Leftovers

by Laura Wiess

  You look at your mother, who shrugs and says, “Well, she asked for it.”

  At your father, who looks like he wishes she’d asked him for it, and at your brother, who watches with undisguised interest.

  “Break it up,” you yell, but no one pays any attention.

  Your mother elbows your father. “You know what, Gil? We should do some dirty dancing. I have the CD here somewhere. It’d be fun.”

  Your father grunts, his gaze locked on the floor show.

  You go into the kitchen. Turn on the stove and dip the festive Rudolph kitchen towel into the flickering flames. It ignites. You hold it up beneath the smoke detector, loosing an endless, earsplitting shriek and scattering the cringing, reeling crowd.

  Blair stumbles toward you, lipstick smeared and clothes askew. You toss the burning towel into the sink and lead her into your room. Lock the door.

  She drops onto your bed, hands fluttering and twisting in her lap like broken-winged birds. Her face is pale, her eyes huge.

  You point to her breast so she can pop it back into its lace cup.

  “Holy shit,” she says, rearranging herself. “Oh my God, what the hell was that? What does he think I am? I can’t believe it. Why didn’t your parents do something?”

  What answer can you give? Because any girl who comes into this house is automatically fair game? Because your mother thought Blair deserved what she got? Because your father would have been first, front and center, had he been able to get up? Any or all of the above?

  “I’m so freaked,” she says, kicking off her platforms and pacing the room. “I mean, I know you said to look ugly, but God, I wanted to look good for Christmas and yeah, okay, so maybe I was hoping I’d get kissed, but not like that.” She sinks down on the bed. “Not like that at all.”

  You don’t say anything, not even “I told you so,” because you know she never really understood your home life anyway. But you think it and somewhere in the darkest corner of your mind, a small, spiteful voice whispers, Well, she asked for it, and is pleased because now you two aren’t so different after all.

  You stifle it, ashamed.

  “I mean, everything was fine,” she continues bewilderedly, rubbing her forehead. “You saw. They were joking and laughing and just, like, pecking my mouth. Nothing big. Nothing bad. And then that last guy…”

  “Broken Nose,” you say.

  “Whatever. He ruined it.” She runs her nails across her velvet pants, disturbing the nap. “He made it disgusting.” She peeks at you through tangled hair. “Did he ever do that to you?”

  “Once,” you say and your fist throbs with the memory of crunching cartilage. Word spread quickly following his bloody, yowling exodus and only the real drunks are still brave—or stupid—enough to try and touch you in passing anymore.

  Still, it never hurts to keep your guard up.

  “He’s a jerk,” she says, slumping against your headboard and closing her eyes. “I don’t like him at all.”

  “Me, either,” you say, perching on the edge of the bed. You’re not sure what else to say because you’re not sure what she’s thinking. You have an idea, though, and you want very badly to be wrong.

  Minutes pass.

  “God, he went right up under my shirt in front of everybody,” she says without opening her eyes. Her arms, which are folded tightly across her chest, relax and settle lower, with her hands loosely tented over her belly button. “The others weren’t bad. They didn’t touch me or anything.” She’s reliving it in her mind, weighing, sorting, still searching for the keys to an unfamiliar kingdom. “I mean, I can’t hate them all for what one of them did.” She cracks an eye. “Right?”

  Your stomach sinks.

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” she says, opening the other eye and sitting up straight. “It’d be kind of like stereotyping, don’t you think? Condemning everyone just because one person did wrong?”

  You know what she wants to hear, but you just can’t say it, so you say this instead: “I’ve only seen them in a herd,” you say carefully. “Maybe one-on-one they’re different. It’s possible, I guess. I don’t know. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Well, it doesn’t make any difference, because they all probably think I’m disgusting now anyway,” she says, sighing.

  “Actually, they’re so blitzed they probably won’t even remember you,” you say to comfort her and are surprised to see hurt stain her face. “I mean, this is kind of an everyday affair around here.” Somehow you seem to be twisting the knife. “Although they did get more carried away with you than they normally do.”

  Her eyes light up. “Really? So you don’t think they’d forget me?”

  “No,” you say, surrendering as she rises and goes to the mirror. “But—”

  “This is a good outfit,” she says, twisting sideways and patting her abdomen. She leans close and examines her face. “God, look what he did to my makeup.” She plucks a tissue from the box and scrubs the red smears from her bruised mouth. “Do you think he’s sorry?”

  “No,” you say. “I think he’d do it again in a heartbeat, given the chance.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just have to stay away from him, won’t I?” she says, studying her reflection. She unwinds her wrist bag and spills her makeup across the bureau’s cluttered surface. “How old are the others? Who was the first one?”

  “Most of them are around eighteen,” you say dully, watching as she applies a fresh, glossy coat of scarlet lipstick. “The first guy who kissed you was my brother.”

  “Really?” she says, turning away from the bureau. “You never told me your brother was hot.” She bends and brushes her hair forward. “He’s eighteen?”

  “Going on eighteen,” you say. “He’ll be a senior when we’re sophomores.”

  “So my first real kiss came from a seventeen-year-old,” she says.

  “Who’s already seeing somebody,” you say, disturbed by the lilt in her voice.

  “Think he’d dump her for me?” she says, standing upright and flipping back her hair. It falls in glorious, glistening waves down past her shoulders and she hams it up, planting a hand on her hip and batting her eyelashes at you.

  You don’t respond and her mischief falls away.

  “Ardith, he gave me this really intense look right before he kissed me,” she says, dropping next to you on the bed and clutching your knee. “I mean, really intense, like he’d been looking for me his whole life, you know? Like he really saw me.”

  She makes you want to cry. Or scream. Or just turn away and shout, “Go ahead then! You won’t listen to me, so go find out for yourself!”

  “And he wasn’t grabby or anything,” she says, her gaze going dreamy. “He just gave this sexy little sigh and placed this gentle, gentle Christmas kiss on my lips…”

  “He’s a dog, Blair,” you say flatly. “A total player.”

  “Maybe not,” she says, releasing your knee. “You said yourself that everybody’s different when they’re one-on-one—”

  “Yeah, but he’s not better different, he’s worse different,” you say.

  “How do you know?” she says, pulling away and staring at you.

  “What if he does like me? What if he’s serious, not like those jerkoffs from the dance who never even called! God, why is it so hard to believe that someone might actually want to be with me? Am I really that much of a loser?”

  You meet her raw gaze and struggle for words to heal the sudden wound between you. “No, I’m sorry. I swear that’s not what I meant. You’re not the loser, he is, and I just don’t want him to hurt you—”

  Your apology is interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “What?” you snarl.

  “Open up for a minute, Ardith.”

  It’s him, your brother, and you make the hideous and final mistake of saying so.

  “Oh my God,” Blair whispers, eyes shining. She clutches your arm and the fight is forgiven. Everything will be forgiven, provided you open the door. �
��What if he fell madly in love with me and wants to ask me out? Quick! No, wait. Let me look good first.”

  “Don’t,” you say but she isn’t listening. She’s busy posing on the bed, stretching out on her side and propping her head up on her elbow.

  He knocks again, louder.

  Blair gives you a pleading look.

  No, you want to say. I won’t. Go ahead and be mad, I don’t care. But instead you look away feeling old, sick, and tarnished, because you know you’re going to do it. You’re going to give her what she thinks she wants, surrender to her rosy naïveté, and in doing so, to that spiteful, maybe even jealous voice inside of you that whispers, Well, she asked for it. You’re going to do it, and you wish you were dead.

  “Don’t let him leave, Ardith,” she whispers. “Please?”

  “Who’s out there with you?” you ask before you open the door. If the mob stampedes, you have no flaming torches left to fight them off.

  “Just me,” he says impatiently. “Open up.”

  You do, reluctantly, and he’s alone. His beery exhales sting your nose.

  “Connie’s pissed because you almost burned down the kitchen,” he says, but not to you. His gaze is riveted on Blair, who ignores him and fluffs her hair.

  “You know why I did it,” you say. “Things got out of control.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me for what those idiots do,” he says, smiling as Blair glances at him. “Me, I see a fine hottie standing under the mistletoe and I want to be with her, sure, but I also want to give her the respect she deserves.”

  “Gee, I’ll tell your girlfriend you said so,” you say sarcastically, earning a frown from Blair and an irritated look from your brother.

  “So anyhow, wiseass, Connie says Christmas is a family holiday and company has to go home,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “All the company or just mine?” you say, already knowing the answer. Fate is conspiring against you and you can’t fight a battle no one wants you to win.

  “Beats me,” he drawls, smiling at Blair to show no hard feelings.

  “Why don’t you go ask her yourself?”

  You glance at Blair and she sends you a silent, eyeball okay, but it doesn’t make you feel any better, so you don’t go. Instead you say, “If nobody else is leaving, then Blair’s not leaving, either.”

  “Wait. Connie’s your mother, right?” Blair asks, sitting up. Her stomach pooches a little over her pants and you can tell your brother likes that; he prefers his babes built for comfort, not speed.

  “Right,” he says, letting his gaze linger on her bare stomach until he’s sure she’s noticed, then easing it up to her face.

  “Oh God, well, if your mother says I should leave,” she says, blushing and reaching for her shoes.

  “It’s too cold to walk,” he says, crouching in front of her and doing the Cinderella’s glass slippper thing, which makes you want to barf. “I’ll drive you home.”

  Her spontaneous smile is nuclear and your brother actually flinches before he disappears in the blinding, white light. He reappears, dazed. “I, uh, well, okay, uh, I guess I’ll pick you up out front.”

  “I’m coming, too,” you say.

  “No you’re not,” he says, right as she blurts, “You don’t have to, Ardith. I mean, I don’t want you to get in trouble with your mom.”

  You give her a look and she gives you one back that comes with a tossed head and a stubborn chin.

  You shrug. “Fine. Whatever.” You leave and wait for your brother near the kitchen. “You’d better not do anything to her,” you say when he comes out jingling his car keys.

  He smirks and keeps walking.

  “I mean it,” you say, darting around and blocking his path. It’s a good way to die but you barely care. “God, why can’t you just leave her alone? There are five other girls here you could be with—”

  “Been there, done that,” he says and shoves you aside.

  “But you don’t understand. She’s fourteen, she’s never even had a boyfriend before,” you say desperately, dogging his footsteps and hoping Blair never gets wind of your treachery. “Don’t do anything to her, do you hear me?” You’ve crossed the line but you’d be no kind of friend if you didn’t make one last, futile attempt. “Don’t.”

  You go back to your room, where Blair is practicing come-hither looks in the mirror. If she uses one on him, she’ll never be the same again. “Blair—”

  “I left your presents on the bed,” she chirps. “I’ll call you later.” She laughs and the air crackles. “Some Christmas so far, huh?”

  “Yeah.” You hand her a small, wrapped box and she wedges it into her bag. Her wrists are so thin and easy to snap. “Don’t trust him, okay? Don’t let him in.”

  “Don’t worry about me. You just watch out for that jerk in your TV room,” she says, beaming and sweeping out.

  You stand at the living room window. Watch your brother open the Nissan’s passenger door and help Blair in. Someone comes up beside you. It’s the girl he’s seeing.

  “He’s such an asshole,” she says, watching the car back out of the driveway and rumble off down the street.

  “Yup,” you say, because this isn’t exactly news.

  She exhales on the windowpane and draws a star in the false fog.

  “I’m probably gonna break up with him when he gets back. I mean, this isn’t the first time he’s cheated on me.”

  “He’s just giving her a ride,” you say, wishing she would go bother someone else.

  “Right. The ride of her life.” She balls her hand into a fist, hesitates, and uncurls her fingers. Her eyes fill with tears. “It’s really hard being the one who loves the most, you know?” She waits a minute and when you don’t answer, she sniffles and wanders back into the family room.

  You gaze at her window artwork for a moment, then wipe it away.

  Your brother doesn’t deserve that kind of longing.

  Especially now that he’s messing with Blair.

  You should have stopped this. You should have flattened his tires, drugged his beer, or locked him in the cellar, anything to have kept them apart. You never should have invited her over, never brought her into his warped orbit.

  Stupid, stupid.

  You call Blair’s cell phone and get voice mail. The same with her house phone. You try three more times, but can’t get through and you don’t know if that’s good or bad. Maybe Blair’s mother called and will talk so long that your brother will get tired of waiting and leave.

  Oh God, if only.

  It’s impossible to sit still, so you reach for Blair’s gifts and lose yourself in the four beautiful, user-friendly podiatry books. By the time you resurface, your brother’s been gone for almost an hour.

  Shit.

  You change into jeans, pull on your coat, and slip out the door. It’s cold and the streets are deserted. The sky is leaden, not yet dusk but no longer daylight.

  Your brother’s car is parked in Blair’s driveway. You circle around the back of the house and peer into the family room through a crack in the miniblinds.

  Clothes litter the floor. Your brother is sleeping, sprawled naked on the couch. His mouth is slack, his hair matted, and the soles of his feet are pink.

  You shift, crunching skeletal, brown chrysanthemums beneath your boots.

  Blair sits on the floor across from him. She pulls up her sleeve and lays her arm, splayed hand down, on the marble coffee table. Picks up a paring knife and drags the point across her forearm. Watches, hollow-eyed, as the blood wells.

  “One,” you think she says.

  The chill rattles your bones. You stoop, pry a rock from the flower bed graveyard, and walk around the side of the house.

  Pause in the shadows, gauge the distance, and fling the missile.

  It bounces off the Nissan’s hood and the silence is shattered by the car alarm.

  You walk around to the back and watch through the blinds as your brother scrambles into his clothe
s, grabs his keys, and stumbles past Blair, who stares at the lone, scarlet rivulet trickling down the side of her forearm.

  The look she gives his broad back is black with hatred.

  She rises and walks after him, disappearing from view.

  The car alarm stops and the ringing echoes fade. Blair returns, plops into a chair, and covers her face.

  The Z’s engine vvrroooms to life and rumbles away.

  Your adrenaline ebbs and you slide down the wall between the bushes. Tilt your head back against the house and breathe hard, trying to get a grip. You saw too much, things you should never have seen, and you wonder if you should go to the door or just go home. You wonder if your brother had the brains to wear a condom and where you and Blair will get her abortion if he didn’t.

  You crouch there until your legs are numb and not even your armpits can warm your frigid hands, then rise and walk to the front door. You knock. Knock again and again.

  You return to your window and peer inside. Blair is still huddled in the chair. You batter the glass and call her name until she lets you in.

  I knew my brother would hurt Blair, I just didn’t know how much, or exactly how to reverse the damage. Because that was my role now; turning what was left into more than just a pile of abandoned garbage.

  No, I know she’s not garbage. She never was. But that’s how you feel when you realize you’ve been used. Totally worthless.

  Yeah, I know I warned her, but she didn’t want to believe me. No matter what you say, nobody ever believes it’s going to happen to them.

  So why should Blair be any different? Why should I?

  Oh, we each have a blind spot. Mine just took a little longer to surface and level me. But we’ll get to that.

  This next part is Blair’s.

  Chapter 9

  Blair’s Story

  You let Ardith in because you know she won’t stop knocking until you do. Her face is pinched, her nose runny from the cold. Mingled with the concern in her eyes is a silent, damning “I told you so,” and if she says it, you’re going to cut yourself again, slash furrows down your whole arm so you never forget how stupid you feel.