by Laura Wiess
“He’s got one,” you say, jerking your chin in your brother’s direction. “How come it’s all right for him?”
“He’s a guy,” your father says, and shovels a forkful of food into his mouth.
“It’s different for boys,” your mother says.
“His rep ain’t bad,” Phone Dent says, reaching for the shaker of Parmesan. “He’s a player. There’s a difference.”
“How convenient,” you say dryly.
“Listen, don’t get all freaked trying to figure it out,” your brother says, leaning back and burping. “I’ll find you some friends. The seniors always check out the fresh meat to see if there’s anything worth going for anyway, and trust me, you need girls who can help you with makeup and clothes and stuff, because…” He gives you an amused once-over and shakes his head. “Christ, you look like a bag lady.”
You stare at him, boggled.
“He’s right, Ardith, we’ll have to go shopping soon,” your mother says, eyeing your droopy, black sweater. “You’re not a kid anymore and you don’t want everybody to think you’re weird.”
“Get some tube tops,” Phone Dent says with a leer.
“Get bent,” you snap and, ignoring the laughter, jam the final piece of lasagna into your mouth and leave the table.
Your room offers no solace. The locks that keep them out also keep you in.
You pace, and think of the grim reality of the next three years.
The sharp, hidden edges have finally been pulled into focus.
You need to see Blair.
It was weird.
I mean, I knew Blair had put herself out there for me and was taking a lot of grief, but there was something inside me that just kept whispering, But you didn’t ask her to do it. She did it all on her own. Nice, huh?
It still shames me to think about how I just let myself drift away from her. I’m not making excuses, but going out with Gary did have a lot to do with it. He wasn’t popular but he’d stayed back, so he was a lot bigger than the rest of the puny ninth grade boys and being his girlfriend protected me.
Not enough, though, because when life got ugly again, look who I ran to.
Of course I totally forgot that Gary was supposed to call me after supper, which kicked up some crap when I got home. I mean, I used to disappear to Blair’s all the time and nobody ever even asked where I was going or noticed I was gone, but when my boyfriend called and all of a sudden nobody could find me, well, they couldn’t have that, could they? God forbid I go anywhere without clearing it with my boyfriend first.
But that’s another story.
The bad part is that for all the care I took not to bring Gary home with me, that one phone call changed everything between us anyway. Can’t win, right?
Well, at least I got to see Blair.
But you know what? We weren’t the same with each other. We were being forced into different worlds and no matter how hard we fought with what limited weapons we had, the time spent apart was doing exactly what her mother had known it would do.
What she had intended it to do.
Turn us into strangers. Give us more separate experiences than mutual ones.
I mean, I could listen to Blair’s stories and she could listen to mine, but we weren’t there for each other during the actual happenings, so these stories could never be our memories, like the swim dance or Christmas night. Our bond was stretching, instead of strengthening.
Maybe it’s true that shared trauma brings people closer together—a common hardship, a battle to survive—because when times are quiet people relax and go their own separate ways. They’re lulled into believing they’ve got everything under control and don’t need what they did before.
Blair and I discovered we were at our best when life was at its worst.
You need to understand that, or you won’t understand anything at all.
Chapter 17
Blair
Are you all right? You look a little funny.
Oh. Well, yeah, I guess being mad is better than being in pain. Are you sure you don’t need a pill or something?
Okay, then.
We got lucky that night. My mother was at a fund-raiser making contacts, oozing confidence, and flinging down a gauntlet by saying how much she was looking forward to going up against Jeanne Kozlowski in court sometime soon, and perhaps the only reason they hadn’t managed to yet was because maybe the assistant prosecutor was reluctant to break her winning streak…?
I know. Nervy, huh? Oh, and you’ll love this. You know what she asked before she left? About the race relations in my school and if there were any bias-type issues going on that the principal was trying to keep quiet. Any hot-button topics.
Yeah, I’m serious. And that’s not all…
“Nothing? Well, I’m sure something noteworthy will come up,” my mother said, shrugging. “People are incapable of maintaining civility for any length of time.”
“It would have to be a case that you were absolutely sure you could win,” I said. “You won’t make judge by losing in front of the world.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, Blair; from now on, any case I take will be a media magnet and a guaranteed ticket to the bench. I have very powerful backing these days.”
So my mother went to her fund-raiser alone, leaving me with my father, who made a quick, furtive phone call and then sat around petulant and grumbling about not being able to go out and meet his, er, colleague for a drink.
God, you’d think an attorney would be able to come up with a better cover story.
So when Ardith called, all I did was ask my father if a girl from school could come by to help me with my homework. He jumped at it just like I thought he would and after I hung up with Ardith, he got back on the phone and whispered all over again. Five minutes later he announced that maybe he would run out, seeing as how I wasn’t going to be home alone after all.
I know. His concern touched me, too.
So I told him I’d be fine and I really had to get this homework done so I could get a decent grade on it, blah, blah, blah.
Yeah, he believed it. He believed it because he wanted to.
Oh, come on. There isn’t a kid in the world who hasn’t learned how to get what they want by telling their parents what they want to hear, when they want to hear it. And if the kids tell you they’re not doing it, they’re lying because they know that’s exactly what you want to hear, too.
What? What happened when Ardith came over?
Of course I was happy to see her. Why wouldn’t I be?
Oh. Well, yeah, things had changed. I’d been seeing a lot more of Della than I had of Ardith. I mean, I had nothing but time on my hands and hanging out with Della was a way to fill it.
And yeah, okay, I was kind of hurt that Ardith had been blowing me off for Gary. I got the feeling that she was putting distance between us because I was supposedly a slut and, let’s face it, the longer she stayed with him, the less the whole thing applied to her. And that was fine, except she left me out there all alone among the jackals, you know?
But I was still glad to see her. We’d been apart for way too long.
The problem was that it showed.
Chapter 18
Blair’s Story
You can’t stop talking, haven’t stopped since Ardith came in because the thought of sitting with her in awkward silence looms like your worst nightmare.
“So it was really good to hear from you tonight,” you say, padding into the kitchen and cracking open the window over the sink. Lift your hair off your neck and let the crisp, almost-spring breeze cool your skin. The sour scent of stress sweat has already overpowered your deodorant. “You want something to drink?”
“Okay,” Ardith says from the doorway. “If it’s not too much trouble.” She picks at a hangnail.
“Not at all,” you say, hastily dropping your arms. “I could make cappuccino.” You fumble with the machine’s porta-filter. “You still like it, right?”
“Mm-h
mmm,” she says. “Me and Gary go to the bookstore for it all the time. Do you ever go there? Gary says they make the best mochaccino.”
“No, but me and Dellasandra have been to the coffeehouse up on the highway,” you say, measuring out the grounds. “The one where all the college kids go?”
“‘A Cuppa Joe,’” she says. “Gary said their prices are crazy. He said they charged, like, eight bucks for a mochaccino and it wasn’t even that good.”
“Oh,” you say, watching the steam hiss from the espresso machine. “They do, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t usually pay.” You get ready to froth the milk. You’re rushing, but you need something to do. “So you and Gary are good?”
“Yeah, we’re good,” she says.
“Good,” you say, nodding. The coffee gurgles and spits. You wish she would stop acting like a visitor. You wish you could stop acting like a host. “Do you want to sit in here or in the family room?”
“I don’t care,” she says, shrugging. “Wherever is fine.” Pause.
“What time is your mother due home?”
“Late, probably,” you say, handing her a cup. “Why? Do you want to sit near an emergency exit, just in case?”
Her lips twist in a wry smile. “Do you blame me?”
“No,” you say, and mean so much more. Does she hear how much you aren’t saying? Can she still hear your thoughts? You don’t think so, because the distance between you hasn’t lessened any. “Let’s sit in the family room. My mother’ll come in through the garage and you can go out the sliding glass if you have to.” You stop, recalling the last time Ardith used that door. Does she remember, too? You can’t tell. Her face gives away nothing.
“So how is the infamous Della these days?” Ardith asks when you’ve chosen your seats in the family room. You’ve curled up at one end of the couch and she’s taken the armchair near the patio door. “Still as obnoxious as ever?”
“She’s getting better.” Your voice is too high and bright and you force it down, trying to recapture the old, easy tone you took for granted a few months ago, but it remains out of reach. “I mean, she still says the most bizarre things and has to have everything her way, but—” You stop, feeling a spear of disloyalty. In the past you’ve parried every one of Ardith’s Gary stories with a Della tale of your own and since it hasn’t always been a picnic, you’ve confided that sometimes you feel like whacking her just to shut her up.
But now, when Ardith mocks Della without ever having met her, or without offering up a bad Gary story for you to mock in return, it just doesn’t feel right.
Slowly, you lean over and set the cup down on the new glass table that’s replaced the old marble one. You danced and bled on that rock-solid table, christened it with Red Deaths, used it for solitary dinners and loud, laughing meals for two.
It’s gone now, junked by your mother.
And with quiet, unfolding horror, you realize that your history hasn’t just been rewritten, it’s been systematically and methodically annihilated.
You think of Wendy and the locket you’ve never taken off. Tug up your sleeve and trace the thin, white scar on your forearm.
Your history should count.
“If I tell you something, will you promise not to hate me?” you say, and although the words are familiar, the uncertainty in your voice isn’t.
“You know I won’t hate you,” Ardith says, but her answer isn’t as reassuring as it once was, because her tone leaves room for “unless you’ve turned into a total asshole.”
Or maybe it’s just your imagination.
You wish you knew for sure.
“Well?” she says, cradling her cup.
I’m afraid, you want to say. I’m afraid I’ve lost you because I just realized that I’ve already lost me.
Instead, you jump up and grab your jacket. “Let’s go have a cigarette.”
“Okay,” she says and follows you through the sliding glass door.
“I’m usually out here alone,” you say, lighting up and leaning back against the house. “Nobody knows I still smoke but you, so…”
“I’ve been alone a lot, too,” she says, after a moment. “I mean, Gary’s good and all, but it’s not the same.” Flicks her ashes. “He’s not you, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” you say, even though you don’t know because you’ve never had a steady boyfriend. You’ve never had anyone who could even begin to take Ardith’s place. Well, except for Wendy, and confiding in the dead isn’t very satisfying.
The wind rattles the tree branches and moans along the eaves.
You take a deep breath and tell her about Medford Jr., the son of a banker. Your mother introduced you at a hospital charity event and although she’s never come right out and said so, you know your job is to please the sons of the powerful and the wealthy. So you give Medford Jr. an apologetic but satisfying hand job to make up for the fact—lie—that you have your period on his date night.
And he isn’t the only one. There have been two others, both sporting casual, rumpled Tommy gear and frat boy manners, private school guys with waxed brows and trust fund egos who started out bored, cocky, and in the end whimpered like puppies at your touch.
The smell of them turns your stomach.
Your mother is pleased by your popularity but warns you not to tell Della, as Camella Luna knows her daughter isn’t ready to date, and if Della knows you’ve had boyfriends then she’ll want some, too.
Dating? Is that what you’re doing while you’re hunched up against the Porsche’s passenger door with Ellsworth Collingswood III, or whoever the hell he is, drooling all over you? “Fine,” you say, because you can’t imagine explaining your life to Della the enchantress anyway.
You grind out your cigarette. Light a second one.
Ardith sighs and confides her family’s plan for her future. How she’s supposed to carry the torch and maintain the party house for the next three years so that her parents won’t be forced to grow up and face their addictions.
“I mean, they don’t get falling-down drunk every day, but Blair, they drink every day,” she says, huddling deeper into her jacket.
“They’re alcoholics, but they won’t talk about it. They get mad if you even try to bring it up.” Her voice grows faint and you lean closer to catch her words. “What if they were different, sober? What if my father wasn’t such a…hound all the time, or if my mother looked right at things instead of deliberately not seeing them, just to keep the peace? My brother probably would have been different, and I…” She kicks a stone and it bounds off the patio. “Maybe they think all girls padlock their doors and leave home the minute they turn legal. I don’t know, you know?” She pushes back her hair. “But what if nothing bad ever would have happened if they hadn’t always been drinking?”
You think of all she’s told you, of the pinches and gropes performed under the guise of drunken teasing, and a chill skates down your spine.
Ardith’s thinking, What if they’d been better sober?, and you’re thinking, My God, what if they’d been worse?
She shivers when you say it, then stares unseeingly into the darkness and talks of Gary instead. Of going to his house after school when his father isn’t home and making out on his bed, cradling his clothed, straining body between her thighs and absorbing his urgent, thumping rhythm until her muscles ache from the effort.
“He presses so hard that the seam of my pants almost cuts me in half,” she says, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Does that ever happen to you?”
“No,” you say shortly. “The guys I’m with don’t linger at the bases, Ardith. All they want to do is slide straight into home, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh.” She stubs her cigarette out in the flower bed. “And do they?”
The wind is moaning again, echoing dully through the hollow spot inside your chest. It used to be Ardith who had all the darkest knowledge, but now you’re the one with the hands-on experience. Four first dates, no seconds. All with skin contact, none wit
h soul contact. No one wants you with your clothes on.
You crouch alongside her and, when your gazes are level again, say, “No. That only happened once.”
“My brother,” she says, and her face changes, opens into the Ardith you’ve needed and couldn’t find.
“Yeah,” you whisper, resting your head on her shoulder. Her down jacket sinks beneath you with a gentle, puffed sigh. “Everything’s so messed up.” You feel pieces of yourself crumbling and falling into the void. “It’s like there’s just nowhere to be anymore.”
Ardith leans her head against yours.
Brittle leaves skitter and crackle across the patio, caught in the wind’s ceaseless drive. They skate and skim, pirouetting, dipping, soaring, and slamming back down to the ground, only to be swept up again and carried along.
You’re afraid and you say so. Afraid of sinking back into your black-hole life when she leaves and not being able to climb out of it alone.
“Shh,” she murmurs, stroking your hair. “You’re not alone. I’m here.”
The night blurs, and for a piercing heartbeat you can feel the sun on your skin and the whisper of sleek, silky, golden fur beneath your hand.
Your best friend has just brought you home. You won’t lose your way again.
Ardith leaves soon after that. You hug her good-bye and watch as she jogs away down the cul-de-sac, flashing in and out of shadows until she’s gone.
Your father comes home, shrouded in perfume. “Did your mother call?” he says casually, hanging his overcoat in the closet.
“Nope,” you say, closing your notebook. “You have plenty of time to shower.” You meet his gaze and wave a hand in front of your nose. “J. Lo Glow.”
He hesitates, wary, and searches your face.
You gaze back at him, composed.
“Good thinking,” he says finally, flashing you a thumbs-up. “Oh, and um, I guess she doesn’t really need to know—”
