by Dahlia Adler
Dave laughs again. “Man, I thought southerners were supposed to be great cooks.”
“Oh, that’s the best part.” I lean back on my elbows. “She’s not even from the South. She’s never been there. She just has this delusion that she’s some sort of Mississippi debutante or something. For my last birthday, she got me a parasol.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “What the hell is a seventeen-year-old supposed to do with a parasol?”
“Don’t ask me. I pawned it and bought myself a couple cans of tuna instead.”
“Man, this kills me. My mom would love to cook for you. How do you feel about khandvi and samosas?”
“Like I need a dictionary to know what you’re talking about,” I admit, looking away from him and up to the stars instead. “I’m guessing that’s Indian food?”
“You’ve never had Indian food?” He sounds like his eyes are bugging out of his head. “Man oh man, this world of yours just gets crazier and crazier.”
I laugh, and though I’m still tipsy—tipsy enough to be sharing these embarrassing details of my life, which means very—even I can hear the edge of bitterness to it. “My world of poor white trash?”
“That’s not what I mean,” he says stiffly. “Just, you know. Small-town life and everything.”
“It’s not small-town life that’s the problem.” I wish I knew the constellations so I could find the Big Dipper or something. Without a focal point, my eyes are starting to blur. “It’s me. It’s me and my stupid, shitty, white-trash life. I bet Vic’s had Indian food.”
“Vic?”
I roll my eyes, knowing he can’t see from that angle. “Tori. I forgot she’s a different person this weekend.”
He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he hasn’t heard me, but then he says, “Well, it’s a good weekend to be a different person, isn’t it?”
I want to see his face right now, but I can’t bring myself to look in his direction. “Are you a different person this weekend? Because I’m sure as hell not.” I glance down at my outfit—my brand-new shirt which now looks to me like $12.99 in wasted gas money, my Walmart jean skirt, my tennis shoes with their tiny hole poked in the toe. “Except for the fact that I’m telling shit about my life to a total stranger, there’s nothing different about me at all.”
“I’m guessing telling shit about your life to a total stranger is very different for you, actually.” Now I do glance at him. His gaze is traveling in the same path down my body mine just did, though the look in his eyes is nothing like the disgust and resentment and frustration I imagine are in mine. Goose bumps rise on my legs and I wonder if he can see them. “Telling shit to anyone, probably.”
Anyone but Vic, I mentally correct him. Who else would I even tell? The whole town of Charytan has already heard enough. “You think you know me already, huh?”
“I think…” He inhales deeply. “I think you don’t really feel like a total stranger anymore.” His eyes flutter shut, his long lashes brushing his cheekbones. “You never really did,” he says, so quietly I can tell he couldn’t really decide if he wanted me to hear those words or not.
I don’t understand what’s happening here, only that I feel the same way, and that my entire body is fizzing with it. But I don’t know how to say that. In fact, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t. But he’s right that somehow I have a comfort with him I haven’t experienced with anyone but Vic in a long time. It’s so much easier to let your guard down around someone who doesn’t seem to have any guard at all.
It gives me an indescribable urge to get to know him for real. “I think it’s time you tell me something about yourself, then. I refuse to be the only one whose shitty life is on display here.”
His lids flutter open, slowly, and he turns to me with a confused look. “Who says I have a shitty life?”
Silence hangs between us, and an inexplicable feeling of betrayal fills my stomach with acid I can feel climbing into my throat. Somehow I’d thought we were the same, but we aren’t, not at all, and suddenly, I’m filled with an intense urge to throw up. Without so much as a glance back at him I run to the bushes that separate the frat house from the next one over and I hurl the most hideously colored vomit in existence.
“Nice one!” some asshat yells out, and I can hear people laughing behind me, not the pleasant laughter of Dave’s crack-ups but cruel, mean laughter that takes me back to a time and place I never, ever want to revisit. I’m not sure I’m done, but the urge to run away is almost as strong as the urge to throw up again. I contemplate dashing off into the street until a hand grasps my hair firmly, and with that, I bend forward and expel the rest until I’m heaving nothing but air.
Finally, I turn around, ready to beg Vic to go to the motel, but the words die on my lips when I see she’s not the one standing there; Dave is. One warm brown hand gently releases my hair while the other one offers me a cup of water. I can’t even meet his eyes long enough to say thank you as I rinse my mouth out.
I’ve taken a couple of sips by the time Vic comes rushing out of the house. “Rae!” She throws her arms around my waist, which nearly makes me spill my water. “Are you okay? Sasha just told me you were out here, throwing up.”
“Sasha was correct,” I inform her, stepping out of her grasp. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just…” I’m about to say don’t want to be here anymore, but I can tell she’s still into this stupid party, and Dave is looking all concerned, and I don’t want to seem like an irritable baby, even though that’s exactly what I feel like. “Need to keep drinking some water,” I say meekly, taking a dramatic sip as if to prove H2O will cure everything.
“Why don’t we just go to the motel now?” Vic tweaks one of my curls, which are vomit-free, thanks to Dave’s quick action. “This party’s getting old anyway.”
She’s lying. I know she’s lying. Both are reasons why I love her. “It’s okay,” I say, because I can lie badly too. “I don’t want to disappoint Mark or anything.”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Lousy kisser. Come on.” She links her arm through mine and starts to pull me away, and I let her, because I can’t even bring myself to look at Dave, though I can still feel a tingling in my scalp left by his firmly holding back my hair.
We’re a safe distance away from the party by the time either one of us speaks again. “Are you okay?” Vic asks, obviously trying to keep her voice down such that I can barely hear her question over the clacking of her obscenely impractical heels.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, going for another sip of water, only to find that my cup is empty. My mouth is dry, but I feel stone-cold-fucking-sober, like I could’ve driven us back to the motel instead of making us take the campus drunkmobile, which is waiting at the corner. I crush the empty cup in my hand, and it cracks and slices into my skin.
“Are you sure? You didn’t even say goodbye to that Dave guy. Did you get his number, at least?”
“No, I definitely didn’t.”
She stops in her tracks, which I only realize after I’ve walked a few yards without her.
“What the hell?” I demand when I turn and see her just standing there, hands planted on her hips.
“My question exactly.” She walks up to me slowly, her heels somehow giving her a menacing vibe. “You like your first guy in the entire time I’ve known you and you don’t even get his number?” She yanks my wrist and jerks me forward. “We’re going back to the party.”
I snatch my arm back with a force that makes her wobble on those crazy stiletto things. “Oh no, we’re not. You said we could go, and we’re going.”
“Not without his number, we aren’t!”
I grit my teeth. “When will you get it through your head that I am not like you?” I seethe. “I don’t need a guy around. I don’t want some stupid distraction getting in my way. And I certainly don’t need someone like Dave fucking Shah who probably thinks I’m some sort of fascinating sociological study of the fucking Kansas trailer park population now.”
&
nbsp; Vic’s eyes flash with fire, and suddenly I wish I could take back every word that’s just come out of my mouth. “That’s a really messed-up thing to say. I don’t need a guy around, and I’d think you’d know—”
“I do,” I say quickly, feeling the heat ebb out of me as guilt over being shitty to Vic takes its place. “I’m sorry; that was a really dick thing to say. I just…need you to let this go, okay? I know you’re trying to help, but this isn’t gonna happen.”
I watch her jaw for a minute until it unclenches, which is always the sign she’s forgiven me when I lose my shit. But then it sets again, and I prepare myself for an angry response, but this time, her ire’s not directed at me. “Was he a jerk to you?” she demands, sounding so protective I wonder if she’s been taking actual lessons on how to be a big sibling from Javier.
“I’ll jam a stiletto up his butt if he was. Just so you know.”
And just like that, I fall apart laughing, and so does she, and for a moment I think about how many times I’ve done that in the last twenty-four hours. Okay, so maybe the fun I had with Dave was a wash, but I still have Vic—will always have Vic—and right now, as we stumble to the Drunkmobile under the weight of laughter, residual alcohol consumption, and uncomfortable shoes, I think that really could be enough.
VICTORIA
I’ve been sitting awake so long that I can feel the alcohol wearing off, especially now that I’ve made about a zillion trips to the bathroom, and I can’t help watching Reagan sleep. She is so darn tiny. I forget that sometimes because she packs a lot into one little person, but sometimes, like tonight, I can’t help feeling like she’s this baby sister I have to watch over, because no one else will.
I’m dying to speak to my mom, but it’s too late to text her—she’s the epitome of “early to bed, early to rise”—and while I love my dad, he’s not really the chatty type. He mostly does his scatterbrained-professor thing and nods and says, “Hmm, very nice, mija,” when I show him a bag I’ve stitched or a skirt I’ve made out of his old neckties. I picture telling him, “I went to a really weird party tonight where I pretended to be someone else and it made me feel really, really lonely,” and him saying, “Hmm, very nice, mija,” and it makes me snort. I quickly clap a hand over my mouth to shut myself up so I won’t wake Reagan, but another giggle escapes.
She sleeps through it anyway. She always sleeps like a rock, except when she’s at home. When we have rare sleepovers in her trailer, I can feel her toss and turn on her bottom bunk and I wonder if she literally feels the itch to get out of Charytan when she’s in those sheets. Mostly, though, we sleep at my house, and when we do, I practically have to throw a bucket of water on her face to get her out of bed.
It hits me then that while it’s too late to call home, it’s actually perfect timing to Skype with Javi…provided he has Internet access, which is never a given. I duck into the bathroom and call him, and I’m so surprised he picks up that I actually jump a few inches in surprise.
“Bula!” he greets me, his deeply tan skin and bright white smile lighting up the screen. “You OK, hermana? You look a little freaked out.”
“I just can’t believe you picked up!” I say, feeling my stupid-huge smile nearly split my face in two. “I’m at Southeastern with Rae and I—”
“One second!” he yells to someone off on the side, then turns back to me. “Sorry, you caught me on our way out to dinner, and the guys here are not patient about their food. How’s college?”
I know I only have a minute before he runs off, so I quickly give him the basics, but I only get as far as mentioning the frat party before he groans and tells me he’ll have to e-mail me when he gets back. I swallow back the little lump forming in my throat and nod, but I don’t want an e-mail; I want to talk to my big brother, this stupid thing I used to take for granted until I could barely do it anymore. But it’s clear that isn’t an option right now, so I just tell him to have fun and he says the same—“but not too much”—and then I’m alone again.
I’m not sure why I can’t sleep. I don’t drink often, but when I do, it usually puts me out like a light. Tonight, though, I feel like my brain is buzzing. I need to talk about college, about the future, about how weird and uncertain everything feels. I want to wake Reagan up and hear her promise again that we’ll be roommates wherever we go.
After driving for two hours that day and having to do the same again tomorrow, though, I can’t bring myself to disturb her beauty sleep. So I leave her alone and instead help myself to the lone sheet of ugly motel stationery so I can spend the next twenty minutes sketching out exactly what I’m gonna do to the dress I wore tonight. Then I flip the page over and sketch a cute new skirt for Reagan so I can get her to wear something other than that jean thing that’s practically falling apart.
When I’ve etched in every detail possible and am still no closer to sleep, I decide to venture outside, just to stretch my legs with a walk up and down the path in front of the rooms. I grab a sweatshirt from my bag and zip it up over my pajamas, then tuck the room key in a pocket. There aren’t many times I’ll venture outside without a cute outfit and makeup, but I’d say 4:00 a.m. at some random motel off the edge of the Southeastern campus is one of them.
I regret it the second I close the door behind me; there’s someone standing outside at the vending machine, similarly bundled in pajamas and sweats. I think about going back inside, but decide any nut job who’s outside at 4:00 a.m. in his pajamas, trying to decide whether Coke or Pepsi would make a better midnight snack, probably isn’t someone I care about looking my best in front of. I jam my hands into my pockets, toss my hair back, and walk past, immediately appreciating the stretch of my poor muscles.
“Tori?”
The weird realization that the guy is talking to me happens in two phases: One being “Who the heck is Tori?” and two being “Do I know this person?” It all smacks me in the face at once when he smiles slightly, revealing teeth that glow ultra-bright in the moonlight, and I realize I’m looking at Dave. Reagan’s Dave.
“What are you doing here?” I ask when I’ve once again found the power of speech.
“I’m guessing the same thing as you.” He glances at the vending machine. “Or maybe not.”
“You’re not seriously about to drink one of those things, are you?”
“Nah, just something to keep me busy.” He rocks on his heels. “Can’t sleep.”
“Me either,” I say, though as I do, I yawn.
He cracks one of those blinding smiles. “Show-off.”
“That was my first one, I swear.”
We’re both awkwardly silent after that, both of us obviously holding back questions relating to a certain blonde. We find our courage at the exact same time, me asking, “What exactly did you say to her?” at the same time he asks, “Is Reagan okay?”
We both laugh uncomfortably, but his question for me is a little easier to answer, at least in the physical sense, so I say, “Yeah, she’s fine. She’s sleeping.”
“I didn’t mean to upset her,” he says quietly, his eyes watching his toes trace lines on the cement.
“What’d you say?”
“I don’t even know.” I can tell from the frustration in his voice that it’s mostly true. “Is she always so…”
“Impossible?”
He smiles, just a tiny bit. “I was gonna say volatile.”
I laugh. “Doesn’t matter—the answer is yes. But you have to understand, her life is pretty awful. You’d be… volatile too.”
“Yeah, I got that sense.” He scratches the back of his neck. “But does she…?”
“You’re not so awesome at finishing your sentences, kid,” I tease him, because it’s easy to see that after only one day of knowing Reagan, he legit cares about her, and it makes me want us to be friends.
He doesn’t smile. Instead, he blurts, “Does she need everyone else around her to be miserable too?”
The way he immediately presses his lips together make
s it obvious he regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth, but it doesn’t matter.
I can feel myself harden in response. “You’ve known her five seconds.”
“No, I know, I just—”
“I’m not talking about her with you. You want to ask Reagan something, you can ask her yourself.” Inside my sweatshirt pockets, my hands squeeze into fists. “Have a good night.” I turn on my heel and walk back, and as I slip back inside, I can’t help feeling guilty for snapping. He may only have known her for a day, but again, I can tell he inexplicably cares.
He just doesn’t know how much it hurts to hear him say aloud after one day of knowing her what I’ve wondered alone for the past two years.
I write Javier a quick e-mail, just to say hi and that I’m thinking of him, and then I actually manage to fall asleep. When I wake up, I’m pretty surprised at how well-rested and refreshed I feel, considering it’s only seven thirty. Then I look over at the cheap old alarm clock and realize it’s three hours later than it should be and we’ve completely missed the breakfast.
“Reagan!” I whisper fiercely, throwing my pillow at her sleeping face. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Time for you to stop throwing pillows at my head?” she responds groggily, lifting her head up just slightly. “I shut off the alarm before we went to sleep.”
“Why?”
“Did you really want to go to that pancake breakfast thing?”
“Didn’t you?”
She ignores me and burrows back under the covers. Which is normally my move.
I roll out of bed, stalk over, and yank the blanket off her. “This is pathetic, Rae.”