The Art of Losing

by Lizzy Mason

  Spencer hadn’t said a word about Audrey until now, but that wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t exactly the emotional type. So I let him be, since he seemed to be enjoying himself. Silently. No wonder I liked this kid. A quiet kid was my favorite kind.

  The Nationals eventually won, so Spencer beamed the entire time that we walked to the car. Me . . . not so much.

  We’d sweated buckets and spent exorbitant amounts of money stuffing ourselves with mediocre hot dogs and Cracker Jacks and ice cream. The hallways were mobbed. And loud. Lots of whoops and chants and the occasional person swooping out of nowhere to demand a high five. Almost everyone had stayed until the end of the game and the parking lot was, well, a parking lot. The lines of cars were barely moving.

  Raf let Spencer ride shotgun again so he could dangle his leg out the open door. He was fascinated with the idea that doors could actually be removed. Of course, his mom still made him sit in the back seat of her hybrid sedan with his seat belt fastened before she would even turn on the car.

  Once we were finally on the road, I made Spencer put on his seat belt and promise to keep his arms and legs inside. I may not have thought of buying him a hat, but I’d at least keep him safe.

  After dropping Cassidy off, Raf drove Spencer and me to our neighborhood. He pulled slowly around the cul-de-sac and parked on the street between our houses. Spencer leapt out as soon as the car stopped and ran inside to go to the bathroom, leaving me and Raf alone.

  He offered me his hand to help me out of the back seat.

  “So, tomorrow,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “A couple people from the program are having a party, and I wondered if you’d go with me?”

  I tried not to look as surprised as I felt. “That . . . would be fun,” I said, ignoring the nervous flutter in my stomach that awoke every time I had to be social.

  “Since you offered the other day, I thought maybe you’d want to meet a few of them. Plus, get out of the house, away from the hospital . . . but you don’t have to worry about anyone being drunk.”

  “You don’t have to sell me on it,” I assured him. “I already said yes.”

  He grinned and even pumped his fist before he suddenly got embarrassed and tried to pretend he was just stretching.

  “Get some sleep,” I told him. I couldn’t hide my smile. “I think you’re delirious from all the sun.”

  Raf laughed. “You’re one to talk. I’d forgotten that you had freckles, but now they’re all over your face.” He reached out and brushed a finger down the bridge of my nose, sending a shiver down my spine.

  I could feel the tightness in my skin that told me I had gotten a sunburn. But that was pretty much to be expected when you spend all your time indoors. I could tell my shoulders were going to hurt tomorrow. I should have let Aunt Tilly put sunscreen on me while she was slathering up Spencer.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, sunshine,” Raf said. “Thanks for a great day.”

  One Year Ago

  It was Sunday, two days after the last of our finals. Officially summer. So I woke up in a pretty good mood. I could hear Mom and Dad downstairs talking about their plans for the day. Neither one had decided to wake me, even though it was past ten. Next door, Audrey’s bedroom was silent as I puttered around, showering and drying my hair, even though it was so humid outside that I would just end up pulling it back anyway.

  I was tempted to get back in bed and watch TV, but the sun was out, and it wasn’t blazing hot yet, so I called Cassidy.

  “I’m coming to get you,” I said when she answered. “We’re going on a road trip.”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. “Why?” she asked suspiciously.

  “What do you mean why? Because it’s summer and we’re sixteen and we can.”

  Cassidy was still skeptical. “Where are we going?”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  She was quiet again. “Is Mike coming?” she asked finally.

  And suddenly I understood the reason for her resistance. She and Mike tolerated each other’s presence, at best. On bad days, they fought like a Republican and a Democrat discussing the economy. Except their arguments were about less important things, like which one of them was a better driver, who was the least likable character on a TV show they both watched (and loved spoiling for each other), and whether the local high school needed to change their mascot to be less offensive.

  Cassidy was opinionated. But she wasn’t argumentative. It was a rare combination and one reason why she was so good in student government. The truth is, outside of her family, I had never seen her fight with anyone but Mike. I didn’t know what it was about him that made her so antagonistic, but it was clear to me by then, nearly two years into my relationship with Mike, that they needed to be kept apart.

  “No Mike,” I said. “This is just us and the open road.”

  “Okay,” she said with a relieved sigh. “Then come get me.”

  “Be there in twenty. And wear pants.”

  “Um, I always wear pants?” she said.

  I laughed. “No, I don’t mean ‘wear something to cover your butt.’ I meant actually wear pants. Jeans. And sneakers or boots.”

  She was quiet. Suspicious.

  “Just trust me, okay? I have a plan.”

  “Fine,” she said with a sigh. “See you soon.”

  I texted Mike to let him know that I wasn’t going to be around for the rest of the day and told him not to text me. He said he would try his best and then immediately texted me three more times before I’d even left the house.

  I pulled up in front of Cassidy’s house a half hour later. She opened the front door before I even honked.

  I put on a song I knew she liked as she opened the door.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” she asked. “Am I dying or something? Have you been elected to be my one-woman Make-A-Wish Foundation?”

  I laughed and turned the music down. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I just woke up today and realized I hadn’t spent a single day alone with you since Christmas break. That was six months ago.”

  She had been busy all spring with yearbook and government, but I hadn’t made much effort to see her when she was free. Because the days she had off aligned with the days that Mike was free from his basketball and lacrosse commitments—he had practice on weekdays after school and games on Saturdays. Sundays were our day together, but before Will had changed Cassidy’s schedule, it was also the only day she was free.

  But this Sunday was ours.

  I got on I-95 headed south toward Richmond and Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “Where, exactly, are you taking me?” she asked.

  “If I told you, it’d ruin the surprise,” I said.

  “Kings Dominion?” she guessed. “Busch Gardens? Colonial Williamsburg?”

  “Stop guessing,” I demanded. “And no. Why the hell would I take you to Colonial Williamsburg? To make candles?”

  Cassidy laughed. “Okay, fine. But don’t mock those candles. I made them for my mom that time we went on a field trip, and she said she loved them.”

  I gave her a skeptical glance. “She’s your mom. She had to say that.”

  Cassidy opened her mouth to retaliate but thought better of it. Because obviously I was right.

  Instead, she turned up the radio. With the windows down, we sang along to her favorite band, screaming the words into the wind. And when we pulled up in front of a farm advertising a horse trail, a blueberry patch, and a petting zoo, my best friend grinned.

  “We’re going to pet baby animals, ride horses on a trail through the woods, pick blueberries, and then eat blueberry pie and ice cream until we puke purple,” I announced.

  She reached across the armrest between us and hugged me. Cassidy had ridden horses until eighth grade when her parents told her they couldn’t afford it anymore and she had
to quit. That’s when she took up all the other activities that now filled her days. But I knew she missed it, even if I had never really understood the appeal. But I loved baby animals and blueberry pie. And I loved Cassidy. I reminded myself of that as I hoisted myself up onto the horse I was renting for the morning, and I immediately started sweating.

  It was worth it, though—to see the joy on Cassidy’s face when she leaned down to stroke the neck of her horse. I let her lead the way down the trail, through the sun-dappled forest, smiling at her ramrod-straight posture and the gleeful look in her eyes as she glanced back at me.

  And I didn’t think about Mike at all.

  Chapter Nine

  I regretted agreeing to the party before Raf even texted to say he would meet me at his car. Normally, I would have made an excuse to bail, but I couldn’t do that to Raf. It was a big move for him to be going to this party, and I didn’t want him to skip it just because I was presently a social disaster . . . if not a liability.

  But when I saw Raf waiting in the driver’s seat like Jake Ryan in Sixteen Candles, a movie I had finally watched in Audrey’s hospital room that morning (“Delightfully eighties and perfectly captures first crush angst.”—Audrey’s spot-on review from two years ago), I couldn’t stop myself from climbing into that Jeep. He’d even dressed up a little: he wore a collared shirt over his T-shirt, dark jeans, and a clean pair of sneakers. I appreciated the effort.

  The party was at an apartment, Raf explained while we drove, of some older guys. My anxiety level rose. I’d never been to a party at a grown-up’s place before. But I tried to convey enthusiasm as Raf went on.

  Dave, Arjun, and Juan were roommates who met in AA and stayed sober together for years. And they hosted parties almost every Saturday, Raf said, but he had only been to one of these once before and didn’t know who to talk to or what to do, so after embarrassing himself at a game of cards, he’d left. He thanked me for coming with him three times before we’d even reached the building.

  “I have a confession,” I said as he parked the car, trying my best not to sound too serious but failing.

  “What?” he said. He cut the engine and turned to me, his brow furrowed with concern. He leaned closer.

  “I’m probably not the best wingwoman,” I admitted. My voice sounded weirdly high-pitched in my ears. “I’m terrible at parties. I spend most of them hiding and reading on my phone or talking to the same person, tailing them from room to room so I don’t have to make small talk with other people. Until very recently, that person was Mike.”

  Raf just smiled. “That’s okay,” he said. “As long as we have each other to talk to, it won’t be awkward. How about this? I promise not to leave you if you promise not to leave me.”

  I nodded. My heart was still racing, but it was best to keep my mouth shut. I didn’t want to blurt out what I found myself hoping: that the sentiment didn’t only apply to this party.

  The guy who answered the door had several days’ worth of beard growth and a flannel shirt that only made sense when I walked inside and felt how frigid it was. I immediately regretted my choice of a T-shirt and jeans with flip-flops.

  “Hey, Raf,” the guy said. He extended a hand to me. “I’m Dave.”

  “Harley,” I said, shaking his hand.

  As I shook his hand, I half-expected to smell beer on his breath, but his hands were cool and dry, his eyes clear and crinkled at the corners with his friendly smile. I was so conditioned to being greeted at parties with a blast of drunkenness by hosts much younger than this . . . adult. I felt such a wave of relief that my fingers tingled.

  “Welcome!” Dave said, stepping aside.

  Raf took me on a lap through the apartment, quietly pointing out various people. They all seemed to have nicknames. Like Hippie Jake, the guy who was a walking (well, sitting) stereotype with his Baja hoodie and soul patch, playing guitar in a corner of the living room. Then there was Animal, who had long, stringy hair and was so thin that his tiny T-shirt still billowed around him.

  “He’s a meth addict,” Raf whispered when he saw the concern on my face. “He lost most of his teeth, so eating isn’t exactly a favorite activity. He talks about how much he misses chewing sometimes in meetings.”

  I shook my head, speechless.

  The next girl we ran into was closer to our age. Pretty. And normal-seeming. With her perfect posture and blonde hair, she could have been on our cheerleading squad. “Harley, this is Tina,” Raf said.

  I stuck my hand out, but she pulled me into a hug before I knew what was happening.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Harley,” she murmured. “Welcome.” And then she skipped off, literally skipped, to Dave and an Indian guy in his twenties who I assumed was Arjun. Tina cuddled up next to him, and I caught him sneaking a look down her long-sleeved V-neck shirt. Tina didn’t seem to mind. Maybe they were together. Besides, she wasn’t showing much skin, so I figured she’d spent enough time in the apartment to know that it was freezing. But then she pulled up one of her sleeves to scratch her forearm, and I caught a glimpse of the dark veins that trailed from deep purple track marks. My stomach turned.

  Raf turned toward the kitchen and I trailed behind, following our noses to the source of the scent of frying sausage. Thankfully, it was also about twenty degrees warmer in the kitchen. I sidled up to the stove instinctively. A thirty-something guy, with a grizzly beard and round belly, was transferring the sausage to a rice-based concoction in a second pan. He put the lid on it and wiped his brow with a paper towel.

  “Rafael, my man,” he said as he saw us.

  “Cajun,” Raf answered, doing that dude greeting thing that’s half handshake, half hug. “What are you making tonight?”

  Cajun lifted the lid off the pan. My mouth watered at the spicy, exotic aroma.

  “That’s jambalaya, my friend. It’s going to be orgasmic.” Cajun noticed me standing there and reddened slightly. “Sorry. But really, just wait.”

  “Believe me, I’ll be first in line when you start doling it out,” I answered. “But isn’t jambalaya a little on the nose for someone whose name is Cajun?”

  He laughed, a big, full-bodied laugh that filled the small kitchen and made me feel instantly relaxed. “I guess that’s true, but I didn’t get the nickname because I’m from New Orleans. I just like my food spicy. All of it. Pasta, tacos, vindaloo, fried chicken, Bloody Marys . . . well, I guess not that last one anymore. Virgin Marys just aren’t the same, you know?”

  I smiled and shrugged, not knowing how to answer, or if I should.

  “Um, Cajun, this is Harley,” Raf said, jumping in.

  “Are you a friend of Bill’s?” Cajun asked.

  “No,” I answered. “I’m a friend of Raf’s.”

  Cajun laughed again, and I couldn’t help smiling. His eyes met Raf’s, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. I tilted my head, confused.

  “He meant Bill W.,” Raf said. “He’s the guy who started Alcoholics Anonymous. Cajun’s asking if you’re an alcoholic.”

  “Oh, so ‘friend of Bill’s’ is, like, code?” I asked.

  Raf flashed a grin. “It helps us find each other out in the world,” he said.

  “That’s cool! But no, I’m not.”

  “And that’s cool, too,” Cajun said with a wink. He took a couple of deep breaths. He seemed a little winded from laughing. “Listen, I have to let this sit for about thirty minutes. You guys up for a game of spades?”

  I looked back at Raf. He grimaced. “Like I told you, I’m not very good,” he warned me in a low voice. “But you can be my partner. That way, when we both suck, at least no one will get mad at me.” Clearly, this was a sore spot.

  “I’m in.” I’d never been especially competitive—or good at card games—but it would give me something to do with my hands. Also, we wouldn’t be wandering around the party aimlessly, which was a b
ig plus for me. Being Raf’s wingwoman, even at a completely sober party, didn’t magically turn me into an extrovert.

  Cajun grabbed Dave to be his partner. We sat down at a card table with four mismatched chairs as Cajun dealt the cards. He shuffled and tossed them out with the deftness of a pro. Raf didn’t look particularly happy. We played a practice hand while Dave and Cajun taught me (and retaught Raf) the rules of the game. Or tried anyway. It was complicated. By the end of the practice hand, I was just staring at Raf, silently asking him what he had gotten me into. That prompted a laugh from him, at least.

  When Dave cleared his throat, I realized we’d been gazing at each other for a little too long.

  “We might be in trouble, Cajun,” Dave said. “These two can talk to each other with their eyes.”

  Cajun sniffed. “Do I smell a hustle?”

  “If I was here to hustle you, this would be a pretty long con, wouldn’t it?” Raf said. “Getting myself sent to rehab, going to AA, getting invited to your party, bringing a pretty girl to distract you . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  Cajun’s lips twitched in a smile. “It was the girl that gave you away,” he said. “No girl this beautiful would willingly hang out with a bunch of nut jobs like us.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Dave said, pretending to be offended. “Harley and I are the normal ones here. It’s you two I don’t trust. Can we trade partners?”

  I willed my cheeks not to blush. “I wouldn’t be so quick to assume,” I said. “Have you checked your wallet lately?”

  When Dave reached for his back pocket, we all burst out laughing.

  A half hour later, there was no longer any question about whether we were hustling anyone. Luckily, Raf and I had as much fun losing as Dave and Cajun did winning. And when the game was over, there was jambalaya, which was incredible—savory, with the perfect amount of spice—so it was a pretty excellent hour of my life. The best part: everyone seemed to be having fun. Genuinely. (Even the ones listening to Hippie Jake play “Stairway to Heaven” . . . again.) No one was faking it or forcing it, like at the parties I went to. Without alcohol, there was a shocking absence of what I’d assumed defined parties: fighting, screaming, groping, burping . . . and probably regretting.