“He told me when we talked about switching partners.” Monica reaches up, touching my bruised face. “Please kiss me again.”
Thoughts of Columbine disappear as my lips sort of go with her suggestion even while my brain is listing all the reasons to say no.
“Stephen,” she whispers when we break off this time. “What are we going to do?”
“About what?” I can’t think clearly. “What are you talking about?”
“About us. What are we going to do about us?”
Us? Her and I? She and me? Monica Monroe and Stephen Valley? When did us happen? “We aren’t partners anymore. There really is no us.”
“Don’t say that. I don’t want to hear it.” She closes her eyes. “I liked us, even if it’s not what other people would like.”
“I liked us, too,” I admit, taking a deep breath and hoping I’m not going to regret what I’m about to tell her. “A lot. And you know how you brought up seventh grade yesterday? Well, truth is…I’ve had a thing for you since then, too.”
Her eyes flutter open, excitement racing through them, making me happy that the cause of that feeling is me. “So what are we going to do, Stephen? How do we handle this?”
Fair question.
Here’s the problem: I don’t think she can handle this. I don’t think this girl that I’ve been worshiping from afar for so long is equipped with any kind of emotional strength right now to combat all the negativity which would occur if we stepped out anywhere together. I don’t have friends, but she does. Can you imagine what they would say to her about me? I think she might crumble under the pressure.
This is what happens when you see your muse close up and in person with all their dirty laundry hanging out. It doesn’t deter my “like” of her. But I’m a realist. No matter how much we want it, this relationship is as doomed to fail as our siblings’ relationship was.
So is it worth the time to try and work it through? I’m not sure yet. My hormones say, “Yes, please.” My head says “Hmmm.”
“I can take trouble,” I say slowly, getting up. “But I don’t know if you can.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re Monica Monroe. Everyone likes you. Even before what happened, people thought you were cool.”
“Are you implying popularity is all I care about?” She manages to sit up. “I’m not that shallow. Don’t confuse me with Simone.”
“Oh, I’m not. You two are way different. You like being in the middle of the pack where it’s comfortable. You only perform on stage, but Simone—she always put on a show,” I say, “What I’m trying to say is that if having to switch partners in theatre was so stressful you had to get drunk to relax, how on Earth would you be able to handle being seen in public with me?”
Oh shit. Does she look pissed! Her eyes narrow and her jaw sets. She struggles to her feet, her face reddening with indignation. Monica is definitely about to rip me a new asshole over this. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Except vomit.
She throws up all over the coffee table.
At first, I’m so shocked by the suddenness of her projectile vomiting I can only sit there and stare at the mess. Monica Monroe just puked in my house. Two weeks ago such a thing would have been unimaginable. Then I’m hit by the first waves of hysteria. The laughter pours out of me, and even though it hurts, I double up in laughter.
“Oh my god,” Monica moans, staring down at the mess. “I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Oh Jesus,” I wheeze, trying to get a grip and trying not to gag at the smell. “Sorry.”
She wipes her arm across her mouth and staggers to the kitchen. The faucet turns off and on a few times before she returns with a mountain of paper towels in her hand. For some reason I laugh harder. Tears are actually streaming down my face. If I’m not careful, I’m gonna totally piss myself.
She cleans in silence, not meeting my eye, ignoring my hysteria, but she sways awhile she works. It’s taking all her drunken concentration to get the messy task done. Though I’m still giggling like a little girl, I manage to grab the vodka water bottle and take it into the kitchen, emptying it in the sink.
Calm down. Gotta get a grip. Take small breaths.
I repeat this to myself until I’m able to stop laughing.
My mother keeps the 409 cleaner in the upper cabinet above the sink. I yank it down and take it to Monica.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, reaching for it, but missing. “Which one is it?”
“The one in the middle,” I say, realizing her vision is blurry.
It takes her three tries before she successfully grabs it.
“You okay?” I practice breathing in and out, getting control. I should help her clean, but I don’t think I can physically bend over anymore to do it.
“Sure. Sorry about the mess.”
“It’s okay.”
She goes back into the kitchen, smelly paper towels in hand, and now I don’t know what to say or do again. I can’t get a read on her. Is she mad? Is she embarrassed? What? My laughing probably didn’t help. I don’t even know why I laughed so hard. But it exhausted me.
I sit on the couch and wait, trying to ignore the lingering scent of vomit.
She walks in, plops down, and leans her head on my shoulder.
“I feel better,” she whispers. “But my head aches.”
“Vodka will do that to you.”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“All the worst ideas seem great at first.” I rest my head on hers. “I’m sorry you’re hurting so much. If I could do something to change that for you I would.”
She doesn’t say anything. After a few minutes, I realize she has fallen asleep. Or maybe the better phrase is passed out. Carefully, I maneuver her so she is lying on the couch. Grabbing one of the old tattered afghans from the floor my mother created back in the day when she used to be into that sort of thing, I cover Monica.
I don’t want to be Monica’s downfall. I like her too much. But I’m weak. Having anyone pay attention to me, having anyone ladle on the affection—it’s my vodka. If I’m not careful, I could get drunk off of Monica’s attentions and lose control, lose sight of what’s real.
Gingerly, I sink down on the floor, my back to the couch. Exhaustion hits. She shifts and her hand slips free of the blanket.
I fall asleep holding it.
****
“Stephen.”
Mom’s voice brings me back from the dream I’d been surfing around. It’s probably for the best. I’m pretty sure I was doing more than just kissing Monica in it.
“Stephen!”
“What?” My neck is stiff from leaning it back against the couch cushions. I glance over to see Monica curled on her side, soft snores filling the air around her. The clock on the wall shows an hour has passed. It’s only four o’ clock. Mom is home early. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s she doing here?”
“She came over to update me about school.” I run a hand through my hair. “We got to talking and then she fell asleep.”
“You were just talking?” Mom’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “Really?”
“Well…” I trail off, not sure what to say. I don’t really want to lie to Mom, and maybe if she knows Monica was drinking because the stress of our situations, she might be more sympathetic towards her. Besides, I can think of a few times when Derek had passed out drunk on our couch. Mom had lectured him severely when he’d been sober, but she hadn’t called his parents or anything. “She might have been a little...messed up on vodka.”
“Wait a second...is she...is she drunk?”
“Kind of.”
“Oh, hell no.” She crosses her arms, her face turning a furious pink. “This can’t be happening!”
Shit. So much for being understanding. I guess the same rules of don’t apply for Monica.
“What’s the big deal?” I ask.
“Seriously? You can’t figure that out? If her parents or anyone else for that matter find out she’s over here...well, shit. I can’t even imagine what they would say.”
“She’s going through a tough time right now.”
“And that’s your problem how?”
“We’re friends.” Can she tell I’m lying? Can she tell it’s more than that?
“You can’t be.”
“Mom, you can’t tell me who to be friends with.” I clutch my side and use the other hand to grip the couch for support as I stand. “I’m not five years old.”
“No. You’re not. But you’re old enough to understand that this is not healthy. For either of you.”
“You don’t know anything about it.”
“I know getting her drunk is not the best way to conduct yourself.”
“I didn’t get her drunk.”
“Then what happened?”
“She came over that way. She filled her water bottle with vodka from her mother’s stash. Apparently, her mom drinks a lot.”
Her gaze shifts to Monica, and for a moment, I think there is just the barest trace of sympathy on her face. “She shouldn’t be doing that.”
“I didn’t want to send her home all messed up.”
“I see.” She goes to our cordless phone, hesitates, and then punches in a number. Turning so I can’t see her face, Mom waits for someone to pick up on the other end. “Hello? Simon? It’s me...It’s Karen Valley.”
Monica’s dad. Simon Monroe. What the hell is my mom doing? Monica is going to kill me when she sobers up.
“I’m sorry to call you like this, but we have a situation,” she says, glancing at me. “Monica is here. She’s...well, she’s passed out.”
Mom walks into the kitchen, and I hear the rise and fall of her voice though I can’t make out the rest of her words. I smooth back Monica’s hair, hoping she isn’t going to freak out when her dad comes to get her. I try giving her a gentle shake. Maybe I should warn her. She stirs a little in her sleep, but doesn’t wake. I go back to stroking her hair.
After a while, I don’t hear Mom talking anymore. I look over and see her watching me, the phone clutched at her side. Guilty, I pull my hand away.
“Stephen,” Mom says grimly. “You have to stay away from her.”
“I don’t know if I can.” It’s true. Imperfections or not, drunk or sober—Monica touches me on a level I’d never known of. I want to protect her. Mom mashes her lips together. “I like her, Mom. For some reason, she likes me. Why can’t I have that?”
“Because Monica Monroe and her family are off limits. Simone should have been off limits to Jude, too. I didn’t realize how far things had gone between them until it was too late,” she says. “We can’t have anything to do with those people.”
Those people? What does she mean by that? I get the feeling she isn’t saying this because of what happened with Jude. Did she have some sort of prior relationship with the Monroes?
“Why? What’s wrong with their family?” I ask.
“Jude killed their daughter. Do I really have to spell it out? They aren’t going to want you sniffing around the only child they have left, Stephen.” Mom frowns. “If the situation was reversed, I would feel the same. This friendship only attracts more attention to us. And look at your face. Is having her around you going to cause sympathy or rage?”
Frustrated, Mom shakes her head and walks down the hall. The door to her room shuts softly.
Mr. Monroe arrives about twenty minutes later with a tight, curt knock at the door. When I open up, he shoves past me, striding into the living room like he owns the place.
“Where is she?” he mutters. His shoulder’s sink in relief when spies Monica on the couch.
Mom comes out of her room. She has brushed her hair, put on a touch of makeup.
“Simon?” she says, as he kneels to see Monica better, checking her over, no doubt looking for something incriminating, something that will turn this all on me. “She’s all right.”
He looks at my mother, and for a second, I don’t exist. The rigid anger in Mr. Monroe goes away, and they exchange a look I can’t interpret.
I don’t like it. It’s as if he knows her in a way I never could.
He nods at Mom, sadness in his eyes as he reaches down to scoop Monica up, carrying her like a small child to the door.
“Thank you,” he says, gruffly. “I appreciate you calling me, Karen.”
Nothing to me. He doesn’t even look my way again. The door slams behind him on the way out, but I’m struck by something, a little detail nagging at me.
Mom pushed only one button on our phone to reach Monica’s dad. That means she has his number on speed dial. Why? Jude never used the house phone to call Simone. He always had the luxury of his cell phone.
How well did Mr. Monroe know my mother? It’s a small town and they’ve both lived here all their lives—but it felt like…maybe they’d once been friendly.
Mom is staring at the door, her thoughts unreadable.
“Did you know the Monroes before May?” I ask. “Were you ever friends with them?”
Mom smiles grimly, but doesn’t look at me. Instead, her gaze goes to the picture of my father seated in a position of honor on the mantel above our fireplace. She studies this man I barely remember before responding.
“I knew them. We all went to high school together,” she says. “Your father and Simon Monroe were best friends.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. They’d been buddies since grade school,” she said.
“I never knew that. Did Jude know?”
“He might have. I don’t know. Maybe Simone told him.” She sounds vague and faraway, lost in a memory I’m not part of. It’s hard to think of my parents as teenagers, to think they had a past before me. “I…I dated Simon before I started dating your father.”
“Are you shitting me?” My mind is blown by this little tidbit. “For real?”
“Language,” she chides, but she’s not really upset by my profanity. “And yes. For real. I dated Simon Monroe.”
“Were you friends with Monica’s mom, too?”
My mother’s expression changes to disgust. “God, no. That woman is a word class bitch.”
Whoa. My mom is not a name caller by nature. My curiosity is piqued now. I wonder if Simone was like her mother or something. Could that be why Mom never liked her for Jude? Is that why she didn’t want them to date?
The doorbell rings.
“What now,” Mom mutters. “Are you expecting anyone else?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Valley?” I recognize the deep voice of Mr. March when Mom opens the door. Oh man. What is he doing here? “I’m Thatcher March, one of Stephen’s teachers at school.”
“Oh, hello,” she says. “Would you like to come in?”
“Thanks.” He steps in and nods at me. He holds a textbook in one hand with papers tucked into it. “Hi, Stephen.”
“Hey,” I say. What does he want? Is here to tell my mom about how I’ve already missed a bunch of classes? Why would he even care about that? He barely knows me.
“I teach English and Theatre,” Mr. March explains to Mom. “I heard Stephen was under the weather so I thought I’d stop by and give him his homework assignments.”
He says all this matter of fact, as if he does this for all his students. Mr. March looks me over, noting my bruised face but says nothing about it. Turning to Mom, he gives her a friendly smile, the kind meant to put people at ease. It works and she offers him a glass of water.
“Sure. That would be great if it’s not too much trouble,” he says.
Mr. March turns back to me after she leaves the room.
“I hear you got into some trouble Friday night.” Though his words are non-threatening, my heart starts pounding with anxiety. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
“I’m fine.”
What is this? Why is he being n
ice to me? I don’t need his pity.
“You don’t look fine,” he says and then grins. “I hope you got in a few punches.”
“Maybe one or two.”
“Yeah, I happened to notice one of the football players is supporting quite the black eye.”
“Maybe his helmet fell off during the game.”
“Maybe.”
He lifts an eyebrow at me, like he’s waiting for me to spill my guts, but I just can’t oblige him on this one. I’m not a tattletale. I can take care of myself. When I say nothing more, Mr. March gives up.
“I didn’t want to say anything in front of your Mom, but you’ve missed quite a few classes last week. It’s only the second week of school so you’re not too far behind, but you need to get started on the reading assignments. I looked your grades and district test scores over from last year.” Mr. March sets the textbook down on the coffee table. “You’re one to keep an eye on, Stephen. You had high marks in all your eighth grade classes. You really should be in the Advanced Placement classes.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” I say. The last thing I need is to be with the superior smart kids who would no doubt die of mortification if I strolled into one of their classes.
“Nothing to be ashamed of. I understand that you might not want the extra attention,” he says. “But like I said, I’m keeping an eye on you.”
Mom comes back in with the water, and Mr. March takes it with a smile. “Thank you.”
Mom and Mr. March chat a few minutes about safe topics before he gets up to leave.
“Thank you for coming by,” Mom says. “It’s rare to have a teacher take such an interest in his students. We’ve…we’ve had a run of bad luck lately.”
Bad luck? That’s putting it mildly.
“I heard a little about it.” Mr. March nods. I don’t hear judgment in his voice, which is a nice change from the tone most people take when the subject of Jude comes up. “We all go through hard times. I’m here to help with anything I can.”
“Stephen, don’t you want to thank your teacher for coming by?” Mom prods.
I nod at Mr. March. “Thanks. I…I heard about the change in Theatre, too. That I don’t have the same partner.”
“Thank goodness.” Mom chimes in a little too eagerly. “I think it’s for the best.”
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