“What,” Amber says, “the hell?”
ABORT. ABORT.
“No idea,” I say quickly, not looking him in the eyes. “Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“Don’t leave me with—”
“It’ll be the world’s fastest pee,” I promise, already halfway towards the door. You can’t catch me, Tights McGee. The Gingerbread Man wishes he had these moves. “Stay strong, Clark.”
“You suck,” Amber informs me. Wouldn’t you know, I can live with that. I make my way out to the swiftly dwindling sounds of her tellin’ old Tights, “No, I don’t want to try one. What’s in there, acid rain?”
I slip past the crowd that’s filtering in and keep going until I’m in a deserted stairwell next to a trash can. I whip out my cellphone, ready to call up the Mitchman, when I find a text message waiting for me.
“I found a pair of someone’s socks on the floor next to my bed!! Don’t worry, i washed them for you, i’ll bring them in to work tomorrow!! have fun at the play! Tell amber and cora hi for me! don’t get too tipsy, lol! xoxo KQ”
I know that Amber’s my best friend. I know that it’s been awhile since she and I really had some buddy time, what with me working and leading a scandalous double life. I know that she’s a little snippier than usual because Dennis is coming back on Monday and bringing his mysterious new ladylove Emily along with him.
But man, I’m hung over and I’m scared of Tights and what I want, what I really want is to be over at Kristy’s, hanging out with her and her roommate and a certain gentleman friend of mine.
But Amber’s my best friend, and it’s one night. Cue that funky disco beat, because I will survive.
I send Kristy “Many thanks, sock fairy. Also, too late. Already shitfaced,” successfully resisting all urges to throw in anything that resembles ‘Good sweet baby Jesus God, I wish I was there instead, come rescue me.’ Then I call up Mitch.
“Howie! Heyyyy!”
“Mitchy, heyyyyy. I need a favor.”
“Anything, man.”
“She probably won’t even mention it to you or whatever, but if Amber asks, I spent last night with you and the guys, okay?”
“Whoaaaaa!” I can hear, hear his face splitting into a grin. “Whaaaaat?”
“I was out with some work friends, and wound up getting pretty wasted.”
“Ohhhhhhhhh!”
“But, I dunno, I don’t really want Amber to know about—” Wait. I’m starting to realize that I don’t really have an alibi for Mitch. Goddamn, this double life stuff gets tiring.
“It’s Cora, right?” Mitch asks between grunts of my-boy-done-good laughter.
It totally catches me off-guard. “Huh?”
“The little crazy elf chick. Did you boink an elf? That is so boss, Jenkins! I hereby commend thee.”
“That’s none of your business, man.”
“You did!” Mitch exclaims, complete with some reverent laughter. “You boinked an elf!”
There we go. Alibi attained. If it’s really going to bring Mitch this much joy to believe I’m elf-boinking, then far be it from me to deprive him of that happiness.
“Yeah, well, keep it on the DL, will ya? I’ve got musical transvestites to watch. Later.”
I hang up on the sound of him laughing jollily away and saying ‘boink’ a couple more times.
Magnificent people, these friends of mine.
When I slip back into the cafeteria they’re lowering the lights and Amber’s sitting by herself, glowering. Lucky me.
“Hey, guess what?” she whispers as I take a seat. “Not the world’s fastest pee.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I mutter back. “I’ll try harder next time.”
“Why did shots guy seem like he knew you?” she adds, because apparently criticizing my urination abilities isn’t enough for her tonight.
I fight back all impulses to bust out a hearty ‘Damn, get OFF my CASE, woman!’
“I gave Cora a ride to rehearsal once,” I invent, “and I wound up chatting with him for awhile. Total psycho.”
“Huh,” Amber says, and then the play gets started, so that’s it.
I don’t know, maybe it’s stupid not to tell her I went last night. No sane person would consider that a friendship-ending offense. But I get the feeling that she’d be pissed if she knew that I went already without her, like she wouldn’t get why I didn’t just invite her along. And Amber can’t see me with Arthur. She just fuckin’ can’t. It’s like there’s my life, and it’s got Amber and Mitch and my mom and directionlessness and the shadow of my dead dad still hanging over everything. And then there’s the senseless, glorious, unasked-for vacation from my life, and that’s Arthur and Kristy and Cora.
Even having Amber and Cora here, together, in the same room, feels dangerous. Thank God Cora’s onstage.
So we watch the play and ninth grade Amber comes back pretty fast, I think, because she seems into it by the time like fifteen minutes have gone by. Meanwhile, I sit and try to ignore my headache and how much I want to be somewhere else.
Finally, after about twelve hours, it’s over.
“Okay, let’s roll,” I say, starting to stand up.
“You’re not even going to go tell Cora she did a good job? Come on, Howie, I’ve trained you better than that.” At least it’s affectionate nagging this time. She even ruffles my hair. Bless the healing powers of Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me.
Still, no. Talking to Cora was so not part of the deal.
“I don’t think she really cares if I—”
But then everyone’s favorite boinkable elf-turned-alien spots me.
Oh, God, it’s all over.
“Jenkins! What are you, like, turning into my stalker or something?” Cora demands, bouncing over to us. Taking in the sight of Amber, she adds, “He dragged you along this time?”
“No, I did all the dragging,” Amber replies. She sounds totally normal, but she turns to look at me and something darkens a little in her eyes and her voice and it’s enough to make it really flippin’ obvious that I am completely and utterly screwed. “You came before?”
“He was here last night with the rest of those losers I work with,” Cora reports, oblivious that she’s singlehandedly crafting my destruction. She loops an arm through mine and nestles up against me. “Really, darling,” she adds, pinching my cheek (ow), “it’s touching that you care.”
“Yeah, well,” I reply, forcing a smile at her and trying, for a few blessed seconds, to be unaware of Amber’s whole existence, “I’m your number one fan.”
+
Amber and I don’t talk until we’re in the car. I make sure the CD player’s on, so that even then talking isn’t really a requirement.
She does it anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“About the whole me-seeing-the-play-last-night thing?”
“Yeah,” she says darkly, “that.”
“I didn’t not tell you.”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you did.”
“I dunno, I … it was just work stuff, okay? I figured you wouldn’t want to get mixed up with those guys.”
“I’m pretty sure I could have handled two hours at a play with them. I’ve got fortitude that way.” She pauses just long enough for me to hope that maybe she’s given up on this conversation. But then, bam!— “Since when are you even friends with them?”
“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s not like I can tell her they’ve made my life so newly great. “They’re who I see every day. I guess I’m just … I don’t know, Amber. Whatever. Does it matter?”
“No,” she replies, toneless, “I guess not.”
For a merciful ten seconds, Good Feeling is the only sound in the car.
“You’re not sleeping with Cora or whatever, are you?” Amber asks then.
The correct answer would be a resounding ‘No,’ and I’m about to tell her as much – but then I remember Mitch, and it’s probably smartest to stick wit
h one lie all around, right? So instead I throw out a suitably vague, “Why would you care?”
“Um, I don’t know, maybe because I’m your best friend and you’re supposed to tell me that kind of stuff.”
I glance over at her. She’s not looking at me: she’s staring out of the windshield and she’s leaning about as far away from me as she possibly can, like if this conversation takes a sucky enough turn she’ll throw herself out onto the road.
“No, I’m not,” I say, feeling pretty chastised.
She snorts. “Yeah, right.”
It doesn’t take someone of my boundless mental abilities to tell that she’s pissed off. Like, weirdly pissed off. I want to restate my whole ‘Why would you care?’ question, because seriously, why would she care? But my boundless mental abilities also tell me that maybe that’s not the best course of action.
“I hate this stupid band,” she says then, hitting me where the sun don’t shine. “Gordon Gano’s voice is like getting stabbed in the brain.”
I choke back the five thousand ‘This from someone who worships Colin Meloy’ retorts that threaten to bubble over in that split-second and say, “Fine.”
I eject the CD, and we listen to pizza restaurant jingles all the way home.
+
Kristy’s jaw drops. “Maybe,” she breathes, “she’s in love with you.”
It’s the next morning, and I’m sitting at her kitchen table. She’s still in her pajamas, a pink tanktop with a baby polar bear on it and white pants spattered with pink hearts and really profound sayings along the lines of ‘You are sweet!’ and ‘You + Me.’ It seems fitting that even her PJ pants make me feel better about myself.
Arthur’s in the process of making coffee, or at least trying to. His staunch tea-drinking ways are finally biting him in the ass, because the dude’s at a total loss face to face with a coffeepot. Still, it’s pretty nice that he’s insisting on it anyway – especially after he saw the donuts I brought and almost went catatonic at the unhealthiness of it all. I’m starting to think that maybe there’s only one thing weirder than me being with a dude, and it’s me being with a healthy eater. What is that?
I, for the record, am on my fourth donut. Desperate times.
“She’s not in love with me,” I say with a hearty shudder. “Don’t even say stuff like that.”
“But it sounds like—”
“She’s in love with my brother. She has been forever. Like, foreeeever.”
“Who’s in love with who?” Nikki asks, stepping into the room in – why, lookie there, nothing but a towel.
Score, I think, for old times’ sake, even though just between you and me, I’m a little more preoccupied by Arthur’s battle against the coffeepot. He’s measuring coffee grounds into the filter with immense concentration, and he’s one of those people who actually sticks their tongue out a little bit in moments of immense concentration. Hot chicks in towels with errant droplets of water glistening on their smooth milky skin are great and all. But when it all comes down to it, my loyalty lies with Arthur’s tongue (which, quite frankly, has done more for me).
“Howie’s best friend Amber loves his twin brother Dennis,” Kristy informs Nikki. I feel queasy, and I can’t even blame the donuts: I know, know that me getting drunk at a shady production of Rocky Horror and then not telling Amber about it is delightful as cupcakes next to her finding out that I’m spilling all of her private business to a bunch of strangers. All of a sudden I’m acutely aware of just how shitty it is to do it – but Jesus, I need to tell somebody. And it’s not like she’ll find out. Never the twain shall meet, and all that.
“Ooh, you have a twin brother?” Nikki asks. “Is he cute?”
“Of course he’s cute,” Kristy pipes up courteously. “He looks like Howie.”
There’s a pause. A definite unmistakable pause.
“Oh, right,” Nikki says, and gives me this huge, simpering smile.
On second thought, maybe she looks merely adequate in that towel. Booyah.
(Still, it’s a little bit depressing to think that my work-at-a-craft-store-to-get-some-booty scheme of ingeniousness did fail, and Kristy’s implying otherwise was all an elaborate matchmaking charade. Cute chicks are brutal.)
“Anyway,” Kristy continues, “maybe she realized after Dennis went so far away that she was being unrealistic, and the one she should have been with all along was you!”
“No.” The concept’s so sickening that it drives me to set down my fifth donut. “No way. No how.”
But she won’t be stopped. “Ohhh, it’d be so perfect, though! It’s like, you’re the boy next door who she’s already loved for ages, and you’ve always been there for her through thick and thin, and you understand her like nobody else does, and how awesome to just realize one day, all of a sudden, love epiphany! And now she’s upset because she can’t figure out how to tell you, but it’s okay because you’re so nice and it’s not like you’re going to—”
“Uh.” Right. Can’t take it anymore. “Kristy?”
She stops mid-rhapsody. “Yep?”
“Hello,” Arthur throws in helpfully.
“Ohhhhh!” She slaps herself on the forehead. She’s like the world’s cutest Little Rascal. “Gosh, gosh, okay, I take it back, you know I didn’t mean that! It’s just it all seemed so romantic for a second! But that’s right, Howie, of course you can’t be with her. You’re Arthur’s!”
This is enough to send her and Nikki into a fit of “aww!”s and giggles. I don’t like that at all, if we’re being honest. It’s just – it’s hard to feel, like, human, even, when your relationship or whatever is such an anomaly that it sends people into what, God help us all, can probably be best summarized as a tizzy. I still don’t really get when or why our previous arrangement got abandoned, the one where Kristy pretended to believe we were just buddies, and of course Arthur and I were down on the floor in the supply closet when she walked in because we were searching for his lost contact lens. I was a big fan of that arrangement.
I make sure to sound unbothered, though. “Ehhh. Depends on whether he figures out how to work the coffeepot.”
“Patience, Howard,” Arthur orders without looking away from his opponent.
“Hey. Watch yourself there, motherfucker.” Okay, that came out a little harsher than I’d intended. Stupid tizzy giggling. It’s got me discombobulated.
He doesn’t burst into tears or anything, though: just rolls his eyes and smirks a little. So maybe I’m being paranoid. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Poor Amber,” Kristy says, shaking her head woefully.
Something about her saying that makes me feel like the absolute scum of the earth. Amber, she’s a badass. She’s brilliant. You don’t say ‘Poor Amber.’
She’ll never know, I console myself. She’ll never, never, never know.
I polish off another donut and a cup of warm water poorly endeavoring to masquerade as coffee (“I thought I’d err on the side of caution,” Arthur says, chagrined), then get ready to take off. My mom is determined to present the illusion that we have a functional household to my bro’s new ho, so there is much cleaning and grocery shopping to be done.
“If she is in love with you,” Kristy says in parting, “let her down gently, okay? And, hey, you know what, maybe if she’s really lonely, I could try to set her up! Reddy’s got a bunch of really cute friends in his band, and most of them are single—”
“Nah, that’s okay,” I interrupt. “She’d never go for a blind date. Definitely not Amber’s thing.”
“Sometimes you’ve got to take a chance to find love,” Kristy says sagely.
“Yeah, I’ll pass that on,” I deadpan. “Peace, Quincy.”
She starts talking to Nikki, which gives Artie and me the chance for a one-on-one farewell.
“Word of advice,” I tell him, “don’t go into barista-ing.”
“That’s not a word,” he replies, “and I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“Good
. You’re such an inspiration as an arts and crafts store manager. It’d be a shame to lose you to a lesser vocation.” He’s absently folding his sleeves up to button them; the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window glints off the gold hair on his forearms and the whole process is infinitely, inconveniently fascinating.
He moves in closer to me, and I notice Nikki throwing a glance our way.
And so I knock my fist against his shoulder and say, “See you Monday, man.”
“All right,” he says slowly.
He doesn’t seem pissed – just minorly confused – but I still feel a little bad after I leave. I dunno, maybe that’s just my specialty now: feeling bad about Amber, feeling bad about Arthur. But, you know. It’s one thing if we’re alone. It’s another thing if there are bystanders.
Chapter Fifteen
“You don’t think that—”
“No, Mom.”
“Oh, come on. It could be charming. Quirkily so.”
“No one wants to get off a plane and hear Rock Lobster.”
“Then how about Tom Jones?”
“Depends. Are you going to seduce her with a sexy dance? Because I’m not sure if Dennis is gonna be down.”
“I thought I raised you to appreciate quirky charm.”
Then my mother unearths the be-all-end-all of aural horror.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, where did you get that?”
“Your Aunt Claire. She’s quite the fan.”
“Figures.” I groan, staring at the fiend’s fearsome mug on the CD case.
Mom pokes my shoulder. “Eyes on the road, junior.”
“You never listen to that kind of shit. That’s why I keep you around.”
“Normal mothers listen to Josh Groban. I would like to project some normalcy around this girl, thank you.”
“Yeah, what’s the whole deal with that?”
“I just want her to have a pleasant time here,” Mom says. She sounds poised, but she’s scratching the ‘Great Value! [Price Blacked Out]’ sticker off of ol’ Grobie’s forehead with scary vehemence. “It seems like your brother is very attached to her, and from what he told me about going to her home for Thanksgiving, it sounds like her parents are very normal people.”
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