Spectacle (A Young Adult Novel) (18 page)

She danced until sweat ran down her chest and off her forehead, until she felt dangerously dehydrated. Stopping to grab a drink would’ve made sense, but bottles of water were selling for three dollars, not that much less than an acid trip.

After what Trix guessed was a few hours, a bunch of people had coupled up. Many were alone like her, though, just grooving to the sounds.

Marjorie and Isaac had disappeared.

The light show was starting to make Trix dizzy and she knew she needed to find water. She decided to spend the three bucks on a bottle, but by then couldn’t find anyone selling it.

A new DJ took the stage, a guy wearing all white, with long blond hair. Trix couldn’t tell any difference between his music and the last DJ’s.

She knew she’d be at the party for a while yet, at least until Marjorie and Isaac came off their trip and emerged from whatever corner they’d slipped off to. She tried to keep going with the beat.

Before long, the room began to spin.
Ignore it. Just dance. Pretend you’re drunk or high.
She waved her glow sticks and wiped sweat from her forehead. She told herself her brain wasn’t swirling like sand in a windstorm. She just needed to watch for the water person.

Then it happened. Trix felt herself going down, the rafters and people and music draining from her consciousness in a whirl of confusion.

She opened her eyes. She was outside, lying on asphalt, looking up into the black night sky. She heard the occasional rumble of a car, but was otherwise alone. She sat up slowly. Her clothes were intact, thank God.

What the hell had happened? She’d been thirsty. So thirsty. Dizzy. Beyond that, though, she couldn’t recall anything. She must’ve gotten dehydrated and passed out. People at the party probably thought she was having a bad trip and didn’t want to get in trouble so they moved her outside?

Where was Marjorie? Why hadn’t she stuck by her, at least? Gotten her in Isaac’s car and taken her home?

Then it occurred to her, as she sat alone on the shoulder of a street deep in SODO, that Marjorie could be in worse shape than she was, that Marjorie really had taken drugs. Either that or she was just too caught up in her fun to have noticed Trix.

Angry, she stood. She was still parched, still dizzy. It was cold and she had only her tank top on. Rubbing her arms, she began walking.

A car passed slowly, its brake lights flaring. It reversed.

A man, obviously drunk and older than her father, stuck his head out the window and slurred, “You lost? ‘Cuz you looks lost.”

“No!” she barked.

“Ok,” he said and shook his head. “S’ok. I jus’ thought I’d help if you’re needing directions.”

“I’m fine,” she said. She turned her back to him and continued on. She knew she’d find a bus stop somewhere.

The car, a low-riding Buick, pulled up on her again.

“You wantin’ a ride, pretty girl?”

“No!” she yelled again. “No, thanks. My, uh, my boyfriend is picking me up in a minute. He’s a cop,” she lied.

“Oh yeah? Them’s good guys. Saved my poor ass more ‘an once.” Gold flashed inside his mouth.

Trix was still walking and the car was still puttering slowly next to her. She supposed she should’ve been scared. She was in SODO alone at night. But there was something amiable about the guy. He wasn’t going to grab her and throw her in the backseat. He wasn’t going to try to get her naked and hurt her. Somehow she knew this.

“Okay, well you take care, girl. You call that cop boyfriend a yours and tell ‘im down here in the dark ain’t no place for a pretty thang.”

Sighing and allowing herself a half smile, she said, “I will.”

“Good deal. Awright now. You take care,” he said again. The car rumbled off, the window still open.

Trix thought about Marjorie again. She wasn’t feeling very charitable toward her newish cohort at the moment. It was becoming clear that, with Marjorie, fun would always trump friendship.

44. Confrontation

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Emily spotted Trix again. They were walking toward each other on the school’s second floor. At first Emily didn’t know who was coming along, just thought it was someone from her class. But then the high heels, ripped sweater, and leopard-print belt came into focus. She noticed a hesitation in Trix’s gait and wondered, briefly, if she’d turn and walk the other way.

Trix kept coming though and said, “Hey.” She walked on as if Emily were any old person, not her best friend for the past five years.

Emily stopped and said. “Wait.”

Trix didn’t want to wait. She didn’t have the energy for a conversation with Emily. But she gave in, pausing, and turning slowly.

“Trix … ” Emily didn’t know what to say.

“Yeah, what?”

“You’re not you, lately,” Emily said. “What’s going on? Can you please tell me? Because I’m at a total … loss.”

Trix’s eyes had a hardness to them. A red- and blackness.

“I’m still me,” she said. She was, she thought. Just a more experienced version of herself. Whoever the hell that was.

“You’re a different you, then. One I didn’t know was in there.”

Crossing her arms, Trix scowled and focused hard on the glass display case that the Spanish club had put together. It held a mini sombrero, Mexican worry dolls, a package of tortillas (which was just weird), and a one-page story written in Spanish that she had never seen anyone actually standing there reading. “Yeah, well,” Trix said.

Then Emily took the risk and said, “You wanna hang out? I’m at Shutter Ho after school, but I’ll have a break around four thirty. We could have a quick cup.” Shutter Ho was what Emily and Trix used to jokingly call Emily’s workplace.

Without looking directly at Emily, Trix said, “Okay. I guess.”

“Great. First and Vine. Remember?”

Trix nodded, then went up to the glass case and said, “Why are there freaking tortillas in there? In case the dolls get the munchies?”

Emily laughed. Laughed with relief. She laughed at Trix’s ability to say what Emily was thinking, but in a much funnier way than Emily ever could.

More than anything, Emily wanted to be able to report that she and Trix met for coffee, hugged and cried, and opened up to each other again.

But that wasn’t what happened. Seeing how Trix came into the coffee shop—her posture so intentionally loose she might as well have blurted that this was no big deal to her and she didn’t know why she was there—punctured Emily’s hopes right away.

She fetched Americanos for them both, black for Trix, cream for herself, and realized that communicating with her was going to be like chipping away at a rock with a cotton ball.

Emily was suddenly sorry she’d invited Trix. Shutter Ho had become a haven, of sorts, for her. She didn’t love the idea of Trix’s bitterness tainting the place.

“At least it’s not Starbucks,” Trix said.

For a minute, Emily thought she’d broken through. That Trix was remembering one of their inside jokes about bad art on coffee shop walls or the guy who’d once brought a blueberry pie into Café Obscura and proceeded to eat the whole thing.

“How’s Frederick’s?” Emily asked.

“Same old shithole as ever.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. If I could get a cushier job, one like this, that paid even half as much, I would,” Trix said.

Envy, again, Emily thought. Was it new, or had she just never noticed it before?

After a minute, Trix said, “You should’ve seen Marjorie yesterday.”

Deflated, Emily asked, “Why?”

“She’s crossing the street, you know, out at 15th and 65th, and a car pulls up fast, like it’s not gonna stop. So she turns to the driver, flashes her right boob and kicks the bumper. So funny.”

Emily must’ve looked horrified, because Trix added, “I wouldn’t expect you to get it.”

“She sounds a little rough.”

“That’s what I like about her.” Trix picked at the flaking black polish on her fingernails.

Suddenly a thunderclap of anger hit Emily. She saw, in front of her eyes, sparks of resentment and confusion and pissed offedness. “So, she’s more in line with your current life philosophy,” Emily said. “Treat people like they’re trash unless you learn differently. I’m really happy for you, Trix. You and Marjorie are going places.”

Trix’s hackles raised visibly.

“Oh what?” she said. “Are you and Ryan going to get married? Have preppy little seven-foot long babies?”

“How would I know? I’m a junior in high school.” This was not working out how Emily had wanted.

“Lots of people do it. Except … oh wait … I bet you haven’t even had sex yet, have you?”

Emily glared at her ex-friend, who had turned so cruel and heartless. Or, maybe she’d always been that way, but had never directed it at Emily. She felt jealous herself then, of Marjorie. Marjorie was getting all the best of Trix while Emily had turned into
persona non grata
.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Emily said.

Trix picked at her nails again, stretched her legs straight in front of her, one at a time. “Not especially.”

Just then there was a crash. The shatter of porcelain. “Oopsie Daisy,” Thomas called. He waved and tapped his watch. “Emmy, I need you, sunshine. Break’s over.”

He was rescuing her. She still had seven minutes of break left and they both knew it. But she was grateful. She stood, picked up her mug.

“Look,” Trix said, leaning over the table so her breasts rested on the wood. “It’s okay. Friends go different ways all the time.”

“Not us.”

“Yes, us.”

“Am I that insufferable?” Emily asked.

Suddenly, Trix felt sorry for her old friend. Her eyes pleading, her big body hunched over. She forced her voice to soften as she said, “I think maybe I’m just not good enough for you.”

45. The Meaningful Email

E
MILY BROUGHT THE
upstairs computer out of its sleep and got online. Her plan was to browse around, look for music, and maybe chat with Ryan if she could find him. But instead she wound up typing in the URL for the gallery where Marilyn Wozniak sold paintings.

There was her mother again. Thin-faced and frizzy-haired, smiling, her shoulder turned toward the camera. She wore a wide, colorful scarf that made you think of the Southwest. Peach and burnt orange with fringe. Hammered silver earrings dangled from her long lobes. Nothing about her contentedly set features betrayed that she’d once abandoned a husband and two little girls.

Emily pounded the keyboard with her fist. The monitor didn’t even flicker. Anticlimactic.

She opened email and typed in her mother’s address.

She was tempted to start it with
Hi Mom
. But decided that would be less funny than abrupt.

Hello there,

My name is Emily Lucas. I have a sister, Kristen Lucas. We were once your daughters. I guess technically we still are. Though we haven’t heard from you in more than 11 years.

Emily backspaced. Too confrontational. She’d scare her away.

My name is Emily Lucas. I have a sister, Kristen Lucas. You’re our mother.

I’m a junior at Cannon HS here in Seattle. I’m doing fine in school. I’m into photography and writing. I have a boyfriend, Ryan, who is almost too good to be true. But so far he is. True, I mean.

Turns out I’m really tall. Like, six-foot-and-counting tall. Dad is average height, as I’m sure you know. I can’t remember, exactly, but you look tall to me. In your picture. And I’ve heard your father was extremely tall, too. Somehow it’s nice for me to know that. Because I often feel like the only one. And I wonder how I ended up this way.

Kristen is normal and is ridiculously into sports. She’s good at everything.

I’ll keep this short. I just wanted you to know I’m out here and if you’d like to email me back, you can.

~Emily

She proofread her note and, before she could change her mind, hit send.

What on earth had she done?

T
HERE WAS NO
reply from Marilyn Wozniak the next morning.

Emily felt the beginnings of regret in her gut. She shouldn’t have emailed. It’d be so much easier to not have tried than to have reached out and gotten nothing in return.

And, even though there was no way Bob Lucas knew Emily had emailed Marilyn, he acted, that whole of Sunday, as if she’d somehow slighted him. He stomped around, yelled about spots on glasses and unmade beds, looked incessantly at his BlackBerry, and shot dirty looks to anyone who stared at him questioningly.

“It’s work,” Melissa told Emily. “Stocks are crashing. The market’s bad.”

When, in the last few years, hadn’t the market been bad?

Kristen, wisely, was somewhere else.

Around noon, Emily decided she should leave, too. She actually wished it were a workday, but she was off on Sundays.

She took the bus down to Belltown anyway.

Just as she’d hoped, Thomas was at Shutter Ho by himself. “Can’t stay away, can you?” he said, starting a latté for her.

“Apparently not.” After being out in the cold, the café felt warm and dry. White lights lined the front windows and retro holiday songs played over the sound system.

“So, what’s shakin’? Besides your boobies.”

From anyone else, the remark would’ve deeply annoyed her, but she only laughed at Thomas, pulled up a tall stool behind the counter and said, “Too much.” She confided Trix’s antics, Emily’s insecurities about her growth and how it could affect her relationship with Ryan, and her email to her mother.

Thomas looked at her with wide eyes, “Good for you! Every girl needs a mom.”

“I don’t know. I hope it was the right thing to do.”

“It was, just you wait and see.”

With a damp cloth, Thomas wiped down the Clover machine.

Emily was definitely in a funk. Even her time with Ryan lately had been tainted by regret that her increasing height would soon be too egregious for him to overlook.

The day before, Emily had talked him into going to Gasworks Park where they spread a blanket across the damp grass, planning to watch the winter sun set behind the city. But, too quickly, the ground’s moisture soaked through the wool and they had to wad up their blanket, down their hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps, and trudge back to Ryan’s car.