Friends and Other Liars

by Kaela Coble

  They all took turns coming with me to help carry Nancy’s deadweight into the house after she inevitably passed out on the short drive back from the bar. Danny was with me the last time, when we had to leave my sixteenth birthday celebration to pick her up. That was the very special day Nancy drunkenly told me she wished I’d never been born so she could actually have a little fun. Happy Sweet Sixteen, right? That was the last time I tried to save her, and the day I stopped calling her Mom. She didn’t remember it the next day, or at least she acted like she didn’t remember.

  I was surprised when Monty slapped my hand away as I tried to show him my driver’s license and pulled me into a hug instead, although we did have quite the special relationship back then. Besides the warning calls, there was the time a beer-bellied redneck got handsy with me as I pulled him off my mother. Monty dragged him into the alley and beat the shit out of him. So I guess Margie’s has produced one happy memory for me. Of course, that was followed by two months of harassment at Chatwick High from the redneck’s kids, who were forced to pick up the slack around the farm for a week because their father was out of commission. So, a bittersweet memory, I guess.

  Before I could even ask Monty how he was, he assured me Nancy wasn’t here tonight, that she hadn’t been in over ten years. Ally, who had her hand clamped on my elbow (I imagine more in an effort to prevent my escape than to stay linked as we navigated the crowd of smokers outside the bar), explained to him that I am here to be with friends tonight, not to drag my mother out by her hair.

  By the time the crew was exhausted from the day’s drama, it had grown dark outside Charlene’s basement windows. Charlene once again retreated to her room and wouldn’t come out despite Ally’s and my attempts, so we joined the crew in the driveway where they were already making plans to meet up here. I had nodded with my fingers crossed behind my back. My plan was to shut myself in my childhood bedroom, pretending to answer client emails but really refreshing my computer screen every thirty seconds to see if a flight back to New York became available. Because Vermont’s main airport in Burlington is so small, the seat I vacated today to attend Danny’s “private reception” was the last seat back to New York until Sunday night—three days away.

  But Ally was one step ahead of me. I had just barely settled in and booted up my laptop, suddenly unsure if I could even connect to the internet in this house, when she showed up. She waved Aaron off in his LJ Construction truck as soon as her foot was in the door.

  “He has to go save our seats,” she said. “It gets rough down there.”

  As if I didn’t know that.

  “Plus, I thought it would be fun to ride down just us girls. I know Nancy hasn’t gotten rid of Blue. She brings it into Borbeau’s every six months or so. Danny worked on it himself.”

  The thought of Danny working on my car in the shop he’s worked at since high school makes me suddenly sick. All these years, Danny had worked on the car we spent hours tooling around in. We were still connected, and I didn’t even know it. It’s as if my car is haunted or something. Ally must have felt this too, because it silenced her for a full ten seconds. Then she brightened decidedly and dumped out the bag of clothes she brought for me, assuming—correctly, since I hadn’t planned on staying past the funeral—that I hadn’t packed an appropriate outfit for a night at a bar.

  We really didn’t need to drive. Margie’s is only about four blocks from my parents’ house—an absurdly lucky walking distance in New York but unheard of to walk here. Everyone drives everywhere in Chatwick. If you’re walking, you’re trash who can’t afford a car. The neighborhood about had a conniption when Nancy quit drinking and started taking daily walks to keep herself “centered.”

  The short ride down to the bar was quiet, and not in the comfortable, peaceful way our rides around the back roads of Chatwick used to be. The air was thick with questions we were both too afraid to ask, for fear of them being turned back around to ourselves. Now, at the bar, that doesn’t seem to be a problem. It only took a dead friend, a threatening letter, and three hours at Margie’s to catapult us from awkward estrangement to our new sense of normalcy. The one where we are all together without Danny.

  In an effort to fit in, I pipe up with my favorite story from our high school years. “Remember when Emmett ate the mushroom pizza?” I ask, eyeing him.

  “Oh. My. God. The mushroom pizza!” Ally cries. Murphy and Aaron throw their heads back in laughter.

  “What pizza?” Steph asks.

  I cock my head, not taking my eyes off Emmett while I ask, “Oh, you mean he never told you that story?”

  “Ruby…” he warns.

  “So we’re all at Danny’s about to try mushrooms for the first time,” I start, ignoring Emmett to the rest of the crew’s utter delight. “Emmett, of course, is all bent out of shape about it because he was all ‘Just say no’ about everything but booze. Back then, anyway.”

  We giggle, thinking about his recent dalliance with marijuana a good half-life after the rest of us.

  “So when Danny goes to dole them out, Emmett slaps the bottom of Danny’s hand, and the mushrooms go flying everywhere. Now, we’re out in the woods behind Danny’s house, and it’s dark out so we can’t see where they land. So Danny goes to get the flashlight Charlene always kept in the kitchen junk drawer, but it’s not there, so we have no choice but to give up the search until the next morning.”

  The others are hanging on my every word, Ally and Murphy and Aaron clutching at each other, knowing where the story is going but in suspense for the punch line nonetheless. Emmett crosses his arms and purses his lips, shaking his head, his face the color of Pepto-Bismol.

  “So we’re all pissed at Emmett, even though he swears up and down he didn’t mean to lose the ’shrooms, that he was even thinking about trying some…like we believed that! So we spend the night drinking instead, but what Emmett doesn’t know is before we went into the woods, Danny had cut up a couple of the ’shroom stems and spread them over the leftover pizza in his fridge. Charlene always had leftover pizza, and Emmett always ate it late night when things started winding down. You could almost set your watch to it. When Emmett started eating pizza, it was twenty minutes before everyone went to bed.”

  “He still does that,” Steph says, glancing lovingly at her boyfriend before seeing his now-fuchsia face and darting her eyes back to me, tucking her lips in to stifle a laugh.

  “So we all go to bed…Danny in his room with Jenny or Heather or whoever he was dating at the time, Aaron and Ally in the spare, Emmett in the basement, or so we thought.”

  I leave Emmett’s old girlfriend, Nicki, out of the sleeping arrangement discussion, because Emmett’s pissed enough at me already, and I don’t know yet whether Steph is the jealous type.

  “And Murphy and I are on the trampoline in the backyard, where we always slept in the summer because the couples always claimed all the beds. Well, the next thing I know, I feel like someone’s staring at me, and when I roll over, there’s Emmett, standing by the trampoline, his eyes so alert and wide open they practically glow in the dark, and he just says ‘Hi’ with this big dopey grin on his face.” I pause, giggling at the image of how cheerful he was, blissfully unaware of what was happening to him.

  “Then he starts babbling at the speed of light about how drugs are bad and we don’t need them and didn’t we have a great time just drinking and hanging out”—Ally points out here how ironic this is—“and then he gets distracted by something and starts running around the yard mumbling something about ‘the goddamn fairies.’” This gets big laughs, although I remember being completely freaked out about it at the time.

  “I wake up Murphy to help me get him under control, but he of course makes it worse, pointing out things in the woods that aren’t really there and then pretending like he never said it.” I give Murphy, who’s moved closer to me now, a playful punch on the arm, and Emmett does the
same.

  “Dude, I was sixteen!” Murphy says, laughing. “I was an asshole.” At least he admits it.

  “So Emmett takes off into the woods, and Murphy the hero passes right back out, and I can’t wake him up again, so I have to go inside and wake Danny and Aaron to go out and find Emmett—with no flashlights, mind you—while Ally and I argue over how long to wait before we wake up Charlene or call the police.”

  “I still feel like we should have woken her up right away,” Ally says. She also doesn’t mention Nicki’s role in the story, which was to cry and wail, convinced her boyfriend had been abducted.

  “I didn’t want to get Danny in trouble!” I say. I’m momentarily knocked off course when I hear myself say the words I’ve said too many times before.

  “So what happened?” Steph asks, prompting me back on track after a minute of staring into space.

  “Right. So right as we’re about to go wake Charlene up, Danny and Aaron drag Emmett in, dirt all over his face, and he’s holding”—I pause here for dramatic effect, and Steph leans in, her eyes wide—“the missing flashlight!”

  We all laugh at this, including Steph, but not Emmett. When I come up for air, I add, “He purposely hid it under the porch before we went out in the woods. He planned to ruin our night all along. Serves him right!”

  As the laughter dies down, Emmett starts nodding his head slowly and with a sadistic smile on his face. I know I’m in for it.

  “I could tell some stories about Ruby too,” he says, not taking his eyes off me.

  I ignore the tingling in my gut and put a challenging look into my eye. “Oh yeah? Try me.” I take a sip of my last allotted beer for the evening and wait. Emmett and I go way back, but we’ve never been the type of friends to confide in each other. I’m reasonably confident my “Danny secret” is safe.

  “Remember the time when Ruby finally got drunk, and she gave up her virg—”

  “Emmett!” Steph cries. The sound of his girlfriend’s voice wipes the snarl from his face. His eyes open wide, seeming to understand that he went too far, too fast. “I’m sorry,” Steph says. “His temper since the surgery…” And she leads him away from us like he’s her child who just misbehaved in front of company.

  I’m left behind, my face burning.

  “Hey, let’s dance!” Murphy cuts through the awkward silence. Before I can protest, he practically yanks me from my stool and shoves me out to the dance floor. The band plays “Folsom Prison Blues,” to which everyone roars approval, and they start stomping around, clapping their hands. I stand stock-still, too stunned at what Emmett was about to say to move my body in any kind of rhythmic fashion. It’s been so long since I’ve thought of any of that.

  I open my mouth to ask what the hell just happened, but Murphy holds his finger to his lips and takes my hand, spinning me under his raised arm. Soon Ally and Aaron join us, and I feel the sensation return to my feet. I look over to the bar, where it looks like Emmett is getting a dressing-down from Steph before she leaves him there to join us on the dance floor.

  Damn, I really like this girl.

  After a few minutes, Emmett makes his way over to us. He clasps my arm—to prevent me from leaving or socking him one, I’m not sure—and mouths I’m sorry. It’s so surprising he’s apologizing that I instantly forgive him. I remember now. This is what it’s like, what it was always like, the constant ebbs and flows of being with the crew. Drink. Gossip. Fight. Make up. Repeat.

  The song changes to “I Love This Bar,” which my friends seem to know every word to. They couple off and, as always, leave Murphy and me standing alone. He pulls me to him, and when I instinctively stiffen and try to pull back, he clutches me so tightly I can’t help but laugh.

  “No running away,” he says into my ear. “No more running away.”

  I keep the smile plastered on my face, but my eyes water, and I’m grateful we’re dancing the grade school way—my arms around his neck, his encircling my waist, my head safely looking over his shoulder. If we were dancing the traditional way, he would be able to see my tears and feel my sweaty palms. As it is, I have to reach up to get my arms around his shoulders, and it’s much more of a reach than it was the last time we danced.

  We turn slowly around the dance floor, every muscle in my body on high alert. His smell overwhelms me. Since I can’t seem to get away physically, I try to detach myself from this moment mentally by scanning the room as we spin. I notice at least four beams of hatred trained on me, and I wonder if the last dance at Margie’s with Murphy Leblanc is a coveted privilege. I think about asking him, but I find myself breathless, and not just because he’s holding me so tight. We’ve danced together like this a million times, always the ones left out together. The last time was senior prom. Jesus, I cannot think about senior prom.

  “You’re welcome,” he says into my hair.

  “Oh,” I say. “Thanks for the save. Emmett’s such an assh—”

  “I’m not talking about Emmett.”

  I look at him now. His eyes shine with the familiar spark of something only we know, a spark we’ve shared ever since the night Roger died. But this has nothing to do with Roger, just like our secrets don’t. I wasn’t sure before whether he was covering for us or not, but now I know.

  When finally, blessedly, the song ends, the bright overhead lights turn on and bathe the bar with a shocking reminder there is life outside Margie’s. I hug everyone goodbye, thinking as I do that I’ve actually made it through this roller coaster of a day. More importantly, I’ve made it through without my secret being outed. Now all I have to do is hide in my room for the rest of the weekend.

  But as the girls and I collect our purses from behind the bar, where Murphy had “his buddy” the bartender keep an eye on them, someone from the other side of the bar catches my eye. It takes me a second to place her, and by the time I do, she’s already made a beeline for me.

  “Ruby. Saint. James.” she says, sneering her emphasis on the “Saint.” She is thinner than I remember her, almost sickly thin, and her hair frames her face in two limp, greasy curtains. Her eyes are bloodshot; her nostrils, pink-rimmed. The years have not been kind to her. I try to appear as if this girl’s presence is a happy surprise, but my breath is caught in my throat.

  “Brandy…”

  “McCallister,” she scoffs, mistaking my panic for forgetfulness. If only she knew I have never forgotten her full name. That sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with it on the tip of my tongue.

  “McCallister, right. How are you?” I smile weakly. The fluorescent lights grow brighter, doing nothing to hide the harsh reality of Brandy’s appearance.

  “It’s actually not McCallister anymore,” she says, flashing a diamond the size of a flea.

  “Oh?”

  “It’s Crane. Mrs. Hardy Crane.” The name causes an instantaneous flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but she says it with a flourish, like she’s been rehearsing this moment for a decade.

  Suddenly it feels like I’m trying to swallow sand. “Oh!” I say. “How wonderful.” I risk a glance around to see if Hardy himself is here to haunt me.

  “He’s not here,” she says, following my gaze smugly, mistaking my fear for interest.

  “He’s at home with the kids. Girls’ night out.” She points to a posse of girls who are watching us carefully. Like Brandy, they are dressed in age-inappropriate clothing fished out of the clearance bin at the Fashion Bug off I-89. If their outfits weren’t so tight, I would have been worried about concealed weapons, the way they’re looking at me.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve changed much,” Brandy says. “Still running around after other girls’ men.” She looks at Murphy. “Where’s Krystal tonight, Murphy?”

  I look at Murphy, who rolls his eyes. My instinct, my inner Chatwickian, wants to ask him who the hell Krystal is, wants to defend myself to Brandy that I have
no idea who she’s talking about, that I’m a different person now. But I don’t. I’m not going to allow myself to go back down this road, back to high school. “Well, best of luck to you, Brandy,” I say and turn to leave.

  She grabs my elbow, clamping down with all her might. She leans in and snarls into my ear, “If you think you can just saunter back into town and—”

  “Back off, Brandy.” Ally steps in between us.

  Brandy instantly drops her grip, but she doesn’t step back. “I’m just telling her—”

  “I know what you’re telling her. You’re the only person in this town who thinks Hardy Crane is some prize to compete over, but you’re embarrassing yourself. I think it’s time for you to head on home.”

  Brandy looks at Ally through narrowed eyes, drunkenly trying to decide whether to press the issue. She opens her mouth again, but then Murphy steps in.

  “You heard her, Brandy. Go on home to your family.” It’s so strange to hear such grown-up words coming out of Murphy Leblanc’s mouth. Here we are rehashing drama straight out of Chatwick High as if I’d never left, but he’s talking like a grown man to a grown woman who has a husband and children at home. The surrealism makes me queasy.

  Shaken, I thank Ally, giving her and the rest of my friends a farewell hug. How sad it is for the evening to end this way, after the already tragic day we’ve had. Who knows when I will see my old friends again, and the last thing they will remember of me is the old business with Hardy Crane.

  Murphy hovers nearby as I shrug off Ally’s attempt to further engage about what just happened. He puts his hand in the small of my back and starts to guide me through the crowd. When I look at him questioningly, he smiles sadly and says, “I’ll walk you to your car.” In that look, I know he knows I’m not planning on attending any more reunion events. And he’s not letting me leave without a private goodbye.