All We Left Behind

by Ingrid Sundberg

“We never did have coffee,” I say, and he raises his eyebrows like I’ve asked for a date. My neck burns and it seems stupid to be concerned with such a little thing, considering his car.

  “I don’t drink coffee,” he says, and I’m happy he says it. Cold rushes through me, clean as a single bird flying through the sky, because maybe a date is all I wanted in the first place. And if he doesn’t do that, then . . .

  “That’s cool,” I say, dropping my hands from the chain link and looking at my feet. His cleats hook the edge of the fence with their teeth clotted with dirt. I stare at the bloated grass between the spikes and a lump starts to rise in my throat.

  I think about all the other girls he’s pinned against that seat and I don’t want to be one of them, and at the same time I do. Just not like that. Not so fast. Not so disposable.

  I pound the heel of my hand against the top of the fence and bite my lip so it will goddamn stop quivering. I force myself to look at him, though I’m afraid of what his eyes will hold.

  But I don’t find any meanness in him. He’s quiet and still as the October water that swallowed me up to my neck.

  “The swim at the lake was nice,” I say, and I’m not sure where the words come from. “But the rest of it was pretty shitty.”

  He flinches, and I can’t explain how good it feels to see him flinch. To see him feel anything, especially after he’s seen so much of me, under him.

  I turn before he can respond and walk as fast as I can without looking back. There are too many pieces of me that he’s touched and kissed and unearthed with his hands, and I hold that one little piece of him firm in my palm, knowing I shook it out of him.

  Knowing this one little splinter of Kurt—

  Is mine.

  Kurt

  I hear the whistle and my feet carry me back to the field. My teammates return to the scrimmage, but I’m not thinking about them or the ball. I’m thinking about that little bead of spit on Marion’s lip.

  I run up the field, but I’m not paying attention and the ball blasts me in the face. I taste the copper of blood, and the impact stings like the back of my father’s hand.

  “Daydreaming about pussy, Medford?” Conner hoots, running up the line.

  “Get your head in the game!” Coach yells, and I spit blood and run.

  Ahead, Conner’s faking out our fullback. Only he gets cocky, thinking he’s clear to frame up a shot.

  I slide tackle the ball right out from under him.

  “Jesus fuck!” he curses, kicking empty air. The momentum throws off his balance, and he hits the dirt.

  “I can daydream about pussy and school your ass,” I say, clearing the ball before offering him a hand.

  He bats it away, but there’s a smirk on his face.

  “That’s why I like you on our team, bitch,” he says, getting up. “Oh, and—who’s that?” He nods to the parking lot, where Marion is a blond fleck getting into a purple car.

  “No one,” I say, and Conner laughs.

  “No shit.” He grins. “A blond no one.”

  I shake my head and he wags his eyebrows before heading for the goalpost.

  “Uh-huh,” he yells back. “I need to get me some no one, too.”

  Marion

  The next morning I pull into a parking spot behind the gym where gray clouds block out the sun. Before I have a chance to put the car in park, my passenger door opens. The sight of Conner Aimes looking in at me is something out of the Twilight Zone. For a second he looks surprised and I’m sure he’s got the wrong car. Only he flips on a smile and slaps my roof with a playful bang!

  “Purple Nissan,” he says like it means something. I stare at him, because there’s no universe where it makes sense that Conner Aimes is talking to me.

  “What?” I say, and he takes that as an invitation to sit in the passenger seat. My hands tighten around the steering wheel, but he leaves the door open, propping his foot up against the frame.

  “You’re not what I expected,” he says, giving me a once-over, and my body goes stiff.

  “Excuse me?”

  He pulls off his Red Sox cap and ruffles his hair, before replacing it backward on his head. “But I can see it.” He winks, leaning toward me. “You’re Lilith’s friend, right? Marie?”

  “No. I’m—” I cross my arms over my chest, not liking the way his eyes walk over me. “Yes, I’m Lilith’s friend. But no, I’m not Marie.” He squints, like I’m not making sense. “It’s Marion. Not—” I shake my head. “Conner, why are you here?”

  Conner smiles. I hate the way he smiles, crooked with the things he’s not saying.

  “Did Kurt tell you—” I start, but Conner stifles a laugh and slaps a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t sweat it, Marion. You’re golden.” He squeezes my shoulder, which is sort of brotherly, though I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or being nice. He unhooks his foot from the door and for a second that perplexed look slides over him again, showing just how hard he’s trying to fit me into whatever Kurt’s told him. “Golden,” he repeats, handing me a piece of lined paper, before stepping out the door. “See you around, Marion.” He taps the roof again, shuts the door, and struts off.

  I stare at the paper in my hand, not sure if that just happened. Only, I’m holding the evidence. I unfold the note and find three bits of information scrawled in half-legible writing.

  Saturday. 10 p.m. 114 E. Macnamara St.

  That’s it.

  My door opens again and I’m about to grill Conner for more information, but it’s Lilith who slides in beside me.

  “Was that Conner Aimes I just saw getting out of your car?” The excitement in her voice bounces with the rest of her.

  “I guess.” I crumple the paper into my fist. “I think it was a mix-up.”

  “Mix-up, my ass. What did he want?”

  “Nothing.” I shove the paper into my pocket, wanting to keep this my secret. If I tell her about this then she’ll ask about Kurt. And I’m not telling her about the ridge. I can’t trust her with that. And I don’t want to hear it, whatever she’ll say. I already know how horribly I handled it, and some things should never be said out loud.

  “Marion?”

  I reach for my coat, shoving the paper deeper into my pocket. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I have no idea what he wanted.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  I shake my head, running our conversation through my mind. Out the windshield, I can see the soccer field. A low fog covers the grass, hiding the painted lines below, but a gust of wind is all it would take to expose them. It makes me shiver with how transparent I might be. Of what I can’t hide. Of what Kurt has probably told Conner.

  “He said . . .” My fingers run the jagged line of my zipper, the sharp edge catching a nail. I should trust Lilith. Maybe she can explain it to me. “He said I’m golden.”

  Lilith wrinkles her nose. “Golden?”

  “Right?” I punch an arm through the sleeve of my coat. I’ve said too much.

  “Is this about Kurt?”

  I try to find the second sleeve, but the coat is tangled behind me.

  “Marion?”

  “No.” I struggle another second, only to give up. “Maybe. I mean . . . it’s possible he told Conner—”

  My throat clogs with the idea of Kurt’s hands, of my hair, of his calluses on my—

  “Possible he told Conner what?”

  Red leaves streak over the windshield. The wind has picked up, tossing maple stars through the lot. Lilith squeezes my arm and the warmth of her touch makes me want to tell her everything. But if I do that then all these things will be real.

  “I have no idea,” I say, the leaves swarming.

  “Is there something to tell Conner?” Lilith asks. “You and Kurt just went swimming, right?”

  I toss my coat to the floor.

  “Right.”

  “So, what’s there to tell?”

  I open my door and crimson stars flood me.

 
“Nothing,” I say, heading for the building and ignoring the wind. Ignoring how it lifts up the fog, how it pulls at my hair, how it swallows my lies.

  Kurt

  I pull the laces of my cleats tight. Tie them once, wrap the extra around my foot, and tie them again. Conner opens his locker next to me and smirks.

  “So,” he says. “Marion Taylor, huh?”

  I don’t look at him. How has he figured that out already? I was pretty sure he couldn’t tell who she was yesterday when she was by the fence, but damn. I should know better. I stare at the bench and switch feet.

  “Right, so when exactly did that happen?” He changes out his T-shirt for his practice jersey.

  “Nothing happened,” I say. “Don’t know her.”

  “You’re a shitty liar, Medford.” Conner chucks a sock in my direction. I bat it away. “So was this some divine inspiration that struck you at the bonfire, or have you and Miss Goody Two-shoes been at this for a while?”

  I shove my clothes into the locker as calmly as I can and say nothing.

  “Play quiet all you want, Medford, but Marion seemed pretty concerned about what you told me about her.”

  “You talked to her?”

  Conner lifts an eyebrow. “Who, Marion? You mean that girl you don’t know anything about? I repeat, when did that happen?”

  I shut my locker and head for the door. What did he say to her?

  “So, you wouldn’t care if I asked her out, right? You two aren’t a thing?” Conner calls after me. I flip him the bird and he starts to cackle. I’m halfway out the door and he starts to sing, “Like a virgin. Oooh! Touched for the very first time. Like a viiiiir-gin. When your—”

  I let the door slam behind me. Conner can be such a dick.

  I immediately start running when I get to the field, doing two laps to get my muscles working. I shouldn’t be as pissed at Conner as I am. But fuck, he didn’t see her in my car. Crying in that way no one’s supposed to cry.

  I promise myself I won’t let this show in practice. But when Conner jogs up to me I pull him into a headlock. “Look, Con,” I say. “If you want my sloppy seconds, you can have ’em.” But that only makes him laugh harder.

  “Not my type, Medford,” he says, squirming out of my grip. “Not that I would have pegged Taylor as your type. But if you’ve got the itch, scratch it.”

  He makes an obscene gesture and I want to smack him. Tell him it’s not like that. I don’t know why I keep defending her. She should just be an itch I want to scratch. And part of me still wants her. But that’s the problem. I can’t touch this girl. Not after seeing her cry in my car. And I don’t know what it means that I like that I can’t touch her. I don’t know why that scares me more.

  * * *

  After practice Vanessa is sitting on my car. Conner smiles when he sees her, and I open the passenger door. I make sure Conner is watching, so he gets it and will lay off on the Marion thing. Or maybe I do it to convince myself there is no Marion thing.

  We go to the ridge and fool around in my backseat. Everything with Vanessa is easy, and I like easy. I like that I don’t have to think. I like that her shirt’s so tight it reminds me of Madeline wearing that snug V-neck that was mostly see-through. Madeline was Josie’s friend and I met her at my first high school party, which Josie took me to my sophomore year. I’d just made varsity, and Josie gave me a bottle of vodka to celebrate. When we arrived, everyone at the party noticed Josie. Not because I was with her, but because Josie had a presence all her own. Something they couldn’t ignore.

  “Welcome to the playground, little brother,” she said, unscrewing the top of my vodka bottle and nodding for me to drink. “Let’s make you a king.”

  The liquid burned.

  It was crowded and people sat on couches and each other’s laps. Out the window was a red barn and a keg, but we didn’t have to move. The party came to Josie. She introduced me to everyone, her eyes lighting up when she told them about how I’d just made the team.

  “It’s not surprising,” she said, her arm around my shoulders. “Have you seen how fast this fucker can run?”

  I was a shiny penny she was showing off—but not in some shit way, like she needed attention. This was different. Like she was proud. It was different than at home. She didn’t retreat into her room or tiptoe around Mom. She didn’t scowl at me or bitch about how Mom never taught her how to play guitar. This was another world for Josie. Where she was someone else. Someone better.

  The party had been raging for a while, and I was sufficiently drunk, when Josie introduced me to her friend Madeline. Madeline had black hair and wore a white shirt that was so thin I could see her bra through it. I don’t know how it happened, exactly, but Josie disappeared, and Madeline took me out to the barn.

  She hooked her fingers through my belt loops and we went behind the hay bales, where she put my hands on her tits and started kissing me. I was so confused and excited, I just went with it. I mean, she was gorgeous and she let me touch her everywhere. She moaned and nibbled my neck as if she liked it. Which I guess she did, because she pushed me onto the ground and started losing clothes. Before I knew it she pulled me out of my pants, slid a condom on me, and we were having sex.

  I don’t know if she was drunk or if she had planned this. All I knew was that I was having sex and it felt so fucking good and then it was over.

  Straw poked my legs, and I didn’t know what to do after, so I said—

  “I love you.”

  Madeline laughed.

  “Gawd!” she said, pulling that tight shirt over her breasts. “Don’t tell a girl you love her unless you mean it.”

  I looked away and grabbed my jeans to cover myself.

  “It’s just sex, Kurt.” She leaned over and kissed me, hot and wet. My hands touched her through her shirt, and she pressed into me and moaned. I thought we were about to have a second round, but she rolled off me and pulled up her pants.

  “Trust me, you’ll get better,” she said, before leaving the barn. “I’ll tell your sister it was awesome.”

  I shifted away from her and pulled off the condom. I didn’t want her to tell my sister anything. I clawed through the straw and shoved the condom under it, not sure what else I was supposed to do with it, then I put on my clothes.

  I went back to the party and found Madeline by the keg. She was laughing with her friends and one of the seniors from my team. I came up next to her, not sure if I should put my arm around her or play it cool, but she didn’t look at me. I touched her elbow and she pulled away, dropping herself into the senior’s arms and pressing her tits against him.

  I went into the house to look for that bottle of vodka my sister had given me. Most of it was gone when I found it, but I spent the rest of the night nursing it anyway.

  Later when Josie was driving us home, I asked her about Madeline, if she’d said anything about me.

  “No,” Josie said, looking at me funny. “Why?”

  “No reason,” I lied.

  “Oh my God!” She laughed. “You totally have a crush on Madeline!”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You do! God, you’d better get over that quick, because Madds is totally in love with Jackson. And you’re cute, little brother, but trust me, you haven’t got a chance.”

  “I don’t want a chance. I don’t care.”

  “Good.” Josie eyed me before reaching over and pinching my elbow. It was a weird big-sister thing, that pinch, like she knew I was lying but it was okay. “It’s for the best. She’ll break your heart anyway.”

  I shrugged and looked out the window. So Madeline didn’t want me to love her. Fine. She didn’t want me to be her boyfriend or even her date. She just wanted to screw me and that to be the end of it.

  And oddly, I was okay with that.

  Marion

  After school I head into my kitchen and dig through a stack of papers by the phone. I find the paper I’m looking for near the bottom, yellowed with coffee stains. It’s t
he phone tree from elementary school. Printed at the top, under “A,” is Conner Aimes. I enter his number into my cell, go upstairs, and lock my door.

  I pace through my room, holding the note Conner gave me. This number is from elementary school. It probably doesn’t even work anymore. But I still click open the number and hit send.

  “Hello?” a gruff voice barks on the other end.

  “Um, yes. Hello.” I swallow. “Could I please speak to Conner Aimes?”

  There’s a silence and I’m sure I’ve got the wrong number.

  “You don’t have his cell?” the voice asks, and I sit up.

  “Um, no, sir. I—”

  “Let me give it to you. Do you have a pen?”

  “Of course, yes.” I scramble for the first thing I can find, because he’s already reciting numbers.

  “You got that?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank—”

  “Don’t call this number again, use his cell.”

  “Of course not—”

  But he’s already hung up.

  My heart pounds as I stare at the number, certain I shouldn’t even bother with the second call. But I type it into my phone anyway and hit send.

  “Who’s this?”

  For a second I think I’ve hit redial because Conner’s voice sounds just like his dad’s.

  “Um—” I stand up and start to pace. “Conner, hi. This is Marion.”

  Silence.

  “Marion Taylor,” I repeat, pressing the paper note he gave me under my fingernail.

  “How did you get this number?”

  I stop by the window and play with the latch, realizing how dumb this is going to sound. “Your dad.”

  “My what?”

  “At least I think he was your dad,” I say, backpedaling. “I called the number on a phone tree from like fourth grade. Is that—”

  Conner starts to laugh and I shut up. “Marion, you are something else.”

  I bite my lip, not sure how to take that.

  “So, how can I help you?” he asks.

  I latch and unlatch the window.

  “Um, well, I was calling about this thing on Saturday.”