Guyaholic

by Carolyn Mackler

  “V!” Rachel shrieks, waving me over. “Will you please tell Sam that he listens to fifty-year-old-dad music?”

  “You listen to fifty-year-old-dad music,” I say, grinning at Sam.

  Sam shrugs. “I’m just saying that we agreed to take turns. We did your playlist, and now we’ll do mine.”

  Rachel rolls her eyes. “Does everything have to be so rational? Goddamn. You’re totally a middle-aged dad.”

  Rachel exhales loudly and stomps away. But after a few steps, she turns around. “Hi, by the way,” she says to me. “I’m glad you came. At least there’s someone sane around here for a change.”

  Sam’s sister can be a drama queen, but I actually like her. She’s only a year younger than us, and she and Sam have most of the same friends. But the similarities end there. Where Sam is laid-back, Rachel gets hysterical about everything. Plus, she’s kind of chunky and she’s always giving herself these homemade tattoos and botched haircuts. It drives their mom crazy, which is another reason to like her.

  Rachel was actually the reason Sam was at the hockey game the day I got hit. She was going out with the goalie and I think two-timing with the team manager. All her friends were hungover from a party the night before, so she dragged her brother along for company. I guess I have Rachel to thank for Sam. Or blame, depending on which state of mind I’m in.

  “How’s it going?” Sam asks, adjusting the volume on the speakers.

  I shrug.

  “Feeling better?”

  Another shrug.

  Sam turns down the bass and then steps closer to me. I breathe him in, all soapy and sexy. As we’re kissing, I can feel the slightest hint of his tongue, so I part my lips wider and wrap my arms around his neck and then, all of a sudden, he pulls back and says, “Did you call your mom?”

  “I still don’t want to talk about that.”

  “I don’t understand. . . .”

  “Well, try to.”

  I turn away, but Sam reaches for my shoulder. “I’m sorry, okay?” he says. “Can we just let it go?”

  “Okay.” I sigh. “Let’s just get this barbecue over with.”

  Sam frowns and I can tell I’ve hurt him. As we’re heading toward the throng of Almonds, I reach for Sam’s hand. I was meaning to give him an apologetic squeeze, but he takes it the wrong way and clutches on tight. I quickly liberate my hand, only I must have done it abruptly because he looks upset all over again. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, and I know, I just know, that I shouldn’t have come.

  Sam didn’t warn me about the aunts.

  It turns out his mom has two sisters who are in town for the barbecue. They’re basically clones of his mother, except they’re even more famished for family gossip.

  Sam’s backyard is relatively large by Brockport standards. There’s an in-ground pool in the middle and grassy areas on either side. On one side they have a table with gifts and framed class pictures of Sam from nursery school to senior year. Sam’s mom has also displayed all of her scrapbooks, in case you wanted to glimpse Sam in his playpen or Sam in Little League or Sam on their backpacking trip through Japan last summer.

  On the other side of the pool, they have a grill, lawn chairs, and a picnic table overflowing with food. Sam’s mom has made lemon squares and frosted cookies shaped like caps and gowns. Sam’s dad is sliding hot dogs and hamburgers onto a platter. But everyone is hovering around Sam’s homemade wing dip, scooping the blend of shredded chicken, hot sauce, and cream cheese into their mouths with nacho chips.

  Everyone, that is, except for the aunts. They’re taking turns finding me, whenever I’m alone, and prying about Sam, my life history, Sam, Sam, and Sam. I’ve decided that while this backyard is large by Brockport standards, it’s not large enough for the aunts and me.

  In my first hour here, Aunt #1 wrangled out of me that I met Sam in March. Aunt #2 discovered it was at the hockey game. Aunt #1 circled back and started prying about the prom. Sam was getting us Cokes, but he returned in time to tell her we weren’t into that sort of thing. When he said that, she clucked her tongue as if she were personally invested in dresses and tuxes and cheesy limo rides.

  Around eight Sam and I are sitting by the pool, dunking our feet into the water. Rachel and her friend Janine are sprawled next to us, munching lemon squares and drawing peace signs on their thighs with a red Sharpie.

  “Hey, Sam!” Sam’s dad calls out. “I need some help with the grill.”

  “I’ll be back,” Sam says, touching my arm.

  As soon as he’s gone, Aunt #2 beelines over. “So,” she says to me. “Tell me all about your college plans.”

  I flex my toes in the water. “I’m going to BU.”

  “My friend’s daughter is in her second year at Simmons,” she says. “She loves it! Her sister goes to MIT. So does her cousin.”

  Aunt #2 rambles on about how they’re such brilliant kids, so talented, how Boston is such a great college town. By the time she’s done talking, she’s practically hoarse. I watch her walk over to her sister. They stand close to each other, chattering and nodding, and then Aunt #1 starts my way. I’m just bracing myself when Rachel taps my shoulder.

  “Janine and I are going to go upstairs and drink a little,” she whispers. “Want to come?”

  I’ve been around Rachel enough to know that her drink of choice is Jack Daniel’s, and when she can get someone to buy it for her, she stashes a bottle in her room.

  “Sure,” I say, grabbing my sandals and following her across the moist lawn.

  As soon as we get upstairs, Janine locks the door and Rachel fetches a boot from the back of her closet. She fishes out a half-empty bottle, unscrews the top, and hands it to me.

  I take a sip, swallow the burning in my throat, and then pass it to Janine. Rachel flops onto her bed and massages her temples. “Thank God for Jack,” she moans. “My family is craaaazy.”

  Janine hands the bottle to Rachel. “They don’t seem so crazy?”

  I don’t know much about Janine except that everything out of her mouth sounds like a question and, according to Chastity Morgenstern, she once gave head to two football players at the same time, though I’ve never been able to figure out the logistics of that.

  “Are you serious?” Rachel says, tossing back a shot. “If we had a family reunion, we’d have to wear shirts that said, THE ALMONDS: WE’RE ALL NUTS.”

  “Oh, my God!” Janine giggles. “That’s so funny?”

  “When can we leave for this party?” Rachel asks, handing the bottle back to me.

  “Chastity told me it’s not starting until nine or ten.”

  “Goddamn,” Rachel says. “We are arriving at nine on the dot.”

  We pass around the bottle, and Rachel moans about how she’s scared shitless because supposedly there’ll be some hockey players coming to the party, including her ex-boyfriend and the guy she cheated on him with, and, basically, there’s not enough alcohol in the world to settle her nerves in the next forty-five minutes.

  Rachel takes one last swig, stuffs the bottle back into the boot, and then pulls a pack of black Twizzlers out of her dresser, tearing off a strip for each of us.

  “Licorice?” I ask.

  “For the breath,” Rachel says. “My mom gets paranoid as soon as she smells mint.”

  On our way down the stairs, I feel light-headed and I stumble a little. I clutch my sandals in one hand and grab the banister with the other. As soon as we’re outside, I spot Sam by the pool. I breathe in some fresh air and force myself to walk a straight line toward him.

  “Licorice?” Sam asks as soon as we kiss. “Were you up in Rachel’s room?”

  I grin. “A little pre-game warm-up.”

  Sam is about to say something when Aunt #1 marches over and stands so close I can see the clogged pores rimming her nose.

  “Do you know how far it is from Boston to Berkeley?” she asks.

  “Huh?” Sam asks.

  “More than three thousand miles,�
�� she says. “So how are you two going to stay together in the fall? I’m sure you’ve worked out a long-distance relationship plan, right?”

  Sam and I glance at each other. And then, at the exact same second, we turn to his aunt and say:

  Me: “We’re not really together.”

  Sam: “We’re talking about it.”

  Sam’s aunt’s mouth is hanging open so wide I can see the fillings in her teeth. But just as she begins to speak, Sam grabs my elbow and yanks me toward the edge of the yard.

  “Why did you just say that?” he asks as soon as we’re under the flowering white tree.

  “Say what?”

  Sam scowls. His cheeks are flushed and his face is strained, and, basically, I’ve never seen him look this angry.

  “You mean that we’re not together?” I ask.

  Sam nods.

  “It’s not exactly untrue. Besides, who cares what she thinks? She’s just digging for gossip.”

  “I care,” Sam says.

  I watch as he clenches and unclenches his hands. The song playing on the laptop is this breathy ballad about a guy telling his girlfriend they fit together like puzzle pieces. We’re definitely listening to Sam’s playlist because on every one of his playlists, this song shows up.

  “I’m so sick of all these rules with you,” Sam says.

  I lean down and peel a blade of grass off my ankle. “What rules?”

  “What rules? We can’t hold hands in public. We can’t call each other boyfriend and girlfriend. We can’t talk about the fall. Seriously, what the hell do you think is going to happen when we go to college? Do you want to just keep on hanging out this summer and then forget everything when you go to Boston?”

  I have a feeling this is not the right time to tell him that, yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking would happen. Instead, I say, “Can we please not talk about the future right now?”

  “No, okay? I want to talk about it. I’m tired of you always saying what we can and can’t talk about. And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell me exactly what you think we are, because I’m curious.”

  “I don’t know what to . . .” I pause. If I had any buzz going on before, it’s completely over now. “We’re just having fun.”

  “I’m not having any fun,” Sam says as he brushes a flower petal off the keyboard.

  I reach over to touch Sam, but he jerks his arm away.

  “Can we talk about this later?” I ask. “Let’s get out of here, go to the party.” I glance into the backyard. “Where’re your sister and Janine?”

  “You’re not driving,” Sam says flatly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Weren’t you drinking in Rachel’s room? I’ll drive your car and then just chill at the party.”

  “Whatever.” I reach into my bra for my key. “But it’s not like you’re my mom.”

  “As if she’d care,” Sam mutters.

  My entire body goes cold.

  “Fuck you,” I say, chucking my key onto the ground and storming toward my car.

  A few minutes later, as the four of us are heading down Hollybrook Lane, Sam and I still haven’t said a word to each other. I’m sitting in the passenger seat, my hands tucked under my thighs, staring out the window. Sam is gripping the wheel, bouncing one of his knees up and down, and occasionally glancing in my direction.

  As he flicks the blinker and turns onto Route 19, he says, “You told me the thing with your mom was no big deal.”

  I refuse to look at him.

  “Just so you know,” Sam says a few minutes later, “I actually did want to go to the prom.”

  I refuse to speak to him.

  “What’s going on?” Rachel asks from the backseat. “We’re totally picking up on some tension.”

  When neither of us respond, she adds, “What’s up with that hockey puck? It’s staring right at me.”

  When we still don’t respond, Rachel snorts. “I can see you two are going to have a blast at this party.”

  I continue staring out my window. Sam continues gripping the steering wheel.

  As soon as we arrive, I head straight for the alcohol. Sam doesn’t even come into the house with me. He cuts around to the back porch because some of his friends said they’d be there, most likely getting high. Generally that’s where I’d be, too, except, first of all, I’m so mad I don’t want to be anywhere near Sam and, second of all, weed makes me giggly. Since the last thing I want at this point is to giggle, I go in search of vodka.

  Not that I’m this pothead alcoholic or anything. When I first got to Brockport, I smoked cigarettes and even stashed some weed in my room. My grandparents didn’t know about the weed, but they jumped down my throat about the cigarettes. For the most part, I gave them up. By spring of junior year, I was so busy with a play and driver’s ed and an SAT class, it was actually hard to find time to chill out.

  But then, toward the end of last year, Aimee broke up with her surfer boyfriend and moved to Florida without telling me. I was really upset, and I smoked up with this drug-dealer guy at school and got suspended for the rest of the year. Naturally, my grandparents freaked out. We finally agreed that I’d give up the weed and they’d stop threatening to send me to rehab.

  I haven’t exactly told them I still smoke and drink at parties. The problem with my grandparents is they only see things in black and perfect, pristine white. Ever since my plane touched down last January, they’ve been on this mission to convert me to the perfect side of things. What they don’t understand is that, first of all, they can do all the converting they want, but I’m still the same person deep down, and, second of all, you can be a good person and still have fun now and then.

  Okay, I really need vodka.

  Rachel and Janine disappear into the living room, where hip-hop is playing and girls are grinding and boys are drinking beer on the couch.

  “Have you seen Chastity and Trinity?” I shout to some guy in the hallway.

  “Who?”

  “Identical twins.”

  “You mean Drunk and Drunker?” He waves his hand to the left. “They’re in the kitchen.”

  As I’m heading down the hall, I pass these sliding doors that open into the backyard. Sure enough, there’s Sam and some other kids, sprawled in lawn chairs, smoking cigarettes and passing around what looks like a fat joint. I don’t linger long enough to tell whether or not Sam is smoking because I don’t want anyone to invite me out. I’m too mad to even consider talking to Sam right now. I understand he was angry, but he didn’t have to corner me like that. And I can’t believe what he said about my mom.

  “V!” Trinity squeals. “What’re you drinking?”

  “Nothing yet,” I say.

  I glance around the kitchen table, where it looks like everyone used to be playing beer pong but now they’re so drunk they’re just sloshing balls into one another’s cups. Trinity and Chastity are at one end, along with two guys I’ve never seen before. At the other end, there’s the goalie that Rachel used to go out with, some red-haired girl, and Amos Harrington, who I’ve barely talked to since he brought me the puck the day after I got hit.

  “Where’s your other half?” Chastity asks, throwing a Ping-Pong ball in my direction.

  “What other half?” I ask.

  Trinity and Chastity glance at each other.

  “You need to get drunk,” Trinity says.

  As she wobbles over to the counter to mix me a vodka and cranberry, I scoop up the ball and toss it toward Amos. He catches it with both hands.

  I pull up a chair between the twins, and for the next hour or so, we drink and chat and flick balls around the table. People wander in and out of the kitchen. Rachel and Janine appear in the doorway, but as soon as they see Rachel’s ex, they rush back down the hall. I finish my drink, and Trinity makes me another. I can feel Amos smiling at me. My face is flushed, but I’m feeling good. I’m having fun. I reach across Trinity and splash a little more vodka in my cup.

  By this
point Chastity is sitting on one of the guy’s laps. His name is Gavin. His hands are inching closer and closer to her boobs, and whenever they kiss, they’re making these sucky-slurpy noises.

  “Hey, Chas,” Trinity says sleepily. “That’s what beds are for.”

  We all crack up. I can feel Amos watching me. I pull my hair back from my face and twist it into a loose knot.

  After a while Chastity and Gavin go in search of a free bedroom. Once they’re gone Trinity rests her face on the table and closes her eyes. The red-haired girl and the goalie head toward the living room, trailed closely by the other guy. Which leaves Amos and me at opposite ends of the table, rolling a dented ball back and forth.

  Damn.

  This is dangerous.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” I stand up and brace myself against the counter.

  “I’ll show you,” Amos says, pushing back his chair.

  Damn.

  I forgot how hot he is. Stocky but muscular.

  Damn.

  I am way too drunk for this.

  “You don’t have to get all . . .” I’m trying to remember that word for a guy doting on a girl and opening doors for her, but my brain is so fuzzy the only thing I can think about is how Amos and I hooked up at that party in March and he grabbed me toward him, pressing his lips hard against mine.

  “I don’t have to get all what?” Amos whispers in my ear.

  We’re standing an inch from each other, and it’s obvious there’s lust going on. I can feel it between my legs, and as Amos steps closer to me, I can feel it between his legs, too.

  “You’re looking hot tonight,” Amos says.

  His breath smells like alcohol and wet cigarettes, but it’s okay. In fact, it’s turning me on.

  “Bathroom?” I ask meekly. My hair slips out of the knot and falls past my shoulders.

  Amos takes my arm and steers me through the dining room and into the bathroom. Before I can say anything, he’s inside with me and I’m locking the door and we’re making out. I’m leaning against the sink and we’re rubbing our bodies together and he’s grabbing my boobs and I’m grabbing his butt and he’s just reaching down to unzip his jeans when someone knocks at the door.