High and Dry

by Sarah Skilton

  “Thanks for letting me in on this. I’m glad you told me,” she said.

  “What are we doing?” I curled my finger around the belt loop of her jeans.

  “I don’t know,” she said simply. “But when we kissed last night at the movies, I couldn’t stand thinking we’d never do that again.”

  “Do you know, the week before we had our first date, I went to every single film at the theater just so I’d know which ones I could safely recommend for us?”

  Her shoulders lifted in the smallest of sighs. “And then I told you I didn’t want to see a movie. God, I was a bitch.”

  “No, I liked it.”

  “You liked that I was a bitch?”

  “No, I liked that you didn’t want to see a movie. That you didn’t want to do what everybody else does.”

  My mom hadn’t shared that view; when I’d told her about the movie fiasco, she’d said, “I hope Ellie’s worth it.”

  “But if I’d known you’d put that much thought into it—”

  “I didn’t want you to know.”

  “Did you do that a lot?” she asked.

  I swallowed, and feigned confusion. “Do what a lot?”

  “Hold back. Only let me see certain things about you, and not everything.”

  I shrugged, and she looked at me with such sadness, I wondered if I could look at her from now on and not see the sadness.

  We kissed some more, and I should’ve been happy, but instead, the same thought kept nagging at me: I was drinking the water, she was mine again. I was quenching my thirst, but it wasn’t enough; it would never be enough, not until I could be certain the water would never run out.

  I slowed down our kisses, till they were just nibbles, drops in the desert, easing away from her. She made a frustrated sound so I kissed her throat, and then down her shoulders to her arms, to her wrists, and to the tips of her fingers.

  “The deadline for Lambert College is tomorrow.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “Okay,” I said. “And?”

  “How many times do we have to talk about this?” she said gently.

  “As many times as it takes to get a straight answer.”

  “Charlie,” she said, caressing my face, “I told you I would apply there. As well as several other schools. And I meant it. Okay?”

  “So you know the deadline’s tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “If you don’t think it’s a good enough school, just tell me.”

  “I’ve never said that. You’re the only one who thinks that. You’re the only one giving me motives I don’t have, for things I haven’t done.”

  “Well, if you’re going to be testy about it …,” I teased.

  She rolled her eyes. “I have a jewelry portfolio to update, Mister School Conspiracy Uncover-er. Go home and spread the word about Donovan.”

  But I didn’t go home. And I didn’t tell my mom. I left the flash drive on Ellie’s desk for safekeeping and I told her, “If anyone asks, we’re not together, right? And you don’t know about the flash drive.”

  “But we are together.” She grinned, leaning in for another kiss.

  “Yes, but if anyone asks … I don’t want you tied to this. I don’t want anyone to know that you know,” I said seriously. I had some new theories about BM, and I didn’t want him threatening Ellie.

  “If that’s what you want, sure.”

  We said good-bye and I darted down the stairs. Ellie’s mention of having to finish her portfolio reminded me of the reason I’d gotten involved in this mess in the first place.

  It was time to pay my dear neighbor a visit.

  THE TWO MARIAS

  BRIDGET WAS PAINTING HER TOENAILS ON HER BED WHEN I walked in.

  “You may as well come clean,” I said from the doorway. “I have the flash drive and I’ve seen what’s on it, so now I want to know why. Why you wanted it for yourself.”

  She set her nail polish aside and flexed her toes. “Guess.”

  “It’s obviously important to Donovan, so maybe you figured you could shake him down for a better grade. But he’s already giving people better grades as it is.”

  “Not bad. Getting warmer.”

  “But he seems to think you’re allies. So maybe the two of you are planning something else.”

  She smirked. “Now you’re getting colder.”

  “Oh my God, just tell me.”

  “Why? You didn’t come here to give me the drive. I don’t owe you a thing.”

  “No, but I’m open to hearing why you want it and reconsidering who I give it to,” I lied.

  “How stupid do you think I am, Charlie?”

  “You’ve got nothing to lose at this point.”

  I picked up her nail polish and cranked open the lid. “Although your bedspread’s kind of plain. I think it could use some color.” I mimed turning the nail polish over and dumping it across the sheets and comforter.

  Bridget sprung forward and snatched the bottle from me. “Whatever. Fine. I’ll tell you.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  “I overheard the Marias arguing last Saturday before the state qualifier in Pomona. Maria was freaking out, saying how she and Other Maria had a deal; Other Maria was supposed to hand over evidence of Donovan’s cheating in exchange for five thousand dollars, pooled together from other classmates.”

  This seemed worthy of a whistle, so I didn’t fight it.

  “But Other Maria had a ‘change of heart’ and decided not to sell it,” Bridget continued. “She claimed it wasn’t on her anymore; she’d hidden it somewhere at school.”

  “Why did Maria Posey care so much if Donovan was exposed?”

  Bridget gave me a look like I was the biggest moron on the planet. “Think, Dix. If Donovan got fired, and word spread about his little after-school activities, everyone in that class would have to redo history. Colleges would get wind, GPAs would be called into question, and everything coming out of Palm Valley High would be suspect. Scholarships revoked, acceptances overturned, SATs reconsidered. We’d be the Pariah Class of 2014. It’d be a total mess. What’s five thousand dollars compared to a semester at Princeton or Barnard? Chump change. Sound of Music Maria figures, I’ll suppress this info till graduation and get the eff out of Palm Valley. So she made me come up with a plan.”

  “Made you?”

  “She knew I’d overheard, and she made me brainstorm what to do.”

  “You’re her lap dog,” I said, disgusted.

  “Not anymore,” she shot back.

  “So what’d you brainstorm?”

  “I said lie low, pretend to be friends again, and get West Side Story Maria drunk at the celebration on Sunday. Maybe if she’s drunk, she’ll change her mind and agree to sell the flash drive, or at least confess its location. But if other people were angry, can you blame them? Everyone at that party had something to lose if the information went public. Everyone.”

  “So you and Griffin aren’t dating? You didn’t call him up to make a special delivery?”

  She looked insulted. “I had nothing to do with the LSD, and Griffin doesn’t party with high schoolers. If he did show up, it was for a quick and dirty deal. All I knew, when I left with you that night, was that Sound of Music Maria was willing to pay at least five thousand for the drive. I figured if I found the drive first, the money would come to me instead.”

  “The money, and sweet revenge for being her slave the past four years.”

  “Shut up, Dix, you got your first choice. You don’t know what it’s been like, having to kiss her ass every day.”

  “Ellie didn’t have to do that.”

  “Ellie doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. Most of us don’t have that luxury. Yeah, I wanted revenge. And I knew something she didn’t; I’d seen West Side Story Maria creeping around the library on Friday.”

  “Where does Donovan come in? Why’d you clue him in?”

  “I realized I could either get the cash fr
om Sound of Music Maria or hand the drive to Donovan in exchange for a glowing recommendation letter. Either way I’d be in charge of my own destiny next year, for once. I hadn’t decided yet what I was going to do. I was playing it by ear.”

  “If you’re playing it by ear, you’re tone-deaf. Your first mistake was getting me on the case.”

  “I realize that now,” she snapped.

  “Tell me one more thing,” I said.

  “What.”

  “Why’d you forge Ellie’s handwriting on that note?”

  “Who says it was me?”

  Without taking my eyes off her, I reached behind me to her dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a stack of “Ellie’s” stationery.

  Bridget’s eyebrows lifted. “Nice one. How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “My panties are in the next one over.”

  “Didn’t think you wore any.”

  “Not in the summer,” she agreed.

  “What was the point in forging it? Did you think that would turn me against her?” I scoffed.

  “Hardly,” she scoffed back. It was a scoff-a-thon. “It was a test, to see if my handwriting was good enough to pass as hers. If I could get you to believe it was Ellie’s, I could use the same handwriting against Sound of Music Maria to set up the drop. I couldn’t risk her knowing I had the flash drive until she agreed to meet, and agreed to pay me. I wanted her to think it was Ellie up until the moment of the trade.”

  “Why?”

  “I knew you’d protect Ellie, the way you wouldn’t protect me.”

  She sounded hurt, and I had no real answer to that. I didn’t bother denying it; that would’ve insulted us both.

  “What about you?” she said. “You claim you have the drive. Congratu-fucking-lations. What’ll it be? The cash? Or the honor of destroying a man’s career and defunding the debate team while your mom hosts a press conference explaining how her policies ended in scandal?”

  “Haven’t decided,” I growled. “I’m playing it by ear.”

  Ryder was on his way out when I walked up the driveway to my house. He looked a little steadier on his feet than he had earlier.

  “My man,” he said, offering his fist for a bump. “Thanks for letting me crash here today. Your mom made me lasagna.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “Finalizing the bets for tomorrow’s game. See you then?”

  “See you then. Hey, Ryder—quick question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “How do people normally take LSD? Is it like, a pill?”

  He looked surprised for a second. “Can be. But usually it’s on blotting paper. You have the tray of chemicals, and you dip the paper in, and then cut the paper up into tabs. Why?”

  “Just curious. Any other ways?”

  “Yeah, you can also use a dropper and place it into food, sugar cubes, or something else. Blotting paper’s the best, though, because it cuts down on the amount of additives. Less chance of strychnine or something being added.”

  I shuddered involuntarily. “Okay. Thanks.”

  That night for dinner I ate Ryder’s leftovers and I watched my parents go about their evening tasks: Organizing the recycling bin. Listening to Which Way, L.A.? on NPR. Cracking the windows to get some night air. Turning on the TV for Flip That House.

  I wondered if Bridget had the right idea about splitting town, even if she just went to UC Irvine.

  It hit me like a car flipping over—like that time in the match against Sylmar last year when their midfielder tripped me and I rolled four times after I hit the ground. If Ellie didn’t go to school with me, I had to leave. If I stayed here, I would atrophy. My feet would get stuck in the quicksand of Palm Valley and drag me down until the sky disappeared forever.

  It started out small.

  I couldn’t breathe through my nose. Then the infection spread to my mouth, my throat. I couldn’t inhale, couldn’t get enough air, like my body was rejecting oxygen, even though without it I would pass out.

  “Mom,” I called weakly. “Mom.”

  “Charlie?” she came back into the kitchen. “Are you all right? What’s wrong? You look all red.”

  “Can’t—can’t—”

  “Breathe, sweetie.” Her hand felt nice on my back, her fingers five points of strength to concentrate on. “Did you eat too quickly? Food go down the wrong side?”

  I shook my head. It was just like her to assume it was a physical problem, a logical problem. No one in the Dixon family would have a panic attack. That wouldn’t make any sense, because every problem had a clear-cut answer; every problem could be talked through. Maybe in her world. I wished Granddad were here. He would see what it was all about, even if he didn’t know the details.

  “It’s been a long week,” I said, my voice hoarse. I have to throw a game tomorrow. I have to decide what to do about the flash drive, the kids at school, Bridget, Ellie. If I could just pass out and skip everything tomorrow … if I could just pass out …

  “Why don’t you come into the den, watch some TV. Get your mind off things?” she suggested. “We’ll watch whatever you want.” She smiled. “Even something with ‘Extreme’ in the title.”

  I wiped my eyes. “No, I’m okay, I’m okay. I have homework to do.”

  She tried to stroke my hair, but I dodged away. There was a finality to the movements, like maybe this was the last time she and I would do that. I gathered my dishes and walked to the sink.

  “Call us if you need anything,” Mom said.

  She just wanted someone to comfort. Was that so awful, really?

  Maybe the real reason she liked Ryder was because he let her.

  I logged on to instant messaging. Waited five minutes, cracked my knuckles. Paced around my room like an ultimate fighter waiting for his opponent to show up.

  And there he was: BM.

  “Hi, Badtz-Maru,” I typed.

  “You found it,” BM typed back.

  We chatted for a while.

  It was very enlightening.

  When we were done chatting, I sent a mass e-mail to BM, Maria Posey, Bridget, and Mr. Donovan.

  “You’re invited!” said the subject line jovially. It was a dick move, but I was in a dick mood. The body of the e-mail read: “To an auction. Winner takes all. I have the flash drive. It can be yours if the price is right. Saturday night, Quartz Hill. Map and address to follow.”

  THROWING THE GAME

  ON FRIDAY, I PUT ALL THOUGHTS OF THE FLASH DRIVE ASIDE. I had a game to lose.

  I hadn’t seen Ryder all day, but that wasn’t uncommon. I sort of hoped he was hiding out at my house again, since that seemed the safest option.

  Two-thirds of the school had turned out for the match, and about a hundred fans from Agua Dulce were bussed in as well, their faces painted white and green.

  Our colors were red and yellow. The Palm Valley Desert Rats. I mean, Cats. I was the only rat. I felt sick during warm-ups, but I felt a little sick before most games, not just games where I was playing double agent. Were you still a double agent if the other side didn’t know you were helping them?

  Maybe something miraculous would happen, like a tied game for eighty minutes, and then an accidental own goal that bounced off my foot. Then Ryder would get his money, Griffin would lose his, no one at Palm Valley would hate me (for long), and I’d never have to actively work against my own team again.

  I jogged past the stands and made sure to point the happy-go-lucky finger guns at the two clogged pores who’d helped me earlier in the week. I did this mostly to convince myself I still kept promises. They waved back, thrilled by the acknowledgment, their arms around their surprisingly existent girls, a bucket of popcorn shared between them.

  My gaze drifted over the stands. My parents were here. Ellie was here.

  Griffin was here.

  And that’s what did it, in the end. Injected me with the adrenaline and courage to focus and get this done. If Griffin had been a real older bro
ther, a decent older brother, Ryder would be right here on the field with me. He would’ve risen to the top, the star player of the school. I was convinced of it. I wanted to see Griffin’s rotten, crooked smirk disappear when he realized he was going to lose his money.

  We took our positions and the ref blew the whistle and it was time. Floppy-haired, cokehead-looking Steve, my target, had a new attribute: besides the floppy hair, which you really shouldn’t see in high school soccer, he was limping a little on his left side.

  He saw me noticing and gave me a dirty look. I grinned back, full wattage. “Havin’ a little trouble with your ACL?” I asked. “Gee, that suuuuucks.”

  “Shove it up your ass, Dixon,” he retorted.

  Ah, the thrill of competition brought out the most elegant use of language.

  As usual, most of the action was at the opposite end of the field. Our team was good. I used to be part of that action. Now I kept track of it from afar.

  Something miraculous happened pretty quickly, all right, but it wasn’t in my favor. Agua Dulce surrendered a goal in the third minute. The third minute! It took me a second to remember I’d better look happy about it, so I raced over and jumped on Josh’s back. He was startled and annoyed. We weren’t buddies. During most games, we weren’t even on the field at the same time. But he eventually indulged my high five.

  Inside, I was burning with resentment: 1–0 meant I didn’t just have to foul Steve and try to give him a penalty kick. Now I had to do it twice.

  The crowd was chanting “De-lin-sky, De-lin-sky!”

  Fuck Delinksy and his ability to pull the trigger from thirty yards out. That used to be me. I was feeling 347 different kinds of anger. The only one missing was “justified anger.” Maybe Ellie was right about me; maybe I’d gotten more aggressive in the past year, and Coach wanted that aggression on defense. Or maybe—and it killed me to think this—maybe Delinsky was simply a better player than I was. Maybe I’d lost my touch, and defense was the only place Coach could transfer me and still keep me on the team.