laps of boys she could not care less about and let them pretend she liked it.
She looked at her reflection in the plate-glass window and applied the gold lipstick. It made her look like a model in an MTV
video.
There were three games that had been making the rounds at parties recently. Daisy-chaining meant having sex like a conga line you'd do it with a guy, who'd do it with some girl, who'd do it with another guy, and so on, until you made your way back to the beginning. During Stoneface, a bunch of guys sat at a table with their pants pulled down and their expressions wiped clean of emotion, while a girl huddled underneath giving one of them a blow joband they all had to try to guess the lucky recipient. Rainbow was a combination of the two. A dozen or so girls were given different colored lipsticks before having oral sex with the guys, and the boy who sported the most colors at the end of the night was the winner.
An upperclassman that Trixie didn't know threaded his fingers through Zephyr's and tugged her forward. Trixie watched him sit on the couch, watched her wilt like a flower at his feet. She turned away, her face flaming.
It doesn't mean anything, Zephyr had said.
It only hurts if you let it.
“Hey.”
Trixie turned around to find a guy staring at her. “Um,” she said. “Hi.”
“You want to ... go sit down?”
He was blond, where Jason had been so dark. He had brown eyes, not blue ones. She found herself studying him not in terms of who he was, but who he wasn't.
She imagined what would happen if Jason walked in the door and saw her going at it with someone. She wondered if he'd recognize her right away. If the stake through his heart would hurt as much as the one Trixie felt every time she saw him with Jessica Ridgeley.
Taking a deep breath, she led this boy - what was his name? did it even matter? - toward a couch. She reached for a beer on the table
beside them and chugged the entire thing. Then she knelt between the boy's legs and kissed him. Their teeth scraped. She reached down and unbuckled his belt, looking down long enough to register that he wore boxers. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like if the bass in the music could beat through the pores of her skin.
His hand tangled in her hair, drawing her down, head to a chopping block. She smelled the musk of him and heard the groan of someone across the room and he was in her mouth and she imagined the flecks of gold on her lips ringing him like fairy dust. Gagging, Trixie wrenched herself away and rocked back on her heels. She could still taste him, and she scrambled out of the pulsing living room and out the front door just in time to throw up in Mrs. Santorelli-Weinstein's hydrangea bush.
When you fooled around without the feelings attached, it might not mean anything ... but then again, neither did you. Trixie wondered if there was something wrong with her, for not being able to act like Zephyr - cool and nonchalant, like none of this mattered anyway. Is that really what guys wanted? Or was it just what the girls thought the guys wanted?
Trixie wiped a shaking hand across her mouth and sat down on the front steps. In the distance, a car door slammed. She heard a voice that haunted her each moment before she fell asleep: “Come on, Moss. She's a freshman. Why don't we just call it a night?” Trixie stared at the sidewalk until Jason came into view, haloed by a streetlight as he walked beside Moss toward Zephyrs front door.
She spun around, took the lipstick out of her pocket, and reapplied a fresh coat. It sparkled in the dark. It felt like wax, like a mask, like none of this was real.
* * *
Laura had called to say that since she was on campus, she was going to stay there and catch up on some grading. She might even just crash overnight in her office.
You could work at home, Daniel said, when what he really meant was, Why does it sound like you've been crying?
No, I'll get more done here, Laura answered, when what she really meant was, Please don't ask.
Love you, Daniel said, but Laura didn't.
When your significant other was missing, it wasn't the same bed. There was a void on the other side, a cosmic black hole, one that you couldn't roll too close to without falling into a chasm of memories. Daniel lay with the covers drawn up to his chin, the television screen still glowing green.
He had always believed that if someone in this marriage was going to cheat, it would have been himself. Laura had never done anything wayward, had never even gotten a damn traffic ticket. On the other hand, he had a long history of behavior that would have surely landed him in jail eventually, had he not fallen in love instead. He assumed you could hide infidelity, like a wrinkle in your clothing stuffed underneath a belt line or a cuff, a flaw you knew existed but could conceal from the public. Instead, cheating had its own smell, one that clung to Laura's skin even after she'd stepped out of the shower. It took Daniel a while longer to recognize this sharp lemon scent for what it was: a late and unexpected confidence.
At dinner a few nights ago, Trixie had read them a logic problem from her psych homework: A woman is at the funeral of her mother. There, she meets a man she doesn't know and has never met, who she thinks is her dream partner. But because of the circumstances, she forgets to ask for his number, and she can't find him afterward. A few days later, she kills her own sister. Why?
Laura guessed that the sister had been involved with the man. Daniel thought it might be something to do with an inheritance. Congratulations, Trixie had said, neither one of you is a psychopath. The reason she murdered her sister was because she hoped the guy would show up at that funeral, too. Most serial killers who had been asked this question had given the right answer.
It was later, while he was lying in bed with Laura sleeping soundly beside him, that Daniel came up with a different explanation. According to Trixie, the woman at the funeral had fallen in love. And like any accelerant, that would change the equation. Add love, and a person might do something crazy. Add love, and all the lines between right and wrong were bound to disappear.
* * *
It was two-thirty in the morning, and Trixie was bluffing. By now, the party had wound down. Only four people remained: Zephyr and Moss and Trixie and Jason. Trixie had managed to avoid finishing out the Rainbow game by playing Quarters in the kitchen instead with Moss and Jason. When Zephyr found her there, she had pulled Trixie aside, furious. Why was Trixie being such a prude?
Wasn't this whole night supposed to be about making Jason jealous?
And so Trixie had marched back to Moss and Jason, and suggested the four of them play strip poker.
They had been at it long enough for the stakes to be important. Jason had folded a while ago; he stood against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the rest of the game develop. Zephyr laid out her cards with a flourish: two pairs - threes and jacks. On the couch across from her, Moss tipped his hand and grinned. “I have a straight.”
Zephyr had already taken off her shoes, her socks, and her pants. She stood up and started to peel off her shirt. She walked toward Moss in her bra, draping her T-shirt around his neck and then kissing him so slowly that all the pale skin on his face turned bright pink.
When she sat back down, she glanced at Trixie, as if to say, That's how you do it.
“Stack the deck,” Moss said. “I want to see if she's really a blonde.”
Zephyr turned to Trixie. “Stack the deck. I want to see if he's really a guy.”
“Hey, Trixie, what about you?” Moss asked. Trixie's head was cartwheeling, but she could feel Jason's eyes on her. Maybe this was where she was supposed to go in for the kill. She looked to Zephyr, hoping for a cue, but Zephyr was too busy hanging on Moss to pay attention to her.
Oh, my God, it was brilliant.
If the goal of this entire night was to get Jason jealous, the surest way to do it would be to come on to his best friend. Trixie stood up and tumbled right into Moss's lap. His arms came around her, and her cards spilled onto the coffee table: two of hearts, six of diamonds, queen of clubs, thre
e of clubs, eight of spades. Moss started to laugh. “Trixie, that's the worst hand I've ever seen.”
“Yeah, Trix,” Zephyr said, staring. “You're asking for it.” Trixie glanced at her. She knew, didn't she, that the only reason she was flirting with Moss was to make Jason jealous? But before she could telegraph this with some kind of ESP, Moss snapped her bra strap. “I think you lost,” he said, grinning, and he sat back to see what piece of clothing she was going to take off.
Trixie was down to her black bra and Ace bandage and her low-rise jeans - the ones she was wearing without underwear. She wasn't planning on parting with any of those items. But she had a plan - she was going to remove her earrings. She lifted her left hand up to the lobe, only to realize that she'd forgotten to put them on. The gold hoops were sitting on her dresser, in her bedroom, just where she'd left them.
Trixie had already removed her watch, and her necklace, and her barrette. She'd even cut off her macrame anklet. A flush rose up her shoulders - her bare shoulders - onto her face. “I fold.”
“You can't fold after the game,” Moss said. “Rules are rules.” Jason pushed away from the wall and walked closer. “Give her a break, Moss.”
“I think she'd rather have something else . . .”
“I'm out,” Trixie said, her voice skating the thin edge of panic. She held her hands crossed in front of herself. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it would burst into her palm. Suddenly, this seemed even worse than Rainbow, because the anonymity was gone. Here, if she acted like a slut, everyone knew her by name.
“I'll pinch-strip for her,” Zephyr suggested, leaning into Moss.
But at that moment, Trixie looked at Jason and remembered why she had come to Zephyr's in the first place. It's worth it, she thought, if it brings him back. “I'll do it,” she said. “But just for a second.”
Turning her back to the three of them, she slipped the straps of her bra down her arms and felt her breasts come free. She took a
deep breath and spun around.
Jason was staring down at the floor. But Moss was holding up his cell phone, and before Trixie could understand why, he'd snapped a picture of her.
She fastened her bra and lunged for the phone. “Give me that!” He stuffed it in his pants. “Come and get it, baby.” Suddenly Trixie found herself being pulled off Moss. The sound of Jason's fist hitting Moss made her cringe. “Jesus Christ, lay off!” Moss cried. “I thought you said you were finished with her.” Trixie grabbed for her blouse, wishing that it was something flannel or fleece that would completely obliterate her. She held it in front of her and ran into the bathroom down the hall. Zephyr followed, coming into the tiny room and closing the door behind her.
Shaking, Trixie slipped her hands into the sleeves of the blouse. “Make them go home.”
“But it's just getting interesting,” Zephyr said. Trixie looked up, stunned. “What?”
“Well, for God's sake, Trixie. So he had a camera phone, big fucking deal. It was a joke.”
“Why are you taking his side?”
“Why are you being such an asshole?”
Trixie felt her cheeks grow hot. “This was your idea. You told me that if I did what you said, I'd get Jason back.”
“Yeah,” Zephyr shot back. “So why were you all over Moss?” Trixie thought of the paper clips on Zephyr's backpack. Random hookups weren't random, no matter what you told yourself. Or your best friend.
There was a knock on the door, and then Moss opened it. His lip was split, and he had a welt over his left eye. “Oh, my God,” Zephyr said. “Look at what he did to you.” Moss shrugged. “He's done worse during a scrimmage.”
“I think you need to lie down,” she said. “Preferably with me.” As she tugged Moss out of the bathroom and upstairs, she didn't look back.
Trixie sat down on the lid of the toilet and buried her face in her
hands. Distantly, she heard the music being turned off. Her temples throbbed, and her arm where she'd cut it earlier. Her throat was dry as leather. She reached for a half-empty can of Coke on the sink and drank it. She wanted to go home.
“Hey.”
Trixie glanced up to find Jason staring down at her. “I thought you left.”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right. You need a ride?” Trixie wiped her eyes, a smear of mascara coming off on the heel of her hand. She had told her father she would be staying overnight, but that was before her fight with Zephyr. “That would be great,” she said, and then she began to cry. He pulled her upright and into his arms. After tonight, after everything that had happened and how stupid she'd been, all she wanted was a place where she fit. Everything about Jason was right, from the temperature of his skin to the way that her pulse matched his. When she turned her face into the bow of his neck, she pressed her lips against his collarbone: not quite a kiss, not quite not one.
She thought, hard, about lifting her face up to his before she did it. She made herself remember what Moss had said: I thought you were done with her.
When Jason kissed her, he tasted of rum and of indecision. She kissed him back until the room spun, until she couldn't remember how much time had passed. She wanted to stay like this forever. She wanted the world to grow up around them, a mound in the landscape where only violets bloomed, because that was what happened in a soil too rich for its own good.
Trixie rested her forehead against Jason's. “I don't have to go home just yet,” she said.
* * *
Daniel was dreaming of hell. There was a lake of ice and a run of tundra. A dog tied to a steel rod, its nose buried in a dish of fish soup. There was a mound of melting snow, revealing candy wrappers, empty Pepsi cans, a broken toy. He heard the hollow thump of a basketball on the slick wooden boardwalk and the tail of a green tarp rattling against the seat of the snow machine it covered. He saw a moon that hung too late in the sky, like a drunk unwilling to leave the best seat at the bar.
At the sound of the crash, he came awake immediately to find himself still alone in bed. It was three thirty-two A.M. He walked into the hall, flipping light switches as he passed. “Laura,” he called, “is that you?”
The hardwood floors felt cold beneath his bare feet. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary downstairs, yet by the time he reached the kitchen he had nearly convinced himself that he was about to come face-to-face with an intruder. An old wariness rose in
him, a muscle memory of fight or flight that he'd thought he'd long forgotten.
There was no one in the cellar, or the half bath, or the dining room. The telephone still slept on its cradle in the living room. It was in the mudroom that he realized Trixie must have come home early: Her coat was here, her boots kicked off on the brick floor.
“Trixie?” he called out, heading upstairs again. But she wasn't in her bedroom, and when he reached the bathroom, the door was locked. Daniel rattled it, but there was no response. He threw his entire weight against the jamb until the door burst free.
Trixie was shivering, huddled in the crease made by the wall and the shower stall. “Baby,” he said, coming down on one knee.
“Are you sick?” But then Trixie turned in slow motion, as if he were the last person she'd ever expected to see. Her eyes were empty, ringed with mascara. She was wearing something black and sheer that was ripped at the shoulder.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said, and started to cry.
“Trixie, what happened?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but then pressed her lips together and shook her head.
“You can tell me,” Daniel said, gathering her into his arms as if she were small again.
Her hands were knotted together between them, like a heart that had broken its bounds. “Daddy,” she whispered. “He raped me.” 2
She had kissed him back. They must have both fallen asleep for a while, because Trixie woke up with him leaning over her, his lips against her neck. She'd felt her skin burn where he touched her.
She was jerked back to th
e present as her father reached for the controls of the heater on the dashboard. “Are you too hot?” Trixie shook her head. “No,” she said. “It's okay.” But it wasn't, not anymore, not by a long shot.
Daniel fiddled with the knob for another moment. This was the nightmare that sank its teeth into every parent's neck. Your child is hurt. How quickly can you make it better?
What if you can't?
Beneath the tires, he heard the name that he couldn't get out of his head, not since the moment he'd found Trixie in the bathroom.
Who did this to you?
Jason. Jason Underhill.
In a tornado of pure fury, Daniel had grabbed the first thing he could lay hold of - a soap dish - and hurled it into the bathroom mirror. Trixie had started shrieking, shaking so hard it took him five minutes to calm her down. He didn't know who'd been more
shocked at the outburst: Trixie, who'd never seen him like this, or
Daniel himself, who'd forgotten. After that, he'd been careful which questions he asked his daughter. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to her; he was just afraid to hear her answer, and even more afraid he would again do the wrong thing. He had never learned the protocol for this. It went beyond comfort; it went beyond parenting. It meant transforming all the rage he felt right now - enough to breathe fire and blow out the windshield - into words that spread like balm, invisible comfort for wounds too broad to see.
* * 8
Suddenly, Daniel braked hard. The logging truck in front of them was weaving over the median line of the divided highway.
“He's going to kill someone,” Daniel said, and Trixie thought, Let it be me. She felt numb from the waist down, a mermaid encased in ice. “Will Mom meet us there?”
“I hope so, baby.”
It was after her father had wrapped her in a blanket and rocked her and told her they were going to the hospital, when Trixie was still crying softly for her mother, that her father admitted Laura wasn't home. But it's three-thirty in the morning, Trixie had said. Where did she go? There had been a moment where the pain had stopped belonging to Trixie and started to belong to her father instead, but then he'd turned away to get her another blanket, and that was when Trixie realized she wasn't the only casualty of the night.
The Tenth Circle Page 5
