What Tomorrow May Bring

by Tony Bertauski

  Seven-thirty a.m. A hooded classmate on a skateboard clipped me as he screeched to a stop in front of the testing center, bruising my shin. He offered no apology, and worse, slammed the door in my face. Blake Sundry from English. What was his hurry, and why did he wear the same hooded, black and white flannel every day? I had never seen him hoodless which made me wonder what he was hiding. Rumor had it, a serious drug problem. I was quickly distracted when a fat man who looked like his head was fifty percent too large for his body—and who was most unfortunately shaped like Mr. Potatohead—droned on about test instructions for thirty minutes. I imagined sticking different eye-nose-mouth-ear combinations on his face to improve his somber look as an entertaining distraction. His bug eyes and patch of bushy black hair atop his head worked well for the Mr. Potatohead look, but the rest of his features lacked flair.

  Noon lunch break. I nibbled on stale goldfish crackers and yogurt for lunch since we couldn’t leave the testing center to get real food. My head throbbed from a migraine that started during the third hour, where I had to label more than a hundred ink blobs. The pain worsened during the blood test and physical given the fourth hour. I explained to them that I fear needles and the smell of blood, yet the nurse took several vials with enough force to cause bruising.

  The extreme nature of the testing bothered me, and I wanted to leave. I couldn’t really consider leaving my senior year for their yearlong program despite the attractive incentives, could I? Wouldn’t leaving Tristan and Bri destroy me? Or was I just feeling guilty for agreeing to be tested, knowing how upset they were about it? Had they distanced themselves from me, or had I already distanced myself from them just in case I got offered a position with the SCI? Things had been strained for sure, and neither of them had been kind to me. I begged to step outside for fresh air, but the fat lady who stank of cheap perfume guarding the door commanded me to sit down. Entry and exit during testing was prohibited. Period.

  Four p.m. The testing room smelled like the boy’s locker room after a lost football game—a rancid combination of sweat and fear. All the kids took the test seriously to the point of hyperventilating like they’d have no future if not offered a spot in the program. Actually, a few of the kids mentioned that their parents as much as told them so. I wished they could see the multitude of options on their horizons. When a door closes, a window opens, right?

  The potato-headed man finally summoned me into a cramped, windowed interrogation room off the main room to interview me. “Spud” quickly demanded my attention and rattled off inappropriate question after question about my home, activities, school, friends, personal life, and any obstacles that’d prevent me from participating in their program. My head felt like shards of glass were being thrust inward, fueled by his voice and the harsh fluorescent lights. At first, I answered his questions fully and politely until he asked me if I was sexually active. That pushed me over the edge. It wasn’t any of his business, and was a very creepy question to be asked by an old guy who smelled like a perspiration and Old Spice cocktail. He acted like he assumed I was which wasn’t the case much to my boyfriend’s dismay.

  I hated confrontation which was the real reason I’d left iHop that morning. Furthermore, my mom taught me to perfect my “fake smile” poker face early on. “Never let them know what you’re really thinking,” she had implored. But after nine hours of pure nonsense, I was done being subjected to a process worse than any college or job application. I stood up, sending my chair flying backwards, and told Mr. Potatohead I didn’t give a crap about his test, his program, or the scholarship and that he had a room full of kids who did give a crap to choose from, and that they probably didn’t care that he’s a perverted sexual predator. Or perhaps I didn’t say that last part, but I did think it.

  Everyone stared at me, the thin walls being no barrier for my raised voice. Regret over my outburst assailed me. Most of the kids had known me for years and never heard my voice rise other than to shout a cheer at a football game. The man’s wispy lips curled into a smirk and he dismissed me to return to my seat.

  Mr. Potatohead then called in Blake who chuckled at my tirade. I watched them through the window and doodled unhappy faces on the last test form I’d been asked to complete. Blake looked relaxed, almost chummy with the man, two peas in a pod, but then I noticed his body language change as the conversation progressed. By the end he looked angry too. Maybe he didn’t like discussing his sex life or lack thereof either. He glanced at me every so often as if I was the subject of their conversation which made me even more eager to escape.

  Six p.m. Tristan, Bri, and Bri’s boyfriend, Lucas, pulled up in a stretch Hummer limo, complete overkill for our small group. Thrilled to see friendly faces, I ran to give Tristan a hug. He looked nice in his black tux with green and gold cummerbund and tie to match my green dress. Unfortunately, his breath stank of vodka which did not bode well for a happy ending to my day. I smiled anyway and refrained from criticizing him. He placed an orchid on my wrist and I pinned a rose on his tux lapel. The limo ride provided my friends with further opportunity to party, while I abstained and enjoyed the scenery as the limo driver took “the long way” to the restaurant.

  At dinner, Tristan ordered me steak and lobster—his favorite—but I could only eat a few bites. He ate the rest. I felt like I was on trial, and my friends were playing the parts of judge, juror, and prosecutor. They interrogated, criticized, and berated me for taking the test and considering ditching senior year. Besides, the test was over. I’m the one who had time I wanted back, a backlog of homework, and a lingering headache. My friends continued to taunt me until I left to use the restroom to adjust my makeup, take a few deep breaths, plaster my happy face back on, and return to shift the conversation to a more pleasant topic.

  Ten-thirty p.m. The dance got too crowded, so we headed to an after party at the home of Bailey Goodington, a spoiled, wild, fellow cheerleader who lived in a ten thousand plus square foot castle in the Ranch. The spread of food and alcohol could’ve beat out most wedding receptions. Tristan and Lucas dove into a game of beer pong while Bri hit the champagne in earnest. I grabbed a closed soda bottle and avoided any alcoholic additives. My bloodletting earlier had me still feeling queasy. I didn’t trust I would be able to keep my cool under the influence. No one else did. Plus, I promised my parents to stay sober and be a good girl. They’d check compliance by home breathalyzer. Failure meant consequences. Painful ones.

  The other girls on my cheer squad performed a new number in dresses and heels which I captured on phone video and uploaded while waiting in line for the bathroom. Tristan was so wasted, he attempted to undress me in front of the entire line. “Ha ha, sweetheart, you wish,” I told him. He signed me “no worries, forgive me,” one of the many endearing things we’d learned in the sign language class we took together, and then he left with Lucas to find another drink.

  Eleven-thirty p.m. I found Bri and a dozen other girls fighting over who’d make the best vampire bait. Back and forth they shouted out ridiculous lures for hot-bodied bloodsuckers before downing shots of tequila. Bailey, our party host, mocked me for saying I didn’t find the thought of being with a cold, hard, dead guy the least bit interesting, since, apparently, if the guy’s a cold, hard, hot, dead guy it’s worth it. She’d never been very discriminating, so I left in search of a higher concentration of working brain cells.

  Twelve forty a.m. Classmate after classmate accosted me with slurred speech, inappropriate advances, and unstable drinks. What had been amusing at stage one of their inebriation—the flirty, uninhibited conversations—quickly got old by stage three or four when my friends started making some poor choices. Anna and Sadie stripped Gina Barton down to her underwear and body-painted her with sundae toppings on what was clearly a Goodington family heirloom, Oriental carpet. Brooke, poster child for teen abstinence, hooked up with Ben, class sexual indiscriminate, and made haste to the master. Naive freshman Leila Sundry, Blake’s sister, ended her table dance early as she pu
ked the supposed non-alcoholic punch all over the male audience that fed it to her.

  Stale beer, Doritos-filled vomit, and a nasty mixture of perfume and extreme body odor made for a seriously repelling combination. Okay, it was time for me to leave—past time to leave. City curfew had been in force for hours, and, with a long history of deaths recorded on the dangerous, windy roads, the Rancho Santa Fe cops would be trolling for inebriated teens.

  Despite my determination to exit, I couldn’t find Tristan, Bri, or Lucas. Our limo had left an hour prior, our reserved time depleted. In my search for my friends, I avoided the upstairs and the soft porn displays I would find there. Drunken girls filled the kitchen, forcing food down in a feeble effort to sober up before they got in their cars. Hookups abounded in the pool house and, similarly, the family room, rec room, dining room, office, library, craft room, and media room had couples paired in every dark nook and cranny.

  I started asking everyone I encountered. “Have you seen Tristan or Briella?” I got dozens of shrugs and negative responses from people who likely didn’t remember their own names, so I gave up and sat down on the plush hall carpet. Perhaps if I stayed put, they’d find me. I admired the impressionist artwork on the brown faux-painted walls for a while. That got old, and I buried my head in my knees. Couldn’t someone, anyone, help me?

  When I finally looked up, I saw a startlingly striking face across from me with dark hair, blue eyes, and a five o’clock shadow. He wore a black suit, white on white pinstriped shirt, and a yellow power tie. Man he was drop-dead gorgeous. Why hadn’t someone lured him into a dark corner?

  “Hey, I’m Ethan,” he said. “You look kind of bummed. Can I help?” His voice was deep and alluring. I liked him already just for reading my mind and knowing I needed assistance. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. He shifted uncomfortably, as if he wasn’t quite certain he wanted to be there.

  It took me a moment to compose myself, disarmed by his out-of-context presence and stunningly unique and quite beautiful eyes. They were a deep sapphire blue but sparkled with topaz-colored specks and framed by dark, curly lashes. His dark-brown hair was cut above the ear but on the long side, disheveled, and had a slight wave. That combined with the stubble along his perfectly carved jaw line made for sheer perfection.

  “It’s just this entire day. I’m done with it.” I finally composed myself enough to speak.

  “I don’t blame you. It’s pretty late. So why are you still here?”

  “I can’t find my boyfriend, Tristan. Or my best friend, Briella. And everyone’s had so much to drink that I’m not getting a lot of help locating them,” I responded.

  “Your best friend and boyfriend—they ditched you?”

  “Yeah, Bri has been my best friend for ten years. And, Tristan and I have been dating for a year. But, I did something that really upset him today, so he was drunk by the time he picked me up for the dance, and it has gone downhill from there.”

  “Do tell.” His smile spread from the right side of his mouth to the left. “I love a story about a rotten day.”

  “Why’s that?” I returned his smile. “You like to see strange girls miserable?”

  “Hardly. It’s a matter of perspective. If your day sucked enough, it’ll make mine seem tolerable.” He laughed, although his laugh had a nervous twitch to it. Hot guy with a sense of humor and a tinge of shyness—as if he needed more appeal.

  “Why was your day sucky?” I asked.

  “Hmmm. My parents and uncle want to control every aspect of my life, including who I date. I got forced to do a ridiculous job that I didn’t want to do. And then I saw some stuff tonight that I never wanted to see. Your turn.” I wonder what he saw tonight that bugged him? Maybe he toured the upstairs by mistake. Or maybe he got a glimpse of Gina Barton’s whole body being painted on the Oriental carpet.

  I needed to talk things through with someone, so I unloaded about the SCI Test and how terrible I felt for letting down my friends. Given how well he listened and how supportive he was, it was the one time I regretted being tied down to Tristan. But, I would have never acted on it. Despite how much I wanted to. If I had to rate how attractive Ethan was on a scale of one to a hundred, I’d give him a billion. No guy’s ever had such a strong effect on me, and it wasn’t just because of his looks. The only way I could describe it is that he felt right—as if he were the finishing touch I didn’t know was missing on my masterpiece.

  Ethan was sweet, flirty, sober, soft-spoken, shy, kind, smart, and he gave me a serious case of the butterflies. Talking to him was effortless and made me happier than I’d been in months. He asked me about my life and my interests for what seemed like hours, even though the conversation lasted less than forty minutes.

  Mid-way through our discussion he shifted over to sit directly next to me—so close that we rubbed shoulders. “Let me see your hands,” he said. “I’m a bit of an expert on life lines.”

  “Are you? Where do you pick up such a skill? Did they cover that in Bad Pickup Lines 101?” I asked with a chuckle. He took my hands in his and ran his fingers along my palms which sent shock waves through my body and made my heart race. His fingers were long and soft—silky, almost.

  “I must have missed that class. To be honest, I’ve never had occasion to, uh, use a pickup line.” He looked embarrassed. “I learned palm reading from my mom. She’s a little quirky. I don’t believe in any of this life line stuff, of course. If I did, this would show that you’ll have a long and happy life full of passion with the man of your dreams and that you’ll have a whole host of children.” He pointed out the various lines that were supposed to validate his theory. So, if I considered Ethan to be dreamy, did that mean I got to have his host of children?

  “You’ve never used a pickup line?” He gave me a puzzled look. I giggled. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? You probably have to fight girls off with a stick.” I cringed and then blushed not having meant to say that last bit aloud.

  “Something like that.” He chuckled.

  In an effort to change the subject, I grabbed his hand and turned it over. “And what do your lines say?”

  “That my mom taught me how to get a pretty girl to hold my hand?” he joked, the nervous twitch in his laugh appearing again. I bit my lip as he looked up at me through his impossibly long lashes. Why couldn’t I have met this guy a year ago? Of course, Tristan had been sweet and kind at first, too.

  “I thought you were beating girls off with a stick, not having to get pointers from your mom.” I gave him a flirty smirk. He grinned from the right side of his mouth again. Wow. Sexy.

  He took a deep breath before saying, “Sorry, I hope I didn’t offend you in my lame effort to continue to make conversation.” He paused a long moment. I watched as he rubbed his fingers along his thumb in a fidgety manner and then said, “So, is it a forever kind of thing with your boyfriend?”

  “Uh, well, I mean, I don’t know,” I replied, tripping over my words. “I’m seventeen. I’m not thinking about forever quite yet.”

  “Really? I’m surprised. I guess that I think you just know if you’re meant to be with someone. Or that a person should know after a year,” he said, a sober look on his face as he did the whole hand fidgeting thing again. He was right and I knew the answer but didn’t feel comfortable dissing Tristan in front of a guy I was so attracted to.

  “So you’re telling me that you can tell off the bat if a girl you meet is perfect enough to spend a lifetime with? You believe in the whole love at first sight thing?” I asked, turning his question back at him. I was a little curious if he had a “forever someone” since I was starting to think there was something to the whole love at first meet thing myself.

  “Definitely. I mean, I’m pretty sure I’ve found my better half.” He looked up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure I’ll ever recover after meeting her. Over the course of our very first conversation, I went from being an avowed bachelor to wanting marriage, kids, growing old togethe
r…the works…” Not fair. Of course. The good ones are always taken.

  “So, are you going to marry her? Did she feel the same way when she met you? The whole thing’s so romantic.” And so unfair. Because over the course of my conversation with Ethan, I went from being Tristan’s girlfriend and not thinking about forever to imagining marrying Ethan, having his kids, and growing old together. But, Ethan was already planning that life with someone else.

  “Hmmm…” He stared into my eyes in such close proximity that I could smell the hint of cinnamon on his breath. “I surely hope so on both fronts, but I guess I’ll have to wait and find out.”

  “Lucky girl.” I meant to say it under my breath, but he obviously heard it, and I turned crimson.

  “On the contrary, I’d be the lucky one.” He took another deep breath. I watched as his eyelashes fluttered as he thought about the girl. Then he checked his watch, the moment having turned quite awkward. “Perhaps I better help you find your friends. What do they look like?” To be honest, I forgot that I was at a party, had come with my boyfriend, and had been searching for him. I flushed an embarrassed red and then gave him detailed descriptions of Bri and Tristan. His face went dark as I finished.

  “Maybe it’d be better if I gave you a ride home. I think I saw them, and they were in pretty bad shape. You might want to let them sleep it off and talk to them tomorrow.” I paused because I was tempted to accept the ride and avoid dealing with my drunken friends. Plus, I wanted to spend more time with Ethan.