The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

  Ashley rolled her eyes at me and then said, “Hi, Petty.”

  I didn’t like the way she said Petty’s name, like she was spitting out some gristle. This was not the sweet girl I remembered. This was somebody else. I knew Ashley had heard the stories about Petty’s strangeness, but the old Ashley would have acted more charitably toward someone like Petty. Even though Ashley was somewhat competitive with other girls, she’d never been nasty like this.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Petty fixed her eyes on me. “You didn’t tell me she was a methamphetamine addict.” She turned to Ashley. “How long have you been using?”

  The flicker of rage on Ashley’s face appeared and disappeared like a haunted house black-­light flash of lightning.

  “Whoa!” I said. “What a kidder this girl is, huh?”

  Petty said, “I’m not—­”

  “Jeez, Ash, crack a window,” I said, taking Ashley by the shoulders and twirling her away. Petty couldn’t know that in real life, unlike on TV, you never called out an addict unless you had a van and a cot waiting. You pretended she wasn’t an addict, even with clear evidence staring you in the face. I’d never actually put words to this phenomenon, but it was as if Petty had been put on earth to expose everything that would show up on a bullshit meter.

  I glared over Ashley’s shoulder at Petty and shook my head, hoping she’d get the hint. She looked bewildered.

  Ashley took a big drag of her cigarette and blew directly in my face then laughed. It wasn’t the laugh I remembered. She literally laughed—­“Ha ha ha, ha ha ha”—­her voice brittle and rough.

  “Come on in,” she said with an arm sweep. Then she ran around the cluttered living room snatching up piles of clothes, which she pitched through a door on the other side of the room. “I was just picking up.” She emptied ashtray after overflowing ashtray into a paper sack. “Gotta save these,” she said as she went. “I have to save them and get the leftover tobacco out of the butts to roll some more. I can’t afford to buy any right now, and it’s not like I’m going to give it up.”

  While she was doing that, I watched Petty turn in a slow circle, her eyes scanning every inch of the room.

  Ashley picked up stacks of magazines and carried them through the kitchen doorway. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” she called.

  The sound of water running and dishes clanking came from the kitchen. Petty bent and looked underneath the couch.

  “You told us to come on over,” I called back through the doorway, wondering what exactly Petty was searching for.

  Ashley laughed. “That’s right. Time got away from me, I guess.”

  “Can I help with anything?” I asked.

  “No, no, you two make yourselves at home. I’m going to finish up in here and then we can go out and get a beer.”

  “Listen,” Dekker said. “You sure it’s okay if we stay here?”

  “Of course,” Ashley called above the splashing and clattering.

  “Thanks,” I said. “We can’t stay out too late because Petty’s got a bus to catch in the morning.”

  “Whatever,” Ashley said. The water turned off. “I’m going to get cleaned up and then we’ll be off.”

  She disappeared again and I heard the shower turn on.

  “Do you think she’d mind if I changed the channel?” Petty asked, pointing at the TV.

  “Go ahead,” I said, and went into the kitchen. The counters were piled with crusted dishes, food from possibly weeks ago. The smell was gag-­inducing. I could almost hear the cockroaches in the walls scratching to get out and feast. I opened some of the cabinets and found nothing but spices and a few cans. In the refrigerator was mustard, a bowl full of green fuzzy mold, and a carton of milk with an expiration date of two weeks ago.

  The sound of changing television channels drifted in through the kitchen doorway until I heard the familiar minor-­key theme song of Offender International. I returned to the living room and found Petty standing with her back to the wall, eyes riveted on the TV.

  “You okay?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. I could tell she didn’t feel safe here. I probably should have taken her to another of my friends’ places in Salina, but they were all guys, and I didn’t think she’d be comfortable in a man cave. Ashley was the only girl I knew in town.

  I sat on the couch and watched the show until Ashley reappeared looking like a whole different person, almost like her old self. She wore jeans and a jeans jacket, had on makeup, and her hair was curled. She was almost pretty.

  “So let’s go, let’s do this,” Ashley said, lighting a cigarette.

  “You ready to go, Petty?” I asked.

  She didn’t move, her eyes on the TV.

  Ashley took a drag off her cigarette and stared in Petty’s direction.

  A glance at the clock on the wall told me that about three minutes remained in the episode.

  “Hey, Ashley,” I said. “Do you have your yearbook from my senior year handy? I want to show Petty our pictures, show her what she missed.”

  Ashley squealed. “It’s in my room. I’ll go get it.”

  She went into her bedroom and closed the door behind her.

  On the TV, Detective Mandy Quirke was telling the killer how she knew it was him. The killer sobbed into his hands. As the uniforms handcuffed him and led him out of the interview room, Mandy’s partner said something clever and the black screen that says “Created by Bob Blaine” appeared. Petty turned off the TV.

  I stuck my head in the door Ashley had disappeared through. “Never mind,” I said, “we can find it later. Let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  On the way out to the truck, I asked Ashley, “So where you working?”

  “Well,” Ashley said, dragging on her cigarette before crushing it out on the walk. “I was working at Schwan’s, but I got laid off.”

  Right. Laid off. I turned my face away so she wouldn’t see my skepticism. As if she’d notice. I unlocked the pickup. Petty opened the passenger door, pushed the seat forward and sat on the little shelf seat behind the buckets, letting Ashley have shotgun. I totally understood why Petty didn’t want Ashley to sit behind her. Ashley probably struck her as the kind of girl who was handy with a garrote.

  “Where we going?” I asked.

  “Knucklehead’s,” Ashley said, pulling a cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it up. She held it to my lips and I took a grateful hit.

  “You’re gonna have to tell me where to go,” I said, pulling away from the curb.

  “I’ll tell you where to go, all right,” Ashley said. “Ha ha ha, ha ha ha. It’s on Pacific and Third.”

  It was only a few blocks away. The bar was a cinder-­block building the size of a small ranch house. I parked on the street and Ashley swiveled the rearview mirror to look at herself and fluff her hair before getting out. Instead of holding the seat forward for Petty, she let it clunk back into place and walked ahead of us to the bar. I sighed and yanked the seat so Petty could get out. As Ashley disappeared inside, Petty froze up.

  “I can’t go in there,” she said.

  “Sure you can,” I said. “You got your ID, right?”

  “No, I mean . . . I . . .”

  Once again, pity for this girl washed over me. What must it be like to be so paranoid? Still, observing Petty side by side with Ashley made me admire her more, because unlike Ashley, Petty hadn’t chosen her circumstances.

  “I’ll stay right by your side,” I said. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

  “I think I’d better wait in the truck.”

  “Listen,” I said. “Let’s go in there for a little while. I think we—­I should buy her a beer or two since she’s letting us stay at her place for free. I’ll make sure you’re sitting against the wall, away from the window. I will not leave your side. Okay?”
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br />   Petty breathed deeply, clearly psyching herself up.

  “You want me to get your gun out of the truck? Would that make you feel safer?”

  “It’s not in the truck,” she said, and opened her hoodie to show me her holstered pistol.

  The sight of it made my stomach clench. I stopped walking. “Wait. You can’t wear that in there.”

  “But you asked me if I wanted you to—­”

  “I know I did, but I was just . . .”

  Why had I said that? I’d never really thought about all the ordinary, weird conversational and behavioral tics everybody used; the casual lies, the empty offers, the figures of speech.

  Petty awaited my answer.

  “That’s just how ­people talk.”

  “Why?”

  “They just do,” I said.

  “So why can’t I wear the gun in there?”

  “You got a concealed carry permit?” When in doubt, divert, distract, or avoid the subject altogether is my motto.

  “I’m not going in there without it,” Petty said.

  “You’re not going to threaten anyone, right?”

  “Not unless someone threatens me first. Or you. Or even Ashley.”

  The ­people I knew who toted guns around with them—­who was I kidding? The guys I knew who carried were usually overcompensating for their shortcomings, ready to yank out their piece and wave it around like a flag. Petty was the first person I’d ever met who actually carried for self-­protection. I couldn’t help but feel admiration for this strange girl.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Instead of holding the door for her, I led the way inside, where the sharp whock of colliding pool balls punctuated loud classic rock. Just beyond the door, Petty stood with her back against the wall and scanned the room.

  Ashley, who had her arms draped over two guys’ shoulders, waved at me. I pointed to a table in the corner, which would be a perfect place from which to view the entire room.

  Petty led the way over to it, turning in a circle, then sat on a stool with her back against the wall. Ashley came dancing over to the table, an unlit cigarette between her lips.

  “You want a beer?” Ashley asked me, then turned. “You want a beer, Petty?”

  Petty glanced at me.

  “You need his permission, or what?”

  “Is that how you ask permission?” Petty said. “By looking at someone?”

  Ashley burst into laughter.

  “And why would I need permission?”

  My head spun. No way could I explain to Petty that Ashley was insulting her in order to assert her queen-­bee status. That this new, fucked-­up Ashley perceived her as someone too weak or too stupid to make her own decisions.

  Thinking about all the head games involved in a normal social interaction depressed the shit out of me. I definitely needed a beer to stop the editorial bubbles from appearing over every communication. I dug out my wallet and handed Ashley five twenties. “Buy a pitcher and keep the rest to get yourself a ­couple of packs of smokes and some groceries.”

  Ashley screamed and threw her arms around me. “I love you!” she shouted, and returned to the bar.

  I leaned close to Petty, but she leaned away.

  “I wanted to tell you something,” I said, “to whisper it to you, so I need to get close to your ear.” I felt like a foreign exchange student host, having to explain American customs.

  Even in the dim bar light, I could see her face redden, embarrassed at her ineptitude.

  “But nobody will be able to hear it anyway,” I said loudly. “I was going to say we probably should have crashed at Mike Zang’s, but I thought you’d be more comfortable at a girl’s house. Ashley’s changed a lot since the last time I saw her.”

  Petty didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes on the careening mass of ­people before us. Ashley danced over to our table and set down two red plastic cups of beer. Petty pushed hers away, but then seemed to reconsider. She picked up the cup and took a sip.

  I watched.

  “My first beer,” Petty said, holding it up in a toast.

  I clicked my cup against hers. “How about that. I had my first beer when I was ten.”

  She tipped up the cup and drained it.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched Petty as she watched ­people, until two guys by the pool table started arguing loudly.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, in my best Batman growl. “I’ll protect you.”

  “From those two guys? I could take them both, easy.”

  I felt a thrill. She probably could. I smiled at her and she smiled back, her dimples deepening, and I realized this was the first time I’d seen her smile. It was a sight to behold, and it sent blood rushing through me before I could stop it. That was all I needed, to be crushing on this gooney girl who could probably snap me in half.

  “Until you pulled that wicked jiu-­jitsu move in front of Walgreens, I wouldn’t have believed you,” I said. I sat up straighter. “Who else? Who else could you take?”

  As soon as it was out of my mouth, I was afraid she’d say, “You.” But she didn’t. She glanced around and said, “The guy on the far right of the bar, the bartender, the waitress, and the guy in the hunting vest.”

  “And who’d you have trouble with?”

  “The stout guy in the slipknot T-­shirt at the bar and the guy in camo.”

  “And we’re talking strictly hand-­to-­hand, right?”

  She nodded. “It’s Ashley I’m most worried about, because she’s wiry and unpredictable and meth heads sometimes have super strength. Plus I’ll bet she cheats.”

  “Right?” I said. “Listen, I swear I didn’t know she was doing drugs. She was such a sweet girl. It sucks.”

  A giggle escaped Petty, but she sobered immediately. “That’s not funny. I don’t know why I laughed.”

  “Because it’s your first beer and you haven’t had anything to eat. Don’t worry about it.”

  She giggled again.

  Ashley came back to our table. “You need another one?” she asked.

  “I think we’re good, Ash,” I said.

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.”

  She went back to the two guys in baseball caps she’d been talking to. She would talk and talk then throw her head back and laugh, then glance in Petty’s direction. The two guys kept smiling at each other, smiles that said, “We’re getting laid tonight.”

  DEKKER ORDERED US some nachos. I felt clearer after I had some food in my stomach, but the beer made me warm and relaxed, which alarmed me. Ashley spun over to us every once in a while. She didn’t eat anything, which didn’t surprise me. By eight o’clock the place was standing room only, and Dekker told Ashley it was time to go.

  “She wants to stay,” Dekker said when she walked away from the table again. “She said to go back to her place and she’ll catch a ride with her new ‘friends’ later. She gave me the key.” He held it up.

  That was fine by me. But looking around at the packed bar, I felt jumpy. No way I’d get out of here without making physical contact with a bunch of ­people.

  Dekker said, “I’ll go first and clear a path for you.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He turned his back to me and I followed him out into the dark night. I took a huge gulp of the clean-­smelling night air.

  “Why do ­people hang out there?” I said.

  “To get laid,” Dekker said, and then turned toward me, a horrified expression on his face. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

  I shrugged. I was sure he was right. All the movements and facial expressions and sounds inside the bar had been cartoonishly exaggerated, like the acting in bad TV movies I’d seen over the years. It was like mating week on Animal Planet or something.

  We got in the truck and Dekker said, “Ashley tol
d me there are two twin beds in her room, and you can have one of them. I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room.”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep at all,” I said. “I’ve never slept anywhere but my house. Ever.”

  It must have been hard for Dekker not to shout out What? every time I revealed another facet of my weird life.

  “I’ve always had a tough time when I’m away from home too,” he said instead. “When I first got to K-­State, I had a hard time falling asleep. Unless I was toasted, of course.”

  It would also be hard to sleep because there would be a man in the apartment, plus a girl I didn’t trust at all. I thought this but didn’t say it. When we got to Ashley’s neighborhood, Dekker circled the block twice looking for parking. We had to park a block and a half away.

  I reached for my suitcase but Dekker said, “Maybe you ought to leave that here.” I guessed he didn’t exactly trust her either. He put it in the cab, then locked the doors.

  Inside the apartment, the smell of smoke was now old and stale, so Dekker opened some windows. He went into Ashley’s bedroom and flipped on the lights. I looked under the beds and in the closet. The bed I was supposed to sleep on was piled high with dirty clothes. Dekker swept it off for me.

  “There you go.” He yawned and stretched, and he was so tall his knuckles scraped the ceiling. “I’m going to watch some TV.”

  “Good night,” I said. He closed the bedroom door behind him. I heard the TV switch on in the living room as I sat on the bed. I wished I’d brought the photo album into the apartment so I could look at it, because I was sure I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  I wondered why Dad had told me there weren’t any photos. I thought about how he never wanted to talk about Mom, and I started to wonder if maybe the house fire was set by some criminal syndicate my dad was mixed up with and we were in the witness protection program like Dekker had said. I lay on top of the covers and closed my eyes anyway to get some rest.

  I didn’t know how much later sharp voices startled me out of sleep. I grabbed my bra knife from outside my shirt and held onto it. At first I thought the voices were coming from the TV, but then I heard Dekker shout, “What?”