“Maybe,” Carrie had answered, staring at the ceiling and wondering—worrying—what could be happening inside of her body at that very moment.
As the years began to pass, it made less and less sense to have a baby. First of all, Carrie and Frank were not compatible at all. Once the newness of married life had worn off, they realized they had little in common. Frank liked to read the newspaper, watch the evening news. He wanted to know Carrie’s opinion on the situation in Vietnam. Carrie hated to talk about the news—it only depressed her. Plus, they didn’t find the same things funny. They didn’t like the same movies or books. Frank’s awkwardness and nervousness around Carrie disappeared, taking away one of the few things about him that she had found charming. She no longer felt she had any sort of real power over him.
On top of that, they really couldn’t afford a baby. They owed money. To the furniture store. To the grocery store. To the landlord. Frank took to snapping at Carrie for spending too much on clothing and knickknacks for the house. Carrie would defend herself—she was only trying to make their home a happy one for him—but that was a lie, really. She wanted to make it happy for her, or at least bearable. The apartment was closing in on her. The landlord’s cheap paint job was starting to show its wear. The women in the courtyard had babies who grew into toddlers, and soon the women would spend their afternoons outside smoking and yelling at their children, whose shrieks and whines would travel up to the dingy, impossible-to-clean windows of Carrie’s second-story apartment. Carrie traded in the red wine for rum, partly because rum reminded her of Cuba, partly because it didn’t stain her teeth.
And then during the summer of love, when so many young people Frank’s and Carrie’s ages were dropping out, running away, rejecting all the norms that Frank and Carrie were clinging to, however poorly, Carrie missed her period for the second time and she knew. She knew before the doctor confirmed it with a big wide grin on his doughy face. The entire ride back to the apartment she stared out the cloudy window of the city bus and thought about what her parents would have thought. About what Juanita would say. They all had only known her as a teenager, of course. They would be properly scandalized until Carrie explained that she was a married woman now. A married American woman with TV dinners in the freezer and not a single bottle of agua de violetas in the house.
Carrie tried to make it celebratory. She cooked Frank a nice chicken dinner to announce the news, and when she told him, blushing even as she did, he jumped up from the tiny table in the kitchenette and embraced her so tightly she almost felt guilty for being so ambivalent about all of it. And that night after Frank was in bed, she crept out into the living room and then out the front door and onto the balcony that overlooked the ratty courtyard. Suddenly, panic threatened to overtake her. Her heart started to race and her throat was closing up.
Carrie took a deep breath. She thought if she inhaled deeply enough she might be able to smell the ocean, and this might calm her even though what she would smell wouldn’t be the real ocean anyway, but a poor and lacking substitute. She blinked into the dark night and clutched the balcony railing until the anxiety passed, though she couldn’t breathe away the sadness that came with it. Somewhere out there in the world was her real life, the one she should be living, but the waves that had pushed her along had pushed her out too far now, and Carrie knew that she was drowning.
JOAQUIN
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AMY OPENS THE DOOR SMILING BROADLY AND HOLDING a can of Milwaukee’s Best.
“Hey,” she says, and we kiss right there on the front stoop. Her lip balm tastes like cherries. When we finally pull apart, she leads me into the kitchen.
“My dad just bought a case,” she says, handing me a can of beer from the fridge. “He won’t notice if a few are missing.”
“Thanks,” I say, popping open the can. Amy leans against the kitchen counter and takes a swig, wiping her chin when some beer accidentally dribbles out of her mouth and down the front of her black T-shirt.
“I have a drinking problem, I guess,” she says, then laughs out loud at her own dumb joke.
“So you’re sure we have the place to ourselves?” I ask, half expecting Amy’s mom to walk in, sending me running for the window again.
“Yeah, they took my little brother to visit my grandparents in Houston, and they’re staying overnight,” she says. “I told them I wasn’t feeling well. Am I, like, the worst granddaughter in the world?”
“Yes,” I say, “but you’re the best girlfriend in the world.”
I immediately cringe at my own words. I’ve never called Amy my girlfriend out loud before.
“Just come over here, you big dork,” she says with a grin, and after another kiss she leads me into the den where we collapse onto the couch that has seen better days and make out for a little while. After, we drink a few more beers and Amy turns on MTV. Some big-haired band is on.
“This music is shit,” Amy announces.
“I know,” I say as the lead singer swivels his Spandex-covered hips and snarls. “How much do you think these guys are worth?”
“Millions, I’ll bet,” Amy says, rolling her eyes.
“We should drive up to Houston sometime,” I say. “Try to see a show.” Bands don’t come to Mariposa Island very much, and there aren’t that many local punk bands to speak of. I entertain the image of driving up I-45 with Amy in the passenger seat, playing whatever we want to on the tape deck.
“That would be cool,” Amy says, her eyes on the television, her nose wrinkled. “We should try before the summer’s over. Once school starts, I’m on fucking lockdown.”
“Yeah, school,” I say, my stomach knotting up. I don’t like thinking about late August, when LBJ High will be back in session and my future will be laid out like some puzzle I’m supposed to solve.
“What’s it matter to you?” Amy says, knocking her knees into mine and then sliding in a little closer. “You don’t have to go back.”
“Yeah,” I acknowledge. “But if I had to go back, at least I wouldn’t have to decide what the hell I was supposed to be doing next.”
Amy nuzzles in even closer, and one of her hands creeps across my ribcage, tucking in tight as she rests her head on my chest. Even this basic contact with her feels good, and a crop of goose bumps breaks out on my arms. I glance at the television. The group of big-haired dudes has been replaced by a different group of big-haired dudes.
“So … you’re still thinking California?” Amy asks the screen, her voice hesitant.
“Maybe,” I say. I lean in and kiss Amy on the top of her head. “I don’t want to think about it.” I want Amy—and Amy’s house—to be a refuge from Mami and Elena and everything that isn’t Right Now With Amy. Only Amy won’t let me. She tilts her face up to look at me.
“Just stick around for, like, one more year and then we can move to Austin together after I graduate,” she says. “We can go to UT.”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m humoring her or if I believe it’s a good idea.
Amy wants to go to the University of Texas and major in English, and after that, move to New York City and become a writer. She has it all planned out, and I bet she’ll do it, too. I try to picture myself hanging around Mariposa Island for one more year, working at El Mirador, waiting for Amy to graduate, then following her to Austin. It could work. I try to imagine telling Mami this is what I’m doing. Or Elena. Would they think it’s better than my leaving for California? Elena would probably just be happy that I was sticking around for one more year. One more year. One more year in that house with Mami skulking around, looking for a fight and me giving it to her—unless, of course, she’s passed out in her bedroom. And Elena. How the hell is she going to keep seeing this J.C. guy once summer ends and her imaginary babysitting family leaves town?
I take a big swallow of my Milwaukee’s Best and empty it. Immediately, I want another one, but the music video ends and Amy pushes herself up.
“
Wanna go to my room?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I answer.
When I think back to how Amy made me so nervous at the start of the summer, to that first afternoon when she asked me to come over and we made scrambled eggs, it almost seems laughable to me. I mean, I still get excited just being around her because she’s hot and funny and smart, but the truth is, at some point over the past few weeks, hanging out with her has become pretty comfortable. Even easy. We talk a lot about music and movies. Sometimes novels. A few times I’ve let things slide out about my family and Mami, even though I’ve kept the worst of it private. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just too embarrassing. The last time we hung out, I did swear her to secrecy and told her about the Callahans. She seemed sort of impressed by Elena’s ability to get around Mami’s rules, but I could tell she also thought it was weird—she described it as “semi-tragic.” At least she didn’t think my family was so strange we shouldn’t keep hanging out.
Tonight, seated close to each other on her bedroom carpet, we avoid the big stuff. “What about this one?” she asks, tossing me a cassette. Amy keeps all her cassettes arranged alphabetically in shoe boxes. Her stereo is on a little stand just a few inches off the ground, so it makes sense we always end up sitting in front of it like it’s our own version of a fireplace.
“That’s a good one,” I offer, and she pops it in. We paw through her cassettes, trading opinions and offering theories about what certain bands will do next and which ones might come through Houston. When I find the soundtrack to Grease, I hold it up and give her an accusing look.
“I don’t care what you say,” she responds in mock anger. “John Travolta is cute in that movie. And anyway, I was in junior high when I bought that.”
I dramatically roll my eyes. “Please,” I say. “Travolta is a poor substitute for a real man like myself.”
Amy laughs out loud and shoves me gently, and I fall on my back and pull her down with me. It’s what all of this banter back and forth has been working toward, and we both know it. My body starts to buzz with anticipation.
“Hey, baby, kiss me like Danny Zuko,” Amy says in a husky voice, like some vamp from an old movie.
“I’ll kiss you better than Danny Zuko,” I say, and she falls back down onto the carpet again. I slide on top of her, pushing away the worry that maybe I can’t kiss as well as her junior high dreams of Danny. Soon we’re a tangle on the shag rug, her soft mouth searching mine, her hips twitching underneath mine, making me crazy. Eventually she tugs me toward her twin bed.
Wordlessly, we slide underneath the covers. It’s like a warm cocoon. Amy reaches over and tugs the blinds on her window extra tight, shutting out the last sliver of daylight. I can hear the occasional sound of a car driving by, but soon my ears become deaf to anything but our breathing and the shifting mattress underneath our bodies. It’s not long before our shirts come off, and Amy’s bra, and our pants, somehow. Giggling, we kick our jeans to the bottom of the bed and mine slide to the floor.
The first time Amy and I had sex a few weeks ago, I’d somehow managed the courage to whisper into her ear, “I’ve never done this before.” She had—she dated Nico Ricci all of last school year. But she never acted like I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, even though I didn’t. She’d just said, “That’s okay,” and proceeded to help me figure it out until I forgot all about being embarrassed and nervous and instead was just thankful as hell that I was having sex with Amy Mitchell.
I kiss Amy again. My heart is hammering. My body is aching for her. I know I’m not, like, some sex expert now, but I hope, not for the first time, that I’m at least better at this than Nico Ricci.
“You want to?” I whisper, kissing her under her ear.
“I want to,” Amy says. “Do you?”
Hell, yes.
“Hell, yes,” I say.
Amy laughs and so do I. I close my eyes, breathe her in.
“Hey,” she says, “wait a sec.” I open my eyes as she tumbles out of bed in just her pale pink lace underwear. It doesn’t really seem like the type she’d wear but who cares because her ass looks amazing in it, and she runs across the room and finds a cassette and pops it in. Then she bullets back to the bed and slides in next to me. The first few familiar notes start playing.
“Is this Psychocandy?” I ask. It’s the first album from the Jesus and Mary Chain. One of my favorites. And Amy knows it.
“Yeah,” Amy says, pulling back to see my reaction. “I thought it would make it extra nice.”
A wide grin breaks out on my face, and Amy’s grin soon matches it.
“Definitely,” I say.
This girl.
The first track really kicks in—that melty one about honey. Jim Reid’s voice drones on in that cool way it always does, like he doesn’t give a shit but at the same time he does. I kiss Amy, wanting her so much.
And afterward, when we’re lying there catching our breath and glancing at each other and cracking up and smiling and kissing again, I wonder how in the hell I could even consider moving to California.
We doze for a while, relaxed in the knowledge that no one will catch us. When we come to, Amy sits up, rubs her face a little, and yawns.
“Do you have to leave soon? Please say no.”
I think back to my house that evening, before I’d left for Amy’s. Mami has been ignoring me since our blowup after church about a week ago. After several drinks over an early and nearly silent dinner, she’d escaped to her bedroom and was still in there, stewing, when I’d written her a note on the kitchen counter letting her know I was picking up a shift at El Mirador and would be home late. Elena had made some crack about not being the only one with a fake job. She had plans to hang out with J.C. tonight. I’d slipped her another five and told her to be careful at least three times before driving the Honda to Amy’s house.
“I can stick around a little while longer,” I say, glancing at her clock radio. It’s almost ten o’clock. I wonder, briefly, if I could just stay at Amy’s all night. Her parents aren’t coming back, after all. Elena pulled it off that one weekend, telling Mami she had an overnight babysitting gig. Hell, if I got home early enough tomorrow morning, Mami might not even realize I never came home at all.
“I’ll get us more beer,” Amy tells me, sliding out of bed and tugging on her underwear and T-shirt. I watch her leave and lie back, my arms folded behind my head, fantasizing about staying here with her until the sun comes up.
A few moments later, I hear the telephone ring and Amy answering it in the kitchen. I can’t make out most of what she’s saying, but I assume it’s her parents checking in from Houston. Until she yells my name.
“Joaquin, come out here. Hurry!”
My first thought is that somehow Mami has figured out I’m here, naked in a girl’s bed, but how could she? Even if Elena somehow divulged Amy’s existence—and I don’t think she would ever unveil a secret like that—she doesn’t know Amy’s last name or phone number. But then who is calling?
I slide on my underwear and jeans and race to the kitchen shirtless. Amy is holding the phone out to me, her face pained.
“Who is it?” I ask, not pausing to listen to Amy’s answer. I just put the receiver to my ear and say, “Yeah, hello?”
“Joaquin, it’s Miguel. From work?” Miguel the busboy. Introducing himself to me like he must be utterly forgettable and I haven’t worked with him for two years. That’s the kind of nice, dorky kid he is.
“Yeah, Miguel, what’s up?” I notice background noise again, like Miguel is calling from outside. Cars on pavement, horns honking. Loud shouts.
“Um, so this is sort of weird and a little bit awkward,” he starts. There’s a pause. More noises. I start to feel sick in the pit of my stomach. My heart is picking up speed.
“Where are you calling from?” I ask, raising my voice so he’ll be sure to hear me. Amy stands feet away, her brow furrowed. What’s wrong? she mouths. I shrug back. I don’t know.
“I’m
calling from a pay phone near Thirty-Fourth Street,” Miguel says slowly. He’s choosing his words carefully, I can tell. “I tried your house but no one answered, so I thought I’d try over there. I called the restaurant and Carlos gave me the number.”
“Miguel, what’s up?” I interrupt, half irritated and all worried.
“So there’s a party at the beach and your sister …”
I grip the receiver and turn my back on Amy, going as far across the kitchen as the phone cord will let me, which isn’t much.
“Miguel, is she okay?”
“Yeah,” says Miguel, “I mean … I think. She’s not hurt or anything. She’s just … she’s with that guy? I’m just sort of worried about her. It’s hard to explain, but … there’s a lot of booze here? And some other … shit?”
I want details but I also don’t want to waste time.
“I’m leaving now,” I say. “Keep an eye on her, okay? I mean, if you can.”
“Yeah, of course,” says Miguel, and I hang up on him without saying goodbye. Keep an eye on her. The idea is ludicrous, but I had to say it. I race down the hall to Amy’s bedroom, filling her in as she follows and I start hunting around for my shirt and shoes. I glance at the bed with its messed-up, faded sheets and sunken-in pillows, hardly able to register that just a little while ago Amy and I had been in our own world there, unbothered and happy and safe.
Now Elena needs me.
“I’ll come with you,” Amy says, searching for her own clothes. I want to tell her no, to keep her away from my fucked-up family. Shame courses through me at that thought, but it’s the truth.
“You don’t have to,” I say half-heartedly, because even though I sort of don’t want her there, I think I might need her.
“I want to come,” Amy says, not pausing to discuss it as she throws on some sandals. “Let’s go.”
The Liars Page 15