by Sarah Dessen
“Macy? Is that you?”
For a second, I just kept spraying, as if doing so long enough might remove not only the stain, but me and this entire situation as well. After I gave the carpet a good dousing, though, it was clear I had no choice but to look up.
“Hi,” I said to Mrs. Talbot, who was standing over me holding a napkin piled with shrimp. “How are you?”
“We’re well,” she said, glancing a bit hesitantly over at Mr. Talbot, who was helping himself to shrimp from Kristy’s tray as she tried, unsuccessfully, to move on. “Are you . . . working here?”
Even though I knew this was a valid question, the fact that I was wearing a Wish Catering apron, holding a rag, and on my knees on the carpet fighting a stain made me wonder if Mrs. Talbot was really all that smart after all. “Yes,” I said, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “I, um, just started.”
“But you’re still at the information desk,” she said, suddenly serious, and I could see Jason in her features, this automatic concern that all be As It Should. “Aren’t you?”
I nodded. “I’m just doing this occasionally,” I said. “For extra money.”
“Oh.” She glanced over again at Mr. Talbot, who was standing in place chewing, his napkin piled with what, to my eye, looked like a lot more than two shrimp. “Well. That’s wonderful.”
I ducked my head back down, and after a second a woman came up to her, asking about some research trip, and thankfully, they moved on. I’d been dousing, then patting, then dousing for a good five minutes when a pair of motorcycle boots appeared right at my eye level, foot tapping.
“You know,” Kristy said, her voice low, “it doesn’t look so good for you to be on the floor like this.”
“There’s a stain,” I said. “And Monica just abandoned me to deal with it.”
She squatted down across from me, moving her knees to one side in a surprisingly ladylike way. “It’s very hard for her,” she said to me, her voice serious. “She’s self-conscious about her clumsiness, so a lot of the times rather than acknowledge it she just shuts down. It’s a defense mechanism. You know, she’s very emotional, Monica. She really is.”
As she said this, Monica pushed through the door from the kitchen, carrying a trayful of goat cheese toasts. She started across the room, her face flat and expressionless, walking right past us without even a glance.
“See?” Kristy said. “She’s upset.”
“Macy,” a man’s voice boomed from over our heads. “Hello down there!”
Kristy and I both looked up at the same time. It was Mr. Talbot, of course, and he was smiling widely, although I assumed it had more to do with Kristy’s shrimp tray than us reuniting. As she and I both stood, he proved me right by immediately reaching for one and popping it into his mouth.
“Hi, Mr. Talbot,” I said, as Kristy looked on, annoyed. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you,” he replied. “Martha tells me you’ve taken on this job in addition to your library work. That’s very ambitious of you. I know Jason finds the information desk to be a full-time commitment.”
“Oh, well,” I said, bending down to retrieve my cleaner and rag, as the stain looked, miraculously, like it was actually fading, “I’m sure for him, it is.”
Mr. Talbot, reaching for another shrimp, raised his eyebrows.
“I mean,” I said, quickly, as Kristy switched her tray to the other hand, “that Jason just gives such a big commitment to everything. He’s very, you know, focused.”
“Ah, yes, he really is,” he said, nodding. Then he lowered his voice, adding, “I’m so glad that you understand that, considering the decision he had to make recently about your relationship.” He dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I mean, he is fond of you. But Jason just has so much on his plate. He has to be very careful not to get distracted from his goals.”
I just stood there, wondering how, exactly, he expected me to react to this. I was a distraction from his goals? I felt my face flush.
“At any rate,” Mr. Talbot continued, “I know he hopes, as we do, that you two can work things out once he returns.”
And with that, he started to reach for another shrimp. But as his fingers neared the edge of the tray, zeroing in, Kristy yanked it away with such force that a couple actually slid off the other side and hit the carpet, thud thud. Mr. Talbot looked confused. Then he looked at the shrimp on the floor, as if actually wondering if the two-second rule applied here.
“So sorry,” Kristy said smoothly, turning on her heel, “but we’re on goal to get out another round of appetizers, and we can’t allow ourselves to be distracted.”
“Kristy,” I hissed.
“Come on,” she said, and then she was starting across the floor, and there was really nothing I could think of to do but follow her. Which I did, not looking back, although whether it was to save my pride or save myself the sight of Mr. Talbot eating shrimp off the floor, I wasn’t sure.
Kristy knocked the kitchen door open, walked to the opposite counter, and put down her tray with a bang. Wes and Delia, who were arranging more wineglasses on two platters, looked up at us.
“You are not going to believe,” she said, “what just went down out there.”
“Did something else break or spill?” Delia asked. “God! What is going on today?”
“No,” Kristy said. Looking at her, I realized that I was upset, even hurt: but Kristy, she was pissed. “Do you know who’s out there?”
Delia looked at the door. “Monica?”
“No. Macy’s jerkwad boyfriend’s father. And do you know what he did out there, in front of God and me and everybody?”
This time, neither Wes nor Delia offered any theories, instead just looking at me, then back at Kristy. Outside, I heard Mrs. Talbot trilling again.
“He said,” she said, “that his stupid asshole son put their relationship on hold because she wasn’t in line with his goals.”
Delia raised her eyebrows. I had no idea what Wes’s reaction was, as I was making a concentrated effort not to look at him.
“And then,” Kristy continued, reaching full throttle, “he ate half my shrimp plate. He insults my friend—to her face!—and then tries to go for shrimp. I wanted to sock him.”
“But,” Delia said carefully, “you didn’t. Right?”
“No,” Kristy replied, as Delia visibly relaxed again, “but I did cut him off. He’s on crustacean restriction, from here on out. He tries another grab, he’s getting a foot stomp.”
“Oh, don’t do that,” Delia said, as I concentrated on a spot on the opposite wall, still trying to calm myself from the various shames that had been thrown my way in the last few minutes, “please God I’m begging you. Can’t you just avoid him?”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Kristy replied, piling more shrimp on her tray by the handful, “and no, I can’t.”
The door swung open again, and Monica ambled in, blowing her bangs out of her face. “Shrimp,” she said flatly, looking at Kristy.
“I’m sure they do,” she shot back, plunking another container of cocktail sauce and some napkins onto her tray. “Bastards.”
“Kristy,” Delia said, but she was already pushing back out the door, her tray on her palm, rising to shoulder level. As it swung shut, Delia looked around, somewhat desperately, then picked up a tray of filled wineglasses, lifting it carefully with both hands.
“Just to be on the safe side,” she said, nudging the door open with her toe and glancing out at the living room, where I could see Kristy zipping past a group of people who were reaching, in vain, for her shrimp, “I’m going to make a pass around the room and keep an eye on her. Wes, grab that other tray of glasses. Monica, get another trayful of toasts out here. And Macy—”
I turned and looked at her, glad to have something else to focus on.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and smiled at me so kindly I felt like it was a third shame, the biggest of all, even though I knew that wasn’t how she intended
it. Still, I felt something hurt in my heart as the door swung shut again, as if all the inadequacies I’d felt since Jason’s email were no longer hidden away inside me but were as clear on my face as if they were written there.
After Delia left, the room seemed to feel smaller. Monica was slowly moving toasts onto her tray, while Wes finished pouring the wine behind me. I could see out the kitchen door to the garden and the road beyond it, and for a second I considered just pushing it open and walking out, could almost feel the grass under my feet, the sun on my face as I just left this behind.
Monica picked up her tray, then brushed past me and out the door. As it swung open, I heard a second of party noises and voices, and then it was quiet again. When I turned around to look at Wes he was already lifting his tray, arranging the glasses on it, clearly more concerned with keeping them balanced than with my various shortcomings. But then he looked at me.
“Hey,” he said, and I felt some part of me brace, preparing for what came next, “are you—”
“I’m fine,” I told him, my easy, knee-jerk answer. “It was nothing, just some stupid thing somebody said.”
“—gonna be able to grab that other tray?” he finished.
Then we both shut up, abruptly: it was one of those moments when you’re not sure what to respond to first, like a conversational photo finish where you’re still waiting for the judges to weigh in.
“Yeah.” I nodded at the tray behind him. “Go ahead, I’m right behind you.”
“All right,” he said. And then, for one second, he looked at me, as if maybe he should say more. But he didn’t. He just walked to the door, pushing it open with his free hand. “I’ll see you out there.”
As he disappeared into the living room I caught another quick, slicing glimpse of the party, not enough to see much, but then I didn’t have to, really. I knew Kristy was probably exacting the revenge she thought I was due, while Delia moved right behind her, making apologies and smoothing rough edges. Monica was most likely following her own path, either oblivious or deeply emotionally invested, depending on what you believed, while Wes worked the perimeter, always keeping an eye on everything. There was a whole other world out there, the Talbots’ world, where I didn’t belong now, if I ever had. But it was okay not to fit in everywhere, as long as you did somewhere. So I picked up my tray, careful to keep it level, and pushed through the door to join my friends.
“Delia,” Kristy said, “just go, would you please? Everything’s fine.”
Delia shook her head, pressing one finger to her temple. “I’m forgetting something, I just know it. What is it?”
Her husband, Pete, who was standing by his car with his keys in hand, said patiently, “Is it that our dinner reservations were for ten minutes ago?”
“No,” she snapped, shooting him a look. “It’s something else. God, think, Delia. Think.”
Beside me, Kristy yawned, then looked at her watch. It was eight-thirty and, finally done with the academic cocktail party, we were amassed in the client’s driveway, waiting to leave. We’d been all ready to go, and then Delia had that feeling.
“You know what I mean,” she said now, snapping her fingers, as if that action might cause some sort of molecular shift that would jog her memory. “When you just know you’re forgetting something?”
“Are you sure it’s not a pregnancy thing?” Kristy asked.
Delia glared at her. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sure.”
We all exchanged looks. The closer Delia got to her due date, the angrier she became when anyone attributed anything—loss of memory, mood swings, her conviction that every room was always too hot, even when everyone else’s teeth were chattering—to her condition.
“Honey,” Pete said gently, tentatively reaching to put his hand on her arm, “our sitter is costing us ten bucks an hour. Can we please go to dinner? Please?”
Delia closed her eyes, still trying to remember, then shook her head. “Fine,” she said, and with that one word, everyone began to scatter, Pete opening the door to their car, Kristy digging out her own keys, Wes starting toward the van, “but then I’ll remember in five minutes, and it will be too late.”
She was still muttering as she eased herself into the passenger seat of Pete’s car, then pulled the seat belt across her belly, struggling to make it reach. As I got into the van with Wes, I watched them pull out of the driveway, then start down the road. I wondered, as they reached the stop sign there, if she’d already remembered. Probably.
“When is that baby due?” Kristy called out as she and Monica pulled up beside us. About fifteen minutes earlier, when the van was packed and we’d been paid, she’d disappeared for a few minutes into the garage, emerging in an entirely different outfit: a short denim skirt, a blouse with ribboned sleeves, and high-heeled platform sandals, her hair held up in a high ponytail. Not only was she versatile, I’d marveled as she did a little spin, showing it off, but quick. Clark Kent becoming Superman had nothing on her, and he didn’t even have to worry about hair.
“July tenth,” Wes told her, cranking the van’s engine.
“Which leaves us,” she said, squinting as she attempted to do the math for a second before giving up, “entirely too long before she gets normal again.”
“Three weeks,” I said.
“Exactly.” She sighed, checking her reflection in the mirror. “Anyway, so listen. This party is in Lakeview. Take a right on Hillcrest, left on Willow, house at the end of the cul-de-sac. We’ll see you guys there. Hey, and Macy?”
“Yeah?”
She leaned farther out the window, as if we were sharing a confidence, even though there was a fair amount of space, not to mention Wes, between us. “I have it on good authority,” she said, her voice low, “that there will be extraordinary boys there. You know what I mean?”
Wes, beside me, was fiddling with his visor. “Um, no,” I said.
“Don’t worry.” She put her car in gear, then pointed at me. “By the end of the night, you will. See you there!” And then, in a cloud of dust, the radio blasting, she was gone, hardly slowing for the stop sign at the end of the road.
“Well,” Wes said, as we pulled out of the driveway with slightly less velocity, “to the party, then. Right?”
“Sure.”
I tried, for the first five minutes or so of the drive, to come up with a witty conversation starter. Topics, from the inane to slightly promising, flitted through my brain as we moved along the quiet, mostly deserted country roads. Finally, when I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, I opened my mouth, not even knowing what I was going to say.
“So,” I began, but that was as far as I got. And, as it turned out, as far as we got.
The engine, which had been humming along merrily up until that point, suddenly began to cough. Then lurch. Then moan. And then: nothing. We were stopped dead in the middle of the road.
For a second, neither of us said anything. A bird flew by overhead, its shadow moving across the windshield.
“So,” Wes said, as if picking up where I’d left off, “that’s what Delia forgot.”
I looked at him. “What?”
He lifted his finger, pointing at the gas gauge, which was flat on the E. Empty. “Gas,” he said.
“Gas,” I repeated, and in my mind, I could hear Delia’s voice, echoing this, finally remembering with a palm slapped to her forehead. Gas.
Wes already had his door open and was getting out, letting it fall shut behind him. I did the same, then walked around the van to the deserted road, looking both ways.
I’d heard people talk about being in the middle of nowhere, but it had always been an exaggeration. Now, though, as I took in the flat pastureland on either side of us, it seemed completely appropriate. No cars were in sight. I couldn’t even see any houses anywhere nearby. The only light was from the moon, full and yellow, halfway up the sky.
“How far,” I said, “would you say it is to the nearest gas station?”
Wes squinted back
the way we’d come, then turned and looked ahead, as if gathering facts for a scientific guess. “No idea,” he said finally. “Guess we’ll find out, though.”
We pushed the van over to the side of the road, then rolled up the windows and locked it. Everything sounded loud in the quiet: our footsteps, the door shutting, the owl that hooted overhead, making me jump. I stood in the middle of the road while Wes did a last check of the van, then walked over, his hands in his pockets, to join me.
“Okay,” he said, “now we decide. Left or right?”
I looked one way, then the other. “Left,” I said, and we started walking.
“Green beans,” Wes said.
“Spaghetti,” I replied.
He thought for a second, and in the quiet, all I could hear was our footsteps. “Ice cream,” he said.
“Manicotti.”
“What’s with all the I words?” he said, tipping his head back and staring up at the sky. “God.”
“I told you,” I said. “I’ve played this game before.”
He was quiet for a minute, thinking. We’d been walking for about twenty minutes, and not one car had passed. I had my cell phone with me, but Kristy wasn’t picking up, Bert wasn’t home, and my mother was at a meeting, so we were pretty much on our own, at least for the time being. After going along in silence for a little while, Wes had suggested that we play a game, if only to make the time pass faster. It was too dark for I Spy, so I suggested Last Letter, First Letter, which he’d never heard of. I even let him pick the category, food, but he was still struggling.
“Instant breakfast,” he said finally.
“That’s not food.”
“Sure it is.”
“Nope. It’s a drink.”
He looked at me. “Are you seriously getting competitive about this?”
“No,” I said, sliding my hands in my pockets. A breeze blew over us, and I heard the leaves on the trees nearby rustling. “But it is a drink, not a food. That’s all I’m saying.”