We get into Alex's red truck and he says, "Your mom seems nice."
I try not to roll my eyes. "'Seems' being the operative word."
"You guys don't get along?"
"Does anybody get along with their parents?" I ask. But then I think about Maggie and Lil and how much they love each other, how Maggie breathes because Lil does. How she doesn't care if Lil says fuck or shit or boner. My mom breathes because it would be rude to die.
Alex shrugs and starts the car. "Another new development, I guess."
I look at him, guilt pulling down on me once more. "I'm sorry," I say, and change the subject. "Do you have any music in this thing?"
Alex smiles and flips on the stereo. It's tuned to a station that matches our town. A bunch of white people singing about tractors and drinking and guns.
"Country?" I ask, trying to keep the scowl off my face.
"You don't like country?"
I take a moment. A few short months ago, I would have said, Of course I like country! Garth Brooks is my favorite, even though I think he's a fat old man with a voice like a horse. But now …
"Honestly?" I hesitate. "I think it's awful. I mean, a four-year-old could write these lyrics. All they'd have to do is think of all the words that rhyme with beers and rednecks and Jesus."
"Don't forget the pick-up truck," Alex says.
I stare at him, at his red and green flannel shirt tucked into jeans, driving his beat-up truck that has a hint of cow poop coming out of its fibers, and say, "You're, like, a walking country song."
"Riding in my red pick-up with a six-pack of beer," Alex sings in a terrible country twang. "We'll head off to church before I'm so drunk I can't steer."
I giggle. "You're terrible."
"We can't all be beautiful," he says, his cheeks peppering ever so slightly with pink.
I slump a little lower in my seat and play with the black bracelet around my wrist. If Alex really knew me, he'd know I don't deserve the compliment.
We pull up in front of the Carpenter farm. A bonfire is already roaring on the side of the property and music is blaring out into the fields from one of the second-story bedrooms.
"Thanks for coming with me tonight," Alex says as we get out of the car.
I smile and adjust my dress, flattening out the wrinkles. Pulling my phone out of my purse, I check it, hoping to see a text or voicemail from Lil. Nothing. I don't want to be mad at her anymore. I want to be back in her car, hanging out the window, and screaming into the wind.
The house is filled with loud, mostly drunk people. As we walk in, a pack of girls is hugging and crying in the corner, black mascara streaking their faces. Each one is spilling beer out of their red plastic cups onto Mrs. Carpenter's carpet. My mom would kill me if I had a party and ruined her floor. I spilled milk onto the rug in our family room once and she freaked, like Exorcist head-spinning freaked. That rug costs more than your life! she yelled before running over with a bucket of soapy water and yellow rubber gloves to cover her manicure. She scrubbed the spot until the entire house smelled like lemons.
"Do you want anything?" Alex asks, bending down to my ear to talk over the music.
"I'm okay," I yell. "I'm going to find the bathroom."
The house is packed. I check down all the halls for Matt. My eyes are on high alert for blonde hair and the smell of sex and my bones feel like they want to jump free from my skin just hoping I'll see him. I peek around a few corners, checking the rooms on the first floor, and then I head upstairs. Along the staircase are school pictures of all the Carpenter boys. I can't imagine giving birth over and over and hoping each baby was a girl, only to be disappointed by a penis.
I open a few bedroom doors and walk in on a couple with their shirts off. Everything smells like stale beer. And I can't find Matt anywhere.
I take out my phone and check it again. Nothing, so I text Lil.
Marty: Get ur ass to this party, Juliet. Pronto.
When I start to head back downstairs, I smell it. Sex and a guitar. Like a cherry-wood fire. Matt. I gulp and everything in my body drops to the floor. Tonight, we're locked in the same house with hidden corners we could disappear into at any moment. I push the memory of Meghan Whitlock to the farthest part of my mind. Matt's a free spirit. I can't hold that against him. But I can join in. I can finally be a part of Lil and his club. Being better is for suckers and saints.
With each step I take down the stairs and as Matt comes into full view, my knees rattle more and more. Even my eyes get splotchy. I shouldn't be this nervous. We've made out. But everything since has been a maze of words. Not flesh on flesh.
I keep my eyes on him, on the black T-shirt he's wearing, on the way it contrasts his blonde hair and makes me want to touch him even more. He's like a sexy teenage Johnny Cash. And I'm his June Carter. The good girl who can get him off drugs and help him find God. Even she wasn't perfect. They had an affair, after all.
Our eyes connect at the same moment. My heart beats heavy in my chest. It isn't pumping blood; it's pumping an ocean filled with so many locked away words and warm feelings—but there's a chill at the same time. All the fears and doubts that won't leave me alone. My hot and cold internal faucets are turned on and my skin keeps changing temperature.
Matt looks at me, a crooked smile on his face. Our eyes haven't met in weeks, not since he passed me in the hallway with Alex. There's no way seeing me now doesn't spark something in his system. Our kisses were too good. Too memorable. I'm burning hot everywhere. I return the look and wait for him to walk over. This is it.
And I wait.
And I wait.
The room was too crowded to pass,
He stood there, like his feet might have roots in the ground.
I smile even more widely, hoping my eyes sparkle the way they did the night he told me he liked me. So he might remember what it felt like for us to hold each other. So he'll forget Meghan Whitlock and all the other girls.
She waited as he sang a silent song with his body.
The melody lost somewhere in the air between them.
And before she could hear the beautiful tune,
He was gone.
Matt turns his back to me and walks out of the room. My breath gets short. What is he doing? The music vibrating the walls is so loud I can't think straight. It's some emo-wannabe-rocker-white-boy band like Linkin Park or Nickelback and I hate their voices. Every note is like a nail scratching my heart. This moment isn't supposed to be filled with bad music. Bob Marley should be playing.
I slump back against the wall, my chest so heavy I might faint right here next to all the Carpenter boys' pictures. The last thing I'll think about is Mrs. Carpenter's stretched-out coochie. Why did he walk away?
"Did you find the bathroom?"
I blink. Who's talking?
"Marty, are you okay?" Alex asks.
I snap out of it. "I'm fine."
"The bathroom is just down the hall that way." He points in the direction opposite where Matt walked. I must have made a mistake. He didn't see me. He couldn't have. I mean, we've danced and kissed and he's said things to me he's never said to anyone else. Okay, except for the line he also used on Meghan. It's impossible for him to walk away.
"I think I need a beer," I say.
Alex's eyes widen. "If you say so." We walk into the kitchen and he fills a cup for me, the foam pouring over the edge. "Sorry. I'm new at this."
I take it out of his hand and gulp half. "Me, too," I say, spilling some down the side of my mouth.
"You look like a pro." Alex wipes the beer away with his shirt.
I hand my cup back to him and he fills it again. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. And it's gone. "Are you sure you don't want any? It's pretty good," I say, wondering if the slur I hear is real or just my brain moving more slowly because it's consumed with Matt.
"My coach would kill me if he found out I'd been drinking."
I swig another half glass. "Does he make you wear sleeveless undershirts? Because I mi
ght need to talk to him about that."
"What?" Alex asks with a smile.
I swallow more foamy beer. With each gulp, what just happened moves further away from the surface. I'm determined to drown myself.
I grab Alex's bicep and squeeze. "You have nice arms," I say. "If only you didn't sweat."
"Doesn't everyone sweat?"
I stare at him. A hiccup or burp or maybe a mixture of both escapes my lips.
"Why do guys say one thing and then do the opposite?" I ask.
"Wait, are we still talking about sweating?"
"I mean, you tell a girl she'd look good in a white dress and then you never call. What the fuck?" I say fuck the way Lil would, like a rock star. I even fling my head forward, but it makes me lose my balance and I wobble sideways.
"Maybe you should slow down," Alex says, grabbing my arm to steady me.
"I've been slow my whole life," I say. Breaking from his grip, I refill my cup again.
Drinking and walking at the same time, I make my way outside. Even the ground seems unstable, like it might swallow me whole or thrust up to trip me; I stumble, trying not to spill my beer. But all the bad energy that clogged my veins is dissipating. I think I might love beer. I love the foam and the bubbly way it pops going down my throat and the numbness tingling my arms. It's different than the vodka Sarah and I drank, smooth, like I'm swimming through a container of goo. Warm, happy goo. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe feeling life is overrated. Because it hurts. I don't think anything could hurt beer. Right now, I want to be beer. I want to swim in it and coat myself in it and never come out.
I trip and spill on my dress. Oops. I try to wipe it away, but the stain stays.
Outside, the music doesn't get any better, but I don't care. I flap my arms and twirl around in a circle, feeling the loud bass in my bones.
"This song sucks," I say as I twirl around, my arms held out to my sides so I don't fall.
"Maybe I should request some country," Alex yells over the music.
I stop spinning and smile, or at least I feel like I'm smiling. My cheeks have gone numb. "You're funny." I poke him in the chest. "And your pecs are so hard." I rub my hands up and down his flannel shirt, but he backs away. It doesn't bother me.
"Are you sure you don't want to put that drink down?"
I'm about to tell him that I'm in love with beer and why would I ever leave something that makes me feel so good, when Sarah arrives at the party.
"Sarah!" I yell across the lawn. I'm not sure how loud I'm being because everything in my head is muffled, like I'm wearing headphones.
"Hey," she says with a furrowed brow.
"I love you, Sarah." I wrap my arm around her neck and squeeze her to me.
"Um, Athlete," Sarah motions to Alex, "Could you please remove her from my body before she squashes my hair. What is up, Marty? How many drinks have you had?"
I hold up my fingers, but they all mesh together.
"Am I embarrassing you? Should we not talk? I am a lesbian after all," I say.
Sarah looks at Alex. "Could you please do your job and not feed her any more drinks? She's going to do something she regrets."
"No regrets," I say, and shake my head until my mind spins.
"Maybe you should go home," Sarah says.
"I'm not going home." I stumble back.
"Well, I'm going inside. Watch her, please, Athlete."
"It's Alex," he says as she walks away.
I shrug my shoulders. "Band dorks."
"Maybe we should be heading home," Alex says.
"No!" I yell. We can't leave. Nothing I wanted for the night has happened. I'm not supposed to leave with Alex; I'm supposed to be with Matt. He should have looked at me and stopped everything and kissed me out in the open for everyone to see.
And Lil isn't even here. She's probably driving around blaring music out the windows and not caring that I need her. Why did Matt walk away? Why did he say he liked me and wanted to run away with me and marry me? Where did Lil go? Where's the truth in any of this? Has anything over the past few months been real?
My mind starts to swim, not in a good swimming-in-a-vat-of-wonderful-numbness way, but in the way that means I might fall over. It makes everything inside of me want to sink to the ground. All the warm fuzziness that was clouding my brain is shifting to water and I think I might start crying.
"I need another beer," I say, and stumble over toward the keg. I can't believe Mrs. Carpenter allows this party to happen every year, but maybe it's her way of saying, Fuck You, World, for giving me all boys. It's her way of screaming into the night; throwing her hands up and saying, sure, yeah, wreck everything in my house. It all smells like sweat and balls anyway.
"I think maybe you've had enough," Alex says, his voice going from candy-coated to flat and serious.
"You okay, Pollyanna?" I look up from my haze. Lil is standing in front of me, her new T-shirt screaming in capital letters: GO BUCK YOURSELF. "What the hell did you do to her, Jock Strap?" she says at Alex.
"Nothing," he says and put his hands up like he's under arrest. "She's been pounding beers. I'm trying to get her to leave."
"Beers, Marty? You know you're more of a wine cooler kind of girl. Why don't you let flannel shirt here take you home."
"Why, so I can sit in my room? I'd rather be here," I slur.
"So you can sleep it off," Lil says, and grabs my arm to walk me out.
"I've been sleeping my whole life!" I yell. "Aren't you the one who told me to wake up?"
"Not with a six-pack of beer in your pint-sized stomach, Pollyanna." Lil stops and stares at me.
"Well, if it isn't Thing 1 and Thing 2," Pippa says as she passes, a red plastic cup covering her smug smile. "Finally going to admit the lesbian love between you?" She flips her brown hair over her shoulder. "Dykes."
"God, get out of here, Pippa," Alex snaps, his voice a deep growl.
I hang my head toward the ground. When did everything start to spin—and not just the usual spin in my head, but spin in reality? The green grass and red and yellow bonfire are threading together. Nickleback blares in my ear drums until I think I'll go deaf from bad lyrics about boobs and blondes. How did Nickelback become a band in the first place? Words choke the back of my throat. I'm sick of swallowing them down.
"You know what, Pippa? You suck," I say. I point to someone else in the crowd. "And you suck, too. Everyone at this party sucks!" I scream and look at Alex and Lil. "Except you two. You don't suck."
"Thanks." Alex shrugs his shoulders.
"Maybe it's time this town hears the truth." My voice is hitting decibels I didn't know it could reach, not even when I played Sarah Brown and had to hit a high A. But I can't stop it. All the pain and confusion and words I've held in are on the tip of my tongue and I need to get them out or I'll throw up. "Maybe being nice is for suckers. I mean, what has it ever gotten me? One lousy make out session and some stupid pictures in a yearbook."
"Keep your voice down, Marty," Lil says. "Forget about Pippa. She's a fucking ass wipe." Her eyes are daggers on mine, but I don't feel the prick. I'm too numb.
"No. She needs to know. You taught me to tell the truth and that's what I'm doing. I'm screaming for everyone to hear!" I take a breath and push everything out at once. "You're all a bunch of penguins. Penguins! You huddle around each other and mate for life instead of thinking about what else might be out there. Maybe living in Antarctica sucks! And God forbid someone drops an egg."
"Stop it now, Marty." Lil barks.
And then it comes out without warning. For me, for Lil, for the entire party to hear, like a sideswiping car crash. "No. You tell them. Tell them the truth about your mom! Tell them how it hurts you. Scream at the top of your lungs!" I yell.
Lil looks at me with cold black fear in her eyes. It's not the veil I normally see when she's mad. My words have cracked open her soul and exposed the bruises that form my best friend, clear down to the roots of her. And everyone can see.
"Scr
ew you," Lil says.
The veil drops as quickly as it lifted and Lil runs away from me and the crowd and the truth I was about to lay bare.
I look at Alex, my head spinning, tears about to burst from so deep in my gut they may never stop raining down my cheeks.
"I think I'm going to puke," I say. And seconds later, I do. All over Alex's red Converse.
CHAPTER 18
"That was quite a performance," Alex says after I vomit the entire contents of a six-pack all over the Carpenter's lawn.
"Oh my God." Panic drops in my stomach. I look around to see how many people are staring at me. Did I just say the words I think I did, or is the beer making me hallucinate? I didn't think it could do that, but maybe it was spiked with acid or mushrooms or whatever Lil took that night at Lake Loraine. Oh shit, Lil! Shit. Only a few wandering eyes are left looking at my puke-covered dress. I want to curl up into a ball and forget myself and this night and Matt. I look at Alex. "I'm a terrible person. Like the worst. I'm not nice at all."
"I'm not sure I got the part about the penguins." Alex puts a finger to his chin, like he's trying to solve an equation. "You might have to say it again."
"I'm sorry," I say, my head still spinning.
"Don't be. I mean, I hate these shoes."
I wipe off the front of my puke-stained gold dress. The words I just said feel fake. Like I was living in a movie and watching myself. Marty Hart would never say those things out loud—
and yet, I did. For everyone to hear. Or at least, for some people to hear over the awful guitar-stylings of Nickelback. Now, my life's soundtrack is ruined.
"I need to go find Lil," I say. Alex nods, because that's the type of person he is. He'll call me beautiful and stare at me and ask me out even though I like someone else and let me vomit on his shoes. My soul sinks into the ground, so deep I'm going to need grave diggers to find it.
I go into the house, replaying the words I said in front of everyone. How I took the one secret Lil told me and put it into the air for people to breathe in and twist to their own liking. I'm pond scum. The lowest of the low. I'm a country song with bad lyrics and bouffant hair.
Playing Nice Page 19
