We Were Promised Spotlights

by Lindsay Sproul

  “Sorry,” I said to Brad, putting on my peacoat. “I’ll just see you later, okay?” I was still hyperventilating a little. My voice sounded stupid and small.

  His face completely fell, and he grabbed my forearm as I reached for the knob on my bedroom door.

  “Taylor?”

  “What.”

  “Just . . .” He stopped. I could tell that this shocking news was pushing something out of him. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, which made me feel bad, because I was nowhere near crying.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “I love you,” he said. He reached out to touch my elbow, then changed his mind.

  “Oh my God, Brad. Not now.”

  I handed him Stephanie Tanner’s fish food.

  “Can you feed her, please?” I asked. Then I left him standing there in my bedroom.

  I was nine when Sandra won Stephanie Tanner for me at the Hopuonk Fair. That night, after we got her a bowl, both of us crouched in front of the glass, watching her dart around.

  “She’s so cute,” I said, staring at her glittering orange body. “It’ll be so sad when she dies.”

  Which prompted Sandra to say, “You just got her, Taylor. How are you already this nostalgic? You’re in fourth grade, for Christ’s sake.”

  While walking to Susan’s house, I started thinking about Mr. Blackford. He was a real asshole.

  There was the time he pinned Mrs. Blackford against the kitchen wall and said, “Of course I’m fucking Mrs. Greenberg, because I don’t get any at home,” and Mrs. Blackford was crying.

  She’d held her cigarette down real low, and I could tell she was thinking of squishing it right into his cheek.

  Susan and I watched from the hallway. We were eleven. Mrs. Greenberg was PJ’s mom. Her actual name was Debbie.

  I remember thinking, Don’t you call people by their first names when you’re sleeping with them?

  Susan was crying. She was holding my hand tight, and I hated both of her parents. At least when Sandra fucked people, she called them by their first names. Brian, Teddy, Frank. Johnny, I thought hopefully. They were people to her, at least.

  Later that night, Mrs. Blackford brushed Susan’s hair so hard that the hairbrush broke in her hair and pulled a chunk of it out.

  Whenever her parents fought, they used Susan against each other. For example, once when Susan’s mother said she couldn’t eat sugar cereal, her dad bought her a family-sized box of Lucky Charms, because he was angry. Susan ate Lucky Charms in a very specific way, by eating all the regular cereal pieces and leaving the marshmallows for the end, letting them turn the milk blue, which I knew because Sandra bought me sugar cereal whenever I wanted and Susan ate it at my house. But when Susan’s mother saw her eating the Lucky Charms, she grabbed Susan by the elbow and threw her against the wall, then went to scream at Mr. Blackford.

  Sometimes, like the night when they fought in the kitchen about Debbie Greenberg, they went straight for Susan, even if she didn’t do anything wrong.

  But then there was also the fact that Mr. Blackford would take us to Dairy Queen on Sunday nights and let us get whatever we wanted. Susan always got a butterscotch-dipped cone, and every time, I considered asking for a chili cheese dog, because it was the only non-dessert item on the menu, and I was curious. But instead, I always got an ice pop shaped like a star. And Mr. Blackford asked us about our week, and he actually seemed interested.

  I could tell he wanted to remember being eleven, before everything got so bad. I understood his life a bit more now that I was older. He liked taking us for ice cream when we were kids because it reminded him of doing the same when he was young. Before he married a woman he did not love and got a boring job. Before he realized that even though he was the only one of his brothers to have a serious career, to go to college, it didn’t make him happy. He had a long commute into Boston every day, and I bet he spent the whole trip honking at people.

  The thing was, when somebody died, even if they were awful, you wanted to just remember them getting you anything you wanted at Dairy Queen.

  * * *

  —

  Looking through the front window, I saw that Susan was wide-awake, wrapped in a quilt on her sofa, the low blue glow of the television illuminating her cheekbones, a bottle of Harpoon wedged in the crevice of her lap. Her long coal-colored hair was piled on top of her head in a bun.

  I rapped lightly on the front door, and she looked over briefly before turning back to the television. I gently turned the doorknob and stepped inside.

  Susan didn’t look at me. She was watching the Discovery Channel, something with animals.

  She usually watched Entertainment Tonight, soap operas, or sitcoms.

  “I need a fennec fox,” she said, her eyes never leaving the screen. “They’re so sad. I can’t handle it.”

  “Susan,” I said. My stomach churned. I was afraid to approach her.

  One of her bare feet stuck out from the quilt. Her toenails were painted a light shade of purple, even though she usually didn’t bother with her feet because they were already messed-up.

  She always took such good care of the rest of her body: her eyebrows, her cuticles. She had drawers full of creams and lotions and nail polish that she ordered from the ads at the back of Cosmo, concoctions to make her hair thicker, her lips shinier, her skin softer.

  I expected Susan’s house to be full of people delivering casseroles, then realized maybe that was coming later. Instead, there was just her mother in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and staring at the wall, another cigarette going in the ashtray on the table.

  “Maybe if I move to the Sahara,” said Susan, “then I could get one. I would be willing to do that.”

  “I had to walk,” I lied, moving a little bit closer. “My car wouldn’t start.” I slipped slowly out of my boat shoes, leaving them on the doormat.

  “They only live for fourteen years,” Susan said, finally turning to look at me. “I could move back to Hopuonk after it dies.” Her cheeks and the tips of her ears were pink from the beer.

  “Where is he?” I asked. This seemed like the stupidest question in the world, but it seemed impossible to me that he could be there, running, and then just not be.

  Susan scooted over on the couch, making room for me, but not exactly inviting me to sit down. I gently squeezed into the space behind her, my stomach against her back.

  “At the morgue, I guess,” she said. She said “the morgue” as if it were the same as the grocery store. “My mom got back a little while ago.”

  Her voice was monotone. I guessed it was one of those things where you cry really, really hard and then you go numb. Then, probably, you cry again. I wondered if there was a part of her that felt relieved, that felt safer, knowing he couldn’t hurt her anymore.

  She took a sip of her beer, then sighed and leaned against me. On the television screen, two little almost-rodents with gigantic ears flitted through some desert brush.

  “Their ears, like, keep out the heat,” she said. “From their bodies. So they don’t get too hot.”

  I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her as tightly as I could, pressing my cheek into her neck.

  “I love you,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I love you.” I was crying now.

  She grabbed one of my hands in both of hers and squeezed.

  “Keep me warm?” she said, pressing my hand into her chest.

  “Yes,” I said.

  In this moment, I felt strangely lucky. To be a girl, to be able to say these things and for them to be okay and normal to say. To tell the truth, even if it meant something completely different to me.

  I also knew I didn’t love Brad, that I never would, that I wouldn’t be able to lie and tell him otherwise, and I knew I had to do something about it.

  The Mistake

  The following night, a
nother school night, we threw a party to “make Susan feel better,” which translated to us getting drunk together instead of letting Susan do it in her living room by herself, or with just me.

  It was after closing at The Mooring. Scottie had the key, and we snuck in like we could get in trouble, as if Scottie’s dad didn’t know we were there, and as if the cops weren’t all his buddies.

  Scottie, one of the star lacrosse players, could pretty much do anything he wanted. I thought about that as I took my third shot of vodka—that maybe for him, the choice between comfort and life wasn’t the same as it was for me.

  Brad also seemed to have it easy. That is, until he told me he loved me. I hadn’t told him I loved him back, or even acknowledged that he’d said it.

  Mr. Blackford’s death was a buffer. It allowed me an excuse to focus my attention on Susan, rather than on my growing dread about how to deal with Brad.

  I slung my arm around Susan’s waist and said, “See? Don’t you feel a little bit better?”

  Susan managed a nod. I handed her a shot.

  The Mooring was dingy enough to keep the summer people and the leaf peepers out—this was our place. There were other bars and restaurants, like O’Reilly’s, that charmed visitors, but not The Mooring. It was right across the street from Humming Rock, and the bar’s sign didn’t light up. Inside, it was dark, the paint was peeling, and the walls were decorated with dusty buoys, light-up Budweiser and Sam Adams signs, wooden steering wheels from old ships, and a taxidermy swordfish.

  Heather kicked the jukebox, and Bob Dylan came on. “The Subterranean Homesick Blues.” The music at The Mooring was old—Scottie’s dad hadn’t updated the jukebox in forever. The newest songs were probably Springsteen. Heather danced in the middle of the floor, and everyone joined in, including me.

  PJ Greenberg, still in her stage makeup from the dress rehearsal of the community theater production of It’s a Wonderful Life, turned on the microphone and belted out a song from her seat on top of the bar.

  I pulled Susan along with me, spun her around. The vodka loosened her up, and when her hip crashed into mine, she actually let out a puff of laughter and took my hand.

  “Get it, Susan!” PJ shouted.

  Brad watched me. I felt his eyes on my back.

  I danced my way behind the bar. It felt powerful there. I could see why Sandra liked it.

  I handed out shots, swaying my hips with the music.

  I thought about Sandra when she was my age. What did she think her life would be like? Her parents had both died the year she turned twenty-four and I turned three, in a car crash on the way home from a Red Sox game. Just like me, she had no siblings. Though it seemed to me that everyone loved her, she must have felt alone.

  Brad was still watching.

  Being behind the bar seemed better than standing over a stranger or, worse, someone I knew, cleaning their teeth. I had a feeling that I could end up like this—in charge of getting people wasted. I’d be much better at it than cleaning teeth, or popping out a couple of kids and driving them to soccer practice.

  Scottie walked over, leaning so far over the bar that we almost touched.

  “Give me a strong one,” he said.

  I reached for a bottle of Jim Beam, poured some into a shot glass, and set it in front of him.

  I glanced at Susan, who was dancing with Heather and PJ, all of them in a tight circle. That was my favorite place to be, other than Susan’s bed—in a small circle of girls, whispering, touching.

  The song switched to “Red Red Wine” by UB40, a song I hated. I watched Susan shake her hips, her eyes closed. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat blasting in the bar, from dancing, from alcohol, from fear. She wouldn’t stay this way forever. She wouldn’t stay mine.

  “Stay close to me. Don’t let me be alone.”

  What horrible lyrics.

  Scottie leaned in closer. His breath was sour, and I could see the tiny pores on his nose.

  “Give me a little something,” he said, jutting out his chin.

  I leaned in, too, and pursed my lips. In a voice part Sandra, part Heather, I said, “You’re disgusting.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Scottie.

  Brad watched. The girls watched, too, even while they danced. I felt Heather’s eyes on me, waiting to see what I would do.

  I put my cold hand on the back of Scottie’s neck, making him jump a little. I pulled him in, bracing myself.

  “You’re a disgusting pig,” I whispered. I felt the power that my body gave me. I could make Scottie react. I could use him.

  Almost violently, I shoved my tongue down his throat. He kissed back, if you could even call it that. He wasn’t gentle like Brad—he was bigger and more forceful. His tongue tasted like rubbing alcohol and cigarettes.

  We were all animals.

  I placed one hand firmly on each of Scottie’s shoulders and shoved him away from me.

  I could feel everyone’s eyes on us now—but especially Brad’s. This would have consequences, and I didn’t know yet what they would be. Still, even if everyone hated me, I needed to do something to stop the current trajectory of my life.

  “Come upstairs with me,” Scottie pleaded. There was a small studio apartment there with a bed.

  Everyone was still watching us, but the music was so loud they couldn’t hear what we said.

  “Never,” I said, wiping his spit off my lips with the corner of my sweater. I grabbed the chest of his hoodie and yanked him toward me. I wanted to spit in his face. “You need to leave Corvis McClellan alone,” I said.

  He held his hands up in surrender, pouting like a five-year-old who’d just spilled orange juice on his mother’s new white wall-to-wall.

  There would be consequences for Scottie too. Brad was his best friend.

  I walked over to the girls, took Susan by the arm, and led her out the door.

  “Why did you do that?” Susan said as I pulled her toward my car. “Why did you kiss him?”

  Sitting in my Volvo, gripping the steering wheel, with Susan in shotgun, I said, “Because I could.”

  * * *

  —

  When I was little, I didn’t like it when Sandra sang. It was okay when she sang at open-mic night at The Mooring, where there was a microphone and it was expected, but when she sang by herself in the shower or the car, it was different.

  For one thing, she would harmonize with cassette tapes, which I believed she should have been embarrassed about. I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just sing along regularly, if she needed to sing along at all. Harmonizing required the kind of attention that caused her to drive recklessly, or burn dinner.

  In the car, she played “Red Red Wine,” which she had the cassette of, and sang it at the top of her lungs. That song was especially bad. When she sang, it was like I wasn’t even there.

  “Stop singing,” I said to her once. I was six, sitting in the passenger seat, wearing a romper and a pair of jellies.

  She kept singing, banging her palm on the steering wheel.

  “Stop singing,” I said again, louder. We were on our way to the Hanover Mall. I wanted a pair of clogs with wooden bottoms. Heather had them in every color. But Sandra said no, because I would trip and break my ankles.

  That day we were going shopping for her only. She needed a pair of trousers. The clogs were never going to happen, even though I was sure I wouldn’t break my ankles.

  Again, I told her to stop singing.

  “No!” she finally screamed.

  When I covered my ears, Sandra said she couldn’t enjoy it anymore.

  “You’re making me miss my favorite part,” she said through her teeth.

  I couldn’t explain it, but it scared me—a song about being in love with wine.

  Sandra pulled into the Webster Place strip mall parki
ng lot—the same strip mall where the plasma donation center and the gynecologist were.

  “Get out,” she said.

  I put my hands under my thighs. There were tears coming, hot and itchy.

  “No,” I said in a little voice.

  “Get out!” She reached across my lap and opened the passenger-side door.

  I got out. I guessed I’d made a big mistake, and I was bad. As she drove away, the song blasted from the open window. I felt like I was there for a really long time, but I guess it was only long enough for her to go shopping for trousers.

  While she was gone, I thought about hiding just to scare her for leaving me there. But I didn’t. I was sitting in exactly the same spot when she came back. I wasn’t crying anymore.

  Back in the car, there was no music. The back seat was full of Sears bags. I felt like a horrible person. Like I shouldn’t have asked for clogs.

  While I waited for her to come back and get me, I imagined her being voted homecoming queen in 1978, a year that I knew basically nothing about. I pictured everyone with feathery haircuts and ripped-up jeans. They lived in a dim-colored world, kind of dreamy, and they looked a little bit like ghosts.

  Sandra must have known she was going to win, but she acted like it was some giant surprise. Probably, she cried up there on the stage, held the microphone and thanked everyone profusely. She knew inside her heart that she only won for being beautiful and mean, and the power that came along with that.

  When she was honest with herself, if she was ever honest with herself, I bet Sandra thought of that moment as the pinnacle of her life. I started to feel more and more guilty for asking her not to sing, especially because the pinnacle of her life had ended so long ago and she didn’t have much to look forward to.

  I wouldn’t ask for clogs ever again. I decided that next time, even though I hated it, I would just let her sing.