Fancy White Trash

by Marjetta Geerling

  Brian hands over our tickets, all four, and explains that Cody’s on his way in. Ever-present Kent tucks the tickets in a metal box. Kent’s tie matches Becca’s fingernail polish. Cody will have something to say about that, too. Kent smiles and says, “Have fun!”

  “Decorating was such a challenge,” Becca explains when we don’t move along fast enough. “You wouldn’t believe the restrictions. No tape, nothing can hang from the walls. It was a nightmare!”

  “Honey, it turned out great.” Kent lays a soothing hand on her back. “You were brilliant.”

  She dimples up and he leans in for a slow kiss. With tongue. We make our escape.

  The main decorations are balloons. There must be a million of them, in every color. Each table has a balloon center-piece and confetti scattered over it. I’ll give Becca “colorful,” but “brilliant”? No way. We settle at a table close to the dance floor and put down our stuff. Most of the tables are empty, but a few have been staked out by early birds like us. No one is dancing to the nineties grunge rock the DJ’s playing. Understandably.

  Cody was right about the dress code. I see two girls in jeans over by the buffet table, and behind them, three girls in what could easily be wedding gowns if they were white. They survey the food on the table and amble away without getting a plate. Must be the usual dance fare—stale sugar cookies and room-temperature cheese with unsalted crackers. Yum. Lucas Fielding, who’s hanging out with a couple of guys I don’t know, sees me from across the room and waves. I nod in his direction and lean back in the folding chair.

  “Drinks?” Brian asks, and Jenna and I both say yes.

  After he leaves, Jenna and I watch each other. The DJ has the music cranked so it’s hard to hear her when she asks, “How long have you known Cody?”

  “Forever,” I shout back over the thrumming bass of house music. “You?”

  “We met the first day of school.” I think she blushes, but it’s hard to tell in the dim lighting. It makes me mad, what Cody’s doing to her. He knows he’s not ever going to kiss her again, and here she is blushing over him. I never thought Cody would be one of those guys.

  Brian comes back with three tiny plastic cups filled with something red. It looks like it has lethal staining potential, so I pass. Brian bobs his head to the music. Jenna keeps checking the door for Cody. It is taking him a long time, considering how few people are in the hall. Maybe he’s not good at parking yet and drove out to the edge of the lot so he’d be less likely to hit someone’s car. That seems right.

  Jenna’s face lights up. I turn my head and see Cody come in the door. He has a tightly leashed quality—like something’s about to blow and only the strength of his will is keeping it in— that lets me know whatever the problem was, it wasn’t parking.

  “Cody!” Jenna meets him halfway and hangs on to his arm. “Wanna dance?”

  Cody shakes his head no, causing a few bangs to fall loose from the tight hold of his hair products. His eyes bore into mine. He jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.

  “Excuse us,” I say, taking him away from Jenna and apologizing to Brian with a look. “We’ll be back in a sec.”

  Jenna pouts but brightens up when Brian rises from his chair and asks her to dance. The DJ has thankfully moved into this century and is playing some classic Beyoncé. Jenna bounces out to the dance floor, Brian a few steps behind.

  We pass a few groups of people dancing and hurry past the photographer with his cheesy balloon arch. It looks like most of the people here are in the photographer’s line.

  “What is it?” I ask when we are finally in the hallway with the bathrooms. The music is still loud, but at least now we don’t have to shout. “What happened?”

  He pulls something out of his pocket and shoves it at me. It looks like a plug of some kind, only too skinny to be useful on any drain I’ve ever seen.

  His face flames. “I can’t believe this.”

  I turn the plug over. It’s cool and smooth in my hand. “What is it?”

  “It’s for”—he waves a hand behind him—“like if you’re clubbing and you plan to . . . hook up . . . this is to get”—he waves behind him again—“you ready.”

  “Huh?”

  Cody is the worst person to have on your team for anything like Pictionary or Charades. He does the same useless gesture again and says, “You know, you put it in . . . ”

  I really thought after years of watching my sisters screw up their lives, I couldn’t be shocked. But I am. Because what he’s telling me is that it’s some kind of butt plug. Butt plug. I drop the thing on the floor and back away from it. God, I hope it was new.

  “How do you know about these things?” It’s not like Cottonwood has so many happenin’ clubs, or any for that matter, that this kind of stuff would be common knowledge.

  Cody looks at the floor. “I, y’know, read stuff.”

  “Read stuff?” I can’t take my eye off the plug. Try to picture Cody using it and can’t.

  He kicks the plug aside with the side of his shoe. “Web sites, chats—y’know, the usual.”

  I had no idea the usual could be so unusual. I mostly surf the Net for soap-opera gossip in Computers whenever Mr. Edwards isn’t hovering over our spreadsheet assignments.

  “Where’d you get these”—I can’t say the words butt plug aloud—“things?” I ask. He may have read about them, but he wouldn’t bring them to homecoming. If they were his, he wouldn’t be upset.

  Cody’s shoulders shake, but it’s not fear this time. I think he might actually be mad. “When I walked in, someone pelted me with a handful of these things.” He pulls another one out of his pocket.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. I grabbed a few and came to get you. Abby, what should I do?”

  Now I see that he is scared, too. Mad and scared and trembling like it’s twenty below in here. A guy in a light-gray shirt brushes by us in the hallway, still zipping up his pants. Why do guys leave the bathroom before they’re completely done? I mean, really, no one wants to think about what else you forgot to do while you were in there. The deep bass of the music rumbles the floor beneath our feet.

  “We’re telling the chaperones,” I say. “That’s what they’re here for, right?”

  “No, I mean what do I do?”

  “We have to tell someone. This has to stop.”

  “Abby.” He falls back against the wall, making room for two girls with matching clutch bags to get by. “I was really looking forward to tonight. Jenna’s a nice person. Why doesn’t it matter that I came with her? I mean, I could see before, when I never dated, that people could think I’m gay. But I’m here with a girl. How can they do this when I’m here with a girl?”

  “I’m a girl,” I say. “If being seen with a girl was all it took, you wouldn’t need Jenna.”

  He waves his hand in a hopeless gesture. “But everyone knows you and I never . . . I mean, Jenna’s like a real girl. Not a friend girl.”

  “Oh, Cody.” I wrap my arms around him. He is too upset for me to get upset about not being a “real girl.” I don’t worry about my makeup as I smash my face against his coat. “I’m so sorry.”

  “What do I do?” he repeats into my hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I, too, am at a loss. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t know what to say. But it occurs to me that there is someone here who might. I detach myself from Cody and go get Brian.

  Chapter 21

  “What’s going on? ” Jenna asks . Cody and Brian have now been gone for almost an hour. She’s had five glasses of the red punch, and it’s stained her lips a berry color. She nibbles on her second stale sugar cookie.

  “Guy stuff,” I tell her, giving her the same answer every time she asks. Which is, like, every five minutes.

  Finally, the guys emerge from the dark hallway and join us at the table.

  “You okay?” I ask Cody, even though the music is so loud I’m not sure he can hear me across the table. But
he nods, eyes red and chin set in stubborn mode. Whatever Brian said moved him from sad to mad. Cody watches the dancers, not so many that the floor is crowded, as they jump up and down to some hip-hop song I’ve never heard before. All of the guys have lost their jackets, if they even started out with one, and there’s a pile of heels in front of the DJ.

  Without a word to anyone, Cody stands and makes his way through the dancers to the DJ. He yells something, and the DJ leans closer. They shout back and forth, then Cody returns. When he sits, he pulls his chair closer to Brian and whispers something in his ear.

  “What’s going on?” Jenna asks again.

  “Guy stuff,” I say, since Cody doesn’t answer her. His eyes are glued to the DJ, his hand on the back of Brian’s chair.

  There’s a loud shout at the entrance. The football players arrive as a group, pushing through the door. They are loud and happy, so I guess they won. Lots of people rush them, slapping backs and laughing. For the next twenty minutes, more and more people stream into the dance. Cody never takes his eyes off the DJ.

  The DJ takes the mike and says, “This one’s for Cody.”

  Jenna screams and claps her hands as the DJ slows things down with Fergie’s “Finally.” If this were a soap, Cody and Brian would rise and gallantly offer us their arms. The edges of the screen would go blurry as if we were in a dream. The song would play and we’d swirl in each other’s arms. Brian would dip me. I’d laugh.

  But instead, only Cody stands. He holds out his hand to Brian, who takes it. They walk to the middle of the dance floor. The DJ shines a light on them.

  “What’s going on?” Jenna asks, looking panicked.

  “Guy stuff,” I say, smiling. “Wanna dance?” I hold out my hand. Because in the few seconds it’s taken all this to happen, the dance floor has cleared. Only Cody and Brian are on the cheap wood floor, arms around each other, swaying to the music.

  The edge of the dance floor is crowded with spectators. I hate the way Cody’s shoulders are hunched, how he hides his face in Brian’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” I urge Jenna. “We can’t leave them out there alone.”

  She shakes her head, hand over her mouth. “Oh my God!” she says, and runs for the bathroom.

  Someone whistles at Cody and Brian, that hot-girl-walking by-a-construction-site whistle, and some other guys join in.

  “Fags, go home!” someone else yells, and I think I recognize Craig’s voice. I tense, ready to pounce on the next person who says anything.

  Instead, I feel a big hand land on my shoulder. “Can I have this dance?”

  Angling my head up, I see it’s Jackson. He’s smiling at me but looks as tense as I feel. There’s a leftover smudge of yellow face paint—one of the Coyote colors—under his left eye that matches the tiny yellow stripes in his button-down shirt.

  “Thank you,” I say, and he leads me onto the dance floor. We pick a spot close to Cody and Brian. I loop my arms over Jackson’s big shoulders, and he spans my waist with his hands.

  I force my shoulders to relax, move my feet to the slow beat, and listen to the words of the song. Of course Cody would pick this one. He’s always loved it.

  “Did you know he was going to do this?” Jackson’s breath is hot in my ear.

  “He brought a girl.” I have to stretch my neck to look up at him. “He wants that car so much. I can’t believe he’s doing this now.”

  “Me, either,” Jackson says. “Getting a car’s all he’s talked about since he was twelve.”

  I swallow hard. “I know.”

  Jackson sees my tears before I feel them. He pulls me up against him, and I burrow into his chest. The song is endless. We wait it out, rocking back and forth, Jackson’s cheek resting on top of my head.

  I turn so I can see Cody and Brian. They’re not dancing anymore, not really, just kind of standing in place, swaying. A few other couples have joined the dancing but keep to the other side of the floor.

  “I’m proud of him,” Jackson whispers into the top of my head. “Aren’t you?”

  I swallow down more tears. I don’t know why I’m crying, only that the sight of Cody with Brian means everything is different. What if it gets worse for him at school now? Our New York Plan may have to be put into effect sooner rather than later.

  “I love him,” is what I tell Jackson. “I want him to be happy.”

  “Me, too.”

  Finally, the song is over. Brian leads Cody back to our table. Jackson and I join them.

  “That must’ve been some talk,” I say to Brian, loudly. The next song is faster, and the dance floor quickly fills up.

  I’m ready to go. I am too heavy to dance to the light pop tunes the DJ’s playing. But Brian and Cody are deep in conversation. Jenna’s across the room at a new table with some other freshman girls. She’s careful not to look our way.

  Jackson scoots his chair until it bumps into me. “Thanks for that,” he says. “I didn’t want him alone out there.”

  I smile, still fighting back the something in my stomach that won’t settle. The something that won’t say this is a great thing for Cody. Jackson looks at me and I look back. He’s so different since his trip. Quieter. Focused. Kind.

  He leans in, all that new quiet focus directed at my lips. Chills break out on my arms just thinking about his kiss. I inch forward in my seat and lift my face toward his.

  “Jackson, there you are!” a familiar female voice screeches above the music. “I’ve been looking everywhere! I stop for one second to adjust my straps, and the next second you’re gone!”

  I don’t want to turn around and see her. I can tell by the stricken look on Jackson’s face that I won’t like what I see. Cody bought two tickets . . . one for Jackson. And one for Kait.

  “Hey,” I say, like I wasn’t thinking about kissing Jackson five seconds ago. The straps of her blue dress are clearly not up to the task of hefting her nursing-Stephanie breasts. I think there must be some double-stick tape involved.

  “What’re you doing here?” I knew she wasn’t totally in love with Gustavo, that moving in with him was a convenient way to escape our house, our family. But dating Jackson while Gustavo pays her electricity bill? A new low, even for her.

  “Abby, it’s not what you think,” Jackson quickly tries to explain, but I hold up my hand.

  “Don’t bother,” Kait says, no longer looking happy. “Abby’s not reasonable.”

  “I’m not—” I’m speechless. “You are a total—” I stand up and fling back the flimsy plastic chair.

  “Wait, let me explain.” Jackson grabs my arm, but I wrench it away from him.

  “Abby!” Jackson yells as I storm off. But I don’t turn around, because Rule #4 is blaring in my head. Don’t Need Him. Don’t Count on Him. Don’t think for one second that he needs you.

  Chapter 22

  “Abby, wait up ! ”

  It’s been less than five minutes since I came outside. The night air is warm and dry, and I’m worried that the sweat I feel building up under my arms will stain my dress. Not that I have anywhere else to wear it, but just in case I find out I’m really the daughter of deposed European royalty, it’d be nice to have the right outfit ready to go.

  “Come on, Abby. Let me explain.”

  I’m such a wimp, I’m actually glad to hear Jackson’s voice. But I pretend like I’m not and keep walking.

  “Where are you going?” His footsteps are heavy on the ground. He’s catching up.

  I pick up the hem of my dress and walk faster. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I have to get away from Jackson. Jackson and Kait. Kait and Jackson.

  “Abby, it’s not what you think!” He’s right behind me. His large hand lands on my shoulder and spins me. “Just give me a second here.”

  “No.” I stare at the top button of his shirt, the one directly below the hollow of his collarbone. “No, you don’t give me that stupid Rumi poem and then bring my sister to the dance and then almost kiss me right in f
ront of her. That’s not how it’s going to work. That’s not who I am.”

  His hand glides down my arm and circles my wrist. “It’s not like that.” He tugs a little, but I refuse to look up. “Please, Abby, give me a chance.”

  I haven’t seen Stephanie since Kait took her and moved out almost three weeks ago. I imagine her growing up like Shelby said, looking more and more like Jackson every day. His eyes, his nose, his blond-blond hair.

  I force my lips into a smile. “Jackson, it’s okay. I get it. You and Kait aren’t together now but you’ve got this, like, lifelong connection through Stephanie. Actually, it’s probably better this way. I’m sure you’ll be a way better dad than the Guitar Player. But it doesn’t matter if you’re sleeping with Kait now or not—I won’t get tangled up in this. I can’t.”

  Jackson’s chin firms up in what I always thought was a Cody-expression of intractability. “I’m not Stephanie’s father!” He doesn’t shout, but the force behind his words probably carries all the way back to the dance. “Why do you keep saying that? Has Kait said something?”

  I shake my head and try to free my wrist from his grasp, but he clamps on. I don’t know why I’m so sure he’s Stephanie’s dad except for the hints Shelby drops every chance she gets. The kicker, though, always comes back to the time line.

  “November plus nine months equals Stephanie’s birthday in August,” I tell him. “There’s no getting away from the facts.”

  “Stephanie was premature,” Jackson growls. He reaches out and manacles my other wrist. “Abby, be reasonable.”

  Reasonable? My breath speeds up like I’ve been running across the parking lot instead of standing here trying to get Jackson to admit that we are 100 percent over.

  “Kait wanted to get the Guitar Player back. That’s why she said he’s the dad.” It’s even understandable. Who wants to sit back and watch your ex-boyfriend date everyone in your family except you?

  Jackson lets go of my wrists and takes a step back. “I can’t believe you. This is all Shelby’s doing, isn’t it? Tell me, if Stephanie’s not premature, why did they give Kait special instructions for her care? You think the doctor, the nurses, the hospital—none of them can tell a preemie from a regular newborn? Really?”