Two Roads from Here

by Teddy Steinkellner

  “Well,” the doggish one said. “It was yesterday evening. After Jeopardy! before Wheel. We were sitting here, minding our business, playing our bridge, when in walks the Duke with that big ol’ cowboy hat of his.”

  “And that big ol’ grin.”

  “That’s right, Maggie. So we’re sitting there, us girls, and Duke struts up to Estelle, and it’s been some time since his wife passed, you’ll remember, and he comes right up to her, hands on his hips, and he says, ‘I been lookin’ for a companion, miss. And I think you’ll do just fine.’ ”

  “Oh my goodness,” Allie said, her eyes all lit up, her hands clasped together. “And what did Estelle say to that?”

  “Well,” the jowly lady continued. “Estelle about fainted from shock, as you might expect, and she put her hand to her heart, and she said—”

  I coughed right then.

  The woman stopped talking. All three heads turned to look at me.

  “What are you doing here?” Allegra said.

  “Babe,” I said. “Can we chat for a sec?”

  Allegra frowned. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “Is this him?” Inez said in old-person whisper. “From all your stories?”

  “He’s handsome,” Maggie said. “Nice head of hair.”

  “I need a minute, Allie,” I said. “That’s all. Just a minute of your time.”

  Allegra turned to her geezer friends. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I have to take care of this.”

  She got out of her seat and led me to a corner, over near the jigsaw-puzzle table. “What do you want?”

  I smiled as big as the moon. “You,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry about the video—”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “I’m sorry I trusted Cole—”

  “It’s not just that.”

  “I’m sorry I . . . Hey, it’s not the sex stuff, is it? That’s not important to me, not at all. We can take it super-slow.”

  Allegra took a quick peek over her shoulder and a small step in. The next thing she said, she said quietly. “Brian. I accept your apologies. I truly do.”

  “I’m not an asshole,” I said.

  “I know,” she said, shaking her hair out, letting some curls fall. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re sensitive, and affectionate with my family, and you were considerate to give me space over spring break, and you’re hilarious, and you’re resilient, and Maggie is right, you know: You’re very, very handsome.”

  I smiled at that final word. I took a step toward her. I stood over her now.

  “Awesome,” I said. “That’s awesome. So, like, if you accept my apology, and it turns out you want me after all, then, like . . . will you go to prom with me?”

  Allie tore away. She strode across the room, and the way she was leaving, so steady, so sure of herself, it was as if she was getting a do-over of the day we first met, back when she almost pulled away forever in her car. She was escaping, like the princess fleeing from Donkey Kong; she was disappearing to her castle, where she could be safe from the monkey forever. Goddammit, she was at the other end of the room now, back to the wrinkled ladies, and as she sat down, right before she blocked me out, right before she turned away for good, she said one final thing.

  “I’m sorry, Brian. I am so sorry. Part of me will always love you . . . But you can’t take me to the prom. I’m going with someone else.”

  • • •

  Keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.

  Allie still likes me. Of course she does. She’s pissed about what Cole and I did, but time will take care of that. She just wants to own her power for a hot minute. I respect that. She was testing me that day, that’s all. For sure there’s no other prom date. That’s some jealous-making nonsense. That’s just mind games bullshit.

  I have to stay the course. Remain positive. Keep on smiling. Fix the past.

  I found Nikki after school today, outside the library. She was standing off by herself, wearing a gray DCCC sweatshirt with the hood all the way up.

  “Um,” I said. “Hey.”

  Nikki blinked, lots of times. I realized she wasn’t going to say a word, not until I gave her some of the right ones.

  “So I know this is awk. I know we haven’t spoken in months. But can I have a sec? I promise I won’t give you any more crap about that video, because you don’t deserve that.”

  She paused for a moment. She flicked her head back, releasing her hood and throwing her wavy brown hair over her shoulder. “All right,” she said.

  “I’m just trying to reach out, make amends, be a better man than I’ve been before.”

  Nikki nodded. “That’s sweet.”

  I cracked my knuckles on each of my hands. “Yeah, so I need to apologize. It was a dumbass thing I did. Like, yeah, I was pissed at you for choreographing that hurtful dance and for choosing DeSean over me. But we never should have gone after you, and you know, above all, I never should have signed off on it. I never should have said yes to Cole sending out that link—”

  I wasn’t prepared for it. Nikki’s face, it just fell. Normal one moment, devastated the next. She was one of those flowers that wilts all fast in a nature movie. It was hard to watch.

  “That,” she struggled to say. “That. That was you?”

  “Shit,” I said. “I thought you knew.”

  “About Cole, yes. But not about you.”

  “I’m sorry, dude. Big-time. I really am.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Come on, I’m trying to—”

  “Now.”

  “I will, I will, but—”

  “Stop harassing me.”

  • • •

  It was my turn to slump.

  I walked from the library to the front of campus, to the big green lawn. Everyone else had gone home by this point. I plopped down on the grass and sat there for hours.

  I stared at the street in front of me. I watched the cars go by. For a minute I thought, Hey, maybe it’ll be like last time. Someone will come, someone unexpected, and they’ll drive on over, and they’ll say a friendly hello, and they’ll pick me up, in more ways than one.

  But what am I, five? What a baby-ass thought. That kind of shit never happens. Not when you’ve made the dumbest possible choice at every turn. Not when no one likes you.

  So I just sat there. I sat on the lawn till my butt went numb, just plucking grass, dumb as I ever was.

  * * *

  15. NIKKI FOXWORTH

  * * *

  All we did, all spring break long, was watch movies. Every night, Wiley would show up at my front door, bearing an armful of old DVDs. We’d go down to my basement, taking every unhealthy snack in my kitchen along with us. And we’d just go all night, binging on munchie after munchie, movie after movie. Wiley wanted to show me all of his favorites, which meant by the end of the week, I think we watched every film ever made.

  Wiley wanted to show me his favorite face-switching movie, so we watched Face/Off. Then his favorite schoolchildren murdering each other movie, so we watched Battle Royale. Then his favorite sad orgy movie, so we watched Eyes Wide Shut. Then his favorite movie where hip-hop dancers have to band together in order to save their rec center from being turned into a shopping mall, all through the power of funk—Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.

  And then, this past weekend, Wiley had an epiphany. He figured that since I’m the “hottest girl at school,” and since he’s “some random loser dork,” then why not cap off our marathon in appropriate style, with a series of exclusively hot girl and loser dork movies?

  So we did. We watched Clueless, and Heathers, and Mean Girls, and Bring It On. And we watched Weird Science, and Revenge of the Nerds, and Never Been Kissed, and Lucas.

  And last night, the final weekend night of break, we finally did it.

  We watched Wiley’s favorite film from his favorite genre. The greatest hot girl/nerdy guy movie in cinematic history . . .

  The Breakfast Club.

 
; Golly, that whole week with Wiley was so unbelievably sweet. So simple, so blissful, so innocent . . .

  Well, fine. I’ll admit.

  It wasn’t that innocent.

  We did smoke about a million pounds of weed.

  • • •

  “Oh my Lord,” I said. “That was amazing.”

  We were outside, in the middle of the construction site formerly known as the spot, sitting on a blanket, underneath the stars.

  “My parents never let me watch The Breakfast Club growing up,” I said. “They said it was sinful.” I finished rolling my joint and licked the end to seal it. “Thank you, Wiley, for showing it to me.”

  “Of course,” he said as he tossed his head back and took a pull from the handle. Besides smoking, we were drinking vodka. It was like we wanted to be even more of a high school fantasy than the movie we’d just watched.

  I lit the end of the jay. “Only one thing about the movie bothered me, though.”

  “What?”

  I took a long hit. I exhaled a puff of smoke. “The ending.”

  Wiley squinted. “What do you mean?”

  I reached for the Smirnoff to double-fist with my weed. I twisted it open and took a sip. It burned my brain in the nicest way.

  “So it goes like this, yeah? The asshole bully gets to score with the queen bee girl. And the jock guy gets to hook up with the crazy dandruff girl, after she puts on mascara at least. But, like . . .what about Anthony Michael Hall?”

  Wiley shook his head. “What about him?”

  “Well,” I said. “He doesn’t get to hook up with anyone. He has to stay by himself and write the paper.”

  Wiley nodded. “Well,” he said. “He’s a loser.”

  “Right,” I said. “He’s a loser. But the appropriate way for the story to end would be with him becoming a winner. He should be the one to hook up with Molly Ringwald, not the bully.”

  Wiley laughed. “Why is that?”

  “Because,” I said, passing the joint to Wiley. “Everyone deserves a win sometimes.”

  He scoffed. “Really,” he said. “Everyone deserves a win.”

  I placed my hand on his knee. “Yessir.”

  He took a hit from the jay. “Even losers?”

  “Even losers.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Even losers?”

  I tossed my hair back over my shoulder. I lowered my voice. “Yes, Wiley. Especially losers.”

  • • •

  It happened so damn fast.

  Wiley read my signal. He leaned across the blanket and planted a big-time kiss on me. His little peach fuzzies brushed against my face. I liked the way it felt. He tasted like a mix of alcohol and Swedish Fish. I liked the way he tasted.

  He was an excellent kisser. Stunningly good considering I am five hundred percent positive he had never kissed a girl in his life before me. Maybe it’s all those hours he’s spent watching romantic movies, researching proper techniques. Or perhaps our kiss was some kind of destiny.

  We took turns being in control. I lay on the blanket and Wiley kissed me from above. Then I straddled him and gave him kiss after kiss after kiss, some hard, some soft, all of them warm and caring.

  Before anything crazy happened, I thought it’d be best if we went inside.

  My parents were out all evening, drinking endlessly and avoiding thinking about me. Still, it was fun to pretend like we might get caught, so Wiley and I snuck down to the basement, holding our breath, snickering all the while.

  As we kissed on the futon, our bodies all sprawled, we went faster than before, faster and harder, going purely off pleasure, like people in a movie. I don’t want to say which kind of movie.

  I made the first real move. I reached for the bottom of Wiley’s wolf shirt and pulled it over his head. It was the cutest how he looked when I did it, all wide-eyed and confused. He got the idea, though, and unbuttoned my blouse.

  Then we were in our pants, and then our underwear, and he was running his hands over my bare skin, and I loved the way it felt, and he told me I looked so hot, and he didn’t look so bad himself, and we kept going, kept grinding, kept tasting.

  And I rushed through the next part, like I always do. I asked if he had protection, and he shook his head no, but I said it’s okay, I got you. I covered myself in a blanket and I grabbed a condom from my room. I came back, and he was covering his chest and stomach with his hands, looking shy. At the same time, though, I saw it in his eyes. He looked ready.

  I positioned myself. I positioned him. I peeled off my bra and said, “Don’t be nervous. I’ll help you, sweets.”

  And before I knew it, he was doing it.

  We were doing it.

  And then one, two, fifteen seconds later—

  We were done.

  And then one, two, three seconds after that—

  Wiley fell asleep.

  And as I lay on the futon, with his arm draped across my torso, with his head resting where my breast meets my shoulder, as he mumbled in his sleep, as he snored and dribbled all over my body, as I went back over the past few minutes, over everything that had somehow just happened . . .

  I really just wanted to hit rewind.

  • • •

  “Wha? What’s going on?”

  “It’s six in the morning. Your mom just texted. You have to go home.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “You fell asleep after the movie. I let you sleep through the night. That’s all.”

  “Really? I could have sworn we—”

  “Fine, we kissed a little bit, but it was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come on, Wiley. Let’s get up.”

  “Wait—”

  “Rise and shine. I have church.”

  “Wait . . .”

  Wiley glanced around the basement, his eyes empty. “We kissed?”

  I nodded. I tried to smile. “It was an accident.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Oh.”

  I nudged him off the couch. I helped put his shoes and socks on. I prodded his body up the stairs. He lurched forward step by step. He moved like molasses. Still, we were almost at the top. He was almost out the door, nearly gone for good.

  “Hold up . . . Why is my shirt on backward?”

  A chill shot through my chest. He couldn’t know.

  “Wiley, it was like that the entire time. I promise.”

  He put his fingers to his wispy mustache. He thought for a moment. Then he nodded. “Oh.”

  It was only as he got farther from my front door, as he got closer to his car. That’s when I noticed it.

  That’s when I spotted the wolf.

  That face. That ridiculous face that was supposed to be on the front of his shirt. As Wiley walked away, it stared back at me. Fangs bared, tongue dripping with blood, eyes glowing bright. Those yellow eyes with the tiny black centers. They had something to say:

  I know what you are.

  I know where you’ve been.

  And wherever you go . . .

  Whatever you do . . .

  Whoever you thought you could become . . .

  It doesn’t matter.

  I know what you did.

  ROAD TWO

  * * *

  SPRING

  11. WILEY OTIS

  WILEY!

  “WILEY OTIS!

  “DO!

  “NOT!

  “JUMP!!!”

  I teetered at the edge of the roof. The wind was howling. My hands were wobbling. The campus buildings and neighborhood houses below me looked so small, like Lego bricks. The tiny people milling about, they were like ants, completely unaware of the story unfolding above them.

  I heard the footsteps behind me, rushing toward me. I spun around. Cole was there, completely out of breath. There was a heroic glint in his eye.

  “Wiley,” he said. “Wiley, my boy. Don’t do this to yourself. You have so much . . . to live for!”

  He extended a han
d in slow motion. He stared deep into my eyes.

  And he winked.

  Nope. Too cheesy.

  “Cut!” I shouted, unpressing the record button and putting down my phone.

  “Hey, man,” I said. “I like the effort, but a little heavy on the melodrama, yeah? Maybe next take, don’t gun so hard for the Oscar.”

  “But I’m so deserving of the award,” Cole said. “I’ve gone full method and shed seventy-five pounds in order to truly inhabit the role of Cole Martin-Hammer.”

  “Let’s try again. This time, go for subtlety.”

  Cole tilted his head. “Subtly . . . erotic?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Actors.”

  “Okay, okay. Quiet on the set. Rolling, aaand . . . action!”

  • • •

  For the past two months, since the day Cole stormed out of rehearsal and spotted me on the roof—when, like, obviously I wasn’t trying to do anything; I mean, come on; I mean, seriously—ever since that day, we’ve been the thickest of thieves. Come to think of it, maybe that’s the real reason my hands and feet decided to take me to the top of the theater that afternoon. The universe must have wanted me to meet Cole.

  Throughout the first three-plus years of high school, he and I never had much to do with each other. Aside from the fact that we both gave Allegra the occasional migraine, we had nothing uniting us. But since fate or whatever has brought us together, we’ve discovered that we actually have a shocking amount in common. We’re both completely over caring about schoolwork. We’re both cool with never discussing our family situations at all. We both love watching movies—him with his musicals, me with my eighties flicks, my black-and-white classics, my Japanese experimental cinema, and my puppet porn. We’ll plow through three, four films in a single sitting after school, and the only time it gets even the least bit awkward is during a boring scene, when Cole occasionally tries to bring up his gossip stuff and I have to tell him not right now. I don’t want to talk crap about people. I don’t like talking about Nikki. I don’t like thinking about Allegra. I just want to watch the movie.