The S-Word

by Chelsea Pitcher

  Could you tell?

  There are so many cars out front I have to park two blocks away. Jesse bolts around the side of the car to open my door. He takes my arm again as we reach the walkway. We’re almost to the house when he stops.

  “This is wrong. We’ve made a mistake.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I say. A few stocky boneheads are standing on the porch. “They’ll let us in, no problem.”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He pulls me over to the shadows. “If Kennedy sees us here together, she’ll know we’re in cahoots.”

  “ ‘Cahoots?’ I thought you said we weren’t spies.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “Kennedy’s not here yet.”

  He frowns at the street. “You didn’t see her car?”

  “I didn’t look for it.”

  “So?”

  I start to walk forward again. I’m practically dragging him along. “So. Beauty Queen? Most popular girl in school? If you think she’s not fashionably late to everything, you haven’t been paying attention.”

  I can see his cheeks growing round in the darkness. He’s smiling. “All right, fine,” he says begrudgingly. “But once we get inside you better not stick to me.”

  He has a point. But I’m not leaving him alone with these freaks. “I’ll stick to you like glue, baby.” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  INSIDE OF CARA’S minimansion, the crimson-walled living room swells with the push of bodies, the pulse of the music. Furniture has been pushed aside, and red lights flicker, inviting us into the inferno. Though it’s entirely unnecessary, the fireplace is lit.

  People are already taking off their clothes.

  I don’t mean everybody. The party’s not that orgiastic. But a few key players hint at a world of possibilities: a redhead in the corner flashes a polka-dotted bra to her girlfriends, while two shirtless guys flex muscles no high school boy should have. These are the boys who’ll spend their lives trying to look like the Photoshopped actors in Details magazine. They’ll kill themselves for their bodies, just like the girls do.

  Still, these flashes of skin can’t compare to the girl standing on the wet bar, reciting a scene in iambic pentameter. A very saucy scene, if her lewd gestures are any indication. Miss Shelby McQueen gives the people what they want, and tonight the people want sex. Her black flapper dress swishes as she thrusts her hips.

  I step back.

  “You okay?” Jesse asks, lips close to my ear. He’s pressed against me, due to the lack of room in this crowded space.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  In reality I’m shaken. This amped-up sexuality reminds me of other things, of people who’ll whisper I love you when they’re inside of you, only to turn around and do the same with your best friend. When Jesse whispers “Let’s go out back,” I let him lead me toward the back porch. There’s a bowl on the wet bar marked Mystery Juice and we stop there, because, you know, when in Rome.

  After that we slip into the darkness.

  Except it’s not dark. Not entirely. Out here they’ve strung up dangling icicle lights and people are pressed together by choice. Farther out, there’s this beautiful stretch of grass just calling to us, and that’s where we go.

  “Let’s hang out here for a while,” Jesse says, sitting on a bench that’s clearly made for lovers. Little flower beds surround the entire yard, in shades of purple, pink, and red.

  It’s Valentine’s Day every day at the Belle estate.

  “Good plan.” I sit beside him. There’s not much room on the bench, and I’m close enough to Jesse to feel him shaking. But when I go to give him my jacket, I find no goose bumps on his arms.

  He’s not shivering.

  He’s scared.

  “I brought you into the belly of the beast, didn’t I?” Sure, no one’s shoved him or called him a name yet. But no one’s smiled at him or welcomed him into a hug either.

  They’ll ignore him, just like they did with Lizzie.

  Until they get him alone.

  “I’m okay,” he says, looking up at the sky. Those icicle lights are nothing compared to the stars, and I follow his gaze, soothed by the vastness of space.

  “Are you sure?” I ask softly. “Because I can find another way—”

  “No, it’s fine.” He turns to look at me, and the lights are reflected in his eyes. “I was curious.”

  “Well, curiosity quenched, then.”

  He laughs. “Besides, it’s nice out here with you . . .” He trails off, hands curling over the front of the bench. When he leans back, taking in all the stars, I can’t help but notice the muscles in his arms. They’re sort of . . . delicate, compared to the ones on the show-offs inside. The kind you get from working in the yard or picking up little kids.

  The kind you get from life.

  Jesse closes his eyes, and my gaze trails to his face. I’m watching his mouth to see if he really wants to stay. Everyone looks at the eyes, but the lips are so telling.

  I watch them carefully as I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  His lips twitch. I can tell he’s fighting a smile. “Aw, hell,” he says, “tell me you’re not serious. Tell me you didn’t bring me here to interrogate me.”

  “No, of course not.” I bring my cup to my lips. It tastes like rum, light and dark, with juice for coloring. The second it hits my stomach I start to relax. This isn’t healthy, but I don’t know how to stop it.

  “I’m waiting,” says Jesse, opening one eye.

  “I just, I sort of wondered . . .” I take another sip. They call it liquid courage for a reason. But it’s also liquid stupidity, and it goes from one to the other really fast. You have to be careful. “I saw Shelby in there.” I gesture to the house. “And I know she’s your friend—”

  “No,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate.

  “Well, you worked together on plays and stuff.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you get along.”

  He shrugs, as much as he can from his position. “I get along with everybody. If it’s up to me.”

  I have nothing to say to that. And since I can’t bear the thought of him pushing Lizzie out of the play, I do something stupid. I give him an out: “Then you know what Shelby did when Lizzie got cast.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but now both eyes are open.

  “Jesse?” I exhale slowly. “Do you know—”

  He sits up fast. One blink of the eye, and he’s right there next to me. As if taking my lead on irresponsible coping mechanisms, he takes a gulp of his punch.

  His face scrunches. It’s so adorable, I’m almost laughing, and it softens the blow when he says, “I don’t know what happened, exactly. But I think it had something to do with her dad.”

  “Shelby’s dad?”

  “Lizzie’s dad. The preacher, right?”

  My pulse quickens. I should be relieved that he’s asserting his innocence, but I’m not. I’m afraid. “Yeah. You go to his church?”

  “Hell no.” He snorts. “I tend not to worship in places where people hate me.”

  I tilt my head in close, because he’s clearly got something to get off his chest. “What makes you think he hates you?”

  “He pretty much told her,” he says, taking another sip. “I came over the week before opening night, to work on costumes. Lizzie’s a hard-core seamstress, you know? Two sewing machines, all this fabric. We had a good time, but the next day at rehearsal, she’s like, ‘Let’s go to your house,’ being all shady. I had to bug her and bug her until she admitted I wasn’t allowed over again.”

  “What? Why?”

  He gestures to his skirt. “Think about it.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “I mean, I get it,” he says. “Adults get uncomfortable. But I never got banned before.”

  “He banned you?” I laugh, though it’s really not funny.

  “Something like that,” Jesse says. “Guess he pulled her real close and was like, ‘You know h
ow I warned you about premarital sex? Well, what those people do is a thousand times worse.’ ”

  “Ho-ly shit.”

  “Pretty bad, right?” He shrugs, shaking it off. But I can tell it sticks. “I mean, I know that shit is out there, but it still sucks to hear about it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I touch his hand, and I swear I’m just comforting him.

  He doesn’t seem to mind. He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. “I’m a big boy. Didn’t I tell you?” He grins. “But I felt bad for her, you know, living with that guy?” He pauses, looks around. “I felt worse when I heard people gossiping about it.”

  I wait a beat, trying to piece together what he’s saying. But I can’t figure it out. “People found out Lizzie’s dad’s a bigot? So what? Why would they care?”

  “I don’t think it was that. I think it was the premarital sex stuff.” He leans in. He smells like punch. I can smell the fruit on him more than I can taste it. Maybe everything tastes sweeter on him.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be having thoughts like that.

  I take back my hand. He follows the movement with his eyes, saying, “You know how Shakespeare is: he sounds all fancy, but mostly he’s just talking about sex?”

  “Oh, yeah. Oh shit.” My brain is reeling. I’m too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know Shakespeare wrote so much about sex. But I think of Shelby, standing on the wet bar, reciting something fancy.

  Something fancy about sex.

  “But what could they have done with that information?” Now I’m leaning in. Our lips are close, our upper bodies almost touching. This is the good and bad thing about playing detective. When you hate the person, it makes your skin crawl to be this close. But when you don’t hate them at all . . .

  “I don’t know.” Jesse shakes his head. His hair tickles me, and I want to tuck it behind his ear. “But Lizzie was weird about me coming over that day. Weird, like, ‘Don’t tell my dad we’re doing this for a play. It’s just a school project.’ Shit like that. I didn’t think anyone was listening, but we were talking in the auditorium, and anybody could’ve been hiding in the wings. We talked a lot in there, Angie—”

  “Oh God.” My hand goes to my lips. “I never even thought about it. But Lizzie wouldn’t invite him, would she? Not if there was as much sex as you say. He would’ve forbidden her . . .”

  And there, ladies and gentlemen, is the piece I’ve been missing. Only one person could keep Lizzie from performing in the play. The same person who kept her from riding to school in the car she loved.

  Daddy dearest.

  fourteen

  KENNEDY DOESN’T SHOW until well after Shelby leaves, and by then Jesse’s already drunk. I don’t think he usually drinks. We’re back in the living room, and he’s bopping around to the dumbest song in the world while I’m trying to calculate the likelihood of Captain Morgan blowing our cover. Drunk people aren’t exactly known for their discretion. They act first and think later. Then again, if Kennedy thinks he’s wasted, she might open up more easily. There’s no harm in blabbing your secrets to a confidant who won’t remember it in the morning.

  Of course, she won’t plan on my listening in. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Jesse made sure of that.

  Damn him.

  Right now, Kennedy’s on the other side of the room, watching some guy do a beer bong. She hasn’t even looked in our direction. Then, out of nowhere, Jesse goes all gentleman on me and offers to get me another drink. My “no thanks” is halfway out of my lips when I realize he’s giving me a sign. I swallow my words and nod, not trusting my voice. I’m nervous, okay? I can admit it.

  Kennedy squeals when she sees him and they do that Parisian air-kiss thing. Then she gives him this hug like she’s never been happier to see anybody in her life. She holds on way longer than necessary, which means she’s either really lonely or really drunk. And since she never goes anywhere without a slew of copycat cheerleaders and a bunch of drooling douche bags, I’m guessing it’s the booze.

  She probably took shots on the drive over.

  For the first time I wonder if she has some kind of death wish. Not all attempts at suicide are as obvious as Lizzie’s.

  Jesse steers Kennedy to a painting above the mantel: a satyr surrounded by nymphs. She has to turn her back on me to look at it. He winks in my direction, whispering something that makes her bray like a donkey.

  That’s my cue.

  I turn and push my way through the crowd. It’s not as easy as you’d think. These bulky guys are gathered in clusters, and their drunkenness has apparently rendered them oblivious to their surroundings. I push. I try to slide through. I say nice little “excuse me” type things. No dice.

  Time to improvise.

  “Oh God,” I moan, slapping my hand over my mouth. I practically fall into the guy standing closest to me. He leaps back like he’s perfectly content to watch me crash to the floor. Better I crack my head open than get vomit on his superawesome Sports Shack T-shirt.

  Still, my act does the trick. The crowd parts to let through the sick girl. I bolt up the stairs like I’m going to spew Mystery Juice all over the place and open the first door I see. I’m hoping for Cara’s bedroom.

  Wrong! Try again!

  The master bedroom sprawls out before me, all pomp and frills. These people actually have black satin sheets. I’m turning around to leave when the absolute last person I want to see steps into the room. He checks the lock on the door before he sees me.

  “Got big plans?” I ask.

  Drake practically jumps out of his skin. God, what I’d pay to see that. I’m actually envisioning it as he closes the door and leans against it: that pretty exterior sloughing off to reveal his true form.

  “Angie.” He wipes his forehead like it’s sweaty. “Hey. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I imagine it’s difficult with me standing right in front of you.”

  Why are you being so hard on him? He’s human, like Lizzie’s human. They made a mistake.

  Still, it bugs me when he doesn’t look wounded.

  Actually, he kind of laughs. “Hey, can I talk to you somewhere?”

  “Somewhere . . . else?”

  He glances at the door. “Yeah. Don’t you think?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, Cara’ll probably be pissed that we’re in here.”

  “Look at you, growing a conscience. You surprise me every day.”

  Get him out of here. You have no time.

  “Give me a break,” he says, looking at the door again. I want to ask what he’s checking for but there’s no time.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I want to talk to you too. But this place is so crowded. Meet me at my car in two minutes?”

  “Your car? We can just go down—”

  “Please?” I place my hand on his chest, over his heart. “I really want to be alone with you.”

  “Okay.” He opens the door a crack and peers down the hall. “Okay, good. Let’s do that.”

  “Cool.” I push past him. “I just have to pee.”

  He grabs my arm. I can see Jesse at the bottom of the stairs, trying to pull Kennedy away from these brothers who’ve been fighting over her all year. I wave to him but he doesn’t see me.

  “That one’s full.” Drake nods to the bathroom. “I think someone’s sick in there.”

  “I’ll wait,” I say. I’m giving him a nudge toward the stairs when the bathroom door opens. Out comes Cara herself, wiping vomit from her mouth.

  “Hey, baby.” She slumps against Drake. Her dark hair spills over his shoulder. “I got the—Angie!” she shrieks, just noticing me. “I’m so glad you came!” Pushing off Drake’s chest, she hurls herself at me. Her arms drape sloppily around my neck.

  Kennedy and Jesse are climbing the stairs, Drake’s standing, stunned, between us, and I’m stumbling under the weight of a drunken hug-attack. Could things possibly get worse?

  Come on, Universe, I dare you.

/>   My head is spinning. I’m frozen in a vortex of possibilities: Stall Jesse. Throw Drake over the banister. Question Kennedy. Get Cara off me.

  “Look.” Drake’s voice penetrates the vortex. “This is not what it looks like.”

  “Oh my God, the best line ever.” I shift Cara to my left shoulder. My other arm is free now, for punching. Or whatever.

  “Wait,” Cara slurs, doing this sad fairy jig to keep from falling. “Are you mad?”

  “I’m great, sweetie,” I tell her. There’s no point in lecturing a drunk person. Living with Mom has taught me that. “You listen to me,” I hiss at Drake. “If you ever want to speak to me again, you’d better do exactly as I say.”

  “Angie.” He gestures at Cara. “I wasn’t—”

  “I hope not.” I lead Cara into her parents’ room. Drake follows. “She’s completely wasted. That’s disgusting.”

  “I’m wasted . . .” he says pathetically. And the thing is, he’s totally not. I’ve seen him wasted. This is buzzed at best.

  “Please hold while I contact Future Rapists of America.” I lay Cara on the bed. She curls up happily. “Now go stall Kennedy. I don’t want her seeing her friend like this.”

  Yeah, I know, how thoughtful of me. Apparently I’ll lie about anything to get my way. On the other hand, I only have sex with fully conscious people, so I don’t feel too bad about tricking Drake.

  I cover Cara with a blanket and turn off the light. A quick look through the door shows Drake blocking the stairs. Still, Kennedy and Jesse are almost to the top, and both will see me if I step into the hallway. Drake’s midway through some animated story, pulling back his arm and letting it fly like he’s throwing a football. Or giving them an archery lesson.

  Could be either with him.

  I say a quick prayer that the story is interesting. Then I drop to my hands and knees. Down low to the ground, Kennedy won’t be able to see me, so I worm-wiggle across the carpet toward the other bedroom. This type of thing is always supersexy in the movies. In real life it’s sad and ridiculous. I have to laugh to keep from crying.

  Still, the moment I’m safely hidden behind Cara’s bedroom door I start laughing giddily. I can’t believe I actually did it. I waste no time in slipping into the closet. It’s got those double doors with slats you can see through, if you stick your nose up to them. I won’t be able to see Kennedy that well but I’ll be able to hear everything.