Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  “How come you and I don’t hang?”

  “Get the wheelbarrow over there and stack them up. Uh, I don’t know. Because you’re a pain in the ass? Because your school is way the hell outside of town? Are you ever in the city?”

  “Sometimes,” Georgia said.

  “Well, look me up. Okay, that’s all of them.” Charlie climbed down off the ladder and carried it over to where it lived in the darker recesses of the shed near the snow shovels. When he turned back, Georgia was standing behind him. “Uh,” he said. He hadn’t heard her creep up. She grabbed onto the rake to one side of him and the shovel on the other. “Hi,” she said.

  “What?” he replied. It didn’t occur to him what she was trying to do, until it did.

  “You know we’re not really related,” Georgia said. She tried to sound matter-of-fact. He looked down at her with a mix of incredulity and annoyance. He was hoping his overt disinterest would exempt him from having to speak the words he resented having to say aloud. But Georgia didn’t budge, nor did it appear she was going to anytime soon. “I’m aware,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Well, I thought that if you and Biz are no longer, you know, we could—”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?!” Charlie pushed past her with unleashed anger. “Unbelievable. I’m outta here.” He picked up the wheelbarrow and marched out the door. Someone yelled, “Grilled cheese!” in the distance.

  …

  * * *

  As soon as the Thornden grandkids were old enough to carry a bag of ice they were expected to work the parties. Cat and Claire brought them up to understand that a party wasn’t for the hosts to enjoy per se, but a present one gives to friends. There were usually three or four staff hired from the local golf club to serve food and clean up, but the grandchildren knew they needed to be working all day through dessert and coffee, then could punch out until cleanup time. The cousins didn’t exactly dread it—it was fun to see all their friends—but they didn’t exactly get to partake wholeheartedly, either. It was exhausting work, and they had to wait to join the drunken trampoline jumping until very late in the evening when they made up for lost time with a vengeance.

  There were incidents of late-night cousins misbehavior, some publicly witnessed, some not. Loud splashes indicated falls or pushes fully clothed into the pool. They’d been left unattended for hours near open bars and leftover beers, which they began stealing and drinking around age ten or eleven. Georgia was prone to rounding the bases in dark recesses with blond boys and Rah could usually be found passed out in the shed. Charlie was susceptible to bursts of temper and fights with E.J. were common, but Biz could usually defuse them before she, too, threw up. Then Charlie would take care of Biz by fishing her out of the shallow end, finding her some dry clothes, and tossing her wet ones into the dryer.

  Eventually, the stereo was switched off and the porch floodlights on. Anyone who didn’t live under one of the two roofs was shooed home. It was about this time that Charlie caught Biz’s eye and wandered over to where she was sitting on the edge of the deep end with Rah, dangling her bare feet in the aqua water lit luminescent from below. “Klat ot deen,” Charlie said to Biz, who quietly responded, “Gnop-gnip.” She drew her wrinkled toes up out of the water and headed toward the Ping-Pong shed. “You guys are so weird,” said Rah, then rolled onto the cement and looked up at the stars, nearing sleep.

  They were both pretty drunk—Biz more so than Charlie—but neither of them was approaching wasted yet. They nested the empty plastic cups and found two sandpaper paddles wedged between the duct-taped cushions of the retired rickety wicker couch. “There’s some shit going down I have to tell you,” said Charlie without levity. He sent a ball over the net to Biz, who returned it.

  “Okay, then, spill the down-going shit,” Biz said, serving.

  “Georgie…”

  “Yeeessss…,” Biz responded, already exasperated. Georgia was known to pull all sorts of stunts, few of which interested her.

  “She, uh.”

  “She what?”

  “She, um. She sort of cornered me,” Charlie said, then made a pained, squinty-eyed grimace. Biz caught the ball and put the tip of her paddle down on the table. She put her other hand on her hip. “In what way…”

  “In that way.”

  “Oh, brother,” Biz said, letting go a hearty laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “It’s not funny!” pleaded Charlie. “She said we weren’t really related!”

  “Is she crazy?” Biz served again, half chuckling but also irked.

  “Uh, no more than we are.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t compare that to us. We’re not serious!”

  “Maybe she’s not, either,” Charlie countered, playing devil’s advocate.

  Biz said, “How far did she get with you?”

  “Are you joking? I shot her down. Jesus.”

  “She can be persistent. I’ve seen her in action.”

  “So have I. Thank God I’m taller than she is.” Charlie shook off the thought, and served. Biz waited until the end of the next volley, then asked casually, “Did you want to?” She was nervous about the answer and embarrassed by feeling threatened.

  “No! Christ. Do you even know me?”

  Biz aced her serve. “Yeah, I do,” she said with a raised brow.

  They hit back and forth with the ease and grace of people born to a community of roomy basements and garages—grand old homes with former studies and libraries that now housed foosball, pool tables, and Ping-Pong. Charlie and Biz continued this way, both lost in their own take on the situation, not wanting to keep score, but not wanting to lose their connection. The sound of the ball was mesmerizing enough that neither noticed E.J. in the doorway carrying an armload of tiki torches.

  “Jesus, you two, why don’t you get a room.”

  “Fuck off,” they responded in unplanned unison.

  “Oh my God, listen to you two, you’re like Children of the Corn, thinking each other’s thoughts.”

  Biz said, “Can you tell what we’re thinking now?”

  “That you’re disgusting?” said E.J. as he turned to leave.

  Charlie called after him, “That you’re a tedious blowhard!” But he was gone.

  Biz and Charlie resumed play. Finally Biz said, “We need to meet other people for real. We need to date.”

  “Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

  “Doesn’t have to be. I’m not suggesting we marry the first people we date, we just need to get some distance. And it’ll shut them all up and get them off our backs.” Charlie took his time answering. Biz knew better than to fill the silence with verbal drivel and let him say what he needed to say. “It’s just that it probably won’t work,” Charlie said. “There’s no one like you.” They’d been saying this to each other since they first watched The Wizard of Oz when they were small. Bizzy had mangled Dorothy’s famous line, saying, “There’s no one like home,” then Charlie mangled it further, “There’s no one like you.” He’d intoned it a few times absentmindedly as they grasped hands and spun in circles, falling dizzy on the rug in a fit of squeals. “There’s no place like home” meant the same thing to them because, they were each other’s home.

  Biz smiled, knowing it took a lot for Charlie to say that out loud. “I know, my friend. There’s no one like you, too.” She suggested Sissy Bickers for his date, but he vetoed her for obvious reasons. “What about Piper? I think she’s going to be a live-in mother’s helper down in Plover Point for the Huntingtons this summer.”

  “Seriously? She’s a nightmare.”

  “With a killer bod. Give her a chance. And I’ll give the douchebags on the Upper East Side a chance.” Biz aced Charlie again and raised her arms in a V-for-victory à la Nadia Comaneci, repeating the stance to each corner of the shed. He cracked up. “God help the douchebags,” he said, hoping Biz wouldn’t fall in love with one of them and possibly and quietly break his heart. The thought of handing he
r over to some random dude who might not appreciate her made him uneasy and he ached with dread. The ball bounced under the table and they both chased it down in a mad scramble, ending in wincing laughter. Charlie tried to wrench it from Biz’s formidable grip. Their heads were close and they could smell one another’s sweat from the long day. Charlie leaned in and kissed her. She was surprised, but pleasantly so. Biz leaned in, too, and parted her lips, beckoning his tongue to mingle. Charlie opened his mouth, unable to resist her. They were just losing themselves when Ned’s voice boomed from the doorway.

  “Georgia!” he called out. His voice seemed agitated.

  Biz answered, “It’s us, Uncle Ned! Biz and Charlie, we’re in a tie-breaker!” They emerged from under the table wishing they hadn’t at the same time. Biz thrust the ball into the air. “We found it!”

  Ned hesitated. “What’s going … on? You two were told to … uh, not…”

  Charlie interrupted his stepdad. “We were just looking for—”

  “Of course, kids. I’m sorry,” said Ned, pretending he didn’t mean what he’d clearly implied. “Have either of you seen Georgia?”

  “Check the rec room,” said Biz. “They were watching Stripes.”

  “Okay, kids, two minutes to wrap it up. Your mom’s trying to put this day to bed.”

  “Okay, thanks, Ned. We will,” said Charlie, but his stepdad was already gone. None of them believed for a second Georgia was watching Stripes.

  * * *

  Biz looked forward to her summer internship and hoped to learn a thing or two at Sotheby’s. She’d really wanted to intern for a famous theater costumer or infamous designer for drag queens, but fine art was what fell into place because fine art is what Claire wanted. Sadly, Claire had no Thornden connections to drag queens. Charlie planned to immerse himself in his sailing job during the day and do puzzles with his grandparents and edit his screenplay at night. He’d live with Grandpa Dun and Nana Miggs in their rambling weatherworn beach house in Plover Point, the charming Jersey Shore town on the edge of quiet Tern Bay.

  Charlie had a routine. After ensuring all his campers had safely sailed in and unrigged their boats, he would amble up to the beach to bodysurf and read. Piper was usually there, overseeing the Huntington kids about thirty feet away. Each time he spied her squeezing lemon juice into her big loopy curls, or rubbing Bain de Soleil on her tan, flat tummy, he tried to dismiss the possibility that she had a sweet side. But then she would apply zinc oxide to the little ones’ sunburned noses or lift the youngest by his wrists over the waves, and a softness was revealed as if it had been there all along. Charlie told himself to ignore her. He used to squirm every time Piper teased Biz when they were little. He wanted to stick up for Biz and kick Piper in the shins, but she seemed so powerful and cruel. Now that they were older, Biz was able to hold her own, and Charlie was taller and no longer afraid. Piper could still be intimidating, but Charlie could spin it as confidence. He liked strong women and was fascinated by her vulnerability. It reminded him of a movie—actually, every movie ever made.

  One sunny postcard afternoon, a Frisbee clipped Charlie’s shoulder, and Piper jogged over to retrieve it. “Filthy beasts,” she said to Charlie with a demure smile. She felt he’d recently become an undeniable fox. He looked up to see her freckled face crowned by a mane of salty hair. Each mustered a “Hi,” which was the only nudge they needed. Charlie’s grand plan of puzzles and biographies fizzled; he decided to heed Biz’s advice. Piper used to mother’s-helper alongside Biz and missed having a friend to boss around. So, the two formed an unlikely alliance as new partners in crime and filled the vacant space Biz left in both their summers. Before long they were gliding around town at night on their bikes, barefoot and no-handed, avoiding cops and looking for trouble.

  One moonless Saturday evening at the beach, Piper and Charlie sat up against snow fencing, long after the others had gone to forage for loose beers. The gentle breeze picked up a slight chill off the ocean. Piper rubbed her arms, and Charlie lent her his college sweatshirt. “I see chivalry isn’t dead,” she said, pulling it over her head. “Not dead yet,” Charlie said in the sing-song reply from the “bring out your dead” scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Piper looked flummoxed, a gentle reminder she was no replacement for Biz. As thanks, Piper leaned in slightly with a pucker. Charlie hesitated; he hoped she wasn’t messing with him, but Piper cocked her head slightly and met him head-on. She softened her lips and kissed him, pulling back slowly. He waited, but no snarky commentary followed, then she remained, still willing. He thought of Biz, who’d told him to explore his options, Piper chief among them. He moved in for another kiss. This time when their lips met, she pressed into him and he into her. Charlie’s cock woke up, desire flooded his brain, and all thoughts of Biz dispersed. Then his head whirled and body ignited—everyone else ceased to matter.

  At midnight, ankle-high waves crept in. Their friends never returned, nor did any distractions. They made out for hours until the sky lightened and their jeans became damp with dew. Over the next two weeks, Charlie and Piper moved through the bases, sneaking up to the beach and under porches where broken bikes went to die. During the day, Piper treated him with teasing and detachment. Charlie tried his banter but it fell flat. At night, however, she locked in on him once again with the heat of the day’s sunburn radiating off their skin, and hormones stirring the salty air between them. They necked and grinded in tucked-away places until Piper’s chin was pink and rough from Charlie’s stubble. Eventually they would both come, leaving them weak-kneed and dizzy—and Charlie with a dark wet mark on the front of his jeans, which he covered while pedaling home.

  One night at high tide, Charlie and Piper lay on a towel under an overturned lifeguard boat near the dunes. She took his hand and moved it under her skirt, parting her legs slightly, beckoning him to explore. As he discovered her downy wetness, she cooed a low moan. Nothing in her body language suggested he stop. Charlie’s head nearly spun off his spine and his brain began the task of shutting down. Is this going to happen? Here and now—with Piper?! Before he could wonder further, she told him to enter. Fumbling, he slipped inside her, almost climaxing too soon. “Shhhh,” Piper calmed him, emitting a longer, louder “mmm.” It occurred to Charlie she gave directions with ease and seemed well rehearsed, but he decided not to care. He was ready for whatever experience came next. He liked that she was willing to take the reins. And Piper liked that her hunch about Charlie Muir’s anatomy was more than she’d even imagined.

  Their sounds were absorbed by the boat’s wooden hull as the waves crashed loudly nearby. Charlie had no earthly idea what to expect, though he’d dreamed about this moment for years. In the darkness, he closed his eyes without needing to, moved his hips without rational thought. He hoped his erection was enough for Piper as she wrapped herself around him tighter. In under a minute he was overtaken by a blast, like a rocket exploding from the inside. Then there were tremors and panting, exhaustion and sweat. Charlie had come and it was over.

  His virginity was jettisoned in a swift minute of ecstasy, and now Charlie was extremely tired. Slowly returning to consciousness, he noticed Piper’s hand. It was still circling under her skirt as she undulated. He offered to help in any way he could for her middling finale but she said, “It’s fine, thanks” and carried on without him. Charlie was shocked and excited to see a real woman masturbating—she looked confident and relaxed in her approach. It also kept his mind off his poor performance. Mercifully, her words interrupted his ego’s spiral. “It’ll get better,” Piper panted once she’d finished herself off. “Usually does,” he heard her say as he fought sleep. Their heavy breathing created a cramped sauna under the boat, and Piper’s quaking helped Charlie feel accomplished. Next time, he knew, he should try to last longer; he’d call a friend or ask his roommate. Piper used Charlie’s boxers to wipe herself, then untwisted her underpants and skirt. She’d trained at least one boyfriend before. Charlie Muir was totally worth the effor
t.

  Charlie was a willing student—improving slowly but surely—and wished the summer to last forever. Piper was pleased with his progress and ability to take direction, but “forever” turned out to be three more weeks. Then she dumped him for Robbie Dodd, her regular summer fling, just back from eight weeks at Outward Bound. Charlie was blindsided, felled by rejection and shame; his shoulders slumped and eyes dimmed. He spent his lunch breaks at a pay phone calling Biz, who nursed him through his heartbreak from Manhattan. She suggested he write Sissy Bickers to distract him, but he’d been ruined by Piper’s voracity. Her willingness to screw any time, anywhere had ruined him, so instead, he chose to wallow. From here on out, he decided just before Labor Day, it would be only girls who didn’t need convincing. He’d only ask out girls who wanted that feeling—girls who actually liked sex.

  Biz spent her days at Sotheby’s outside picking up lunch orders and dropping off catalogues. It wasn’t intellectually taxing or creatively rewarding but looked impressive on her résumé, according to Claire. She’d sketch her absurd costume ideas during breaks and hobnob with the other interns after work—well-connected sorority types partial to button-down bars like J. G. Melon’s and P. J. Clarke’s. It was there she met a steady stream of Wall Street clones from J. P Morgan and Bear Stearns—predictably attractive and well-groomed young men boasting athlete’s bodies and toothy smiles. They were full of themselves to distraction like some fraternal scrum of mutual admiration. For every three guys who bought her a drink, only one asked, “Where do you work?” And only seldom might he follow up with the uninspired “Where do you go to school?” This was usually the point at which his curiosity peaked. Any forthcoming original thoughts were cauterized by beer. They were too invested in their pecking order to get to know her. With three roommates living in her share, any guy had to be worthy of introductions in the morning over buttered toast. And he had to be good in bed, which meant generous and creative, and none of these guys seemed either. So Biz started slipping out before the second round of shots and stopping off at the corner bar near her building.