Playing Nice

by Rebekah Crane

  ***

  I go downstairs Christmas morning to find that my parents got me a car. It's a twenty-year-old silver Honda that belonged to an old guy who died at the retirement home. My dad even put a big red bow on the hood, like in those holiday car commercials, except my car has rust around the base and a half-cracked windshield.

  "Sorry, honey, but I couldn't get the entire bumper sticker off," my dad says as we stand in the snow, bulky winter coats thrown over our pajamas. At one point the sticker said over worked and under laid. Now, all that's left is worked and lai.

  "Thanks, Dad. At least you got the d off. Now, I won't be completely mortified at school," I say.

  "We figure you can take it to U of M and come home on the weekends when you're missing us." My mom smiles as she looks at the car, no regard for what I've said, like she didn't even hear me.

  I stare at the car, the interior freshly cleaned and shined with Armor All, and all I can smell is death. I should be happy that I finally have a mode of transportation other than the bus, but it feels wrong to me, like this is another way of manipulating my life. I can already hear my mom telling me that she never wants to see my car parked in front of Lil's house again.

  After all the presents are opened and my mom's neck is properly gleaming with new jewelry, I decide to take my car for a spin. I drive over to Lil's and knock on the trailer door.

  "Pollyanna, what are you doing here? Wait, is that a new car?"

  "Merry Christmas!" I say, and hold out a card. "Yeah, my parents bought it from a dead guy."

  "What the hell kind of bumper sticker is that?"

  "Long story," I say, shaking my head.

  "Solid. Want to see what Maggie got me?"

  I walk into the trailer, an ease coming over my body that's been missing all day, and take off my black pea coat, putting it on the bed. I was so anxious to get out of the house I didn't even change out of my pink fleece pajamas and Uggs. "Where is she?"

  "The store," Lil says as she rummages around in the closet. "We ran out of popcorn. I have a feeling she'll have to drive to Finley to find a place open today, so she might be gone a while. Tah-dah!" Lil emerges in a long black fur coat that goes all the way down to her ankles. She twists her hips. "Maggie found it at a thrift store in Columbus."

  My hand skims over the glossy material. "My parents get me a dead man's car and you get a dead animal's coat. That sounds about right," I say and laugh.

  Lil sits down next to me and smiles. Her face is scrubbed clean, no black makeup around her eyes. The white twinkle lights hanging in the trailer make a halo around her head and I think she might be the prettiest person I've ever seen.

  "Open the card," I nudge her.

  "I thought we agreed not to get each other anything."

  "It's not what you think. Just open it." I smile.

  She pulls out a white piece of paper with red and green writing in perfect calligraphy. An invitation to the Hart's Annual Post-Christmas Day party.

  "A party at your house?" Lil says as she reads the card. "You know I can't come."

  "I know. But I wanted you to know that I think you and Maggie should be there."

  Lil takes the card and tacks it up on their cork board next to Maggie's waitressing schedule and Lil's school picture, in which she refused to take off her red sunglasses. "Thanks."

  "Well, I better go. My mom will send out a search party if I'm not home for dinner."

  I walk out to my car, but Lil stops me before I get in. "I have something for you, too."

  In her palm is the skull ring, silver and glinting off the snow.

  "I can't take your ring."

  She shoves it in my hand. "You already did. Merry Christmas, Pollyanna."

  Lil disappears back into the trailer and I slide the ring on my finger. It fits perfectly.

  ***

  Outfitted in the gold dress my parents gave me for Christmas and Lil's Christmas gift, I stand in the foyer waiting for guests to arrive, twisting the ring around my finger. A stack of red and green house shoes sits next to me. I don't want people scuffing up our bamboo floors, my mom said. It's the same every year and in the past, I've loved it. My mom will flash the new necklace or earrings or ring my dad gave her. My dad will drink gin and tonics and tell bad dentist jokes, like how many dentists does it take to change a light bulb? Three. One to administer the anesthetic, one to extract the light bulb, and one to offer the socket some vile pink mouthwash. And I'll walk around the house passing out refreshments and getting compliments. Marty, don't you look pretty. Marty, isn't that nice of you. Marty, will you marry my son, the one who can't get his life together and is high on pot every day?

  Except this year, I'm different and the thought of seeing Sarah and mean old Mrs. Schneider and my mom all painted and pretty for the show makes me want to scream. As I got ready, I decided the only way I'd survive and not end up running around the house screaming or writing poetry on my mom's perfect walls is if I let my mind think what it wants.

  Mrs. Schneider is the first to arrive at the party every year. She walks in carrying a blue sweater and hands it to my mom.

  "I finished it this morning. I had a bunch of free time since my kids don't visit me anymore and the nursing home won't let me drive outside of Minster," she says. Mrs. Schneider's the kind of mean that only affects old people because they realize they're dying and they want everyone to pay attention before they aren't able to say any more words because they're dead. She likes me, probably because in the past all I've done is nod and smile at her.

  "Thank you!" My mom beams and hands me the sweater. The pokey thick material makes me sweat just from looking at it. "What do you say, Marty?"

  "Thank you." My teeth are clenched so hard I might chip a tooth.

  "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Schneider," my dad yells as he hands her a red pair of slippers.

  "I thought I might freeze to death on the way over. The roads were terrible. What are my taxes paying for, anyway? A bunch of poor people who don't want to work for a living, that's what," Mrs. Schneider says. My dad holds her arm as she wiggles out of her shoes.

  I smile. In my head I'm writing.

  Chanel No. 5 won't cover your smell,

  Or the fact that you're old,

  And mean as hell,

  So enjoy the party,

  And did I mention,

  Your kids really should,

  Have a mothball intervention.

  Ah. It's like a piece of the boulder on my chest has chipped off, and even though I'm locked in my house with a bunch of vapor-filled people, I'm me.

  The next to arrive are the Wackers and all four of their kids. Each one is more obnoxious than the last.

  "So good to see you," my mom says, and holds out her hand to shake.

  The youngest bolts away from the door, leaving a trail of white snow across the floor.

  "Jimmy, get back here!" Mrs. Wacker yells before heading after him in her heels.

  My mom leans into my dad and whispers, "Why must we invite them every year?"

  "They're clients." He smiles and speaks through his teeth. "Big families mean big money."

  My mom turns toward Mr. Wacker, who's holding his other three children by the back of their shirts, a smile as big as the moon returning to her face. "It's always so lovely to see you." She hands him their slippers.

  "She's the one who insisted on four. I would have stopped at one." Mr. Wacker swipes the shoes from my mom and trudges into the living room.

  The oldest is an asshole,

  The next two are just brats,

  The youngest is a whiner,

  And the parents are living doormats.

  Another rock chipped away. Soon everyone starts to file in. My chest is getting lighter and lighter.

  No one's skin is that color,

  When snows on the ground,

  You look like an orange,

  All wrinkled and round.

  Chip.

  You can drive a BMW,

  All
fancy and long,

  But it won't change the fact,

  You have a gumball-sized dong.

  Chip. Chip. Chip.

  I think Lil would like that one. I'm not sure I could say the word dong out loud, but it sounds like something Lil would do. As I walk around, it's like she's here with me and I smile. I'm sure my mom thinks I'm enjoying myself, when really the party is comparable to what I think going to the gynecologist is like. I've never been, but we saw a video in Health class that made Maxwell Smith pass out. That's kind of how I feel right now. Like my legs are stuck in stirrups.

  The doorbell rings, and I answer it. Sarah and her parents stand under the twinkling lights of my front porch.

  A bright halo she's wearing,

  Around her pretty head,

  Like one of the angels,

  Who sang 'round Jesus' bed,

  Best friend or enemy,

  She stomped on my heart,

  With one click of a button,

  Our friendship fell apart.

  CRASH! The boulder is back and heavier than ever.

  "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Wellington," I say flatly.

  "Marty, it's so good to see you." She wraps her boney arms around me and gives me a light hug, the kind when people pat your back but don't fully embrace. "Is your mother in the kitchen?"

  I nod and the Wellingtons make their way into our home like it's their own. All except Sarah, who stays in the foyer, arms crossed, holding a pair of green house slippers.

  "These don't match my outfit," she says, holding up the shoes.

  "You could always leave," I say, so much animosity flowing through me. It's been weeks since the Facebook page and all she's done is hang out with Pippa and Eliza.

  "I can't believe your parents got you a car."

  "I think it smells like death." I stare down at my feet and move my weight from one foot to the other, not wanting to make eye contact. I always knew we'd grow apart at some point, like in college when I got a boyfriend or Sarah joined a different sorority. But everything that's happened has made me wonder if I imagined a bond for years because it was easier than walking different paths. Was it easier to be friends than be nothing at all?

  "So where's Lil?" Sarah says, emphasizing the L with a dash of condescension. Bitchy meets insecure.

  "Why do you care?" I bring my eyes off the floor and stare at her hard, so she can see what her actions have caused. Color rises on Sarah's cheeks. She fidgets with the slippers in her hands, pulling off a piece of lint and dropping it on the ground.

  "I don't. It's just," she pauses and looks at me. "I miss you."

  "You miss me?" I bark a little too loudly. "You liked that page, Sarah! Hell, you could have been the person who started it!"

  "I didn't, I swear!"

  "But you didn't stop it either." I step closer, a fire so low in my belly I might explode.

  "I couldn't believe you were dumping me for her."

  "You don't get it. No one needed to be dumped. You could've just been nice for once. Lil understands me."

  "The daughter of a slutty, baby-killing teen mom turned stripper understands you? A person who wears clothes like she's dying and who would scare the devil himself? How can someone like that understand you?" Sarah points to my perfectly ironed gold dress. "Marty, I'm trying to save you before you fall down a hole you can't get out of."

  My hands shake as I stand in front of my ex-best friend, words rising in my throat. Words I wanted to say the first time we played Barbies and she told me I had to be Ken. Words I should have said long ago, but couldn't formulate.

  "Fuck off." I turn and stomp back to the kitchen, leaving Sarah, jaw slack, holding a pair of green house slippers. My mom's silver punch bowl that I polished for two hours yesterday sits on the corner of the granite island. I dig the ladle in and pour myself a heaping cup of egg nog. And then another. Leaning against the island, I gulp down the drink, trying to clear my head. The lights in my house seem too bright and hurt my eyes. Voices are bouncing around the open space, clogging my ears. At this moment, I hate my house.

  "I told Marty I didn't want her spending any more time with that girl," my mom whispers to Mrs. Wellington as she stands by the sink, rinsing a glass. "You and I both know she's trash."

  My hands clench so hard the nails dig into my skin, leaving little crescent moon imprints.

  "Maggie knows better than to come into town. She's not wanted. And that includes her daughter, Lily." Mrs. Wellington takes the glass from my mom and wipes it with a Santa Claus kitchen towel.

  I swig the rest of my drink and slam the cup down on the counter.

  "Her name is LIL!" I scream. Both women turn around to look at me.

  "Martina Hart, what has gotten into you?" My mom half whispers, half barks.

  "It's not about what's gotten into me, it's about what hasn't gotten into you!"

  "Don't take that tone with me?"

  "Or what?" I cross my arms over my chest.

  My mom stomps over to me, her intense brown eyes becoming darker, and grabs my arm tight. "I will not have my daughter cause a scene at our family's Christmas party. Now, you get yourself together."

  I yank my arm away. "Jingle Bells" plays over the surround sound speakers and pumps through the house.

  "Fine." I grab my keys off the counter. "This party sucks anyway." I slam the door and run to my car. Pressing the gas pedal as far as it will go, I race down the driveway. It's cold and in my rage I forgot my coat, so I turn up the heat to full blast alternating which hand holds the steering wheel and which one sits in front of the vent. At the end of my street I shake my shoulders out and scream a loud, freeing break-from-my-chest scream. When I'm done, I turn toward the only place I can think of to go that my parents won't suspect.

  ***

  Vinyl Tap is the only establishment lit up on Main Street. Everything else is shut down for the week, Merry Christmas signs and Nativity scenes filling the windows. Going to Lil's would be too obvious. Plus, the last thing Maggie and Lil need is my mom banging down the trailer door and making a comment about their messy home.

  I open the door, incense hitting my nose so strongly that I cough. It's warm inside, though. Just walking to the door chilled my legs so much I thought they might break off. I look down at my feet and realize I still have my red house slippers on. Great.

  As I move through the store, I scan row after row of records, not sure what I'm looking for. I pull out the Beatles' Abbey Road. Lil's voice rings in my ears. The Beatles, Pollyanna? Would you like some tampons with that? I giggle to myself and look for a record Lil would approve. My fingers skim the cardboard covers. I can almost feel the lyrics radiating up my arm and into my heart.

  Picking through a stack of bands that all begin with the letter N, I find one. The cover shows a baby underwater, swimming toward a dollar bill. It's clearly a boy. Nirvana. Lil would like this. I flip the record over to read the songs on the back.

  That's when I hear it. Smooth, sexy guitar music. My heart jumps into my throat and I look in the direction of the noise. A door is propped open with an empty crate. Putting the record back in its proper alphabetical place, I follow the sound through the door and into the back storage room of Vinyl Tap.

  The space has been converted into a music studio. Boxes with records and posters are piled in the corners to make room for chairs and instruments. A few people stand around. Some I recognize from school. Seniors, to be exact. A guy and a girl are whispering against the wall, him with his arm around her too-skinny shoulder. Stacked on top of his watch are brightly-colored string bracelets, the kind you make at camp when you're bored. Arm accessories.

  Now, I know where I've seen them. They're friends with Matt. I think his name is Cash or Elvis or Kurt Cobain. He kisses the blonde girl's cheek and then turns his attention to the center of the room. My eyes follow his.

  Matt Three-Last-Names looks casual and unaffected, as he sits in a chair playing. His body curves around the guitar like it's an appendage.
The sleeves on his black button down are rolled up, arm accessories in their proper places; tight dark jeans cover his legs. My knees get weak just looking at him.

  As Matt strums chords on his guitar, I melt against the wall. He closes his eyes and taps his foot, a visible energy rolling through him, like each note surges with an emotion that he can't control. His hips move with the beat and I wonder what he imagines when he plays. Does he see the notes in his head or does a scene of something wonderful accompany the music? Or maybe he's imagining sex, because the way he moves his pelvis looks like humping. He's air humping music and I don't know if I've ever seen anything hotter in my life.

  I watch his fingers move, plucking each note and chord. I want to be the guitar; I want his hands to feel me all over and know the curve of my hips and the feel of my hair in his hands. No one says a word while he plays, because it's spiritual and lively and so sexy I can't keep my thoughts under control and I know everyone in the room is thinking about sex. It's an orgy of music.

  When it's over, I breathe for maybe the first time since I saw him. Matt looks up from his guitar and smiles at the people watching.

  "Fucking brilliant!" Elvis with the colored bracelets yells over the clapping. "I want to bone you!" His girlfriend elbows him and he flinches, laughing. Matt smiles at him and then, like he can sense I'm standing in the room, his green eyes find mine and hold my gaze. I smile while little butterflies attempt to escape my stomach into the sex-filled air.

  He puts his instrument down and thanks a few people for coming. I stand against the back wall, trying to hold my body upright. But all Matt does is turn me upside down.

  "My Hart, this is quite a surprise," he says as he makes his way over to me.

  "Well, I was in the neighborhood."

  "I bet you were." He takes a loose strand of my hair and tucks it behind my ear, then looks me up and down. Double gulp. "Nice outfit."