“Where are you?”
“At your house. Duh. Cole and Roger are here, too.”
“And Lydia!” I hear in the background.
Peyton giggles. “Oh, yeah. And Lydia. She’s wearing a shirt that makes her look like the Chiquita banana lady.”
“Nuh-uh!” Lydia says. Then more giggles from Peyton, loud enough that I’m sure Vonzelle can hear.
“Is Tracy there?” I ask tensely.
“Yeah, she’s here. She is so hilarious.”
I don’t like the sound of that—and I’m pissed that Tracy’s there and not here. “How is she hilarious?”
“I don’t know. Just, Oh, look, teenagers drinking wine coolers. Got enough to share? So I gave her a four-pack, and she disappeared upstairs.”
“You have wine coolers?”
“Relax,” she says in a tone that makes me anything but relaxed. It’s a tone that says, Carly, you’re overreacting. But I’m not overreacting. She’s living it up in my house while I’m stuck in the Peachtree Battle parking lot. She’s being all cool-relaxed-Peyton in front of Cole, who’s no doubt hearing her end of the conversation and thinking how un-cool-and-relaxed I am. But Peyton’s not cool. Peyton’s a giggler. And wine coolers???
“They’re, like, four percent alcohol,” Peyton says. “Just get here, okay? I want you to see my extensions.”
“Let me speak to Anna.”
“Got to go—someone’s at the door. Bye!”
I close my phone. I turn to Vonzelle, feeling defensive before she says a word. I am a slab of fudge slowly hardening as it cools, only minus any sweetness.
“Peyton’s at your house?” Vonzelle asks.
“Anna told her our parents were going to be out of town,” I say. “She basically invited herself.” I jut my chin. “And then Peyton invited Cole and Roger, pretty much.”
“And they’re drinking?”
“Apparently.” And so is Tracy.
Vonzelle appraises me. “You seem really angry.”
“Well, I’m not.”
She doesn’t believe me. Well, fine. I don’t believe me, either. I wish I could say that to Vonzelle. I wish I could just open my heart and say, God, this sucks, I’m sorry. But I can’t. My insides have locked up.
“Is anyone coming to get us?” she asks.
“No, we have to walk.” I pick up my bag, and my fingernail grazes one of the pieces of plywood. The polish smears.
I start across the parking lot. Vonzelle doesn’t immediately follow, and I’m sure she’s wishing she never said she’d spend the night. But I don’t know how to make things better. Or maybe I’m too wound up inside to make things better. Either way, “better” is out of my reach.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
HARD CANDY
It’s a long walk home, most of it uphill, and my arms are killing me before we’re halfway there. I’ve got the heaviest and most awkward load, but I don’t ask Vonzelle to switch with me, and she doesn’t offer. In fact, we don’t talk at all. We just walk. We walk the way Mom does on her power walks, only I’m fueled by anger rather than the desire to burn calories. I don’t know about Vonzelle.
As we approach my driveway, my anxiety level spikes. There are multiple cars parked along the street, and three lined up in the driveway niche in front of the house. One is Roger’s mom’s station wagon, which Roger drives when he doesn’t take his motorcycle. One is a black BMW convertible. The third is a sky-blue Karmann Ghia that I think belongs to a Holy Roller senior.
Through the windows, I see kids I don’t know. My heart thrums.
“Did you invite these people?” Vonzelle says.
“Are you kidding?” I say, giving her a sharp look.
She shoots me an equally sharp look in return. “Well, you invited other people without telling me.”
God, I need to stop taking it out on her. “I know,” I mutter. “Sorry.”
Her expression hardly changes. As I stride toward the front door, I think, I am going to kill Anna. Anna. Is. Dead.
Inside is chaos. Music throbs against my eardrums—guess someone found Dad’s stereo system with full-house surround sound. Mixed in with the music are raucous people sounds, like laughter and “Dude!”s and a chanted countdown coming from the kitchen.
In the den I find Derek from my math class watching the Sports Network on the flat screen with Chuck, whose Hummer I rode in when we delivered stockings.
“Carly!” Chuck calls. “Big ups on the party, babe!”
“Please take your feet off the coffee table,” I say.
He grins, but complies.
“And you have to use coasters. God.”
“Coasters?”
I put down my Ace Hardware bag, march into the room, and grab the leather case of coasters from the mantel over the fireplace. I smack two Indian-themed coasters onto the coffee table and set each boy’s beer on one.
Where did the beer come from? Wine coolers and beer? Crap, crap, crap.
I try to hide my shakiness as I leave the den. Vonzelle and I stare at each other, and we drop our anger. The fact that there is a full-on party happening requires us to join forces.
“Come on,” she says. “We better see how bad it is.” She puts her duck-food bag next to mine and uses her foot to push both bags against the wall of the entryway.
In the living room we see several junior girls drinking Dad’s brandy from his brandy snifters.
“What is wrong with y’all?” I say, going over and grabbing the brandy. I put it back on the shelf and leave the room. Seconds later, I hear them burst out laughing.
“More brandy, please, Lola,” one of the girls says.
Giggling-bumping sounds tell me Lola’s getting it down again, and I curse my stupidity. I should have taken it with me. I should have hidden it.
In the kitchen, I find Anna, Peyton, Cole, Roger, Lydia, and Trista. Trista?! What is she doing here? But back to Trista later, because my eyes can’t help but return to Peyton. Her blond hair reaches her butt. It used to reach midway down her back, and now she can sit on it. She is sitting on it, looking proud.
“What do you think, Carly?” she says. She lifts her butt, frees the ends with a swipe of her hands, and flips her movie-star hair the way a movie star very well might.
“She got extensions,” Lydia says. Her irises are glazed, and I think, Since when did “I’ll pray for you” Lydia start drinking? “Doesn’t she look glamorous?”
She does look glamorous . . . but she’s got someone else’s hair glued to her head. Does no one but me find this unnatural? Not to mention that in India, where the donated hair comes from, I’m pretty sure the women aren’t blond. No blond religious pilgrims, which means the monks or whoever must have taken some Indian woman’s shaved-off dark hair and processed it to make it Caucasian pale.
“It took for-frickin’-ever,” Peyton says. “I have to use this special brush now, and I can’t get my hair wet for three days.” She giggles and casts her eyes at Cole. “Guess I’ll have to get someone to give me a sponge bath.”
Ugh. Enough. I glance around the kitchen table and take in the whole of what’s going on. Peyton is on one side of Cole, while Trista’s on the other. There is a heaping plate of brownies in front of them. Anna, I realize, is wearing my potato-print peace shirt. It’s snug and looks way better on her than it ever looked on me.
“Anna?” I say dangerously.
She smiles brightly. Too brightly. “Carly! You’re here!”
“You’re wearing my shirt.” I can’t believe that of all the things I could say, this is what comes out of my mouth. But it is.
“Is that all right? I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Well, I do, I think.
“I’ll change if you want,” she tacks on.
“No, it’s fine,” I say shortly. Like I’m really going to tell her in front of Cole and everyone else that she can’t borrow a stupid shirt. I shoot beams of fury at her. She looks confused.
“Hey, Carly,�
� Cole says. He grins and lifts his beer in welcome. “Come. Sit.”
“No thanks,” I say. How can he be so . . . at ease? Does he not get—or care—that this is my house and I didn’t invite these people and maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to “come sit” like an obedient puppy?
“I’m having a Coke,” Roger says. I give him the briefest of glances. His Adam’s apple jerks. “Want me to get you one?”
I don’t respond. My eyes go to Trista, whose body language suggests that she doesn’t want to be here any more than I want her here.
“Anna, I need to talk to you,” I say.
Anna rises from her chair. She hesitates.
“Now,” I say.
Vonzelle says, “I’ll go check on the ducks,” and leaves the room.
I go to the far end of the kitchen, over by the back door. Anna joins me, gnawing her lip. The kitchen-table crew goes back to whatever drinking game they’re playing, and they’re noisy enough that we can talk without being overheard.
“What the hell?” I say to her.
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“I am so mad at you, Anna. I am so mad.”
She blanches. “At me? Why are you mad at me?”
“Don’t,” I say. I can barely stand to look at her. “God, Anna. Do you know we could be expelled for this?” Holy Redeemer has a strict student conduct policy, and students can be punished even for offenses that occur off school property.
Her shoulders hitch up. “I didn’t invite all these people. Why are you acting like this is my fault?”
“Why is Trista here?” I say in a low voice.
“I don’t know,” Anna says. She tries to get me to look at her, but I refuse. “Carly, I did not invite these people.”
“But you invited Peyton, which is the same thing.”
“No, I didn’t,” she says.
“Fine. But you told her Mom and Dad were going out of town, which is the same thing.”
She looks scared. Caught out. “I didn’t tell Peyton anything. I swear.”
“Why are you lying? Stop being such a baby and just own up to it.”
“Carly—”
“No, seriously, Anna. You tell me I’m not allowed to call you my little sister since you’re such a big girl now.” I say “a big girl” in a tone loaded with sarcasm, and hurt registers in her eyes.
“But guess what?” I go on. “Just because your boobs are all grown up doesn’t mean you are. And for the record, you look like—” I press my lips together, because I want to say a slut. I want to call my sister a slut. “You look like trash in my shirt. It’s way too tight.”
The way she draws back makes my gut cramp. But I remind myself that she brought it on herself. I can’t maintain eye contact, so I glance back at the kitchen table. Peyton is in high flirt mode, with rosy cheeks and butt-length hair that she flips and flips. Trista doesn’t like it. I don’t, either.
“Screw you,” Anna says, all at once tremblingly angry. She goes straight to the Sub-Zero and gets a wine cooler. She twists off the top and chugs it, challenging me with her gaze. She downs the whole thing.
“Oh, that’s so mature,” I hiss. “That’s really the way to prove you’re grown-up, drinking wine coolers.”
She acts as if I’m not there. She gets a second wine cooler, holds the refrigerator door open with her knee while she gets its cap off, and says, “Peyton? Trista? Anyone need another?”
“Heck yeah!” Peyton says. Then she sees my face. She gets concerned—or pretends to be concerned—and comes over. Her hair is longer than her skirt. How can she go to Tuesday-night Bible study and wear a skirt that short?
“What’s going on?” she says. The scent of her Hard Candy perfume drips over me like apple-caramel syrup.
“Carly thinks I need a babysitter,” Anna says. “She thinks everything she does is right, and everything I do is wrong. Oh, and she thinks I’m trash.”
Peyton’s eyes widen.
“I didn’t say—” I break off, wrapping my arms around my ribs. I am so over both of them. I mean, God. Peyton used to chuck golf balls into the bathtub with me to crack their outer shells, so we could find the vinegar-smelling cores inside. And now she’s giving my sister wine coolers and flirting with the boy she knows I like?
Anna gulps her wine cooler.
“Is something wrong, Carly?” Peyton says. “Are you all right?”
Just shut up, I tell her in my mind. She is so fake. “I’m fine. Go back to your friends. Have fun.”
“Are you having opinions again, Carly?” she says. “Are we breaking Carly’s Rules of Life by engaging in underage drinking?” She uses air quotes to be funny.
I don’t laugh. She rolls her eyes.
“JK. LOL. Enter,” she says. “God, Carly.” She turns to the table. “You guys, Carly’s mad. She thinks we’re corrupting her sister.”
“Naw, man, your sister’s awesome,” Cole says. His words are slightly slurred. “She’s a babe, Carls. She made us brownies.”
She’s a babe? She made us brownies? And this is supposed to make things better how?!
“We’re not corrupting you, don’t worry,” Peyton says to Anna, putting her arm around her.
“I know,” Anna says. She rests her head on Peyton’s shoulders because they’re wine-cooler buddies now. Yippee for them.
My glance chances upon Trista, who’s holding Cole’s arm and not smiling. She’s not eating a brownie, either.
“Where’s Tracy?” I ask Anna frostily.
Anna takes a gulp of her second wine cooler.
“She’s upstairs in your parents’ bedroom,” Peyton says. She giggles. “She’s drunk.”
I leave the kitchen, half aware of Roger following me. In the dining room, some guy is standing on our ten-foot-long mahogany table, reaching for the teardrop pendant at the bottom of the Waterford chandelier.
“Get off the table,” Roger says in disgust.
The guy sees us. “Heyyyy,” he says. “You’re Roger, right? I know you.”
“Oh my God,” I say.
“Get off the table,” Roger commands.
“Dude,” the guy says, holding up his hands. He hops off the table, trips, and laughs. “Ow. That hurt like shit.”
A senior named Travis barges through the front door. “Keg’s here!” he heralds.
A keg? I lean on the dining-room table. I try to breathe.
“No keg,” Roger says. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him stride to the entry hall and turn Travis around. “Wrong house, buddy.”
“But—”
“Wrong house,” Roger repeats. He’s a foot taller than Travis, and he pushes Travis out the door.
“I’ve got to sit down,” I say to myself. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Yes!” someone crows in the kitchen, and there’s the scuffling of chairs being pushed back. Peyton runs through the dining room with Anna. They’re flushed. They’re each holding a brown leather boot, and, laughing hysterically, they dash upstairs.
“Don’t worry, Tris,” Cole says, emerging from the kitchen. “I’ll get them.” He grins at me and shakes his head. “They stole Trista’s boots.”
“Why?” I say dumbly.
“Now, that’s the mystery, isn’t it?” Cole says, amused. He saunters through the dining room.
Roger comes to me. “You okay?”
I shake my head.
He looks at me. I don’t look at him.
“Want me to kick everyone out?”
I say nothing.
“I’m going to kick everyone out,” he states. A second or two ticks by. “Carly?”
“I’m going to have some alone time,” I say. I’m pretty much having an out-of-body experience. I climb the stairs mechanically. At the far end of the hall, I see Vonzelle pounding on the door to Mom and Dad’s suite.
“Tracy!” she calls. “Tra-cy!”
I go to my room and lock the door. I sit on the edge of my bed. I gaze at nothing. After a fe
w moments, I rise, walk around the bed, and go into my bathroom.
“Hi, ducks,” I say, kneeling by the tub. “Beans. Dandelion. Voodoo Baby.”
Beans quacks, and I stroke his little head. His eyes are bright black seeds.
Voodoo Baby cautiously approaches. She pulls her wings back, but she doesn’t hiss. She steps an inch closer, and I realize she wants attention, she just doesn’t know how to ask for it without coming across all voodoo-freaky. Poor little thing.
“Come here, Voodoo.” I cup her in my hand, and her tiny wings flap crazily. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “You’re okay. You’re a duck, and you’re okay.”
I keep my hands firmly around her body. I feel her heartbeat. I notice oily flakes beneath her fluff-feathers, and I push the feathers around to check it out.
“You need a bath,” I say. “You’re all scaly.”
I put Voodoo Baby back in the tub and grab the plastic bucket. I fill it with water from the sink, making sure it’s neither too hot nor too cool, and try to lose myself in the chore-ness of it. Because ducks need water. Ducks need to bob about and do happy duck things. Anna can get wasted and stupid, see if I care. I’m going to let Voodoo Baby take a dip.
“Come on,” I say. I lower her into the water, and she flaps her wings and paddles about. She swims from one side of the bucket to the other, and she is happy. She is. The pleasure I feel is fierce—and not exactly pleasurable, to tell the truth—but this dumb duck is happy, so there.
I watch her for a bit. Then I stretch out on my blue fluffy bath mat and stare at the ceiling. I drape my right hand over the top of the bucket and dangle my fingers in the water to let Voodoo Baby know I’m still here. A few moments later, I feel an exploratory nibble. Tears well in my eyes.
I lie like that for a long time . . . but not long enough. Someone raps on my bedroom door, and I hear Roger call, “Carly? You in there?”
Can I not answer? Can I just hide with the ducks all night and let everyone fend for themselves?
“Carly, Chuck peed in your living room.”
I scramble to my feet. “What?!”
“He peed. On the wall.”
I hurry from the bathroom and open my door. From downstairs, I hear some guy say, “Chuck! Dude!”
Peace, Love, and Baby Ducks Page 21
