by Nan Lowe
I practically ran down the steps after Troya, desperate to get away before my grandmother changed her mind.
“What was that about?” Troya asked.
“Who knows?”
St. Charles was more crowded than it had been since the summer months, but it wasn’t as bad as I knew it would be later in the day. We walked to Penn’s to meet up with Sonny and Celeste. I tried calling Van along the way, but he didn’t answer.
Penn’s driveway was predictably full, but his house wasn’t. The crowd was out back, drinking beer and knocking back yellow, purple, and green Mardi Gras-themed JELL-O shots. Troya found Sonny sitting by the pool with his jeans rolled up and his feet in the water. His eyes were bloodshot, and a lazy, stoned grin was his greeting. Before I could sit, someone dropped several strands of beads over my head. When I turned, Penn was smiling.
“Hey,” he said. “Ready to party?”
“Sure.” I followed him inside, up the stairs, and down the hall to his room. “Is Oliver coming?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not really sure. I told him to meet us here, but you know how he is. Something always comes up on the weekends…” He opened his bathroom door and flipped on the fan before he lit a rounded joint.
We smoked half the blunt, and then he hid the rest in a metal BAND-AID tin. Scented candles were already lit, camouflaging the skunk with a light sandalwood aroma. The sun was sinking, and orange firelight flittered behind the shades. When he dropped the container into the top drawer of his nightstand, it landed next to an unopened box of condoms.
I tried to think of a time I’d seen Penn get close to a girl. Next, I tried to think of any guys he’d seemed interested in. Penn liked to party and laugh. Maybe sex wasn’t his thing.
He shoved the drawer shut with his knee and coughed a fake laugh. His embarrassment was confusing… until his eyes focused on my lips and he leaned closer. My heart stopped beating for a second, and when it restarted, it was pounding away at double-time.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
I swallowed and tensed, looked down, and took a deep breath. Penn took a step back and moved toward the door. “You should try the lemon shots,” he said. “You’ll like them.” Once we rejoined the others in the yard, he stayed as far away from me as possible and didn’t even glance at me again.
With his hands buried in his pockets and a lit Marlboro between his lips, Oliver wandered up the driveway an hour later. He looked around, caught sight of me, and walked over. “Hey.”
I reached for a plastic cup to follow Penn’s advice. The yellow shot slid down my throat, and I pretended not to care that Oliver hadn’t told me he was going to the party or asked me to go with him.
“Hey,” I answered.
“I’ve got some good shit,” he said, freeing a hand to rest it on my ass.
“I smoked with Penn a little while ago. I’m good.”
His fingers curled, squeezing flesh through denim. With his other hand, he put out his cigarette. “Better than weed.”
I let him lead me inside, expecting him to take me to Penn’s room to bump, but we ended up in the kitchen instead. He took two cans of Coke from the fridge and handed me a little blue pill with a butterfly carved into it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“X.”
I should’ve told him to fuck off. I wanted to. He would’ve walked out of that kitchen, strolled through the yard, and given it to Celeste. Or he could’ve kept it and taken it with him to Chloe or Britney’s house the next day.
I washed it down with soda and tried not to panic.
Oliver smiled and swallowed his before shoving his tongue into my mouth. I kissed him back and let him pin me against the cool, stainless steel refrigerator.
“Fuck, Oliver.” The back door slammed shut behind Penn as he walked into the kitchen. “I told you to knock that shit off in my house.”
“We’ll go,” Oliver said to me. His hand closed over mine, and I followed him, mouthing a “sorry” to Penn.
The streets were lined with parked cars on both sides. When we reached St. Charles, Oliver made a left and kept going. The crowd was so thick that we locked hands and lifted them above us in the air to avoid being separated. He stopped on the corner of Washington.
Without the distraction of being dragged by a determined Oliver, stillness brought a warmth to my knees. Anger and frustration melted away as happiness settled in their place. The minutes passed, and the high slipped in, quietly offering a contentment I’d never known.
Marching bands, dance squads, flying beads…
Oliver’s hands on my waist, his breath in my ear, his lips against my neck…
He wanted me. I could feel it every time his dick rubbed against my jean-covered ass. Somewhere in the very smallest corner of my mind, I knew I shouldn’t want him. I did, though.
I let his fingers drift up and under my shirt. There were people everywhere, closing in on us from every direction, but none of them mattered. He pulled a flask from his pocket and held it out to me. Whiskey soothed the dry mouth, but it burned all the way down.
Oliver kept one hand on the skin below my navel and the other in the air. Each time he caught a strand of beads, he would lower them over my head. For hours, he teased me, grinding his dick against my ass while he touched, rubbed, and flicked various parts of my body. When the parade ended, I let him steer me down Washington. We passed the main gate of Lafayette Cemetery and then made a sharp right. The concrete was broken and crumbling at the hinge of one of the side gates. Oliver put a foot on the fence and hefted himself over the wrought iron. With a small grunt, he landed on his feet on the other side.
There were voices coming from both directions, and I knew the streets would be packed with people looking for their cars. Still, I followed him over the cold metal and let him steady me after my drop to the ground.
The cemetery had been closed for hours, and the only light coming in was from streetlamps. Oliver was smart to keep his hands on me as we walked to our corner. There was no one around, no need to hide.
I wasn’t sure if it was the place, the timing, or the ecstasy that heightened every feeling and every touch. Maybe it was the combination. It took longer—definitely the ecstasy—and my favorite jeans were ripped in the process, but he made up for the last time he’d left me wanting.
We waited to leave until the crowd had died down and headlights had stopped flooding the gates every few seconds. Prytania Street was dark, and I didn’t see the cop on the corner until it was too late and we were back on the legal side of the fence. He barely seemed interested in us at first glance, but something caused him to do a double take and raise his hand to point.
“Don’t move,” he said.
Another cop, taller and scarier than the first, turned the corner to join him. “Have you been drinking tonight?” he asked.
Underage drinking was the most minor of our infractions. For some reason, I thought honesty was the best option.
“Yes,” I said. “We were at the parade.”
“Is that where you ripped your jacket and got all those leaves in your hair?” the other cop asked.
“Fuck you,” Oliver said. He reached for my hand and tried to walk away.
“Stop right there.”
I wasn’t sure which of them had spoken, but there was no arguing with the tone. My feet stopped moving, and my tongue felt two sizes too big. Oliver rolled his eyes.
“Do you have any weapons?” The tall one stepped forward with one hand on the cuffs at his waist.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Any drugs?”
I shook my head again, hoping like hell Oliver could say the same.
“No,” he said from behind me.
Being frisked was humiliating. There was no doubt in my mind that both of those officers knew what we’d been doing. I was foolish enough to think, just for a moment, we might get off with some kind of warning. It was Mard
i Gras. There had to be bigger fish to fry.
My hopes were dashed when one of them pulled Oliver’s pack of Marlboros from my jacket pocket. As altered as I was, I could still smell the weed the moment he flipped open the pack.
“Well, looky here,” he said. “What else do you have?”
A coin purse stuffed with cash, lipstick, my driver’s license, and Felicia McGee’s license was next.
“That’s not mine,” I said.
“Obviously,” the older one replied. “Please put your hands behind your back.”
“Oh, God.” I somehow managed to not throw up. Cold steel locked my hands in place, and a police car showed up out of nowhere with its blue lights spinning. It hit me then that I was going to jail instead of going to college. “Oliver,” I said. “Tell them.”
“Those aren’t her cigarettes. She doesn’t even smoke.”
The tall officer took a step closer to where Oliver was standing. “Are they yours?”
There was a moment’s hesitation before Oliver answered. “No. Someone must’ve dropped them in her pocket during the parade.”
“Yeah. People give their weed away all the time,” the driver of the newly arrived car said.
The other officers laughed, but all I could do was stare at Oliver. He was busy looking at his feet… the sidewalk… his knuckles… and keeping his mouth shut.
“Their licenses, too,” the older guy said.
The tall one shoved me into the back of the squad car and slammed the door shut. My arms ached from being cuffed. Oliver had to take a breathalyzer, but he still wasn’t in handcuffs by the time the car pulled away to take me downtown.
I was too petrified to ask if they were taking me to juvy or real jail. Both scared the shit out of me, but juvy was definitely the lesser of two evils.
Instead of walking through my front door at curfew, I was photographed and fingerprinted at juvenile court. I was then given the chance to make a phone call to piss off my dad in the middle of the night. The holding cell was small. One girl was asleep on a bench, and another was sitting in the corner, nodding and shaking her leg uncontrollably. I stayed near the door, still high and nauseated and wishing I was at home in bed or anywhere else in the world besides kiddie jail.
Fucking Oliver.
That was when the tears started. They were followed by weeping. On top of that, the paranoia kicked in.
What if they make me take a drug test?
Can they do that?
Fucking Oliver.
Anger was the icing on the cake. As I sat in that cell, I cursed him to Hell and back in my mind. He’d proven his point.
There was no such thing as love, not when he was involved.
I dozed off with my head against the wall and woke up with cold drool on my chin when a guard unlocked the cell door and called my name.
She didn’t cuff me, so I took that as a good sign I was going home. Dad was waiting for me, holding a clear plastic bag with my cell phone, coin purse, and dozens of Mardi Gras necklaces in it. The Marlboro box was missing.
He didn’t say a word to me until we were in the front seat of his car with the doors shut.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Violet?” he asked. “Trespassing… a fake ID… drugs…”
I didn’t know how to answer, so I stayed quiet.
My silence did little to stop him. “Are you trying to throw away your future?” he continued. “You have to be in court Thursday morning.”
“Oh, God.”
“It’s a little late for that.” He stopped suddenly as a traffic light switched to yellow. “You’re grounded. Don’t ask for how long, because I don’t know, yet. You’ll come directly home after school every day. No phone. No internet. And you’re not going to see Oliver anymore. That’s done. Do you understand me?”
“We go to school together, remember? How exactly is that going to work?”
“It’ll be much easier than you think.”
“Why are you taking this out on Oliver?” My voice was hoarse, and I could feel tears threatening again.
“Was that your marijuana?” he asked.
Without pause, I answered. “Yes.”
If he knew it was Oliver’s, he might’ve followed through with the threats he was making. So, for the second time that night, I took the blame for Oliver. Doing it by choice didn’t make it hurt any less.
My father’s indifference was easier to bear than his disappointment.
“You’re going to rehab,” he said.
“You’re such a fucking hypocrite!”
“Watch your mouth, young lady.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve seen the pictures of the day Ronnie was born. You were high as a fucking kite, but you want to send me to rehab?”
“I was in graduate school when Ronnie was born. You’re in high school!”
“So weed deserves rehab in your mind? Who are you?”
“You were arrested with drugs. I guarantee the judge is going to demand rehab.”
Spit pooled under my tongue, and I had to count backward from fifty to keep from vomiting. I didn’t want to give my father the satisfaction. The heat was on full blast, but I shivered the entire drive home. Dad waited until we were home and he was unlocking the back door to drive the knife in.
“I expected better from you,” he said.
Miss Verity was waiting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee cradled between her hands. She stood after my father passed her. “It’s been a long day,” she said. “We should all turn in.” Too ashamed to look her in the eye, I nodded and walked around her to get to the stairs. My parents’ bedroom door slammed down the hall. “It’s not the end of the world, Violet. It might feel like it right now, but it’s not.”
I left her at the foot of the steps and climbed them alone, debating whether or not she was right and whether or not I still cared.
Chapter Seventeen
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of a gas station. I’ve splashed water on my face and washed out my mouth. The butterflies in my stomach start to settle around the same time my hands stop shaking.
My Pavlovian response to police is fear mingled with shame. I’ve kept my nose clean for more than eight years now, and luckily, I’ve never been arrested as an adult. I’ve never forgotten the feel of those cuffs on my wrists or how scared I was in that holding room, though.
Wade’s leaning against the wall facing the bathroom. He gives me a small smile when I open the door and catch sight of him. “I was starting to worry.”
“I’m okay,” I say, and for the most part, I am. Cool air hits us when we step through the automated door out to the parking lot. I bypass the car to walk to the side of the building, and a few deep, cleansing breaths help clear my head. “Thank you for stopping.”
“We’re not in a hurry. Take all the time you need.”
“I can’t imagine what you must think of me right now.” I turn away to face the trees in the distance.
“Truth?” he says from behind me. “I’m intrigued by the thought of you in handcuffs.” I laugh and almost cry before I turn to face him and rest my head against his chest. “Too soon?” His hands rest on my hips, matching the gentle tease in his voice.
“Maybe a little.”
“My best friends in high school were arrested for egging during our senior year. The only reason I wasn’t with them that night was because my grandfather had had a heart attack. Kids do stupid shit. I’m glad Miss Verity was there. Your dad—”
“Don’t do that,” I say. He’s always had a good relationship with my father, and I don’t want that to change, especially since Wade’s going to be my husband—my family—someday. “I was wrong. I did things I regret.”
“I get that, but I thought he was cool, a mellow old hippie with too much money. Turns out he’s an asshole.”
“Things are better with my parents now.”
“Is that why you didn’t answer your phone for days?” he asks with a patience I don’t
understand. “Because things are so much better?”
“I didn’t answer my phone because I didn’t want to go to New Orleans.”
“And now you do?”
I think of Miss Verity, of how long it’s been, and nod. “I do.” It’s been a year since I’ve seen Ronnie, Van, and my parents. I take his hand and walk toward his car. “I’m excited. In a couple of days, I’ll be hugging Van and eating in Miss Verity’s kitchen.”
Once we’re settled and on the road again, he turns the radio down and asks, “You okay?”
“Better,” I say. “Much better.”
“I was worried back there. You were so pale…”
“I haven’t talked about this stuff since I told Wren during our third year at Auburn. She’d never been to Mardi Gras and decided we would go. I tried to play it cool, but I ended up in tears on the floor of our dorm room, telling her all the reasons I couldn’t go.”
“You did, though,” he says. “I’ve heard the stories.”
“She called Van and asked if he would meet us down there. Troya arranged to come for the weekend, too. We all stuck together, and I was okay. I had more fun than I thought I would.”
“No Oliver?” he asks.
“Wren and I saw him that weekend, but we were on a trolley and he was walking down St. Charles. He didn’t see us. Whatever pain I’d expected didn’t happen. The world kept turning, and I was still breathing.”
And nothing hurt.
“We hit Bourbon for hurricanes, found spots on Canal, and partied until the last strand of beads flew through the air,” I continued. “Wren doesn’t remember most of it, but it was a good trip.”
“Maybe we should go to Mardi Gras.”
“They might come to New Orleans for New Year’s Eve. Wren and Nick, I mean. We talked about it earlier. She’s supposed to ask him.”
“Check my phone,” he says.
I reach for it and type in his passcode. When the screen unlocks, I tap to reveal the three waiting text messages.
The first is from his co-worker, Darenda.
I’ll be in Kentucky on Christmas Eve. Sorry. Can’t help this time. :(
He nods after I read it aloud. “Still no luck,” he says.
