Nine Inches

by Tom Perrotta

  Hoping to clear her head, she slipped into the narrow space between the hammock and the fire doors and did a few yoga stretches. She’d been trying to find a regular class for a while now, but somehow the timing was never convenient, or she didn’t like the teacher, or the other students were show-offs. It was too bad, because yoga never failed to cheer her up. She could feel the magic working right away — her muscles warming and loosening, the tension dissolving in waves, her mind emptying itself of negative thoughts — despite the cramped space, the lack of a mat, and jeans that hadn’t been designed for sun salutations.

  It’s just one night, she reminded herself. It’s going to be fine.

  Arching into upward dog, she was startled by the sound of soft voices and muffled laughter. It was coming from right in front of her.

  “Hello?” she called out as the fire door creaked open. “Excuse me?”

  The intruders froze in the doorway as Liz scrambled to her feet. They were a couple, a tall boy in a WESLEYAN LACROSSE shirt and a short, plump girl with multiple piercings and too much makeup.

  “Where did you come from?” Liz demanded. She’d been told that the fire doors were off-limits, except in case of emergency. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  The boy let go of his girlfriend’s hand. He was clean-cut and preppy, with the bland good looks that were his Gifford birthright. She was more of a townie, in skimpy denim shorts that did her thighs no favors, and an orange V-neck tee that was two sizes too small.

  “Mr. Waters told us it was okay,” the boy explained after a moment. He looked Liz straight in the eye, his voice calm and confident. “Jenna needed her medication.”

  The girl giggled a little too loudly. She had dirt on her knees and a big pink blotch spreading across her chest.

  “I have asthma,” she said. Something about the way she pronounced her ailment made Liz realize she’d been drinking. “Hadda go home for my inhaler.”

  Liz knew they were lying. She figured that they’d slipped out while Craig was sleeping and had hoped to slip back in undetected, but what was she supposed to do? Report them to the authorities? It was their graduation night, and they weren’t hurting anyone. And besides, how could she object to a teenaged tryst when her own daughter was home in bed with her boyfriend? She was a lot of things, but she tried not to be a hypocrite.

  “Just get outta here,” she said, waving them in the direction of the cafeteria. “Go enjoy your party.”

  •••

  A FLOCK of artsy girls descended upon the Chilling Station around one o’clock, packing themselves into the couches and chairs, talking in low, animated voices, as if hatching a conspiracy. They were a strikingly multicultural bunch, at least by Gifford standards — there were two Asians in the mix, a tall black girl who looked like a ballerina, and a round-faced, red-lipped Muslim girl in a headscarf. One member of the group was in a wheelchair; another wore a bandanna to conceal what Liz assumed was chemo-induced hair loss. The smaller of the Asian girls — she had an adorable teardrop face, and a streak of purple in her hair — sat on the lap of a butch white girl in a baseball cap.

  Liz didn’t recognize any of them from the soccer field; she figured they were denizens of the art room and the dance studio, editors of the literary magazine, officers of the Gay/Straight Alliance, members of the Performing Arts Club. Some of them were cute, but mostly not in a way that a high school boy would appreciate — not that all of them would be equally interested in eliciting the approval of high school boys — and they seemed collectively resigned to their wallflower status at the All-Night Party. Liz’s heart went out to them; she wanted to hug each and every one, to let them know they’d be happier in college, that the world was about to become much larger and more forgiving, at least for a little while.

  After they moved on, a handful of other visitors trickled in and out. A pair of identical-twin boys played a cutthroat game of Yahtzee, insulting each other with language so vile Liz had to ask them to tone it down. A scruffy-bearded troubadour — he looked a little too old for high school — strummed an acoustic guitar, serenading his hippie friends with evergreen songs by Cat Stevens and Neil Young. Four football players held a round-robin arm-wrestling tournament, grunting and grimacing like constipated old men while their girlfriends cheered them on from the sidelines.

  By two-thirty it was dead again, but at least Liz had a yearbook to keep her occupied, a copy left behind by someone named Corinne. She leafed through the glossy pages, reading the inscriptions, searching for familiar faces. There was a photo of Dana in the section devoted to Girls’ Soccer, an action shot in which she leapt for a header, her ponytail a golden blur: Striker Dana Mercatto rises to the occasion against Rosedale. Liz flipped ahead to the junior-class pictures, locating her daughter’s face among the rows of black-and-white thumbnails. It was a photo she knew well — a color version of it was framed on her dresser — Dana gazing coolly into the camera, so lovely and self-possessed, utterly at peace with herself. Liz couldn’t help remembering her own senior picture, the too-big smile, the desperation in her eyes, as if she were begging the world not to hate her.

  Ugh! she used to say. I can’t stand that picture. It doesn’t even look like me. But that wasn’t really the problem.

  She heard footsteps and closed the book. Setting it down on the coffee table, she turned and saw Officer Yanuzzi heading in her direction, his uniformed figure squat and ominous in the murky light, as if he were coming to arrest her. But when his face finally came into view, he just looked amused.

  “Party Girl,” he called out in a friendly voice. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”

  “Right here in Siberia,” she told him. “Taking one for the team.”

  “Could be worse.” He took a sip of coffee from a paper cup, surveying the furniture with what appeared to be sincere interest. “You could be stuck outside all night on a folding chair.”

  “Least you’re getting paid.”

  “Good one.” He chalked up a point for Liz on an imaginary scoreboard. “Guess I can’t complain.”

  “Not to mention that you seem to be inside at the moment.”

  “Just making my rounds,” he said, threading his way between the couch and the hammock. He opened one of the fire doors and peered into the vestibule, checking for suspicious activity. “Though I gotta say, it is getting a little chilly out. I shoulda brought a jacket. But it’s June, you know? I’m not really thinking jacket.”

  He took a seat on the couch, directly across from Liz, as if she’d invited him to join her. He set his coffee on the table and held out his hand.

  “I’m Brian.”

  “Liz.”

  “Mercatto, huh?” He studied her name tag with a quizzical expression. “Why do I know that name?”

  She was tempted to remind him of their unfortunate encounter on Whitetail Way — You were rude and you scared my daughter — but couldn’t see the point of dredging it up at this late date. Besides, it was three in the morning, and she was grateful for the company.

  “Mercatto’s my ex-husband’s name. I usually go by Casey.”

  “I’m not too good with names,” he said, reaching for his cup. He paused before drinking. “If I’d known you were here, I woulda brought you some.”

  “No worries.”

  “They got those little one-cup things. K-Cups or whatever.” He extended the cup in her direction. “You want a sip? It’s nice and hot.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “You sure? I could take the lid off. That’s where all the germs are.”

  “I’m more of a tea drinker anyway.”

  “Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.”

  He kept his eyes on her as he brought the cup to his lips. She got the feeling he was searching his memory, trying to locate a file marked Mercatto. She averted her gaze, found herself staring at the gun in his holster, remembering the way he’d touched it when he yelled at Dana.

  “I’m glad I found you,
” he said, just as the silence was getting awkward. “I was feeling bad about what I said before.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You know, about those kids who died. That they were young and stupid.” He shook his head, as if pained by the memory. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  “It’s okay. No big deal.”

  “They were my friends,” he said. “We went to school together.”

  She studied his face, performing some quick mental calculations. He was probably about thirty, so the math worked out.

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

  Yanuzzi shrugged. He took off his hat, ran a hand over his gelled buzz cut.

  “The driver was a kid named Jimmy Polito. He was my best friend. We were gonna start a landscaping business.” Yanuzzi closed his eyes for a moment. “Anyway, we were all at the party together, playing quarters, getting drunk off our asses, when everybody suddenly decided to drive to the beach. The only reason I didn’t go is that I was trying to hook up with this girl. She was somebody’s cousin. Didn’t even go to our school.” Yanuzzi laughed softly. His face looked young and defenseless. “They got killed and I got laid. That’s the whole story.”

  “I’m sorry,” Liz said again.

  “Not your fault.”

  A few seconds went by. Yanuzzi rubbed his jaw, as if checking the closeness of his shave. “I didn’t even really get laid,” he said. “We were both too wasted to make it across the finish line.”

  IT MUST have been close to four in the morning when she set off for the restroom. Officer Yanuzzi kindly agreed to hold down the fort until she returned.

  “No problem,” he said. “I’d stay here the rest of the night if I could. This is a really comfortable couch.”

  “Just don’t fall asleep on me, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about that.” He had his hands behind his head, his bulky cop shoes resting on the coffee table. “I’ve had at least ten cups of coffee since I started my shift. I’ll be wide awake until noon.”

  They’d been talking for almost an hour at that point, not just about the tragedy of his graduation night, but about her divorce, and the engagement he’d broken off the previous summer, the suffocating sense he’d had that he was drifting into marriage because other people expected it, not because he’d made a choice to spend his life with Katie. He’d bailed out two months before the wedding, alienating lots of friends and even a few relatives, but he knew he’d done the right thing.

  “Every morning I wake up and thank God I dodged that bullet.”

  It was almost embarrassing how badly she’d misjudged him. Brian was a sweet guy, way more thoughtful and self-aware than Tony or any of the jerks she’d corresponded with on Match.com, the handful that would stoop to consider a woman on the wrong side of forty. He was kinda cute, too, if you could get past the gym-rat muscles and the look of squinty irritation that seemed to be his default expression, not that she was suffering from any romantic delusions. What was the point? She was twelve years his senior, a divorcée with a teenaged daughter, and no cougar by any stretch of the imagination. Even so, it was encouraging just to know that she was still in the game, that a guy like Brian would take the trouble to seek her out for a conversation, even if he was just trying to kill some time on the night shift.

  She walked quickly past the phalanx of cardboard movie stars — they gave her the willies, all those famous people frozen in mid-gesture, grinning with manic intensity — and then turned left, onto an even more desolate hallway, in search of the faculty women’s room Sally had told her about.

  Trust me, she’d said. It’s a lot cleaner than the other one.

  She found it on the right, beyond two science labs and a bulletin board dedicated to the subject of “Careers in Health Care: A Growing Sector of Our Economy!” Liz stepped inside. She’d thought the restroom might be single occupancy, but it turned out to be large and well lit, four stalls facing a row of sinks and mirrors.

  It took her a moment or two to realize that something was wrong — a sour smell in the air, a barely audible whimper — and by then she was already peering into the first stall, the door of which was slightly ajar.

  “Oh, you poor thing.”

  The girl was splayed awkwardly on the floor, her forehead resting on the lip of the bowl. Liz couldn’t see her face — too much dark hair was hanging in the way — but she recognized the orange T-shirt and these awful denim shorts.

  “Sweetie,” Liz murmured, kneeling down, carefully extracting a strand of hair from inside the bowl. “I’m right here.”

  LIZ WIPED the girl’s face and neck with a moist paper towel, as if she were a baby who’d just eaten a messy dinner. Her hair was harder to deal with, the sour smell lingering even after all the visible residue had been removed. A few stray clumps remained on her shirt, but she’d have to deal with those on her own.

  “Your name’s Jenna, right?”

  “Yeah,” she said, after a long hesitation.

  “What were you drinking, Jenna?”

  The girl’s eyes were cloudy, her expression somehow pathetic and defiant at the same time.

  “Vodka,” she muttered in a feeble voice. “I fucking hate that shit.”

  “How much?”

  Jenna glanced at the toilet, which was going to spoil some poor janitor’s morning.

  “Too much. Obviously.”

  “Am I gonna have to call an ambulance?”

  The girl bristled at the question.

  “I just puked. I’m hardly even drunk anymore.”

  Liz remembered the phenomenon from her own drinking days, the sudden bleak sobriety that follows the purge. She knew girls in college who carried little bottles of mouthwash in their purse so they could return to the party and get wasted all over again. She’d done it herself, once or twice.

  “Can you stand up?”

  Jenna gave a tentative nod and took hold of Liz’s proffered hand. It wasn’t easy to get her on her feet; she was either denser than she looked or drunker than she claimed.

  “What about your boyfriend?” Liz asked. “Was he drinking, too?”

  Jenna wobbled a bit, using the wall for balance.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Come on,” Liz said. “I saw you with him. When you snuck in?”

  “Who, Quinn?” Jenna made a hocking sound in her throat, then swirled her studded tongue around her lips. She didn’t look too happy about the taste in her mouth. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “All right, whatever. I’m just trying to — ”

  Jenna leaned closer to Liz, as if sharing a secret.

  “You know who his girlfriend is?” There was an odd sort of pride in her voice. “Mandy Gleason. Can you believe that? Quinn’s fucking Mandy Gleason. They’re dancing together right now.”

  Liz had never seen Mandy Gleason, but she’d heard of her. Her beauty was common knowledge, the gold standard for Gifford girls. She was smart and athletic, too, captain of the tennis team, headed for Dartmouth in the fall. Lots of people said Dana reminded them of Mandy.

  “Oh,” Liz said. “So you and Quinn aren’t . . .”

  “She’s his girlfriend,” Jenna explained matter-of-factly. “I just suck his dick.”

  She made a brave attempt at a smile, as if to say, That’s how it is and I’m cool with it, but it didn’t work, and she burst into tears. Liz held her while she sobbed, wishing there were something she could say to salvage the girl’s graduation night, a little adult wisdom that would take the edge off her pain, maybe put things in perspective. But when she did finally manage to speak, she found that she was crying, too.

  “It hurts,” she heard herself whisper. “It just hurts so much.”

  A SUBTLE odor of vomit clung to Liz for the rest of the night, like a badly chosen perfume. It was unfortunate, because the Chilling Station grew increasingly popular as the party wound down. Exhausted kids began trickling in around four-thirty, occupying the couches and chairs, the army cots
and the hammock, and then, when all the furniture was spoken for, just giving up and stretching out on the floor like travelers stranded in an airport. There was something sweet about the way they curled up together, bodies innocently touching, heads resting on laps or shoulders. Even the ones who kept their eyes open didn’t have much to say. They seemed content to just pass the time, surrounded by classmates, silently marking the end of an era.

  By then Liz was pretty tired herself — light-headed and achy in her joints — but she did what she could, offering bottled water and energy bars to the new arrivals, making small talk with the handful of kids she recognized, mostly from Dana’s soccer team. It was the busiest she’d been all night.

  She might have enjoyed herself more if she hadn’t been so worried about Jenna. Liz wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing, letting her sneak out of the party and walk home half-drunk in the predawn darkness, but that was the girl’s choice. She just wanted to get the hell out of the building, to put high school behind her once and for all, to not have to look at Quinn and Mandy or put on a happy face for a bunch of people who didn’t like her and wouldn’t even remember her name in a couple of months.

  Liz felt guilty about lying to Officer Yanuzzi as well, telling him that Jenna was having severe menstrual cramps and needed to lie down for a while. He was suspicious — asked Liz twice if the girl needed medical attention — but Liz had kept her arm tight around Jenna’s shoulder, insisting that everything was under control, that she would take care of it.

  It’s been really nice talking to you, she told him, trying to dismiss him and apologize at the same time.

  Same here, he said, a bit grudgingly. Guess I better head back.

  As soon as he was gone, Liz opened the fire doors and led Jenna through the vestibule to the emergency exit.