by Deb Caletti
Anyway, it was a bad night for a pool party, which just goes to show that money can’t control everything. Of course, I didn’t know it was a pool party that I was going to, or even a party at all. I thought I was meeting Travis alone. I didn’t want to ask for the details. On one hand, it was like knowing your birthday present before the day. On the other, I didn’t want him to give me any information that my mind would get all parental about.
There was no way I was going to get out of my house without a sound lie, so I took a chance and asked Sydney for her help. She wasn’t happy about being an accomplice. She was, after all, a charter member of the Help Ruby Ditch Travis Club ever since the sleepover. This is not, she said, what friends do. Friends don’t make excuses for friends to go see Mr. Hollywood who has a little taste for danger. Did I know that everyone said he was a thief? Did I know that she would have to feel personally responsible if anything happened to me? Did I know that she would crush his nuts if he hurt me in any way?
My mother looked surprised when I told her I was going out with Sydney and her friends that night. I didn’t do this very often, mostly because I worried that Sydney was bringing me along to benefit humankind, like some people give away turkeys on Christmas. I could see that my mother was trying to wrestle with her facial expressions when I told her, trying not to let the doubt sneak out through lowered eyebrows. She won, for the most part, though her smile had the frozen, still-trying cheer of a HAVE A NICE DAY bumper sticker on some old, falling-apart Volkswagen.
I escaped fast, waited on Sydney’s porch for a while and then ran out to Cummings Road. It wasn’t the best idea, walking along there where anyone might see me, but the light was dimming and all that waiting around on Sydney’s porch made me late. A car sped past, music bumping from its open windows, and some guy yelled something my way, words that got snatched by the whoosh of air through his open window. The quick blast of bumping music filled me with something like confidence. The adrenaline of possibility made me feel fearless, almost as fearless as Travis thought I was. Why not be open to new experiences? Why be held back by someone like my mother, who for years hadn’t taken a chance on anything more extreme than the sweepstakes on the underside of the Pepsi cap? Making my mother into the villain was tougher than I thought, so I went back to the New Experiences theme. I let the things I loved surge into me and grab my heart, sending it soaring upward to an emotional high-dive platform, where it would wait to leap. I took in the calm yellow porch light of George Washington’s house, the goofy array of misfit cars at Ron’s Auto, waiting for a second chance. I watched the paragliders, fewer in number on that cloudy day, but soaring and drifting, their colors bright against the gray sky.
That’s where I was, high as those paragliders, until I saw the long line of cars snaking up Cummings Road and the driveway of the Becker estate. When I saw those cars, I came down, down, fast, as if the wind had abruptly ceased. I felt just as caught as one of those paragliders we occasionally saw stuck in the trees, legs dangling, a fool on display.
I walked up the driveway. Another couple was ahead of me. They were my parents’ age—she wore a short Hawaiian dress that sucked to her butt tight as Saran Wrap to a bowl of leftovers and had hair sculpted into a Dairy Queen cone twist; he was packed snug into a polo shirt and shorts, and carried a gift with a perfect bow on top. Clouds of her perfume boldly stalked back my way. It was going to be a loud perfume night. All those perfumes in there would be competing for dominance with prizefighter determination. I walked behind them dumbly and smelling only of shampoo. Party noises—music, laughter, raised voices—drifted from behind the house and poured out when Hawaiian Dress rang the doorbell and the door opened. They were noises that made me slink back into myself and want to disappear.
Travis Becker’s mother answered the door. It was apparently a Hawaiian-themed night, as Mrs. Becker too wore a Hawaiian dress—tasteful, not bold—and a lei of fresh flowers. She had an orchid tucked behind one ear, her hair coiffed around it and flipping up at the ends. I’d never seen her up close before. She was beautiful, it was true—Travis had to get his looks from somewhere—one of those women who maintained her appearance as a part-time job. Travis’s mother would be nothing like my own—she would not accidentally suck up socks and drapery hems with the vacuum, and she would not carry a roll of toilet paper in her car for nose-blowing emergencies. She would have those tiny packets of Kleenex in her purse, and one for the glove compartment.
Mrs. Becker kissed the woman ahead of me, and then the man, and they wished her a happy birthday. I stood on the sidewalk behind them. I felt like those little kids on Halloween night, the reluctant trick-or-treaters that stand on the bottom step looking at you as if you are the monster. The ones who won’t come forward no matter what is held out in the bowl in front of them. I thought Mrs. Becker might shut the door. She looked at me quizzically, as if maybe I’d come to ask about my lost cat. For a second it seemed like the perfect escape. I’m sorry to bother you! I was just wondering if you’d seen Binky? He’s a gray Persian. But then Travis appeared behind his mother.
“Hey, finally,” he said. “Come in.”
I stepped inside, in the half space Mrs. Becker’s body made. “Hello,” I said. I forced my voice out. It was that overly polite one that squeaks with misuse and insincerity. “It’s your birthday?”
“Don’t remind me,” she said, although if she wanted to quietly forget it, the loud music and the guy shouting “Your glass is empty, Becker!” probably wasn’t the way to go.
“Be sure to get your friend something to drink,” Mrs. Becker said.
“Ruby,” I said. But Mrs. Becker had already turned around and was heading outside. “I didn’t know there was going to be a party. You could have told me. It’s her birthday. I would’ve at least brought a present.”
“She’s a bitch,” he said. “Besides. You like surprises.” That was the thing about Travis Becker, I guess. The new ways he defined me. I was never one who could be said to like surprises. Surprises usually meant being caught unprepared in some embarrassing way, and I was the kind of person who always carried enough money for a phone call. I liked the idea that I was someone who could capably handle what was thrown her way. That me would be a person who would wear scarves and click along capably in high heels. I decided that meant I would have to discard my urge to beg for us to leave while clinging to the cuff of Travis Becker’s shirt with the surfers on it.
It was the first time I’d been in Travis’ house. I caught glimpses of things as we walked through the house to the backyard. Marble floors, a staircase with shiny wood handrails that curved up, a modern living room with pillars and a creamy yellow carpet and paintings that looked like someone stepped on a mustard bottle. I saw a violin in a glass case, as if suspended in air. I felt sorry for it—crafted to make beautiful music and yet as silent and closed as Lillian. We walked through a huge kitchen, large enough that if you made a nice cup of steamed milk with a splash of vanilla before bed, it’d be cold before you crossed the room. Big trays of food were set about, large discs of cheeses and hors d’oeuvres of such varying shades and shapes that they made me think of the pretend food Chip Jr. and I used to make with our Play-Doh. Smells drifted in from outside on curls of barbecue smoke; outside the first thing I noticed was a waiter carrying a tray of salmon fillets, pink and shiny and ready to be singed. I got a tiny bit of pleasure out of the fact that salmon are not exactly Hawaii’s state fish.
“Pork is too fattening,” Travis said, reading my mind. “You wanna lei?” he shouted over the music and put his hand up the back of my skirt. I swatted him, and then he reached into a huge basket of plastic lei’s, choosing a pink one for me, and put it around my neck. The thought crossed my mind that Travis Becker lacked imagination, resorting to the old lei joke. “My brother’s in the band. Keyboards. They play their own stuff on the weekends.” It was a live band—five guys doing sixties oldies that sounded better than my father’s, I realized with equal portions
of guilt and shame. I looked around at the pool area. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. It looked like it was out of a movie—small white lights in every tree, a canopy of lights across the patio. Candles in glass holders sat on tables draped in white linen; rose topiaries sat as centerpieces. Candles floated on the pool, and a few people swam among them.
“You know them,” Travis said, reading my mind again. Boy, at that rate, he could have his own show in Las Vegas. “My mother is so pissed at the fact they are actually swimming in a swimming pool at a pool party.”
I looked more closely, and could see that two of the swimmers were Seth and Courtney, though it was hard to recognize them with their hair wet and slicked back. Courtney was riding around on Seth’s shoulders. She leaned over his head, her boobs spilling out of her bathing suit just like the waitresses at the Gold Nugget Roller Coaster Amusement Park, one on each side of Seth’s head, a giant pair of wobbly earmuffs. She was shrieking as some other girl on some other guy’s shoulders kicked water at her. The floating candles all began to group together like frightened ducklings.
I was glad for a moment I didn’t know it was a pool party I was going to. I would have had to think about whether or not to wear a bathing suit. I know I couldn’t ride around on someone’s neck with my boobs swinging around sure as a pair of water balloons just before they’re flung. Really, I don’t know how the rules for things get made up. It’s not okay to wear your underwear out in public, but it’s okay to wear bathing suits, and Courtney’s, I could see, appeared to be a piece of yarn that she just sat on and, oops, it got stuck. It looked like it hurt. You kind of wished someone would snap it like a rubber band. I knew I didn’t fit in here. Maybe I need therapy, but I get embarrassed undressing in front of my dog.
The guy I didn’t know shoved off his hanger-on. She fell into the water with a great splash and came up shrieking. I noticed that these kinds of girls shrieked a lot. The guy heaved himself up off the side of the pool as if he’d just dropped a box he’d had to carry and was now done with the job. He de-clung his bathing suit from his legs, shook his hair, and buried his face in a towel.
“Brandon!” Travis called.
Brandon walked over and we were introduced.
“Ni-iice,” he said to Travis. I might as well have been a new jacket Travis was wearing. “Hot in a girl-next-door way.” He grinned. I was no doubt supposed to find the grin irresistible. Calling him an idiot would be an insult to idiots. Jeez, these people you were supposed to want to be like could really be disappointing.
“How ‘bout a drink?” Travis asked. “Mai tai? Piña colada?”
“Mai tai,” I said. I hadn’t a clue what it was. It sounded like something orange juicy and fruity. Maybe it would come with a paper umbrella that would break if you pushed it too far up, like the one I got once in a smoothie.
We walked to the bar. They actually had a real bar outside there, with a bartender in a tuxedo and a bored expression. I felt sorry for him on the other side of that table. He was just a tuxedo with an outstretched hand, when he was actually someone who probably had a favorite color and memories of his first-grade teacher and foods he hated. The mai tai turned out to be red. No umbrella. I took a drink, and the heat of the alcohol stormed down my throat like it had plans to take over my body, which it probably did. I don’t know if that’s how strong those things usually are, or if the bartender had evil intentions to knock everyone out so that he could go home early.
“Tra-vis,” Courtney called from the edge of the pool. She waved her empty glass in the air. She and the other girl stood in the pool with their arms crossed on the pool’s edge. Up close, I could see that Courtney wore a little gold cross around her neck that hung between the water balloons. Seth was underwater, obviously trying to see how long he could hold his breath.
“We’re empty,” the other girl said. You could say that again.
“Get it yourself,” Travis said. “I don’t do the princess shit.”
Courtney pouted. Seth popped up. Spit water out of his cheeks. “Seventy-four!” he announced. He took another gulp of air, ducked back down again.
“Brandon!” the other girl shouted. She held up her empty glass. Brandon came and picked up the glasses. She flattened out her lips in a see? smile directed at Travis. “Who is she?” she said, looking at me.
“Ruby,” Travis said. “Friend of mine. Tiffany.”
“Hi,” I said. I kind of wanted to step on her fingers.
Brandon returned with two drinks, squatted down in front of the girls. Seth popped up again. “Seventy-four again. Shit.”
I thought I caught Courtney looking into the dark hole of the leg of Brandon’s bathing suit. I was right. A second later, she stuck one finger up there, wiggled it around. Seth floated underwater, oblivious to the adventures of his girlfriend’s fingers. His arms circled his knees; they rolled up and his toes pointed from the water.
“What is this crap they’re playing?” Tiffany said.
“Beatles,” Travis said. “She probably hasn’t heard of them,” he said to me.
“I’ve heard of them. What do you think I am, stupid?”
Up popped Seth. “Seventy-five!” He beamed. Thank God. Seth was proving himself to be a really determined breath-holder. Like my mother says, it’s important to have goals.
“When can we ditch this party?” Courtney said. She’d taken her finger from Brandon’s shorts and was now working on her drink like she’d just ran a mile on a scorching day. A few of the adults in Hawaiian outfits were starting to dance. It struck me how the things that we consider normal are often extremely weird.
“You didn’t have to come,” Travis said.
“My parents brought me,” Courtney said.
“Look at my dad,” Travis said. “Trying to dance. Looks like a fucking moron.” I looked around the patio where everyone was dancing. “Straw hat,” Travis directed. The fucking moron who bought Travis the big house and the swimming pool and the motorcycle had his hands in a pair of fists up near his chest, and was bobbing his upper body from side to side without moving his feet. He beamed under his straw hat. He was dancing with a tiny blonde in a sarong who had her arms swaying over her head. Her hips swiveled and her eyes were closed as if she were in some kind of sexual trance. Mr. Becker, on the other hand, reminded me of those shows you see on TV for old people, where they can exercise from their chair.
Seth swam up behind Courtney, put his chin on her shoulder. “You’re getting me all wet” she said.
“You’re in a pool,” Tiffany said.
“My shoulder was dry,” Courtney said.
“Bitchy,” Brandon said.
It was difficult to break into this invigorating conversation, so instead I just stood there, feeling stupid for a thousand reasons. This was one of those events that sounded a lot better beforehand and afterward than it ever was during. I wished I could have some of that Play-Doh food, though.
“We can go to my house,” Courtney said. “My parents are here.”
“Do what you want,” Travis said. “We got plans anyway.”
“I like this old shit,” Brandon said. He danced around a little. “Come on, Tiff.” He snapped his fingers.
“Forget it. I’m with Courtney for going to her house.”
“We can sneak a bottle of rum from the bar,” Courtney said. She heaved herself up from the side of the pool, showing us way more of her butt in that string thing than I ever cared to see. You know, maybe people don’t want to see your butt. She toweled off; her towel, which had been draped on a chaise lounge, said I’M A BOY SCOUT.
Travis turned to me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. “They bore the hell out of me.” He grabbed my arm suddenly, wove us through the crowd, and hurried us around the garage, past a trio of guys in Hawaiian shirts and smoking cigars. I was still holding my mai tai, one sip removed, and the jostling made a bit spill out onto the open toe of my sandals. I was sorry only to leave the Play-Doh food and that big white cak
e, tall and fancy as the one at Mrs. Wilson-now-Mrs. Thrumond’s wedding to Mr. Thrumond. I pictured Mrs. Becker looking around the crowd for her family, spotting her husband in his hat and her eldest at the keyboards, but no Travis. I felt sorry for her then, blowing out her candles, the yellow light in her face, but her son not caring enough to stay around. I felt sorry for her, even if she had those little Kleenex packets.
“Where are we going?” I asked. This time I wanted to know. The person I was trying to be and the person I really was were having a little fight, and the person I really was had won. She’d been around longer.
“Hang on a sec. Stay right here.”
Travis trotted back the way we came. I stood alone, holding that stupid mai tai. I sniffed it, and the strong smell shot through my nostrils, a train through a tunnel. I tried to wipe the red splotch of drink off my toe onto the wet grass, and then was suddenly aware that the eyes of one of the cigar smokers were on me. Travis jogged back. He had a napkin full of wonderful Play-Doh food. I had a ridiculous surge of joy at the sight. He held it out to me. I took a round one that looked like a hat the queen of England would wear. Cream cheese with a mystery crunch.
“Let’s take the bike.”
I followed him to the garage. We went through a side door, happily away from the eyes of the cigar smoker. The Becker garage was quiet; inside, all the sounds of the party had disappeared. The garage was so clean it was eerie. There were no splotches of paint or motor oil on the cement floor, no gatherings of dust or pine needles. It was large enough for three cars in there, but right then there was only a Mercedes convertible with the top down and Travis’s motorcycle. I thought of our garage. Here there were no garden tools or hammers or rakes with the clumps of grass still attached; no stacks of newspapers, cans of insect killer, and car wash soap, or badminton rackets and old baby crib frames. Sydney’s garage was much the same as ours, packed with grass seed and bags of fertilizer and bikes hanging from the ceiling. Here there was no real evidence of human life. Even Mr. Baxter across the street, whose tools were all hung up on a Peg-Board under labels with their names, still had grocery bags full of cans to recycle and a pouchy bag of golf clubs covered with socks with pom-poms on them. Frankly, that was something else I never understood—why people dressed up their golf clubs in goofy snow hats for what is supposed to be a dignified, nice-weather game.
