overflowing, then stack what remains next to the can. It's a precarious tower of plates, cups, bottles, and food carnage.
By the light of the TV, we unfold the couch and I put sheets on it as Zik moves some more trash around.
"Hope you didn't mind being prom prince," Zik says after a little bit. "I thought you deserved it, though. It was a nice little fuck-you to the people who've been assholes to you, you know?"
"Yeah. It's cool, Zik."
"I know you hate being the center of attention," he goes on. "But it's not like she was at the prom."
"What do you mean?" But I know what he means.
Zik punches my shoulder. "Dude, don't play games with me. I hang with you, remember? You're always looking around. I figure you're looking for, y'know, Mrs. Sherman."
"I didn't—"
"She wasn't at prom, though, OK? So you can chill."
"I'm not—"
"Dude. J. She's been out of jail for a month. If she was gonna come after you, she would have by now."
Zik has a way of cutting straight to the core of something. I don't know if Rachel told Michelle any of the stuff I told her that night at SAMMPark. If she did, then Michelle definitely told Zik, because Michelle tells Zik everything. But I don't think Rachel talked. I just think Zik's figured that it's time to tell me what he figured out a thousand years ago and has been sitting on since then.
"Maybe she would," I allow. "Maybe not."
He considers this for a moment, glancing toward the bedroom door like he's about to reveal a state secret and wants to make sure we won't be interrupted.
"If you're really worried about it," he says slowly, "you should, y'know, go all football on her."
"Huh?"
"You know—best defense is a good offense. Take the fight to her. Find her before she finds you."
"I don't get it. What do you mean?" Find Eve? Go find her?
"Dude, she's a registered sex offender. All you have to do is go online. You can find out where she lives and everything."
I feel like a complete moron. Of course. He's right. Eve isn't in a shadow somewhere or a hiding behind a tree. She's right where I can find her—at home. And if I go online and nothing comes up, well ... That tells me that she's not in the state anymore, right?
God! All along! All along, the answer was literally at my fingertips.
I can't help it—I hug Zik. "Thanks, man."
"Dude! Homo alert! Homo alert!"
I skeeve him out a bit more by planting a big wet kiss on his cheek.
"You're so gay!" he complains.
"I'm comfortable with my masculinity."
"That's fine—just don't be so comfortable with my masculinity, y'know?"
Just then, the bedroom door opens. I don't know what I expected, but it's just Rachel standing there in what look like pretty boring pajamas—buttoned-down top, long sleeves, long pants with frills at the cuffs, all in a soft blue. Standard girl-issue.
"She's ready for you," Rachel says, and Zik hops up, darts into the bedroom, and slams the door.
"Man, he never moves that fast!" I'm joking with Rachel because now this is it. We're getting into this bed—sofa—together. We're getting under the covers. We're turning out the light. Unless I decide to try sleeping in the car or the bathtub, this is it.
And no way in hell am I ready for it.
"If you saw how she was dressed, you would have moved that fast, too."
"Oh? Why's she all dolled up?"
She leans against the archway that leads into the bath room. She doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come over here. "She's going to rock his world. Sorry that I'm just wearing this." She indicates her boring PJs.
"That's OK."
"It's just that, well, they're spicing up their sex life. And we don't have a sex life."
That does it—I freeze up. I stare at the floor.
She sits next to me on the bed and takes my hand in both of hers. "It's all right. We're gonna take this slow, OK?"
Kennedy was right; I should have talked to her. I should have been talking to her all along. But I didn't know how to bring it up without making Rachel feel like it's her fault. It's not that I don't want to be with her. It's that I'm not sure how to be with anyone other than...
"Turn off the TV, Josh."
I hit the remote and the room goes dark, except for an after-image of the TV screen that f
loats, ghostly, in naked space before fading behind my eyes.
"Rache..."
"Shh..." Leaning against me, her breath warm against my cheek. "It'll be OK."
But my heart's jackhammering and I close my eyes because it's too dark. She moves in the darkness next to me and then we're lying down next to each other, her fingers skipping over my chest, lightly. My entire body's on fire, with cool traces where she touches me.
And then her lips on mine. Her body so close, one knee coming up, sliding against my leg, God, the rustle of fabric, the weight of her leg thrown across my thighs.
Her breath quickens as we kiss, her hands touching my chest, stomach, shoulders. She's everywhere at once. It's too familiar for me, in some ways. It's like being back in the closet with Rachel, with Zik and Michelle just a few yards away, through a door. Only now I'm not thirteen. And neither is Rachel. Now I know more. And, somehow, less.
Her hand slips under my T-shirt and I hear myself groan deep in my chest. She licks my ear and says, "Josh. Josh, unbutton my top."
I can't.
"Josh, please. Please."
I'm flickering. I'm back in the closet and in the closet I'm flickering, a flicker within a flicker, an infinite loop, I'm in the closet and I'm back with Eve. I'm twelve years old and I don't understand but I don't care if I understand because Eve's touching me, she's telling me what to do, how to do it, how to make it better and best.
My body jerks back into the present. Rachel's lying on top of me. Her top is unbuttoned somehow. Did I do that? In the darkness, she's an outline over me, thinly seen in the murk. My hands move of their own accord, exploring, peeling the opened top down her shoulders; her breath hisses and I flicker to Eve's bedroom, her leg cocked as she sleeps, back to the present, my hands tensed and tightened, ready to grab Eve—no—Rachel, grab and—
Stop it!
"Josh, please. God, Josh, don't you know I want you? Please?"
I push Rachel off me, my hands burning where I touch her skin. I'm cheating. I'm not supposed to do this. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm flickering in and out, of the closet, of Eve's apartment. I'm being unfaithful, cheating on Eve with Rachel, cheating on Rachel with Eve. I roll over onto my side and clench my teeth. My gut is on fire. Tears flare at the corners of my eyes.
Oh, God, I've ruined it. I've ruined it, like I always do.
Rachel lies behind me, not moving. Her weight's a tug on the sheets, on the mattress, like gravity, pulling me. I resist, curled up on my side like a baby.
"I'm sorry," I tell her. I say it so quietly that I'm not even sure she can hear me.
And it's not enough. It can never be enough. I've apologized too many times; it starts to lose its meaning after a while.
I should tell her that it's not her. That it's not her fault, that she's beautiful and warm and sexy and that any man with a brain and a working cock would be an idiot not to yearn for her, not to worship every last inch of her. That I'm damaged, broken, a bizarre temporal conjoined twin—half of me stuck here, the other half still living five years ago, connected by flickers like electric sparks in old horror movie laboratories.
"I swear to God, Rache. I swear it has nothing to do with you."
"It's her, isn't it?" Her voice low and sad in the dark.
"No. Not her." My voice catches. "Me. It's just what I am."
"That's bullshit, Josh. You don't have to be anything you don't want to be. You can't keep acting like five years haven't gone by. Something has to have changed in five years."
I don't know what to say to that. I owe her something. I owe her an explanation. A boyfriend who's not a time-traveler. More than I am, no more than she deserves.
"Rachel, you can't unswing at a pitch. Once your wrist breaks, that's it—it's a strike. You can't take it back."
"Will you at least look at me?"
I roll over onto my back. My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that I can just barely make her out, faintly luminous next to me. As I watch, she shrugs her top back on, leaving it unbuttoned, completely unselfconscious. "I think I'm in love with you, Josh. No, don't say anything. Just let me talk.
"I'm not going to pretend that I know everything or even that I know exactly how I feel. Everything in my mind tells me to run like hell away from you. But everything in my body can't stay away from you. And I've learned to trust that. You can't think through every pitch, every at bat, every line drive. You go on instinct. You go by feel and taste and smell and sound. Sometimes those things just bypass your brain and go deeper. That's how it is with you, Josh. I can't stay away from you, even though that would probably be the best for me. And I don't know if that's love or not, but it seems like it to me."
"Rache..."
"Shh." She covers my mouth with her hand. "Don't. If you say it back to me, it means nothing right now. And if you say you don't—I don't know. I don't know what that will do. So just don't say anything, OK?"
I nod. She releases my mouth.
She curls up next to me. "Can you put your arms around me? Is that OK? Or is that too much?"
I fold my arms around her, her body a long, firm warmth. "Yeah. This is OK." I kiss the top of her head and even as I do it, I realize that Mom and Eve both used to do that to me all the time.
We lie like that for a while. I think I drift in and out of sleep, or it might be flickers. I don't know. Pressed against me, Rachel becomes almost a part of me, our body temperatures matching, mingling, fusing as we breathe in syncopation. And then she says: "Josh?" her voice rising up from a welter of half memories and half dreams, so soft and quiet that at first I think it is a dream.
"Josh?"
"Yeah?"
"Tell me the rest. Tell me the stuff you didn't tell me before."
"It's not going to change anything."
"I know."
Flashbacks, Not Flickers (II)
14
"What the hell is going on down there?"
That's what I remember in the eye-blinking moments of light after the closet door flung open and Rachel ran screaming up the stairs: Rachel's dad yelling from upstairs, asking pretty much the same thing I was wondering as I sat on the closet floor. What the hell is going on down here?
In here?
In me?
Zik and Michelle were on the sofa across the room, clutching each other tightly, caught midclinch when Rachel burst from the closet. Zik's hand was up Michelle's shirt and they were both just frozen, looking over at the closet.
Then they broke apart and Michelle jumped up, pulled down her shirt, and ran to the stairs. Zik scrambled over to the closet as Michelle's footsteps followed Rachel's up the stairs.
"Dude." Zik's face lurked in the rectangle of light that was the closet door. "Dude, what happened?"
I hardly knew. I stared at him.
"Hey, J? What's that?" He pointed to my right hand, which was clenched in a fist. I looked down at it as if I'd never had a right hand before in my life, as if it had just grown there as part of some puberty ritual.
I was clutching Rachel's panties, the edges torn and shredded.
"Oh, shit," Zik said, just as the boom of footsteps sounded overhead. Mrs. Madison shrieked.
"Oh, shit," he said again, and I dropped the panties and spastically lashed out with my foot, kicking them as far back into the darkness of the closet as they would go.
Zik looked over his shoulder and moved out of the way just as an enormous shadow filled the closet door. Rachel's dad snarled and reached into the closet, grabbing my wrist and yanking me to my feet with such savage strength that I thought he had pulled my arm out of the socket.
My legs, nerveless, wouldn't support me—they dangled from my hips like pants on the clothesline. He dragged me across the carpet and up the stairs. I tried to keep up with him, tried to make my feet and legs work, but I couldn't find my footing on the stairs and he just kept pulling up and on, up and on.
Upstairs, Rachel and her mom were in the corner of the living room. Michelle was near
them, stroking Rachel's hair. Rachel wouldn't look up. Her mom glared at me, weeping. Rachel's brother, Bobby, came out of nowhere and grabbed my other wrist.
"You piece of shit," he said. "I should kick your fucking ass."
Together, they dragged me to the front door, which Mr. Madison opened. "Hold him," he said, and let me go.
Bobby pulled me out onto the front porch. "Don't even think about running," he hissed. He tightened his grip and I finally made my first sound—I cried out.
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"
I shut the fuck up.
***
Mom was there in minutes. She raced up the driveway and onto the front porch, where Bobby had not let go of me with his hand or his eyes. "Into the car," she said. She was trembling, her eyes red from tears. "Into the car now!"
While Mom watched, I went to the car and got inside. Mom went into the house. Bobby sat on the porch and glowered at me. I felt his eyes through the car window, burning me like sunlight focused through a magnifying glass.
I tried to remember exactly what had happened. But I couldn't. I'd flickered. One minute I was kissing Rachel, the next I was with Eve and she was egging me on like she liked to do, urging me to wildness—
Rachel's panties in my hand. God. Oh, God. I felt sick. My stomach tightened and I hung my head out the door. I stared at the asphalt, which swam and churned in front of me. Yeah, I was gonna puke, all right.
But even though my stomach lurched and my throat constricted, nothing happened. It was like being on the precipice of vomiting but never actually plunging over the cliff.
I don't know how long I hung suspended like that, watching the blacktop do its best merry-go-round impression. But I suddenly heard Mom's shoes on the driveway and then she slammed the driver's-side door, almost catapulting me out of the car. "Close the door," she said, her voice vibrating like kite string in a high wind. "Buckle your belt."
The car roared to life and she pulled out into the street. "They're calling the police. The police. And I can't even blame them."
