Lost Cause

by Callie Sparks

He’s scanning the aisle for something. “It’s all little stuff. I had to help keep things together on the commune, so I know a little bit of everything.”

  “Oh.” Commune. I’d known that was where he was living. I’d heard that he’d been working at a gas station on the outskirts of it, and gotten himself recognized by an off-duty Border Patrol Agent that happened to be passing through. Supposedly, after he was found, the commune was dissolved, and most of the people there were thrown in jail. The things that had been going on there—I’d heard the words “atrocious” and “unspeakable”, but I hadn’t wanted to know more.

  My mind starts to wander to exactly what has turned him into this self-professed fucking machine, but I shut it down. I don’t want to know more.

  He’s here. He’s got all his parts accounted for. He laughed at my Bob Marley impersonation, so he hasn’t lost his sense of humor. What more can I ask for?

  When he wheels the cart to the front, he pulls out a roll of cash—it’s over a thousand dollars. As we’re leaving, I mutter, “You know you shouldn’t be carrying all that cash around.”

  His eyebrows knit. “Why?”

  “Well... because it’s dangerous. Someone could hold you up or you could lose it or something.”

  We get to the truck and he pulls open the gate. “Oh. I confess I don’t know much about money management. We just kept all we had in a jar under my bed. What should I be doing?”

  He starts loading everything onto the flatbed as I explain to him about bank accounts and credit cards and other nifty things that every twenty-year-old knows about. He continues to pile the heavy stuff in effortlessly, as I assemble stuff in the bags so I can avoid watching as his body stretches in his tight t-shirt, revealing those defined abdominal muscles.

  After my speech, he looks confused. He gnaws on his thumbnail. “My lawyer’s helping me get all my identification together. You know, so I can get my license, get my own cell phone, open a bank account . . . be a real adult.” He digs his hands into his pockets and half-smiles, looking every bit a little kid.

  “Well. Like I said. I can . . . “ Just then, my dad’s voice rings in my ears. Don’t get too personal. “I mean we . . . my family and I. We’ll help you. With whatever. You coming to church with us tomorrow morning?”

  He winces at the mere mention. “Well. I guess,” he says, as if he’d rather not. “Hope my presence doesn’t . . . I don’t know . . . cause the whole place to burst into flames.”

  I laugh.

  “I haven’t been in church since . . . forever. That one time. Remember?”

  “Yeah, I do.” He’d made the mistake of coming over, just wanting to hang out, at eight-forty-five on Sunday morning, five minutes before we were about to leave for church. My dad lassoed him in to coming in a way only he could—he made church sound like a carnival. Music! Free candy! Fellowship! I remember Noah sitting in the back seat of the Mercedes with me, looking like he knew he’d made a mistake he couldn’t escape from. When we got there, he tripped over his own feet on the way to the pew and generally looked like he was afraid to breathe, the entire hour. “It’s not as bad as you remember.”

  He grins. “Right.” He opens the passenger side door for me, and I climb inside. He rests his elbow on the open window and says, “I’m doing it, though. Your dad says it’ll help, and I hear he’s brilliant.”

  I study him. “But you don’t believe him.”

  He runs around the truck and gets behind the steering wheel. When he starts it up, he turns the dial for the radio. Country music fills the cabin; another thing I never realized Noah was into. Then he turns down the volume and says, as he pulls out, “I’m giving it a try.”

  “I can tell, though. You’re doubtful.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “Some people are beyond even God’s forgiveness.”

  #

  I was still in my nightgown, pouring a handful of Cheerios down my throat, when my mother called to me. “If you don’t get up here right now and change into your dress, Arianna Baker, I’m going to come down there and give it to you!”

  I groaned. She’d been up since six, as was normal for her and my dad. Morning people. Not me. They considered me sleeping to 8:30 to be lazy and decadent. But heck, it was a Sunday. Why couldn’t I just relax two days out of the week, since I was up bright and early the rest of the time?

  I reached into the fridge and pulled out the OJ, then took a drink directly from the carton, relishing that my mother was too busy putting in her earrings to see what I was doing and scold me.

  The doorbell rang.

  I pulled the door open and saw Noah there.

  He looked a mess. But that was normal. His shirt was always half-tucked and his shorts were always too tight, and his socks always hung looped around his skinny ankles. His hair was always every-which way. But something about him was different.

  So what was it? As I thought, I instinctively patted down my own hair, which wasn’t much better. He stood there, like he was expected, fidgeting from side to side, as he usually did. I guess it was different for him to be here so early. He never came over this early.

  Maybe it was the sleep in my eyes, playing tricks on me. I rubbed them. No, that wasn’t it. I said, “Did you come over for a reason?”

  He looked spooked. “Why?”

  “Well . . . just . . . it’s early.”

  He nodded absently. “I, uh . . . didn’t sleep well last night. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I said, pushing aside the door to let him in.

  He stood there, fidgeting hard. His lips moved, forming different words, but no sound came out. His hands were clasped in front of him, knuckles white. Finally, he said, “You think . . . can I talk to you?”

  I shrugged. We always talked. But I knew whatever he said would not be casual chit-chat. It was serious, just like the time he talked about what it was like to die. I could count on one hand the number of times we’d had real, serious heart-to-hearts. And they always left me feeling a little shell-shocked.

  “All right,” I started, already nervous.

  He looked around. “Maybe in private?”

  That didn’t sound good. “Why? I have to get ready.” I looked around. “My parents are in their bedroom. Just tell me here.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well. My stepmother. Annie.” He leaned in. Sweat shone on his forehead. “She’s been—“

  My mother screeched my name from down the hall and I jumped. “I have to get ready. We’re late for church.”

  He stiffened. “Oh.” He took a step backwards and nearly tripped on the potted plant near the door.

  “You can come.”

  His eyes filled with horror for a moment, but then he looked over his shoulder, at his house. Then he looked down. He coughed. “Wearing this?”

  I reached over and smoothed his hair, then motioned for him to tuck in his shirt. “Sure. Yeah. You won’t be the worst dressed person there.”

  “But, what about asking your—“

  “Believe me. My dad’ll be thrilled,” I told him. Besides me, there’s nothing my dad loved more than potential converts. Sure enough, when my dad wheeled in, he got this goofy grin on his face at the prospect of transforming Noah’s life. He went on about how great it was, and actually fist-bumped Noah, something I’d warned him not to do to, since it didn’t make him look half as with-it as he thought.

  “Okay,” Noah said, scraping his lower lip with his teeth. I rushed upstairs and put on the only dress I owned—my church dress—which was plain and a hand-me-down from somewhere. I wore it precisely ninety minutes every week—just enough to get myself to church and home again.

  We drove in the Mercedes, and I could swear I could see Noah’s heart thudding underneath his Phillies t-shirt. I tried to smile reassuringly as my dad talked about what a pleasure it was to have him, and how welcome he was. But he barely looked at me. Instead, he looked in his lap. Something was on his mind, but what, I couldn’t say.

  I always sat at the very fro
nt pew, near my mom, and close to the lectern. As we squeezed in together, I noticed Claire, sitting with her parents and brother in the pew behind us. She was wearing a gorgeous lavender dress, because she always looked like Easter Sunday threw up all over her. Her hair was coiffed just so, and the only ugly thing on her is the sneer on her face. It was directed at Noah. You’d think he murdered half her family.

  I wanted to grab her, say, “We’re in church. Love one another as He has loved you, dammit!” But we were in church. So I just turned around. I imagined I could feel her eye daggers, burning into the back of my neck.

  We never had a chance to have that “talk.” After church, he went home and I didn’t see him until school the next day. But the thing I remembered most was that the priest’s sermon was about God’s forgiveness, and I swear I could see Noah shaking at times. I thought he was just nervous. After all, he was just a kid, and a good one, despite whatever people like Claire thought. He had little reason to cower before God.

  Chapter Thirteen

  So you packed up all your things in the middle of the night and left?

  Something like that. I’d been at a party. And at that party I saw all these guys my age—thirteen. Having their first kisses and slow dances and flirting with their first girlfriends. The air was charged with this nervous kind of excitement and meanwhile, I just felt dead inside. All I could think was that all of that was ruined for me. I’d never have a real first girlfriend or a first kiss or whatever. I was nothing like any of them, and never would be. So when I got home, I told Annie I wanted to leave.

  And you did.

  Yeah. Like, that night.

  How’d you feel?

  Powerful. Excited. In charge of my own destiny, for once. I’d never been out of the state before, unless you counted crossing the state line to Pennsy. But we had to be careful. Annie was worried we were being followed, so we couldn’t stop at anyplace people might see us. I wanted to see all these landmarks I’d read about, but I only saw them from the highway. The first few times we rented hotel rooms and she paid cash and told everyone we were mother and son. But eventually she started to feel like people could see through the lie. So after the first couple days we’d pull into deserted roads and sleep in the back seat.

  And she maintained that she wanted to be “married.”

  She got off on the whole thing. She said this was like our honeymoon. It took us nearly a week to get across the country because we were always pulling over to fuck. I admit, I liked it. I didn’t feel like an ashamed little kid anymore, hiding who I was from everyone. I felt like an adult.

  Did you know what was going on back home?

  No clue. She’d thrown her phone in the Delaware as we left the state, and we didn’t listen to the radio or television. But back then, I was so delirious with excitement about this new place. I felt like, if I didn’t have to worry about hiding this from everyone¸ maybe I’d finally be free of the guilt. I wanted that freedom. And she’d made this commune sound like heaven.

  Was it, though?

  No. It was hell.

  #

  We spend most of the afternoon on the house, and in that time, we barely see each other. I don’t have Noah’s talents, so I spend a good deal of time on the first floor, dusting, sweeping, piling up garbage and dragging it out to the trash. I clean out his refrigerator, which was empty except for a bunch of beer, a jar of questionable green liquid and a thick helping of mold. By the time dinner rolls around, the house is starting to look like I remember.

  I get Chinese food delivered, and when I call up to him, there’s no answer.

  I can’t climb those stairs without thinking of Sarah. I wonder if he feels the same way as I hold the railing, taking each step slowly. At the landing, I see the light in the small bathroom.

  Inside, he’s standing in the shower, adjusting a new shower head. “Hey. Dinner’s here,” I say. “You have plates?”

  “Uh,” he mumbles. “Not really.”

  Judging from the amount of fast-food containers I’ve thrown out, I assume he’s more of an eat-right-from-the bag type. And utensils are probably out, too. “Shit. I should’ve asked them for chopsticks. What’re we going to do now?”

  He’s not paying attention. “One second. Got to get this done. It’ll be sweet to finally be able to shower in here.”

  “Oh, are you close?” I ask, picking up the shower curtain and clips he bought from Lowe’s, which are sitting on the toilet. I open the package, unfold it, and shake it out. It’s one of those cheap, clear plastic ones, but he’s a guy. He doesn’t want flowers or pastels.

  “Yep. Done.”

  I don’t know. I’ve always loved him. And now, looking at him, wearing that tight white-shirt, a big part of me is lusting for him, too. And I know that’s not what he needs right now. He needs someone to be his friend and help him through this.

  But God help me. It’s getting really hard.

  He steps outside the shower, twists the knob, and the fixture clatters to the ground. I shriek as water sprays every which way from the wall. He just stares at it for a minute as it drenches all of us. Using his hands to stop the water from hitting him full-force in the chest, he clasps his hand over it long enough to reach the knob and turn it off.

  Dripping water from his nose, he looks at me and rubs his neck, embarrassed. “That wasn’t right.”

  I burst out laughing as I survey the damage. Everything’s soaked. I slosh through a puddle, shaking my head. “Well, you got your shower in here, at least.”

  He steps out of the stall and starts to strip off his white t-shirt, revealing all those parts I’d worshipped before. The sight is too much. I whirl toward the sink and confront my wide-eyed reflection in the mirror. I realize my own t-shirt is practically see-through. I cross my arms over my chest and pray he won’t notice.

  But then I look into the mirror. He’s right there, behind me, staring at me in the reflection. Staring at my breasts—of course, he rarely misses anything. The bathroom doesn’t allow for wiggle-room. He’s so close I can feel the electricity between us. I don’t want to look at him, because if I do, it’ll be the end of me. So I look down, at the sink bowl.

  Before I can exhale, I feel his chest against my back. He’s deliberately leaning into me. I am powerless to do anything but respond. I press back against him, closing my eyes and feeling his slick skin against the wet cotton fabric of my shirt, his warm breath on my neck. My head eases back as if on oiled hinge, against his solid chest. His fingers flirt with the neckline of my t-shirt, until he tugs it gently to the side, exposing my shoulder, and God, I need more. I wish he’d just take it off so that I could press myself fully against him.

  No, this can’t happen. It’s Noah, for God’s sake. Keep it light, Ari. “That was refreshing,” I say with a godawful titter.

  He doesn’t say a word. I look up and in the reflection see him contemplating my neck, and every pore in my body is screaming for him to put those lips on me.

  No, no, no. “You know,” I start again, trying to keep my voice as conversational as possible. “Jacy was saying something so crazy the other night. She said you used to have a crush on me. Isn’t that . . . “ I lose my breath as his eyes catch mine in the mirror and my next word comes out an octave too high and all wrong. “ . . . crazy?”

  That look tells me all I need to know.

  He doesn’t think it’s crazy at all.

  I have to look away. I concentrate on the sink drain. I think of hair getting caught in it, of spit sliding down it, because there’s no bigger turn-off than that. Yes, gross. Think gross. Great big gobs of . . .

  Meanwhile, my hands are clenching at my sides, my fingers aching to touch what is so close to me. I can smell him, feel his heartbeat thudding against my back.

  Oh, God.

  “I mean, I told her . . .” I drone on, my voice weakening. “We’re just friends. Best friends. That’s all. And . . .”

  That’s all we can be. I look up at his face. O
h, God.

  He grabs my arm with a sudden fierceness, turning me to face him, gazing at me with a greedy appreciation. His smell is uniquely Noah, so familiar to me it’s in my pores and on my tongue—the taste of pine needles and river mud and fresh air. If I experienced it anywhere, I’d instantly think of him. But I’m here with him, now. It’s comforting and thrilling, all at once.

  His hand slides down my arm and to the side of my waist. He grabs a handful of the fabric, roughly, making me arch my back toward him as he gathers it between us, lifting up the wet cotton to expose my hips and belly. He appraises them and groans. “Fuck, that’s pretty. Where’d you get these curves?” he murmurs , but I can’t answer because all I want him to do is put his hands on my skin.

  He licks his lips. For a moment, he looks wolfish, like he’s ready to claim what’s his.

  But suddenly he drops his hands to his side, and blinks.

  He backs away, throws his hands behind his head, then starts to shove his hands in his pockets, like he isn’t sure what to do with himself. Then he seems to realize his manners and sets right my shirt, straightening and patting it down at my hips, like I’m some child he’s getting ready from school.

  “Oh, God, Ari-Bari. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that . . .” He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

  I squint at him, trying to understand. “All right,” I say softly, my face heating with embarrassment. I point absently to the door. “Well, we should probably eat.”

  I hurry downstairs in my bare feet, head down, replaying his last words over and over in my head. I’m shivering and so soaked . . . oh screw it, I’m so aroused, that my nipples are poking through my thin t-shirt. Thanks for the dead giveaway of how I feel, boobs.

  I’ve lost my appetite. I start pulling cartons of Chinese food out of the bag in a frenzy, hoping that my nipples will behave and my hunger will return. The right hunger, please, thank you very much. Part of me wants to just go home and lick my wounds. What was I thinking? That was bad, wrong. I knew that from the start. He can’t.

  “Ari.” I hear his voice behind me. He’s followed me down. Of course he’s followed me down. “I didn’t say that right. I’m afraid, okay?”