Rolling Dice

by Beth Reekles

  But she most definitely doesn’t look happy with me right now—so I make a smooth and unhurried escape to the nearest bathroom, which happens to be in the bedroom to my right.

  Once I’m in there, I lock the door. I don’t bother with the light. There’s a small window that lets in the faint glow of a streetlight, though, and the shadows fall across my face when I see myself in the mirror over the sink.

  I run the faucet and wash my hands for no reason at all. The water’s warm against my skin. I consider splashing it over my face, but I spent so long on my makeup I don’t want to ruin it now.

  I find myself thinking about Bryce.

  Should I give him another chance? I mean, he is so sweet and nice, and he makes me feel like the old me didn’t even exist and—

  No. I’m going to break up with him, I decide. I don’t have to put up with him acting like that. I don’t want to, either. I’ll tell him tomorrow, when he’s not drunk or mad at me and will definitely remember that we’re officially over.

  I don’t want to stop being friends, but who knows how awkward it will make things between us? I hope everything will be okay. I don’t want it to affect my friendship with any of the rest of them—that’s what worries me most. But I won’t stay with him just because of the others.

  I think of Tiffany too—how she turned on me so suddenly like that. The accusing looks she gave me and Justin, like we’d been caught kissing or something. I wonder if Bryce told her I was “cozied up” with Justin at the dance, and now she’s just looking for things where they don’t exist.

  I know Tiffany can be exactly like some of the girls who used to bully me back in Maine—but I was so happy she took me under her wing, I ignored it. And it isn’t like she doesn’t have any redeeming qualities: she’s smart, even if she doesn’t boast about it, and she’s funny, and when she isn’t being horrible, she’s pretty nice.

  I stay in the bathroom another few minutes, taking deep breaths and trying hard not to think too much. I just have to get through the rest of this night; I can sort my mind out tomorrow. Just this one night.

  After what must be ages but doesn’t feel like very long at all, I turn the doorknob and let myself out.

  And nothing—nothing—can prepare me for what I walk in on.

  There are two people on the bed, and my first instinct is to avert my eyes and plug my ears. But I don’t look away before I recognize him.

  “Bryce?”

  It comes out as some kind of mangled croak, between a whisper and a cry of shock. I clap my hand over my mouth, wishing I hadn’t said anything at all. I start to back toward the bedroom door, but it’s too late: they heard me.

  “Madison?” he says, sounding as horrified as I feel. “Fuck. Madison—”

  He begins to scramble up off the girl on the bed and pulls his underpants and jeans back up, tripping a little because they’re caught around his ankles. I’m still backing up to the door, unable to do anything other than open and close my mouth, entirely speechless.

  I flinch when the door suddenly presses up against my back. In a flash, I spin around and fumble to yank the handle open and get out of there.

  “Madison! Madison, wait a sec!”

  I want to scream and yell at him, ask him how long this has been going on behind my back, break down in tears. I can’t. I seem physically incapable of anything but getting away from him. I trip down the stairs, bumping into people, until I make it to the front door. It’s open. Good. The music—and the noise of people laughing and shouting and singing and chatting—is drowned out completely by the roaring in my ears.

  But I still hear him calling after me.

  “Madison! Just hold on a minute! Madison!”

  I stumble down the driveway. I just make it to the end when he runs past and stops in front of me, blocking my path. The buttons on his shirt are askew, and his jeans aren’t buttoned up. Raindrops land on him and trickle down his face.

  “Madison … Please, I can explain. Just give me a minute, Mainstream, please. I swear, it’s not what it looks like …”

  All I can do is wonder how he thinks he’ll ever be able to talk his way out of this.

  Chapter 36

  I feel numb. Numb, and kind of sick. But mostly numb. I’m dazed, as though I’m in a dream. My legs are moving, but the movement isn’t a conscious one, and my mind feels detached from my body. I’m moving—but I have no idea where I’m going.

  Away. Just get out of here.

  I can’t call Mom; she’ll freak out. I can’t call Dad—he’ll tell Mom.

  So my legs, despite feeling stiff and leaden, keep moving.

  My knees buckle as I walk, though, and my feet wobble with every step I take. It’s the heels, I realize; so I take off my shoes and carry them instead. The rough sidewalk hurts, but at least I can walk now.

  Oh, and it’s raining.

  Not even a drizzle, or a shower. Nope. Instead, it’s a torrential downpour, and the raindrops ricochet off the sidewalk like bullets and blur the streetlights so that amber smudges light my way.

  I’m soaked to the bone, but too numb to really care about something that right now seems such an insignificant fact.

  Madison … Please, I can explain. Just give me a minute, Mainstream, please. I swear, it’s not what it looks like …

  Bryce’s words fill my head and I can’t get rid of them. It’s not what it looks like. Ha. I wonder what he’d have said if I’d given him time to explain himself. It’s not what it looks like … What a load of complete and utter bull.

  And suddenly I want to laugh, because I’m such an idiot.

  I don’t know where my legs are taking me until I’ve rung the doorbell.

  As the ding-dong noise fades, I begin to ebb back to reality. My clothes are sticking to me, my hair is plastered to my forehead. And then I notice that my entire body is quivering—little spasms, from my cheeks to my fingers to my knees—and my feet are so cold and sore that I can barely even feel them anymore.

  I can’t tell if the water running down my face is just the rain, or if I’m crying.

  The door opens a crack; there’s a scuffling kind of noise, and a heavy panting, a bark, then—

  “Gellman, sit!”

  Dwight’s face and a shoulder appear in the space where he opened the door. The second his eyes light on me, they darken and he frowns. I begin to think that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea; that maybe I should’ve just called Mom and dealt with her freaking out. This guy hates me; I don’t know what I was doing coming here. I don’t need his pity; I don’t need an “I told you so”; I don’t—

  I need a friend.

  He starts to say, “What the hell do you—” but then he seems to really see me, and notice the state I’m in, because he falls silent.

  The next second he throws the door wide open and drags me inside. “Jesus, Madison, what were you thinking? Are you crazy? You could get hypothermia or something. Are you okay?”

  I can hear a video game. Through the small open crack of the lounge door I stare at the flickering lights.

  Dwight follows my gaze once he’s restrained the mass of shaggy blond fur that is Gellman from jumping on me. “The guys are over. Kind of like a nerds’ after-party.” There’s an emphasis on nerds’ that sends a pang of guilt through my system. It hurts.

  But it’s good—that I can at least feel guilty. Because it means that I’m not completely heartless, that there is something left of me.

  “Madison.”

  I drag my eyes back to his face. For the first time in a long while, he meets my gaze steadily. I blink. I can’t seem to do anything else. So I blink again.

  “Madison,” he says again, and steps closer. He lowers his voice, sounding so soft and sad and worried. “Dice. What happened?”

  And I say, “I’m dripping all over the welcome mat.”

  Dwight takes me by the hand to pull me upstairs. He leads me into the bathroom and sets the shower on hot; the room turns steamy in a minute. />
  “There are clean towels right there,” he says, pointing to a rail near the door. “I’ll leave some clothes by the door for you. If you dump yours outside, I’ll toss them in the dryer.” His voice is still so soft. Like he really cares. Not like he hates my guts.

  I nod in answer to him, because I don’t trust my voice right now. He closes the door behind him, and when I hear his footsteps disappear down the hallway, I peel off my clothes. My limbs are reluctant to cooperate. It seems to take forever before I actually step into the shower.

  And how long I stand in the shower is a mystery to me. My mind is chaos. Billions of thoughts rage through it, but not a single one of them is coherent. I want to shut them all out. It’s too loud.

  The shower helps me feel a bit better physically. I ache, and my feet are killing me, but I’m no longer shaking and numb and I feel refreshed. I wrap the towel securely around me before poking my head out the door.

  My sodden after-party outfit has been replaced by a red flannel shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants with a drawstring. I’m glad I had enough sense left to keep my underwear in here. I put it on the floor near the radiator, and it’s almost completely dry now.

  I put the clothes on and leave my hair dripping slowly down the back of my neck. I check in the mirror to check that I’ve washed away all of my makeup and don’t look like some cousin of Frankenstein’s monster.

  Only then do I venture out of the bathroom and cautiously make my way down the stairs. I’m glad Dwight’s house doesn’t have that giveaway creaking step.

  Although it does have a giveaway barking dog.

  Gellman pads over to me as I reach the bottom of the staircase. My knees click when I bend to scratch his ears. He looks up at me, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, fixing me with those gorgeous big black eyes, and almost managing to make me smile.

  “Madison?”

  I jump when Dwight says my name. Gellman turns his head too, and barks again. I stare at Dwight. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I can’t find the right words. I don’t know what I can say. There’s so much I need to say.

  He pulls the family room door closed a bit. Nodding upstairs, he says, “Come on.”

  “But …” My throat hurts. My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me. “You can’t … Your friends …”

  “They’ll understand. Come on.”

  I cast another look at the flickering lights coming from the TV. I bet Andy and Carter are in there. Maybe a few other people Dwight hangs out with too. I don’t know. I don’t want to find out, either. I can’t deal with anybody else right now.

  So I follow Dwight up the staircase once again.

  When we get to his room, he snaps on the light and pushes the door closed, but doesn’t shut it completely. I stand there looking around.

  It’s neater than I thought a teenage boy’s room would be, but messier than I’d have expected of Dwight. There are a couple of T-shirts and socks and boxes of video games strewn around the place, and there’s an open can of soda on the desk beside his computer. There’s a bookcase that’s overflowing with all kinds of books, and gadgets and gizmos—like a remote-controlled metal bug, and a model WWII Spitfire, and one of those Newton’s cradles—and a shelf with trophies, which I go and inspect.

  Not soccer and sports trophies. Grade 3 Spelling Bee. Mathletes Championship 2008. Pee-Wee Pals Baseball too.

  “Sorry for the mess,” he says distractedly, and in my peripheral vision I see him kicking a pair of underpants out of sight. I smile inside. “I haven’t … Okay, well, this is clean for me. I just wasn’t expecting company.”

  I’d laugh at that. He’s trying to make me laugh. I want to.

  “Uh, sit—sit down,” he says. “Do you want me to get you a drink or anything? I should have offered earlier.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He stops stammering and his dark eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Sorry for what?”

  “For coming here tonight,” I explain. “I know you hate me, but I didn’t—I wasn’t thinking, I just …”

  “Whoa, wait. You think I hate you?”

  Now it’s my turn to frown and look confused. “Well, yeah, I mean … you haven’t been speaking to me or even looking at me since—” I don’t finish, but I know he understands.

  Dwight lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Madison, I don’t hate you. I never hated you. I was pissed at you, sure, but you were the one who couldn’t look at me and acted like I didn’t exist. I thought you hated me.”

  Is that true? Have I really been doing that?

  “I thought you couldn’t stand to be around me,” I mumble.

  Dwight gives another dry laugh and runs his fingers through his hair. “So what, you didn’t hate me, or …?”

  “I didn’t hate you,” I say quietly, truthfully. “I couldn’t face you, that was all. And then I was so sure you hated me …”

  “Dice, come here,” he says softly, and I take a little step closer. With a sigh, he takes one long stride across to me, and wordlessly wraps his arms around me. That’s it. He just hugs me. After weeks and weeks of neither one of us acknowledging that the other exists, he hugs me, because he knows that’s exactly what I need right now. I stand stiff and unmoving for a moment, before I put my arms around his thin, gangly body and bury my face in his chest, inhaling his smell. I don’t cry, though.

  A while later, he peels my arms away, and takes me by the wrists to sit on his bed. I tuck my legs up and fold them underneath me, and Dwight sits in the same way, facing me. There’s a loose thread in his comforter, and I twirl it around my fingertip.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I tell him.

  “The beginning,” he tells me. “That’s always a good place to start.”

  Chapter 37

  I tell him everything.

  “And you know what the worst part of it is?” I say, my voice devoid of emotion as I look him right in the eye. “I don’t think I even really loved him. It would hurt more than this if I had. And it doesn’t hurt. He can go—go screw whoever he wants. I just don’t care. I thought I did. But I really, honestly don’t.”

  “You know … it’s okay to be upset over it,” he says slowly, holding my gaze. “Nobody’s going to think you’re weak if you are upset.”

  “I’m not, though. I think …” I search for the right words, trying to put my thoughts into order. “I think the trouble was that I was more in love with the idea of Bryce than Bryce himself. I think—I think the idea of actually having this boyfriend who’s so fantastic and wonderful on paper blinded me to the fact that he could be kind of a jerk in real life.”

  I laugh humorlessly. “I sound so heartless and cruel.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  I look him in the eye again. “Yeah. I do. It’s the same thing with Tiffany. I was so—so caught up by the fact that she wanted to be my friend that I could only look at her in a positive way and didn’t want to think about how she made me feel two inches tall sometimes.”

  After another moment I say, talking more to myself than I am to Dwight, “They didn’t suddenly just become bad people. It’s more that I suddenly looked at them without a filter. I’ve been shrugging off the bad stuff and ignoring it. It’s always been there. I just chose to ignore it.”

  “I don’t think,” Dwight tells me, “that anybody can blame you for any of that. It’s not your fault that Bryce would rather get laid than have a meaningful relationship. It’s not your fault that Tiffany can be a complete bitch who likes to lord it over everybody, her friends included. And it’s not your fault that you wanted to fit in and ignore the bad things.”

  I rub a hand over my face and give him an empty smile. I shrug helplessly and look around the room. A lump rises in my throat, but I push back the threat of tears. I’m not going to cry, not over this. Worse things have happened, and to much better people than me.

  The truth co
mes out in a helpless, fearful whisper before I can help it, before I’ve even really considered it myself. “I just didn’t want things to go back to how they used to be. I’m a terrible, terrible person,” I whisper. Because I am.

  What have I ever done that’s any good in my life? I’m not smart and I can’t play an instrument and I don’t do sports. I’m not much good at art or math or anything like that—I got by in school last year and I’m doing okay this year, but “okay” isn’t “great” and it’s nothing to be proud of. Maybe I’d do well if I tried harder, but I don’t. I don’t do anything useful with my life, like charity work.

  I’m very good at running from my own problems. It’s facing up to them that would make me something worthwhile, and when was the last time I ever did that?

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until I see a teardrop land on the back of Dwight’s hand, which is still on my knee. I pull the cuff of the shirt I’m wearing around my fingers and wipe under my eyes.

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t just mean for crying. I mean for everything. “For tonight, for making you think I hated you, for not saying anything when Kyle was a jerk to you that first day of school, for kissing you in the library that day, for—”

  He clamps a hand over my mouth. “Stop it. Stop it.”

  I push his hand away, but before I can say anything more he’s talking again. “Stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault. We all mess up, okay? Look, Dice, it’s … Just stop it, okay?”

  I can’t say anything. The lump is back in my throat and I know that if I try to speak I’ll burst into tears again.

  So we sit in silence, watching each other, until I feel like I can talk. And when I do, I say, like I always have done, “Can we not talk about all this right now? Please?”

  Dwight sighs. “Sure. You know where to find me when you do want to, though, okay?”

  I nod silently. He hesitates for a moment before leaning forward and kissing my forehead. It’s not really a romantic gesture; it’s more comforting, telling me that he’s there. The corner of my mouth turns up in a smile.