by Holly Ryan
I swallow again. “I can’t.” Those are the words that happen to leave my mouth. I’m in such shock over what he just said that I have no control over them. All I can do now is thank my lucky stars my words weren’t Absolutely or Whatever you say, Greek god.
“You can’t.” He repeats my words with solemn defeat.
I feel bad for the guy. He must’ve never faced a female’s rejection before; I’m not surprised he’s pouting about it now.
“I mean, I’m planning to go. I was invited a few days ago. I’ll be there. I just can’t go with you, that’s all.” That’s it, Avery. Stick to your guns. Don’t give in. Despite how semi-sweet he’s acting now, you don’t like this guy, remember?
He keeps rubbing his neck. “Oh. Are you going with someone else, or–?”
“I’m going with some friends, that’s all. But thanks.” Let’s get real; I’m sure I’ll only be going with Mara. “Maybe one friend. Maybe I’ll see you there.” I get a chance to walk away, and I take it, like I always do when it comes to Ethan, but I feel different now. He’s actually making me feel kind of bad about this whole thing, and I reconsider my answer, even toy with the possibility of turning around.
“Avery. My God,” I hear my mom say before she bursts through my bedroom door. I’m at my desk, working on my last bit of homework before I head out to that party.
“What is it?” I say. I drop my pencil and stand up, thinking something must be wrong. She’s breathing hard; she must have run up the stairs.
“Guess what?”
I release my breath and sit down again. Nothing that important ever starts with a Guess what. If it was so important, she’d have come out with it.
“Well, come on,” she says. “Guess.”
“Mom, I have no idea. Will you please just tell me? I have to finish this for tomorrow and then I need to pick out what I’m going to wear tonight.”
“Ah,” my mom says, suddenly sidetracked. She walks to my closet and pulls open the doors.
See? Not important.
“You’re going out?”
“Yes.” I give her my attention, trying hard to be respectful despite this looming homework. “Is that okay?”
“Well, it is a Friday. And since you’re being responsible and getting your homework done so early in the weekend…”
Yes. That was my plan. Get the homework done early, impress the mom. Go to the party.
“…I guess it’s all right with me. As long as you’re not going alone.” She turns. “You’re not going alone, right?”
“I’m going with a friend.” This buddy system thing is new with her, too; it’s one of her little attempts to somehow keep me safe. But after having met my sociopath face-to-face, I’m not so sure it would do much to deter another.
She resumes sifting through my hangers. “Alright. And don’t be out too late. Please?”
“I won’t.”
She sighs, turning away from my closet and back to me. She claps her hands clean as though even being in the vicinity of that damn dress is contaminating. “Good. Well, my news. Here goes.” She clasps those hands together and lifts her shoulders like a little kid in line for an ice cream sundae. “I just got off the phone with Dr. Brandt, and you’ve been cleared.”
I don’t speak. I don’t move. I’m numb.
She separates her hands, an inaudible what the heck. “Don’t you see what this means, Avery? You’re cleared. You’re better. You’re good to go. No more doctor’s visits, no more therapy.” Her face is clenched, awaiting my response.
I should be happy, but I’m not. Because really, Mom, what the hell does good to go mean? Like just because some doctor gives me a superficial all clear I can now carry on as normal, as if any of this healing thing followed any kind of predictable timeline?
I smile as best I can. “That’s great, Mom. Thanks for letting me know.” It’s an automatic response, a proper one that’s verging on complete fakeness, but she doesn’t see through it.
She bends over and hugs me. “I’m so proud of you. I want you to know that.” She kisses the top of my head, then stands. “And have fun tonight.”
She leaves and closes the door behind her.
I’m glad she’s happy for me; I could see the emotion in her face and voice. She was on a kind of high, the high of a great accomplishment – the accomplishment being me, her daughter, having not died and now theoretically healed.
I drop my pencil again. I can’t work on this assignment anymore. I walk to my closet and open it up. It’s brimming with new clothes – basics, more importantly – in my favorite neutral colors. Last week I had some time on my hands, so I arranged them by color – the nudes with the nudes, the blacks with the blacks, the whites set aside in their own little pristine section.
With all these news clothes, I now have tons of tops, but only three bottoms. And only one dress. Well, two if you count the one I was assaulted in. But I’m not counting that one, and I doubt I ever will.
That dress stares at me from the dark right-hand corner. I barely see it from the depths of the shadows, but I just make out some flutters of the edges of black tulle where it meets the light.
I blink back to reality and grab my only other dress.
I hold the other dress out in front of me, still cascading from its hanger. It’s nothing impressive, just your average, cliché little black dress, but it’ll do.
I slam the closet shut.
Ethan
I toss my backpack into the truck. It lands with a thud. “Okay, I’ll go. Is Cole coming?” Not that I want to see the guy, but I kind of hope he is. Then I’ll know someone else there.
I’m talking to Julia. She’s standing next to my truck. It’s the end of the school day, and it doesn’t look like the day was hard on her – either that, or she’s just visited the bathroom to touch up. Because she looks flawless, as always.
I don’t bother to tell her that I’d already been invited to James’ party, and I’d already planned on going, with or without her. Although after Avery’s rejection a few hours ago, I’d seriously reconsidered going at all for the sake of my ego.
She shakes her head. “He’s busy.” She sighs. “Something with his family, I think. He might show up later, but if I know Cole, that probably won’t happen.” She smiles, shifting her weight between legs. “So it looks like it’ll just be me and you.”
I turn from my truck, one hand on the door. “Oh yeah?”
“So to speak.” She tucks her chin down and twists her body back and forth.
Great. Word games. Just what I need right now.
“So what time you going to pick me up?”
Picking her up is news to me. Anything else she wants to volunteer me for?
She senses my confusion. “Oh, please? My dad’s out of town and he took my car.”
She doesn’t have a car. I know this; she means her dad took his car that he usually lets her use. I manage to get one leg inside my truck without her clawing at me to stay. “Does nine work?”
“Better make it eight.”
I nod and finish loading myself in. I shut the door and say to her through the open window, “I’ll be there.” I crank the ignition.
The rev of the engine startles her. She touches her chest and then plays it off, suddenly fiddling with the chain of her necklace. As the truck continues to roar, she resumes her smile and says, “I’ll see you then.”
I pull up to Julia’s house at half past eight. I know – I’m late. I don’t care.
I don’t know why I’m doing this. Picking her up to take her to a party is not the way to ensure she (and anyone else) doesn’t get the wrong impression about us.
Her house isn’t far from mine, so the drive is quick, but I still took my time getting ready. Eight-thirty is later than I’d aimed for, but that’s how it turned out, and I don’t care. If anything, it’ll bode well for my goal of coming off as nonchalant.
I shove the truck in park and lean over the steering wheel. This place is
huge. It’s a large brick house with a four-car garage and a long, curling driveway. On the front of the house there’s a wrap-around porch, and a big, expensive-looking stainless steel grill that I was admiring my entire drive up.
No one who goes to our school has a house like this. It’s so out of place. Am I sure I have the right address?
I grab my phone from the passenger seat. I flick through it, double-checking the house number she sent to me in a text. One eighty-two Washington. Yep, this is it.
As soon as I step out, she’s there. She hops through her front door, as quickly and bubbly as she can in her high heels. And they are high. Their height elevatesher so much that I get the impression of a different person altogether. I don’t like that.
She’s wearing a short, hot pink skirt to go with those heels, and its length barely reaches the tops of her thighs. Her black tank top is equally tight, and she’s has on that same skinny chain necklace that falls into invisibility under the center of her shirt, between her cleavage.
“Ethan,” she cries. She hugs me.
I respond with one arm around her back, then I jingle my keys and pull the handle of the driver’s side. And yes, Julia. I am purposefully making it a point to not open your door.
I mean, I would. Really. I get that it’s the right thing to do, and I’m being a bit of a jerk right now. But with the way things are between us, and considering where we’re headed, I’d rather play it safe.
She climbs up without a problem, holding one hand onto the hem of her skirt to keep it down.
I crank the engine.
“This’ll be fun,” she says, resting her purse on her lap. “But I wanted to pregame. That’s why I wanted you here at eight.”
“Sorry.” Of course, I’m really not. I try to ignore what she just said; I’m not big on being called out for letting people down. Maybe if I gloss over it, I can get through the rest of this night without feeling too bad. But pregamed? Really, Julia? We’re not even in college yet, but I already know enough to know that kind of thing isn’t my style.
None of this is my style. I shouldn’t be doing this. This isn’t right, this isn’t me. I should be at home, planning something sweet to do for Avery, because I haven’t given up on her yet.
But, I think, as I place my hand in finality on the shift knob and throw it into reverse, the only reason I’m doing this is because I want to see Avery again. It’s not because Julia convinced me to, or because I want to get out and have a good time. I want to be in Avery’s presence again, to once more force her to keep my gaze as the electricity so obviously passes between us, like the healthiest high in the world. That’s what I want from Avery. She doesn’t have to be my date – if she can just give me that, I’ll be okay. I’ll make it through this.
My thoughts are abruptly interrupted.
“What are you doing?” Julia yells. I think she might have pregamed without me. “You don’t need to put it in reverse.” She points a finger. “Just go forward. There’s enough room. Everybody does it.” She’s leaning forward, watching as I unnecessarily inch the truck close to her garage door. “That’s it. There you go.” She leans back. “Yep, and then just swing it around. Nice, isn’t it? How big it is?”
“How do your parents afford this place, anyway?” Since she’s not being shy about the fact that her house is so big, I’m not going to be shy about asking.
She sits back and fishes into her purse, finally pulling out some lip gloss. She applies it in my truck’s mirror. “My mom’s an interior designer and my dad’s an architect.” She puckers her lips together and flicks the mirror back up into position. “I guess that’s how.” She turns to me. “What do your parents do?”
Uh oh. I shift my weight. I rest my elbow on the top of the door, my hand to the side of my head, fingers nervously buried in my hair. “My mom’s a middle school teacher.”
“What about your dad?”
“He, ah– he’s got his own business. An on the side kind of thing.”
She nods. “That’s cool.”
“Not as cool as you’d think.”
We make it to the party not a moment too soon. The street is lined with cars, but out of nothing more than sheer luck, we manage to find a good spot directly across from James’ house.
The second I step out I can hear bass thumping through the street. And judging by the number of cars parked around us, there have to be at least fifty people in that box-like little house, with even more walking up the drive as I stand here and watch. This should be interesting.
I wait for Julia to get out of the truck.
She doesn’t.
She’s still inside, looking down at the purse on her lap, zipping it up. When she’s done, she just sits there and looks at me through the dirty glass of my windshield.
Okay. I get it. This time, based on the way she’s looking at me, there’s no getting out of opening her door. I just hope nobody sees, which is, funnily enough, exactly what I’m betting she does hope. I approach her side and pull open the passenger’s side door, which creaks under its own weight.
Julia carefully places each high-heeled foot where she thinks best. She reaches out and puts one hand on my shoulder, and she uses me for balance until she reaches the ground. She turns to me with a huge grin on her face.
“I’m so excited for this,” she says. “Let’s go.”
As we make our way up to the house, I’m sure to keep my hands safely in my pockets; Julia’s not going to get any territorial touches or guidance from me, nothing that could be misconstrued as affectionate. I already seeing a few people I know – well, that I know of, at least – and, luckily, so far none of them are Cole. But to be honest, at this point I almost wish he would show up so he can take over this whole Julia situation for me.
“Julia!” A girl is standing on the front porch, shaking her hands in Julia’s direction.
Julia hurries up the steps and hugs the girl.
Impressive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her move that fast before, and I’m surprised to see her pull it off without falling face-first in those shoes of hers. She turns to me as I walk past. “I’ll catch up with you,” she says.
I nod and walk through the front door, which is propped open.
Once inside, the bass and the loud bustle of guests greet my ears, and with all the action going on, you’d think we were super late. But it’s only nine o’clock. There are kids everywhere, in every visible room, and even loitering in the hallway and sitting on the bottom step of the staircase. As I walk through, I continue to recognize familiar faces. No one’s old enough to be here when there’s alcohol involved, and this could turn out badly.
Then why am I here?
I know why. I’m here because I have nothing to lose.
I slide my way through the crowd of people, not one of which is Avery, and most of which are gathered into individual small groups, clustered and taking up space, making it difficult to pass. I’m trying to get to the kitchen to see if they’ve got annoying on hand that isn’t alcohol. If I can just grab myself a cup and a Sprite, I’ll be good to go. That whole faking it thing, since, you know … Sprite can pass for vodka. It’s not that I care about fitting in, or following the rules – I just don’t feel like drinking, and I don’t want to have to put up with the pressure.
The kitchen is surprisingly empty compared to the rest of the house. The music isn’t quite as loud here, and I only see two other people when I arrive. They’re two guys getting things they need; they’re pouring extra drinks, most likely for the girls they’re talking to, I’m guessing, while they laugh and elbow each other in the side. They finish and leave by the time I help myself to the fridge.
I’m in luck. There’s one Spite left. I grab it and close the fridge, then turn around, reaching for a cup and filling it with ice. I glance past the window hanging over the sink, and she’s there.
It’s Avery.
She’s sitting alone on a bench on the back deck, cupping a drink in her lap, in perfe
ct view of the kitchen. She’s in a black dress, and it must be chillier than I thought out there because she now moves her hands to secure a cardigan over her shoulders, a little black clutch balancing in her fingertips
As I’m watching, a guy sits down next to her.
And I don’t realize until I look down that I’ve been loading too much ice into my cup, and the handful I’ve just placed has overflowed onto the counter. The cubes fall to the floor and shatter.
Avery
“Do you want a drink?” A familiar deep, raspy voice is beside my ear.
The music out here is blasting with a beating bass, so I can’t tell who it is from the voice alone in the mixture of all the sounds.
I turn and see it’s Brendan.
He takes a seat next to me on this uncomfortable wooden bench, and he’s dressed the best I’ve ever seen him, in a black button-down shirt and a nice pair of dark wash jeans. He’s even wearing contacts instead of his usual glasses, and his shoes look polished. He either actually sat around and polished them, or they’re brand new and he went out and bought them for this occasion. Either’s bad. That would be so Brendan, though.
The whole look is so unusual for him that I’m surprised he didn’t stick on a tie to complete the ensemble.
Brendan smiles, and for the first time I can see his true smile without the distraction of his heavy metal frames. “Well? Do you?”
I should brush him off right now. What I should really do is toss this cup right onto his fancy-pants party clothes. But I would never do that. He is just Brendan, after all.
“I’m holding a drink, Brendan.”
He looks into the cup. “People can run out of their drink, you know,” he says. I think he’s actually trying to smirk at me. He’s got some nerve.
“I do know that, yes.” I lift the cup to his face. “Not out. Thanks, though.”
He holds up his hands, one of which is holding his own drink. His entire body leans to the side and for a minute I think he might spill it.
