Field-Tripped

by Nicole Archer

As usual today, my performance is stellar. It’s all smiles and pats on the back and words of encouragement to my sincerely untalented staff, as they practice for the three-ring circus tonight.

  No one is taking the pitch seriously anymore. Not even Skip. But tonight’s important. Shimura’s only a point behind us.

  After dinner, we gather in the lodge’s theater. Eli ends up in front with his boss, and Alan sits next to my staff. This lands me between Avery and Sabrina.

  We settle in the leather recliners, each of us with a tall glass of liquid encouragement to soothe the sting of humiliation we’re about to undergo for the sake of Proton’s amusement.

  Burt holds up an electronic box. “Picked this dealie up at a Hollywood charity auction. Applause meter. Points will be awarded based on the audience’s reaction.”

  “Hear that, Samurai?” Skip says. “Every one of you better scream your faces off.”

  “Once you see my act,” Avery says, “you won’t have to fake those screams.”

  I snicker. “Couldn’t be any worse than mine.”

  She shifts her sleepy kid in her lap. “Want to bet?”

  “Like, I’m pretty sure I’ve got you all beat,” Sabrina says glumly, two seats down.

  Joy turns around from her seat in front of us. “Just wait, bitches, you haven’t seen nothing yet.” Her flat delivery makes us all squeal with laughter.

  Avery sighs happily. “Don’t tell my boss, but I’m having a blast.”

  “I heard that,” Skip shouts from the front row. “Stop having fun and focus.”

  Malcolm prances up to the microphone and taps it with a remote control. “First up—Preeti Deshpande.” He flicks a button and a Bollywood beat bumps through the theater.

  Clad in a bathrobe, Preeti moves to the stage and mumbles what must be a few choice Hindi curse words. Her robe falls in a puddle to the floor and male gasps sound out around us.

  Dressed in a traditional beaded bra top and a sheer sarong, Shimura’s intern blows away the audience with her belly dancing skills. Her hips seem to move without the rest of her body and her long black hair, unleashed from her tight bun for the first time, drapes down her back and touches the floor as she arches back and grinds her abs to the beat.

  After Preeti’s performance, Skip flies out of his seat. “Brava! Brava!” Then comically, he sprints to the front, grabs her robe and covers her up like a worried father.

  Christine is called up next. Big surprise, she sings a hymn.

  Duffy casts dirty shadow puppets on the theater screen for a few laughs.

  Stanley does a sign language number. Of course no one knows what he’s saying, so it’s a complete flop.

  Avery’s turn is next. Her son clings to her neck and wraps his legs around her. “Get down, honey,” she says gently.

  It’s clear from the burst of red in his cheeks that that will happen over his dead body. Nervously laughing, she carries him to the front, balanced on her hips.

  She struggles to unfold a piece of paper then speaks close to the microphone. “A toddler haiku.” She clears her throat, and in a hip-hoppy rhythm she recites the poem. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.”

  “Ha!” Sam applauds loudly.

  No one else seems to get it.

  Avery sends Sam a twinkling smile of gratitude that their humor is on the same wavelength. She kisses her son’s forehead. “Ready for bed?”

  “No!” he shouts, and Sam loses it again.

  Avery makes her way back to the seat, and Wang is on next.

  He does a completely unimpressive back flip, bows and walks back to his seat before anyone has a chance to react.

  I’m on next, and my stomach drops to my knees. I whistle to my dogs and square my shoulders. Down to the front I go. I line up the boys and pull the treats out of my pocket. Before I begin, my gaze shifts to the front row.

  Eli is stretched out and watching with interest.

  I lick my lips and begin. “There was a man who had a dog and Bingo was his naaam-o. B-i-n-g”—I point to L.L. He barks and I give him a treat. “B-i-n-g”—I point to Trippy. He barks and I throw him a treat. And I continue down this humiliating path until all of the dogs have barked twice and the song is over.

  Once more I slide a glance at Eli. His blue eyes are sparkling as brightly as his grin.

  But it’s Alan’s applause that’s the loudest. That douche.

  I stomp back to my seat and flop back in the recliner with a loud smack.

  Shimura’s developer swaggers up to the stage next.

  Malcolm presses the remote and music thumps.

  What happens next leaves the females in the audience squeezing their thighs together.

  The man whips off his shirt and throws it into the crowd. Underneath that long john shirt is a carved physique, covered in ink.

  I would describe his dance moves as Magic Mike-ish, but he’s far hotter than the dude in that movie.

  At the end of his performance, Malcolm runs up and hugs his sweaty body. “Thank you. Oh, God! Thank you.”

  Next to me, Avery’s biting her knuckle. “Hold my kid.” She plops him in Preeti’s lap.

  “Where are you going?” asks the intern.

  “To masturbate,” she replies, slightly out of breath.

  No one bats an eye in our row of women, including righteous Christine. No one can deny the sexual inferno that just burned up the stage.

  Sam receives the first ten on the applause meter. And the men aren’t making a sound.

  Skip strolls up onstage next and performs an unintentionally side-splitting comedy routine. He impersonates Ronald Reagan, Jack Nicholson, Tom Hanks, and Elvis, giving each celebrity ridiculous lines. His Ron Burgundy slash Will Ferrell impression has Burt and Art holding their sides, laughing so hard no sound comes out. “You’re a smelly pirate hooker. Why don’t you go back to your home on Whore Island?” And he delivers it all with a deadpan face, which makes it all the funnier.

  I’m giggling and snorting, and it feels so good.

  And then Elliott struts up front. I hold my breath and watch him drag empty buckets and cans and place them in a circle around a stool. He yanks a pair of drumsticks out of his back pocket—where he got them is a mystery—and he signals to Malcolm to start the music.

  A Phil Collins karaoke rendition of “In The Air Tonight” blares over the speakers.

  My heart slams against my chest. That song was my brother’s favorite. He used to blast it in the car when he rode up the mountain to go snowboarding.

  He remembers.

  A wave of emotion blindsides me—grief and gratitude, love and anger. What do I feel? What do I do with this man?

  Eli’s voice is deep and breathy, just like it was in my brother’s band a million years ago.

  Joy whoops and screams and holds up a lighter.

  The St. James sexy smirk curls up. It’s vagina-shattering.

  At the drum solo part, he sits in the stool and bangs on the buckets like they’re a deluxe kit.

  Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck.

  He thinks this is funny. I think it’s sexy as fuck.

  And yet, I find it horribly sad.

  While the men shout, “Yeah, dude!” and pump their fists in the air, and the women sway to the music and pretend to scream like rabid fans, I stay frozen in my seat, biting my lips hard so I won’t cry.

  Sabrina sighs. “God, I miss him.”

  “Me, too,” I whisper, but she doesn’t hear me.

  Eli glances at me, and his smile fades out with the music.

  At the end, I applaud like crazy. He deserves it.

  The rest of the performances go by in a flurry. I can no longer pay attention.

  Burt and Art announce Shimura as the winner.

  Like a zombie, I stand and wander out of the room.

  Art grabs my arm on the way out. “Hey, Charlotte.” He pulls me over to the side. “I haven’t had a chance to chat with you today. How yo
u hanging in there?”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s Patrick’s birthday, right?”

  I slump over and suck in a breath. A sob is building, threatening to break free. I’ve become so fragile in the last few days.

  Art squeezes me into a bear hug. The pressure of his mass blocks the onslaught of grief, and I’m able to compose myself again.

  “Never gets easier, does it?”

  I don’t answer.

  “I’m sorry, sugar. We’re always here if you want to talk. How you doing otherwise? Having fun?”

  “Sure.” Did that sound peppy enough?

  “Burt and I are having a blast. Can’t remember the last time we’ve had this much fun.”

  I placate him. “I’m glad.”

  He pats me softly. “If you feel like talking later, we’ll be up, probably going over the video from tonight.” A hearty guffaw barks out as he walks away.

  I wander back to my room weighted down with feelings. I miss numbness.

  On the way, Elliott steps out from the shadows. “You okay, Chicken?”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Eli Checks the Time

  Survival Tip: You cannot see closed fractures. Symptoms include: severe pain aggravated by movement, tenderness, and swelling.

  Eli’s Mixtape: Lo Moon, “Loveless - Edit”

  THIS TIME OF YEAR, I usually head to a roof somewhere and drink a six-pack of beer in Patrick’s honor.

  I miss my friend.

  Patrick and I shared a connection that went beyond most friendships. We were more like brothers.

  I wait for Charlie at the bottom of the stairs. “You okay, Chicken?”

  A rare sight cuts into me—her frown. This is the first time she’s let go of that artificial smile.

  “Can I show you something?”

  She nods and follows me to my room, where she sits on my bed while I dig in my suitcase.

  I find her brother’s watch and hand it to her. “You should have this.”

  “Where did you get that?”

  “He gave it to me. Before the Olympics. Told me it’d bring me good luck.”

  I unfurl her fist and place it in her hand.

  She handles it as if it’s an ancient artifact then lifts it to her nose and smells it.

  I chuckle.

  “What?”

  “I love how you smell everything.”

  Her shoulders round, and the watch dangles off her finger.

  “How do you do it, Charlie? How do you live without them?”

  She collapses back on the bed and stares up at the skylight. “I’m not sure I am living.”

  I turn to my side. “What happened after I left? How did you get through it?”

  Her dogs jump in bed with us, and we squeeze our bodies together to make room. We don’t touch. We just look.

  I want to kiss her and hold her. But I don’t feel worthy. How could I, after what I did?

  I tell her the story about the watch. “Remember when your dad gave Patrick that?”

  “He thought he was such a stud with that thing,” she says. “It drove me crazy. He was always flashing it at people. I kept telling him he was going to get mugged one day.”

  “The day he got it we went boarding, and he kept screwing around with it. He dropped it off the chairlift. I had to stop him from jumping off. He kept shouting all those made up swear words of his.”

  “Ass-licking donkey fucker?”

  “Something like that.” I shake my head. “We spent, I-shit-you-not, two hours looking for that thing. We’re on our hands and knees in the snow, and this hot chick skis up to us with the watch in her hands. ‘Are you looking for this?’ Long story short, Pat ditches me for this woman, and I have to take the bus back to Boulder. I was so pissed.”

  “Ugh, the bus is the worst.”

  “I didn’t hear from him for two days. Then he showed up at my house, bragging that he’d spent the ‘best days’ of his life in bed with that chick, and that the watch had ‘magical pussy powers.’”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Gross.”

  “But then the chick’s husband came home and nearly killed him.” I laugh, and it hurts. “‘Doesn’t sound lucky to me,’ I told him.”

  “‘I didn’t die,’ he told me. ‘If that’s not luck, I don’t know what is.’ He was always so positive.” I sigh. “Except when it came to you.”

  She blinks back her tears. “What do you mean?”

  “He never wanted me around you.”

  “That’s not true. He loved you.”

  “He did, but he didn’t want us together. That’s why I left.” A bomb ticks inside me. Am I about to confess?

  She strokes the straps of the watch then hands it back to me. “I can’t take this. He gave it to you. I don’t really need magic pussy powers.”

  “True.” I stroke her St. Bernard’s velvety ear, wondering if I should back up and tell her everything. The depth of despair behind her airy humor doesn’t fool me. Do we need to do this now? Do I have to tell her?

  She looks down at the dog and back at me. “It doesn’t bother you he’s in the bed?”

  “I love dogs. I’d get one, but I live in a tiny place and work a lot. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  “I do. I like the people.” This small talk is making my skin itch.

  I reach out and cup her cheek.

  We hug and stay that way, just breathing, until someone knocks on my door.

  “If it’s that fucker, Alan…” I shoot out of bed and fling open the door.

  In front of me, in a red negligée with her tits completely exposed, stands Sabrina, drunk as hell, trying to strike a sexy pose in the doorway.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Her lashes flutter.

  The cogs in my male brain get stuck. I can’t seem to formulate a sentence or find a solution to this harrowing problem.

  Charlie pushes past me. “’Night, Elliott. You two have fun.”

  “No,” I say. “Wrong one.” Wrong one? What am I, Avery’s son?

  Sabrina rubs her arms and bounces. “Can I come in?”

  My gaze unwillingly shifts to her hard nipples. I groan. Sabrina has the most beautiful tits. I slap my cheeks. “Yeah, we need to talk.”

  I motion to the bed for her to have a seat.

  She spread-eagles on top, which has the complete opposite effect it should have.

  “Get up, Sabrina.” I help her sit. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

  “I know. I drank so much.”

  “Not the wine, me. Why do you keep this up?”

  Melodramatic drunken tears pour out of mascara-smeared eyes. “Because I love you.”

  Oh, God. I dry her tears with my sleeve. “No, you don’t. I’ve never given you a reason to love me.” I tilt her chin. “When we got together, I told you no strings. And you said, ‘I’m game, Eli.’ Remember?”

  “I thought you would change your mind.”

  “Men are simple creatures, babe. We pretty much tell it like it is. I never wanted to hurt you, and I’m sorry if I did, but you and I”—I wave a hand back and forth—“this isn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever.”

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” she bawls. “What’s-her-face? Charlotte.”

  My agreement bubbles to the surface, but I swallow it back. I don’t have a clue what’s going on between Charlie and me. Even if that were it, I still wouldn’t be with Sabrina. “I care for you, I really do. But not the way you want.”

  She buries her face under the covers. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “No.”

  “I am. I’m so stupid. Everyone makes fun of me.”

  I’m already tired of this. “You’re a good person. You’re beautiful. And you’re kind. There’s someone out there for you.” It’s sickening, the cheese coming out of mouth. “It’ll happen. You’ve just gotta stop chasing the wrong guys.” Namely, me.

  Her forearm folds over her eyes. “Ugh. I feel so st
upid. Please don’t tell anyone I did this.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I tell her.

  The most pathetic smile pushes past her puffy lips. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

  This is an odd statement, considering I’ve been honest with her all along. But she’s pretty wasted.

  She keeps smiling, and for a minute, I worry she’s going to pass out in my bed. Then, much to my relief, she wobbles to her feet and weaves toward the door. “See you tomorrow,” she slurs and closes the door behind her.

  Whoa. A lot just happened in last five minutes. I need to zone out. Or meditate. Or masturbate. I don’t know, something.

  What I end up doing is praying. I’m not religious. I never pray. But the moment feels right. I make this ridiculous deal with whomever I’m praying to. If I can somehow make it up to Charlie, somehow make her happy, maybe I could forgive myself.

  Heaviness covers me while the snow slides down the skylight outside.

  I hug my pillow, wishing it were Charlie and her pack of dogs.

  Then I fall asleep, dreaming about Patrick and his stupid magic pussy watch. In my dream, she comes back to me. And for a while, I float in absolute bliss, before everything turns black.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Eli Falls Hard

  Survival Tip: A clear trail will make carrying baggage much easier.

  Eli’s Mixtape: Kaleo, “Way Down We Go”

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING AT BREAKFAST, Burt informs the group that he has special plans for us.

  Groans and moans detonate around the table, mostly coming from my coworkers.

  Truth is Shimura’s team spirit is shot. Sure, we’re tied with Orion, but we’re also sick of these games.

  At the table, two sets of eyes burn holes through my skull—emerald green lasers on the left and brown sugar daggers on the right.

  I focus on the darker pair—the pair with one lid fluttering closed over a hilarious attempt at a stink-eye. I laugh out loud and the glare grows hotter.

  What’s the use? She’s not going to believe I sent Sabrina packing last night. I fold my hands behind my head and sigh.

  Art spreads his legs in a macho stance and delivers the rules. “Today, you’re going geocaching. Each team will receive a GPS tracker and a backpack full of supplies. Each cache contains clues to the final destination—Proton’s private yurt.”