Cherry Money Baby (11 page)

They found Maxwell in the wreckage of the living room, asleep on a foldout with a blonde who turned out, much to Cherry’s surprise, to be Spanner. Ardelia stood over them. Cherry couldn’t detect any hurt in Ardelia’s swollen eyes. She stooped to pick at a wad of gum tangled in Spanner’s hair. Spanner batted her away sleepily.

They rode the elevator in silence. She didn’t want to see her reflection in the mirrored doors. While Ardelia took care of some business with the concierge, Cherry waited on the curb. She’d helped herself to a pair of sunglasses a guest had abandoned on Maxwell’s carpet. Even with the shades, the early afternoon light was punishing. No, not just the light, the wind too. Being
alive
was painful. So, this was it. Her first-ever hangover. She was used to the pain of overexertion, from running too far or overdoing it in a push-up contest. This was different. This was damage. She felt like she’d swallowed a cheese grater. She resolved to never make fun of Vi’s hangovers again; no one should have to suffer through
this.

Two younger girls teetered past in matching Hello Kitty T-shirts. They were giggling and screaming about something, and Cherry imagined a million tortures for them. They glanced her way, and she wondered what she must look like to a pair of middle-school girls. She’d never been
that
girl before, the one heading home in last night’s clothes, mascara turned to ash, all disheveled and hungover and looking roughed up in a way that was maybe slightly sexy. She’d always thought those walk-of-shame zombies were pathetic. But now, despite the throbbing in her head, Cherry felt like kind of a badass. She felt older and, yes, a little damaged, like she’d left a part of herself behind in Maxwell Silver’s hotel room. Like she’d spent a little of her life’s currency, diminished a precious supply, just a tiny bit.

It wasn’t a bad feeling at all.

The hotel door opened, all flashes and squeals, and Ardelia emerged, wearing her own face-masking shades. She took a look at the world and sneered.

“Isn’t it hateful?”

“Yes,” said Cherry, wondering if her voice would ever sound normal again.

“Breakfast?”

“I gotta get home. My father’s going to kill me.”

“I’ll drop you.” Ardelia touched the doorman’s elbow. “Greg, could you have them send my car around?”

Buses thundered past. Cherry stuffed her hands in her pockets and shivered, thinking of bed and maybe pancakes. She heard the snap of a lighter. Ardelia lit a cigarette. Cherry plucked it from her lips and crushed it on the pavement.

“Wha . . . ?”

They were being watched. She nodded toward the middle-schoolers waiting for the light. The girls giggled, pretending not to stare.

“You’re a role model.”

Ardelia gave her a once-over. She looked formidable in her shiny shades and rumpled party dress.
Snap-snap.
“You know, usually the only people who tell me what to do are my agent and my manager.”

“If they’re not telling you to quit, they’re idiots.”

The SUV pulled up, and the girls climbed in back. Cherry worried she’d crossed a line. Ardelia was quiet, looking out the window until her cell hummed “God Save the Queen.” She checked the ID and silenced it.

“Who was that?” Cherry asked.

She leaned her head on Cherry’s shoulder and removed her shades. “Oh, you know,” she said with a sigh. “Just some idiot.”

Ardelia dropped Cherry by Mel’s, where she’d left the Spider last night. Cherry drove with the window down, worried she might puke. The pavement near Sweet Creek Bridge was a swirl of skid marks; someone had nearly gone into the guardrail, it looked like. The black squiggles and stink of recently burned rubber made everything worse, and Cherry experienced a kind of nauseated déjà vu.

She made it back to Sugar Village, killing the engine and sitting in the driveway, mustering the energy to face Pop. The stomachache, she realized, wasn’t only physical. Guilt circled her insides like a spiny blowfish. Somehow being with Ardelia, her fellow debaucheress, had shielded her from it, but alone now, Cherry felt disloyal. Disloyal to her father for breaking curfew, disloyal to Vi for abandoning her at Mel’s, and weirdly, she felt disloyal to Lucas, though she hadn’t done anything wrong at the party. Having a great time, feeling so awesome, having something that was just
her own
— this felt like a betrayal. As if in the communal world of Sugar Village, memories were supposed to be made together and shared, and here was Cherry with her own little gleaming evening tucked in her pocket like a found coin. It was all hers. It made her feel selfish and sleazy.

When she came in, Pop was at the kitchen table. It was littered with paper, shredded envelopes, a yellow-ruled notebook on which he’d scribbled columns of diminishing numbers. Here was Pop, quietly working away on a Saturday. Here was Cherry, coming home at one o’clock in the afternoon, looking like hell warmed over. See Cherry squirm. Squirm, Cherry, squirm.

He glanced over his reading glasses.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

He gathered her appearance, mentally turning it over like the problem part in a malfunctioning engine. “There’s coffee.”

“Thanks.”

Cherry didn’t drink coffee, but the smell of Chock Full o’Nuts (or as Stew called it, Chock Full o’Shit) was intoxicating. She poured a mug of the acidic brown stuff and added a heap of powdered creamer to soften the blow to her stomach.

“Let me know when you’re ready,” Pop said.

“One sec.”

Cherry arranged herself across from her executioner. The papers were bills.
Shit.
She recognized the cheery red Verizon checkmark, the blue Con Edison seal, those monthly harbingers of stress and cutbacks. The first of the month, Pop would go on a rampage: If it was winter, he’d torque down the heat; summer, he’d unplug the air conditioner; and Cherry and Stew would get a lecture about leaving the lights on when they left a room. The next week it would blow over, and they’d all return to normal habits. It was best to just keep your head down and above all stay out of the house when Pop did the finances. Stew was nowhere to be seen. That was smart.

I Don’t Think,
thought Cherry.

Pop sealed an envelope, removed his glasses, and folded his hands.

“You okay?” he asked.

Cherry nodded.

“Good. First things first. You’re grounded. Two weeks. No television, phone, Internet. No going out on the weekends. After school you come home, or you go to work, then you come home. Got it?”

Cherry got it. She’d gotten it the moment she climbed into the Escalade outside Mel’s. Pop meted out punishments, or rather collected them, with the same neutral efficiency of the printed bills on the table. Misbehavior had a price, and you better not fuck up if you couldn’t pay. Sneak out while grounded? Your choice, but the penalty fees would stack up, your days of incarceration would grow, until you had no choice but to grit your teeth and take it. Action and consequence, it was all up to you. And really, two weeks for one all-nighter wasn’t a bad deal. Cherry had built up a few months of good credit.

Except for one thing.

“What about Lucas? Can he come over?”

“No.”

“But, Pop —”

“You’ll see him at school.”

“You’re not letting me see my
fiancé
?”

Pop rubbed his eyes. “Don’t call him that.”

“Why not? That’s what he is!”

Pop broke his composure. “Where’s the ring, then, huh? Where’s the
plan
? Where’s the job and the place to live? You’re too old to play house, Cherry.”

“I’m too old
not
to,” she snapped. “I gotta do
something.
”

“I’m not arguing with you about this. You’re grounded. That’s final.”

“Whatever.” Cherry pushed back from the table.

“We’re not done here.”

She made an exasperated noise. “Fine. What?”

Pop clicked his pen. She wanted to snap it in two. She hated his officiousness now. He was showing her how
reasonable
he was. How
adult.
There was still a dent in the wall from the coffee mug.

“I’m going to ask you for something,” Pop said. “I thought long and hard about this. It’s your life, so I’m
requesting
that you
consider
something. For me. Because I’m your father.”

He waited. Cherry held up her hands. “Well?”

“I’m asking you to wait. Wait to get married. Just a year or so. You can live here as long as you want, rent-free. You could maybe apply to a few schools. . . .” She began to protest, but he stopped her with an outstretched palm. “I’m not saying you
gotta
to do this. I’m not asking you to not be engaged. I’m asking you to give yourself time to see what other options are out there.”

“Options,” said Cherry, “in men?”

“In life,” said Pop.

“Don’t you think I already considered the options?”

His expression told her no, he didn’t think she had, but he was going to let her figure that out herself. He took her hand. Her skin was pink and soft, so unused next to the tanned, time-roughened, craggy terra firma of her father’s. “I love you, Snack Pack.”

The old nickname buckled Cherry’s armor. She tried not to smile.

“I’ll think about it,” she said softly.

“Good.” He squeezed her fingers and stood. “Now, finish paying the bills.”

“What?”

“You wanna play house? This is part of it, and you gotta learn sometime.”

“That’s not fair!”

“That’s part of your punishment.” He kissed her forehead. “Have fun.”

He retrieved a beer from the fridge. A moment later, Cherry heard the TV pop and hum to life.

The coffee did shit. She still had a headache.

And so began a weekend in isolation. No TV, no car, no freedom. Her confiscated phone disappeared into Pop’s junk drawer. Cherry didn’t mind. She wasn’t up to talking to Vi, who was probably mad at Cherry for ditching her. As for Lucas, Pop granted her one supervised phone call, like she was in prison or something, to say simply: “I’m grounded. I’ll tell you about it on Monday.”

“Oh, shit. You okay?”

The sound of his voice made her chest constrict. She wanted to melt into the receiver, twist down the curly cord, and zip across the yard to his room.

“It’s fine. I’m —”

Pop pressed the switch on the cradle, killing the connection.

“That’s enough,” he said. “Homework. Now.”

They were not phone talkers, Cherry and Lucas. Growing up next door to each other had removed the need for constant chatter. She didn’t need to fall asleep the way Vi did, cell to her ear, boyfriend’s breath crackling in the receiver. If she wanted to feel Lucas there, she could just open her eyes. His pillow was visible from her pillow, with only two screens and a hash of wire fencing between.

But not telling him about the party was agony. She had no reason to feel guilty, but, okay, it had been a
serious
party, and she did get
seriously
drunk, and there were
seriously
cut dudes there, including at least one
seriously
famous one. And though she didn’t feel like she’d done anything wrong, the need to clear it with Lucas was overpowering. The news lodged somewhere in her sinuses, an entrenched rock snot she was desperate to expel but couldn’t.

As usual, Lucas was away all Saturday night busing tables at Willie’s. Cherry normally liked her Saturday nights Lucas-free. They kept her feeling independent, like she had a life outside their relationship. But now she just wanted to see him, hit the Refresh button, convince herself that one night in Boston hadn’t changed her into someone else.

At eight Pop let her watch
Archer
with Stew, but she just couldn’t get into it. The boozy antics on-screen made her feel dirty.
God,
she was such a fuck-up.

Stew noticed something wasn’t right. When Pop wasn’t looking, he nudged her shoulder.

“You wanna . . . ?” He nodded toward his room and mimed smoking a joint. This was the last thing she wanted to do.

“No,”
Cherry said. “Why do you think I would
ever
want to do that?”

Stew shushed her. “Jeez! Okay!”

“Stoner dumb-fuck,” she growled. “Has to make everyone as much of a loser as he is. Jesus shit, Stew.”

Her brother shrank into the couch, at once shocked and petrified Pop would hear her. “Cherry!” he hissed. “Wow, holy shit, I’m
sorry.
I just thought you looked stressed —”

She stood up, blocking the television. “Get your shit together! It’s not all about having a good time, you know?” She slapped the edge of the plastic bowl in Stew’s lap, showering him with Doritos. Pop looked up from the kitchen table.

She went to her room and slammed the door, shaking the trailer.

“What did you do?” she heard Pop say.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

Cherry noticed a catch in his throat, like he was going to cry.

Pussy.