My phone vibrates again. I hope and fear that it's Ember, but it's not. It's Dad, and I'm late for dinner.
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The restaurant where I'm meeting Dad and his date is so hip that it doesn't have a name—just a pinewood sign bearing a giant ampersand. I push my way through frosted double doors and find the hostess, a tall, elegant woman dressed from head to toe in white. She looks down at an ivory tablet and then back up at me.
"Laird Conroy?" she asks.
"That's me."
"The rest of your party is already here. Please come with me."
The hostess leads me through a maze of tables topped with clear Lucite and adorned with calla lilies in white ceramic vases. She walks like she's in a hurry, and I have to take long strides to keep up. My father and his date are waiting for me in a semi-private room behind a diaphanous white curtain.
Dad rises from a couch the color of Caribbean sand and claps his hand on my shoulder. He grins broadly, as if he is actually thrilled to see me. "Good to see you. It's been too long."
He's obviously trying to impress someone, and I know it isn't me. I take a quick peek at his date, who looks considerably more wholesome than his usual girlfriends. Her ash blonde hair is scraped back into a severe ponytail, and her face is round and bare. Her features are small and harmonious.
Dad waves his hand in the direction of his pretty new toy. "This is Darla. She's studying film at NYU."
"Nice to meet you." I say, settling into the loveseat across from them. I'm dying to ask whether Darla is a grad student or an undergrad, but I refrain. I learned long ago not to torture Dad's dates.
Two waitresses—identical, pale-skinned twins—appear to set up white TV trays in lieu of tables and take our drink orders. Dad asks for a Mojito. Darla and I order Cokes. I wonder if she's underage.
As the twins disappear behind the curtain, my phone vibrates. I try to check it discreetly. It's Ember. Again.
Wait until it gets dark. Then sneak into my back yard. I'll be waiting in the hammock. Alone. Remember the good and forget the bad.
Desire surges through me against my will. Ember's always known how to get to me. I take a deep breath and count to ten.
"So who is she?" asks Darla with a mischievous smile.
I'm halfway tempted to tell the truth—that she's Ember, the only one of my girlfriends who was hot enough for Dad to hit on. But I don't.
"No one," I reply. "No one."
Dad chuckles and smirks. "My son is bashful."
"Then he's nothing like you." Darla's voice is warm and teasing.
Before I can say anything else, the twin waitresses appear with our drinks. When they leave, I watch Darla's lips curl around her straw. They're pink and lush, like Ember's. I think Dad notices, too. He slides closer to her and takes her hand. They exchange a shy smile. Or maybe it's a sly smile.
"So how did you two meet?" I ask.
"At a student film competition," explains Darla. "Your dad was one of the judges."
"Dad doesn't know anything about film." I take a large gulp of my Coke, wishing it was something stronger.
Dad scowls. "Maybe not, but I own a film production company. I judged the event, because I wanted to meet the next generation of directors." Dad plants a kiss on Darla's forehead, and she giggles.
"What was your film about?" I ask.
She winks and says, "A beautiful young film student who falls for a billionaire executive with a tragic past."
I shake my head slightly. She's beautiful, witty, and self aware. I worry that this arch young woman who can't possibly be any older than me will someday be my stepmother. The idea makes my teeth ache with anger.
While Dad and Darla bill and coo over the dessert menu, I text Ember.
See you at 10 p.m.
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Ember, like everyone else I know, comes from a wealthy family. Her back yard boasts a forty-foot pool and an intricately designed lounging pavilion. The hammock where she's waiting hangs between two slender yet sturdy silk trees. It's illuminated by delicate lanterns made of whisper-thin glass. Every time there's a thunderstorm, the maids scurry to put them in the garden shed.
I approach the hammock as quietly as I can. Even in the moonlight I can see the outline of its shapely contents. When I'm close enough that I can hear the subtle ebb and flow of Ember's breath, I trace my finger along her collarbone. She inhales sharply and takes my hand, kissing each of my fingers. She whispers my name. Laird. It's an endearment and an invitation.
I get on my knees and bury my face in her neck. She smells like ripe berries. I plant a quick kiss on her lips, tasting her hot, sweet tongue, and explore her smooth, rounded body. Her breasts are firm peaches with nubby tips. Her belly dips and flares. She moans softly and rocks her hips, opening to her desire.
I'm about to lose myself entirely when my traitorous mind jumps to the day of Mom's funeral and shows me what I'd least like to see—Ember grinding her astonishing ass into my father, a blissful smile creeping across her face.
Abruptly, I disengage myself from Ember and leap to my feet.
"What's wrong, Laird?" she cries. I cringe. When Ember is upset, her voice gets high, shrill, and nasal—just like it is now. I think back to Dad and Darla at the restaurant, and Darla's low purr of a laugh. A wave of nausea twists its way through my gut.
I apologize as I walk away. "I'm sorry, Em. I just can't do this right now."
Chapter 13: Amity
I've washed all my clothes, and now they cover more than half the floor in my tiny postage-stamp of a room. After we sold the house to pay off Mom and Dad's old debts, Gran and I moved into a small two-bedroom apartment in Sunset Estates, the only senior housing complex in Triple Marsh. It's cramped but cozy, and I'll probably even miss it a little.
I pick up a baggy, gray T-shirt with a giant hole in the armpit. This is an easy decision. I toss it into a box labeled Trash. Now I shake out a white button-down shirt that used to be Dad's. I fold it carefully and place it into a box labeled Goodwill. By the time I leave for Adams, all of my things will be neatly packed and assigned to one of four categories—School, Storage, Goodwill, and Trash.
I'm excited and happy and sad and terrified all at the same time. In just a matter of hours, I'll be driving the more than one thousand miles to Adams, Connecticut, and I'll be doing it in my very own car. I used some of my stripping money to buy a bright orange '02 Camry. Gran's going to keep Dad's old truck and take over the monthly payment. She says she likes looking down on the other drivers.
I check the clock on my phone. It's four a.m. I still have plenty of time to finish packing before I hit the road. I'm trying to decide whether or not to keep a pair of oversized khakis, when a red light mounted high on the wall begins to flash. It's the Sunset Estates version of doorbell. They made it a big, blinking light because so many of their residents can barely hear.
I run to the door so I can get it before Gran wakes up. I wonder who it could be at this quiet, lonely hour. I suppose it's the building manager. Maybe Gran accidentally tripped their Life Alert system.
I look through the peephole and...fuck me. It's Ethan. There's no way I'm going to let him in, or scream at him through the door. I run back to my room and get my phone.
Get out of here Ethan, I text. Go home to your girl.
I hit send and hear his phone warble through the door. After a few moments, my phone chirps back.
I just want to say goodbye. I'm going to miss you. I'm sorry things got so weird. One friendly hug, and I'm out of here.
I start typing again. Fine. I get it. You're sorry. But it's 4 a.m. Time to go home, OK?
My phone is silent, and the seconds creep by. After a few minutes, I dare to hope that Ethan has left. I tiptoe back to the door and peer out the peephole. Damn it. Ethan's still there with a strange, unfocused look on his face. His shirt is untucked so it covers the front of his jeans, and his hand is underneath, fumbling with something. I wonde
r what he's doing. Then, all of a sudden, I know. Although I've never seen it before, Maggie and the girls at work have certainly told me about it in explicit detail.
You are disgusting. Leave now or I'm calling the cops.
I wait five minutes and check the peephole again. He's gone, except for a white, gooey stain on Gran's welcome mat.
/////////////////////////
"Honey, why are you cleaning that thing? It's supposed to be dirty. People wipe their feet on it."
She's referring to her woven welcome mat. I'm holding it over the sink and rinsing it with the spray nozzle, hopefully washing away the last bits of Ethan's DNA.
"I know Gran. But there was a big splotch of, er, bird poop on it. I thought I'd clean it before I left."
Gran smiles and waggles her finger, mock scolding me. "Young lady, stop right there. You've got more important things to worry about than bird poop. Especially today."
"I'm all done," I say cheerfully, and hurry to replace the mat on our tiny concrete stoop.
When I return to the kitchen, I see Gran quickly swallow a pill. I worry that it's her heart, but I know better than to ask. The last time I tried, she said she was fine, thank you very much, asked if I was a doctor, and regarded me through cold, wounded eyes for the next two days.
"What would you like for breakfast?" she asks.
"Whatever you're having," I say, trying not to sniffle. Even though I'm excited about Adams, I'm going to miss Gran a lot.
"Guava pancakes, it is," she says, shooing me out of the kitchen before I can even offer to help.
I'm lining up my bags and boxes for their eventual transport to the car, when I see the flashing red light again. Please don't let it be Ethan.
"I've got it, Gran!" I yell, and run to the door, heart hammering. I look out the peephole and immediately relax. It's Maggie.
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Thank God for Maggie, because Gran and I both suck at goodbyes. While I stuff my face with pancakes and Gran obsessively cleans the kitchen, Maggie keeps up a steady stream of cheerful chatter about her new vegan diet.
"Is it hard to go vegan?" I ask, washing down a mouthful of pancakes with a swallow of milk from oppressed industrial cows.
"It's not as hard as you'd think. I pour olive oil over everything. And dark chocolate is totally vegan."
"Well, you look great," I say. And it's true. If anything, great is an understatement. She's about twenty pounds lighter than she was in high school, and her skin is a soft, glowy bronze. She's also about one hundred times more glamorous since she ditched the Goth look for something softer and more retro.
Maggie smiles and shrugs. "I have to look good. The film industry is totally shallow. And corrupt. You know that little development deal I have? The one for the pilot?"
I nod, taking another gargantuan bite of pancake.
"The production company didn't even read my script. My agent says the owner saw me at a film competition last year and offered me a deal, just because of the way I looked."
"That's ridiculous," I say. "How do you they know that you're not going to waste their money?"
Maggie rolls her dark, smoky eyes. "I guess they have money to waste. The owner is Josiah Conroy—the billionaire who's always dating some eighteen-year-old model. There's a rumor going around that he's sleeping with one of my classmates. I bet she has a development deal, too."
I look at Maggie, questioning. "You're not sleeping with him, too, are you?"
"Oh God no," she says. "I've never even met him."
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Once breakfast is over, there's no more stalling. It's time for me to get on the road. Maggie helps load my car, and Gran gives me a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies.
When all my stuff is wedged into my little orange car, I stammer my awkward goodbyes. Gran hugs me first. She feels light and insubstantial in my arms, like she could float away. I note her rosy cheeks and rapid, shallow breathing. I tell myself it's just the heat.
"I love you, Gran."
"You'll make your mother proud." Her voice quavers slightly.
Now it's Maggie turn. She smells like Eternity and cigarettes, and I smile, strangely glad she shares my secret vice. Before she releases me, she whispers in my ear. "If Ethan comes near you again, call the cops."
"I know," I whisper back.
Maggie pulls away as gently as she can. She smiles at Gran and takes my hands. "I wish I could follow you," she says, "but the repair guy is still working on Racer. He says it might be the alternator." Racer is what she calls her slow, massively unreliable VW Bus.
"Maybe you should buy a new car with your T.V. money," I suggest.
Maggie scoffs. "It's really a pittance. Besides, I'm supposed to use it all for my project."
Finally, it's time for me to go. Gran walks back to our—now her—tiny porch, and Maggie makes her way to the van she borrowed from Damon. The name of his band—Invasive Species—is painted on the side, along with a giant, red-eyed preying mantis.
I get in my car and set the trip odometer to zero. One thousand, one hundred and fifty seven miles to go.
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I'm about twenty miles away from the exit for Adams, Connecticut. My car is full of junk food wrappers, and the stale, re-circulated air smells vaguely of whatever chemical the food-industrial-complex uses to preserve French fries. I pull off at the first rest area I see to clean up my car and take a quick sponge bath.
As soon as I step outside, my skin turns slick with sweat. It's a humid summer day, and I'm a little disappointed. All summer long, I've been dreaming of cool New England weather. At least the trees don't remind me of home. Even this tiny rest area is dotted with oaks, birches, and hickories, all of which tend to droop and die in the swamps around Triple Marsh.
Once I've emptied the trash from my car, I walk across the parking lot to the women's bathroom. It's completely deserted, so I set up camp by the sink furthest from the door. I brush my teeth, rinse my armpits, and put on a fresh coat of deodorant. I also redo my makeup, which is halfway melted off my face. I started wearing makeup around the same time I started stripping—which I guess isn't much of a coincidence. Gran hates my makeup, but I think of it as camouflage. It's another layer between me and the rest of the world.
Still alone in the bathroom, I check my reflection in the full-length mirror by the door. I realize I'm not the same girl I was when I started high school. The rough outline is the same—tall girl with hair down to her ass, an unpredictable stammer, and a bit of a limp—but the colors inside are different. I'm stronger and a lot more confident—even if some of that confidence comes from questionable places, like the strip club.
I take a long, deep breath and smile at my reflection. Listen to me, girl in the mirror. You're going to make your mother proud. Once I get to Adams, schoolwork will be my number one priority. I'm not going to waste any more time obsessing over creeps like Ethan or even mystery guys like Laird. No entanglements will be my mantra.
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As I walk back to my car, I pass a family obviously taking their daughter to college. The mom and dad are bickering about directions, and the girl is sharing a giant orange soda with her younger brother.
Damn it.
I scurry back to the bathroom and wait for the tears to stop falling so I can fix my makeup one more time.
Chapter 14: Laird
Caspar, our weasel-faced pledge master, is a little too excited about torturing freshmen. He's perched on the edge of a surprisingly swank leather couch for a fraternity common room. I get annoyed every time I look at it and all the other furniture, games, and equipment that Dad bought for us last year.
I thought the brothers elected me president because they believed I'd do a good job. I wasn't so sure the next day, when Dad's congratulations gifts started rolling in.
"Guys," says Caspar, taking a big gulp of his favorite hoppy microbrew, "I want this pledge year to be epic,
and I had this amazing idea in the shower this morning. It's un-fucking-believable. Trust me, It's going to blow your mind."
Hoover, a hockey player from North Dakota with a gut that flops over his belt, emits a long, beery belch. "So tell us what it is already."
Caspar's eyes shine with manic glee. "World War II. This year, the pledges can be, like, prisoners and the brothers can be Nazis. Hell night can be, like, one big death camp!"
Teo Rabinowicz, the product of a Portuguese mother and a Jewish father, rolls his eyes so far back into his head that I worry they'll get stuck. "Dude, we can't have a Holocaust-themed Hell week. The administration would shut us down. Plus, it's disgusting."
Caspar grins, as if he'd been expecting this objection. "The administration can't touch us. Laird's dad is a fucking billionaire who donates, like, buildings and shit. If they mess with Laird's frat, his father will cut them off. Am I right?"
I clench my hand into a fist and dig my nails into my palm. I am so sick of my dad and his money. "You're so not right. My dad has a public image to maintain. I'm one hundred percent sure he does not want to be publicly associated with the Holocaust in any way, alright? No Nazis. End of story."
Teo and Hoover are nodding. Before Caspar can reply, my phone plays the theme music from the shower scene in Psycho.
Teo snorts. "That psycho ex of yours just doesn't give up, does she?"
Hoover shrugs. "The really hot ones are always crazy. I saw Laird's ex when she showed up at last year's Spring Fling. She is smokin' hot. A total ten. Smart, too. Doesn't she go to Columbia? I bet she's totally into the club scene."
Amends: A Love Story Page 9
