The Best Night of Your (Pathetic) Life (5 page)

“I have it,” I said, and felt a pang of sadness and a rush of adrenaline, too, when I thought again about our years together—the unrequited crushes, the waiting lists, the lost elections, the terrorizing, more.

I looked around the car and paused dramatically then said, “The Also-Rans.”

“Also lame,” Winter said, after a beat, and I knew there was maybe a part of her that wondered why she hadn’t risen higher on the high school food chain. She was pretty, smart—even perky when she wanted to be—and yet she opted to hang around with us instead of going out for cheer or soccer and taking advantage of the social status that would afford her. Sometimes I felt like we bogged her down, and like she felt it, too.

“
I’m
not an also-ran,” Patrick said, baffled, as Dez said, “The Also-Rans,” trying it on for size. And as the car took the bump into the Home Depot parking lot, Dez looked at me and said, “It’s perfect, Mary.” He reached forward and squeezed my shoulder and said, “The Also-Rans for the win!”

“Hit me,” Mr. Mahady said when we ran through the doors of the Deep, and Dez started to show his dad his shopping list; and his dad started giving him aisle numbers, which Dez jotted down superfast. I watched with a sort of envy as Mr. Mahady took off his hat and scratched his balding head, then put his cap back on and blurted out another aisle number. There was a connection between Dez and his dad—this semiplump, balding, and pasty old dude—that almost made me want to cry; and I suddenly imagined them as teammates on some game show, like
$25,000 Pyramid
or
Win It in a Minute
, capturing the hearts of Americans far and wide.

To say that my parents would not be helping my team with the hunt was an understatement. Whether or not my mother would still let me sleep under their roof if I came out as gay was another question that always sprang to mind when I saw either of Dez’s folks. Not that Dez had ever come out to me, or to any of us, mind you. Not officially, anyway. But we all just sort of
knew
—and knew that he knew we knew—and also knew that it didn’t matter to us.

“Okay, people.” Dez snapped his fingers. “Here are your assignments.” And he started giving out items and aisle numbers and then we were all off and running through the store.

Toilet seat, ant trap, Beware of Dog,
I repeated so as not to forget my assignment.

Toilet seat, ant trap, Beware of Dog

We were going to leave Home Depot with almost 200 points, possibly even more, in less than ten minutes, and I was giddy about it.

I had already grabbed a toilet seat when I headed for aisle six—
SIGNS
—and found the B
EWARE OF
D
OG
ones. I took one off the peg and put it down on the floor with the toilet seat then took all the other B
EWARE OF
D
OG
signs off the peg and hid them across the aisle, under a stack of boxes of gold doorknobs. I bent to pick up my loot.

“You look really cute today,” Patrick said, and I turned.

I stood up with my stuff. “You know I hate that word.”

Patrick just laughed and said, “Well then you shouldn’t be wearing pigtails.” He was holding a dustpan and a two-by-four that was about four feet long.

“So is that a universal thing?” I asked.
“Guys and pigtails?”

“I can only speak for myself.” Patrick shrugged. “Why? Who else likes your pigtails?”

I stiffened and averted my eyes. “No one. I mean, just in general I’m wondering.”

I ran off in search of an ant trap and he followed, clearing his throat. I was rounding a corner when he said, “I
will
say one thing. You did not look at all cute on prom night.”

And I stopped and turned.

We stood there for a moment and the gap in conversation felt uncomfortably large, a canyon big enough to swallow us both. “I don’t want to talk about prom, Patrick,” I said. In fact, I didn’t even want to
think about
prom. I took off again, walking so fast that my calves started to burn and then taking off into a run.

Prom had been—despite my best efforts at committee meetings—an “Under the Sea” theme on account of Oyster Point’s proximity to the water and its seafaring history. Which just seem so uninspired. In the end, however, it felt like the perfect theme because there were many moments that night when I didn’t think I’d mind if the whole of the senior class, the whole of the town—everything except for select family and friends—got swallowed up into some crevice in the ocean’s bottom. Like when I saw Barbone ripping down this gorgeous tissue-paper sort of coral arrangement so he could try to stuff his shirt so it looked like he had breasts. And when Becky Hudson actually pointed and laughed at Debbie Norton, a shy nerdy girl whose date was rumored to be her cousin, when she spilled punch on her ivory dress.

Winter had happily gone with Dez when an actual date had eluded her—and him—and none of us had thought for a second that there was anything weird about that. Then Patrick asked me and since my own prospects of a real date
weren’t great, either, I’d said yes. I’d been sad about it for a while, but then I finally decided that it must be a very small percentage of people in the world who go to their high school prom with someone they’re in love with.

At least I
liked
Patrick.

Loved him, too. As a friend.

Though I’d never said it.

But then we’d danced that fateful dance. It was a slow song I hated. I knew Patrick hated it, too, but my brilliant theme-song compromise had opened the door for some pretty awful music and that was life.

He had looked cute that night; handsome, really, in his rented tux. And he smelled good, too, and I knew I also smelled good and looked as good as it was possible for me to look. I’d worked at it. And he’d confirmed it when he held me so close and tight, and I felt his chest inhale me. Then right by my ear, he’d said, “You look incredible,” and then I’d felt his exhale, and felt it.

It.

In his pants.

And he looked at me and saw my horror.

Was that what it was?

He didn’t pull away at first but then he did and we kept on dancing, but by that point I was looking over his shoulder to where Carson was dancing with Winter and Jill was dancing with Dez. I felt awkward and jealous and wanted to be in on the partner-swapping so that I could escape Patrick’s embrace and dance with Carson, too. We’d worked so hard for this night, he and I—interviewing DJs as if the gig they were up for was no less important than the end of the world—and so it seemed like we should share at least one dance.

But then the song ended and we all left the dance floor and since Patrick was my best guy friend I figured the whole thing would be something we would both just silently file under “Stuff Happens” or “Penises Do the Strangest Things.”

And never speak of again.

“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually.” Patrick had caught up with me in the pesticide aisle and his face had taken on a soft glow, like a lava lamp. I wasn’t sure whether it was from embarrassment or exertion.

“But it was just one of those things,” I said, still racing down an aisle. “I mean, it didn’t mean anything, so there’s nothing to talk about!”

“Well,” Patrick said, slowing down as I did, having found the ant traps, but then Dez called to us from down the aisle. “Guys! Come on!”

He was holding a brick and a doormat that said, W
ELCOME
T
O
O
UR
H
OME
.

So I grabbed any old ant trap and rushed past Patrick and his two-by-four (oh, God, he was sporting wood!) and found Dez and Winter—she was holding a plastic plant and an orchid—by the registers. Mr. Mahady ushered us through the self checkout, putting his credit card down to pay and saying, “Think of it as team sponsorship.”

Dez said, “Thanks, Dad. And, if other teams come in…”

Mr. Mahady nodded. “I will send them on a wild-goose chase.”

Dez’s eyes lit up as he started to push our cart out toward the exit and I dearly hoped we would win, not just for my own sake but also for Dez’s. If anybody deserved a victory lap as high school came to an end, Dez did.

We ran like bullets to the car and loaded the stuff into the trunk—Patrick and I had a quick fight about how best to handle the two-by-four, a fight that I won—and when we all got in and closed the doors, Dez shouted, “Wait.” Then he ran off toward the garden center down the parking lot a ways and snapped a picture of a small white gazebo.

“Awesome,” I said, when he got back into the car.

As soon as he closed his door, though, he said, “Aw, crap.”

“What?” I asked, but then I saw.

Barbone’s car had just rolled into the parking lot. It had been pimped out with a large stuffed Tigger, who was somehow tied to the front bumper; there was a twelve-pack of Bounty paper towels strapped to the roof rack; and an American flag flew from the antenna. I looked up the point values as fast as I could. “They’ve got twenty, ten, and twenty-five.”

“Fifty-five points before they even hit the Deep,” Patrick said. “And that’s just what we can see. And we totally could’ve gotten paper towels just now.”

“Stinks,” Winter said.

“How did they even get that stuff so fast?” I asked, then didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, so what,” I said. “So we’ll get another fifty-five while they’re here.”

“And it’ll take them twice as long for sure,” Patrick said. “Just to find the stuff.”

“
Easily
twice as long,” I said, but I felt sick and disappointed that my team and Barbone’s had had the same impulse so early in the day. But as we headed toward the parking lot exit, I watched through the back window as Barbone’s team approached the store, and saw Mr. Mahady appear with two security guards at his side.

“Hold up,” I said, and Patrick braked.

Words were exchanged. Hands gesticulated wildly. Then
Barbone’s gang turned around and went back to their car, with Fitz flipping Mr. Mahady the bird on the way.

“Go, go, go!” I said, and Patrick hit the gas and off we went, out onto Richmond Avenue, heading for Flying Saucers in search of aliens.

“What do you think just happened?” I asked, unbelievingly—it was almost too good to be true—and Dez dialed his dad’s phone. After a minute, Dez said, “What just happened, Dad?”

He listened for a second then said, “I have never loved you more than I do right now,” and hung up.

“Well?” I said, wishing Patrick would drive faster, that there weren’t so many lights, and that we weren’t hitting so many red ones.

“Apparently, there was an unfortunate incident with some bags of fertilizer and until they’re cleaned up my dad’s not letting anyone in the store because the stuff is toxic, wink-wink.”

I squealed.

Winter said, “Awesome.”

Patrick said, “Brilliant,” and hit the gas with a bit more verve when the light turned green.

After a minute, Dez said, “I honestly never thought having a father who worked at Home Depot would be a good thing,” and then we were all cracking up and Patrick caught my eye and we both smiled. And as I watched the gas stations and bagel shops and dry cleaners I’d frequented all my life fly by I hoped that that little conversation in the aisle at Home Depot had been the last of its kind.

Winter’s phone buzzed. She had a text and I saw it light up on the seat beside her. “The Yeti?” I asked, reaching for my own phone.

“No,” she said, then she sent a text and held her phone in her hand while she looked out the window.

“Who are you texting?” I asked, because everyone Winter usually texted was here in the car.

She said, “Carson wanted to know where we are,” without looking at me.

It was weird that he’d texted Winter and not Patrick, but then again he knew Patrick was driving. But why hadn’t he texted me? Because he didn’t want to be too obvious?

“What did you write back?” I asked.

“I wrote Home Depot,” she said flatly.

“Where are
they
?” I asked.

“I didn’t ask,” Winter said, and I shook my head and said, “Do I have to do everything?” and I turned and grabbed her phone out of her hand and typed, WHERE ARE YOU GUYS?

“Give me my phone,” Winter said, reaching, but I held it forward toward the LeSabre’s dash, so she couldn’t grab it.

A second later, the phone buzzed and the text said, THIS IS JILL. JUNGLE GOLF. SO FUN!

“Well?” Patrick asked.

“That was Jill,” I reported, wishing so hard that she was out of the picture and that I was texting Carson for a better reason, on my own phone. “She said they’re at Jungle Golf.”

“
Jill
answered?” Winter asked

“Well, Carson’s driving,” I said. It wasn’t that hard to figure out.

“Can I
please
have my phone,” she said, and I complied, and she looked at it and scrolled for a minute, then looked out the window again.

Whatever, Winter!

“So what are we going to do
after
Flying Saucers?” I said, and pulled out my list.

“I thought there’d be head shaving,” Dez said randomly.

“Or eyebrows,” Winter said.

“I would never shave my eyebrows,” I decided on the spot, and Patrick said, “Never?” He was stopped at a red light again, so looked over at me. “Like if your life depended on it? If world peace was at stake?”

“Okay, maybe if world peace were at stake,” I said with mock annoyance. Because you could never just say anything flip with Patrick around. He always wanted to know
why
you felt a certain way, what you
meant
. It could be exhausting.

“What if the hunt came down to you and Barbone?” Winter asked.

“Yeah,” Dez said. “Because we’ve been given the impression that there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do tonight, to keep the Yeti from going to Georgetown.”

I pictured it: my face without eyebrows. It wouldn’t be pretty, no, but it would be worth it if it meant the Yeti would be coming to George Washington with me instead. I said, “Well, I guess if it came down to me and Barbone, I could live with an eyebrow pencil for a while.”