“Forty minutes, Cleo.” Cleo’s twenty-one-year-old brother, Evan, was our babysitter for the weekend, something I’d conveniently forgotten to tell my parents. When they had finally gotten in touch with Cleo’s parents, it had been a two-minute conversation as Mr. and Ms. ran out the door to a cocktail party. I think the whole thing had just stunned my parents. Fortunately, they were still willing to send their permission, provided there was an adult to sign me out. I also hadn’t mentioned that the age requirement was twenty-one. Evan’s state university was between our school and their beach house, so after he had signed everyone out, we had piled into his Mustang for the two-hour drive.
We passed brief bursts of civilization before returning to the flatness of agro-off-season. An artist might find something to ponder, but I was reduced to staring at the back of Cleo’s seat, straining to hear Amie’s music from the headphones firmly implanted in her ears.
Evan was playing some obscene rap song on the radio. I had always wondered who would be willing to fake an orgasm on international media that was going to be seen by their parents, grandparents and kindergarten teachers. Meeting Cleo had answered that question. She would be completely nonchalant about it, too, before walking away with her millions.
I think I was jealous of that.
There was a brief break from the incessant brown and flat as we passed through yet another small town with two gas stations and a McDonald’s. “Damn it, I need a milkshake.” Amie pointed at the barely visible golden arches down the road.
“You should’ve eaten lunch,” Cleo reminded her. Twisting in the front seat, she looked back at the three of us. Nicky was curled up, looking out the window, Amie was looking out the other window, and I was awkwardly in the middle trying to pretend I was pumped about the prospect of being locked in a house with the stupid, cocky, horny boy for four days. But really, I was fine.
“Anyone else?” The turn signal clicked softly for about a second before Evan swung across two lanes of traffic and up the exit ramp.
I think Nicky only agreed because of the look Amie was shooting her across my oblivious facade. The two of them got out of the car once we’d pulled into the parking lot, leaving me alone in the back seat. The second the doors closed behind them, Cleo turned to her brother. “I’m adding to the list.”
He groaned. “You guys are already set, and you owe me…”
“Pregnancy test.”
Evan practically jumped in his seat. “Aw, hell no. Hell no, I am not walking out with those things, what if someone sees me? Just because you were too stupid to not get knocked…”
“Asshole, they’re not for me. Why do you think I waited until Nic left the car?” Cleo leaned back in her seat, crossing her ankles on the dashboard. “Besides, this time of year the only person in the drugstore by the house will be the townies. And they probably buy them all the time. Just do it.”
With the click of a seatbelt being undone, and the louder sound of the door handle opening, Evan got out of the car. One arm reached back through the door to point a finger at Cleo. “You owe me big time.”
She shrugged. “I know.” The door slammed, almost covering up her exasperated sigh. “Jackass.” Ankles sliding off the dashboard, she looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Have you ever smoked?”
The quick change of subject left me scrambling for some response other than the honest “One cigarette” that slipped through my lips.
“That’s what I thought.” Her legs stretched out again, this time on her brother’s seat. “This is why we’re getting there before the guys. They get in later tonight, since Scott’s parents couldn’t get his car down any earlier. Evan got some good shit.”
So not cigarettes. “Okay.” This sort of sounded like a really bad idea. Then again, I could probably spare a few brain cells.
“I’ll give you a lot.” She was cleaning her sunglasses now. “Sometimes that works the first time.”
“Okay.”
Her brow furrowed, and she looked closely at me, wrinkles between her carefully shaped eyebrows. “You okay?”
I forced what probably looked more like a baring of teeth than a smile. “Yeah. Tired.”
“Okay.” It was more than a little obvious that she didn’t really believe me. “You know he’s just being a dick, right? It’ll be fine.” She said it so casually, so confidently.
“Yeah.” I sighed, looking down at my hands. “I know.”
“We’ll get him drunk this weekend so you can take advantage of him.”
The funny thing about Cleo was that I wasn’t completely sure she was kidding. The funny thing about me was that I wasn’t sure I cared.
Amie, Nicky and Evan came back together, carrying two milkshakes and a Big Mac for Evan. By the time we were pulling down the dirt driveway to Cleo’s, Nicky had finished half her milkshake. It was progress. The car bounced along a winding dirt road for at least half a mile before we turned into the driveway marked “Matthews” and out of the trees.
Cleo let Evan carry her bags into the two-story shingled house, much wider than it was tall. Sprawling across the boundary between large house and mansion, it would fit all eight of us with room to spare. The rest of us threw overflowing totes and overstuffed duffels over our shoulders, crunching gravel underfoot as we crossed the driveway to the front door. I caught a glimpse of a pool behind the house. The thought of walking around Dev in a bathing suit right now made me carsick. Somehow Cleo’s idea was sounding better and better. This weekend, I needed all the help I could get.
In true Cleo fashion, there was no assigning of rooms or unpacking of any kind. Knowing her, we’d probably all end up asleep on couches and living out of a pile of clothes for the weekend. Not that there was anything wrong with that.
“Where’s it?” She turned to her brother.
Evan dropped her black duffel at the bottom of the staircase. “Kitchen.” No more narrow, steep stairs for us. These were wide, low steps with smooth wooden curves, designed for easy climbing and pleasing aesthetics, rather than volumetric efficiency.
“Cleo, we’re going to go change.” Amie and Nicky were already halfway up the stairs. Clearly, they had been here before. “Bizza, you coming?”
I looked down at my sweatpants. “Yeah.”
“Use the room you were in this summer,” Cleo called over her shoulder. “Biz, find me in the kitchen when you’re done.”
Amie shook her head, turning at the top of the stairs into the first room on her right. It was nice to be in a normal room again, all white and wood with two twin beds. Weak sun fell through the window to spill onto the soft white carpet. Cleo’s parents didn’t exactly seem to be hurting for money. Nicky and Amie had their bags open on the beds already and the closet open. I shut the door behind me out of habit and dropped mine on the floor, digging through layers of clothes I had unpacked and repacked at least six times: first all plunging necklines, then all sweatshirts. My bathing suits had come out and gone back in at least three times, as had my biggest, comfiest pair of sweatpants. Now I was left with some combination of the two that left my bag straining at the seams. My shampoo hadn’t even fit.”
Have fun with Cleo.” Amie’s voice was muffled by the shirt she was pulling over her head. “Nic, wanna tan?”
Her laugh was quieter than usual. “Isn’t it October?”
“We can try.” Amie threw an emerald-green bikini on the bed and started stripping off her jeans. “And then just jump in the hot tub.”
Deciding what to wear after two months in uniform was way too difficult. Jean shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt seemed safe. Fixing my eyeliner, I realized that my black bra was completely visible. Oh well. The cell phone on top of my tote bag reminded me that I had promised to call my mom when we got here. I texted her instead: @ cleos call u later
Passive resistance.
Cleo was bent over the kitchen counter when I walked in. The gritty smell of the cigarette between her lips clashed with the ambience projected by the g
ranite countertops and more bare wood. Euro-trash-chic versus classic grandeur. The kitchen wanted a long, thin, twenties cigarette holder, but it would have been all wrong for her.
I came up behind her. “What you doing?”
She nodded her head at the brown paper under her hands, damp around the edges, and the tiny plastic bag next to the pile of discarded tobacco. With her free hand, she took the cigarette between her first two fingers. “Evan went to pick up a test for Nic. We should wait ’til he gets back but I’ll roll it now. Here.” She’d put down the paper and passed me the lighter in the back pocket of her jeans. My fingers wrapped around the purple plastic as my eyes fell on the box of Parliaments next to the pile of tobacco.
Hoping that I wasn’t doing something wrong, I picked up the box and pulled out the slim cylinder of white and brown paper. Putting it between my lips, I flicked the lighter near the end of the cigarette. It didn’t light. My finger scraped against the metal, producing useless clicks when I couldn’t pull quite hard enough. That and I kept shying back whenever the flame ignited. After a few tries, the only thing I’d produced was a few sparks and a sore thumb. The end of the cigarette remained stubbornly white.
“Here.” Cleo handed me her mostly unsmoked cigarette. She took mine, lit it and put the lighter next to the newspaper she was rolling on in less time than it had taken me to put hers between my lips. She went back to rolling the blunt. The joint. Whatever. I crossed mental fingers and inhaled. Smoke rolled over my tongue, filling my mouth and trickling down my throat with an almost comforting dry heat. I breathed out a thin stream of smoke. Drug Ed preaches about the coughing and the nausea, but so far, so good. I took another drag, inhaling a little more this time, and waited for Cleo to finish, leaning against the counter and smoking. So this was what the Marlboro man was so confident about.
When the blunt was rolled, licked and burnt to her satisfaction, and part of a tollbooth ticket wedged in as an impromptu filter, Cleo threw out the newspaper and her now-finished cigarette. I followed her lead, stubbing it out in the sink before throwing it in the trash. She took another one from the box and held it out to me. This time, she held the lighter for me. Evan came back a few minutes later, a plastic bag in his hand and an irritated look on his face. “You owe me big time,” he repeated. Cleo just breathed a thin gray stream of smoke in his face and held out the carton.
When we went out to the pool. Amie and Nicky were already outside, stretched out on towels spread over the smooth surface of the flat gray stones that surrounded the pool in a monochromatic mosaic. The only change to their skin so far was goose bumps.
“Hey, guys.” Cleo walked over and leaned over between them, talking quietly. I hung back. It wasn’t my place. The three of them went inside and I followed, taking my cigarette back into the kitchen. Evan had disappeared, probably, if Cleo wasn’t exaggerating, to get drunk and play video games. Cleo, Amie and Nicky had disappeared. I pulled myself up onto the counter and opened a Diet Coke with the pop hiss of a tab. My lips carefully settled around the dry paper and I took another drag before reaching for the carbonated chemical burble of soda.
Nicky wasn’t smiling when they came back. Amie was, though, rubbing Nicky’s shoulder as they kept walking back to their towels. “See?” she murmured. “See, everything’s fine. You’re okay.”
“Negative.” Cleo came up next to me, pulling out yet another cigarette. “Thank God. She’s still flipped out. Come on.” She picked up a second Diet Coke, the blunt and a crude aluminum ashtray. “I need this.”
A few steps later, we were sitting in the grass across the pool from Amie and Nicky. With a casual thumb movement and the click of the lighter, orange flame sprang up in Cleo’s hand and, holding the blunt in her mouth, she patiently inhaled until orange glowed among the weed inside. Twice, she breathed in, letting the smoke escape her mouth in an opaque cloud, seeping through lips curved in a contented smile. Her head tilted back, hair grazing the ground, eyes closed. Teachers had always said my curiosity was the best thing I brought to a classroom. I wondered what they would say if they saw that trait in this particular incarnation. After a minute, she opened her eyes and held her hand out. I took the blunt carefully in the same thumb and first finger grip I had seen her use. Frowning, she flicked the lighter again, holding it to the end.
“Breathe in.”
I took a deep breath and fit my lips around the brown paper. And I breathed.
I was really off balance. Or maybe it was everything else that was off balance and I was in balance. And that made no sense. And the pieces of the world were fitting together in a completely unfamiliar way and I kind of liked it, tilting my head to consider that possibility and then bringing it back to center because I think I was probably stoned.
I giggled, leaning my heavy head slowly back in the grass, ignoring my turning stomach.
“Babe, we should go in.” Cleo took another hit. I held out my hand for the blunt, which we’d smoked nearly to the end. I had no idea how much of that had gone into my lungs. Probably too much.
“I don’t think I can get up.” I put my lips around the dry paper of the blunt.
“Breathe in deeper.” Cleo’s voice was slow, almost sleepy. “More into your lungs.”
Just like I had all afternoon, I did what she told me to do. As I pulled my lips away and breathed in air, smoke trickled down the back of my throat.
Shit, it burned. I started coughing for the first time, each time feeling like I was ripping Band-Aids off the inside of my ribcage. Please don’t let me throw up.
“You okay?” Cleo reached out and took the blunt.
Cough. “Yeah.” Cough. “Think I swallowed.”
“Never swallow.” I hadn’t even noticed Amie walking over until she spoke. “And now you know why I don’t smoke. Come on.” She reached out for my hand. I could see Nicky, hovering over her shoulder.
“You just pussied out after the first time,” Cleo accused. She had a Diet Coke in her hand now. Amie just shrugged.
I had more important things to worry about. One finger stretched out to point at Nicky. “There’s two of you!”
Amie looked at me funny. “Cleo, you’re sure this is just pot?”
“No, I don’t see two,” I explained patiently. “But like…there is two. Like one is her and one’s like…not. It’s like a ghost. Or something.” It was hard to concentrate with my stomach twisting around itself, and the raw lining of my throat burning.
“Positive.” Cleo took a long swallow and leaned back on her elbows. “Chill.”
“Yeah.” I grinned, knowing in the back of my mind and not caring that it was wide and sloppy. “I’m awesome.”
Amie just shook her head. “You’re stoned. Congratulations, Cleo, you’ve done it again.”
“It gets better from here.” Cleo slowly pushed herself to her feet, pausing for a while on her knees. “Damn, I want food. Evan better have gotten M&Ms for me.”
The thought of chocolate made my stomach twist again. I took Amie’s hand carefully, slowly, making sure it really was her hand I was reaching for. My free fingers rose to my face at the odd need to make sure it was still there.
Never mind. I’m never smoking this again.
Slowly, stumbling worse than a drunk as the world reshuffled, I followed Cleo into the kitchen, where she grabbed a movie-size bag of M&Ms, a bag of cheesy popcorn and two more Diet Cokes, and then down into the basement. Two futons, a couch and a recliner crowded around the flat screen looked like heaven and, thankfully, one of the futons was only a handful of steps away from the stairs. Lying down had never felt so good.
My eyelids drifted shut and then the rest of me just drifted, barely anchored by the solid cushion beneath me. I heard someone turning on a movie, one I had seen before. With its usual quota of energy diverted to ensure that my face stayed in place, my mind took off. From the intermittent images between the slow, heavy, vertical movement of my eyelids I couldn’t tell what I saw then and what was just memory.
Just before I fell asleep, I heard voices echoing down the stairs. At that point, I didn’t even care. And that was amazing.
The first thing I saw when I woke up was the empty bag of popcorn on the floor, inches below my face. The second was the hand resting on my stomach. I slowly scooted onto my back, brain still very, very fuzzy. My dry mouth tasted like ash and stale smoke and a different kind of fuzz. Blinking a few times, I looked up into a pair of familiar but unexpected eyes.
“You were giggling in your sleep,” Dev informed me.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Truly, I was curious. The boy was freaking impossible: sweet to horny to asshole to adorable in 2.5. Christ.
“Sleeping.” He grinned, as utterly unashamed as ever. “Long drive.”
I shook my head. The world seemed too intangible and indistinct to be angry. Besides, why be angry when you can just sleep? Slowly, glad that my stomach had settled while I slept, I scooted back to my side. His arm pulled my waist until my body followed the same curving, question mark lines as his, pressed against him. He was warm and the worn sweatshirt under my head, which smelled like his cologne, was softer than the scratchy synthetic mattress of the futon. A pair of lips might have pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck. But that might just have been wishful thinking.
15.
Waking up the second time wasn’t quite as fun. The popcorn bag was still there. The hand was not. If, really, it had ever been there at all. The clock on my cell phone told me it was almost ten p.m. I had been out for a while. Slowly, I dragged myself up off the futon, running my fingers through my hair and straightening my shirt in a doomed attempt to look good. Leaning on the railing, I walked up the stairs, fighting a strong desire to turn around and sleep all weekend.
Alec and Scott were alone in the kitchen, Scott looking about as happy as he ever did lately. His disinclination to suck it up and admit he’d screwed up was really a problem for him.
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