by Karole Cozzo
“Thanks,” she says, managing a feeble smile as I drop back down beside her and press it to her cheek.
We’re both quiet for a long time as she uses the washcloth to wipe her face, then lets her head fall back against my bed and covers her eyes with it.
“He still wants us to go to prom together. He knows how important it is to me, and he says even though I’m really mad at him, he thinks I’ll regret that we don’t have memories of it together. But I’ll feel like a complete fool. Even if no one else finds out about this, I’m sure she’ll be there. She’ll know. And I won’t even know who she is.
“And I can sit here and say, ‘Oh, it’s just human nature, he’s a guy, he’d had a couple of beers, girls are flirty and throw themselves at guys, even guys who have girlfriends.’” The washcloth slides onto my carpet as she shakes her head again. “But I can’t,” Marcella whispers. “I hate him, and I love him, and right now I just hate him for this.”
“I do, too.”
Fact.
Marcella’s tired red eyes drift to my clock and she sighs heavily. She looks back at me, her expression tentative. “Can I sleep over?”
“Of course,” I answer instantly. It’s been a while since life has necessitated a midweek sleepover, but it’s not like it’s never happened before. “Sleep in my bed with me.”
I stand up, gathering some extra throw pillows and another blanket. I push my stuff to the side of the bed, making room for her. When I look down at her, she’s gazing at the mirror on the back of my door, lips parted.
“I’ve known something was off. And I just thought … if I ignored it, it would go away, things would go back to normal.
“It’s funny, except funny is the absolute wrong word for it,” Marcella tells me, struggling to her feet. She drops the unused tissue into my wastebasket. “He’s the one I don’t recognize, but it’s like … I feel like I don’t know me anymore, either. For so long, one of the biggest parts of me has been as his girlfriend, and if I’m not … I just don’t totally recognize myself.”
My mouth drops open, but Marcella puts her hand up. “Don’t. I can imagine what you’re going to say, but please … tonight … just … don’t.” She steps closer, gives me a hug, her chin coming to rest on my shoulder. “Can we please just go to sleep?”
“Okay.” I crawl back into bed, scooching over so that my body is pressed against the cool wall, waiting for my friend to crawl in beside me, and pushing my oldest stuffed bear into her arms.
She wraps her arms around him and smiles before rolling over to turn out the light.
Several minutes pass, but I know she’s not sleeping, and it makes it hard for me to fall asleep beside her. So I’m wide awake when her words reach me through the darkness.
“You’re right, Eve. And you’re smart. You’d never let anyone hurt you like this. Because boys just aren’t worth it,” she finishes wearily.
I suck in my breath, certain she’ll make out my reaction in the quiet enveloping us.
There’s your cue, I think. There’s your opening.
Since the weekend, I’ve been on the lookout for one. After Saturday, telling Marcella about Jamie was feeling more and more necessary. It was feeling like more of a burden to keep it a secret, especially with the way he’s approaching me, publicly, when I don’t know what to do or even what to call it. Marcella is obviously the best person to confess to, and I’ve been thinking about it. Even with how caught up she’s been with the pageant, I’ve been looking for an opening.
Plus … I needed help. I needed someone to talk to, a girlfriend to offer some guidance given my complete lack of experience. Someone who could tell me what the hell to do when the guy you kinda-sorta like is on his way to feeling you up and you’re still uncomfortable with the idea of your boobs because you walk around wearing an Ace bandage half the time.
I feel my cheeks flare in the darkness, remembering. If I’m going to keep doing … this … with Jamie, I need backup.
I listen to my friend breathing evenly beside me.
Not now, I decide. Marcella’s a mess, and tonight isn’t about my problems. It would be selfish to expect her to weigh in tonight.
And besides …
I squeeze my eyes shut.
I don’t frighten easily, but Marcella just scared the crap out of me. She’s right—the Eve she knows would never let a guy break her down like that; the Eve she knows would never give him the chance to. I’m not sure I like the idea of her looking at me differently.
I sure as hell don’t want to set myself up to be hurt the way she’s hurting tonight. I don’t want to give a guy a part of myself only to be made a fool of weeks later. I don’t ever want to look in a mirror and not recognize myself because of the way a guy has transformed me.
If this is what happens when you put what you want with someone before what you want for yourself … I’m not really sure I want any of it.
Chapter 24
April 29
Eve
I’d heard of Farmington East’s legendary pirate parties way before I’d ever stepped foot in one of East’s classrooms, way before I’d ever put on a Pirate uniform.
Julia Dawson’s pirate parties are notorious, tales of them reaching South every spring. Apparently they were started by Craig Dawson, about a decade ago, then taken over by Drea Dawson, who still shows up with her college friends and the alcohol. The Dawsons are exceptionally rich, and their parents travel internationally a few times a year. Their parents refuse to tell them when until the day before in an effort to derail party plans, but this tactic has never actually been successful in thwarting a pirate party, based on the wild tales that circulate every year.
Apparently, the Dawsons always serve “grog,” a horrendous-sounding mixture of dark rum and orange soda. If you attend, you are obligated to talk like a pirate the whole time and have to take a shot if someone catches you slipping up. Girls scare up the skimpiest pirate outfits they can pull together with a day’s notice. And then there’s the story I call bullshit on, the one about the Dawsons setting up a piece of plywood for those brave/stupid/drunk enough to “walk the plank” across their small indoor pool.
Pretty much every weekend since I’ve been at East, there’s been speculation that it could be the weekend, which is so utterly lame. So when it’s confirmed by none other than pirate maiden Julia Dawson herself on Friday, I’m sort of glad the notorious event is finally upon us so that we can get it over with and everyone will shut up about it already.
I have no interest in attending and no plans to attend. When Scott mentioned it on Friday afternoon, I made it perfectly clear. “Yeah, there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell I’m dressing up like a pirate whore in the name of a good time.”
He just grinned and said, “Why do you have to be so arrrgumentative all the time?”
I gave him a Look, and that was that.
I was counting on the fact that Marcella, still devastated and crying more often than not, would want to hole up with me Saturday night, maybe agreeing to order Chinese and watch a movie. I was pretty sure she hadn’t washed her hair since the breakup, and when it comes to Marcella, that’s saying something. So the last thing I expected was her showing up at my door at eight o’clock, clearly having done her hair and her makeup, wearing heeled black boots, a red skirt with jagged edges, and a ruffly white top that showed her belly button and hung off her shoulders.
I stand in the doorway and stare down at her boobs, very much on display. “What the hell is that?”
She plants her booted feet firmly before me. “We’re going to the pirate party.”
This makes me laugh out loud. “Uhh, no, we’re not. Please take that off as quickly as possible.”
But she holds her ground, lifting her chin and staring me down, eyes still looking watery behind thick black liner and a couple of coats of mascara. “I’m not going to run and hide like I’m the one who did something to be ashamed of.” Marcella swallows hard as her voice starts qui
vering. “What if they’re there together or something? I’m not going to make this easy for him.”
I collapse against the door frame, closing my eyes and inhaling through my nose. “This is a bad idea. Things like this, they never end well.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yeah, well, as your best friend, I can’t endorse that attitude. Plus, Marcella, you know I don’t party when I’m in season.”
“You’re always in one season or another. And I don’t need you to drink. I just need you to have my back.”
I have no intention of folding. We lost on Friday, and I made a couple of errors on the mound. My period is due literally any minute and my mood is actually dangerous. And … there’s another reason I was aiming to stay as far away from that party as possible, something having to do with Jamie’s inevitable attendance, the likelihood that pirate skanks would be swarming him for all to see.
But then Marcella stops demanding and starts begging, her voice quiet and shaky. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you lately. But I also know you know that if the situation was reversed, I’d do the same for you. I still feel like I’m falling apart inside, but when you’re with me, I feel a million times stronger. Because you’re so strong.”
Well, damn it.
She’s right and I know it. If the situation was reversed, Marcella would do anything I asked. I can’t understand exactly what she is feeling, but I can still tell how torn apart she is right now. So I hear myself opening my mouth against my will, agreeing to go with her.
“Only so you have a DD,” I tell her, snatching my keys and sliding into my sneakers. “And only to keep you from doing anything desperate.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
Marching past her to my car, I yank on the top of her shirt, pulling it up a few inches. “Seriously, Marcella, Girls Across America would take back the crown if they saw you right now.”
* * *
My first impression is that a Party City warehouse exploded inside the Dawsons’. The girls went overboard, setting up plastic chests overflowing with foil-wrapped chocolate coins, inflatable parrots, and torches around the patio. I’m sure it looked festive at some point, but it’s not even ten o’clock yet, and the place is wrecked. The sink is filled with empty rum bottles and crushed Solo cups. There’s an orange stain on the white couch. And someone has put one of the plastic parrots in a compromising position with the life-size Jack Sparrow cardboard cutout in the living room.
Ten minutes into scoping out the party, we’ve yet to see the girls who live here, or anyone we know, really. Kids are spread out over the expanse of the huge house and its yard, and it’s a mixed bag of attendees—the pirate party faithful who have gone all out in their pirate garb, us first-timers from East, some dressed up, some not, and people I don’t recognize at all who I assume are crashing from other nearby schools.
Marcella accepts a hefty serving of grog, served in a skull-and-crossbones mug, from one of those guys we don’t recognize. He appeared at once, like her boobs had beckoned him, but after getting her drink, Marcella’s on the move again. We wander from the living room to the kitchen to the game room, stopping to say hi when we see people we know, moving on when we don’t. Most of them respond with a resounding “Arrrgh!” leaving me to wonder how long, exactly, I’m expected to endure this.
The party thing’s just not my scene, and I don’t really know how to have normal conversations with people when they’re drunk.
Even one of my best friends becomes difficult when he’s had too much grog, apparently. I do a double take when Scott goes tearing past us, wearing nothing but bulldog-print boxers, bath towel tucked under his arm.
I grab his elbow and pull him aside. “Oh my God, what are you doing? Where are you going?”
He raises his mug of grog in the air. “Preparing to go overboard to win the hearrrt of a fair lady, me matey.”
“What?”
Scott leans closer. “Jessie Hembrow is in the pool. That means I’m going in, too.”
I shake my head. “Just don’t drown.”
He takes off with a spirited “Arrrgh.”
“Ahoy, matey!” Marcella appears beside me, calling after him. “Go get ’errrr, ya scalawag!”
I rub my forehead, notice she’s gotten her hands on a second mug of grog. “Take it easy, okay?”
She just laughs, pulling on my arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
We wander out back, finding a group of kids huddled in the yard, and back through the living room. Marcella claims she wants to check everything out before committing to a spot to hang out for a while, but I know she’s looking for Brian, the way her eyes sweep each room we enter, how a small disappointed frown appears when we don’t find him.
I’m keeping an eye out for someone, too, but in truth, I’m hoping I don’t find him. Because I don’t know what I’ll find, or who I might find him with.
We run into Jasmine in the kitchen. She’s just arrived and is sober, and I’m extremely happy to add her to our group. Then we decide to try to track down this infamous indoor pool with the plank, curious to see how much of a fool Scott is making of himself, and after a few wrong turns end up in a two-story room in the back corner of the house with floor-to-ceiling windows.
It feels about twenty degrees hotter than the rest of the house, the air damp and foggy, and the heavy smell of chlorine assaults my nose the second we enter.
“Marrrshall!”
I hear a male voice calling my name from across the room, but it takes me a few seconds to get my bearings, to figure out where it’s coming from. Eventually I see the crowded table in the corner of the room, where a bunch of guys are playing some sort of card game. Chris Jamison is waving to me, but my eyes immediately go to the person seated at the end of the table.
I exhale in relief, letting go of a breath, and a worry, I didn’t even realize I was holding on to. It’s all guys at the table. I quickly check out his outfit—he’s wearing a red bandanna and a torn white T-shirt, and it looks like someone drew a scar on his cheek with eyeliner or something. On a scale of one to Jack Sparrow, he’s only about a three; there’s nothing too obnoxious about his appearance. He’s not visibly wasted, and again … no pirate skanks on the scene.
After witnessing Marcella’s breakup almost firsthand, I walked in tonight with my defenses up. But now … I’m almost happy to see him.
So when Chris sort of beckons me over after I wave back, I walk toward the table, seeing a bunch of my other teammates—Nathan, Brendan, and Pat—sitting there as well.
“I did not expect to see you here tonight,” Nathan says at once.
Before I can answer him, my eyes dart to Jamie’s face again, the one place I’m trying not to look.
I get the sense he didn’t expect to see me, either, but his expression is inscrutable, leaving me with no idea if my presence is a good or bad surprise.
Brendan lifts his bottle of Bud Light. “Don’t rat us out to Coach, okay?”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to tattle, Brendan.”
Honestly, why does everyone think I’m so uptight? Just because I’m focused doesn’t mean I’m going to give people shit for partying. I’m here, aren’t I?
But as hard as I try, it’s impossible to relax while I’m standing there, trying to have a casual conversation with my teammates when Jamie’s in the group, present but silent. My body is tense and my neck hurts from making sure I don’t look in his direction, and after three minutes of trying, I’m done.
“Sit down.” Chris scoots over, leaving room between him and Jamie. “You girls should join the game. We’re just about to deal out the next hand.”
I turn to my friends at once. “Actually, can we go back to the den?” I make a big deal of taking a breath. “This chlorine makes it hard to even breathe.”
They nod, and I’m this close to getting away from the guys when a rogue pirate blocks our path. It’s Brian. He’s staring mournfully at Marcella, face pained. “You’re not
even going to say hi?” he asks her quietly.
At first, her expression matches his. Then she squares her shoulder and presses her lips together. “No.”
He takes a step closer. “Can we just talk? Please? Just for a minute.”
When she doesn’t answer him, I take her elbow. “Let’s go.”
Brian puts his hand up in my direction. “Eve, I just want to talk to her for a minute.”
I look at Marcella. She looks back at me, eyes pleading, and I know what she wants to do. As much as I want to make the decision for her, it’s not my place, and I release her arm. “Three minutes,” I tell her, looking at my watch. “Then I’m coming to get you.”
She nods, then slowly walks toward Brian. They disappear together behind a row of potted palms. Jasmine and I are left standing there, ready for a recovery mission, serious and silent.
And as a result, we’re subjected to the conversation coming from the table, whether we want to be or not. Just as I’ve started letting my guard down, just as I’ve started to think maybe he’s ignoring the girls tonight for a reason.
“Shit, do you remember what happened last year?” Brendan asks, pointing toward the pool. “When Matty slipped on that kickboard, landed on his ass, and slid right into the pool in his clothes?”
“Jules was so pissed. He had his cup of grog with him. Five minutes into the party, and it’s already in the pool,” another East kid continues.
Nathan cracks up. “All I remember is Jamie following Drea around, poking her with his sword and asking if he could ‘plunder her booty.’” He falls forward, laughing so hard I think he might choke.
I tense up infinitesimally, hoping that’s the end to the story.
But of course, it’s Jamie, and it isn’t.
“No, that was two years ago,” Brendan corrects him. “Last year he hooked up with Jules. I remember, because I walked in on them.”
Nate shrugs. “Drea was more impressive. She was a senior when we were sophomores. And Abrams was only a freshman. That was a helluva lot of game for a freshman.”