Wait.
Drunk?
It takes way more work than I expect to crack one heavy eye open as the weight next to me shifts.
“I was wondering if you were ever going to wake up,” she says.
I shift away, nearly falling off the side of the bed before my eyes even adjust.
What the hell?
I blink as fast as I can, and I see her: all long brown hair messy down her shoulders, the shirt I was wearing last night clinging to her curves. I see her, but the pieces aren’t clicking together.
Nothing about this is in focus.
“What the hell?” I say it out loud this time. Fuck. The vibration of my own voice makes my head feel like it’s crumbling.
“That’s one way to say good morning,” she says. Her voice is thick with sleep, and I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or thinks it’s funny.
Because I don’t know her.
I press my hands to my head, trying to make sense of this. Then to my chest, thankful that I’ve still got my V-neck undershirt on. It’s damp with what I think is sweat.
I don’t know if the sweat belongs to me, or this girl.
I let my hand carefully slip under the sheet that covers both of us and my legs are bare.
No.
No. No. No.
As if on cue, she pulls her legs out from under the thin cotton and to her chest. She rests her arms on her kneecaps and lays her head on them.
“That was fun, Oliver,” she says. “But I think everyone is starting to wake up. We should probably get dressed.”
I swallow hard around the boulder lodged sideways in my throat and glance around the room.
My pants are on the floor next to the bed, the belt still in the loops.
I lean over and grab them while she fumbles around the thick bedding for her own clothes. I think.
I can’t…
I can’t make it make sense. No matter how hard I strain my brain, it doesn’t make sense.
“What happened?” I ask. I yank on my jeans, while still under the sheet. My voice is an unrecognizable scrape in my own ears.
She laughs, and the sound jolts through me. Because it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Every bit of this entire fucked up scene is wrong, wrong, wrong.
The laugh was not supposed to be hers. It should have been Paloma’s. But Paloma is gone, and I’m half-naked in a bed with a girl I don’t know.
“You’re adorable. I know I said that last night, but seriously, you’re too sweet,” she says. She walks her fingers up my arm like she’s climbing a ladder with them.
What the hell did I do?
I pull my belt tighter than normal. As tight as it will go before sliding the end of the leather through the loop and then pull myself up to sitting.
“We didn’t—” I can’t bring myself to form the words.
“You don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen. I know you and your friends are all D.A.R.E. team captains or whatever, but I’m not going to rat you out to them.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not what—it’s not possib—”
Her face falls a little, and I realize she thinks I’m insulting her.
She’s a beautiful girl.
A beautiful girl I don’t know.
A beautiful girl who is making my stomach lurch and my throat so dry it’s squeezing closed.
I swallow hard, trying to wet my throat enough to speak. It doesn’t help nearly enough, but I’m able to croak out, “I’m just a little fuzzy on the details.”
“I guess so; you must’ve had more to drink than anyone here last night. Ten times drunker than I’ve been on my drunkest night. I don’t know how, that skunk beer tasted like shit, I barely got a buzz.”
“I don’t drink beer,” I say. I struggle to make my voice sound as firm as I can manage. “I don’t drink at all.”
She rolls her eyes. “Look, Oliver, we had fun. Don’t worry so much. I’m not expecting you to be all, ‘Hey Tarryn, be my girlfriend.’ Give me a break. I know that’s not what this is.”
Tarryn. So that’s her name.
I remember her. I remember talking to her on the couch last night.
“Anyway,” she says. “It was fun. You were ... surprising.”
She smiles when she says it, and my hand instinctively goes to my mouth to hold in the chunks of whatever the last thing I ate that I know is on its way back up and out.
“I have to go,” I say. “Please just…”
I want to beg her not to tell anyone, but I can’t even believe she’s telling the truth. Nothing could have happened, right? This is all a joke by some asshole kids. None of this is real.
Right?
I leap out of bed and fumble around the floor for my shoes just as the bedroom door opens.
“Hey, T, we’re making a donut run. You—” There’s a guy standing in the doorway now, eyes darting between me on the floor looking for my belongings, and Tarryn half-dressed in the bed, wearing my shirt.
“Hey, you’re in my calc class,” he says with an oafish laugh and a shit-eating grin to match. “Alan, right?”
“Oliver, Oliver Wu,” Tarryn says.
I hang my head, wishing he could still think I’m Alan. Wishing I was Alan.
“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he says.
It’s not like that. Nothing happened.
I want to say those things. But I can’t move.
“Get out, Bryce,” Tarryn yelps. But she’s grinning like the goddamn Cheshire Cat.
“So no on the donut? All right then,” he says, still smiling. If he weren’t twice my size, and I could figure out normal motor function, I’d consider punching him in the mouth. Before he closes the door, he says, “You kids have fun.”
I find my shoes and slide them on without bothering to tie them.
“I have to go,” I repeat at the door.
“Wait!” Tarryn says. “Your phone.”
She hops off the bed, grabs the iPhone from the nightstand, and hands it to me. “I put my number in last night.”
I take it from her, scroll through to the T’s, and delete it. Then throw it out her open window.
But that’s just in my mind. In reality, I take it from her and slip it into my pocket without looking at it.
“See ya,” she says. She stands up on her tiptoes, even though she doesn’t really need to—she’s maybe an inch or two shorter than I am—and kisses me on the cheek. Her lips are soft, and it surprises me because I’d imagined they’d feel like barbed wire being shoved into my face.
“No worries, Oliver. Bryce isn’t going to say anything.”
I step out into the hallway. It’s full of vibrant wallpaper and shiny wood flooring that’s littered with trash and crushed red cups.
Each step I take down the staircase reverberates with the bass of the shitty music that’s now playing from somewhere in the house.
It’s sensory overload.
I press my hands to the sides of my head and hustle down the steps the rest of the way.
I don’t know if anyone notices me flying out of house, and I don’t really care at this point. If I’m honest, part of me still hopes this is a dream.
Outside, in the blinding sunlight, it takes me a few more seconds to get my bearings and even know which direction is home. I blink a few more times, and I remember ... I remember taking a walk last night. Paloma. I start to take my phone out of my pocket, but then shove it back down.
I could call Ryan. Or Mom. Or someone.
But how the fuck could I begin to explain something I don’t even understand myself?
I strain my brain as I walk. Searching every bit of gray matter.
I remember Paloma holding my hand.
I remember her laugh. And how it was the most beautiful goddamned sound I’d ever heard.
I remember the stupid song she’d insisted was her favorite.
I remember feeling so damn disappointed that she had to leave, but I was able to walk her home.
I rem
ember the room spinning.
I remember saying thank you as Tarryn had helped me up the stairs.
I remember the feel of the thick wallpaper under my palm as I’d slowly made my way up the steep steps.
What I don’t remember is saying yes.
To any of it.
I don’t remember saying yes to my pants on the floor, or the sweat on my T-shirt.
I don’t remember a yes.
9.
The walk home is long as hell. The sun is blazing hot and every step feels like my weight is sinking into the cement. It’s work to walk. It’s work to stay upright at all. At one point, I have to reach down and cup my kneecaps, pulling them up and out, forcing my legs to move, to carry me home. Because, of course they wouldn’t work right; the rest of my body has betrayed me already anyway. I squint at the street sign in the bright sun, hoping I’m still going the right way.
I need sunglasses.
Or a lobotomy.
By the time I make it to La Brea Boulevard, at least it’s semi-autopilot. When we were kids, Ry and I used to walk to the Safeway on this end of town every day, buy a shit ton of candy and an Arizona Iced Tea, and walk back home. I know exactly how many olive trees line this side of the street before I duck through the broken part of Mr. Perkins’s fence to take a short cut. I know just which pieces of sidewalk to sidestep because they have a crack on them, and, obviously, at nine, I stepped around those each time to avoid breaking my mom’s back.
I could close my eyes and still make it home.
The trouble is, I have no clue what the hell to do when I get there.
I don’t know what I’m walking into. If my parents are frantic … if they’ve called the police. I don’t stay out all night without a call. It just isn’t me.
Not to mention I haven’t passed by a mirror yet today.
I rake my hand through my thick hair. It’s matted to the left side pretty bad. I touch my right wrist, but the rubber band I usually have to tie my hair back isn’t there.
Do my eyes droop as much as they feel?
Do I look as hung-over as the pounding in my head tells me I am?
Hungover. Hungover.
I work the word around in my mouth, silently. Not able to actually say it out loud.
It doesn’t make any sense. What happened last night? I don’t even drink.
When I make it home, my shirt clings to me with sweat, and my head is pounding even worse than it was when I woke up. I struggle to get enough purchase on the slanted driveway that leads up to my house.
Mom’s got the spring-themed wreath up on the door— the one she’d painstakingly copied from some craft website—with ribbons and twine and tulips, and the porch is full of oversized rabbits and hand-painted Easter eggs. I don’t remember those being out here the last time I was home. Which was yesterday, but feels like weeks ago. She must’ve gotten up early this morning and decorated. I bet my younger brother Kevin even helped.
While I was—what was I doing?
I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time again. It’s almost noon.
There’s notification bubbles all over the screen. Probably messages from Ryan, and my parents, and I don’t click on any of them. Instead, I turn off my phone.
I grasp the door handle in my slick palm, running a dozen excuses over in my head.
Part of me really thinks I can just sneak in unnoticed and slip upstairs.
But the realistic part knows that it’s not just me missing, but also my car.
When I push through the door, I expect immediate screaming and questions. Instead, Mom stops halfway up the stairs and smiles.
“Hello, Oliver,” she says. She repositions the laundry basket on her hip. “How was it?”
My forehead crinkles. “How was what?”
Mom pushes her hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “The party, Oliver. How did the band do?”
“Oh,” I say. I push my shoes off with my toes at the heels, and then kick them to the side. “Was fine.”
“You look tired,” Mom says. “You never get any sleep over at Ryan’s. I don’t know why you bother to stay the night there.”
“I am tired.” You have no idea.
“All right, well, say hi to your brother, then get some rest,” she says. “Oh, and clean your room today. Your closet is an overflowing disaster.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it, Oliver. Your dad says if it isn’t done he may take your car away.”
Take it. Take everything.
I straighten my posture the best I can, clear my throat, and say, “I will.”
She climbs up the rest of the stairs and disappears down the hallway.
Mom and Dad are mad that I haven’t cleaned my room.
That’s it.
Because they trust me. Because Oliver Wu is trustworthy.
Fuck.
In the family room, Kevin is parked in front of the TV watching Pokémon and barely glances over when I say hello to him.
“What’s this one about?” I ask him.
Kevin turns for a split second. He looks like a miniature version of my dad. Dark eyes and jet black hair that’s cropped close to his head.
“Ash is in the Unova League and is trapped by a water-type Pokémon,” Kevin says around a mouthful of Froot Loops.
“Nice.” I grab a rubber band from the junk drawer and pull my hair back just as the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard opens. Dad wipes his flip flops on the mat outside, then takes them off before stepping into the house. I hold my breath the entire time.
“Oliver,” he says. “Where’s your car?”
One thing about my dad, he doesn’t dick around. He doesn’t ask nicely like Mom does, and he knows when I’m full of shit. Always.
“It’s still at work. Ryan picked me up,” I say. It’s not a complete lie. Maybe he won’t smell it as one.
Dad walks to the fridge and fills a tumbler with ice and water. “I’ve got to run to Costco later, so we’ll get it then.”
I nod, even though I’m beat and don’t want to drive. It’s never a suggestion with Dad; it’s always an order. Sometimes I feel like he’s extra hard on me and Kevin since my mom is so laid back, and because he’s trying to do the job of two Asian parents. Mom pretty much goes along with whatever Dad says, not only because she’s on a mild dose of antidepressants ever since her breakdown after Kevin was born, but also because she doesn’t want to get cussed about in a language she doesn’t understand.
“I’m going to shower,” I say.
“And clean your room!” Dad calls after me.
10.
I can’t sleep.
It doesn’t matter which way I position the pillow over my face, or how I curl up, sleep is not happening. I’ve showered. I crammed all of the shit back into my closet like my parents had asked. I’ve taken half-a-dozen ibuprofen. But still, sleep just won’t come.
Closing my eyes feels foreign. Like an action that can’t be trusted.
I squeeze them tight and try the breathing trick my hippie grandmother said she uses. She has some medically prescribed marijuana in her version, but I still give it a shot.
Inhale through your nose for four seconds, hold it for seven, and exhale through your mouth for eight seconds.
I don’t find sleep, though.
Instead, I’m inside of Tarryn. She’s on top of me. My body goes rigid.
I jerk upright in my bed, not knowing if it’s a real memory or if it’s my imagination.
“Fuck,” I say as I slam my pillow back onto my bed.
My bedroom door creaks open, and it’s Ryan standing in my room rather than my dad like I expect.
My first reaction is to look down at my clothes, thankful that this time I have a T-shirt and sweats on.
“Hey,” I say. I pull myself up to sitting and keep my eyes trained on the carpet.
“Where the hell have you been?” Ryan asks. He nudges my shoulder and it rattles me more than it should.
“What?”
“Last night. You fucking disappeared.” He kicks my swivel chair away from my desk and plops down into it. “We waited for an hour for you at that shitty party. Some guy said you walked Paloma home and came back, but we couldn’t find you anywhere. You didn’t answer your phone, or our texts or anything. You’re lucky I told your mom you’d probably be staying at my house when I came to get your shit yesterday. Not fucking cool.”
“I was so tired,” I say, swallowing the acid that’s churning up into my throat.
“So what, you got a ride home?”
I give a quick, non-committal nod.
“You missed practice too.”
“Sorry, I passed out when I got home,” I say. I stretch like I’ve been sleeping and wonder if this is how things are going to be now. Me pretending. “Forgot we were doing that today.”
“You look like shit,” Ryan says.
“Thanks,” I say.
I grab the old bass that I’d first learned to play on from the foot of my bed and start plucking away. It’s horribly out of tune, but holding it is the only thing that feels natural right now.
“What happened with that girl anyway?”
I pause with my fingers on the frets.
“What girl?”
“Paloma, dude. How many girls you got?”
I shake my head and start playing again. “Nothing, man. I just walked her home.”
“And that’s it?”
“I said that’s it.” My voice drops a little.
“All right, easy. Are you coming to practice tomorrow? We still have your gear and shit over at Clara’s. You’re welcome for hauling— Wait, what are you playing? Is that—?”
My fingers go still on the strings again. I didn’t even realize until now that I was playing the song from last night.
The one that made Paloma laugh and grin and cover her face with her hands.
The one that we danced to.
I want to go back to that moment.
The last moment that everything felt safe and normal and right.
“Lame, dude.” Ryan smirks.
“Hey, fuck off,” I say, my voice thick with anger and confusion.
A Postcard Would Be Nice Page 5