Sloth

by Robin Wasserman

  “Hey, Stevens, what gives?”

  She whirled around at the touch of his hand on her shoulder and shrugged him off. “Where’s your friend?” she sneered.

  “Are you mad?” His eyes were wide and innocent, but it was hard to tell whether he was playing oblivious for effect or whether the alcohol really had numbed his brain enough to make it true.

  She was totally sober, but apparently her judgment control had forgotten that. “Why would I be mad?” she yelled. “You drag me to this pit and then you ditch me for some . . .You’re such an asshole!”

  “Uh . . .” He looked dazed, as if she’d hit him in the head. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “Jealous, Stevens? Did you think that we . . .”

  She told herself not to blush, but she could feel the heat rise in her cheeks. “No! No.”

  “Then what?”

  Her righteous anger faded away, because, of course, she was jealous. She was also certain that she had every right to be mad, jealous or not—but she couldn’t quite figure out why, not with Kane standing so close and the corners of his eyes crinkling up so hotly. “It was just rude,” she complained, hating herself for not being able to hate him. She turned away and kept walking toward her car, ignoring the footsteps that followed behind her.

  “What are you doing?” she asked finally as she opened the car door and he stood by the passenger’s side, waiting for it to be unlocked.

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Go back to the party,” she said, suddenly too tired to fight, with him or with herself.

  “I’m going home with you,” he said stubbornly. “You’re still mad.”

  “Kane, I’m not mad.” She sighed. “Just go back to the party. You’re allowed to do whatever you want.”

  “I want to go home with you,” he said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded . . . unless ...”

  “Forget it, buddy.”

  “Let s go,” he said, getting into the car and snapping on his seat belt.

  Miranda shook her head. “I think I can handle the ten-minute drive on my own. Go back to the party.”

  “Stevens, when are you going to learn? I am the party.” He leaned across the bucket seats and laid a hand on her thigh. “If you want, we can have a little party of our own....”

  She took his hand away, but before she could drop it back to his side, he squeezed and they paused like that, their hands joined in midair. All she could hear was their breathing, hers rapid and fluttery, his labored and heavy. She pressed her lips together and dropped his hand. “Okay, party boy, let s get you home.”

  She started the ignition, and he flicked a lock of her hair over her shoulder, forcing her to turn toward him again and face his crooked, knowing smirk. “Have it your way, Stevens. But you don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Let’s see, she thought wryly, that would be: pain, lust, heartbreak, torture.

  Although, come to think of it, her personal inventory already had plenty of those items in stock. So she wasn’t missing a thing.

  It didn’t seem real and it didn’t make sense, but it was happening. Harper pressed herself against the wall. She wanted to look away—she wanted to run away—but her feet were stuck to the floor. She couldn’t move, and when she tried to speak, nothing came out.

  There was no light in the room, but somehow, she could see everything clearly.

  Adam on his back, in his boxers. Kaia straddling him, her head tossed back, her black hair splashed out behind her.

  Stop! Harper shouted, and even though her lips didn’t move, she could hear the word echoing through the room. Kaia and Adam didn’t notice.

  “Are you ready?” Kaia whispered. She kissed his chin. She kissed his neck. She licked his nipples, one by one. Adam moaned.

  So did Harper.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Adam said, unlatching her lacy black bra and letting it drop to the floor.

  Kaia made a noise that sounded like a purr. “I know.” She slipped her fingers under Adam’s head and jerked it toward hers, giving him a long, sloppy kiss. Then she turned and looked directly at Harper. “He doesn’t want you,” she sneered, giving Harper a cruel smile. “He wants me. They all do.”

  Shut up! Harper screamed silently. It felt like her throat was choked with cotton. She tried to close her eyes, but they wouldn’t shut.

  Kaia shimmied down Adam’s body until she reached the waistband of his boxers. She slipped her thumb between his skin and the cotton and began, ever so slowly, to pull them off.

  “I hate you!” Harper shrieked, finding her voice. The words exploded from her lungs and filled the room, which seemed to shake with the noise. Adam half sat up and looked across the room at Harper, shaking his head sadly. Kaia touched his chin to stop the motion, then kissed him again. “I hate you!” Harper shouted again, feeling the power of her wrath course through her body.

  And then she woke up.

  Drenched, shivering beneath her covers, tears streaking her face.

  Harper turned over on her stomach, burrowing her face into the pillow. “I’m sorry!” she gasped, fighting for breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She murmured the words over and over again until her breathing slowed and she stopped shaking. But that night, she didn’t fall back asleep.

  chapter

  _______________

  9

  There were no invitations. Word traveled, and everyone just knew where to show up, and when. Senior Spirit Week was for the teachers and the administration so they could feel good about offering their students some good, clean fun. But everyone knew that senior spring only officially began at midnight, in the midst of debauchery and revels. There was a spot out in the desert, a shallow wash of scrub-brush surrounded by clumps of Joshua trees on one side and a stretch of low, rocky ridges on the other. It was tradition. The cops allowed it. The administration ignored it. Parents pretended it didn’t exist—although most of them had been through it themselves, twenty years before. It signified the beginning of the end, a night of wild release that, if all went well, would be whispered about for years. Graduation was a hot, tedious hassle; prom was a chance for girls to spend too much on evening dresses and guys to get that last precollege shot at losing their virginity. This was a rite of passage.

  Beth had decided not to go.

  Then she changed her mind.

  After an hour of flip-flopping, she was standing in front of her mirror wearing standard-issue black pants, a shim-mery blue, scoop-neck top that matched her eyes, and a sparkly bracelet she’d gotten for her birthday last year but never taken out of the box. She swept her hair up into a high, lose ponytail, wishing the long, blond strands would wave or curl or do anything other than fall limply down to her shoulders. She dabbed on some glittery gray eye shadow and a layer of clear gloss.

  And she still wasn’t sure she was going to leave the house.

  Her original plan had been to never leave the house again, but that seemed less than feasible.

  She’d come up with a variety of rationales:

  If she didn’t start acting normal, people would suspect something was going on, and she couldn’t afford that.

  She would likely have a terrible time, so she didn’t need to feel guilty.

  If she wasn’t going to turn herself in—because, she reminded herself, she hadn’t intentionally hurt anyone, and not because she was a pathetic coward—she had to start living her life again at some point.

  None of them were nearly as persuasive as the deciding factor: Reed’s band was playing the party. And, much as she hated to admit it, she wanted to see him again.

  There was nothing going on, she assured herself. She and Reed were a nonissue—even if it hadn’t been for . . . what had happened with Kaia. Reed was the opposite of her type, and last time she’d played that game, she’d lost big. If she was going to get involved with anyone again, it would be someone sweet and quiet, who was kind to children and animals and cared about getti
ng into college, going to class, and doing the right thing.

  Except: Why would someone like that ever want to be involved with her? She wasn’t Beth Manning, golden girl, anymore. She’d stopped going to class, probably wouldn’t get into college—and had proven once and for all that, unless it was painless, she wouldn’t do the right thing.

  If she was being honest with herself, she knew she couldn’t get involved with anybody. Lonely as she was, she couldn’t afford something open, honest, or real. She couldn’t invite someone into her life and trust him with her secrets and her fears.

  Still, she slipped on a jacket and wrapped a pink scarf around her neck, waved good-bye to her parents, and walked out the door. She’d never heard Reed play before, and she was just curious, she assured herself. Miserable, bored, scared, and curious. That’s all there was to it.

  Miranda drained her plastic cup and stuck it under the keg, pumping until a frothy flow spurted out. It tasted like shit, but she forced it down, anyway. The world tipped a bit to the left, then righted itself before she could fall over, but she still felt like things would start spinning if she turned her head too fast.

  Perfect.

  There he was, less than ten feet away, standing at the fringes of a group of jocks trying to set fire to a cactus. He looked disgusted—and hot. Miranda stumbled toward him, sneaking up behind him and slapping her hands over his eyes.

  “Geary,” she whispered, holding back a giggle. “Guess who?”

  He spun around, and she hopped up and gave him an impulsive kiss on the cheek. “I’m drunk,” she announced giddily.

  He looked her up and down, then patted her on the head. “Thanks, Captain Obvious. I got that.”

  She felt so free. “You like?” she asked, twirling around to show off her outfit, a dark green corset and very un-Miranda-like skin-tight pants.

  “Nice.” He ran his hand down the laced up sides of her shirt. “ Very nice.”

  Before the party, she’d decided: It doesn’t count if you’re drunk. Everyone knew this party was about doing things you shouldn’t—and so why should she deny herself the one thing she knew she absolutely, under no circumstances, if she wanted to keep her sanity or her dignity, shouldn’t do? She just needed to work up a little safety buzz—get just drunk enough to serve as an excuse for anything that might happen. Anything she hoped would happen. She’d thought it all out, and it had made perfect sense.

  Four beers later, she was done thinking. “You look good,” she said, stepping toward him and nearly falling as the ground shifted beneath her feet. Or, at least, it seemed to. “Whoops,” she squeaked as he caught her in his big, strong, muscular, tan arms. “Did I mention I’m a little drunk?”

  “Did I mention this is a new shirt?” Kane asked wryly. “Don’t puke on it.”

  He slung an arm around her waist and walked her away from the crowd, sitting her down on the ground so she wouldn’t have too far to fall.

  “Hey!” she called, tugging on the leg of his jeans. “It’s lonely down here.”

  Kane crouched down next to her.

  “Hi!” she said in her best sultry voice, leaning toward him.

  He flinched away from her breath. “Jesus—did you drink the whole keg?”

  This wasn’t going right. Miranda struggled to figure out where she’d run off track, but her brain was like a seesaw, swinging wildly back and forth, up and down . . . and at the thought of that, she felt a wave of nausea rise in her. So she stopped thinking again and just blurted something out. “This isn’t going right.”

  Oops.

  “What isn’t?”

  Instead of answering, Miranda leaned against him and let her head drop to her shoulder. “The music s nice, huh?”

  Kane glanced over at the Blind Monkeys, who were banging something out that approximated a song. “You call this music?”

  “I love your smile,” Miranda slurred, touching his lips. “It’s so . . . smiley.”

  He frowned, took her hand, and peered into her eyes. “You in there somewhere, Stevens? ‘Cause I think some kind of pod person’s taken over your body.”

  He was so funny “You’re so funny.” She laughed, her body twitching uncontrollably, until finally she pressed both her hands against her mouth to stop herself. “D’you want to kiss me?” she asked suddenly, taking her hands away and pursing her lips.

  “Uh, Stevens . . .”

  “‘Cause you can. I’m right here.” She let herself fall toward him, but at the last moment, he grabbed her shoulders and held her at arm’s length.

  “I’m not sure we should—”

  “Hey!” she cried, suddenly distracted. “It’s Harper!” She started waving wildly. “Harper!” But Harper was too far away. “She’s mick of see. I mean. She’s sick of me. I mean. You know. What I mean.” Some sleazy guy in cargo shorts with a studded collar around his neck was leading Harper away from the band and toward the more private, shadowy area beyond the rocks.

  “You know that guy?” Kane asked suspiciously.

  Miranda shook her head. The sleazeball swooped in for a kiss and Harper pulled herself away—but she wasn’t quick enough. They made out for a minute, and then the guy continued leading her away.

  “She’s even drunker than me.” Miranda giggled, then stopped as a pinhole of light opened up in the dark fog of her mind. “What’s she doing with that guy? What if—?” Her happy buzz turned into an angry beehive. “We have to stop her,” she said, trying to stand up. She shook her head, but that just made things more jumbled. “We have to go, we have to—”

  “Whoa. Better idea.” Kane pressed down firmly on her shoulders, settling her back on the ground. “I’ll go. You stay.”

  “But I have to help, I have to—”

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” he assured her. “I’ll go. I’ll take care of it. Are you okay here?”

  “My knight in shining armor.” She sighed, a happy glow settling over her again. Kane would take care of everything, and then he’d be back for her.

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he scoffed. “Just try not to wander off and get into trouble before I get back, princess.”

  As he disappeared into the crowd in search of Harper, Miranda sighed happily and lay back against the ground, staring up at the stars and wondering if she could find the Big Dipper.

  He’d be back soon—and she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Forgive, forget; the wavy lines on my TV

  Go dark as you, betray your confidences on—

  Reed broke off in disgust. The sound system was crap, and he could barely hear himself sing over the drunken crowd—not to mention the fact that he was pretty sure someone was blasting Beyoncé on a stereo not too far away. But that wasn’t the real issue.

  “Fish!” he snapped, spinning around to look at the drummer. “What the hell are you doing back there?”

  “Man, I forgot what song we were playing.” He giggled. “Can you believe that?”

  “Dude, you’re totally baked!” Hale mocked, waving his guitar over his head. “Awesome.”

  Reed knocked the microphone away in disgust. “You’re both playing for shit. Get it together.”

  “Take it easy, kid,” Fish suggested. “I can fire up another one for you.”

  “Let’s just play,” Reed said, half tempted, half disgusted. “‘Miles from Home,’ okay? On three? ”They nodded, and Fish counted off; Hale came into the song a half beat late but at least, Reed told himself, he’d come in at all.

  I wanna get away from this place,

  I wanna blow my brain, forget your face—

  No one had even noticed they were playing again. By the light of the moon, Reed could see a horde of seniors milling about, making out, and lighting things on fire. Up front, next to the platform they’d put together for their stage, their single groupie danced by herself, flinging her tattoo-covered arms in the air in a wild frenzy, despite the slow and moody beat of the music. That was their audience: One goth girl who hated their music but ha
d a not-so-secret crush on Hale.

  Reed didn’t care.

  Same as you always were

  Too good too much too fast too far,

  And all the knives into my head and all

  The holes and all the time to get away—

  He knew the lyrics were lame. He didn’t care about that, either. The guys all wanted to do cover songs—they’d have wrestling matches over Led Zeppelin versus Coldplay, Bright Eyes versus The Ramones—and then they’d get distracted and Reed would place the only vote that mattered. They played his music. And when he was really in the zone, it was a better high than pot. It was just him and the words and the music. It was cool.

  He wasn’t in the zone.

  And he couldn’t stop scanning the crowd.

  I wanna get away from this place,

  I wanna choke it up and spit in your face—

  He stopped singing and held his breath. She was walking through the crowd, which seemed to part slightly as she passed. Her back was to the stage. Her movements were graceful and deliberate, her body slim and perfect. Her sleek black hair spun in the wind as she turned around, and he was about to whisper her name when—

  It wasn’t her. Of course.

  He hadn’t believed it, not really, he told himself. But he had. Just for a second, he’d let himself forget—he’d let himself believe that, somehow, it could be her.

  “Awesome set!” Fish cried, slamming his stick against one of the cymbals. “Break time.”

  “Set?” Reed asked, trying to remember himself. “We haven’t even gotten through one song.”

  “Dude, who’s fault is that?” Hale asked, giving Reed a pointed look. (As pointed as a look could be when his eyes were half shut.) “I say break time. I’ve got . . .” He glanced offstage, where goth girl had stripped off her T-shirt to reveal a black leather bikini. She slowly licked her hand, from her palm up to her fingertips, then threw it to Hale as if it were a kiss. “I got stuff to do, kid.” Hale ditched the guitar and hopped off the platform, grabbing goth girl and kissing her like he was trying to Hoover her mouth right off her face.