Are You Still There (13 page)

I act like I'm agreeing. I take a peek at Janae. Her face is relaxing, her plaster mask melting.

“You got some soda?” she asks Cruz.

“Check the fridge,” he tells her. She rummages around in this funky, fancy fridge where the freezer is on the bottom and the fridge is on the top. She grabs two root beers and tosses one to me.

“Janae!” I scold her, totally teasing. “This is going to spray all over the place when I open it.”

She puts her hand to her face, fake shocked. “Oh no!” she gasps. “We don't want to make a mess. This place is goddamn immaculate.”

“Right,” I agree.

Miguel sets down his plastic cup, the beer frothing over the sides. He wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Are you okay here? Because we can leave.”

“I know we can, but I don't want to.” I pop the top on the root beer, and it does fizz out. I jump back and hold it away from me.

“Is it good?” Miguel asks after my first sip.

“Delicious.”

“Will you share?”

I offer him the soda, but he shakes his head. “Not like that.” He turns his body toward mine, and I see his face coming closer, his eyes open and soft. He stops about an inch away from my face. I've never kissed anyone in public before. “Is this okay?”

It's more than okay. It's fabulous. I don't answer, just press my lips into his, turning my head to allow his sweet tongue into my mouth. The rest of the world disintegrates into nothingness. All my senses are connected to his tongue and the way he tastes all pure and fresh and root-beery. I'm so grateful he hasn't sipped his beer yet. I close my eyes, and the buzz of the party disappears. I feel his hands rest on my hips, securing me there. This is our most amazing kiss so far, and we've been getting lots of practice.

I only stop because of the cheering. Janae and Garth and Cruz and a whole mess of other people are standing around us, clapping. Hooting. I pull away from Miguel and wipe my mouth. When exactly did this kitchen get so crowded?

I'm just about to ask Janae this question, when my eyes stop on a familiar face. Eric. I swear his features have turned to stone. His nose. His cheekbones. His eyes. They are hard as rocks. He is staring at me, though, looking as if I'm the one who has turned to stone in front of his eyes. And maybe I have, because I have no idea what to say. Or what to do. I stand there, frozen by indecision, hearing my own words echoing in my head, “I'm just not into guys right now.”

Eric reaches for a plastic cup, his eyes still on me. “So where's that free beer?”

I'm not in the mood to watch Janae's prank unfold. She whispers in my ear. “Now? You think he's drunk enough?”

I shrug. Janae has lent me her plaster face mask. Because the more comfortable she seems to get, the more I feel my own body tighten up.

“I'll go take it off,” she whispers. “Then I'll try to find the right moment to stuff it in his pocket.” Garth is wearing a hoodie sweatshirt with one of those big front pockets. Perfect for hiding a bra.

I nod, wishing I could have more fun with this. I'm too busy worrying about Eric, who has apparently decided to drink his body weight in beer. His eyes have totally lost focus, he can hardly walk, and I feel totally responsible. I follow him around like a lost puppy dog.

Garth, Miguel, and Janae head over to play pool in the other room. Janae winks at me as she goes, and I know she's going to plant the bra. I am sitting in the kitchen on a stool, suffocating from the fumes. Beer breath, spilled beer, and puked-up beer—it's all around me.

If I thought the house was crowded when we first arrived, I didn't understand the true meaning of the word. I think half of Central High is in this house. And most of the county school too. People are parking their trucks and vans all over the front lawn. Cruz is too hammered to understand the full ramifications of this mess, and it's probably good he's enjoying himself, because I'm guessing he'll be grounded for the rest of his high school career when his parents figure this all out.

Eric won't talk to me. Or look at me, no matter how many times I try to explain.

My root beer has long since lost its fizz. The syrupy sweet taste clings sluggishly to my tongue. A heavy arm drapes over my shoulder, and I turn to look.

Eric. He bends his head toward me, and the smell of beer slams me in the face. Maybe he's now intoxicated enough to face me. “You don't like guys, huh?” He leans into me, all unsteady. “Maybe you just don't like
me.”

“No, it's not like that,” I protest. Because it's not that I don't
like
him, it's just that I'm not into him. There's a difference.

Eric grabs my shoulders then and the drunkenness makes him rough. I fall backward against the kitchen counter, feeling the sting below my shoulder blades. Eric's a small guy, his body all long and wiry, so skinny that his muscles pop through his skin, even across his face. But as his hands squeeze my wrists, it's like he's suddenly made of steel.

His jaw is tight, his eyes intense, and there is sound coming from his mouth, but I can't identify what he is saying. His hair is plastered across his face, wet with beer or sweat. I don't know which. But as he comes toward me, the smell of it makes me gag. I turn my face away.

I scan the room, looking for Miguel or Janae or Garth, anyone who can pull Eric away from me. I know Eric's not a bad guy. He's just drunk. And hurt. And the two aren't a good combination. I tell myself I'm not scared of him, that it's just Eric, the guy who ate carrot sticks at my house. And we're in a room full of people, so it's not like he's going to hurt me or anything. But still, my wrists burn. And I can't get away.

Somebody yanks Eric off, hard. He slams against the opposite wall and shatters a vase that should've been moved hours ago. Some guy cuts the music and hits the lights. I've never heard the sound of knuckles against muscle and bone before. It's a thick, hard sound, a sound that makes the center of my stomach sick, and I hear it over and over again. Each hit a slightly different tonality, as the fist connects with bone, then flesh, then gut.

My eyes focus. It's Miguel. He's punching Eric. Over and over again.
Stop!
I think.
You're hurting him
. Eric's not the kind of kid who's been in many fights. He's the kind of kid who wins the spelling bee and hacks into school computer systems for fun. Miguel pulls Eric up to standing and cocks his arm back again.

“Stop it!”
I scream, because no one else is helping. Even Garth, with all his bulk, who could pull Miguel back with one pinky, is watching. My words must have been louder than I thought, because everyone's eyes flick toward me for a moment, almost in unison, and then they slide back to Eric. Miguel looks at me too. Then he turns back toward Eric and slams his fist into his cheek. He must have also hit Eric's nose, because all of a sudden, blood spurts out all over the place. Eric covers his nose with his hand, as if he can stop it. The blood drips down his Star Wars shirt like someone's twisted idea of coloring in the lines.

At first I think the blow shocks Eric out of his drunkenness. And maybe shocks Miguel too. He looks back at me with something like remorse. Miguel shakes his hand out and then grabs a wet rag from the counter. The rag is damp from mopping up spilled beer. Miguel holds the rag up to Eric's nose.

Eric pushes his hand away.

“Back off, asshole.” He starts for the sliding screen door. And then he turns back to the room. “Screw you all.” But his eyes are pointed at me. And they are madder than any eyes I've ever seen before.

Miguel looks old, somehow, as he walks back toward me. His face is nearly gray. He has pulled the hood up over his head, and he walks like his legs are filled with cement. “I'm sorry. I lost it.” He reaches out his hand toward me.

I step back. “You scared me.”

“I know. I'm sorry.” He pulls my arm and tugs me away from the crowd. “He was getting rough with you. I couldn't watch him do that to the girl I love.”

This catches me completely off guard.

Miguel goes on as though he didn't just drop the L-bomb. “I had to defend you.”

“What about just pulling him off me?” I ask, still thinking about the fact that he said he loved me. “What about just cussing him out? You didn't have to break his nose!”

“I couldn't let him punk me.”

“You?” What is he talking about? I see Janae and Garth watching from the corner, Janae's face all bunched up and worried, Garth with a lacey white strap hanging out of his pocket.

“You're my girl.”

“I don't belong to you.” I wiggle out of his grip, which is tighter than I want it to be.

“Don't be like that.” He tilts his head to the side and steps toward me.

I step away. His breath smells like beer now and it makes me feel ill. “You're drunk. You just beat up some dorky whiz kid, a kid we have to work with on the Line for the rest of the year. What the hell were you doing?”

“You're overreacting. I had to put him in his place.” He's too close to me. I wish he would chew a piece of gum or something. I can hardly breathe.

“It's a big deal to me. That's not how people solve problems in my world.”

“Well, it is in mine.”

“Maybe we're just too different.” I say this all fast, and it makes me sad when I hear it out loud.

“Don't say that.” He shakes his head, and I might be imagining it, but I think I see tears in the corners of his eyes.

“I need some space,” I tell him. “I need to think.”

The cops come within the next ten minutes. Four of them. Brusque and bothered, acting as though their whole evening is ruined by having to come out here to break up a party. I can't say I'm too disappointed, until I realize they're writing down everyone's names.

When the young cop with the badge reading C. Murphy gets to me, I mumble my name with my eyes pointed at his shoes. The pen scratches against his tablet but stops mid-word.
Crap
. “Al's daughter?”

I nod, my heart sinking to my knees like quicksand.

“He know you're here?”

I shake my head, daring to meet his eyes.
Crap
.

“I think I'll give you a ride home, young lady. Make sure you get there safely.” Murphy looks about nineteen. Super young. And sort of familiar, like maybe he even went to Central High before the police academy.

Janae entwines her fingers in mine. She's been standing with me ever since Miguel took off. “My friend is coming with me. Buddy system. I promised not to leave her alone at a party with all these drunk guys.”

Murphy considers me, his mouth all smirky. “All right then. I'll escort the two of you home when I'm done here. You take a seat on that couch while I finish up.”

It's my turn to be frozen, but Janae leads me over to the couch. “My life is over,” I whisper.

Janae pats my hand like she knows I'm right but doesn't want to say it.

20

“Trust is one thing we've never had to worry about with you, Gabriella.” Mom's face has been swallowed up by wrinkles. She wears these smoothing patches on her face when she sleeps most of the time, and they make her look like a zombie, her face all taped up. Forced relaxation. Apparently she can't relax it on her own.

They called Janae's dad to pick her up. Her father came, looking grungy like a truck driver and not seeming at all surprised to find his daughter in a strange friend's home in the middle of the night. He reeked of cigarettes. This did not impress my parents. Neither did Janae's short-short skirt, piercings, or ankle tattoo.

And now I'm alone with them, watching them plan to torture me. I say the same thing I have already said four times now. “I was at a party but I didn't drink. My friend Janae doesn't drink.” Of course I don't mention her trip to rehab. Methinks that might not get her on their good side.

Mom drums her fingers on the table. It sounds like a firing squad.

I decide to get a head start. “I'm sorry.” I'm so glad I never introduced them to Miguel. Now I won't ever have to deal with that issue. It's over.

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “I'm glad to hear you say that. Because you have to remember who I am.”

I never forget who my dad is.

His eyes are intense. Not mad exactly, but intense. It makes me want to look away, but I don't. “It's embarrassing to have you brought home by one of my officers. And particularly Officer Murphy. He's fresh out of the academy. Smart as a whip, but he's got a chip on his shoulder, and he's been out for me ever since I wrote him up a few months ago. He won't hesitate to use this against me. This will be all over the squad by tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry,” I say again, and this time I really am. “I wouldn't have gone to that party if I'd known it would end this way. I was just excited to have some new friends.”

Mom looks at Dad. I see her eyes harden and the lines in her face firm. “Well, you won't have them for much longer. I'm pulling you out of that school.”

My heart misses at least three beats and I forget to breathe.

Dad puts his hand on Mom's. “That's something we should discuss first.”

I swear Mom's eyes flash. Won't be long before she's breathing fire. Mom and Dad step out of the room to “get on the same page.” I sweat and plan my counter-argument, all the reasons why I should stay at Central. Before, I'd have counted Miguel as a reason to stay. Not anymore.

I've seen them do this before. It's funny because Dad is this tough-guy cop, but as a parent he's much more of a softie than Mom. I scrape my fingernails against the lines in the table. It's supposed to be an antique. My parents spent three months visiting antique stores, looking for the perfect kitchen table with distressed wood. I don't know why Mom is so big on distressed wood. Maybe it makes her forget how distressed her face is.