by Paula Garner
Meg came my way and sank into the sofa next to me, holding a beer. “Hey, Otie.”
“Mary Margaret, are you drunk?” I was trying to be funny; “Mary Margaret” was actually her full name, and it’s what her mother always called her when she was in trouble. Once Meg got Mary Margaret-ed for dropping an f-bomb while yelling at basketball on TV. Her dad rushed to Meg’s defense. Oh, come on, Karen — you didn’t see the call! His foot was on the line! It was total bullshit!
“Ugh, my mom.” Meg stared into her bottle, then took a sip.
Ugh? I couldn’t tell if that meant her mom was off-limits, or if she was bringing her up because she was finally ready to talk about her. “How’s your mom doing, anyway?” I asked gently. “I’m sorry about . . . that situation.”
She picked at the label on her bottle. “She’s not doing so great. She’s still kind of messed up. From . . . you know.”
Oh God. Because of what happened with Mason?
“She has depression and . . . kind of a drinking problem.” She glanced at me and I felt kind of sick. Jesus. That’s not how Meg’s mom was at all, apart from all the wine geekery among our parents. She was a full-time social worker and did volunteer work, and she was always busy, always moving quickly, always had a loud and ready laugh.
“So why would you want to . . . ?” I trailed off, realizing how callous my question was.
She sighed. “Live with her, you mean? I don’t want to, not really. My dad is the stable parent, as my therapist would say. He thinks it would be better if I were with my dad, despite . . .” She gestured with her beer bottle, and I knew she was encompassing all of Willow Grove. “And he’s right. I know he’s right. But . . .” She bit her lip. “I don’t know if I could really live back here. Sometimes I feel like I’m just fucked either way. And like I’ll always be fucked, you know?”
As I searched for a reply, the music changed and I became aware of all the voices around us. I was so absorbed in Meg that I’d almost forgotten where I was for a minute. I wished I could find my way to just hugging her, but I was too aware of all the people milling around.
And then people were tugging on her and trying to get her to go play some stupid game.
She leaned toward me so I could hear her. “Come with.”
I looked away, irritated. “Yeah, no, thanks.”
She rolled her eyes. “Why did you even come, if you don’t want to be with people?”
“I didn’t want to come! You wanted to come.” I shifted away from her. I felt defensive, like an outcast in a roomful of the socially adept, of whom Meg was a member and I wasn’t.
“Well, excuse me,” she sort of yelled over the music. “You know, it’s not easy, thinking about starting over at a new school. I thought I should take advantage of the chance to get to know some people. Is that so terrible?”
I actually had not considered that. “No! It’s just . . . not my idea of a good time.”
“Well, what is your idea of a good time?”
I shrugged. “What’s Jeff’s idea of a good time?” Why? Why do I allow myself to speak? “Is he allowed to play kissing games, too? You modern couples . . .” Ugh. Nice job, Mueller. Not only was I an epic drag, but now I was sort of an asshole, too.
“I’m sure he’s having a good time. He’s a lot of fun.”
What did he do that made him so fucking fun? Tap-dance and tell jokes? Pass out Hula-Hoops and bubble gum? If there was one thing I hadn’t been since Meg arrived, it was fun. “Well, no offense to him, but I think parties are pretty stupid.”
Her eyes flashed. “Well, why don’t you go home if you’re having such a terrible time? Don’t let me stop you.”
This was so unexpected, and stung so sharply, that a familiar burn bloomed behind my eyes and all I could do was stare at my legs and try to recover.
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” I could barely hear her over the music, but I was pretty sure that was what she said. She laid her hand on my shoulder and leaned closer. “Otis. I didn’t mean it. I just — I feel like I’m disappointing you.”
I couldn’t even meet her eyes; the last thing I wanted was for her to see mine threatening to spill over.
“I’m not the same girl you used to know, Otis. Okay? She doesn’t exist anymore.”
She stood up and headed for the stairs. I don’t think five seconds passed before I got up and went after her. Dara sat in the corner, rotating a cap between her fingers, her pale blue eyes following me.
Meg, of course, had no luck finding her way out of the house. I found her circling through the dining room into the kitchen. “Where’s the stupid door?” she wailed.
“Come on,” I said. I held out a hand for her to take, wanting desperately to make things right with her. She only hesitated a second before she reached out. I took her hand and led her through the living room and the foyer and out the front door.
It was like stepping into paradise. The cool night smelled of earth and tree blossoms and smoke. A pearl sliver of moon flashed in and out of the branches of the trees as they rustled in the breeze.
“There’s a gazebo in the backyard,” I said.
She headed that way, pulling away from me. I followed her, wishing she hadn’t let go of my hand. When we reached the gazebo, we sat on the wooden bench inside, the strains of music from the house faint against the drone of the crickets or cicadas or whatever the hell bugs were doing their mating calls.
Meg took out her phone. “I’m going to ask Shafer for a ride home.”
“Meg, come on. Wait,” I said, moving closer. She was leaning forward over her phone, opening a gap in the top of her dress. The round of her breast glowed in the moonlight, making my heart speed up. “Can we talk?”
She let out a breath, an almost-laugh. “That’s sort of the problem, Otis.”
What the hell did that mean? “I thought you wanted to talk,” I said. “To figure some things out. There’s stuff I’d like to figure out, too, you know.” I didn’t want her to leave, so I pressed where I might not normally have gone. I leaned my head in front of her, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You were everything to me, and then you left and I never heard from you again.” I made a what the fuck gesture with my hands.
“I know.” She said it softly and turned her eyes downward. “I don’t blame you for hating me.”
I sighed in exasperation. “I don’t hate you, Meg. I just want to understand.”
She kept her eyes on her lap. “There are things you don’t know, Otis. And if I tell you, it will change how you feel about me.”
“It will not. That’s ridiculous.”
“Don’t be so sure. Your mom hates me.”
I stared at her. “Are you for real? My mom doesn’t hate you! How can you say that?”
She looked at me. “What do you know about how Mason died?”
I blinked. “What?”
“What did your parents tell you? Do you know how he died?”
“He — he choked.” I stood up and started to pace. “Why are you doing this?” What the hell was she after? When Meg said she wanted to talk through some stuff, I guess I was thinking she meant about our past and our complicated feelings for each other. Not this. Why was this necessary? Was I not sad enough for her? Had I not suffered enough? I was supposed to be trying to move on, not dredging up the past.
“This isn’t going to work, is it?” She said it quietly, as if she were talking more to herself than to me.
“What isn’t?”
She shook her head slowly. “This was a bad idea. All of it.”
“What was?” Panic crept into my voice. Did she mean coming back at all?
She stood up. “I’m going.”
“With Shafer?”
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”
“Shafer’s been drinking, in case you didn’t notice.” I stepped closer to her. “Let me call my dad.”
She bristled. “God, Otis, I’m not going home with your dad! You go with your dad. I’ll see you l
ater.”
And she turned and headed across the grass to the house, the white flowers on her dress bright with moonlight.
I watched her go, my head spinning.
Why did she bring up those things about Mason? Why did she want to relive all of that? What the hell did it matter anyway?
I wanted to go home. But I wanted her to come with me — I wanted her to want to come with me. What did it say that she’d rather hang out with a bunch of drunk strangers than be with me?
Someone turned up the music — any louder and the neighbors would probably call the cops. I texted Dara to let her know I was leaving, but didn’t hear anything back. I thought about going inside to check on her, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was an outsider, an interloper, a joke.
So I stood up and walked home. It took approximately forever, which gave me a lot of time to obsess about what Meg might be doing.
When I got home, I raided the kitchen, as usual. If I were a drinker, I’d have poured myself a stiff one to drown my sorrows, especially after seeing the bottle of sriracha left sitting on the table. Instead, I ate peanut butter out of the jar, then a hunk of cheddar, and finally some mint chip ice cream. I kept my phone at hand, but no messages came.
I wished I could talk to Meg, wished I could fix everything that had happened that night. I thought about her question — what was my idea of fun? — and it bothered me that I didn’t have an answer. Maybe I just didn’t think in terms of fun. Honestly, apart from a few rogue moments, the last time I really had fun was probably before Mason died. When Meg was still here, living next door. Looking back, it was almost surreal, how good we had it.
She moved to town the spring I was ten. Our parents hit it off from day one, so we were together all the time while they barbecued, played their music, drank their wine. You know what was fun? Pushing each other on the tire swing in her backyard. Building forts in my basement with sheets and blankets and flashlights. Making snacks and watching TV on rainy days. Catching fireflies. Toasting marshmallows. Stargazing.
Kid stuff, I guess. But the truth was that most of those things still sounded fun to me. More fun than parties with obnoxious people and endless vodka and stressful games. Maybe it was true I hadn’t changed. Maybe I had case of arrested development. Maybe I was still just a kid.
When I went upstairs to bed, I overheard arguing from behind my parents’ closed bedroom door. I hesitated in the hallway, then crept closer. My parents didn’t really fight. Usually their version of fighting was my mom yelling about something and my dad trying to placate her. But this time he sounded a little worked up, too.
“I’m sorry!” he said. “It seemed like a good thing, a nice gesture.”
I heard a drawer slam, then my mom’s voice: “How could you do that, Scott? Without even asking me first? You think that’s my idea of a vacation? Being stuck in a crucible with the people who stress me out the most?”
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Vacation, as in Michigan? Had my dad invited Meg and her dad to Michigan? I could barely begin to process what that would mean.
“You’re right, I should have asked first. But I’d had a couple of beers and Jay and I were having a really good time and Michigan came up and it just happened.”
“Just when it was starting to get easier, being there again. This would have been our best year there since . . .”
She still couldn’t say it. Since Mason died.
My dad said, “I’m sorry, okay? What do you want me to do, un-invite them?”
Mom made an exasperated sound. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing you can do. I’ll just have to deal with it.”
And then there was silence.
I tiptoed into my room, deciding not to bother letting them know I was home. My mom would check for me soon enough anyway. I collapsed onto my bed and thought about Meg and me, together in Michigan again. It seemed too good to be true. Maybe this would give us the chance to work things out, to recapture the way we used to be. Maybe it would convince her to come back to stay. I closed my eyes, thinking of all the things we loved about Silver Lake, all the things we did together when we were there: The fireworks on the Fourth of July . . . Kissing behind the raft where our parents couldn’t see . . . Walking over to the swampy area at the end of the road, looking for frogs and turtles . . . Going to the Sugar Bear for ice cream . . . Taking the rowboat out to the water lilies so Meg could lean over the side and pick them . . .
That was my idea of fun.
And dammit, it used to be hers, too.
IN THE MORNING I TEXTED DARA TO LET HER know I was ready to swim whenever she was. Coach Brian was out of town, so there was no club practice that day. It would just be Dara and me — oh, the joy. I waited to hear back, wondering if she was hungover or maybe even still partying. Maybe I’d be able to go back to sleep for once. But no, she texted back within a couple of minutes and said she’d pick me up in ten.
I waited for her under the magnolia. A thick mass of pale gray clouds obscured the sun; if they didn’t clear, it was going to be a chilly practice.
She pulled into the driveway without the usual drama. She wasn’t in a chatty mood, which wouldn’t make it easy for me to get information about the remainder of Meg’s evening. I tore the wrapper off what I assumed was meant to be my breakfast, since I’d found it on my seat — an all-raw spirulina and chia seed bar.
“So what time did the party wrap up?” I asked her, biting into the bar. It tasted like seaweed blended with crunchy dirt.
“I went to bed a couple hours ago,” Dara said. “They were still going. Some of them are still there now.”
I wanted desperately to know if Meg was still there when Dara went to bed, or if she’d left with someone, or what she’d been doing . . . But Dara didn’t say and I didn’t ask.
The pool was practically deserted — it was just Dara and me and a few others who hadn’t been at the party. Dara cut me a lot of slack. She gave me an easy set, swam a few laps herself, then got out and lay on a lounge chair with a towel for a blanket.
When I finished my set, Dara was asleep. I thought about sneaking over to the office to apply for a lifeguarding job. I liked the idea of making some money, but I liked even better the idea of having an obligation that would force me to spend some time away from Dara.
I took one more look at her, and, maybe because her sleeping appearance was deceptively serene, I decided to go for it.
In the office the director of the swim program — a frizzy-haired, middle-aged woman — told me she needed swim teachers more than she needed guards, and since I was a swimmer, was I interested? I had already envisioned an easy summer of sitting up on the guard chair, wearing the whistle of authority and getting tan, but then she mentioned that teaching paid better and I came around. As long as my references were good, I’d have a five-hour training session on Wednesday and then I could start.
Dara was awake when I came back. “Wanna get some breakfast?”
I rapidly calculated that not only was I very hungry, but that maybe if I told her about the job in a public place, she wouldn’t yell or kick the shit out of me.
At the pancake house, I tried again to get Dara to tell me about the goings-on after I left the party. I waited as she squeezed lemon into a glass of tomato juice, then dropped the lemon in. She picked up the Tabasco sauce and shook some into the drink. When she reached for the pepper, my patience ran out.
“So what happened?” I asked. The waitress set a tall glass of chocolate milk in front of me — one of my few Dara-sanctioned pleasures owing to its magical formula of carbs, protein, and electrolytes. “Did Meg stay long?”
She shook her head. “The guys crawled all over her like maggots on trash. At some point she scraped them off, and next thing I know, she’s fucking crying on Abby’s shoulder.”
Crying? On Abby’s shoulder? “Do you know why she was crying?”
Dara sprinkled salt into her tomato juice and stirred it. “Girls like that are always crying for no re
ason. Makes me sick.”
I leaned across the booth. “What do you mean, ‘girls like that’?” I was still bristling about the “maggots on trash” comparison.
“Drama queens,” Dara said, sipping her juice and meeting my eyes. “Girls who feel sorry for themselves even though they have everything.”
She was baiting me and I was taking the bait, even though I knew that in Dara’s mind, if you had two arms, you pretty much had everything.
“And of course Abby totally fell for it and was all, like, hugging her.” Dara banged the spoon on the side of her drink so hard I couldn’t believe she didn’t crack the glass.
Our food came. I was pissed off at Dara but starving. I drowned the waffle in syrup and slid my over-easy eggs on top, stabbing the yolks to mix with the syrup and sprinkling the whole thing with salt and pepper. “You don’t even know Meg,” I said, not looking up.
“You don’t know her, either,” Dara said pointedly, pulling the top off a whipped butter packet with her teeth.
I wanted to argue, but I didn’t have much supporting evidence. “Who’d she go home with?” I asked.
“Abby.”
I glanced up at the irritation in her voice. “Abby was drinking,” I said, torn between feeling guilty that Meg got a ride with someone who’d been drinking and feeling mad at Meg for doing it.
“Oh, please. She walked around with the same beer all night. Abby’s not a drinker.”
We ate without talking for a few minutes while I tried to figure out how to tell her about the job. Finally I just said it. “So I’m going to be teaching swim lessons.”
Dara looked up, a single blueberry speared on her fork. “What?”
“I was just gonna see about a part-time job guarding, because I could use the money. D’Amico said I should apply. But teaching lessons is what I was offered. Just very part-time,” I added, finishing more with a whimper than a bang.
She set down her fork. “When did this happen?”
“At the pool. While you were sleeping.” I took a bite of bacon and wiped my fingers on my napkin.
She sat back and stared me down. “What hours?”