“You and that word. Should I give up my virginity to someone who doesn’t even love me?”
His words tease, and his nimble fingers are already unhooking her bra, but she hears the sincerity carefully hidden behind the question.
“No,” she says, all the answer she can bear to give him, even now, when the truth of what she feels burns through her like a fever.
He smiles against her cheek when he parses this. “But I should give it up to you, Bird?”
“Yes.”
He shivers, and she takes his head very gently between her hands so she can kiss him properly. He blinks slowly up at her, like he’s high or drowning, and she thinks that her grandmother was right after all — it is a gift, a pirate’s treasure, so rich it steals her breath.
“Stay here,” she says, and puts a finger to his lips. He sighs and tilts his head back, neck exposed, throat bobbing with a heavy swallow. She hurries to the record player and hunts through Aaron’s tidy stacks for something perfect. It’s there, near the top of one pile, like Aaron meant for her to find it. Donny Hathaway, ageless and beautiful, one of DC’s lost sons. This is one of Nicky’s favorite records, and she tries not to think about the likelihood of a younger Nicky putting this exact same record on for the exact same reasons twenty years ago.
Coffee watches her walk back to him. She sways her hips in time to the music, then panics, wondering how he’ll judge her wide B-cup breasts, the curly hair on her belly, her thunder thighs. She never exposed herself like this in front of Paul; they did it in the dark of his room or the back of his car, and she saw more of him than he ever did of her. But Coffee regards her not in judgment but wonder; for the length of that walk, bumpy with gooseflesh and half-naked, Bird is as beautiful as she has always wanted to be.
And Coffee, the fuzzy edges of his mad scientist curls glittering in the low light, the whites of his eyes shot red with exhaustion and desire, his muscles wired and shivering — she drinks him like a dream.
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come, only a scraping sigh.
“You’re so beautiful,” Bird says.
She sees this hit, and each pinball ricochet that follows: hope and misery and shame and fear and want —
“I’ll take care of you,” she says, and catches him — like he’s caught her so many times before — and accepts it: his amber, his gold.
* * *
After, with his arms low around her belly, her back damp against his chest, his lips trace a reverent path down the vertebrae of her neck and come to rest between her shoulder blades. She vibrates beneath her skin, a tuning fork set off by a resonant pitch, a harmony of skin and sweat and mingled breath in the silence after the record’s last song. Her thoughts tangle in knots that begin and end with his name, his smell, his voice. She did not know anything could feel like that; no drug has ever left her so fractured and luminous.
She almost tells him.
“Is it a cliché if I feel like a cigarette?” he says.
“You want to kill me already?”
He pulls her so tight her ribs ache. She doesn’t mind. “I want this forever,” he says. “I’ll settle for the rest of our lives.”
Her happiness hurts like an old wound. “That could be a week from now.”
“Always optimistic.”
“Coffee, I …”
He waits, but it was sex, not magic. Some things don’t change easily, or at all.
* * *
But the difference is, Bird: You want it to change. As much as I do.
You see me, sometimes. And not only in your dreams.
Aaron sits on the bathroom counter, next to the jar of Hawaiian Silky — and the bugged bracelet that Bird has decided is safest left alone. He looks critical as Bird pirouettes in front of the cloudy mirror.
“Your hair looks weird,” Aaron says, swinging his legs.
Marella raises recently plucked eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
Bird stops and squints at her hair, tight sable curls unevenly frosted with drugstore silver spray.
“Should I rinse it out?”
“You look great. Aaron, tell your cousin she looks great.”
“She looks kind of funky.”
Bird turns around and points. “Like, Chuck Brown funky or Thriller funky?”
“You look —” Marella stops. “Wait, what?”
Aaron grins. “Chuck Brown funky, for sure.”
She puts her arm around him and squeezes. “Then tell me I look hot, kiddo, ’cause we’re going to a go-go.”
“Em,” he says, laughing and squirming, “no way, Em, that’s just gross.”
Marella looks between the two of them. “Okay, Chuck Brown, godfather of go-go, I get that, but Thriller?”
“The funk of forty thousand years,” Bird and Aaron quote at the same time, their best Vincent Price imitations, and bust out laughing.
After a minute Marella takes charge again and tells Aaron to move so she can do Bird’s makeup.
“Dad says that you guys shouldn’t go. Didn’t you read that email?”
Marella twirls the eyeliner pencil like Coffee twirls his pens. “Close your left eye,” she says.
“Everyone read that email,” Bird says, “but it doesn’t matter, because we all have the vaccine.”
The email was addressed from the administrations of no fewer than five private institutions, most prominently Bradley and Devonshire, declaring that the go-go had been “organized against strenuous public health objections from every school administration” and that in their opinion, the local fitness center had displayed “egregious negligence” in allowing their gym to be rented for the purpose. They neglected to mention that the Beltway quarantine ends officially at midnight, and current curfew regulations allow weekend gatherings. So they threatened disciplinary action for any student attending, and the attending students made fun of them in text messages. Charlotte’s go-go is turning into the biggest party of the year.
“Do you honestly think they expect us to stay inside for the next year?”
“I know my mother does,” Marella says. “Luckily, I’m at school, not home. And hey, at least we know we’re safe.”
Bird grimaces, thinking of how they know. And yet, her life has begun to feel unexpectedly, suspiciously good. Her mother called this morning, after she and Coffee returned to school with wide smiles and no answers for frustrated proctors.
“Donovan understood the situation quite well, dear,” Carol Bird said in tones suffused with self-satisfaction. “He’s taken care of that man. He won’t bother you again. And I hope that as things get back to normal, we can make solid plans about your future.”
Bird doesn’t trust Donovan like her mother does, but she’s willing to hope. “I just need to figure out how to avoid Mom’s new plan to send me to Georgetown. Ugh.”
“One thing at a time, babe.” Marella squeezes her shoulders. “On a scale of hot to nuclear, how do I look?”
Bird takes in Marella’s teased beehive, starlet makeup, and ski-slope curves. If Sarah doesn’t fall down at her feet, Bird will push her. “Panty-melting,” Bird says.
Marella’s lips spread wide and red. “Thought so.”
* * *
The guerilla go-go has a line spilling onto the sidewalk of Wisconsin Avenue by the time Marella and Bird arrive. The old dive of a fitness and community center has hosted its share of Devonshire Bat Mitzvahs, but this might be its first go-go. She’s not surprised to see familiar faces selling tickets behind the card table: Gina, Denise, Trevor, Paul. No Coffee yet, though he texted that he would meet her here. Trevor holds a roll of tickets in his hand, but he’s not making any effort to give them out; he tilts back in his chair and watches the half dozen soldiers stationed in the vestibule and on the sidewalk.
Marella follows Trevor’s gaze. One soldier jumps at the squawk of his walkie-talkie and adjusts his hold on his semiautomatic. “What the hell kind of go-go needs all this heat?” Marella says sof
tly.
Bird hasn’t seen this many soldiers since the phosgene attack. By the entrance to the dance floor, Felice argues with Mrs. Early and a police officer. Felice is furious, red-faced and sweating. As her former friend gesticulates with the energy of a silent-film actress, Bird indulges in the schadenfreude of seeing usually immaculate Felice with smeared lipstick and humidity-frizzed hair. She wonders what Mrs. Early could want that has Felice so agitated, but she can’t hear them over the vibrating bass from the speaker towers inside.
Not my problem, Bird thinks, as they approach the ticket table and Paul turns his head. He freezes at the sight of her, a sylvan vision in gold and red and silver. She can’t help it; she kicks out her hip and stares right back, affecting amused indifference and keeping his frustrated desire like a trophy.
“Emily,” he says, “you, I mean, uh …”
He casts a floundering glance at Trevor, who smiles lazily and leans forward.
“Paul wants to say you look hot. Don’t tell me you both came here stag?”
Marella looks politely amused. “My hot date’s on her way, thank you for your concern.”
Trevor just shrugs. “Three tickets, then?” he asks.
Bird looks around the vestibule again for the dirty-blond curls, the tapping fingers, the half smile she wants to turn full and real at the sight of her. But he’s not here, and her phone sits still and message-free in her hand.
Marella glances at her, sees the answer in Bird’s face, and shrugs at Trevor. “Two, please,” she says sweetly. “Our dates can pay when they get here.”
Trevor meets Bird’s eyes for a long, considering moment. “Got that, Gina?” he says without taking his eyes from her.
Bird breaks the unsettling contact and hunts through her clutch for a twenty. She hears, but doesn’t see, Paul’s mumbled excuse about asking Felice for the latest with the cops. Her chest contracts for a sharp, painful beat — she doesn’t want him, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to see him chase another girl. Especially Felice.
They take their tickets and move to the end of the table with several Costco-sized bottles of hand sanitizer. Marella’s phone buzzes.
“Sarah. She’s inside already.” She bites her bottom lip. “How do I look?”
“Gorgeous,” Bird says. “Go ahead. I’ll text you when I find Coffee.”
Marella kisses her lightly on the cheek and hurries inside. Bird hesitates by the ticket table until a group of sophomore boys pushes her out of the way. She waits a full minute, ignoring Paul and Felice’s whispered conversation in a corner, hoping to see Coffee and wishing he would reply to one of her texts.
“Sure he’s coming?”
Bird freezes, startled by Trevor’s voice beside her. He regards her with all his typical distant amusement, but she wonders if she sees an atypical concern beneath the mask. “Why wouldn’t he?” she asks.
“Well,” Trevor drawls, “there is that whole criminal trial on Monday.”
Bird feels clammy. “Monday,” she repeats, and realizes too late the weakness she’s exposed. Trevor, like Felice, feels no pity. And yet it flashes across his face. It occurs to her that she left Trevor’s oldest and socially accepted best friend for his mysterious new one. Poor Paul was always competing with Coffee, one way or another. And loving Coffee doesn’t mean she understands this friendship, or a dozen other things about him. Of course Trevor knows his court date. Of course he’s holding it over her. But he just raises his hand, like he would touch her arm before he recalls himself and rubs his forehead instead.
“He’s had a hard time, Emily. Don’t … well, that’s up to you. I wanted to tell you sorry for my part in it. Paul is my friend, but he did a shitty thing that night. And so did I, but hey, you know what it’s like to have a mom you can’t say no to. I’m not testifying, if that means anything. Coffee is … you know, I guess. He sort of gets under your skin. I’m even starting to get what he sees in you. You and Marella look good together.”
“Better than you and Felice.”
Trevor smiles all the time, but this is the first she’s seen him laugh. He laughs like he means it, with a hint of self-mockery; a flash of what he and Coffee like in each other. “See you around, Emily. Bird. Go dance before the cops stop us.”
She would ask him more, but he heads back to the ticket table and Bird is left staring at her silent phone and an open door. Coffee promised her that he’d be here. She’s worried, but the knowledge that he hid something as huge as his court date from her makes her feel sick and angry.
In the gym, the lurching, funky rhythm churns like her gut. Whatever, she thinks, I can dance without him. She tucks the phone in the band of her bra and stalks into the heart of the human mass.
She doesn’t look for anyone she knows, just feels the slither of silk leaves over her hips as she pops her back. A boy gets behind her to grind, and she lets him, going down until her thighs burn and then coming back up slow, her hips gyrating enough to give her mother a heart attack. You know what it’s like to have a mom you can’t say no to.
“Not anymore,” Bird mutters. “Hell no.”
The boy gets the wrong idea and backs off. Bird doesn’t mind. She dances alone. Eventually she spots Marella and her leggy blond making out against one of the speaker towers. Bird hopes they will avoid permanent hearing loss and glares at a few ogling guys nearby. She looks for Coffee, but has no real hope of finding him. Something has happened, he’s facing twenty-five years in two days, and no matter what he gave her last night, he clearly doesn’t want her now.
She’s surprised by how many people dancing look far too old for high school. Go-gos always attract some of the regular fans, but this room feels packed and feverish, a city finally releasing steam after months of quarantine. Who would have thought a prep school go-go would become the big party of quarantine eve? She looks for Charlotte, hoping to congratulate her on a brilliant job, even if the cops do shut it down. She finds her near the stage, clinging to a freshman boy the same height as Aaron. She’s laughing and patting his arms while he holds her up, nostrils flaring like a spooked horse.
Bird pushes her way toward them. “Charlotte!” she shouts over the music. Charlotte turns to her and giggles.
“Emily! I mean, what, it’s Bird now, right? Bird, like a birdie.”
Bird pulls Charlotte off the freshman, much to his relief. “Is she drunk?” Bird asks him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know! I don’t think so. At least … there’s some E going around.”
“Charlotte,” Bird shouts in her ear, “did you take E?”
“Don’t be a mud stick, Birdie,” Charlotte shouts, and laughs so hard Bird has to hold her up by the waist. The hard ends of Charlotte’s braids sting where they whip her hands.
“Charlotte,” Bird says, “let’s get some fresh air.”
Charlotte stands straight up and pulls her arm free. “Why are you so mean to me? Emily, didn’t you know I always liked you better?”
Bird stares. Charlotte’s high, but she looks perfectly serious, almost pleading. “No you didn’t,” Bird says. “You and Felice —”
“You and Felice,” she mocks. “You know what she’s like! You were just as afraid of her. Before, I mean. And then you go crazy and cut your hair, but do you expect me to cut my hair too? Am I supposed to let Felice destroy me because you only care about that drug dealer? You chose him. And Marella. But you could have chosen me.”
“Felice likes you better,” Bird tries, desperate. “You’re the only person she really cares about.”
Charlotte’s smile is small and sad. “Felice understands me better. But I could have used you these last few days. I never thought you’d be the one to hurt me.”
Bird can’t speak. Her ears are clogged with ocean, her heart with silt. Did she give up too soon, too afraid of Felice to try with Charlotte? She closes her eyes, sick with the empty space where a friendship used to be, and so she does not see what’s happening until there’s nothing she c
an do.
It starts with a sudden silence, louder than any beat. And then a cleared throat and a deep male voice saying, “Due to a terrorist threat, we’re going to have to shut this down. Please head to the exits in an orderly manner and —”
“Hells no, right?” Charlotte’s voice, breathless and giggling. “We want our motherfucking go-go!”
Confused shouts and loud conversation fill the silence left by the band. The crowd around her surges forward. Bird stumbles and nearly falls, but pulls herself up on the arm of a man nearby. She vomits in her mouth and swallows it painfully. They would have trampled her to death and not even noticed. Just a few feet away from the stage, she can hardly see anything but sweaty backs and reaching hands. She wants to see what’s happening onstage to foolhardy, grieving Charlotte, but she only glimpses shoulder-length braids swinging sharply and the boots of at least four soldiers and two police. Something buzzes against her ribs, and she yelps, terrified of Taser-happy cops before she remembers her phone. Coffee, she thinks, and struggles to move her hand enough to reach down the neckline of her dress. It’s hopeless; the little room for maneuvering Bird has in this mob she has to use to keep herself upright and alive.
“No,” Charlotte screams from the stage, “everyone was having fun! This isn’t fair!” Someone must pull her away from the microphone, because next Bird hears the voice from before, repeating his instructions to clear the building. A blast of frigid outside air, a faint whiff of woodsmoke and pine needles and the damp of impending snow, cuts through the humid stink of the mob. Soldiers and police stand near the open fire doors, encouraging everyone to exit the building.
For the space of a breath, Bird thinks that this will turn out okay; no one will blame Charlotte for losing it five days after her mother died, the mob won’t trample anyone, the police won’t arrest anyone, and she’ll find Coffee as soon as she can reach her phone.
Then she sees Felice pushing her way to the stage steps with the force of a battering ram, screaming something that Bird can’t hear but knows is Charlotte’s name. And as the crowd bows outward, diffusing like a pressured gas toward the fire exits, Bird stands sentinel. Charlotte smiles and closes her eyes. She twirls, a laughing, demented dervish who eludes all the cops’ grasping hands until she fetches up against the one by the microphone. And that cop, clearly exhausted and pissed off, pulls his gun from the holster, levels it at Charlotte, and tells her to get on the floor. Felice leaps onstage and hurtles toward Charlotte. What’s left of the crowd surges backward, pushing Bird to her knees when the gunshot cracks through the speakers.
Love is the Drug Page 30
