Sloth

by Robin Wasserman

  “We’re all grateful that they had the courage [to turn Payne in] and prevent this from happening again,”

  and

  district officials say they had no sign Powell was not what he seemed

  The attached note was only a few lines long: Good to know I can always count on you . . . to keep your mouth shut. See you soon? JP.

  “Beth!” There was a loud pounding at the door. “Come play with us,” Jeff begged—although their voices were as identical as their faces, she was sure it was him. He always took the lead.

  “Yeah, or we’ll tell Mom!” And that would be Sam, who could always be counted on to tattle.

  Beth folded the letter and the clipping and stuffed them back in the envelope, which she stuck in her top desk drawer, beneath a box of paper clips and old stationery. She shouldn’t throw it out—what she should do, in fact, was take it to the police and explain everything. But she knew she wouldn’t. What if no one believed her story? Or worse, what if everyone did? The way they would all look at her, unable to believe that good, reliable Beth had gotten herself involved in something so publicly tawdry. . . .

  And that was just the best-case scenario.

  What if Powell came back to town? What if he realized she wouldn’t keep her mouth shut, and decided to shut it for her?

  Or what if the police decided to check into her story and started digging into her life? If anyone started asking questions, if anyone found out about the box of pills, about what she had done—no. She couldn’t risk it. She would hold on to the letter, on the off chance that she found some secret store of courage somewhere within her.

  But she wasn’t holding her breath.

  “Okay,” she said wearily, opening the door. Jeff and Sam launched themselves at her, each grabbing hold of one of her legs. “What do you two brats want to do?”

  “I’m not a brat,” Jeff complained, turning his head up and sticking out his lower lip.

  “I am!” Sam shouted, and poked Jeff in the shoulder. “See? Brat! Brat! Brat! Brat!” Each time he yelled the word, he poked Jeff again. Jeff scrunched up his face, squinted, turned bright red, and then began to scream.

  “Aaaaaaagh!” he shouted, hurling himself toward Sam with his fingers extended like claws. “I’ll get you!” But Sam, sensing that his brother was about to blow, had already taken off down the hall.

  Beth sagged against the wall as the two chased each other through the house, hooting and growling. She gave herself two minutes, silently counting off the seconds in her head until she could justify it no longer, and then ran down the hallway, hoping to find a way to tame the wild beasts.

  An hour later, she’d gotten them tucked into a blanket on the couch, one on either side of her, both staring blissfully at SpongeBob and friends. It occurred to her that her parents had wanted her to do something constructive with them—the twins each had a thick workbook with “fun” activities about telling time and counting money. But that would require thinking, and none of the Manning children was up to that tonight. It was so much easier just to snuggle on the couch and relax in the flickering light of the TV. Beth tugged the blanket toward her neck and closed her eyes, trying to forget. . . .

  “Beth! Wake up!” Jeff shouted, shaking her shoulder. “You’re missing the best part.”

  Her eyes popped open, just in time to see a dark figure creep across the screen, lurching toward a peacefully sleeping child. She must have fallen asleep, and the twins must have taken the opportunity to change the channel, unless this was a Very Special Episode, “SpongeBob Goes on a Killing Spree.”

  Sam and Jeff burrowed into her sides, pressing her hands over their eyes but peeking out just enough to see what was happening. Beth knew she should change the channel, but she couldn’t find the remote, and she didn’t really want to get up. . . .

  The figure came closer to the sleeping boy, and the eerie music rose in the background.

  Closer and closer, until—

  “Aaaah!” the boys screamed in unison as a knife slashed down. Beth leaped off the couch and switched off the TV.

  “Just a movie,” she said cheerfully.

  But it was too late. That night, it was impossible to get them to sleep. They wouldn’t let her turn out the light, and kept asking if “He” was going to come and get them. Feeling guilty—as if she ever felt any other way, these days—Beth let them sleep in her bed, together, and promised to sit by their sides until they fell asleep.

  Eventually, Sam closed his eyes and fell silent, but Jeff couldn’t stop whimpering.

  “Shhh,” Beth said, putting a hand against his forehead. They always looked so small and sweet in their pajamas, tucked under the covers, impossibly innocent about the way anything worked. As if it were the bogeyman they really needed to be afraid of.

  “I’m scared,” Jeff whispered.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of,” Beth assured him. “I’ll protect you.”

  “Aren’t you scared?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  “No.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then kissed Sam, too, gently so that he wouldn’t wake up. “I told you, there’s nothing to be scared of.”

  No wonder he couldn’t fall asleep; lamer words were never spoken.

  Miranda wasn’t sure whether the house was abandoned or just a pigsty; it was hard to tell in the candlelight. About thirty people, mostly drunk or high, were scattered around the grounds—smoking in the backyard, making out in the bedrooms, experimenting with mixers in the kitchen. Miranda and Kane were sprawled out on a dusty couch in the living room. They’d snagged the best spot; most of the other couples were stuck lounging on the floor or leaning against each other in secluded corners. It wasn’t much like any party Miranda had ever been to; there was very little “partying” going on, as far as she could tell. There wasn’t even any music.

  Not that she cared, not while Kane leaned against her, one hand cradling a beer and the other idly playing with her hair. Was he desperately wishing he could take her off somewhere private and have his way with her? Was he struggling with his fear of intimacy, wondering if his newly discovered love for her could overpower his nerves, and if he could convince her that he was serious about making things work?

  Miranda doubted it, but it was a fun fantasy (courtesy, in part, of an afternoon with Dr. Phil). She could lean over and kiss him right now. But she wanted more than that, she reminded herself. She wasn’t that kind of girl. Her friendship didn’t come with benefits.

  “Sorry this sucks,” Kane said, his voice slow and heavy the way it got when he was a little drunk. Miranda almost liked him better this way; the cold, sneering veneer fell away and, every once in a while, he was actually nice. She’d always told herself this was the real Kane—alcohol just let him come out and play. “I should have known better.”

  “It’s fine,” she assured him. “I’m having fun.”

  He snorted, almost spitting out his mouthful of beer. “Yeah, right. Tell me something,” he said, stretching out along the couch and lying down, his head in her lap. He looked up at her. “This okay?” She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. His hair fell back from his forehead, splaying out across her leg. It was so unbelievably smooth.

  “Tell you what?” she asked, resisting the urge to stroke his forehead.

  “I don’t know,” he said, slurring his words slightly. “Why you’re so sad.”

  “I’m not sad,” she protested.

  He nodded as well as he could with his head resting on her legs. “Are too. Sad Miranda.”

  “I’m not sad right now,” she pointed out, leaning over him so he could see her grin.

  He reached up and touched her lips. “Can’t fool me.”

  She didn’t know how drunk he was; maybe he wouldn’t even remember this in the morning, which would be better. All she knew was that she was sad—and it had been a long time since anyone had noticed, or wanted to know why.

  “It’s Harper,” she admitted, feeling a hint of relief now that s
he’d finally said it out loud, even to Kane, who would probably make a joke out of it as he did about everything else. “Everything I say is wrong, and she doesn’t want to talk to me, and it’s like we’re not even friends anymore.” The words came fast and furiously; she’d been afraid that if she said it out loud, she would make it real. But saying it out loud was better than saying it to herself, over and over again.

  “She’s just . . . upset.”

  “I’m upset!” Miranda exclaimed. She stopped herself and took a deep breath. It felt almost like she was talking to herself. “I want to be a good friend to her, but ... I also, I just . . .” She put her hands over her face, humiliated to realize it was wet with tears. “I miss having a best friend,” she choked out.

  “Hey,” he said in alarm, pushing himself up. His breath was sour and his eyes glassy, but she didn’t care. “Hey, don’t—” He wrapped his arms around her and she clung to him, for once not wondering what he was thinking or wishing she could kiss him. She just closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath. “She’ll be back,” he promised, and much as she wanted to believe him, she knew he was just saying it. Guys would say anything to get a girl to stop crying.

  “I hate being alone,” she mumbled into his soggy collar.

  He pushed her away, just far enough that he could see her face, and he held her in place so she couldn’t look away. “Stevens, you’re not,” he said firmly.

  “I know,” she said, nibbling at the edge of her lip. “It’s just . . .”

  “No. You’re not.”

  She wanted him so much, suddenly, that she couldn’t breathe. His lips were half parted, and his eyes, usually so cold, now seemed like warm, inviting pools of deep brown. She bit down on the inside of her cheek, hoping the pain would make her ignore how good, how safe it felt to have his arms around her.

  Maybe this was right after all; maybe it didn’t matter that he was drunk and horny and she was in love—maybe they could meet in the middle, just for tonight.

  “I have to go,” she said, forcing the words out.

  “What?”

  “Just for a minute. I just need ... I need some air. I have to go outside,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as anything.

  “Do you want me to . . . ?”

  “Stay.” She put a hand on his bicep and suppressed a shudder. “I’ll be right back. And . . . Kane?”

  “Yeah, Stevens?”

  “Thanks.”

  Things weren’t going as well as he’d expected, although now that dinner was done—Harper’s meal nearly untouched, Adam’s plate scraped clean—and the bill paid, Adam had to admit that he didn’t know what he’d expected. His auction bid had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, but over the last few days he’d built it up in his head into his big last chance. It seemed that, despite his carefully chosen clothes—the light green button-down shirt that she loved and he hated, khakis that usually only left his closet when his mother forced him to go to church—this day was going to end the same as all the rest. Unless he did something.

  “I thought we’d walk home,” he suggested, hoping to delay the inevitable.

  Already halfway to his car, she turned and gave him a weird look. “You didn’t even have anything to drink. And, FYI, your car’s right here.”

  “It’s such a nice night,” he pointed out, fully aware that it was a kind of girly thing to say.

  Harper shrugged. “Yeah. Whatever.” Translation: You forced me into this, and I’m just counting the minutes until the night is over.

  They walked along the side of the road in silence. The sidewalks were deserted; most of Grace’s nightlife was limited to the dive bars and greasy taverns lining the side streets, and their patrons wouldn’t be stumbling out for hours. Main Street—home of assorted failing small businesses and several gas stations—was shuttered and dark. They could have been alone in the world.

  Harper shivered, and Adam wondered if she’d had the same thought, or if she was just cold. He didn’t ask, nor did he offer his jacket, knowing she’d turn it down.

  It took him about ten minutes to work up his courage, then another five to figure out how to express what he needed to say—but when that proved to be a doomed effort, he just started talking. “I miss you, Grade,” he told her.

  She didn’t even look at him. He stopped walking and grabbed her arm, forcing her to stop too. They stood in the shadows of Shopsin’s Shoes, which had closed months before and was now boarded up and empty. Harper tapped her foot and looked over his shoulder.

  “I miss you,” he said again.

  “I’m right here.”

  “No you’re not,” he argued.

  She crossed her arms and scowled, looking like a pouty child. “Can we go now?”

  “I want you back.”

  She rolled her eyes. “As a friend. Yeah. I know.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong with something more than that?” she challenged him.

  “Harper, you know—” He stopped himself. He didn’t know how to put it into words, that feeling he got when he felt her getting too close, some strange mix of anger, fear, repulsion—and desire. It was all too much. “We already talked about this,” he said vaguely.

  “I want to hear you say it,” she sneered. “I want to hear you say exactly what you think of me. Exactly what kind of person you think I am.”

  “I don’t ... I don’t know what you want from me.”

  She took a step toward him, then another. And then suddenly, she was on top of him, her arms threaded through his and her fingers digging into the skin of his lower back, then scraping up his back toward his neck. “I want this” she hissed. She lifted her right leg, rubbing her thigh against him, and she sucked in his lips, nibbling, biting the edges and shoving her tongue into his mouth as her hands began tearing at his hair, squeezing his face and pressing it into hers. There was friction, heat, rubbing, pulling, kneading, sucking, moaning—and then silence as he pushed her away.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his face hot and his breathing rapid. There was something so ugly about her naked need, and it pained him to realize that an angry, primal part of him wanted to grab her back and finish what she’d started.

  “You think I’m a slut,” she spit out. Her eyes were wide and her face was unnaturally pale, while her voice was nearly an octave higher than usual, which sometimes happened when she got too angry.

  “I don’t—”

  “You do. A shallow slut that you can be just friends with”—her face contorted in pain at the words—”but why would a slut want to be friends with a guy like you if she can’t get something out of it?” She stepped toward him again, and before he could back away, she shoved him in the chest, hard. “All I want is sex, right? Right?” Another shove. “And if you can’t give it to me, what the hell good are you? Why wouldn’t I just go find it somewhere else?”

  Maybe that’s where she was headed when she stalked away. Adam didn’t know, and he didn’t follow.

  Miranda took a deep breath and stepped back into the house, ready to rejoin the party—or at least rejoin Kane. But her seat was taken. Kane lay in the same position as before, his head now in the lap of a curvy junior cheerleader who was running her fingers lightly up and down his face.

  She didn’t want to get any closer. But she didn’t have much other option, unless she wanted to start up a conversation with the couple making out to her right, or the guy passed out on her left. Kane had a short attention span; maybe he’d just gotten bored while she—perhaps rudely—left him alone. It was possible the girl was just a diversion and he’d get rid of her as soon as he saw Miranda.

  But he didn’t see Miranda. It would have been pretty much impossible for him, what with the 110-pound cheerleader now attached to his lips. Feeling sickened, Miranda sank back on one of the arms of the couch, trying to look away but compelled to keep glancing at them. Kane wasn’t doing much, just lying there, as the girl rubbed hi
s face and started kissing down his neck.

  “Hey,” he said suddenly, spotting Miranda now that his face was clear. The cheerleader didn’t even look up—she was too busy nuzzling his chest. Kane gave Miranda a lazy grin. “Party’s not so bad after all.”

  Miranda couldn’t force her mouth into a smile, so she settled for a thin, wobbly line.

  “So, are you—” But Kane broke off into a spasm of laughter as the cheerleader began tickling his sides. “I don’t think so,” he mock growled, and flipped her over on the couch so that he was on top, perfectly positioned for some tickling torture of his own.

  It was like Miranda wasn’t there anymore.

  She tried not to cry.

  The room was dark, and nearly silent, but she felt like everyone was staring at her, wondering what that loser was doing. Maybe she looked like some kind of pervert, spying on Kane as he made out with his latest floozy. It’s not like she wanted to keep standing there. But she didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  The minutes dragged by.

  And as she stood there, her back unnaturally straight and her hands clenched into fists, her tears dried up. Screw him, she thought. Bringing her here, acting like he cared, then ditching her as soon as she left the room. Let him find his own ride home.

  “I’m out of here,” she said softly, as if experimenting with the words. There was no response from the couple on the couch.

  “Kane, I’m out of here,” she said, louder this time.

  He flicked his gaze up toward her. “Cool. I can get a ride home from . . .”

  “Kelli,” the junior giggled into his ear. “With an ‘i.’”

  Of course. It was always with an i.

  “Fine,” she snapped. He didn’t need her; she didn’t need him. Whatever. Screw him. Screw him. Screw him. “Screw you!” It popped out before she realized she was going to say it, and it felt good. She stood up and strode out of the “party,” stepping over two guys passed out on the floor and narrowly avoiding a collision with some jock who was lurching toward the door, his face a disconcerting shade of green.

  The car was parked about half a block away, and she walked quickly, her thoughts keeping time with her footsteps. I don’t need him. I don’t want him. I don’t need him. I don’t want him.