“Want to go outside?” I ask, gesturing that we could smoke, which makes me feel like an uncool person imitating a cool one.
“Um, okay?” he says, not making eye contact. “Give me ten. I’ll meet you out there.”
He goes back to the dining room. I take off my smock of shame.
“Give him ten,” Brose says, with his deep voice that sounds nothing like Nat’s, but I don’t answer or look at him because, for some reason, I respect Brose. I’d like his approval, and I know I won’t find it in his eyes right now.
* * *
• • •
When I go outside, Nat’s there with Rickie and Layla. Rickie looks annoyed. Layla looks like she’s in love. She bumps her head into Nat’s shoulder like a kitten. I feel like a dumb ass. And yet, Rickie’s here, and I am buoyed by her.
“What’s up, dishwasher?” Nat says again. “You wanted me to come out and smoke, so smoke.” He exchanges looks with Layla, communicating, at least in my eyes, that I’m pathetic. Insignificant. He’s outing me in front of this girl and Rickie—telling them I wanted to be out here with him but the feeling isn’t mutual.
“I just . . . wanted to say hey,” I say.
Rickie raises her eyebrows and looks back and forth between the two of us.
Nat turns to Layla and they talk about something, but I don’t hear it. I want to leave, but don’t know how.
“Dude,” Rickie says. “Didn’t you guys just hook up?”
I can’t believe she said that, and yet I’m somewhat grateful. He stops talking and looks at me, then away.
“No,” he says, his eyes on Layla.
I feel like I’m in a trance. I can’t focus on anything. Is this what happens? How was he so nice, so into me, and now it’s like I’m some kind of rash?
“I gave him a blow job,” I say. I actually say this out loud, and for some reason, my words carry the tint of a British accent. Oh my god. It’s like I just woke up from a coma and blurted out the first thing that came to my mind.
Rickie looks at me, both appalled and thrilled, her mouth in a big O.
“Oh my god.” Layla laughs-not-really-laughs. “Um,” she says. “Okay?” Punctuating her stupid laugh with a stupid affectation. I want to pour the bucket of shrimp tails over her head and be all, Um. Okay? Ha ha?
She communicates to Nat with her eyes: What a psycho. I try my best to communicate to her: I’m going to shrimp-tail your ass, bitch. But wait. I look at Nat—he’s my focus, not her. She did nothing. He’s making us do all the work, taking the focus off of him.
He smiles, looks down, then shakes his head. “I’m outta here.”
“Um, yeah,” Layla says.
She walks toward the kitchen door, but he walks to the front of the restaurant, not checking to see if she’s following. She opens the door, then sees him walking the other way, hesitates, and runs to catch up with him.
I kick the potholed-parking-lot snow dirt. I have never experienced anything like this before—pure humiliation mixed with rage, mixed with a little bit of conviction—like, I’m working with logic here, and that dude was not working with me! Is this what boys are like? Does everyone know this already?
“Holy shit,” Rickie says, putting her hand on my back. “You sort of owned that moment in a really weird way.”
“I went with my instincts,” I mumble. The air is punishing, the mountain glaringly white. Rickie winds the scarf tighter around my neck. It feels motherly and nice.
“Nat’s not the best guy,” she says. She pulls my beanie down to cover my ears. “Layla’s not even his girlfriend. His girlfriend works at the brewery. She’s Swedish. I mean, not really, but one of those girls who looks Swedish. All clean and blond and shit.”
Like me, I think, but undisguised. “I feel so stupid.”
She nods, not bothering to object. “Did you sleep with him?” she asks.
I blink. “No. I’ve never even . . . done that before. I just . . . sucked him off.”
“Jesus! Why’d you say it that way?”
“I don’t know. It just came out. Everything’s just coming out. My instincts have always been off.” I shift from foot to foot. “God, gross, I feel really gross. I’d never done that before either.” I look at her in a way that’s pleading. I’m begging her to fix this. My first week here, and I’m already the slut in town. This almost makes me laugh. Who would have thought? At least I only have a week left. Remembering this time line kind of shocks me—how fast the days have gone by, how at times I forget about the upcoming verdict. I never expected to think about anything else, really.
“It’ll be okay,” Rickie says, and seems to really consider this.
“They’re going to go back in there and blab my moment.”
She nods again. Like a judge. “Yeah,” she says. “Probably.”
“What should I do?”
We move out of the way for a car. There’s an old lady driver gripping the steering wheel and leaning forward to see. I wonder if she’s done anything slutty in her life. I kind of laugh thinking about it, and then imagine myself old and some kid laughing about me getting it on and feel defensive, like I did it. We all do it. That’s why we’re here!
“I don’t think you need to do anything,” she says. “You already did it. Some advice, though? Don’t do that again. Guys get all weird and entitled. Oh my god, don’t cry.”
I’m not crying, just on the verge. I don’t know how I can be both so abrasive and so soft. I’m like a sponge with a scouring pad.
She touches my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. Move on, forget about him. Be you.”
“Okay,” I say, and sniffle.
“Though I have no idea who you are,” she says.
“Me neither,” I say, which makes me tear up. Who am I when I’m home, with my adult shoes, my self-restrictions and rules, this longing to grow up and be like a man who may be full of deception and greed? Who am I here, trying to be someone else, which is so planned and fake?
Rickie holds my shoulders. Her eyes big and dark. “No bj’s,” she says.
“Okay,” I say, grinning slightly.
“You get why?”
I look into her kind eyes. She may not know who I am, but she sees me. “I get it, yeah.”
“I mean, unless you want to, but it should be reciprocated . . . if you want it to be.”
“Are those your rules?” I ask.
“I guess,” she says. “For now, at least. Rules are always changing.”
“Right,” I say, thinking I understand.
“Did you even like him?” she asks.
I kick the gravel again. “I mean, I thought he was cute. I like him. I liked him.” I take a moment to think about what I’m trying to say. “Yeah, I liked him, and I . . . I just wanted to try it?”
“I get it,” she says, and I believe she does.
“But now what?” I ask. “Is it just done with us?”
“It sure seems like it,” she says, moving her hands off my shoulders. “You want to know the truth?”
I nod.
“He’ll assume you’ll get with him again. He’ll count on it. If I were you, I wouldn’t let him touch you.” She shakes my wrist.
“Good advice,” I say.
14
Day three of the new year, and I wake up to the smell of bacon, but then I realize I fell asleep in the clothes I wore last night and it’s not fresh bacon. It’s the old scent of bacon-wrapped shrimp, clinging to my sweatshirt. I didn’t brush my teeth either, or floss—there goes a year of my life, pretty much. I didn’t wash my face, something I never forget to do. Exfoliate, tone, hydrate.
After work I went out with Rickie to some bar where she knows the bartender so we wouldn’t get carded. Brose came, too, and I vaguely remember dancing near him on a floor that was covered with peanut shells. I don�
�t know what depresses me more—the fact that I feel like bunk or that people eat peanuts and throw the shells on the floor. What’s the point? It gives me a small taste of what we all would do if we were allowed to do it. We’re savages—all of us. I get out of bed and kick and punch the air, tricking my body into enthusiasm for the day.
I walk out to the hall and hear the voices of Skip and Nicole, and I stop to snoop, since I hear my name. I peek around the wall to see Nicole’s butt in the air, a downward dog. I move back to hiding and am startled by a picture of my mom, my young mom next to a young Nicole, who’s holding a bouquet on what is obviously her wedding day.
“It’s fine,” Skip says. “She’s been happy all week. She’s like the young Buddha, seeing what’s on the other side of the castle wall.”
I puff out my cheeks, Buddha-like. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“She’s not exactly Buddha, honey,” Nicole says, short of breath. “He didn’t get to the other side and buy a flat-screen and a new wardrobe.”
Are they arguing about me buying things for my room? Why would they care?
“She’s just trying to make it her home. And the clothes—I mean, she came here looking like a socialite or something, and now she’s . . . She fits in with the kids.”
“Grunge-chic,” Nicole says. “Just like Buddha. Free People. Two hundred bucks for a slashed sweater. Enlightened.”
“I don’t know what that means,” Skip says, and I look down at my clothes—bell-bottom jeans and a damn Free People blouse. I go to my room, throw on a sweater before coming back out. I peek around again. Nicole is doing some crazy stretching and yoga moves, which Skip seems to find arousing. His head is tilted.
“It’s not right,” she says. “Spending money at a time like this—did you see the news this morning? That lady lost her entire pension! Entire! Poof!”
“She doesn’t know—”
I press my back against the wall, wondering who the lady was that lost her pension, and also wanting to know when my dad will return my calls to explain. I look at the pictures of Skip and Nicole. They were so cute and young together. God, they have so many pictures of themselves. They did selfies before there was even a name for it. They were pioneers. And there’s Jay’s school photo that I keep landing on. His kindergarten one, perhaps—his two front teeth missing.
“The late hours,” I hear Nicole say. “She got home at one in the morning! You’ve put her in this horrible environment.”
“My restaurant?”
“Yes! We met at the restaurant, remember? The drinking, the drugs, we had sex in the walk-in fridge!”
Oh my god. I hold my breath.
“That was great,” Skip says. “Our anniversary’s coming up if you want a redo.” I peek around the wall, and Nicole is glaring at him.
“Annie’s fine,” he says. “I’m watching her. I’m on it.”
He is so not on it. I’m hungover and look like I’ve been hit with a sack of flour. I make my entrance, rubbing my eyes and fake yawning. They look like they’ve been caught doing it in a walk-in fridge.
“Hey,” I say. They exchange looks. I go to the kitchen and pour myself a huge glass of juice and a bowl of cereal, then sit to watch TV. I can feel them behind me playing charades.
“We’re going to hit the mountain,” Skip says. I turn to look at him. I’ve been raised that way.
“Want to come with us?”
“I’m meeting Rickie,” I say. “We’re golfing.”
“It’s winter,” Nicole says. She seems very annoyed with me.
“Virtual,” I say.
They do the look exchange again, and I wait politely, chewing with my mouth closed.
Nicole crosses her arms in front of her chest, her lips in a strong pout.
“Hey, I know it’s not our place,” he says.
“Well,” she says. “It is. It is our place.” Her smile manages to be unfriendly.
“We want you to be comfortable living here, but we also want you to live here, in the home we have,” Skip says.
I look around at the home that they have, the small brick fireplace, the black leather sofa, faded curtains, tan carpet. It reminds me of the condo development in Eagle that my dad bought and tore down.
“That other TV didn’t work so well,” I say. “I asked my mom. She said it was fine. It’s on me.”
I look down. Nicole’s eyes are mean. “It’s not on you. It’s on your parents, and I don’t need them buying us anything. Do you even understand what’s happening?”
A tear slips, but I don’t think they can see. I understand what’s happening, but I just want my dad to do his thing—fight, win, and move on. What else is there to do about it? If he’s right, he’s right, and he needs to win and defend himself. The people who’ve lost—what can I do to help? What can he do?
“Thanks for thinking of us,” Skip says. “But—”
“I don’t see what the problem is,” I say. “What’s wrong with taking my parents’ money? You’re watching us. Babysitters make money.”
Nicole gapes at me. Skip cringes like he was counting on me to say the right thing and I didn’t come through.
“If I had a kid, and she spoke like that, I’d spank her,” Nicole says. “I don’t care what the policy is.”
“Well, you don’t have a kid,” I say. “That ship has sailed.”
Something holds her back from lunging at me. I saw the urge and then the restraint, and it both thrilled and terrified me. Her chest fills with air, her eye twitches. Skip puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes, shaking his head at me. I catch a glimpse of something hateful in his eyes before it changes into disappointment, which feels worse. They both turn away from me, and I get up to finish breakfast in my room.
The truth is, I didn’t speak to my mom about buying a TV or about anything. She never answers when I call, and when I texted, she just wrote back, Do whatever. It’s how she’s always been, but I thought during this time she’d become someone softer, someone I could depend on, someone who might even turn to me. I don’t know why I was so rude to Nicole, why I said that about her kid or lack thereof. I don’t know why I feel so junk after a fun night out. I don’t know why I feel slapped by humiliation even though I brought it upon myself. It’s like I’m in a dressing room and trying on these disguises, and none of them are flattering. I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m so cold I break my own heart.
15
I call my dad again but get no answer. I feel the way I do when Nat wouldn’t talk to me—used and abandoned, dumb. My parents always thought I was too young to handle anything. Even though I’m not even two years younger than Jay, they trust him so much more. They don’t even let me drive, and I’m not at all flattered by their protectiveness. I’d be more flattered by trust, by allowing me the same things as him.
I walk over to Jay’s room. He’s playing guitar in his ski pants, with no shirt on. What if I just walked around with no shirt?
“Have you talked to Mom and Dad since the other night?” I ask.
He strums. “Nope.”
He focuses back on the guitar, playing a song I like. I groan, pretending I’m so tired of hearing this song, but then I decide to soften up. It’s not like Jay’s done anything wrong.
He slaps the strings. “You off to work?”
“Not till five.” We both smile slightly, those truth smiles that don’t come from a sarcastic place. They’re rare and make something inside me whimper and flutter. We are communicating homesickness, I think. We are communicating how strange it is that we’ve only been here a little over a week and I have a job, that something interesting and different has come from our small disaster.
I look down at my phone to see if Cee has texted me back from earlier this morning. Nope. Big nopes from everyone. Her shunning me doesn’t make any sense, despite the rift between ou
r parents, and I’m getting tired of being the one to reach out. I have the right to be just as angry—her dad is betraying my dad by testifying. I should be the furious one. I guess the difference is she must know more, and I don’t know enough to be really convinced of anything. She and her dad are close. He shares things with her. With me, too. At dinners he’d talk to us about work like we were his peers. He trusted our intelligence, and it makes me feel like a traitor that I can’t summon the same anger Cee has, probably because I trust her dad, too.
“I wonder if Ken testified yet,” I say.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” Jay says.
“Why don’t we go talk to them?”
“Talk to the guy who’s testifying against Dad?”
“It’s Ken,” I say. “We know him, and he’s known us forever. He wouldn’t just come out against Dad for no reason. I want to hear his side. Don’t you?”
He looks down and strums, then slaps the body of the guitar, which means he’s done. “He may not have a side. He may just be testifying—like, giving info, details. He may not even want to be doing it.”
“That’s why I want to go. Our own parents won’t just lay it all out. He will. I know he’d tell me the truth. Will you take me?”
“Are you sure?” he asks, and he looks up. “I mean, you’re sure you want it all laid out?”
Am I ready for the truth, he’s asking, no matter what it looks like?
“I’m sure,” I say.
No response. He looks around the room for something else to do.
“We can stop at Sadie’s, too.” I roll my eyes but hope it will seal the deal.
“She broke up with me,” he says, and gets up, putting his guitar away.
“She broke up with you?”
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