The One Thing

by Marci Lyn Curtis

  David leaned into my ear and yelled, “I’M SWEATIN’ BALLS”—which, incidentally, was not something I wanted to hear loudly—“GOING TO GET SOMETHING TO DRINK—WANT SOMETHING?” and I screamed, “YES, WATER, PLEASE,” and he screamed something else, and I said, “WHAT?!” and he screamed it again, but I still didn’t hear him, so I just nodded because it wasn’t worth the hassle. Minutes later, David came back and shoved an overly sweet, overly aftertasty lemonade in my hand, which I chugged. I’d have preferred water, really, but I was hot and thirsty and frankly relieved to be drinking anything at all.

  By the time the Dead Eddies wrapped up, I’d sort-of-danced with Mason for an hour and a half straight. Also, I’d downed several more lemonades, all of which had gotten surprisingly better as the night wore on, and all of which seemed to have descended to my bladder at exactly the same moment. “I have to pee,” I announced grandly. “Which is a problem.”

  Man, I felt strange. Loose-jointed.

  “Why is it a problem, Maggie?” Mason asked in an amused tone, as though he were talking to a child or a revered pet.

  Which unglued me instantly.

  After I recovered my voice, I said, “Because someone abducted me from the Milton estate without as much as a cane. So now I have to navigate inside the restroom sans cane, which is nearly impossible because I suck at navigation in general.”

  “Particularly when you’re drunk,” David added.

  “I’m not drunk,” I said indignantly. “I do not drink.” Which was true on multiple levels. Even when I’d still had friends and gone to parties, I hadn’t been a drinker. Seemed like I’d always had a big game or a big tryout or a big practice the next day. Besides that, the almighty keg always powered high school parties, and I was generally not fond of beer due to the fact that it tasted like an aluminum pole.

  “Well.” David sounded uncomfortable. “You drank tonight. I thought you said you were cool with hard lemonade?”

  “I didn’t actually hear that question.” I’d meant to say this quite seriously, but the last part came out in a laugh. And when I tried to say something else, it also came out in a laugh, which then caused me to laugh harder and lose my balance, whacking into a wall.

  Actually, not a wall: a rather large person who smelled strongly of spearmint gum and annoyance. “Paulie!” I said congenially, as though we’d served in Vietnam together or something. “You should try the lemonade—it’ll change your life!”

  Paulie steadied me and spoke over my head to David, “How many drinks did she have?”

  “Like, four.” After a long pause, David added, “Ish.”

  “Ish?”

  “Okay, so possibly five.”

  I turned in Paulie’s general direction and said, “By great error, I have had too much to drink and now I have to pee. Badly.”

  “Yes. That’s generally how the plumbing works,” Paulie said. “But I think you should take your pee elsewhere.”

  Probably the correct response to Paulie’s request would have been “Yes, sir” with no sarcasm. The wrong response, evidently, was “Yes, sir” with sarcasm. And a salute.

  “I have to pee.”

  “Right,” Mason said. “You might’ve mentioned that already.”

  We were walking across a blessedly quiet parking lot to Mason’s car. By walking, I mean that David had my legs and Mason had my arms. So technically, I was lying down and they were fulfilling all the walking obligations.

  “When is your curfew, Maggie?” David asked.

  “Don’t have one tonight,” I said loudly. “Parents are on an overnighter in the city.”

  They hoisted me into the backseat of Mason’s car, where I curled up against the cool vinyl, suddenly exhausted. I shut my eyes and rolled over, forehead against the seat, not quite asleep, but not quite awake, either. I was straddling the obscure gray passageway that ran between the two.

  After a couple minutes, I heard Mason mutter, “She passed out?”

  “Yeah,” David whispered back. For a moment there was just the steady hum of Mason’s car. And then David’s voice again: “You can thank me now.”

  The blinker clacked a couple times, and the car veered left. “For what?” Mason said.

  “I’m not blind,” David said lightly, a smile in his voice. “I saw you two dancing.” He paused for a tick, probably waiting for Mason to respond. But he didn’t. “Just wondering why it took the Dead Eddies to pull your heads out of your asses,” David said.

  Mason sighed. “It’s a long story.”

  “It’s a long drive.”

  Mason was quiet for several moments, and then, sounding slightly embarrassed, he said, “I thought she was a fan—that she faked her blindness so Ben would feel sorry for her. I thought she was stalking me, trying to find information about our concerts.”

  David whistled, long and low. “Damn,” he said, “that’s some bigheaded shit right there.” When Mason didn’t reply, David went on. “Is it that much of a stretch to see that Ben and Maggie might have something in common? I mean, life has basically handed them their asses. Maybe Maggie just needs a friend? Maybe she’s going through a rough time?”

  Big sigh from Mason’s side of the car. “I know, I know,” Mason said. “Mostly, I was worried about Ben—he’s too trusting, and I didn’t want him getting hurt. He really likes Maggie, you know?” He was silent for some time, and when he finally spoke, he seemed to be grasping for the right words. “And sometimes...sometimes I’d swear she can see. Sometimes it’s like she’s looking right at me.”

  “Yeah, jackass, it’s called adapting to your circumstances. You should try it sometime.”

  “I have to pee” was the first thing I said to Ben. And then I cracked up.

  Ben puffed out his cheeks and shot Mason the dirty eyeball. He gestured to the Miltons’ living room, where we were currently standing—leaning, actually, in my case. To Mason, he said, “You stole her from here and got her drunk? I’ve been worried about her, you know. I mean, all you had to do was call and let me know she was all right.”

  Ben sounded so adorably old for his body that I started laughing again. “Aw. Ben? Ben. It was a spurred-moment thing.” I shook my head. “A spur-moment.” I sighed, let my head fall back, and shut my eyes. “A—spur—of—the—moment—thing, and I did not know I was drinking alcoholic beverages until they were all in my bladder. Can I go pee? I’m going pee.” I stepped grandly into the tiny powder room to my immediate right, from where I could hear Ben and Mason arguing. It was about either what to do with me or what not to do with me. Definitely one of those. But when I made my way back into the living room, Ben was the only one standing there, still looking charmingly parental. “Where’s Mason?” I asked.

  “Went to find you some aspirin. Says you’re gonna need it.”

  “Ah,” I said, and I wove my way across the room, slamming into the piano and knocking a half-dozen or so pictures off the lid.

  “Don’t. wake. up. my. mother,” Ben hissed. Ben had never been angry with me before, and I found it sort of endearing. I reached out and pinched his cheek between my thumb and index finger. He mashed his lips together and said, “My uncle would freak if he knew you’ve been drinking.”

  “Which is why you won’t tell him. My probation officer would not understand what went down tonight.”

  “Yeah? Well, neither do I. What gives? You leave with my brother without even telling me?”

  I collapsed on the couch, all sighs. “Ben. Ben, darling. You’re only ten and I’m about to be a senior in high school and sometimes I need to hang out with people from my age group.”

  A small frown appeared between his brows. “I didn’t know my age bothered you so much,” he said quietly.

  “Aw, c’mon, Ben. Your age doesn’t matter to me. You know that. It’s just, your brother is...” I heard a sigh escape my lips. I didn’t know how it got there. My lips seemed to be sighing on their own. “Mason Milton.”

  Realization slid over Ben’s
features, and then he took a step backward. He looked as though he’d been slapped. “So Mason was right. You’ve been using me to get near him.”

  “Ack. That’s not what I meant,” I said, but Ben just shook his head—his eyes the deepest, darkest oceans of hurt and sadness—and spun around on his crutches and left.

  Goddamn it. I tried to go after him, but the room was spinning, which was not something I thought actually happened in real life. Anchoring one foot on the floor, I shut my eyes. No dice. Still spinning. Next thing I knew, Mason was hovering over me—looking concerned and gorgeous and late-night tousled—tucking a stray curl behind my ear and letting his hand linger on my cheek, like it was fragile, like it was beautiful, the intensity of his eyes making my heart lurch. “Brought you some aspirin,” he murmured.

  The air between us was electric, the ions vibrating, unbalanced. I blinked up at him, achingly aware that his lips were only a few breaths from mine, and if I weren’t so dizzy, so groggy, I’d close that distance and kiss him. Instead I reached up with my hand, found his mouth, and ran a clumsy index finger along his bottom lip. Suddenly—idiotically—I said, “Your lips feel a lot softer than they look.”

  The last thing I saw before I passed out was the stiff set of Mason’s shoulders as he strode away.

  “Cripes, Maggie. You’re a late sleeper.”

  I winced and pulled the covers over my head. Clarissa was on the phone, shouting words into my skull.

  “How come you’re still in bed at one in the afternoon? Are you okay?” she asked.

  Good question. I remembered going to Ben’s last night. I remembered David asking me to tag along to the concert. I remembered the music, the dancing with Mason. The lemonade. Getting kicked out of the club. Arriving at the Miltons’ and talking to Ben and Mason—

  Oh shit.

  Ben.

  Mason.

  I jerked upright. Clearly the wrong move, because—holy crap—my head was absolutely screaming at me. I lowered back down an inch at a time, holding it like any sudden movement might cause it to detonate right off my neck. Slowly letting go, I ran one trembling hand to the side.

  My nightstand. My room. Had Mason brought me home last night? Yes. He must have, yes. I didn’t actually remember it, but I could feel that it was true.

  I was queasy and sweaty and smothered in blankets, and if I didn’t stop thinking about my stupidity last night, I might throw up or explode or otherwise blink away from existence. What have you done? a voice whispered from some dark, regretful place in my chest.

  I groaned quietly, a sound that banged agonizingly against my cranium.

  “Anyway,” Clarissa chirped, “Girl Scouts was canceled today, and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to work on our paper? Or else obsess and brainstorm on the Big Secret? Did you see the new comment on the last concert video? There’s some guy called Cannon Dude who says that ‘the secret lies with the singer’ and that anyone who hasn’t figured out the Big Secret by now doesn’t deserve to listen to the Loose Cannons, let alone attend a concert. I know, right? Totally ridiculous. It cannot be that easy. It cannot. I may not be brilliant, but I am a huge fan and I know every. stinking. thing about the band. And I have spent hours investigating them, Maggie. Hours searching that website. Wouldn’t I have figured it out by now? Yes. Of course I would, yes.” She sighed loudly in my ear. “So. What do you say? Want to hang out today?”

  I rolled onto my side and regretted it immediately. Something that smelled suspiciously like puke was crusted against my pillowcase. I swallowed and slid backward. “Actually, I think I have the flu or something.”

  “Want me to bring you some soup?”

  My hand flew to my mouth. “No, thanks,” I choked.

  “Won’t take no for an answer,” she said lightly. “Fenstermacher soup is famous for its healing powers.” And then she threw a bunch of words directly at my headache, telling me about all the things Fenstermacher soup had done for her—how last year, when she’d failed a math exam, she’d eaten it nonstop, and how it had helped soothe her after her dog had died, and so on and so forth.

  In the end, I agreed to the soup, though I had no idea why. And when I stood up and staggered into the bathroom, the very thought of soup had me running to the toilet to dry heave. I stayed there for a moment, forehead resting on the cool toilet seat, before I crawled into the shower. Slumped under the faucet, I let the water massage my neck and tried to work out how to apologize to Ben, tried to decide what to say to Mason, tried to figure out how to clean up the gigantic mess I’d created.

  I was still wrapped in a towel when I dialed the Miltons’ number. It rang five times before someone picked up, and even then they didn’t speak. I felt a cold trickle of water drip off my hair and slide down between my shoulder blades. “Hello? Ben?” I said after a few heartbeats. “Mason?”

  Dial tone.

  Something huge and sticky wedged itself into my throat.

  Shortly after I got dressed, Clarissa appeared at my front door like an overly caffeinated jack-in-the-box. She passed me a Tupperware container of soup and some rather chirpy encouragement: “Eat this immediately” and “Call me tomorrow if you need more” and “I’m sorry you feel lousy.” I nodded and um-hummed and thank-youed and said good-bye. And as I put the container in the fridge, I tried not to think about how Clarissa was acting like a real friend, even though I’d hardly said boo to her. I tried not to think about how she’d probably sooner shoot herself in the foot than hurt somebody’s feelings. I tried not to think about how she’d basically dropped everything to come by and help me—something I hadn’t done for a friend, not once in my life.

  When I was twelve or thirteen—or however old you are when you’re in the seventh grade—I decided quite suddenly and without sufficient thought that I should become a beekeeper. Back then I was terrified of bees. I found their little buzzing sounds and their little pointy stingers and their little fluttering wings absolutely frightening. Which was exactly why I found it necessary to conquer them.

  Conquer them, conquer my fears.

  Maggie Sanders: bee wrangler.

  Looking for clear-cut beekeeping instructions, I went to the bookstore, where a bespectacled woman with pursed lips and a posture more erect than necessary led me to the Idiots and Dummies section of the store. She then spun around on one heel and stalked off, leaving me alone to decide which book to purchase. After some thought, I bought The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Beekeeping, because if I had to classify myself, I’d be more of an idiot (somewhat ignorant) than a dummy (just plain stupid).

  Anyhow, I learned that there were a couple of ways to start a bee colony. Either I had to invest a significant amount of money in buying a colony of starter bees, or I needed to find a hive and collect the starter bees myself. My being an idiot and all, I decided to go with the cheaper route: scale the oak in my backyard and bag the grapefruit-size hive that dangled from a thick, gnarled-up branch about halfway up the tree.

  So I was up in the tree—teetering on a fat branch with an extra-large trash bag in one hand and a broom in the other—when I remembered why I’d always sucked at softball. I had hideous aim with a bat. I swiped at the hive with the business end of the broom, trying to knock it into the bag. But I missed and nicked the thing mid-hive, breaking off a large bee-filled chunk of honeycomb, which flew straight up in the air, directly over my head, and then straight back down into the floppy gap in the back waistband of my shorts. Yes, I was stung about thirty times. And yes, on my ass.

  On the positive side of things, I was no longer afraid of bees. I’d seen the dark side of fear and, except for my backside, I’d made it out unscathed. So I’d accomplished my goal. Sort of. But my real takeaway that day had been this: the best way to tackle the things that terrify you is to not overthink them—to just do them quickly. So late that afternoon, I asked Gramps to drop me off at the Miltons’.

  Even from the porch, the place seemed excruciatingly bright. The crystalline radiance
bled out of the house and onto my feet. And I wondered, as I stood there waiting for someone to answer my knock, if Ben was getting even brighter or if my hangover had made my eyes more sensitive to light. Whatever the reason, the place seemed too vibrant, too intrusive, and it picked at the back of my brain for some reason.

  When nobody answered, I headed around to the back door, where I could hear Ben through an open bathroom window. He was giving Wally a bath, carrying on a conversation with him as though he were a person: “So next week, we’ll go to the old-folks’ home. The one across town? The Meadows? Granny has a roommate there who’s been down in the dumps. I think we can cheer her up. I’ll make armpit farts while you do that thing where you cock your head to the side. Everyone thinks that’s hilarious.” I probably shouldn’t be so proud of someone whom I hadn’t helped shape into a kind, decent human being, but I couldn’t help myself.

  How could I have ever hurt this kid’s feelings? What sort of asshole does something like that?

  The back door was unlocked. I swept inside, taking quick, purposeful steps to the bathroom, where I rapped on the door. “Ben. Open up.”

  For a moment, there was nothing but silence. I could feel him thinking of what to say, and as he did so, I sensed him pulling away from me, the space between us expanding and stretching from a few feet into several miles. When he did speak it was almost a whisper: “Go away, Maggie.”

  Maggie.

  He’d called me Maggie. Not Thera.

  My heart twisted. I hated the idea of fighting with Ben, of having caused him heartache, of screwing up our friendship. Not just because he’d gifted me with a portion of my eyesight, either. It was more than that. “Ben—”

  “No,” he said, more forcibly this time. “I need you to leave me alone. I’m sad right now, and I’m not going to be un-sad for a long time, and all I want is for you to get out of my house.”

  Guilt corkscrewed around me and twisted into my gut. I leaned against the door, sliding down until my butt hit the floor with an uncomfortable thud. I opened my mouth and then closed it again. I was afraid that if I tried to speak, more stupid would come out. “I’m sorry,” I said finally.