“That was one of the best trips of my life,” Kate says.
And the memories come even after Mom leaves. Snorkeling together until Kate almost drowned when she met a sea turtle eye-to-snorkel mask, screamed, and sucked in a mouthful of water. Surfing lessons, and us so proud that we both got up. We thought about staying in Maui to become full-time surf bums after that.
The wedding was a casual event on the beach, and I was happy to see Mom so happy. I was maid of honor, and Kate did the guest book. Those ten days in Maui were the best trip for best friends.
“I’m sorry,” I say between bites of French toast.
“I’m sorry too.”
We look at each other, smile, and then we laugh. Maybe food is the answer to the world’s problems.
And we’re back. Again.
We spend the rest of the day shopping in the little boutiques and at the mall. Mom takes us to Sausalito to browse their waterfront and to eat fish and chips at a fun little restaurant overlooking the bay. We make plans to go into the city next time Kate’s down.
Sunday morning is good-bye—her mom wants to get home before dark. We hug, and I wave until she’s out of sight. There’s a moment that she looks sad, and I wonder what’s really going on with her. We barely talked about anything of substance after our fight. Does she feel that I’ve abandoned her? Are we drifting apart so quickly?
We’re back, I remind myself as I walk up the stairs to my room. I need a nap, and I’m relieved the taping today is canceled. Something about not enough fog.
ME TO KATE: It'll be belter next time.
KATE: Yeah, I know.
ME: We'll go into the city or check out the universities.
KATE: Yeah, we need to keep making plans for that. If we have money we'll stay in the dorms. Otherwise, it's the garage apartment.
ME: Exactly.
Will we ever see these plans come true? We’ve been friends since Mrs. K.’s class in kindergarten.
But can such friendships really last forever?
chapter seventeen
LONDON: What are you doing tonight?
ME: Nada.
I’m cleaning my room on another Friday night and was just thinking maybe I should’ve volunteered to work. At least I wouldn’t be alone. My friends in both Cottonwood and Marin all have plans. My film team canceled because Rob has some important meeting. The rest of the group went to the IMAX theater in the city, and I wasn’t exactly invited. We aren’t that good of friends yet, though if I’d pushed it when Cass called me, I know they would’ve taken me along. Even Mac, Mom, and Austin are gone, driving to meet Dad halfway so Mac can see him this weekend. Mom and Austin won’t be back till after midnight.
LONDON: You have plans now.
This actually worries me more than excites me. Though, okay, there’s a bubble of hope brewing in my stomach. I want to do something fun, really fun, and how do you do that alone?
ME: But I can't really do anything. My mom and stepdad are gone.
LONDON: Call and ask to stay the night at my house.
Mom has met London a few times now. London finds our house and family “quaint” and “like a family on TV,” which is just weird to me.
ME: Urn, okay. I'll try. But we aren't really staying at your house?
LONDON: Eventually. Don't ask anything else, it's a surprise. And that way you won't have to lie.
“Where are you?” I ask when Mom answers the phone.
“We just met your dad and are heading back. But we were thinking of seeing a movie in Vacaville. Are you okay? Would you mind being alone till pretty late?”
“No, I don’t mind.” I pause a moment, crossing my fingers. “But London called and wants me to stay the night.” That isn’t lying, I tell myself.
“Um, are her parents home?”
The phone cuts out just then.
“I don’t know, but I’d guess so.”
“What? I couldn’t hear you.”
The call suddenly is lost, and I wonder if this is God looking out for my social life, or somebody else.
Mom calls back and says, “Just be careful, do the right things, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m in a bad spot . . . call you . . . leave a number to . . . love you, sweetie.”
Wow, she must feel pretty bad for leaving me alone tonight.
“I love you too!”
ME: She said yes.
LONDON: Excellent! Now dress up a bit and be ready around ten. We'll pick you up.
ME: What does dress up mean? And WE? Who's we? What are we doing?
LONDON: Don't ask, just look good.
I fling open my newly organized clothes and start pulling things out.
Music plays loudly—a mixed CD of funky music that Frankie made for me. One song is about loving shoes, then Queen sings about riding a bicycle. Who wouldn’t dance around the room with dresses and coats as partners with those songs playing?
I try on clothes while occasionally typing to several friends from Cottonwood. Kate is leaving for a date with her secret boyfriend. She told her parents she was going to the movies with Meegan and Felicity.
My worries for Kate don’t dampen this happy hyper emotion welling up inside me. Sort of like butterflies, or maybe the opposite of them, but the adrenaline rush makes me want to skydive or take the first flight to anywhere or dance all night at a salsa bar in some cool Latin city like Havana.
From life feeling terrible to it being the greatest thing in the universe—it’s funny how quickly it changes. I want to breathe in life and let it pulse out every pore.
I match a black cotton dress that hangs loosely and covers the few pounds I’ve gained lately with some funky silver shoes and rhinestone earrings, but then I switch the rhinestones for fear that the rich girls will be wearing diamonds. Instead I wear a necklace made of a curled shell that I bought in Maui and some bangle bracelets. I click and send a pic to London for approval.
She sends back a picture of three thumbs up, and I wonder whose thumbs those might be. I only hope Mom doesn’t call me anytime soon.
“I want this to be a night to remember,” I say aloud to my favorite teddy bear, Blue, who has journeyed from childhood to near adulthood with me. He looks at me with all the loyalty of a dog.
LONDON: We're here!
A car honks from the driveway, and I grab a small clutch purse with gloss and twenty bucks.
As I rush out the front door and toward the black Lexus SUV, my legs shake with nervous energy. London hops out the passenger door, looking fabulous as always. Her red hair and her long legs shimmer in the light, and I wonder how she can look so perfect from head to toe. She hugs me and then leads me to the open passenger window.
“I’m sure you already know Brett.” She points to the guy in the backseat.
I’ve met Brett a few times but don’t know him well.
“But I don’t think you’ve met Anthony Restiva.”
“Hi,” I say, suddenly worried about the two-couple scenario.
“Can you believe it?” she whispers, grabbing my arm. “Anthony.”
Then it hits me that this is the guy, the one she stalks at school, much to my amazement. “How did you arrange this? And can I know what we’re doing?”
London opens the back door, and we slide in while Brett switches to the passenger seat in front.
“The plans keep changing, actually. We were going to a club in the city.” London laughs. “The look on your face! Don’t worry, you don’t need a fake ID or anything. My cousin owns three of the best clubs in Frisco. He lets me and my friends in whenever I want.”
“But we aren’t going there?”
“Maybe. First we’re stopping by a party, maybe picking up Isa and Krista, then we’ll decide. Brett wanted a beach party, but I look too good for beach and bonfires.”
She laughs with all the joy and youth that pulses through me, and I settle back against the leather seat beside her. It’s like we’re movie stars or something
.
We drive the winding roads with the subwoofers pounding through our backs, laughing and singing, until Anthony slows the car and parks along a driveway where a bunch of other cars are lined up.
“So who wants to be sober driver?” he asks, flipping the keys in his hand.
“Not Ruby,” London says with a laugh.
“I won’t have my license for three months,” I say, then feel stupid.
“Since she can’t be the driver, she won’t be sober.” Brett raises his eyebrows and smiles.
“Oh, I will be sober,” I say with a slight nervous stutter.
“We’ll see about that,” Brett says.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” London assures me.
She threads her arm through mine and leads me up the brick driveway with perfect hedges and solar lights along the edge. The four of us walk forward like invincible beautiful things. This is how it feels anyway—that if I could see us from the outside, I would stop to watch the approach of four confident people ready to stretch our suits of youthfulness and breathe in the air of unlimited possibilities.
Who do I want to be? Who am I? These questions whisper in my ear with my every step toward the grand white house that looms before us. The music hits us halfway up the driveway. The clean brass outdoor lights shimmer with the vibrations.
Brett opens the front door without knocking, and when we walk in, there’s no one around. If not for the deafening music and cars outside, I’d think we’ve come to the wrong place. The marble tiles clink beneath London’s heels as we walk through an entry and hallway with chandeliers, framed art with individual lights shining on each, and several encased guitars. This house could be featured on one of those MTV shows where musicians and actors give tours of their homes.
We follow Brett, who walks without hesitation past a grand staircase and a living room that looks like a gallery of white with plush carpet, furniture, and authentic-looking tribal statues. Three huge photographs depict three women in various fashion poses. Their bronze skin is flawless, and I wish to study the prints longer, but the others are moving toward the kitchen.
London covers her ears beneath a stereo speaker set flush with the wall. The kitchen too is empty of people, but through a wall of glass we see “the party.”
“Nice,” London says as the music fades between songs. “I’ve always heard Ally puts on a great party.”
The music rises fast, and as I watch, two girls in bikinis dance on a table and a group of people push a fully clothed guy into the pool. I suddenly want to bolt back along the marble tiles to the car.
“Hey, Ruby, want a beer?” Brett yells with his face in the refrigerator.
I nearly yell back, “I’m not drinking,” and then imagine the music stopping and me shouting this. Wouldn’t that be my luck? Instead I shake my head when he holds two cans up.
Anthony motions for us to follow, and we step outside. Once the glass doors are closed behind us, the music isn’t as overpowering, though it’s still loud.
“There’s Ally—we’ll go say hi in a minute,” London says, motioning toward a girl sitting on the edge of the pool.
Her wet dark skin and long black hair glisten in the light. She’s one of the models in the photographs inside the house, I realize.
I walk close to London. “I didn’t bring my swimsuit,” I whisper.
She says, “They didn’t either,” and motions to several girls in their lace bras sitting in the bubbling hot tub. A waterfall cascades down to another hot tub full of people.
And as we step down to the lower pool level, I know without a doubt I’m way out of my league.
I’m sitting in the pool house bathroom when someone knocks on the door. “Just a minute,” I say and turn on the brass faucet.
So far I’ve been asked to play “quarters,” try the “beer bong,” and play a game of “shot poker.” So these are drinking games. The drugs are being used inside the house. This is obvious by those returning, wiping their noses or exhibiting sudden personality shifts.
Cocaine and ecstasy are the drugs of choice, London tells me. “Don’t worry, Ruby. I went through rehab and intense counseling from age twelve to fourteen.”
Is this supposed to be reassuring?
There’s not much to do when you say no to all of that, except sit in the hot tub in your underwear, which I’d never do—especially since I wore my favorite but faded black bra and my blue penguin underwear that says Cutie Pie. Some of the girls prance around in expensive and very small lingerie that definitely gets the guys’ attention.
For a while London and I sat beside Brett as he played shot poker, then she disappeared with Anthony just when I wanted to ask if we could leave soon. When I went to the pool house bathroom, I decided to just stay there awhile.
Another knock hits the door. Guess my time is up.
“It’s about time,” a girl shouts, laughing hysterically when I open the bathroom door. Three girls are waiting, drunk and laughing.
I act as if I’m still the confident, self-assured girl I was when approaching the house with London, Anthony, and Brett. But where do I go now? I’m having flashbacks of my first lunch hour at Marin High. And yet this is painfully harder. When I look through the glass window to the shot poker game, I see that Brett is gone.
“Hey, come on in!” a guy shouts from the hot tub, motioning me over. The music is no longer enjoyable but is hurting my head.
“No thanks,” I say.
And then I see Blair.
We spot each other at the same time, so there’s no way to avoid her. Her look of surprise quickly turns to a smirk. I don’t have to imagine what she’s thinking.
She walks directly over to me. “So the little Christian is out partying?”
“Just because I’m at a party doesn’t mean I’m not a Christian. And I’m not ‘partying.’”
She brushes back a strand of long blonde hair, and I wonder how she does her makeup so model-perfect. I’ve never seen anyone with such sophistication at age sixteen.
London comes close. But Blair has perfected it. I feel like a cutesy schoolgirl compared to her.
“How can you be a good witness here, Ruby?” Her smooth voice conveys a note of exaggerated concern. “Or are you out proselytizing? Praying for the sinners, trying to save their mortal souls?”
“You think you know a lot about Christianity.”
“I do know about it. I went to Sunday school and church when I was young.”
“And what happened?”
She laughs. “I found the truth.”
“What truth was that?”
She comes close to me, and I catch a whiff of alcohol on her breath. “The truth that God is not who you think He is.”
“Then who is He?” And it strikes me that we’re having a theological debate in the middle of a high school party.
“Let’s just say He isn’t who my Sunday school teacher said He was . . . not when my brother became an addict, or my father who was a deacon in the church became a very wealthy businessman and now has a wife who isn’t much older than me.”
I falter then, seeing a glint of pain in her eyes. What do I say to that?
Thankfully, before I’m forced into a response, a guy interrupts us. I think my mouth drops a little when I look at him. He could seriously be a runway model, has that European thing going on with a chiseled jaw and a chest cut like an Italian statue. I didn’t know guys like that existed in normal life. And I’d guess he’s at least twenty-five.
“Hey, baby, you promised,” he says to Blair.
What is this, a party for the beautiful people?
She smiles and kisses him lightly. “I did promise, didn’t I? Excuse us.”
She takes a few steps away and slides her dress over her head, revealing a white and silver bikini underneath. Blair is the female equivalent to the guy with her, and she moves in a way that shows she knows it. Everyone stares as she and the guy walk to the upper hot tub.
And
I’m again left standing alone. A yearning for home comes over me, and I wonder how far it would be to walk.
“Ruby!” a voice calls through the music that has thankfully changed from rap to eighties. I glance around until I see Brett beyond the swimming pool near a gazebo.
“Ruby!” he calls louder.
I weave around several couples making out on lounge chairs, several guys lined up to do cannonballs into the pool, and a girl who dances alone on a table like she’s in some hallucinogenic state.
Brett falls over a small hedge before I reach him. His head is beneath a bush, which makes him appear headless for a moment.
I sit him up but can’t get him up any farther.
“I’ll never drink again,” he says.
“That’s good, Brett.”
“You’re so smart not to drink. Or are you a goody-goody?”
“Why don’t we get you back to the house, or at least onto a chair?”
But he doesn’t move, and I have to keep him from falling back over. And then he starts to vomit. The stench makes my stomach convulse, and I want to leave him, but he begs me not to.
“Ruby, you’re so pretty. Like a ruby.” Then he laughs, and I nearly throw up from his breath.
I could call Mom, but oh, I can envision that scenario. She’s always said I should call if I’m in such a situation, to never ride with someone who’s been drinking, to never ever drink and drive . . . You can call me, Ruby; you won’t get into trouble.
Yeah, right, I think. She’d never let me out of the house again. A weariness sweeps over me at the idea of seeing her. Austin would surely come as well. They’d have those disappointed expressions.
My brother is in Cottonwood—no help there.
And I know Aunt Jenna’s working early at the Underground again, and she lives too far away.
I try remembering how long it took us to get here from my house, but visions of being kidnapped, getting lost, and wandering for miles in the cold keep me from that plan.
A guy appears on the gazebo roof yelling, “King of the Mountain!” A group runs over and coaxes him down.
Brett starts vomiting again, and it’s reconfirmed that I’d make a terrible nurse. I prop him up and walk a few steps away to give him privacy . . . at least that’s what I tell myself.
Ruby Unscripted Page 13
