by Nick Burd
“Ned, Peggy,” she chirped as she came over. “How are you? So glad you could come.”
My mother offered up the salad. “This is for everyone.”
“Hello, Dana,” my father said. He said it in the overly cheery tone he reserved for people he didn’t like. “Great party.”
“Hank is over by the grill with the other hubbies. Feel free to grab a Bud Light and join in. They’re staring at the coals. Real man work, if you know what I mean.” My father walked off and Dana turned to me. “And how are you, young man? You high school graduate, you. Did you have a graduation party? Because if you did, I didn’t get an invite and there’s a rule somewhere that says it’s not a party unless I’m there.”
“I didn’t have a graduation party,” I said.
“That’s right,” Dana said. “Like I said, how could it be a party if I wasn’t there?”
My mother laughed good-naturedly. “No, he really didn’t. Dade wanted to keep it low-key. We had a nice dinner at the country club and that was it.”
“Oooo, the country club,” Dana said. “I have naughty dreams about their seared tuna. I have similar dreams about the new chef, the one from Miami, but don’t tell Hank that. Muy caliente, if you catch my drift.”
I didn’t like Dana, but whenever I thought about how much I disliked her, I remembered that their daughter had died in a car accident. It was a long time ago, before we knew the Savages, before our neighborhood even existed. Her picture still decorated their house, photographs that they took off the wall of one home and hung in another long after the blond girl in them was dead. I thought of Jenny Moore and her parents and how grief seemed like a club we’d all join eventually whether we liked it or not.
“How’s your summer so far?” my mother asked.
“Well, my niece is staying with us for a while,” Dana said. “She’s from Los Angeles. Was having a bit of trouble and her parents thought some time away might be good, so they sent her to Aunt Dana.”
“What kind of trouble?” my mother asked.
“Drugs,” said Dana, drawing out the word as if lengthening the sounds could reveal greater wrongs. “Mostly marijuana. But other things too, I’m sure. Marijuana alone doesn’t make girls do the things she was doing. She’s a good kid, though. A little lost, but not too far gone. She’s sweet at the core. You can’t say that about everyone.”
Dana Savage nodded over to the back of the yard. There was a tire hanging from a tree, and three little boys were climbing all over it like monkeys, pushing it back and forth, falling harmlessly into the patch of dust that had formed under the tire and then climbing back onto it again. There was a girl standing against the tree. She was calmly watching the boys and sipping something from a red plastic cup. Her hair was a dirty blond with a subtle rust-colored tint and styled in a pixie cut. She wore a white skirt and a gauzy white top, cloud remnants clinging to her skinny body.
“I’m sure she’d like some friends,” Dana said. “She doesn’t know anyone.”
“Go say hi, Dade,” my mother said with a gentle push on my shoulder. “Introduce yourself. She’s pretty.”
I hated that my mother sometimes tried to push me toward girls, but I also knew it was nobody’s fault but my own, so I walked off without a word. The girl didn’t notice me until I was two feet away. The kids on the tire gave me a wary glance before going back to their rambunctious game. For some reason the first thing I thought to say was, “What are you drinking?”
“Did my aunt send you over here to ask me that? Because if she did the answer is Diet Coke.”
“She sent me over, but not to see what was in your cup.”
“Are you a tattletale?” she asked.
“God no.”
“Good. It’s a rum and Diet Coke with three limes. My signature drink.”
“I don’t know what my signature drink is,” I said. “My name’s Dade. I live a couple of doors down.”
“I’m Lucy.” She smiled and put out her hand. It was small and soft.
“You really should get a signature drink,” she said.
“Can I have a sip?”
“Sure.” She held out her cup. “Knock yourself out.”
I took a swig. A liquory burn blossomed in my chest. It was strong. I took another swig and handed it back to her.
“Can you get me one?” I asked.
“Come with me. The liquor cabinet’s inside. All they have out here is beer and shitty wine. My aunt is drinking white zin. Talk about a gagfest.”
I followed Lucy up to the house. She walked with a burdened gait. I guessed that Lucy was the kind of kid who often rolled her eyes at adults and sometimes just flat-out ignored their attempts to strike up an innocent conversation. Dana and my mother noticed us heading inside and waved. I waved back, but Lucy went on, pretending like she didn’t see.
Hank Savage had basically converted the basement into a sports bar. Flags bearing the logos of multiple football teams hung everywhere. A glass case of ceramic sport figurines took up an entire wall. An insanely large flat-screen television dominated the corner of the room. A small bar area took up one side of the room, and under the counter was a tiny beer refrigerator. The glass cabinets above were stocked with shitty liquors, cheap vodkas and rums with names I’d never heard before. There was a football-shaped cookie jar. Lucy got plastic cups from the cupboard and ice from a small compartment in the fridge.
“Classy joint, right?” Lucy said, gesturing around the room. “Flags and figurines and all that shit. God, sports are lame.”
I laughed. “Yeah, they are.”
“Glad you agree,” she said, putting ice into the cup.
“Dana said you’re from California.”
“I am,” she said. “Los Angeles. My parents are both in the industry. Before you ask, they’re no one famous. And I’m not one of those kids who skip class and spend the day doing coke in the dressing rooms at Fred Siegel or anything.”
“What’s Fred Siegel?”
“It’s where Satanists shop.” She laughed at some private joke. She poured a liberal amount of rum into the cup, followed by a splash of soda. “This kid from my high school used to tell people he was a Satanist. He was always talking about how the devil was his biological father. It was so ridiculous. Meanwhile, his parents were super religious. His dad, like, wrote books about how to have a Christian marriage. People are so weird. Should we see what brand of moron they’re showing on MTV?”
We took our drinks and sat on the floor in front of the television. Lucy fooled around with the remote control for a few seconds, trying in vain to turn the thing on. The television was so big that I felt like it was looking back at me.
“So you’re gay, right?” she said distractedly.
I almost spit out my drink. Her bluntness caught me off guard. She just went on fooling with the remote control. How did she know? I didn’t know how to respond. She finally figured out how to turn the television on and promptly turned it to MTV. Girls in bikinis on a beach having a conversation about a boy they all liked. Lucy looked over at me and laughed.
“What? What’s up with the look of shock? Are you not out yet?” A look of genuine concern crossed her face. “Oh my God. Do you not even know it yet? Do you have a girlfriend? Am I, like, rocking your world right now?”
“Jesus God, no. I know that I’m—”
“Gay?” she finished. “Well, that’s good.”
“Yeah. I just . . . I just never have talked about it because there was never really anyone to talk about it with.”
“Really?” she asked.
I nodded slowly. It occurred to me then just how much of my life was lived inside my head, invisible to the outside world.
“Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m a lesbian.” She seemed more into what was happening on the screen than the subject at hand. “It’s not a big deal. Not to me, at least.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here. My parents aren’t cool with it. I
had to convince them to not to send me to this camp where they brainwash the gay out of you. They sent me here instead.”
“I’ve seen stuff about those places on TV,” I said. “They scare me.”
“Do your parents know about you?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I’ll tell them after I’m out of the house. I don’t want to have to be around them after I tell them. I don’t think they’d ever send me to a camp or anything, but I’m sure it’ll be awkward.”
“Totally terrifying,” she agreed. “You got an escape plan?”
“Yeah. Going to Fairmont College in the fall. It’s in Michigan.”
“I know where Fairmont is. That’s a good school.”
“I guess,” I said.
“You smart?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a yes,” she said. “I’ve got another year of high school. Then I’m taking off. Getting away from my parents, from California. I don’t wanna end up giving stress tests to people outside the Beverly Center like some zombie, like some people I know.”
The girls on the show were now at a party in a glass mansion that looked out over the ocean. Guys in Abercrombie shirts and backward baseball caps trolled around the pool. The camera kept panning to the girls’ panicked and insecure faces. The girls kept talking about a boy named Cross, about how hot he was. The boys took their shirts off and started throwing each other into the pool. A helium-voiced girl sang along to a rock track in the background, and whatever canned beverage the girls were drinking was scrambled by some post-production visual effect. Cross grabbed the prettiest girl by the waist and pulled her close. She giggled as he whispered something in her ear, and the soundtrack soared.
“I’ve slept with girls like that,” Lucy said. “They always taste like spearmint gum. You got a boyfriend?”
“There was a guy named Pablo, but that’s over now.”
“Why is it over?” she asked.
I thought about it for a few seconds before I spoke. “I guess you could say that he just couldn’t handle it.”
“You just fool around buddy-style, right? God, been there, done that. Ninth grade. Vanessa Shimmer. She was a violin prodigy. Played with symphonies all over the world. I was so obsessed. Now she lives in Rome and bones the sons of shipping moguls. Do you do him or does he do you?”
I took a drink. “Um . . . he does me.”
She smiled. “I figured.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Nothing. Just did.”
I didn’t know whether I should be offended.
“Do you really think you’ll be giving stress tests outside of that center?” I said during the commercial.
“I was being silly,” she said. “I don’t think that’ll happen. What about this Pablo guy? What’s his story?”
“Well, he’s got a girlfriend. And it was never really about love. I just realized that recently. And I want to be in love with someone.”
I thought of driving through the countryside with Alex, of the songs on his stereo and the fireflies out the window. I pulled out my phone to see if he’d called or sent me a text. But there was nothing.
“Well,” she said in a quiet voice, “that’s a good thing to figure out. Some people run into that problem and don’t get that until it’s too late.”
“It was too late a while ago.” A smile crept up on my face. “There is this boy that I really like. He’s really cute.”
“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”
“Alex Kincaid.”
“Sounds like a doctor from a soap opera. Does he do brain transplants? Does he have an evil twin? Or is he the evil twin?”
“He works at a taco joint.”
She gave me a stern look. “From now on you should tell people he’s a restaurateur or something like that. A taco joint doesn’t cut it.”
I laughed.
The boys on television were wrestling by the side of the pool. A little window popped up in the corner of the screen and one of the girls started talking about which guy she thought had the best body.
“Oh my God,” said Lucy. “I think I went to preschool with that girl. She used to eat crayons.”
We stayed like that for almost an hour. We laughed at a commercial that featured a hapless twentysomething guy fleeing from a horde of women gone mad by the scent of his $3.99 shower gel and joked about ordering an eight-disc best-of grunge box set. I even took out my phone and made like I was going to call. I wanted to make her laugh, and I did. Every so often Dana called our names from the top of the stairs. I was more than a little tipsy and looking around the Savages’ basement when I noticed the picture on the mantel amongst the plastic figurines of famous athletes. It was a gold-framed eight-by-ten picture of the Savages’ deceased daughter. It looked like it was probably a high school picture. She was blond and wide-eyed and smiling hugely. I could almost hear her voice echoing off the walls of my brain, boys’ names and weekend plans.
“Did you know her?” I asked.
Lucy followed my gaze up to the picture. “Lindsay? Of course. She was my cousin.”
“What was it like?” I asked.
She turned and looked at me. “What was what like?”
I found myself wishing I hadn’t brought it up. “No one close to me has ever died. And all that stuff about that girl who disappeared has me thinking about it. It’s just that it’s everywhere. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Only a matter of time until what?”
I thought for a moment. “Until I experience it, I guess.”
“Well, you’re lucky if no one you’ve known has ever died,” she said. “I’ve known a few people who’ve died. It’s more weird than anything. Suddenly someone just isn’t there anymore. We have these ideas of heaven and hell and all that, but what is that? What is that? That’s why people like my parents get involved in crazy religions and start becoming other people. We’re all trying to avoid it. Or to at least make it not so bad. But no one’s ever going to come up with anything big enough to smother death. It’s stupid to even try.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I remember when my parents weren’t the way they are now,” she said, staring blankly at the television. “They got involved with this crazy church about three years ago and now they’ve totally changed.”
“I think that same thing about my parents. I remember when they were different.”
She looked over at me. “What’s the matter with your parents?”
“I can’t even describe it,” I said. “I think maybe they’re just sad. But I’m not sure. There’s more to it than that. I don’t quite understand it, but I know there’s more.”
“Story of the world,” she said.
A voice called our names from the top of the stairs. This time it was my mother.
“Let’s go,” Lucy said, standing up. “We can’t stay down here forever.”
We dumped what was left of our drinks down the sink of the Savages’ bar and went upstairs. My mother and Dana were in the kitchen amongst a gaggle of other housewives. My mother handed me a tray of deviled eggs and I took them outside, leaving Lucy to help her aunt with the condiments. I sat the tray on a picnic table where several younger kids were sitting around eating marshmallows from a bag. They eyed me suspiciously, waiting to see if I was the adult they were expecting to come out and tell them to knock it off.
“How are them marshmallows?” I asked.
They all stared at me. One little girl finally nodded, her mouth full of goo. My father was across the yard standing separate from the group of men taking the meat off the grill. He was holding a Heineken. He looked like a guy who’d just cleaned up after several dirty years outside of society, a recently released prisoner or someone just rescued off a deserted island. I felt a little spike of sympathy cut through all the anger I felt toward him. When he saw me, he slowly raised his hand and gave a little wave. From across the distance, I waved back.
I woke up that night to the sound of
my phone ringing. I crawled out from under some dream whose details vanished the moment I woke up, and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. It was Pablo.
“You sleeping?” he said.
“It’s three a.m.,” I said. “What do you think?”
“I’m outside your house.”
“Why?” I asked. “What are you doing?”
“Just come outside,” he said. “I need to see you.”
I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I didn’t say anything for a long time. Light from a streetlamp outside was coming through my window. I’d forgotten to close my blinds. I imagined him slouched in his little pickup under that same light, his phone up to his ear while his other arm dangled out the open window.
“I don’t want to see you,” I said. “I feel like there’s nothing left to say.”
“Come on, dude. Don’t be like that. If you don’t come down I’ll ring your doorbell over and over until you do.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said.
“Try me.”
“You’re a jerk,” I said. “I’m coming down.”
There was a small part of me that expected to open the front door and find he wasn’t there, to get a giggling call back from him and Judy and God knows who else saying that it was all a joke and that I should go to hell. But he was there, parked in his little gray pickup truck down a bit on a darker stretch of the block between the glow of two streetlights. The chrome on the grille and around the headlights glinted in the night and made his truck look like some dangerous reptile biding its time in the shadows.
The passenger door was unlocked. Pablo was slouched in almost exactly the same pose I’d imagined in my room. Some generic modern rock track was playing softly on the stereo. His eyes were fixed straight ahead and far off into the distance. He didn’t even blink as I slid in the cab and shut the door behind me.
“You have three minutes,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Good to see you too,” he said. He still didn’t look over at me. “Just wanted to say hi. See what’s up.”
“You woke me up, man.”