Charlie makes a noncommittal sound and puts his arm around my shoulders as we follow Maria down the hall, past the kitchen, and into a window-lined room full of tropical plants and wicker furniture. Ethan and Nora are there, leaning together over what looks like an intense game of War. Watching them is another guy I vaguely remember from freshman swim team—must be Chris—and the aforementioned Juniper, sitting ramrod-straight and holding a glass of lemonade like it might be poisoned.
“Ah, the lady of mystery finally joins us,” Ethan says, getting up to hug me and then Charlie. Nora drops her cards and rushes over to hug us both too.
“This is going to be so fun!” she squeals, trembling like a Chihuahua. Her excitement is both off-putting and kind of cute.
“Well, you know me and Chinese food,” I say. To say something. But really I’m feeling chalky white inside, looking at the card table. I haven’t played many card games since Dad died. There hasn’t been any reason to.
“Go Fish up next,” Ethan says, abandoning War and scooping up the cards.
“Awesome,” I say, shaking off my shock. “I totally rule at Go Fish.”
“And then we get serious. Spades, which we’re all still trying to beat Nora at,” Maria says. I smile just to be polite. I used to rule at that, too. Unless my dad and his friends were always doing that annoying let-the-kid-win trick.
When Nora explains to me in her elementary school voice that that there’s actually intense scorekeeping involved and prizes at the end of the night, something in me clicks over from hesitancy to determination. Everyone else talks and laughs, barely paying attention, while I focus like my dad taught me on what cards they’re asking for, what I might try to keep from them in my own hand. I beat them for several games, and when we switch to Spades, everyone can just forget about it. Doesn’t even matter what the prize is—I’ll be taking it.
It’s Juniper’s turn to deal when we hear the beep-beep-beep of an alarm-armed door opening somewhere.
“Dad!” Maria shouts, her face delighted. “How do the pork buns look?”
There’s the sound of rustling plastic bags and a cheery hello, and then a tall, strapping, very fireman-looking guy stands in the doorway, holding his arms open, greeting us all with a giant smile. He has glasses and a gray beard, but still.
My throat goes dry. My eyes are furry and weird, and I can’t breathe as I watch Maria and her mother hug him. Charlie squeezes my thigh under the table, but I jerk away involuntarily. The cards were one thing. Those I could master. This dad who looks a lot like mine, hugging his teenaged girl like that, is all way too much.
“You doing okay?” Charlie asks soft in my ear.
My eyes dart to everyone. The simple delight on their faces, the happiness around this room, the childish games. This universe I’ve carefully avoided so well for so long: where there’s a real dad and a real mom. A real whole family.
Suddenly I have forgotten about winning.
“I’m fine,” I finally whisper back to Charlie. “But isn’t there anything to drink?”
His brows come together, disapproving. Before I can pretend I’m joking, Maria’s mom waves us into the kitchen, where Maria’s dad hands us plates and ushers us to the long, expensive granite counter laden with Chinese takeout containers. I have to rest mine on the edge of the counter just so I don’t drop it. Then we’re routed into the dining room, where there’s a table longer than my bed. There are candles. Maria’s mom sits at one end, and her husband sits at the other. Us kids are in between, like Snow White’s dwarves. The dizzy feeling accelerates. I keep my eyes on my food because I can’t stand seeing Maria’s dad down there, though I’m not sure I can eat, either.
Maria’s parents talk together about things they’ve read and heard this week—really sharing with interest—but they also want to hear about what we’re reading, films we’ve seen. Everyone but me answers as though they’ve been waiting to be asked all night, but I can barely lift my water glass. From time to time, Maria’s mom laughs in a way that wings out over all of us like a bird. At one point I realize it’s over something I’ve said, though I’m not sure what. I swallow and try to smile back. I feel like the forks are made of paper and there’s way too much light in here. Like I might not be able to stand back up.
Finally there’s the clearing of plates, Maria squealing something about cheesecake. There’s a chance for the rest of us to escape to the bathroom or pretend we’re interested in the books lining the shelves in the den. I grab Charlie’s hand and pull him into the hallway at the darkest end, by a china cabinet and the door to what is maybe the guest room.
“You having an okay time?” He rubs my arms up and down.
All I want is to kiss him. I want his hand between my legs like Gavin’s. I want all this—all of it—to drop away, disappear. When I go for his mouth, though, he dodges.
“Maria’s parents are a trip, right?” Hands still up and down but holding me a little bit away.
“Sure.” The last thing I want to think about is Maria’s parents. I push against Charlie, pressing my lips against the place where his come together: the place where he smiles. I peck at first, warming him up, but then my tongue moves in, hungry. He humors me a little but stops as the shadows change in the hall, everyone milling so happily in the kitchen. I ignore it, them, him, and grab his shoulders, pulling him closer.
“Hey,” he says, decidedly stopping me now. “Are you okay? This is a little—”
“What?” I’m angry, frustrated. He needs to just kiss me now. Now, now, now, so that I don’t—
“There’re just”—his hand gestures down the hall—“people.”
“So?” I’m still not letting go. “Don’t my mad Go Fish skills drive you up the wall?” I hope he can’t hear how my voice is shaking.
“They are pretty astonishing.” He smiles but sidles around me, out of the corner. “But can we cool it, just for now? I mean, I like it. Just—not here.”
On reflex, all the muscles in my legs stiffen, because the edges of my eyes are tingling again like I’m going to cry. To keep that from happening, I consciously squeeze everything in me harder for three seconds, four. Ten. Maybe if I do it hard enough, I’ll get a cramp and can get out of here. I try to concentrate on only that, instead of being mad. Embarrassed. Irritated. Hurt. I don’t want to be here with any of them.
Charlie strokes my arm again, but it’s too late. I want to slap him away.
“Later, though, okay?” he says, trying to soothe me. “Most definitely.”
All I can do is blink at him. Before either of us can say anything else, Maria’s voice calls down the hall: “What is it, you two? Raspberry or chocolate?”
“Why not both?” Charlie says, sliding his arm around me like nothing’s wrong, moving us down the hall toward Maria and her stupid fattening dessert.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I manage, hoarsely. “I might’ve already had too much.”
• • •
Still, I make myself eat a thin slice, just so Charlie doesn’t notice how pissed I am and then ask me about it later. More happy-go-lucky conversation happens around me, but being angry with Charlie gives me something to focus on instead of feeling blindsided by Maria’s dad, and so now I’m just concentrating on bearing it, on getting out of here. When Maria gets up to clear the dessert plates, the way her father smiles and thanks her makes me want to throw something at him. Them both. I claw my fingers into my rock-hard quads under the table. I will tough this out just like everything else. We go back into the sun-room, and Ethan tallies the winners. The prizes are given out. Even though I trounced everyone, the pride I feel is gone. When Maria’s mother hands me my gift certificate, I can barely look at her. At anyone.
“You okay?” Charlie wants to know when we’re finally in the car together.
I nod.
“You got quiet all of a sudden. I wondered if it was weird—you know, with all the close-knit family stuff.”
It shouldn’t surprise me, not if
I’m honest, but still I’m stunned to hear it was really that obvious. You don’t have a dad either, I want to say meanly. But I don’t. Partly because Charlie does still have a dad. Just not in the same city. Which is still a better situation than mine.
“More people than I’m used to, is all.”
He accepts it. Or at least doesn’t say anything else. We drive back to my place, quiet, knowing there’s no time to stop and make out anywhere. Which is fine, because even being this close to Charlie right now is making me want to crawl out of my skin.
“You have practice in the morning, right?” he says, parking in my driveway.
“Eight fifteen, like always.” Even I can hear how tight my voice is.
“Hey.” He’s looking at me. “Are we okay? I mean, are you?”
I keep staring straight, out the windshield. “Just tired, like I said.”
He shifts in the seat, turning fully toward me. “Well, it was much more fun with you there. I’ve missed you.”
I squeeze his hand, but I still can’t look at him. He leans across and kisses my neck, squeezes my knee. His fingers are firm and unapologetic, just like Gavin’s. Reflexively, I push my hips toward him, inviting him to go up farther. I suddenly want him to replace that feeling. Replace everything in me.
As soon as I grab his hand and press it up, though, he clears his throat and looks toward the house. “We should probably both go soon.”
I don’t know what’s wrong with him, stopping us all the time.
“What?” he says, defensive.
I hadn’t realized I’d made a face.
“Sometimes I don’t get you” is all I say.
“Get me how?”
“I mean, boys are supposed to be crazy about this stuff, but you’re all like—”
He laughs, embarrassed, and wipes his hand over his face. “Are you serious? Look at me.” Gesturing toward his lap in a shy way. “Of course I’m crazy about it. It’s just that you’re tired, and it’s curfew. You have to be up early in the morning, and so do I. We’re in your driveway. I can’t just flip you onto the backseat, Polo. I mean, I’m trying to do the responsible thing here.”
I realize Gavin would flip me onto the backseat. “I know you are,” I finally say.
“Look.” He lets a slow breath out of his nose. “Let’s just get some rest. It’s been a weird week. I’m sorry about tonight. I know it was too much.”
What’s too much is how I had to endure all that at Maria’s, and then him calling attention to it and turning me down almost within the same breath. Thinking he’s doing me some kind of favor by the whole thing. I push open the car door and get out.
“Polo, wait—”
“It’s fine,” I say, leaning back in, though I’m not sure I can hold my face straight at this point. “I just have to go. You’re right. We’re both tired. Okay? I just need to go to bed. I’m sorry.”
“Come over after practice tomorrow?”
I nearly scream. “Yes, fine.”
“And, hey—it was awesome watching you slay everyone tonight.”
My lips tremble into a smile as I shut the door and wave. I try not to rush up onto the porch while he backs up, but once I’m there I stay crouched in the dark section where Charlie can’t see me waiting until he’s left, and Mom and Louis can’t see that I’m home, either. A place where I can hover, alone, in the dark, refusing to make a sound, refusing to shake, while hot tears squeeze themselves between my pressed-closed eyes and fall, no matter how hard I’m trying to hold them in.
30
THE NEXT MORNING GRIER, GAVIN, and Linus are all missing from practice. Assholes. When I make query eyebrows at Troy about it, he just shrugs with this pissed-off and slightly hung-over look on his face. After Van’s pep talk I pat Troy on the shoulder, almost telling him how much better he is, being able to party and show up for practice, but I don’t really feel like comforting anyone. Too many complicated feelings from last night are still hovering, and I have to shake them all off. Now.
So it’s just as well Gavin’s not here, or Grier, either. Since this is my last practice before taper, Van pours it on. I can tell he’s thought about how to really push me in this last hard practice, and as I go in to my third fifty, I feel a wash of gratitude.
More than that, though, it makes me want to show him that even when he pushes me, I can push harder.
Fuck you, Grier, for not caring anymore.
Fuck you, Gavin, for trying to play with me, and her.
Fuck you, Charlie, for wanting me only in the ways I won’t give.
Fuck whatever. I know what I’m capable of: this.
• • •
I go home, eat. Spend some time in front of the TV. When Charlie texts to see when I’m coming over, I beg off and say practice was vicious and has worn me out. I don’t want him to ask me questions, don’t want to talk about last night. He pesters me a little, but I deflect and insist I had a good time. Just tell him that I’m worried about getting enough rest and all the school stuff coming up. If he’s mad about it, if he doubts, he doesn’t say so. Just okay fine, and then that’s it.
Whatever, Charlie. You can’t be the one calling the shots.
• • •
Grier and Gavin pick me up for the party at 8:42. During the afternoon back-and-forth with Charlie, Grier also sent a ton of texts, half of them around the fact that she forgot I was at practice this morning, and the rest figuring out details and then her sending a bunch of exclamation points. Part of me almost bailed on them, too, after deflecting Charlie’s crap. But I took a nap and woke up with a clearer head.
There are things I still need to stay on top of.
• • •
When we get to the lake house, it’s the same as last time, though maybe the music’s louder. Same keg, same Beer Pong, same kids gazing into their devices on the back porch, same bonfire—same. Within ten minutes, I’ve filled my beer then woven a bit around the kitchen, waiting for Grier and Gavin to get involved in the Pong game—which Grier insists she’s practiced for this time. As soon as they’re engaged, without looking back, I head out to the bonfire.
Standing in the not-too-hot-yet night air, I get why people come here—all this beer, all this space. It’s a different way of disappearing, out in this happy crowd. Trying to remember good things instead of bad, for a while I meld into a part of it, see what it’s like. I stand near the fire, eavesdropping on a bunch of baseball dudes trying to tell jokes but forgetting where they are in the middle of them. Someone passes around a joint, and since I don’t have practice tomorrow, I take a few hits. There’s some laughing. People talking about shit I don’t care about. I just sit there, listening. Drifting. A little while later this bright-eyed guy starts playing guitar, and half the people who were previously standing there head inside. The joint comes around again. I stay and smoke, smugly aware that Gavin’s probably wondering where I am now. He’s a dickweed, is mostly what I think. The whole point of coming tonight was to stay out of his range and watch him pretend not to be looking for me, watch him being a loser without his even knowing. I should probably keep moving in case they come outside, but the guitar guy is actually good. I sing along with him—under my breath, not loud enough for anyone else to hear—to a Flaming Lips song, and then another I recognize only part of the words to and don’t know who it’s by. I’m really starting to get into it, when he starts playing something slower, sweeter. The few couples around me lean closer to each other. Suddenly goose bumps race up my bare arms as I listen to the words. Without warning, I want Charlie. To tell him I’m sorry for today and how I was last night. I want him to be here with his arms around my shoulders. I want to tell him how much I appreciate his understanding, how I want to be a better girlfriend.
And then, suddenly, I want my dad. To be able to tell him about Charlie or anything else. Even Gavin, though Dad would probably kick his ass if I did.
The unbidden thought makes me take a sharp breath and stand up. I whirl away from
the lake, the weed, the bonfire, the guitar. I can’t sit here. I need more to drink.
I stumble a little into the kitchen, blinking from the harsh change of cozy dark to cheap fluorescent light. The laughing is superloud in here. Pong’s apparently switched over to BattleShots, and Gavin and Grier aren’t anywhere to be found. I find a cup—maybe it’s clean, maybe it’s not quite—fill it with beer, drink down half of it, then fill the rest again, hurrying. It’s dumb to drink and smoke at the same time, and I’m already overly buzzed, but I don’t care. I want to do something crazy or just curl up and pass out. I want to get out of here. I want—I don’t know what I want; I just don’t want this feeling. I move into the living room, where people are doing headstands. In the next room some girl with maroon-dyed hair has an Ouija board. I stumble, turn, and find myself moving down the hall, pausing. Trying to think. I left my phone in Grier’s car. Maybe I can get her keys and ask Charlie to come pick me up. Maybe even after all of this, he would still love me, if I let him.
“There you are.”
I turn. The light in the hall is fuzzy. I squint toward the voice. Gavin.
“I’m afraid there’s been more Beer Pong,” he says, like I didn’t know. “I tried, but I couldn’t stop it. You’re apparently the better policeman.”
“Woman,” I say. “I make a better policewoman.” My voice feels thick, lost.
“You’re right you would.”
He comes forward, hand aiming for my hip again, like it’s some kind of Blarney Stone for him to rub for good luck. Somehow I know he’s going to do it, and so in one fluid motion I open the door behind me, step back into the dark, away from him, making him come at me a little more. I don’t know what’s back there, in the room. We could fall into nothing or outer space.
But it’s just an office. Two desks, from what I can see from the hallway light. Posters on the walls. Computers. There isn’t much time to take it in, because Gavin’s mouth is on mine.
Hands.
Hands and hands and hands. On me. Up my shirt. Down around my ass. Mine around his. We were holding beer cups before, but they’re not there anymore, only this incredible heat that blocks everything else. Swirling, falling, I rush into it. The muscles of his back are like the keys of a piano I could play. His hands slide up my spine, down my chest, and over my hips, burning me up in all this orange. Evaporating. He’s rubbing himself against my leg, and I try to find something I can push against. Harder. More of this and nothing else. While I’m wrangling his tongue around in my mouth, squeezing the backs of his thighs, my drunk brain is half aware he’s just playing me. That all he cares about is winning, and all I’m doing with this is letting him. But at the same time, I feel like maybe I don’t care. Maybe this whole time I’ve wanted to be played, wanted to give up. Because it’s oblivion in here. A blank, swirling high even better than when I’m in the—
In Deep Page 12
