Smashed (18 page)

“Katie works two jobs in the summer, and I’ve put aside some money, of course, but it’s a lot.” She cleared her throat again. “What with books, and room and board, and all.”

“Well, I can tell you I think there’s an excellent chance that I can work Katie into at least a partial scholarship—maybe more. I’d really like to see you at Maine,” Coach Hollyhock said, looking at me. “I’ll know more, and be able to tell you more, in December. But I can definitely do something. Do you think you want to go to Maine, Katie?”

“Maine or maybe the University of New Hampshire. Syracuse is too expensive unless they give me a full scholarship, but Coach Riley doesn’t think they can do that for me.”

“Whatever money you get, it’ll go farther in-state than anywhere else.”

I nodded. “I’d really like to play for you.”

Coach Hollyhock smiled. “Let’s get you scheduled for an official school visit to Orono soon, okay? That will give you a chance to meet the women on the team, see the school, get a feel for things, all right?”

“That would be great,” I said, suddenly hungry. Before we left, I’d cleaned my plate.

The ride to the University of Maine was long. Winding back roads for an hour just to reach the highway, then I-95 north—straight, flat, and tedious—for two more hours, a monotonous stretch to Bangor. Exit at Orono, and it was another fifteen minutes to the school. One thing I dreaded about going to U. Maine was that I’d have to make this trip several times a year.

There was another thing I dreaded, but I’d been pushing it far out of my mind for as long as I could: Orono is next to Bangor.

Wade was just an overage drunk guy I’d met at a party over the summer, but his face was still vivid in my mind, and his words still haunted me.

Your dad lives up to Bangor now. . . .

Forget it, I said to myself. Concentrate on Coach Hollyhock’s words, the only ones that matter:

I’d really like to see you at Maine.

I repeated those words over and over as I sped along in
Cassie’s car. Cassie had lent me her little green Beetle for the occasion, the one her parents had given her for her birthday just weeks ago. When she handed me the keys the day before I left, I almost didn’t accept—but she’d insisted.

“First of all,” she said, “I don’t need to be worrying about that beat-up car of yours dying on a desolate stretch of road and you without a cell phone.”

“I bet there’s no signal up there even if I did have one.”

“That’s what I figured. It’s why I’m lending you my car instead of my phone.” She grinned. “Plus, you deserve it.”

I doubted that. But Cassie loved giving presents, so I said okay. And it would be fun pulling into the gym lot at the university in her shiny lime-green car rather than in my old beater.

The colors of the leaves faded from bright red and yellow to burnt orange and brown as I drove north. Fewer hung on the trees; more were scattered on the ground. Winter would come just a little earlier up here, spring a little later. That seemed impossible. Winter in Deerfield lasted six months, or so it seemed.

The gas gauge hit empty. I’d passed by the Augusta exits, and Waterville, too. Could I make it all the way to the school without stopping? A few miles outside Bangor, the gas light flashed on.
Damn
. I couldn’t. There was an exit just ahead. I got off the highway and pulled into a convenience store.

*     *     *

I didn’t move.

Staring out the window, I took in the scene: the gas pump next to my car; the store, its windows covered entirely with
huge paper advertisements; a few small cars and pickup trucks scattered around the parking lot; people moving in and out of them with six-packs and junk food. But my eyes lingered on one particular pickup, one exactly like the truck my father had driven the day he left our house and never came back: My dad’s old truck.

There are plenty of trucks like that one
, I thought,
and his probably died years ago.
Still, my heart tapped furiously in my chest.

What if he’s here?

It was an insane thought. A ridiculous idea. Bangor was no metropolis, but it wasn’t tiny Westland either. What were the odds of a coincidence like that? Of my father driving the same exact truck he’d been driving when I was in seventh grade? Of his going into this one of a hundred convenience stores on the outskirts of Bangor, during the precise five minutes that his estranged daughter stopped to buy gas? I had a better shot of winning the Powerball on a Saturday night.

But it didn’t matter. My body was shaking now. All day I’d pushed thoughts about my father out of my head, but they were winning now, these thoughts.

Would I recognize him?

Would he recognize
me?
His very own
daughter
?

I stared through the windshield until the storefront dissolved into a blur, then closed my eyes, sending tears tumbling down my cheeks. My shoulders shaking, I sank down deep into the seat where no one could see me.

A few moments later, I opened my eyes and saw a girl with a
U. Maine sweatshirt exit the store, walk over to the truck, climb in the driver’s seat, and head for the highway.

I pushed away the tears, got out of Cassie’s car, and pumped gas.

*     *     *

The weekend was a whirlwind, the excitement blowing away all thoughts of my father. There were two other prospective recruits visiting, one from Maine and another from Massachusetts. Coach Hollyhock matched each of us with one of her current players—mine was a sophomore from a small Maine school like Deerfield—and we basically did everything they did. On Friday we went to classes with them, Saturday morning we went to team study hall, and all our meals were with them in the dining hall. When they went out Saturday night, we did, too. But whatever they did or didn’t do when we weren’t around, they kept the fun clean during our visit. We went to a small Mexican restaurant downtown and then hung out at the student center and met some of their other friends. Nobody picked up a drink—not while I was looking, anyway.

But the highlight for me was their game Saturday afternoon. It was like watching professionals after years of playing in an amateur league. There were about half as many whistles interrupting the game. The ball wasn’t sent out of bounds by accident or kicked by a forward trying to intercept a pass. It was faster, more intense. Drives arrived at their destinations, plays were called, shots on goal were consistently long and hard and on-target. The goalie came boldly out of her cage for saves. We
tried to do some of that stuff in Deerfield, but we just weren’t playing the same game.

I wanted so badly to get in there and play with these women.
Women
: that’s what Coach Hollyhock called them—not girls. And she treated them like adults, too. I just knew that my game could reach its potential here—and what’s more, so could
I.
I’d be different here. I’d be grown-up, too.

Before I left, Coach Hollyhock offered me a partial scholarship, one that would cover over half my tuition. All I had to do was get accepted by the school—not too hard for an in-state kid with grades like mine.

“What do you say? Would you like to play for Maine?” she asked, her smile luminous.

“Are you kidding? I’d love to,” I said, and we shook on it.

*     *     *

Back in Deerfield on Monday, I left study hall on a bathroom pass, my mind still buzzing with excitement. As I walked down the wide corridor to the girls’ room, long streaks of light passed through the tall windows, glimmering on the polished wood floor. Millions of dust particles swirled in the afternoon sunshine.

My lone footsteps echoed in the hallway, then were joined by another’s, someone who had just exited a classroom behind me. I didn’t think much of it until I reached the bathroom, glanced back, and saw Scott not more than fifteen feet behind me.

“Nice visit up to Maine this weekend, Katie? Got your future all sewn up?”

I looked at him blankly. How could I answer a question like
that—a question fired out not like a question at all, but an accusation?

He lifted his chin. “That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

He strode past me without waiting for an answer, then paused, one arm on the swinging door he was about to push open, glaring back at me. Scott was tall, like Alec, his brown hair cut close to his head. His face was familiar, but his mouth twisted with contempt—not contempt for a meaningless assignment or a boring book we had to read for school, but for
me
.

“You hurt Alec a lot, you know.”

We stood in the empty hall staring at each other. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“Got nothing to say for yourself? Well, you know what?” He held up one palm like he was directing traffic. “Don’t bother. You’ve caused enough trouble.” He pushed through the door and was gone.

Inside the last stall in the bathroom, I leaned against a wall. My whole body shook like a small engine. Puking had not been on my agenda for study hall, but it was too late. I leaned over and gagged.

At the sink, I splashed cold water over my face and looked in the mirror.

You hurt Alec a lot, you know.

Scott couldn’t know that I’d been driving Alec’s car, could he? He was just messing with my head, trying to make me feel bad about breaking up with Alec. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

Your secret is safe with me,
Alec had said back in August.

Was it?

I sat in Matt’s front yard on Saturday, cross-legged, holding a slender blade of grass between my fingers, examining it in the sun. The weather had turned unseasonably hot, and we were lolling on his front lawn like it was June, soaking in every ounce of sunshine.

“It’s nice to see you smile,” Matt said. His chin rested on his knees, his long arms wrapped around his legs.

I pulled the grass apart into two strips, then tossed them on the ground and looked up. “Why?”

“I don’t know. . . . Don’t get mad, okay? I’m not criticizing you. You seem, like—not yourself lately.”

“Really?” I glanced at him quickly, then away. All week I’d been thinking about Scott’s words, about what they might mean. About who knew what and who might still find out.

“Yeah, you seem pretty stressed out.”

I lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky. Was “stressed” the right word when you were afraid your whole life could fall apart at any moment? But I couldn’t say that.

“Wouldn’t
you
be?” I said instead. “This whole thing with the scholarship . . . It’s intense, you know? I won’t feel better until it’s over.”

“You’re going to get one,” Matt said. “I mean, that trip to U. Maine went great, right? Didn’t that seal the deal? I guess I thought you’d be excited.”

“Nothing is absolutely official until you sign—and they can’t sign you until the first Wednesday in
February.
”

“I guess it’s nerve-racking, waiting.”

I rolled over, staring into the grass. “Yeah, it is.”

“But there’s no reason it won’t happen, right?” Matt’s eyes were on me, I could feel it. “I mean, if the coach thinks you’re great now, she’ll still think you’re great in February.”

Tears welled up in my eyes and the grass blurred, blending like watercolors. Why couldn’t he just drop it? “It isn’t just the scholarship, Matt. . . .”

“What is it, then? Tell me.”

There was a sharp ache in the back of my throat. Matt had no idea that I was carrying a secret. No idea how badly I wanted to tell him what it was.
Don’t you see?
I wanted to say.
Alec could destroy me.

Matt was looking at me the same way he’d looked at me all those years ago when I’d told him the truth about my dad—that I really didn’t know where he was, or if he was coming back—his eyes so kind, so understanding. I wanted to tell Matt about Alec and have him still look at me that way.

But it wasn’t the same thing, was it? I wasn’t an innocent
kid anymore. How sympathetic is a drunk driver who nearly kills two people and then lies about it so she can get money for college?

No, I had to remember where Matt stood. I had to remember the look on his face when all he knew was that I’d been
in
Alec’s car. When he’d known I’d been drunk and I wouldn’t even own up to
that
.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you
, he’d said.

I couldn’t bear to lose him.

Matt searched my face. “Katie, what is it?”

Suddenly, his words felt like an interrogation. I didn’t need him questioning me. Not now, not ever. This thing was between Alec and me. It was nobody’s business but ours. Alec wanted to take the blame, and he took it. It wasn’t even my idea.

I wiped angrily at my cheeks.
Great
, I thought, glancing across the lawn to where Matt’s sisters played.
I’ve made a spectacle of myself in front of a couple little kids.

“I need to go home,” I said. I pushed myself up quickly and started walking toward my house.

A cloud moved over the sun, throwing a shadow across the lawn.

“Katie?” Matt called after me. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, I’m fine—just tired,” I lied without looking back. “See you tomorrow.” I could hear my voice shaking, but I would admit to nothing. No one could make me admit anything: not that I was drunk, not that I was upset or angry, not that I was driving that goddamn car.

*     *     *

Later that night, alone in my living room, I thought about the two gallons of wine my mother kept in the low cabinet near the kitchen sink. I closed my eyes, and for a moment I could taste it, sharp and warm on my tongue. I could feel the familiar warmth as it slid down my throat and spread through every limb in my body. I could feel the relief that followed: the edge that melted away, the calm drowsiness that helped me to sleep.

I needed—badly—to sleep.

What harm could one glass of wine do? Especially if I could wake up, just one morning, rested? It wouldn’t be doing any harm: That was my answer. It would be doing
good
.