by Laura Wiess
“Air,” Blair gasps, finally pulling away, and that sets you giggling all over again. So does the sight of her hand trapped in your top and yours in hers, so you both tug free and make sure to keep on laughing because you’re not quite buzzed enough to excuse what just happened, but the awkwardness must be banished if you’re ever to look at each other again.
“So that was it,” Blair says and hiccups.
“Yeah,” you say as she holds her breath. You turn away, thoughts jumbled, body tingling, bewildered by warring feelings and how easily Blair seems to have recovered. It’s embarrassing, this heightened sensitivity, it makes you feel like you got way too into it and it shows. You shake out your T-shirt and slip it over your head. Your coordination is off and you spend a moment battling blindly for the armholes. “Don’t ever tell, okay?”
“I won’t,” she says without breathing. “You, either.”
You pop your head through the hole, too unsettled to answer, and are snaking your arms through the sleeves when someone drawls, “Hey, check this out.”
Startled, you brush the hair from your eyes and peer up into the darkness at the figures looming over you. It’s Gary, the BK Romeo, and his slouchy friends.
“This some kind of lezziefest?” Gary says and grins as his buddies snicker.
Blair shoots you an alarmed look.
You rub your palms together, thinking, smearing away the guilt and searching for a believable comeback. If Gary smells fear, you’ll be ruined.
“I could say the same thing about you guys,” you say, grabbing the empty wine bottle and rising. “We were partying. What’re you doing out here alone, playing pocket pool?”
“Kiss my ass,” he says, shifting and putting some space between him and his friends. “We were just hanging out on the bleachers. So what. Big deal.”
“Oh yeah? Then what’re you getting so nervous about?” You keep pushing, mostly because it seems to be working as a diversion. “Afraid we saw you doing something?”
“Asshole,” he says, turning to leave.
“Takes one to know one,” Blair calls after him, scrambling up.
You watch until they’re swallowed by darkness, then grab your stuff and run up into the wooded berm, feet pounding, branches slapping and tearing at your hair, but you keep on running until you burst out the other side onto the lane where you bend and breathe, jam your bruised feet into your sneakers, and gasp, “Do you really think they saw anything?”
Laughing, you collapse against each other and are celebrating your escape when the patrol car pulls up. No lights, no siren. You draw apart and realize you’re still carrying the empty wine bottle, your shirt is on backward, you lost your towel, and you’re wearing one of Blair’s sneakers.
A cop steps out of the car. Talks into his radio and starts toward you.
You whisk the bottle behind you and glance at the woods, gauging the distance. Will you make it? You try to signal Blair to get ready to run, but she’s too busy pulling twigs from her hair and tugging at her bathing suit to realize what’s going to happen.
“Evening, ladies.” The cop is tanned and lean, with gray threading his dark brown hair and mustache. He hitches up his gun belt and stops a yard away, calm but ready for you. He smells cool and rich, like winter leather. “Everything okay?”
You’re sweating, trying not to squirm as you wedge the empty bottle into the back of your suit bottoms. If Gary bursts out of the woods and sees the bottle in your pants you’ll never live it down, but it’s still better than getting busted for drinking. Maybe.
“Fine,” Blair chirps, beaming at him. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he replies. “Where are you girls coming from?”
“The swim dance, can’t you tell?” Blair says, holding up a fistful of tangled hair and rolling her eyes. She sways slightly. “Well, not straight from there. I mean, we were there until it ended, but then we were hanging out on the football field and—”
You explode into a tubercular coughing fit. How can a lawyer’s daughter be so willing to confess? The bottle slips. You clap a hand to your butt and shift your hip, aiming for attitude while you wedge the bottle down farther. “Shut up, Blair,” you mutter, mostly without moving your lips. “He’s not on our side.”
Blair laughs. “Why, because of that?” She points to the bottle. “So what? It’s empty. We could have found it in the woods or something.”
“But you didn’t,” the cop says. “Let’s have it.” He holds out his hand.
You should run, with or without Blair. Save yourself. But you won’t.
“Well?” he says, pinning you with his gaze.
Defeated, you remove the bottle. Wipe the butt sweat off on Blair’s towel, ignoring her indignant look, and hand it over to the cop. Stare at your mismatched sneakers.
“We didn’t buy it,” Blair says, crouching and rooting through her stuff. She tugs her T-shirt from the pile and wrestles it over her head. Rises and clutches your arm for balance as she struggles into her shorts, and then hands you yours. “Some guy gave it to us.”
“So you drank it,” he says, sighing. “Come on, ladies, you know better than that. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to take alcohol from strangers?”
“No,” Blair says earnestly. “Just candy.”
You glance at her, then him, waiting for the ax to fall. His mustache twitches and his silver badge gleams in the streetlight’s dull glow. Number 23. His nametag says FINDERNE. He’s paying very close attention to you both and doesn’t seem easy to fool.
“Are you gonna arrest us?” you ask flatly while you finish dressing.
“Do you have anything else on you that I should know about?” he says. “Drugs, needles, knives…?”
“No,” you say, oddly hurt. Does he really think you’re that bad?
“We only had that one bottle, I swear,” Blair says, twisting the front of her T-shirt into a knot. Her eyes are huge, her face stricken, like she’s finally realized what’s happening. “Please don’t arrest us. Please? We’ll get in deep trouble. We didn’t m…mean to m…mess up. My d…dog just d…died.”
“Oh,” he says gravely, as if she makes perfect sense. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Blair’s eyes puddle with tears. “Me, too. I really loved her.”
He pats her shoulder. His hand is square and steady.
A sudden, crippling pang pierces your chest. “I had a dog once,” you blurt, flushing as they look at you. “But he got hit by a car because my parents kept leaving the gate open. It was a long time ago. Never mind.” You feel like a fool.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, too,” he says, pulling a pad and pen from his shirt pocket. “Now, what’re your names?” His feet are planted flat on the road like he knows you’re not going anywhere.
Your words surge again without censor, eager to beat Blair’s.
His eyebrows quirk at your last name. “Your brother drives a red Nissan Z?”
You nod, mortified, heat churning your insides. He knows. You should have known he would, since your brother’s been picked up for speeding, resisting, and DUIs before. Small comfort that the sex stuff, even the girl who claimed he’d taken her into the woods behind your house and forced her to mess around, has never been reported. God only knows what this cop would think of that.
“Yeah, we’ve met,” Officer Finderne says dryly. “Is he staying out of trouble?”
“I guess,” you say, staring at the ground.
“Good,” he says. “Why haven’t I seen you before?”
“I don’t know.” Your voice is small. “I spend a lot of time in my room.” You swallow hard and force yourself to meet his gaze. “If you arrest me, will you at least let Blair go?” It’s a lot to ask, but you think maybe he will because he seems fair and decent, and hasn’t said anything gross or ogled your chest even once since he stopped you.
He holds up a hand as if to say “wait” and speaks into the mike hooked to his shirt. After getting a scra
tchy “10-4” back, he looks straight at you. “Relax, Ardith. You’re not your brother and I’m not arresting anyone. Get dressed, and I’ll take you both home.”
“Really?” You can hardly believe it. “Are you sure?”
He nods, takes Blair’s name, and once you finish switching sneakers loads you into the back of the air-conditioned patrol car. “Do your parents know where you are?”
“Nope,” Blair says, shivering at the drop in temperature.
“They don’t care,” you add.
“I’m sure they do,” he says, meeting your gaze in the rearview mirror.
You shrug, because you know otherwise.
“Brrr,” Blair says, holding herself.
He closes the air vents. “How’s that?”
“Better, thanks,” she says, smiling.
You scowl and finish unraveling the hem of your T-shirt.
Blair perks up again and says, “You know, you’re pretty good-looking for an old guy,” earning a startled snort of laughter. She preens and says, “Can’t we ride around with you for a while? We’ll be good. You won’t even know we’re here. And if anybody asks, you could tell them we’re rookies, training to go undercover. That’d be cool.” She catches your frown and frowns back. “Or you could just say we’re your kids.”
Officer Finderne laughs and shakes his head. “Oh yeah, I’m getting old.”
You stop at Blair’s house first where, much to her relief, no one is home yet. She lingers on the porch and then goes dutifully inside without incident.
When Officer Finderne—Dave—asks where you live, you steer him to the south side of town. Your house is the last of three on a dead-end street marked “No Outlet,” a 1950s ranch stretched indolently across a rumpled, wooded lot.
You weave through the cars clogging the driveway, leading him to the front door. He knocks but no one answers and it’s locked, so you motion him around to the back gate in the privacy fence. The two of you walk in on the same scene you’ve avoided a hundred times, except this time you’re not alone, and this time you’re feeling righteous.
He takes one look and radios for backup.
Someone yells, “Cops!” and the stampede is on. Officer Dave barks out orders, instructing everyone to line up, empty their pockets, and show ID.
Three of the girls and four of the guys, including your brother, are buzzed and underage. You sit on the steps and watch as your father slips away before backup arrives. Your mother is given a summons for providing alcohol to minors.
You yawn, suddenly sleepy from all that swimming, say good night to your cop, and head into the house.
You pee for what seems like forever, pad into your bedroom, and lock the door, listening to your brother stalk the hall and curse you for being a stupid bitch who doesn’t have the sense to drink at home. He body slams the door and you slip the screwdriver out from under your pillow, just in case.
You sneak away early the next morning, stepping over your brother slumped sleeping outside your door and weaving through the overage rejects sacked out in your TV room.
Blair’s parents are working, so you spend the day roaming the town, looking for Officer Dave. You buy a big box of Dunkin Donuts to give him as a thank-you but end up eating them yourselves because he must be off-duty and with his own family.
When you finally go home again, your mother grounds you. Your father has taken the padlocks off your door and your brother calls you a mutant and asks how the hell you got into this family anyway. No one swims nude that night—no one swims at all. They just sit around drinking and looking resentful until your mother pulls out the cards and starts a game of poker.
You are not invited to ante up.
So that was the night me and Blair got drunk at the pool. It’s important because it changed things, brought us together somehow. I don’t know. I mean, we were friends before that, but nowhere near as close as we got afterward.
Plus, we met you.
Wait. Give me a minute, okay? This stirs up a lot of stuff for me.
No, I’m all right. I just need some of that water. Thanks.
Am I sorry about what happened? What’re you, kidding?
Oh, you mean about Dellasandra. Yeah. She didn’t deserve what she got. You probably won’t believe me, but if there had been any other way…
You should talk to Blair now. You need to know more, before you can understand how and why this had to happen. But don’t push too hard, okay? This last week has been really rough on her. She’s lost a lot already, and I don’t think she understands that by the time this is over we’re both probably going to lose everything.
Well, yeah, a lot of that depends on you.
Me? I didn’t have much to begin with. You know that.
Sure, I wanted things. I wanted to be a podiatrist, and I wanted to live where my last name didn’t automatically mean loser. Not a lot of places left though, huh? Oh well, what’re you gonna do.
You know, Blair tries hard to be tough, but if she really didn’t care about what happened, then we wouldn’t even be here right now. This whole confession thing was her idea. I hope you’ll keep that in mind.
What? Oh. Well, my parents laid low for a week and then everything went right back to normal. The worst times were the mornings, when my father was at the flea market and my mother had her web design classes. I didn’t like being in the house with all the hungover guys from the night before, so I put new padlocks on my door and decided climbing out my side window would be a lot easier than running the gauntlet every time I wanted to leave.
Blair had the exact opposite problem.
Chapter 5
Blair’s Story
Your parents are so wrapped up in work that you spend most evenings as the mausoleum’s sole occupant. Your neighbors are anonymous commuters gone from dawn to dusk, then comfortably burrowed into their air-conditioned castles. Nothing, not even being escorted home from the swim dance by the long arm of the law, seems to net you a moment’s notice.
You stand on your doorstep under the porch light, an orphan without a basket, waving good-bye to Officer Finderne and Ardith, then go inside the empty house, lock up, and set the alarm.
But it’s not enough.
Something important is missing, and its elusive lure nips at your heels, driving you to find it. You search, circle and pace, frustrated, and finally give up, not sure that you ever actually had what you think you lost anyway.
You’ve found other things, though, like a file of recent Victoria’s Secret shipping confirmations to Amber, hidden in your father’s desk drawer. A birthday card to him from her, with a lipstick-print kiss above her signature and a string of XO’s, too.
And a legal agreement dated two months ago between your parents, stating your mother will grant your father an uncontested divorce and surrender all assets with the exception of the house, her personal possessions, and financial accounts providing he…
The paragraph blurs.
You rub your forehead. Struggle to translate the lawyerspeak…. providing he maintain, uphold, and support his position in the family, conduct his private affairs with discretion, and cause no disruption or scandal until such time as your mother is appointed a judge, or two years from the date of said agreement.
Oh.
There’s more, but you can’t read it. The print is too small and the words too big to wrestle with after wine. And besides, what else do you need to know?
You replace the document. Stand in the center of their king-size bed and survey both sides of the room. His desk, her desk. His phone, her phone. The same with bureaus, closets, and bathrooms.
The bed is the only common ground.
You put on your mother’s perfume and her red silk chemise and wander around the vast, silent tomb. Stand in the bedroom window overlooking the deserted street, waiting to be acknowledged.
A sleek, well-fed Siamese cat sits in the middle of the cul-de-sac. You wave. It jerks its tail and strolls away.
You think about
calling your grandmother to say hi but it’s late, you’re naked under the chemise and it’ll be too weird. You think about Ardith’s hand in your top and Officer Finderne patting your back, and wonder what would happen if he pulled up to your house right now. Would he stay and talk to you? You don’t know, but either way he would probably make you put on your bathrobe.
You leave the window. Tear off the chemise and throw it in the corner.
You remember the night your mother first found out about Amber, how the bulleting words ricocheted off the walls and shot out through the open windows into the old neighborhood. You remember lying on the floor of your room, your cheek pressed into the rug and your ear to the door crack.
“Her name is Amber? Are you serious?” your mother said, incredulous. “Oh please, say no more. Let me guess. She’s a dancer at the club, a brave, sweet single mom who’s only stripping to support her baby, right? No? Okay then, let’s go for the full clichéd midlife crisis; she’s a curvy little twenty-year-old legal assistant who runs for your coffee and gets all pink and breathy every time she sees you, and in her big, worshiping eyes you can do no wrong, and her adoration makes you feel so young again. How’s that?”
“It’s impossible to talk to you when you get this emotional,” your father said.
You hold your breath, straining to hear what comes next.
“All right then, without emotion; end it, or talk to my lawyer,” your mother said.
“Fine, I’ll end it,” he said.
But apparently he didn’t, and apparently your mother doesn’t really care anymore, as long as he’s discreet and remembers that appearances count.
You root through your bureau and pull on your old Beauty and the Beast bathrobe. The terry cloth is worn through in spots, the shoulders are tight and the hem barely brushes your knees, but sometimes you still need to wear it.
