My phone vibrates. I have new texts. One from Deegan:
Saturday afternoon BBQ, my place. You in?
And one from Ember:
Are you going to Deegan's today? Really want to see you.
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"Want a beer, bro?" Deegan holds out the Coors Light like a peace offering. I accept.
"Sure, man," I say, taking a long pull. Deegan's folks are the kind of self-consciously cool parents who don't mind if their kids drink, as long as they do it at home and stay off the roads. A lot Jasper Heights parents are like that. Benign neglect, they call it. They buy beer and booze for their kids' parties and take weekend trips to New York and Vail.
The party is pretty chill—a casual afternoon barbecue beside a huge kidney-shaped pool built in honor of Deegan's mom, a successful nephrologist.
Deegan and I make our way to the grill. He adjusts the flame and places eight perfectly formed jalapeño burgers onto the rack. I flop down on a nearby chaise. It's a cloudy, threatening day, all wrong for a pool party. Without sunlight, the girls look pale and vulnerable in their bikinis. Ember blows me a kiss. I wave back with the limp, languid motions of a consumptive. She smiles and turns back to her companions, a clutch of other honey-skinned blondes drinking sweet, fruity concoctions.
Deegan flips burgers with élan. He's so good he could easily get a job at one of the many snack shacks and grub grills surrounding Lake Everclear. Of course, that would never happen. Like all the kids in Jasper Heights, Deegan has a weekly allowance that most wage slaves would envy. The cooks at the lakeside burger barns are all from Triple Marsh, our poor sister city.
Deegan lets the burgers sizzle and settles down next to me. "You know, man," he says in a low, confidential voice, "my dad is an insurance guy. He says the intersection where you crashed is really poorly designed. One of the street lamps is busted. And both stop signs are practically hidden by trees." He looks me straight in the eye. "It could have fucking happened to anyone."
"Yeah, but it happened to me," I snap and immediately regret it. "Sorry, man. I'm still kind of fucked up. You know, Mom, the accident. I shouldn't have come."
"No worries, dude." He eyes the empty can next to me with brotherly concern. "I'm going to get you another."
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I'm six—or is that seven?—beers in, and my outlook is now considerably more relaxed, although I'm still not up for loud noises or sudden movements. I sit quietly on my chaise like an invalid, watching the action.
The guys—all varsity football players—are clustered around the diving board, taking turns showing off. Deegan is rating their dives as harshly and creatively as possible. Some of them are doing shots of Jack. I'd normally find this tremendously entertaining, but all I can think is that someone's going to break his neck and end up in a quadriplegic's chair for the rest of his life.
The girls are watching and giggling as the guys make gigantic asses out of themselves. Except for Ember. She's sitting alone at a table, texting madly. Her face is lit softly by the glow of her phone, her expression rapt. She must be texting one of her friends. Maybe it's Sara, who's stuck at home with mono, or one of her drama club buddies who won't do the football scene.
There's also someone else Ember could be texting. The thought of it—of him—sickens me and turns my heart into a jackhammer. I pick up my beer, looking forward to a long, deep swallow, and realize it's empty. I decide I'll get another, and another, and however many are necessary to get me well and truly fucked up. Of course, I won't drive home. I'll crash at Deegan's. I'll give Ember money for a cab. I'm trying to remember if I still have the number for the Jasper Heights Cab Company in my contacts list, when Ember stands and heads inside, probably for a bathroom break.
She's left her phone tantalizingly unattended. For about a second I remind myself that snooping and spying is for insecure little pussies. Fuck it, I think, I've got to know who she was texting. I make my way to her table and snatch the phone. The other girls are absorbed in the diving spectacle, so I'm free to snoop and spy unobserved. I type in her password and immediately see she has a new text from a number stored as Bad Idea. My eyes devour their conversation.
Ember: You of all people know I have a boyfriend.
Bad Idea: At your age, that means nothing.
Ember: That's not true. I have integrity. I won't cheat on him.
Bad Idea: Oh, I'm not saying cheat on him. Don't be dishonest. Break up with him first. Then you can be free to explore other possibilities. Other forms of relating.
Ember: You mean like fucking you?
Bad Idea: Don't be crude, you little slut. What I mean is that you're far too young for a monogamous relationship. By the way, when do you turn eighteen? How would you like to do a bit of shopping in New York City?
Ember: Your son said you'd do this. Wait for me to turn legal and then try to hook up.
Bad Idea: I like the taste of young, ripe fruit. And you, my dear, are a succulent plum, nearly ready to be savored.
Ember: I'm not a plum. I'm a peach. And I'm no low-hanging fruit. You'll have to climb a long way to get me.
I'm interrupted by a loud, high female voice. It's Ember. "What are you doing with my phone?"
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Ember's mouth is moving, but I can hear nothing except the roar of my rage. She is the worst girlfriend, ever. Sure, she's not technically cheating, but text-flirting with my father after everything I told her? I don't get it. I thought she cared about me.
Ember is reaching out for me, grabbing at me with her carefully manicured hands. Oh yeah, I think, she wants her fucking phone. I throw it into the pool and stalk down the path that leads to Deegan's back yard and the marshy woods behind it. In the distance, I hear a chorus of female outrage, but no footsteps. I realize she's not going to run after me. Good.
I open the gate and head into the woods. My foot immediately sinks into the mud. Fuck it. I walk as fast as I can away from everyone. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky and underscores my black mood. I follow a small, foul-smelling creek that's probably crawling with snakes and gators. Fat raindrops pelt my back and shoulders. Uncaring, I keep walking until I reach a narrow, paved path. I read a small placard and discover it's part of the Jasper Heights lakeside trail system.
Mindlessly, I follow the paved trail until I reach a quaint, covered park bench. I sit down on the wet seat and listen to the thunder get louder and angrier. I feel so miserable and alone. I tell myself I'm just a whiny little pussy with a shitty girlfriend and a creepy father and a fucked up life. I can't talk to my father for obvious reasons, and my mother's gone. Deegan's my best friend, but he's also another guy, and guys don't talk about this kind of shit. They just get each other beers.
I watch the rain pour off the shelter, and it occurs to me that there's one person who might understand what I'm going through right now, someone who's also riding the same waves of anger, grief, and sorrow. It's Amity, the girl of my dreams and my nightmares.
It's a truly bizarre thought that makes me wonder just how drunk I am. After all, it's my fault she lost her mother. But I bet she can relate to what I'm feeling right now. Maybe there's some way I could help her, or we could help each other.
I pull out my phone and find her on Facebook and Google+. Her haunted eyes peer out at me from her profile pictures. I'm not brave enough to friend her. But I do pop open my Gmail and start writing her a note that I'm not sure I'll ever have the balls to send.
Dear Amity, I begin. There's no easy way to introduce myself under these bizarre and unfortunate circumstances. I was the other driver in the accident that killed your mother...
Chapter 7: Amity
Maggie sits on the foot of my bed with a concerned expression on her face. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Why not?" I ask. "It's my eighteenth birthday. I deserve a little fun, especially since my life has otherwise gone straight to Hell." I pull a clingy black T-shirt—the only c
lingy thing I own—out of my dresser. I'm going to wear it with my mom's old leather skirt and a pair of kitten heels. For the first time in my life, I—the Amityville Horror of Triple Marsh High—am going to look pretty. Maybe even sexy. I stifle a giggle. These days, laughing is dangerous. It can turn on me in an instant and lead to convulsive weeping.
Maggie doesn't even crack a smile. "You're going to get hurt," she warns. "I did a little research on him, and it's not pretty. He has a girlfriend, and he cheats on her all the time."
I sigh. "I know. He told me all about her. We're just friends. We're going dancing, and that's all. In fact, I'm going to help him stay out of trouble." I spray a shine-enhancing chemical into my hair and watch my curls go from dull to glossy.
Maggie rolls her eyes. "Don't be naive. There's a reason he just happened to text you on your eighteenth birthday. You're legal now. He'll be all over you."
"Good! He's literally the first guy I've interacted with who hasn't called me freak or spaz or ugly. What's wrong with a little harmless flirting, as long as it doesn't go anywhere?" I apply thick black liner to my eyes and brick red lipstick to my lips. Dangerous, I think. I look dangerous, not like some pathetic orphan who's going to attend her father's funeral in two short days.
Maggie gets up and stands next to me so we're both reflected in my dresser mirror. She's beautiful in a hard-edged, Gothic way. But, for the first time, I feel like I hold my own. I look like her peer, not some gimpy, gawky sidekick. In fact, we make an interesting study in contrasts. Short and tall. Blond and dark. Rounded and angular. Worried and sanguine.
I smile at her. "It'll be fine. You'll see."
She shakes her head. "What you're thinking about isn't very sisterly. What if you were his girlfriend? I bet you wouldn't appreciate some other girl hanging all over him—even if she was just a friend."
"Probably not," I concede. "But she's not my responsibility. She's Ethan's. And I'm not going to think about her." I pause as Maggie's face settles into a sad, resigned expression. "Does that make me a bad person?"
Maggie sighs. "Not really. Just fallible. And human." She puts her arm around me loosely. "Just be careful, OK? And bring enough money to take a cab home in case things get weird. Trust me."
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Ethan leads me by the hand into the Hotspot, a new dance club north of Jasper Heights. His grip is strong, and his hand is warm. I feel safe and somehow under his protection. Even though the sign outside said twenty-one and over in stern block letters, Ethan whispered something to the bouncer, who laughed and waved us through.
As we climb the stairs towards the main bar and dance floor, I feel the vibration of music pumping through massive speakers. By the time we reach the top, the beat is thrumming through my body. I follow Ethan past the dance floor to a collection of velvet couches. We settle ourselves on a garnet-colored loveseat, and Ethan orders two rum and Cokes from a waitress with a nose ring. Or, at least, that's what I think he does. I can barely hear anything.
The dance floor is bathed in flashing red light. Bodies come together, flow apart, and twirl around in seemingly perfect synchronicity with the beat. I am enthralled.
"Like what you see?" asks Ethan, grinning like a coyote.
"I love it! It's beautiful. Thank you for bringing me here." I want more than anything to get up and dance, to lose my grief in a sea of motion and sound.
"Do you see that girl over there?" he asks, pointing towards one of the dancers, a short, limber girl with narrow hips, a large chest, and a liquid way of moving. "She kind of reminds me of my girlfriend."
"Oh," I say, disappointed that he didn't ask me to dance and not especially interested in chatting about his girlfriend. I wonder if this is what Maggie meant when she said I'd be hurt.
"What kind of boys are chasing you right now?"
"N-n-no one," I reply, stammering. No one is chasing the Amityville Horror. I'm thankful that Ethan can't see me blush in the dim light.
"I don't believe that," he purrs, moving closer to me. "There's got to be someone."
I'm about to launch into the whole pathetic tale of woe that is my life as the least popular girl at Triple Marsh High, when the waitress delivers our drinks. I take a big gulp of mine and make a face; alcohol still tastes like medicine to me. The rum does its job, though, loosening my limbs and thoughts.
I decide that I don't want to sit and talk anymore. I slide off the couch and reach for Ethan's hand.
"Let's dance."
/////////////////////////
Ethan and I are swaying and flowing, now entwined, then not. I lean into him and move my hips in a slow circle. I raise my arms and let him put his strong hands around my narrow waist. When the music slows to the rhythmic thump of the human heartbeat, I let myself collapse into his arms.
As we rock gently back and forth, he kisses my forehead with soft, warm lips. When I look up, he tilts my head back and presses his lips against mine. Oh my God, it's my first kiss. We taste each other, and it's a revelation. He's hot, sweet, and intoxicating, and I want more. He presses himself into me, and I squirm against him. I let my hands touch his hair; it's surprisingly soft.
When the music speeds up again, we pull away. I am breathless. "Don't you have a girlfriend?" I ask.
"Yes, and I love her deeply."
The surprise and dismay must show on my face, because he pulls me in for another long, delirious hug. His breath is hot on my neck. "It's your birthday," he whispers. "Whatever we do today doesn't count."
I recall Maggie's warning, and I know now she was absolutely right. But I want to be kissed again and again and again. I'll worry about the emotional fallout tomorrow. I hug Ethan back and nuzzle his neck. We spend the next several hours dancing, kissing, and embracing.
When he brings me home and says goodbye with a small, chaste peck on my cheek, I feel like the most beautiful girl in the world...and the stupidest.
/////////////////////////
I'm about to give another eulogy, this time to a much smaller group. It's a makeshift ceremony, hastily thrown together at the last minute. Gran said we couldn't afford the funeral parlor, so we asked Forever Acres if we could have a small gathering by the graveside, and they said yes.
Dad's mourners are a randomly assorted bunch. The guys from the shop where Dad cleaned cars are easy to spot with their red dealership polo shirts and matching phone cases. A couple of drunks from the Tragic Monk, one of the bars where Dad liked to go after work, stand off to the side. They're pale, nervous, soft-bodied creatures who prefer shade to sun. One of them discreetly vomits on a nearby grave. As I look around, I also see several compassionate diehards from Mom's funeral hovering like confused fairy godmothers, wanting to help but unsure what to do.
My hands are moist, but not from fear this time. It's a hazy, warm day that makes everything look slightly blurred around the edges. I glance at Dad's coffin, which rests on a bier beside an open grave. The humid air makes me think of worms and decay, and my stomach clenches like a fist. Maggie tries to catch my eye. She's worried about me, and so is Gran, who is fiddling with the clasp on her purse.
I'd written detailed notes on a folded square of paper, but I let it drop to the ground. I thought I'd be terrified like I was at Mom's funeral, but I'm not. As I stand before the motley mourners, I realize I'm not nervous at all.
"As you all know, we're here because my father got drunk when Mom died, and kept on drinking, day after day, until he passed out and choked to death on his own vomit." I look pointedly at his casket and try for sarcasm. "Thanks, Dad." The silent faces before me ripple with concern. Maggie's eyes grow wide, and Gran's mouth is twists into a wry grin that could mean anything. A bird whistles a happy, fleeting little tune. I take a breath and continue.
"He was a great guy when times were good. He loved my mom. Most of the time. He taught me how to fish and build a computer from old parts. He never forgot my birthday." My breath catches as I remember riding the fancy girl's bike wit
h the lemon yellow seat, the best birthday present ever. I shake my head and blink back tears. I seize my anger like a shield.
"When times were bad, though, he got drunk and did stupid things he always regretted later. Buying an orange fishing hat on QVC was one of them. So was drinking himself to death instead of attending my mom's funeral."
As soon as I say the words, an image of my father's plastic, lifeless face pushes itself into my consciousness. His sightless eyes are half open, and his mouth is frozen into a never ending scream. I close my eyes and try to visualize something neutral. An apple. A loaf of bread. Tennis shoes. I pinch the skin on the back of my hand. I can't afford to soften into grief. Anger, I remind myself. Anger.
"I loved him. And I hated him. He was my dad. That's all I have to say."
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Want to see a movie? Get out of the house? texts Maggie.
Gran's a basket case, gotta keep her company, I reply.
Alright, girlie. Love you. Stay tough.
I put my phone back into my purse and watch Ethan drive. He's so calm and sure of himself, zipping in an out of traffic. His phone is blinking, but he's ignoring it. I bet it's his girlfriend. She's been out of town for a week, but she gets home tomorrow. I shake that thought out of my mind and put on my best happy-girl voice. "So where are you taking me?"
"Kid, it's a surprise. You'll love it."
We pull into a large parking lot outside something called the Kat Club. Another dance club, I assume. We stand in line for a few minutes, then Ethan works his magic with the bouncer, and we're in.
Amends: A Love Story Page 5
