“Let’s get drunk,” he says a minute later.
“Huh?” I turn to look at him. What is he thinking?
“Let’s get drunk,” he repeats and hands me the bottle. “Why the fuck not? I don’t want to be here,” he says. “You don’t want to be here.” He hands me the bottle and I take it, not really sure what I’m doing or what I’m thinking. Or if I’m thinking at all. “So, let’s get drunk and then it’ll be like we’re not even here at all.”
“But what if someone walks in? What if someone catches us?” It seems like an obvious concern. Though the fact that I’m asking questions makes me realize that I’m considering the possibility of getting drunk with Marc. Which I am. I TOTALLY AM.
I mean, what do I have to lose? I don’t want to be here—not with Leslie rubbing my father’s arm; not with Marisol, who’s probably making out in the backyard with Ryan; and not with my crazy grandmother who doesn’t even know who I am.
And with Marc? Do I want to be here with Marc? Why aren’t I here with Danny?
“Well?” He nudges the bottle. Slowly, I lift it to my lips and take a long sip. I hand the bottle back to Marc and hiccup self-consciously.
“Slow down.” Marc takes his turn. He puts the bottle to my lips, gives me a short sip.
“Where’s Marisol?” I ask.
“Last time I saw her, she was outside in the garden with Ryan.”
“Oh.” It figures. Any doubts I have suddenly wash away.
“More?” he asks.
“Sure. Why not?”
when it’s all gone, marc contemplates sneaking another bottle out of the living room.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“No.” I lean my head against the headboard and watch the room spin around. Except for holidays, I don’t drink. And even then, it’s normally a few sips of wine from my grandfather’s wineglass.
“How do you feel?” Marc asks, giving me a sloppy shove so that he can fit his entire body on the bed.
“Half retarded,” I reply, and we laugh. “What times is it?”
“You already asked me that. I don’t know.”
“Well, find out.” I shove him hard so that he almost falls over the bed.
“Hey.” Marc pushes me back. Then he leans across me so that his chest is pressed against my thighs.
“What are you doing?” I look down at his body in my lap. It makes me laugh.
“Telling you the time.” He reaches for an object on the nightstand table. “Seven p.m., I think.”
Slowly, Marc pulls himself off me. His face is near me. It swims in my eyes. “Are you okay?” he asks.
“Are you?” Why were there two of him?
“Yeah. Are you?” He rubs the hair from my eyes. He leans down and I can smell his breath just inches from my nostrils. It smells like potato salad and wine.
“You know what…” he says, his face too close. “You look a lot like your mother.” Absently he traces the area around my eyes and lets his fingers rest on my temple.
“Everyone keeps telling me that,” I whisper because he’s too close to speak in a normal tone.
He stares at me.
“You seem different tonight,” I say, to stop him from staring at me.
“That’s because I’m not an idiot tonight.” He moves away from me, closes his eyes. I follow his lead. They feel so much better shut.
“You never answered my question,” he says sleepily. He lays his head on my shoulder, and I can feel his heartbeat on my arm.
“What are you doing?” I open my eyes. This is all so weird.
“Nothing,” he yawns. “Question: does it bother you that you look like your mother? Don’t think,” he tells me when I hesitate, “just say the first thing that comes into your mind.”
“No, not if I really looked like her,” I tell him.
He rolls over on his back and tucks his arms underneath his head.
“Do you remember that night that your mom was babysitting me, and I cut my hand with the kitchen knife?” His voice cuts in and out. At least to me it does. “Do you remember?”
“Yeah.” I picture Marc in my kitchen, bawling his eyes out. He looks so little in my mind. It’s hard to think about him as being little. But he was, at one point. And so was I.
“Oh my God, I cried for like an hour. I was such a pussy.” He laughs, shakes the bed with it. “And your mom was so nice. She wrapped my hand in a towel and found that butterfly bandage that she had, and cleaned out my cut and then held me in her lap for like two hours. Do you remember?” Marc turns on his side and our eyes meet.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “I remember.”
“And she put us in bed, and made us something stupid like hot chocolate. And you were scared because there was all this blood and so she sat between us in your bed and put one arm around each of us and read to us that story that you liked so much. What story was that?”
“The Giving Tree,” I tell him, though I can barely find my voice. It’s hiding behind a wall of tears that is building in my throat.
“My mom never did shit like that. She was too busy. Busy with my father. Busy with her business. Busy with the dog. I don’t even know if she likes me.”
“I’m sure she likes you,” I whisper. What else can I say?
“Maybe…Whatever…But that day I remember, like, all the time. I don’t know why. It’s like I love your mom for that stupid day.” His voice is weak. “Is that possible?”
I try to speak, but it’s hard. The tears make it too hard for me to tell him that I do think it’s possible to have lifelong feelings from one single moment.
“Hey—” His hand brushes across my cheek. “Hey, now.” His breathing is moist. “You do look like your mom. It freaks me out.” He stares at me, through me, into me. He presses himself against me, and the tears come quickly now.
He brushes his lips over mine.
“No,” I say quietly. “Don’t.” But he doesn’t listen. He lays himself on top of me. His body covers mine from head to toe. He takes my arms and wraps them around his waist. “Please,” he whispers. His tongue pushes my mouth open, gets lost in its warmth. His tongue is soft, reassuring, kind.
“You taste sweet,” he murmurs. His lips graze my eyes, my ears, the tip of my nose, and then a path down my neck. “Sweet, like a cough drop.”
His hands rub hesitantly along my sides. I close my eyes. My thoughts swirl hazily.
I think about Danny. I think about our kiss in the library. I think about Halloween, his body between my thighs, my hand in his hair. I think about Danny and slowly I find myself kissing Marc back.
It may be seconds or it may be days before I hear the smallest noise, like the sound of a door being opened and closed. I stiffen. “Did you hear that?” I ask.
“What?” Marc says, still kissing me.
“The door.”
Marc twists on top of me, and then moves back to kissing me. “It’s shut,” he says, and then I feel his fingertips brush underneath the hem of my shirt.
“Hey,” I say, pushing them back. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he whispers, pushing his lips onto mine.
His hands are cold across my belly. His hips push into me. I can feel that he’s excited, and it scares me. I feel as if I can’t breathe. I feel as if I’m starting to think clearly.
His fingers are moving everywhere, up over my rib cage and underneath my bra. His hands cup my breasts. He presses his palms in gentle circles over my soft mounds.
“Stop,” I whisper against his lips, not trusting myself, not trusting him. “Stop.”
I feel my hips wiggle, push up against his. His hand lifts up the waistband of my skirt, slips silently underneath. His fingers brush the top of my panties.
“No,” I twist underneath him. “Stop. I mean it.”
“Huh?” he murmurs; his mouth nuzzles my neck.
“Stop,” I say, arching up to kiss him.
“Okay.” He sighs, burying his face in the pillow, moaning. “Okay,�
�� he repeats and then he rolls off me.
“Are you mad?” I ask, afraid to look at him.
“No.” He grabs my hand, settles it into the curve of his chest. “I’m not mad.” He closes his eyes.
A few minutes pass. I’m not sure what to do. I want to take my hand back, readjust my clothes, wipe the hair from my lips, and then sneak silently off to the bathroom to throw up. But I don’t. I can’t because that would be mean. So I lie there with Marc. But I think about Danny.
THIRTY-TWO
big fat liar
at school the next day, i try to do anything but think. my body aches. My head hurts. I can’t seem to drink enough bottled water. I’m completely incapable of putting any sentences together. When Mr. Murphy pulls me aside to talk after class, I can barely look him in the eye. I feel like if anyone can see what’s going on, it’ll be Mr. Murphy.
“Susie, I spoke to Danny’s mother this morning, and she’s extremely happy with his progress.” Mr. Murphy clears his throat and beams down at me. “So am I. You’ve done a really great job.”
“Thanks,” I say, but my head heats up. Ever since last night with Marc, all I can think about is Danny. I feel so guilty about Danny. I don’t deserve Mr. Murphy’s praise. I deserve a nice kick in the ass. “Is that it?” I don’t mean to be short with Mr. Murphy. I just want to stop talking about Danny.
“Actually, no.” Mr. Murphy shakes his head, surprised by my curtness. “I had a talk with Danny during our class earlier and we both agree that tutoring is no longer necessary. He thinks he can do it on his own.”
“On his own?” Tutoring time is the only time that Danny and I spend alone. If he doesn’t want me to tutor him anymore, does that mean he doesn’t want to see me anymore? Was Danny using Mr. Murphy to break up with me?
“I know,” Mr. Murphy says, mistaking my shock for disappointment. “But you’ve done a great job. I’m sure that I can find you someone else to tutor.”
“Oh, yeah.” I shrug and look down at the carpet. The same piece of gum from early October stares back at me. The two-minute-warning bell rings, and students from his next period start flooding in. “I have to go.”
“Okay.” Mr. Murphy moves aside to let two students with ridiculously large backpacks pass. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” I say, wondering how I can even think of tomorrow when I’m not sure if I can make it through today.
it gets worse from there. in driver’s ed, bobby and luis are absent. “They’re at some geeky-ass bowling semifinals,” José tells me. “Oh,” José says, smiling at me, his eyes so red I can barely see his irises. “And watch out for Jessica. I hear she wants to kick your ass.”
“Huh?” Instinctively, my head swivels in Jessica’s direction. She’s standing on the opposite side of the paved driver’s range talking to Brianna Rivera, another bubble-headed cheerleader. She doesn’t look happy. She’s waving her arms around, and suddenly they both stop talking and look at me. Brianna shoots me the finger and Jessica gives me the dirtiest look I’ve had all year.
“What’d I do?” I ask José.
José chuckles and looks at me. “Shit. Are you kidding me?”
“What’d I do?” I repeat.
“Ask Tamara,” he says, walking away.
I sit down in our squad line, not really sure what to do. I wait for Coach Brown to come in, blow his whistle. Class doesn’t start until he hits the pavement. I look around and see Tamara in a corner talking to Stan Levy and some other kids. She whispers something in his ear, and then they both look at me. Tamara smiles, but her smile says, screw you, and after a few minutes, she starts talking to another group of kids. Again, they all stop to look at me. Tamara gives me the fake smile. Then a few minutes later, she walks off and hits another group. Something is definitely up.
When the late bell rings, Coach Brown pulls up in his golf cart. “Let’s go,” he screams. He looks around the class, and notices that it’s half empty.
“Where is everyone?” he asks Jessica, because she’s closest to him.
“At a nerd convention,” she replies, and he chuckles. She tosses her glossy black hair and smiles up at him. “The bowling geeks are bowling in a semifinal or something and the D.A.R.E. kids are on a field trip.”
“Oh,” Coach says. “Well, I’ll guess we’ll just pair up today, and each group will get a car. Get into your squads.”
We all line up in our squads. José first, Jessica behind him, Tamara behind her, and me in the back. Our line is filled with tons of tension, except for José, who appears to be finding the whole situation amusing because he keeps laughing and mumbling “catfight” underneath his breath.
“Shut up,” Jessica hisses before slapping him on the back of his head.
The coach works his way down the squad, breaking each squad into groups of two. When he gets to us, he puts José with Jessica. I get stuck with Tamara.
“Thank God,” Jessica snaps at the both of us and then runs to catch up with José, punching him in the arm when she gets next to him.
Tamara and I walk quietly to our car. She gets the driver’s seat. I get the passenger side with its funny emergency foot brake.
“So,” Tamara says, after she throws the car in drive, “some memorial service.” She gives me a sidelong glare that makes my body fill with dread. She knows.
Still I say, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tamara laughs, turning the steering wheel right and pulling to a stop at a fake stop sign. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” I tell her, making sure to keep my voice level. “I don’t.”
“Yes,” she says, not even bothering to look at me, “you do.”
We drive, passing fake stop sign after fake stop sign. Tamara stops for the pedestrian crosswalk, the blinking yellow light, the careful-orthey’ll-get-you intersection. She keeps her perfectly manicured nails at ten and two. At the parallel-parking station, I hit the emergency foot brake and the car comes to a crashing halt. I have to know.
“Who’d you tell?” My voice comes out in little gasps.
She laughs and hits my leg so hard that the emergency foot brake is released. “Everyone.”
“Even Danny?” I ask.
But she doesn’t reply. She gives me a wicked smile, but she doesn’t reply.
at lunch, i run to my spot and contemplate sitting there for the rest of the day, possibly for the rest of my life. Today Marisol is eating lunch with Ryan. She didn’t even tell me that she was going to. I found out as I was passing the cafeteria. It doesn’t surprise me. Nothing else can surprise me today.
Danny finds me with my head shoved deeply into my hands, the uneaten contents of my bagged lunch spread out on the newly cut grass. I don’t look up to let him know that I know that he is there, because if I did then I am sure that he would see that I’ve been crying.
“You okay?” He sits down next to me.
“Yep.” I turn my face away, wiping my tears with the back of my hand. I can’t be any more obvious, I know. But I don’t really have a choice.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I am.”
“You’re crying,” he points out.
“I know.” I’m smart enough to know that there’s no point in denying it. “It’s okay.”
“Is it?”
“Danny,” I blurt out quickly, “are we—” I stop myself. I was going to ask, Are we a couple? Because if we’re not, then what I did last night with Marc can’t technically be considered cheating. Right? But if we are a couple…
“Are we what?” His voice drops. I wonder if he knows. Can I still spin this? I think. Then I wonder, When did I become the type of girl that spins things?
“Why are you here?” I change tactics.
“I thought I’d find you here.” He picks at a blade of grass and breaks it apart in his fingers. “I thought maybe we could go back to my house. You know…” his voice trails off.
“You mean not go back to school
?”
“Yeah,” he says after a while.
“Danny,” I push the breath from my lungs. Before I say yes to his house, I have to know. “Are we…together?”
He picks another blade of grass, twists it into a knot but doesn’t answer.
“Danny…”
“Yeah,” he says slowly.
“Oh.”
“Do you want to go back to my house?” he asks again. He stands, holds his hand out to me, doesn’t look me in the eyes.
“Yeah.” I take his hand. And then without another word, I follow him home.
as i enter danny’s home, i can’t help but think that besides crossing the threshold of his door, I have crossed several other thresholds.
In the space of three months, I have become that girl who:
Skips school.
Gets drunk at her mother’s memorial service.
Makes out with the pothead next door.
Fights with her best friend.
The weird thing is that I’ve never felt so normal.
“Do you want something to drink?” Danny opens the refrigerator, turns an inquisitive eye toward me.
“No.” I lift up my water bottle. “I’m fine.”
“You sure?” He reaches deep in the back and pulls out a long brown bottle with a silver label. “Bud Light,” he says, holding it out to me. “Take it.”
“I don’t drink,” I say, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Oh.” He gives me a funny look. “Okay.”
Danny puts the beer back in the refrigerator and grabs a Capri Sun. He sits on the counter and looks at me intently. “So…” he says, kicking the cabinets hard with his feet, “what’d you do last night?”
Even though I know that he knows, my mind tells me to act like he doesn’t. Or at least to act like I have no idea what he’s talking about. I know it’s crazy, but I feel trapped and I’m not sure why I let myself walk right into it.
Still, I struggle with what to tell him. At the very least, I should tell him about my mother’s memorial service. I should try to explain the story so that it works out in my favor and not in Tamara’s. Because that’s obviously how he heard, right?
Not Anything Page 15
