Saint Anything (15 page)

“An infinitesimal amount,” Eric replied. But I noticed, as we fell in behind him, that his steps were anything but sure.

“Eric’s using his big words,” Mac reported to Layla and Irv, who were now sitting opposite each other in a chariot. She had plenty of room next to her; he barely fit, as if the metal might give way at any moment.

“Dead giveaway,” Layla said. “No more beer for you, Bates.”

“He gets super verbose when he’s buzzed,” Irv explained to me. “One of his many tells.”

“I am perfectly compos mentis,” Eric protested, sitting down a bit bumpily on the grass. He strummed his guitar. “I’ll prove it by entertaining you with a musical interlude. Sydney, come join me here on the terra firma and tell me what you want to hear.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Layla held up a hand. “Please stop before you embarrass yourself.”

“Too late,” Irv said.

Eric, undeterred, patted the grass beside him. “Come. Enjoy my aural stylings.”

I felt so bad for him that I actually went. As soon as I sat down, he leaned into me, strumming the guitar. “I once knew a girl, Sydney was her name . . . She was so pretty, she drove me insane . . .”

“Can I have another beer?” I asked. Irv snorted. Mac tossed me one.

“Met her at school, there on the wall,” he crooned. “Sat down beside her, gave it my all . . .”

“O-kay,” Layla said, getting up from the chariot. “I think it’s time we head back. Mom’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“I’m in the middle of an original composition,” Eric protested.

“You’ll thank me later,” she told him as Mac picked up the duffel bag, filling it with our empty cans. Irv stepped off the carousel, and it made a sound like a sigh of relief. Beside me, Eric had thankfully stopped singing, although he was still picking out a few sloppy chords. “Before we go, though, one ride?”

“One ride,” Eric mumbled. “On the inside. Be my bride and let it ride . . .”

Irv looked at Mac, who shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Climb on.”

Layla clapped her hands, then got back on the carousel, hoisting herself up onto one of the horses. “Come on,” she said to me. “You have to try this.”

I was buzzed now, feeling the beer and a half as I walked over and joined her. My horse was a small one, and I felt unsteady as I got on, trying to remember the last time I’d ridden a merry-go-round.

“Ready?” Irv said.

“Ready,” Layla shouted, turning around to grin at me. I felt myself smile back, even though nothing had even happened yet.

Mac and Irv got on opposite sides of the carousel and began pushing. It turned slowly at first, with a fair amount of creaking, but within a minute or so we were moving at a good clip. As my horse rose, I could feel the wind in my hair; up ahead, Layla reared back, laughing. We moved quickly, then faster still, the night and woods big and wide all around us. It was one of those moments that, even while it was happening, I knew I would remember forever, even before the ring came into view and my grasp. I didn’t reach for it, though; I didn’t need to. I felt like I’d already won.

* * * 

We could hear the music before the house even came into view. One moment, the only sound was our footsteps, crunching across the leaves. Then we heard instruments and a single, haunting voice.

Layla stopped just at the edge of the tree line, listening. “Rosie’s singing. Wow. Wonder how they swung that.”

Up ahead, the house was all lit up, and through the open back door I could see the living room was crowded with people. Meanwhile, the voice continued, high and sweet. I couldn’t make out the words, but it still gave me chills.

“Okay,” Mac said. “What’s the plan here?”

Layla looked at Irv, who was carrying a now-asleep Eric on his back. Halfway through our return journey, he’d started to really stumble, then announced he needed to rest before lying down on a bed of pine needles. Apparently, like the verbosity, this was not an unusual occurrence, so Irv scooped him onto his back without comment and we carried on. Now, his face against Irv’s sweatshirt, Eric looked almost sweet, like the miracle baby he’d once been.

“He can sleep it off,” Layla said. “He’ll come find us when he’s up.”

I followed her as she walked toward the shed they’d rehearsed in earlier, clearing some papers and a pair of drumsticks off a rumpled sofa there. Irv deposited Eric onto it, and she covered him with a sleeping bag. As she tucked it around him, he mumbled something in his sleep. The others were already heading to the house, so I was the only one who saw her smooth his forehead with her hand, lingering there as she shushed him.

The house wasn’t just crowded: it was packed. We had to squeeze in, then apologize and avoid feet and elbows all the way to the kitchen, where there was more breathing room. Once there, I looked back to see Mrs. Chatham in her recliner, her husband on the couch, head ducked down, a banjo in his lap. He was flanked by two other men, also playing, and a redheaded woman sat in a nearby chair, a violin on her shoulder. But it was Rosie everyone was watching.

She was standing at the edge of the couch, wearing jeans and a tank top, sporting her trademark ponytail. Her eyes were closed. I didn’t know the song she was singing, as I knew none of the ones I’d heard on the Seaside jukebox. But it was haunting, about a girl and a mountain and a memory, and it wasn’t until it was over that I realized I’d been holding my breath.

“Wow,” I said to Layla as everyone applauded. Rosie, her cheeks pink, gave a rare smile, then leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “You weren’t kidding. She’s amazing.”

“I know,” she said. “She doesn’t agree to sing much. But when she does, she blows me away.”

Behind us, the guys were more focused on food, busy rifling through the cabinets. “I need something good,” Irv said. “And a lot of it.”

“Carrot sticks?” Mac said. “Vegetarian jerky?”

Irv, staring into a collection of spice jars, turned his head slowly, looking at him. “Are you serious right now? Do I
look
like a vegetarian to you?”

“How do vegetarians look?”

“Not like me.” He shut the cabinet, then opened another one, revealing a box of Pop-Tarts. “Okay.
Now
we’re talking.”

“I want one!” Layla called out. “Let me see if we have any frosting to put on them.”

Irv snapped his fingers, pointing at her. “I like the way you think.”

Mac, over at the sink, sighed. I watched him open a smaller cabinet, up high. Taped inside was a handwritten sign:
MAC’S FOOD. DO NOT EAT!

“As if anyone would want to,” Layla, now eating strawberry frosting from a container with a spoon, said as she came over to stand beside me. Irv was at the toaster oven, laying out rows of Pop-Tarts on the rack inside. “We have mice, and
they
don’t even touch what’s up there.”

Mac, ignoring this, pulled out a box of crackers, then walked to the fridge, where he dug around for a minute before producing some kind of spread. He got a knife and took a seat at the kitchen table just as the music began again. When Layla went over to consult with Irv about toaster settings, I slid into a seat opposite him. He angled the now-open box in my direction.

“You don’t want that,” Layla called out. “Trust me. Hold out for the tarts with frosting.”

It seemed rude, however, to say no, so I reached in, pulling a cracker out. It was octagonal-shaped and dotted with seeds and grains. Mac watched me as I took a bite. It was so thick, my teeth barely cut through it. And dry. Very, very dry.

“Thanks,” I said, managing to get half the word out before being overcome by a coughing fit. In response, Layla plunked a glass of water by my elbow. The girl thought of everything.

“They’re better with hummus,” Mac told me as I tried to catch my breath. It was like that one piece of cracker was clinging to my esophagus with a death grip. He pushed the spread toward me, the knife balanced on top. “Here.”

I smiled, sucking down a sip of the water. Across the room, the toaster pinged. “Saved!” Irv said, opening the door. He reached in, immediately burning his fingers. “Shit, that’s hot.”

“You never learn, do you?” Layla grabbed a wooden spoon, then used it to pull the tarts out, piling them on a plate. “Grab the frosting. It’s go time.”

They settled at the table on either side of me. Layla tore off two paper towels, giving one to Irv, and then distributed a Pop-Tart to each of them, along with a healthy dollop of frosting. They each dipped, then toasted each other. I looked down at the remains of my cracker. Then, purely out of loyalty, I plunged it into the hummus.

It was better. Not good, mind you. But better. I only coughed a little. “What are these, again?” I asked Mac.

“Kwackers,” he told me, turning the box so I could read the label. “They’re sugar-free, low-carb, and fortified by additional Kwist Seeds, which are like soy, but healthier.”

“Yum.” Layla fixed me a paper towel plate and a tart, then pushed it toward me. “Don’t be a martyr, Sydney. Even for Mac.”

“Are those my Pop-Tarts?”

I looked up to see Rosie squeezing her way into the kitchen, two girls of her same build and size—one dark-haired, one white-blonde—following. The brunette had on leggings and a Mariposa sweatshirt, featuring the trademark pink butterfly character I remembered from the Saturday morning cartoons of my childhood. The blonde was in shorts and a crop top, displaying one of the most perfect sets of abs I’d ever seen.

“They didn’t have your name on them,” Layla replied. “But help yourself.”

Rosie walked over and took one, holding it out to her friends. When both of them shook their heads, she tore off a piece and dunked it in Mac’s hummus, then took a bite.

“Ugh,” Irv said.

“It’s actually not so bad,” Layla told him.

“You’ve tried that?”

“Desperate times, desperate measures.”

The brunette stepped out from behind Rosie, sticking her hand out to Mac. “I’m Lucy. And you are?”

“My brother,” Rosie said flatly as they shook. “He’s seventeen.”

“I love seventeen,” Lucy said, smiling.

“I’m Layla,” Layla said, offering her own hand. “I’m sixteen.”

Lucy shook, with visibly less enthusiasm. “Hi.”

The girl with the abs, for whatever reason, was not introduced, nor were the rest of us. I reached over to the box of Kwackers Mac was holding to take another one, and he moved it closer to me. This time, I was well aware that Layla, and everyone else, was watching.

“So we’re in your room tonight, just so you know,” Rosie told Layla, dipping the other half of her Pop-Tart in the frosting.

“What?” Layla asked.

“Mom said it was okay,” Rosie told her as the song wound down in the other room. There was a burst of laughter, some scattered applause.

“It’s not her room. And I have Sydney here.”

“You know I basically sleep in a closet. There’s not enough space for all three of us.”

“Where are we supposed to sleep?”

“The couch? I don’t know.”

“They’ll be out here all night, though.”

“Rosie!” Mr. Chatham called out from the living room. “Come back in here, gal, and sing us another one. For your dear old dad.”

Mac sighed. Irv said, “How many beers has
he
had?”

“Not as many as he will.” He got up, then held the box out to me one last time. I shook my head as Rosie turned, leaving the room with the blonde following. Lucy, however, lingered in the doorway, watching Mac as he reached up to put the Kwackers back in his cabinet. It was a stretch, and his shirt inched up, exposing his belt and a strip of his stomach. “You guys can take my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“And he’s a gentleman, too,” Lucy said.

“Down, girl,” Layla said. Lucy, either not hearing this or ignoring it, finally left. She was walking entirely too slowly, as far as I was concerned.

“Ugh,” Layla said as Rosie began singing again. “Those Mariposa girls are all
so
gross, I swear. If all those little girls who buy tickets only knew.”

“They’re not all bad,” Mac said, shutting the cabinet.

Layla rolled her eyes, but said nothing as Rosie’s voice, which had been quiet at first, began to soar, filling the living room and then our ears. This song had a quicker pace, more of something you’d dance to. Mrs. Chatham, in her chair, was flushed and smiling, tapping her foot, as the woman playing the violin closed her eyes, the bow slashing back and forth across the strings. It seemed amazing to me that one night could hold so much, from a merry-go-round to a Pop-Tart with frosting to the most beautiful singing I’d ever heard. I thought of my own house, across town. Perched on a hill, all lights off except those in use, with just my parents and myself bumping around its large space.

Rosie’s voice was rising now, the violin player going even faster. Someone was stamping his feet, and my own cheeks felt hot. It was amazing to feel so at home in a place I’d only just come to. The night was not even close to over yet. Still, I could think of nothing but how I so very much did not want it to end.

* * * 

“Just so you know,” Layla said, stretching a sheet across the bed, “this was
not
what I had in mind when I invited you over.”

It was about two hours later, and we were in Mac’s room. After listening to the music for a while, we’d gone out to the garage, where Layla had roused Eric, then made him walk a few laps around the house to sober up before Irv drove him home.

“It’s been great,” I told her.

“I don’t know about
that
.” She slid the pillow into a fresh case, then plumped it. “It’s so typical that Rosie just takes over my room. She gets whatever she wants.”

“I really don’t mind sleeping on the couch,” I said.

“No way. You are a guest. Mac will be fine there.” She turned, picking up one of the two sleeping bags we’d brought in from the garage and shaking it out of its sack.

I sat down on the bed—Mac’s bed, I realized belatedly, which made it feel different suddenly. As she spread a blanket over the sleeping bag, I looked around the room. It was small, with a twin bed and bureau, both made of the same well-worn yellow wood. Two car posters—one Audi, one BMW—were up on the wall, along with a map of what looked like Lakeview, dotted with pencil marks. On a metal desk, dinged with dents, there sat a computer, speakers, and a row of books, mostly about running and exercise. At the far end, there were several clock radios, all in different stages of disrepair: some were missing knobs, another the glass screen, and one had several springs poking out of it, as if it had exploded.