by Sarah Dessen
“Lost my tailpipe here last spring,” Rogerson explained as we bumped along. “Real pain in the ass.”
I nodded as we crested a huge crater, my head rising up to whack the ceiling so hard it brought tears to my eyes. Finally we pulled into a short dirt driveway, parking right outside a white double-wide with a rusted swing set and a warped baby pool in the yard.
“You better stay here,” he said to me as I reached to open my door. “I’ll be just a second, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, glancing around me. I could see only woods, a huge crescent moon overhead, and another trailer—this one yellow, and more rusted—through a few scrubby pines to my left.
The trailer door opened as Rogerson walked up the steps, revealing a stocky blond woman with a baby on her hip. She had her hair pulled up on top of her head, Pebbles Flintstone—style, and was wearing a faded Gucci T-shirt and jeans. The baby reached out for Rogerson as he stepped inside and she shifted him to her other hip, his pacifier falling out of his mouth and down the steps in the process. She didn’t notice, and he was still reaching for it, his face twisted in a cry, as she let the door fall shut.
I sat there in the car for eighteen and a half minutes. I knew this because the glowing blue clock on the dash was right in front of me, and I felt like I was watching my life tick away, minute by minute, in a place where I could stay forever and no one could ever find me. I was so fixated on this that I jumped, my heart racing, when Rogerson tapped on the windshield in front of my face.
“Sorry about that,” he said as he got inside. “Got held up.”
“It’s okay,” I said, “but I think I want to go—”
And then he leaned over and kissed me, hard, his hand reaching behind my neck and holding me there, his mouth smoky and sweet. I kissed him back with that huge moon shining down on us, and thought the whole time of that clock, still counting down, minute by minute, hour by hour, forever.
We ended up back in the Arbors, cutting through side streets and past the country club to pull up in front of another house, where cars were also lining the street. Rogerson parked behind a silver Lexus, then reached under his seat and fiddled around for something, his brow furrowed, until he found it.
“Bingo,” he said in a low voice, and as he opened his clenched fist I saw a ceramic bowl in his palm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Baggie, packing the bowl quickly, then handed it to me.
“Oh, no thanks,” I said. “Reputation and all that.”
“It’s your choice,” he said, shrugging. “But if I were you, I’d take a hit. You’re gonna need it.”
“For what?” I said.
“Just trust me.” He reached in his pocket for a lighter and a flame jumped up between us, illuminating both our faces in a warm, yellow light. “Okay?”
I’d been taught since sixth grade about Peer Pressure and Bad Influences and Just Saying No. But for all he knew, I could be the kind of girl that smoked. I could be anything.
I lit the bowl and took a big drag, feeling the smoke tangle in my throat, making me cough hard, fast. Tears came to my eyes as I handed it back to him, already feeling something change in me, as if I was slowly falling into warm water, one inch at a time.
When we finished the bowl, Rogerson tapped it out, stuck it back under the seat, and leaned forward to kiss me again. It felt good, and I could have stayed there doing that forever, I was sure, but he pulled away and smiled at me.
“Ready?” he said.
“Sure,” I replied, not even knowing what I was getting into.
“Then look right here,” he said, holding up a finger, and when I did he squirted something in my mouth that tasted strange and fresh, surprising me so much it made me gag, then start coughing again.
“Whoa,” he said, pounding me on the back. “Watch out there. Sorry about that.”
“What is that?” I said, still coughing.
“Breath spray,” he said, shooting two quick squirts into his own mouth. “Breakfast of champions.”
“Next time,” I told him, still coughing, “warn me.”
“Gotcha,” he said. “Let’s go.”
We got out of the car and started up the driveway, walking around three Mercedes and a Jaguar on the way. As we walked Rogerson was making fast business of tucking in his shirt and smoothing back his hair. This struck me as funny, for some reason.
“What are you doing?” I asked him. Everything seemed kind of fuzzy and mild, as if I was actually standing off to the side watching but not really involved.
“It’s the hair,” he said seriously, pulling it back at the base of his neck and fastening it with something. “It scares them.”
I laughed out loud and it sounded strange, fast and sharp: Ha! “Scares who?” I said.
And at that moment he reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it just as above us, up the rolling curve of the thick green lawn, the huge front door opened and I saw Bobbi Biscoe, star of a million For Sale signs, standing there. Up close, I could see she had the same dark coloring as Rogerson—I found out later that she was Greek—and the same thick, curly hair.
“Rogerson Biscoe!” she called out. She was smiling but her voice sounded angry, irritated, and the contrast was strange. Rogerson pulled me close to him, locking his fingers tighter into mine. “Where have you been?”
“Mom,” Rogerson said.
“You were supposed to be here to meet and greet,” she scolded him between clenched teeth—still smiling—as we got closer. She was in a short black cocktail dress and heels and in person she looked older than her picture. There was a half ring of pink lipstick on the mouth of the glass in her hand, which she took another big gulp of as she narrowed her eyes at Rogerson. “Your father is not pleased, and for once I do not feel like sticking up for you when—”
“Mom,” Rogerson said again, calmly, “this is Caitlin O’Koren.”
She looked at me quickly, as if she hadn’t even noticed I was standing there, then made no secret of looking up and down once, as if sizing me up.
“Is Margaret O’Koren your mother?” she asked me, and I swallowed hard, aware of how dry my mouth was.
“Yes,” I said, standing up straighter. “She is.”
She nodded, finishing off her drink and reaching around her back to stick it on a small table behind her, then took her fingers and fluffed a small piece of hair over her forehead, drawing it out. “Well, come in, then,” she said to Rogerson in a tired voice, pushing the door the rest of the way open. “He’s in there.”
The house was enormous, the entryway opening up into a huge room with high cathedral ceilings, where the voices of the fifty or so people chatting and eating canapes rose up and mingled overhead into one musical sort of buzz. There was a thick pack of people straight ahead of us, all centered around an older man with ruddy skin who was holding a drink and appeared to be telling a joke that hadn’t yet reached the punch line.
“I’ll be right back,” Rogerson said into my ear, then let go of my hand and started down the stairs, leaving me there. There was a sudden loud burst of laughter as the joke finished, and then his mother appeared at my elbow.
“Caitlin, honey, come help check on the spinach phyllo,” she said smoothly, hooking her arm in mine and walking me down a short hallway to the kitchen, where a group of people in white shirts and black ties were all bustling around arranging fruit and cheese on various platters. Everything seemed to be going in fast forward, while I felt like I was hardly moving, my feet and head heavy and thick. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Um,” I said. My tongue was sticking to my lips but I wasn’t ready to risk having to do anything with my hands, so I said, “I’m fine.”
“Well,” she said, lowering her voice as if speaking to me confidentially, “I need another.” She walked to a counter, bypassing two caterers arguing over clam strips, and picked up a bottle of wine, pouring herself a big glass. “Ingrid, sweetheart, what’s happening with the phyllo?”
“It’s coming, ma’am,” a short woman in jeans, by the oven, said, twisting a dishtowel in her hand. “Just a minute or two.”
“Marvelous,” Mrs. Biscoe said dryly, taking a sip of her drink. “It’s to die for, that phyllo,” she said to me. Under the bright lights of the kitchen I could see the tiny imperfections of her face: small lines by her eyes, the uneven slope of her nose. These things were fascinating, and I found myself completely unable to stop staring at them. “Costs an arm and a leg, but what are you going to do?”
I nodded, having lost track of the conversation. Where was Rogerson? He’d dumped me, stoned, with, of all people, his mother. This had to be some kind of cruel test. He was probably already long gone, laughing hysterically about me with his real friends while I tried somehow to find my way home.
“So,” Mrs. Biscoe said, fluffing that same piece of hair again as she jerked me out of this paranoid reverie, “how did you meet our Rogerson?”
There was a sudden crash in the corner of the kitchen as something was dropped, and someone cursed. Mrs. Biscoe turned around, looked over as if mildly interested, and shook her head.
“At a party,” I stammered. “We met at a party.”
“Oh, yes,” she said absently, as if she wasn’t really listening, still looking at something over my head. “He likes those.”
The door opened behind me, letting out two caterers and in Rogerson, finally, who looked across the room at me and smiled. I had this wild thought that he was the only one in all this chaos who was just like me, and that was comforting and profound all at once.
“Hey,” he said as he came closer, reaching to grab something off a passing tray and pop it in his mouth. “Doing okay?”
“Rogerson, darling,” Mrs. Biscoe said, reaching over to smooth her hand over his hair. “Did you apologize to your father?”
“Yep,” he said, still chewing. “Man, those triangle things are good, Mom.”
She looked at me. “Phyllo,” she explained, as if proving a point, before letting her hand drop onto his shoulder.
“Oh,” I said. “Right.”
“We’re gonna go out back, okay?” Rogerson said, as his mother took another sip of wine, distracted. The kitchen was so noisy, full of voices and clanging, oven doors slamming shut, but she didn’t seem to hear any of it.
“Yes, okay,” she said, snapping to and standing up straighter to fluff that one bit of her bangs again. “But stay close. Right?”
“Right,” Rogerson said, reaching for my hand and winding his tightly around it before leading me through a group of caterers to a door across the room. When I looked back I could see Mrs. Biscoe standing in front of the swinging kitchen door, framed for a second against the movement and color of the party. The door swung out behind her and for a moment it was like everything froze and she was just there, suspended. Then the door started to swing back and she stepped through, disappearing like a dove in a magician’s handkerchief.
Rogerson took me back to the pool house, where he lived. His room was probably the neatest I’d ever seen in my life. It looked like you could run a white-gloved fingertip over any surface and never find one fleck of dust, with everything having a place and an order, from the CDs stacked alphabetically on the shelves over his bed to the way the towels were folded in the bathroom. It was the kind of place where you were conscious not to disrupt the neat vacuum lines on the carpet or the perfectly plumped pillows—sitting at exactly forty-five-degree angles—on the couch.
I would have assumed it was a maid’s doing, but the first thing Rogerson did when we walked in was bend down to fix the base of a coatrack by the door so that its stand fit squarely in the middle of a tile there. This was all his.
I went to use the bathroom—marveling at the shiny chrome sink and fixtures, the sharp cleanliness of the mirror—and when I came out someone was knocking at the door.
“Hold on,” Rogerson said, starting back across the room, but the door was already opening and Rogerson’s father—the older man I’d seen at the center of the party, telling jokes—came in. He was wearing a golf sweater with a little gold insignia on it and dress pants and loafers. He couldn’t see me.
“I told you to be here at seven o’clock,” he said to Rogerson, crossing the room with smooth strides. His face was pinkly red, flushed.
Rogerson glanced at me, quickly, and the look on his face—strange and unsteady—made me step back instinctively into the darkness of the bathroom, my hand resting on the cool countertop there. “Dad,” he said. “I—”
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Mr. Biscoe said, and right as he crossed my line of vision, his face now beet-red, he suddenly reached out and hit Rogerson, hard, across the temple. Rogerson’s neck snapped back reflexively, and he lifted a hand to shield himself. “When I say you are to be somewhere, you are there. Understood?”
Rogerson, hand over his face, nodded. I felt my stomach turning. I wasn’t even sure I was breathing.
“Are we clear?” Mr. Biscoe bellowed. I could see one vein, taut, sticking up in his neck. “Look at me.”
“Yes,” Rogerson said, and his father reached over, irritated, and snatched his hand away from his face, gripping his wrist. “Yes. I understand.”
“Good,” his father said. “Then we’re clear.” He dropped Rogerson’s wrist, then reached up to hook a finger around his own collar, adjusting it, before turning back toward the door. I kept my eyes on the tiled bathroom floor, studying the colors: black and white, over and over, like a chessboard.
I stayed still until I heard the door slam, and Rogerson stumbled backward to the bed, sitting down and spreading his fingers over the side of his face. I walked out of the bathroom and went to sit beside him, but he wouldn’t look at me.
“Rogerson,” I said, turning to face him. “Let me see.”
“Don’t touch me,” he said in a low voice. “I’m fine.”
His eyes were so dark, the place where he’d been hit flushed and red. “Please,” I said. “Come on.”
“Don’t,” he said, but when I reached over and put my hand over his he didn’t shake me off. “Don’t touch me.”
“Rogerson,” I said, slowly pulling his hand away. I could feel his pulse beating at his temple under my forefinger, the skin red and hot there.
“Don’t touch me,” he said, so softly this time, and I took my finger and traced his eyebrow where he’d taken the brunt of the hit, the same way Cass had done to me so many times, her face changing as she saw again what she’d done. “Don’t.”
“Shh,” I said.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered. “Don’t.”
But he was already leaning in, as my own hand worked to cover the hurt, his eyes closing as his forehead hit my chest and my finger traced the spot again and again that I knew so well.
Rogerson
CHAPTER SEVEN
I never told anyone what happened at Rogerson’s. But from then on, we were together.
We didn’t talk about it: It was just understood. In that one moment I’d seen some part of him that he kept hidden from the rest of the world—behind his cool face, his bored manner, his hair. I’d edged in past it all, and now I found my own place there.
The next Monday, after cheerleading practice, I walked outside to find Rogerson parked in front of the gym. He was leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette, waiting for me. I hadn’t asked him to pick me up. But there he was.
“Oh, my God,” Kelly Brandt said as we came to the main doors. She and Chad had made up and exchanged “friendship rings.” She kept flashing hers around, wanting everyone to ask about it. “What is he doing here?”
“I told you Caitlin had a big weekend,” Rina said slyly, poking me in the side. I’d told only her about our date, and as much as she might have wanted us to both date football players, she loved the idea of me with Rogerson. It was just forbidden and wild enough to appeal to her.
“That was him you were talking about?” Kelly said incred
ulously. Outside, Rogerson flicked his cigarette and turned around, leaning his head back to look up at the gray November sky. “I mean, Caitlin, he’s...”
“He’s what?” Rina said, as a pack of soccer players crossed between us and Rogerson, jogging. They were all blond or dark-haired, tall and athletic, moving in perfect synchronicity. When Rogerson came back into view he was watching them pass, his hair blowing in the wind, an expression I couldn’t make out on his face. “Tell us what he is, Kelly.”
“Well,” Kelly said, lowering her voice and brushing her hair back with her friendship ring hand, “I’ve just heard some stories, that’s all. He’s been in trouble, you know. Like with the police. I mean, I have this friend at Perkins Day, and she said ...”
But I wasn’t even listening, already pushing through the doors into the cold air. Rogerson stood up from where he was leaning when he saw me. He had told me himself about his “long stories,” and I didn’t care. I myself had no stories of my own yet, but I was ready. More than ready.
That first week, whenever I thought about him, I remembered brushing my finger over his eyebrow, tracing the hurt, trying to give back what his father had taken away. Now I’d take that bit of Rogerson and hold it close to me. That fall, as I struggled to leave Cass’s shadow behind once and for all, he was just what I needed.
From that day on, Rogerson was suddenly just there. He drove me home every day. He came over from Perkins at lunch to take me out and called me every night—usually more than once—and then again before I went to bed. On Fridays he came to my games, home or away, and stood off to the side of the bleachers, watching me cartwheel and cheer while he leaned against the fence, smoking cigarettes and waiting for me.
We never really went on “dates,” exactly: With Rogerson, it was all about being in motion. Going from party to party, place to place. Sometimes I stayed in the car, but more often now I came in and was introduced. To the college guys in the dorm room with the huge Bob Marley poster and the couch that smelled like rancid beer. To the woman who lived in that trailer and her little boy, Bennett, who sat quietly on the floor, playing with a plastic phone as she weighed bags of pot on a digital scale. And to so many others, whose faces and names I would never remember. They blurred together, weekend after weekend, as Rogerson made his rounds.