by Cyn Balog
She shrugs. “Since when do you need to take a shower on a Friday? Ohhhh,” she says, raising her eyebrows a couple of times. “Hot date with Wish?”
“Mom. Ew.” She still hasn’t given up on her mission to help me get it on with Wish, but I’m too panicked to correct her. I start to do a mental inventory of everything I would use water for, besides showering off the crud I’ve accumulated from a particularly boring game of flag football in gym. Though I pretty much imitated a tree the entire time, it was hot outside, and well … as I mentioned, I’m a sweat machine. Great, I’ll have to hope that my antiperspirant can perform miracles. Other than that … no teeth brushing. No flushing the toilets. Oh, hell, this is a disaster! And suddenly, I’m thirsty. “How long until the repair guy gets here?”
“He gave me a window of between noon and eight today.”
“Window? That’s like a giant black hole!” I moan. Okay, time to reassess the situation. Water. Where can I get fresh water? Of course! Melinda’s, next door. “Do you think Melinda would mind if I used one of her—”
“The whole block is out.”
“Oh.” I open the fridge and look for a container of water, anything I might use to work up a little lather with. Nothing. This is desperate. A car door slams. I run to the window and see a flash of red speeding away and Evie bounding up the stairs and smiling like she’s in her own maxi-pad commercial, completely unaware of the horrors that await her once she enters the apartment. Beyond her, down the block, I see the dunes, and the boardwalk, where the beach entrance is. And right there …
A fountain!
A glimmer of hope ignites. Okay, it’s been forever since I’ve been to the beach, and even when I was a kid making sand castles, that fountain was only powerful enough to dribble pathetically, like a drooling baby. Still, it’s more than I have going for me here. If Mr. Repairman hasn’t crawled out of his black hole to fix our water situation by eight o’clock, that’s the master plan.
Meanwhile, Evie’s face has just run the gamut from confusion to horror to denial, and now she is turning the knobs on the bathroom sink and moaning. As if she wouldn’t look perfectly scrumptious after spending two months fighting for life in the Australian outback. I decide not to tell her about Operation Fountain and let her fend for herself.
At seven-forty-five, Mr. Repairman is still somewhere in a galaxy far, far away. I’m still in my cutoff sweat shorts and sticky bun–stained T-shirt, and Wish is going to pick me up in just over an hour. All I’ve done to prepare for the night is pop the pimple on my chin and eat another two jelly donuts. I feel drops of sweat dampening my forehead from the pressure. Still, I load up a plastic bag with my toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, and razor, and slip out the door. I don’t think I’ll have the nerve to shave my legs at the fountain, but who knows? I could get brave. Luckily, it has stopped raining, and the stars are popping out everywhere, bright in the sky. I hurry down the street, past Melinda’s, and am just about to climb the ramp to the boardwalk when I see it.
Wish’s truck.
It’s parked right outside the entrance to the beach and it’s covered in raindrops. What is he doing here? Shouldn’t he be at home, getting ready for the party? Maybe he decided to catch a few waves with his board beforehand. That’s the good thing about being a guy: you don’t have to launch yourself off the cliff of madness, spending hours upon hours preparing for a party. Still, he is interfering with Operation Fountain. Like I’d be able to shave my legs there now?
My first instinct is to run in the other direction. Not only do I look like a goober in my ratty shorts and T-shirt, but I’m carrying my toiletries like a bag lady. But then I see his longboard peeking out of the back of his truck. So what is he doing out there? I can’t help it: I find myself creeping toward the steps to the beach, toward the black horizon, where the gray storm clouds are moving out to sea. The wind whips through the dunes, whistling as it blows through the grass, and as the wet sand crunches under my bare feet, I see him. Not in his wet suit, on the waves, but on a dark blanket stretched out on the shore. He’s lying there motionless, as if sunbathing, or worshipping, beneath the quiet black sky. The moon and the stars shine on his bare chest, making it glow yellow, like a lone dim bulb. I swallow, and the wind feels cool on the new sweat that’s just sprung up on my hairline. Something about this scene is wrong. Not just that he’s sunbathing where there is no sun, but that his chest doesn’t seem to move … not at all. Not even to rise and fall with every breath.
It reminds me that I am forgetting to breathe. I take in the salty sea air and exhale slowly as a seagull screeches. Wish’s body stirs and he springs upright, looking around. His back is to me, so I don’t think he notices me, but he runs his hands through his hair, visibly shaking and tense, more agitated than I’ve ever seen him. He grabs handfuls of sand and throws it everywhere as a string of curses, horrible, vicious words I’ve never heard sweet Wish use before, spew from his mouth. He breathes once or twice, then settles back down again. Silent. Dead.
My only thought is That’s not him. That’s not Wish. I quickly make my way down the ramp, shivering all the while, wishing I could purge my memory of the last few moments. But I know that just wanting that means it will be etched there forever.
23
I MANAGED TO FIND ENOUGH SALIVA in my mouth to brush my teeth without water, and my legs don’t feel too much like sandpaper. Well, at least they didn’t, before I started to accumulate a goose bump per second, waiting for Wish to arrive. Now you could probably use my legs to grate cheese. And I feel like there’s something hard and heavy pushing on my chest.
Speaking of not breathing … that had to be a mistake. Obviously he was breathing really, really slowly. Or maybe he was on the verge of dying. Yes, maybe he’s lying on the beach, dead, and will not be coming to pick me up tonight.
There’s a knock on the door. If that is him, he must have gotten over his childhood fear of our rickety staircase, because this is the first time in forever he’s knocked on the door instead of shooting pebbles at my window. Beyond the lacy white curtains, I can see Wish’s body framed in the porch light my mother leaves on whenever we’re expecting company. Guess I can cross “dead” off my list.
I spend so long staring at the door that my mom gives me a look. “Hon, when someone outside knocks on the door, they usually want the person inside to open it.”
I slowly walk to the door. The metal of the doorknob feels cold on my fingertips. I pull it open and try to look into his eyes but can manage only a quick glance at his perfect Adam’s apple before I chicken out and fasten my gaze on his flip-flops. “Hi!” he says, so unlike that scary guy who was cursing on the beach earlier.
“Hey,” I say. “Ready?”
I don’t wait for him to say anything; I quickly pull the door closed behind us and keep looking at his flip-flops. I never noticed this before, but he has a pinky toe that likes to hide behind his second-smallest toe. “So what’s up?” he asks me when we’re sitting in his truck, as if he wasn’t lying dead on a beach not an hour ago. His voice is a lot cheerier than it was earlier today.
“Um, not much,” I say. Funny, though I still have an arsenal of topics of conversation at my disposal, the only one I can think of is Why the Hell Were You Lying on the Beach, Looking Dead?
His cell phone starts to ring. He rolls his eyes, reaches over with one hand, and turns it off without even checking the display. Then he shifts into first and clears his throat. “Oh, hey … sorry about this afternoon. I was just … in a mood. The rain. It bothers me.”
I steal a glance at him. He’s definitely back to the godlike Wish. The blinding smile is back, as is that glow in his eyes. No dead, yellow tinge to his tan, either. There’s nothing even remotely lifeless about him. “No problem.”
“Hey, I got something for you,” he says, reaching across to my side of the truck. At first I think he’s going to tweak my bare knee with his formerly dead hand, but instead he opens up the glove compartment and rif
les around in it for a while. He pulls out a Madonna CD. Madonna. Like anyone listens to her anymore. “Your favorite, right?”
“Um, well …,” I begin.
“You mean, you don’t listen to Madonna anymore?” he says in mock disappointment. Then he laughs. “You were her total slave when we were kids.”
“I was a dork,” I mutter, but have to laugh. “Thanks.”
“Was?” He grins. “Seriously, though, I found this in my room. You must have left it at my house and it got mixed in with my stuff. Want it back?”
“No,” I say immediately. As far as I care, he can use it as a Frisbee.
“Cool. ’Cause, you know, I listen to it. And every time I do, I think of you.”
At first I’m thinking, How sweet, but then I realize that the song that probably makes him think about me is “Like a Virgin,” which even my butt-tweaking of late has done very little to conceal. “Oh.”
He stuffs it back into the glove compartment. We drive for a few moments in silence, and then, suddenly, Wish erupts, like he’s been holding this song in forever, dying to let it out. “Open your heart to me, bay-beeee!” he sings. “I hold the lock and you hold the key.”
Oh my gosh, he really has been listening to it. I screw up my face in disgust.
He laughs. “What’s that look all about? You don’t like my singing?”
I can’t shake the image of him lying on the sand. “I saw you, you know. On the beach.”
He raises his eyebrows as he shifts into a higher gear and we sail over the bridge to the mainland. “Well. Sometimes it helps me to think.”
Think. About what? About how he’s going to unload his ball and chain? I take a breath. “Are you trying to think of a way to break up with me?”
He pauses for a moment, during which my entire life flashes in front of my eyes, and then he bursts out laughing. “What?”
Immediately, I feel stupid, though I can’t tell if that’s a “What? Don’t be silly,” or a “What? Damn, you’ve got me figured out.” “I mean, it’s okay if that’s what you want. Really.” I put on my bravest smile, the one I’ve worked for days perfecting in anticipation of the breakup. Over the past few days, I’ve almost come to be okay with losing Wish as my boyfriend.
“Really?” He turns to study me for a second before downshifting. Then he sniffs dramatically. “I thought I meant more to you than that.”
He pretends to wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. Okay, so make a joke of my impending heart attack. Whatever. Clearly this is not the best time to discuss this. “No, I mean … That’s not what I meant. Just forget it.”
We drive into a neighborhood I’ve never been to before, with imposing stucco mansions spaced far apart atop perfect golf course lawns. Wish acts as if it’s any old place, as if he’s used to it, but I suck in what’s left of the oxygen in the truck’s cabin and grasp the armrest. I’ve been so busy lately thinking about Wish that I forgot I’ll be spending the next few hours in the company of people who up until this week didn’t know I existed. When we pull up to Terra’s stately farmhouse with red shutters, I am dizzy. Still, I make it out the door without doing a face-plant into the unnaturally green and cushy grass near the curb. There is no way I am leading the way up the long driveway, past the red Mercedes convertible that probably cost more than my mother has ever made in her life, so I let Wish go first. He saunters up, like he belongs here, like he’s royalty, even though he’s wearing a worn black T-shirt and baggy shorts that hang on his frame like they belong to someone else.
We get to the front porch, where there isn’t even one spiderweb in a corner or stray footprint on the creamy-white-painted wood-planked floor, and all the bushes surrounding it are pruned into perfectly smooth, symmetrical orbs. I swallow a few times to make sure I’m still alive, and then I see the little jockey statue hanging out among the greenery, holding a lantern. When Wish reaches for the door, I notice that the knocker is a bronze horse head. Then I realize that every shutter has an outline of a horse carved in the center of it.
I smile a little for the first time tonight. So what if I’m the only one in the world who gets the joke?
Wish looks at me, then at the knocker, and grins. “I’ve always thought it must be the portrait of a long-lost Goldbar ancestor, too,” he says, reading my mind. “But don’t worry. There’s not a trough or a feed bag to be found inside.”
He knocks me speechless. I can feel myself blushing. Okay, so I might have convinced myself that I’d be okay without Wish as my boyfriend. But suddenly, one thing is clear to me: without him as my best friend, I don’t want to live.
24
WHEN THE DOOR OPENS, it’s Terra and Erica. Terra smiles big, shouts, “Hey, you!” and opens the screen door for us.
When we step inside, I try to hold back my awe, but it comes out in one big gasp. There are a chandelier above us that has enough bling to outfit an entire Oscar ceremony and two huge staircases on either side of us, leading up to a landing with imposing iron scrollwork. I think the Von Trapp kids might come running if I whistle. The floor is white marble with a little black inlaid stone here and there.
Terra and Erica must have gotten dressed together, or else each had a dark moment, because they’re both barefoot and wearing what look like identical black sundresses. Did they plan that? Isn’t dressing like clones of one another a major fashion faux pas? After all the detail they went into this morning, discussing what they were going to wear, they had to have known they were on the road to disaster … right? Maybe there is a code for these things that says you have to look like you’re going to a funeral. I didn’t even check to see if Melinda’s magic bag had a little black dress in it. I look down at my peach outfit and suddenly feel way too sunny and bright.
Wish gives them a once-over. “You guys look like twins.”
They glance at each other; then Terra shakes her head. “Boys are so silly,” she says to Erica, then places her thumbs under the straps of her sundress. “This is Nicole Miller. Hers is Betsey Johnson.”
I try to smile knowingly, like I’m not one of the silly people, though I have no idea what they’re talking about.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do they go to Cellarton High? Do they know you’ve been raiding their closets?”
They look at each other again, roll their eyes, and giggle, and then Terra grabs my hand. “Come on. We’re all in the game room.”
When I think “game room,” I think maybe a few shelves of Yahtzee and Monopoly. But she leads me downstairs, to a sprawling room with a giant pool table, a Ping-Pong table, a foosball table, and … a shuffleboard? A couple of guys are playing darts in the corner, by the bar. Wish joins them and Terra flops down on a couch with a group of girls from school. They don’t acknowledge me, because their noses and the entire lower halves of their faces are stuck in giant plastic cups. One girl starts crunching on ice and inspecting it. I think she asks Terra, “What is this stuff?” but I can’t tell for sure, because some crazy dance music is blaring from invisible speakers.
“So did you hear about Destiny?” Terra yells over the noise to the group. “She’s really sick. In the hospital. Her temperature was like a hundred and five after school.”
I note that she doesn’t seem worried about her friend, just excited that she is the one to convey this interesting bit of gossip. Across the room, in a nice secluded, dark corner, I can make out Rick, forehead to forehead with Evie. It definitely looks like she’s put the “we’re only friends” thing behind her. As if I didn’t call that one a mile away.
I’m about to go over and, I don’t know, beat some sense into her, maybe, when Terra jumps up and grabs what looks like a Dixie cup filled with lemon gelatin. By the time I realize what it is, she’s already thrusting it into my hand. “Come on. You’re way behind,” she tells me.
“Um, I …” What would be a good excuse for my not drinking at the first party of my high school career, other than that I’m a totally lame spineless jellyfish? Actually, tha
t’s probably the best reason out there to imbibe. Let’s see … recently had surgery? Am allergic to Jell-O? Had an unfortunate childhood experience involving lemons?
One of the girls narrows her eyes at me and whispers something to the girl next to her, something probably dripping with the words “lame” and “loser,” though who knows? This is the new Dough; those words were reserved for the old one.
Still, I pluck the little cup out of Terra’s hand. “Thanks.”
I think that maybe I can go to the bathroom and chuck it down the toilet, but then I realize that all the girls around the circle are staring at me, waiting. I smile and then tilt the cup to my lips. It’s Jell-O, so it just sits there. I squeeze the cup and hope it will come out, but still, nothing. This is clearly something one only gets good at with practice. I stick my tongue out and touch it. It’s gooey and bitter and just the smell of the alcohol is getting me light-headed. Get it over with, Dough. Hurry, they’re watching you. So I squeeze it as hard as I can and the whole giant glob tumbles into my mouth. Wincing, I swallow. It slides down my throat with only a little bit of burning. By the time I look back at my audience, my eyes are teary, and Terra is handing me another one. No sooner do I down it than the room starts to get blurry. The rest of the group goes back to talking and I try to act natural; well, as natural as a person can be when her esophagus is about to burst into flames. “Um, bathroom?” I ask Terra.
She points the way. I’ve heard there is an unwritten rule of bathroom etiquette that states that if you spend more than five minutes in the bathroom, people will think you are having stomach problems, so I exhaust four minutes and thirty seconds in this bathroom the size of my entire apartment grasping the edge of the sink and staring at my face in the mirror as it seems to bulge and constrict like a beating heart. Then I spend the next twenty seconds admiring the cute soaps Terra has, which are shaped and scented like pineapples.
