You (7 page)

She's okay looking, you guess. She has mousy colored hair that's frayed at the edges and she wears too much makeup, even by Midlands' standards. Her voice sounds old, all gravelly and raw, and she swears more than any guy you know. Once last summer, when Ryan was visiting his dad, you two got busy in the shed in your backyard, your first time, her first time that week. After all the hype, you were surprised at how little it meant to you and disappointed that it meant even less to her.

You were in eighth grade when your parents gave you the Talk. Which was a little late, since in sixth grade you had written that report on ways to prevent sexually transmitted diseases. But they wanted to avoid any future “problems,” saying that it was important that you “got it straight.” You wanted to
tell them that getting it straight wasn't the problem, but they seemed so serious that you didn't say a thing. And that made them more serious. In the end what they did try to explain you knew years ago, your mother wrapping it all up by saying, “Remember, Kyle, every girl is somebody's sister.” You know what she meant, but she obviously didn't know Kristi. Besides, Kristi is an only child.

Max walks out of the store, Slurpee in hand, grinning, and you wonder if his parents did a lot of drugs before he was born. He holds up the cup. It's the size of a small mailbox. “I mixed the orange one and the Coke one and the energy drink one and the pineapple one all together.”

“How's it taste?”

“Like crap. You see the guy in there?”

You look past him and at the manager behind the counter, a guy your father's age with even less hair and a nervous way of looking around, like any second he expects some crackhead to burst in with
a shotgun. Not that it's likely, but working alone in a store like that, your mind probably wanders a lot. “Yeah?”

“See his coat?”

You look again. It's the bright red smock they wear with a name tag and a button that says
WE ID EVERYONE
. “Yeah?”

Max grins. “Maybe your freaky friend Zack can borrow it sometime.”

You could tell him that he's wrong, that it's not a sport coat and that Zack isn't your friend, but that would just keep him going on about coats and smocks and everything, and it's just not worth the effort.

Kristi comes up for air and looks over at Max. “Oooh, a Slurpee. Can I have some?”

“Sure,” Max says. What else could he say? The rule is any decent-looking girl asks to share your drink or have a lick of your ice cream or take a bite of a sandwich, you say yes. It's gross
if you think about it, especially like now, Kristi's lips all covered with Ryan's spit, but there are some rules even you wouldn't break. She peels herself off Ryan and runs over to Max, her feet scuffing the sidewalk like a little kid. She does the up-and-down straw thing first, then takes a long sip. Ryan makes the expected jokes about better things to suck on and she replies with the expected suggestive comments, Max giggling like he hasn't heard them all a hundred times before, adding his expected third-wheel line so Ryan can make his well-rehearsed just-try-it-and-see-what-happens threat, and you're wondering when the last time any one of them had an original thought was. You're all standing there—Ryan still leaning in the ex–phone booth, Max and Kristi near the store entrance and you somewhere in between—when Jake the Jock pulls up in his car.

It's an electric blue Honda Prelude, new, with tricked-out rims and sidelights and on the backseat
window a decal of that cartoon kid taking a piss. He's playing something loud and thumping and he gives the engine a rev before shutting it off and stepping out.

“Later,” Max says, snatching his Slurpee from Kristi and bumping into both of you as he ducks around the corner of the building. Ryan leans deeper into his metal cave, telling Kristi to get her ass over there. You? You stand there. What else you gonna do? Run away? Hardly.

Jake pushes the car door shut and starts for the entrance. And that's when he sees you. He slows up a bit and you watch as his lips pull back, his teeth clenched. He angles toward you, not much but enough to put you within range. He's five feet away when his phone goes off, some college fight song for a ringtone.

“What up?” he says into the phone, staring you down as he walks past, letting you know he's blowing you off, as if you aren't worthy of anything more than
a glance. And that's fine by you. He goes into the store, still talking on the phone, and you think now's a good time to leave. You stood your ground, no need to push it. You turn around and see Ryan and Kristi halfway down the block, Ryan's arm draped over her shoulder, his cigarette glowing like a nightlight.

 

Y
ou crack open the warm beer and take a seat on top of the picnic table. “You left me hanging back there.”

Ryan shrugs and sits on the big rock that marks the far edge of the park. Max and Kristi are on the swings, their feet on the ground, rocking back and forth. Kristi isn't into beer and once you and Max leave, she'll break out a joint for her and Ryan. She isn't into sharing, either.

You say it again, hitting each word so Ryan knows you expect an answer.

“It's none of my business. What's between you and that asshole is between you and that asshole.”

“So you would have let him beat me up?”

He shrugs again. “You could've taken him.”

Wrong answer. You take a swig of your beer, part of the six-pack Max stole from home.

“Besides, if he would have swung, I would have been on him.”

“From halfway down the street?”

He smirks and shakes his head. But it's a lame smirk, no confidence behind it, all bluff. “I was there. Max, where was I?”

Max looks up from the drag marks in the dirt. “I don't know. I had to pee, so I went back by the Dumpster.”

You smile. “Really? Then they must have moved the Dumpster to the other store.”

“Kyle, just get over it, okay?” Kristi says. “It's no big deal. It's not like he hit you or anything. He didn't even
notice
you, okay? Don't be such a wuss.”

You stand up and toss an almost-full beer in the direction of the slide. “I'm not the one who walked away.”

And then, for the first time, that's exactly what you do.

 

Y
ou walk in the door at eight o'clock. You haven't been home this early on a Friday night since the end of eighth grade. Your father looks at you, grunts something about homework, then goes back to watching a finger-jabbing commentator bully his guests, shouting over them and telling them to shut up. Your dad loves this guy. Big surprise there.

Your mom just put your sister to bed. You wonder if she still reads her stories the way she used to, the way she said she did with you. She walks into the kitchen as you're getting the milk out of the fridge and she stops, her eyes popping open, looking at you
as if you just swam in from Australia. “Kyle, you're home early.”

Your mother is a master of the obvious. Most of what she says to you is stuff you already know or stuff you'd have to be an idiot not to see.

Kyle, your room's a mess.

Kyle, you're failing science.

Kyle, you're old enough to have a job.

Kyle, you never bring any books home.

Kyle, at this rate you're not going to get into college.

Either she enjoys pointing out what you already know or she thinks you're an idiot.

“Kyle, that's a full gallon of milk. Hold on so you don't drop it.”

She thinks you're an idiot.

“There's some doughnuts in the box on the counter,” she says, pointing to the box on the counter that says
DOUGHNUTS
. “Your dad's in watching TV.”

You grab a chocolate-glazed doughnut, your
favorite. “I'm gonna go up to my room.”

She pulls out a chair at the kitchen table in front of a cup of tea. “Sit with me for a minute.”

So you sit.

“How's everything going at school?”

You shrug as you pull the doughnut apart, dunking bits in the cold milk.

“Are we going to be getting any surprises when your report card arrives?”

“I don't think so,” you say, and you're being honest since, if they've been reading all the notes your teachers have been sending home about you missing assignments and failing tests, your expected low grades shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone.

“That's good.” She reaches over and takes a small piece of your doughnut and pops it in her mouth. She chews slowly and takes a sip of her tea. There's something about the way she moves, the way she keeps her eyes on the doughnut, that tells you she's as uncomfortable with this as you are.

When did
that
start? One day you were sitting on her lap playing Candy Land, the next you were a couple of strangers living in the same house, a reality show that's stumbling along until it's canceled. It's not that you don't love her anymore, it's just that everything's changed. But you're not sure how yet, and neither is she. That's why it's so strange.

“How's everything else?”

Good question. “Okay, I guess.”

She's trying—you've got to give her credit for that. You know she's fighting the urge to get on you about your grades or finding a job or any one of the other things she's genetically programmed to harass you about. And you'd like to help, but you don't know what to say, either. Tell her how you have no real friends? How you can't work up the balls to ask Ashley out? How you're afraid that you really are going to be as big a failure as everyone seems to think you're going to be? How everything's changing so fast, but nothing's changing at all, that it could be
like this for the rest of your life? How sometimes you just want to haul off and punch something?

“Thanksgiving's this Thursday. Don't forget, we're going to Uncle Kevin and Aunt Mary's house.”

“Okay.”

“They're deep-frying the turkey again this year. You like it like that, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“Remember last year how he almost burned down the garage with that thing?” She laughs and you nod.

“Yeah.”

More silence, a second doughnut, then she cracks.

“Kyle, you never picked up a job application from the grocery store. They're not going to come to the door and ask you if you want a job. Now today your father saw a sign at Marello's gas station. You could even walk there. I mean, how hard could it be? But nobody's going to even consider you until
you get that résumé finished.”

Ten minutes later she wraps up the “clothes that fit” portion of her chat and lets you head up to your room.

You make a mental note not to come home early again.

 

Y
ou flick through all the channels one more time before deciding that Saturday-morning television sucks.

The cartoons are nothing but half-hour commercials for action figures, interrupted every six minutes with actual commercials for the same action figures. It was that way when you were younger and you can't believe you actually used to get up early to watch this crap. If you don't count the sports, the news, the infomercials, the black-and-white movies, the religious programs, or the home-remodeling
shows—and you don't—there's nothing on.

If it had been a typical Friday night, you'd still be asleep with another four hours to go before you woke up at the crack of noon. But around seven you started to get a headache and had to get up, the first time you had been out of bed before your parents on a weekend since Christmas five years ago.

You're sitting on the couch, wrapped up in the blanket, clicker in one hand, when your sister sits down next to you.

Paige is five years old, she's in kindergarten, and she's the nicest person you know. She's never been whiny or demanding like all the kids you see at the mall, and as far as you know she's never thrown a temper tantrum or punched something just because she was pissed off.

You got all those genes.

You were ten when she was born, just about the point when your parents must have realized that you were going to screw it all up.

Their Plan B.

The way you see it—the way your parents see it—she can do no wrong. The yin to your yang.

She's wearing her pink pajamas, but no socks, and has a bright blue folder in her hands. Without saying anything, you flick open the blanket and toss a section across her legs, reaching over to make sure her toes are covered. She sets the folder on her lap and looks way up at you and waits.

“What channel?”

She smiles her gap-toothed, cute-as-hell smile. “Twenty-two, please.”

You flick. It's
Dora the Explorer
—it's always
Dora the Explorer
.

“Thank you.”

You watch her watch, her lips moving along to the theme song, her hands clapping together without making a sound.

Every girl is somebody's sister.

You reach over and slide the folder out from
under her tiny hands. “Whatcha got?” You don't notice how your voice changes when you talk to her.

She looks at you and rolls her eyes. Now you're the master of the obvious. “My
folder
.”

“I know that. What's inside?”

Another eye roll. “My
papers
.”

You pull out a stack of papers, all folded and bent and wrinkled, with “Good Job!” and “Great Work!” written between blue and silver and gold stars, with “Paige Chase” printed in fat pencil at the top. You flip through the stack, trying to remember a time when this was tough stuff. Worksheets on the alphabet, short “The cat is very fat” sentences, pages with apples or trucks or birds to be counted—then a sheet with no stars and a red “Oops! Try Again!”

One of these is different. Circle the one that doesn't belong.

There's pictures of a dog, a table, a boy, and a
horse. With a tight-fisted, squiggly line, Paige had circled the boy. And with a quick swoosh of her red felt-tipped marker, the teacher had circled the table, adding a frown face next to Paige's circle.

“That's wrong,” Paige said, pointing to her selection. “I was supposed to pick the table because the dog and the boy and the horse are all alive and the table is not.”

“Why'd you pick the boy?”

She scrunches up her shoulders. “All the others have four legs and he has two. But that's wrong.”

You want to tell her that she's not wrong, that her answer is just as good as the
correct
answer, maybe better. You want to tell her that what's wrong is the whole stupid assignment, that all it teaches kids is that there's
one
way to think,
one
way to act, so that by the time they reach high school all they have to do is look at somebody and they can tell if he's cool or a nerd or a jock or a hoodie. That way if somebody starts thinking for himself, starts acting all
weird, like wearing a sport coat to school, they'll be easy to spot.

One of these people is different. Avoid the one that doesn't belong.

You want to tell her all of this, but you don't. She's smart. Smarter than you, probably. You thought her answer was wrong, too, until she explained it.

But she'll grow up, go to high school, and figure it all out on her own. She won't need you there to explain it all to her.

Which is good, because you won't be.

 

T
wo in the afternoon, the postman delivers the mail—a cheap advertising newspaper, a credit-card offer for your mom, your dad's
Golf Digest
, and a small, odd-size envelope with your name on it and no return address. You rip it open and pull out a
bright pink Hello Kitty card.

Except it's not a real Hello Kitty card because, while you're no Hello Kitty expert, you don't think she usually has a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

 

W
E'RE HAVING A PARTY!

S
ATURDAY NIGHT

493 F
OX
M
EADOW
R
OAD

C
OCKTAILS AT
9

D
INNER JACKET OPTIONAL

Z

 

A week ago you would have tossed it out. But that was a long time ago. A lot can change in a week.

 

I
t takes you half an hour to walk to his house. You could have asked your mom for a ride, but then she
might start asking questions about parental supervision. Better to let her assume you're hanging out in a dark, cold park with your low-life friends than a warm house with no adults around. You don't know there won't be any adults there, but given the invitation, it's a safe bet.

Zack lives on a cul-de-sac. It's the suburban term for a dead end. His house is a lot like yours, a lot like all the others, with a door and windows and a brick walkway lined with those low solar lights that should have been put away when the leaves started to change. There are three cars in the driveway and none look like the kind a parent would drive. You step up on the porch. Inside you can hear people laughing and the muffled sounds of the stereo.

Up till now Zack has just been this kid you went to school with, a kid you bumped into now and then. He stood up for you, and that now meant you had to do the same for him, but that didn't mean
you had to hang out with him. Ringing the bell changes things, crosses another line. He goes from being some kid to a guy you know. Not quite friend level, but there'll be a connection.

When people talk about him, you might get mentioned.

Is that what you need right now, you being associated with the school freak?

You think about your options.

And you ring the bell.

A minute later the door opens.

“Mr. Chase, I'm glad to see you made it.” Zack reaches out his arm and shakes your hand, careful not to spill his drink, a tall frosted glass topped with a tiny paper umbrella. He's wearing that black sport coat and a white shirt, a black pair of pants and polished black shoes. You, of course, have on your hoodie uniform.

He leads the way through the living room to the kitchen, where an attractive dark-haired girl is slic
ing a lime. “Careful,” Zack says, sliding up alongside the girl, kissing her on the cheek, “I'd hate to have another guest lose a finger.” You and the girl exchange mock surprise looks, then she smiles at you as Zack pulls you by your sleeve into the family room at the back of the house.

There's a dozen people scattered around the room, some on the furniture, some on the floor, some standing by the stereo. Right away you notice that there are more girls than guys, something that never happens when you're hanging out at Ryan's house. Nobody looks familiar—even the way they dress and the way they wear their hair looks different from what you're used to, not radically freaky different, just enough to have you notice. A couple of the guys are wearing loud Hawaiian shirts, one guy even has a tie on. The girls have on everything from skintight tank tops to baggy sweaters, and even though it's close to freezing outside, a few are wearing short shorts. There's jazz oozing out of the
speakers. Anything else wouldn't fit, but you wonder if anyone actually likes it.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.”

And now they're all looking at you as Zack stands there next to you, one hand on your shoulder, the other holding up his drink. Someone turns down the music. “You all recall the torrid events that precipitated my swift departure from Crestwood Academy.”

You don't. You've heard rumors—everything from stealing the principal's car to blowing up a science lab to running a strip poker club—but you don't know and frankly don't care. Getting kicked out of Crestwood, a private school way on the other side of town, is probably a lot easier than getting kicked out of a public high school like Midlands. You've never even met anyone who went to Crestwood before, but now, apparently, you're in a room full of them.

“And you've no doubt heard of my many
adventures in the wilds of Midlands High. This is Mr. Chase, hero of so many of those adventures. Mr. Chase, these are some losers I know. I assume they all have names. Go find out for me.” He gives your shoulder a slap and walks away.

Before you can feel any more embarrassed, one of the girls on the couch scootches over and pats the cushion next to her. Her long blond hair looks white against her black formfitting sweater. A dainty row of silver rings arches along one eyebrow. You sit.

“Nicole,” she says, holding out her hand. Her nails are bright red, matching her lipstick.

“Kyle.”

Her fingers are warm.

“Your first time to one of Zack's parties?”

You nod.

“Yeah, he can be a bit out there, but at least he's never boring.”

You nod again. It's true.

“So you go to Midlands,” Nicole says, as if you
were some thrill seeker, living on the edge. She asks you about the school and the classes and the teachers and students you never heard of but that she's pretty certain go there, and you're telling her, exaggerating only a little, when Zack arrives and hands you both drinks—a pink-colored wine for Nicole and a tall, orange-brown drink with a bendy straw for you. You can smell the whiskey a foot away.

“Don't tell me you two are talking about school.” He shakes his head in disgust. “That's one of the house rules, no shop talk. Nicole, tell young Chase here how you were born way up in Dawson Creek, Canada, and you, Mr. Chase, you tell her how fascinating she is. She's quite vain, you know, and if you tell her how beautiful she is you'll have her naked in an hour, posing for a webcam. Isn't that right, Nicole?” He smiles at her as he walks off and she smiles back, a cold smile that makes you uncomfortable.

You ask her about Dawson Creek and she tells you, but it seems forced now, and when she reaches for her buzzing phone, walking off to the kitchen to take a call, you're relieved.

 

I
t's close to midnight. The jazz is gone, thank god, replaced by some fast-paced European techno. It's better, but not by much. The conversations are louder, more laughter, more swearing, and there's a sweaty sheen to every face. Half-finished drinks are scattered around the room alongside bowls of picked-over potato chips and pretzel crumbs. It's warm and you've got a good buzz on.

The kid with the tie—Mike? Matt?—is slumped down in a recliner, asleep and drooling, and you saw Nicole leave an hour ago, along with the tall kid someone said was her ex. A bunch of new people have arrived since then, mostly couples but a few
more unattached females, and, other than the pairings that disappeared into empty parts of the house, everyone is gathered around the two big couches that fill a corner of the room.

You've been talking with Josh and Andrew and Cindi with an
i
and this kid Josh calls Stitch but who everyone else calls TC, and there's that girl from India, Something Singh, who sounds more like she's from England, and Victoria, whose silver tongue stud clicks against her teeth when she talks, and the girl who's going to Aruba for Thanksgiving, and the one who went last year and almost got busted for smoking pot on the beach, and Becca, who's got the hots for Stitch or TC or whoever the hell he is, and the guy who came in late, the one in the
JESUS IS MY HOMIE
T-shirt who told you to get out while you still could, just before he fell over drunk on the couch.

And at the center of it all, coat still on, drink still in hand, Zack sits on the arm of the couch. Leaning
against him is Brooke, the dark-haired girl from the kitchen.

The Girlfriend.

Cindi with an
i
is telling everybody why they should boycott the zoo and the guy with the lopsided glasses is explaining to the black chick where to find bootleg movies online. Somebody's telling that penguin-in-a-bar joke again. Your upper lip feels numb and the girl sitting next to you smells like an ashtray. Somebody's cell phone goes off and you and cigarette girl bump heads as you reach for your phones and that gets you both laughing, and you may be buzzing, but you're careful not to laugh too loud or too long. She's there with somebody, but you never know. And it wasn't either of your phones anyway, and you laugh again and right then Brooke goes running from the room and she's crying.

“Not cool, Zack,” Andrew says, voice low and flat.

“I can't believe you said that,” Victoria says, the metal clicking louder than her words.

You look over at Zack.

That smirk.

He shrugs. “If she doesn't want people to know that she sticks her fingers down her throat after every meal, she shouldn't write it down.”

“It's her
journal
, Zack,” the Aruba-bound girl says. “It's
private
.”

Another shrug. “Not very. It was right beside her bed. And besides, it's not as if she cares what you think about her.” He takes a sip of his drink. “That was in there too.”

Everyone shifts uncomfortably.

Everyone but Zack.

He sighs a fake sigh and stands up.

“Fine. I shall go…
apologize
.”

Victoria glares up at him. “It doesn't mean anything if you don't mean it.”

Zack smiles. “My dear, I
never
mean it.” He gives her a wink and that somehow,
somehow
, makes her smile, too.

Zack steps to the center of the room and claps his hands together. “All right, team, here's the game plan. I'm going to go up to my room where the lovely Miss Brooke is crying facedown on the bed. She
could
be in the bathroom….” He acts like he's about to puke and a few people groan and a few more laugh. “In any case, I can't afford more escort-service bills, so this will take some time. Have yourself a nightcap, hit the lights on the way out, and don't bother sending thank-you cards.
Ciao
.”

Twenty minutes later, you're walking home alone.