“Thanks, Alexi.”
“Least I can do,” I say.
Time whittles away. The first hour and then the second. Heather and Liz will arrive soon, and I’ve managed not to say anything important.
“Um, Bodee, what are you going to do tonight?”
“Ray asked me over to eat pizza and play Xbox.”
“Liz’s Ray? Liz’s ex-Ray?”
“Yeah. You’re surprised,” he says.
“Well. A little. I wouldn’t think you and Ray have much in common.”
“We don’t. I’m sure Liz put him up to it. She worries about me.” He shrugs his shoulder and smiles all at the same time; a look I’ve come to understand. Translated, it means he is certain of something most people don’t realize. “I make adults nervous, and Liz is sort of an adult. Comes down to it, guess it’s not only adults.”
“Not me.”
“Not you.”
Bodee with naked Ray makes me itch, but I’m not about to tell Bodee I don’t want him to go. Especially not tonight. He can use a friend, and who am I to say it can’t be Ray? Bodee has the intuition of a prophet; if Ray’s bad news for him, he’ll know.
“What about after Xbox?” I ask, wishing I’d stacked the Christmas boxes back under the bed. I don’t want him under there. “You going to be okay up there by yourself?” The question sounds stupid the second it’s out of my mouth.
“You worried about me or you?”
“Both,” I admit.
“Follow me,” Bodee says and stands, holding out his hand.
Our hands clasp, and his is warm, curling around my cold one. When we reach the den, he gives me a little pat and says, “I’ll be right back.”
From the top of the open landing near his room, he tosses me his sleeping bag. “I thought it might help.”
It’s down-soft and smelling of Bodee, which mostly means the scent of his soap and Kool-Aid powder. I squish the bag against my face and chest.
“You’re worried about tonight,” he says.
“I love them, but sometimes it’s hard to—”
“Lie that often,” he finishes.
“Yes. Not that I mean to or want to, but they can’t know,” I say.
“Why not?”
“It’ll change everything.”
Bodee walks down the steps until he is standing right in front of me. “Sometimes things need to change, Lex.”
“Not like this.”
He sits on the closest step, and the threadbare knees of his jeans rip as he rubs his palms down them. “If it were me . . .”
“It’s not.”
“But if it were”—Bodee widens the hole in the jeans—“would you want me to tell?”
I stop him from pulling on the threads, and he cracks his knuckles. “Yes,” I say, because he’s the one person I won’t lie to. “But this is different. If I tell, a person’s life is over; or at least it’s radically changed, and I can’t do it. And I don’t need everybody feeling sorry for me.”
“Oh, like they might say at school, there’s the girl who . . .” He stands and backs up a step. And then another. And another. “Like I’m the boy whose dad killed his mom? You know, Lex, I wouldn’t be that boy if I’d told someone, anyone, a long time ago that my dad was hurting us.”
Now I want to hand him back the sleeping bag and wrap him up. “I know it seems like it might be the same, but it’s not,” I say finally.
My abuser will never hurt anyone else. He’s good and decent, and I was convenient comfort on what he thought was the worst night of his life. It doesn’t make what happened to me any better, but I know it makes him different from Bodee’s dad.
“You’re wrong,” he says. Bodee leans his weight on the stairway rails and ducks his head; his frame sags and fills the opening. He looks big, the way he did that night with Hayden, but even still, his burden eclipses him.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not talking.”
“Lex, if he looks you in the eyes every day, the way I think he does, and he can’t see what I’m seeing . . . then he’s not that much different from my dad. Monsters aren’t born; they become.”
“And you’re going to face your monster too?” I ask.
“This isn’t about me,” he says. Another step. Away from me.
“You said it was. You’re the one who brought up your dad.”
“Only because I think the way you’re swallowing all this is working like a poison in you. One I’ve taste-tested.”
“Well, we’ll talk after you go to your deposition.”
Bodee folds himself onto the top step, but now there are a hundred steps between us instead of ten. I regret pushing him, but he’s no more ready to tell than I am.
If Bodee’s angry, it only shows in the stiff line of his jaw as he stands again and cracks his knuckles. He turns toward his bedroom, but then pauses and says, “I’ll be in the woods tonight if you need me.”
“Near the fort?” Can he hear me hoping for this to be true?
“Within yelling distance.”
Six hours, one large pizza, and two bags of Sour Patch Kids later, I have not yet needed to yell. Liz, Heather, and I are sitting cross-legged on Bodee’s sleeping bag, and we have talked about everything . . . except the boys who drove us to the fort in the first place.
“Okay, then. Who’s first?” asks Liz.
We know what she means, but I stand to swap the little propane fuel pack on our second lantern.
“I thought we decided we weren’t talking about the scum of the earth until after midnight,” Heather says. “You know, at the Bitching Hour.”
Liz hits the indigo switch on her watch and smiles. “Close enough.”
“Since you’re so ready, let’s start with Ray,” Heather says.
The mention of Ray reminds me that Bodee spent the evening with him. Surely they are finished with Xbox by now, and since my parents are only semi–night owls on the weekend, they’re sawing more logs by now than Currant Mill on Old 31, and Bodee has slipped into the night. Into the woods.
Dropping back into my place between them, I decide to test Bodee’s theory about Liz. “Did you know Ray was hanging out with Bodee tonight?”
Liz lays her head on my shoulder. “I might have suggested it,” she says.
“Why?”
“Away games have been really hard on Ray since his injury. Not traveling with the team and all. I thought this might get his mind off it. And I think Bodee’s good for him.”
“You can’t get over him unless you stop protecting him,” Heather says, and pops another Sour Patch into her mouth.
“We broke up. I don’t hate him,” Liz says. “He’s a good guy, Heather; we’re just not right for each other.”
Naked Ray Johnson. I’m in the middle of telling my brain to shut it, when Heather says, “Not according to Alexi. She gets a little hemorrhoid-looking twist every time he’s around.”
“Do not,” I say.
“You definitely scrunch your nose.”
“Do not,” I say, but know I’m doing it as I speak.
“You kind of do,” Liz says. “So spill, what is it about Ray you don’t like?”
I laugh and say, “I like Ray just fine.”
I can’t tell them that every time I think about Ray, a little chorus plays in my head: I’ve seen him naked. I’ve seen him naked.
And Liz hasn’t.
“What about Collie?” Heather asks me. “You guys used to be close, and now you do that hemorrhoid thing with him, too.”
“I do not have a hemorrhoid thing. And Collie and I are still friends.”
“Not like you were. Heck, Lex, I spent most of our relationship thinking the two of you might get together. I was afraid he’d ditch me and go for you.”
“Whatever,” I say, shaking my head. I am really surprised Heather thought there was something between Collie and me. Other than her, that is. Because the big deal during my friendship with Collie, minus elementary school, was helping him plan how to ma
ke Heather fall for him and how not to act anything like her loser dad.
“Lex, do you know who he slept with? If he told anyone, it would have been you,” Liz says.
“Sorry.” I shake my head and praise God for my perfected lying skills; a trait I’m sure he doesn’t appreciate. I hope he doesn’t pay me back for them in one lump sum, because I know exactly who Collie slept with and when. I’ve known since the night of the alumni football scrimmage.
“Nothing? He told you nothing?” Heather says.
“I know he’s really sorry, and he wants you back,” I say.
“Don’t you take him back, Heather. At least not until he proves he’s different,” Liz pleads. “You don’t want to be with some guy who could end up just like your daddy. A washed-out football quarterback, drugged up or drunk all the time. You need someone who is . . .” There’s a list, like a high school yearbook, that I can almost see Liz scroll through, and then she says, “A guy like Bodee.”
I swallow the gummy bear in my mouth without chewing. Heather doesn’t laugh the way I thought she might. “You’re not interested in Bodee,” I tell her.
“Hmm, well. I like his smile, and that hair’s crazy-cute. You gotta admit, he’s got some boy-next-door looks going for him.”
“Well, you don’t live next door,” I say, trying to keep my tone even.
“It’s not like you want him,” Heather argues. “You’re just friends, as you keep telling us all the time. And besides, you just got a hundred-dollar bouquet from Hayden that says he wants you.”
“Lex, you’ve got to admit: Bodee’s a lot better for her than Collie.”
“Well, yeah, but so are a bunch of guys at school. And Collie’s not like her dad. He just made a mistake.”
“A mistake.” Heather’s off the sleeping bag now. She paces the fort like a lawyer waiting for the judge’s decision. “He screwed someone else.”
“Guys are like that,” I argue. “And he was probably drunk.” Tipsy, as I remember. Very tipsy. Very sad.
“That’s as big a problem as the mistake,” Liz says. “I was actually relieved when Ray couldn’t play football this season. Some of those guys party too much.”
Heather hasn’t returned to the sleeping bag, but she’s still and listening.
“And that’s why I don’t want Hayden,” I say. “Number one, he’s a football player. Player. Think I’ll learn on your dime. Number two, he drinks. Think I’ll learn on your quarter.”
“True,” Liz says, looking back and forth between Heather and me. “But it’s not because they play football. Not really. I mean, Ray’s a good guy. Just not for me.”
“And Hayden’s different,” Heather says, and sits back down. “He’s not as sweet as Bodee, but he is a great guy. Neither of our boyfriends—ex-boyfriends—ever even considered sending a hundred dollars’ worth of roses to us.”
“So? It just means his daddy gave him a credit card,” I say.
Liz puts a hand on Heather’s knee and then on mine. “But you’re leaving out an important fact.”
“What’s that?” Heather and I say together.
“He’s probably your Captain Lyric. Assuming Heather’s right.”
Heather nods as if this one is a done deal.
“Why are you both so hell-bent on thinking he’s the Captain? Somehow, I can’t see Hayden Harper jamming to Midsouth Hyatt.”
“Me either,” Heather agrees, “but all I know is that he called the florist, and when she asked him what to put on the card, he turned around to me and said, ‘I have to use a song.’”
“You told him what to put?” Liz asks.
“Are you kidding? The lady at the shop suggested it,” Heather explains.
Great. Some thirty-year-old picked out Hayden’s apology. So romantic.
“Hayden as the Captain. It’s not a total stretch. When did he break up with Janna?”
“Last week of summer,” I say quietly.
“And when did you start getting the lyrics?”
“First week of school,” I answer. I’ve already done this math. Already arrived at these conclusions.
“He told me at your party after the alumni game, before everything went to hell with Collie, that you were one of his goals for the year,” says Heather.
If this is true, a lot happened at that party. A lot.
“But why’d you set me up with Dane first? If Hayden liked me the way you say?”
Heather chews her bottom lip and then gives me a sympathetic grin. “Okay, well. Maybe it won’t hurt to tell you now. Hayden lost a coin toss. Some football thing they do if two guys like the same girl.”
“They flipped a coin,” I say, as my agitation switches to anger. “I decide who I date.”
Liz, always sensible, usually correct, says, “But Lex, you never tell anyone no. Take this Heather-Bodee thing. You could be head-over-toenails for the guy, but you’d go along with it for Heather’s sake, or maybe Bodee’s.”
I’d expected aloe, but instead Liz uses rubbing alcohol and steel wool. Chewing the inside of my cheek, I question if she realizes how often I lie to hide my feelings, and find I am speechless.
“But you’re not, are you?” Heather asks.
“Not what?” I say.
“Head-over-toenails for Bodee.”
“Um, no.” We share a platonic bedroom, an air vent, and a beat-up book cover. That’s not love, not in the head-over-toenails sense.
“Then I think . . . I’m going to ask him to sit in the front seat on Monday and see what happens,” Heather says.
Liz fakes being appalled and fans her face.
I say, “Go right ahead. And if Collie sends you a hundred-dollar bouquet one day, what happens to Bodee?”
“Oh,” Heather says.
“She’s right,” Liz says. “Bodee’s not a plaything. He’s not some rebound kind of guy. He’s too nice to hurt.”
“But I wouldn’t do it on purpose.” Heather fidgets and says, “Where are the gummy bears?” She rummages through our supply sack, pulling things out left and right, while I imagine Bodee attached to Heather by the lips.
I cringe at this. Name-brand Heather and simple, generic Bodee. Speak-her-mind Heather with speak-only-truth Bodee.
Touching.
Kissing.
I could see Bodee with Liz before I could see him with Heather.
But kissing one of them? I don’t want to think about how Bodee kisses a girl. Or what Heather might think about the way he kisses.
But I do. Would he be tentative? Strong and passionate?
Maybe a combination of all three.
“Okay, which one of you ate all the yellow ones?” Heather grumbles, holding up the bag of gummy bears to show us the leftovers. Green. Orange. Red. The colors of Bodee’s hair. She bites the head off a green bear and says, “You’re right about Collie. I’ll never get over him.”
“If he apologized, would you take him back?” I ask, and steal a red gummy bear.
“Lex, he apologized when he told me. Hell, he even . . . cried. But . . .”
Liz reaches out and grabs Heather’s hand as Heather’s voice starts to shake. “He told me his big secret after . . . after we slept together. In my car. So romantic, huh?”
Heather’s head hangs; tears slip down her cheeks, while she chews the remnant of the gummy bear so slowly I can barely see her jaw moving. Liz’s jaw, on the other hand, doesn’t drop open the way I thought it would. She just nods at this secret bomb Heather’s dropped on us.
I know what Heather needs, so I pull her to me until my chin rests on her hair. She cries, but there are recognizable phrases that emerge through her sobs. Phrases I could have written.
“I’m such an idiot,” and “It hurt,” and “I thought he cared about me.”
Liz huddles around us, her arms snaking around the two of us. And then she says the one thing I never expect to hear.
“I know, Heather. I slept with Ray.”
We are a tangle of broken hearts.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
chapter 19
WHEN we break apart, Heather asks, “Lizzie, when?”
“Last year. After that little boy died. You remember—”
Heather covers her mouth with her hand, but she doesn’t berate her best friend for concealing the truth for a year and some change.
“It’s why I tried so hard to warn you against sleeping with Collie,” she explains. “God, I’ve felt so guilty. So you slept with him after the homecoming dance?”
Heather shuts her eyes to answer. “He’d been acting so strange. So I thought, well, I thought if we did it, finally, after all this time of waiting, everything would be . . . okay again, you know. But then, right after, he told me I wasn’t his first. That this summer he’d slept with . . . with some girl.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry.” Liz strokes Heather’s back.
It shocks me to find myself in this new hug-and-share friend mode with Heather and Liz.
But they don’t ask about my sex life, and I don’t volunteer. Let them keep their assumptions.
“Oh, Lex; you must think we’re awful,” Liz says. “That I’m such a hypocrite.”
“No,” I say. She’s not the hypocrite.
“We’re stupid. That’s what we are,” Heather says.
“No, not stupid. Just normal. Unfortunately, lots of girls sleep with guys and wish they hadn’t,” I say. It is unfortunate, but at least it’s their choice, not something they were forced to do.
“True, and it sucks. Royally sucks. I’m glad you’re smarter than us,” Heather says.
Yeah. These lies, while they are too easy to tell, are hard to live with. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I say, “so I’m not dealing with the same pressures.”
“But you will. Hayden starts singing to you in person, instead of writing on your desk, then it might be you crying in the fort,” Heather says. “If you aren’t careful.”
I prefer to do my crying in the closet. “Not to worry, Hayden’s not singing to me.”
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