“Soooo,” Lucy said loudly, stepping forward to wash her hands, “everybody is talking about you—especially my parents.”
Alma let out some sort of squeak in response. The calm escaped her body, replaced by a prickly anxiety.
“‘Isn’t she beautiful? So exotic! Her hair is like silk! Just look at the way Evan gazes at her. Young love. So sweet.’”
Lucy paused to let her words settle.
“And that’s just Mom. My dad was totally lecturing Whit about you: ‘What a gal! So well mannered and polite. And smart as a whip, too. Lord, son. Why can’t you find yourself a girl like that?’”
Alma laughed at Lucy’s perfect impersonation of Senator Prentiss’s deep Southern drawl. Plus, if she laughed, she wouldn’t have to reply.
“Poor Daddy. I don’t think he’s figured out that girls aren’t Whit’s type.” Lucy said, and then she burst into laughter.
Lucy was right. Whit didn’t seem to be into girls, but he wasn’t showing many signs of being all that into boys either. Alma was pretty sure that, at this point in his life, Whit was just really confused.
The door flew open and a silver-haired lady tottered in. “Let’s get out of here,” Lucy mumbled under her breath. “I’m so ready for the after-party.”
When Alma stepped into the hallway, Evan was waiting in his tuxedo and gleaming black shoes. His hair was pushed back from his forehead, and his smiling eyes locked in on hers.
Swoon.
Alma’s heart fluttered and her fingertips tingled. She felt the blush rising to her face. But her cynical mind was starting to find ways to crash the hormone fiesta. How long was this blundering idiocy going to last? How many times would she have to see Evan walking toward her before she quit feeling weak in the knees? Apparently a half year was not long enough.
He glanced around, pulled her into the corner, and drew her into a kiss that sent electricity all the way down to her toes.
* * *
Evan’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled away from Alma reluctantly and glanced at the screen. Then he grabbed Alma’s hand to lead her outside through a set of French doors.
“It’s your brother,” he said. “We’re not supposed to have cell phones in here.”
Alma leaned against the wall, hugging her chest. She looked jaw-dropping in that short black dress. She also looked cold. He pulled her toward him and wrapped his tuxedo jacket around them both.
“What’s up, Raúl?” He felt her arms encircle his waist.
“Not much, man. Are you anywhere near my sister?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Evan replied. Alma giggled, which made him smile and hug her in tight. He loved to hear her laugh.
“Ask her where the hell her cell phone is.”
Alma glanced down toward her dress, suggesting the obvious.
“She doesn’t exactly have a place to put it. I mean, the dress is, uh…”
“Damn, man. I don’t want to hear that,” Raúl said. “Just let me talk to her.”
Bantering with Raúl made Evan wish they had found a way to get him to the party. They had become good friends over the months, especially since Evan spent so much time at Alma’s house. Raúl even trained with Evan to get him ready for the season. You learn a lot about a person when you train with him every day. But tonight Raúl had to cover for Alma. Alma’s dad didn’t know she was here. He might have let her come, but her curfew was ten, no matter what. Evan’s parents were going to Lake Rabun to recuperate after the party. Evan was taking advantage of the empty house and hosting an after-party and he wanted Alma to be there, so they had come up with a lie.
Hearing the stress in Raúl’s voice, he was beginning to feel sorry they’d done it.
“How’s it going?” Alma asked.
With Alma pressed close in to his chest, Evan heard his reply.
“I’m on my way to Uncle Alvaro’s now. Dad’s already there. He thinks you and Magda are in Atlanta at the band concert.”
“It’s not a band, idiot. It’s an orchestra. Her cousin’s in the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra,” Alma teased.
“Not important,” Raúl quipped.
“So he thinks we’re staying with Magda’s cousins tonight?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he bought it.”
“Thanks, Raúl,” she replied. “I owe you.”
“No big deal,” Raúl said, “though I gotta say I never thought I’d be lying for my straight-ass little sister!”
“Funny,” Alma said, deadpan.
“I just wish I could be there to keep an eye on him,” Raúl replied.
Alma looked up at Evan and smiled. “Who, Evan?” she asked, feigning innocence.
Feeling Alma’s body pressed against his, Evan didn’t blame the guy.
“Just lie to me and tell me you’re staying at M.C.’s house, OK?”
“I am, Raúl. No lie. Are you jealous?” Alma laughed.
Evan struggled to stay quiet, hoping that Raúl wouldn’t know he could hear the entire conversation.
“Whatever, Alma. Cuídate, OK? Just take care of yourself.”
“Stop worrying. I’ll be fine. Have fun with los tíos borrachos, but don’t drink much, Raúl. Tío Alvaro’s is a long drive from home.”
“Yeah, I won’t,” Raúl said, “and please keep your cell phone on you. If Dad goes all suspicious on me, I’m gonna call you back.”
“Yeah, OK. I owe you big.”
“No te preocupes, hermanita. Pay me back by finding a way to get me into Mary Catherine’s bed someday. And tell your boyfriend to keep it in his pants.”
Evan couldn’t contain his laughter.
“You’re such a pig,” she said before hanging up.
Alma handed Evan the phone. “How’s that for a double standard?”
“Aw, Alma,” Evan said, taking her back into his arms. “He’s just being a big brother.”
“And a machista prick.”
“You wanna tell me what a machista prick is?” he asked, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “I probably should know in case you ever call me one.”
“Never mind,” Alma replied, twisting out of his grip. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
When they left the party, Alma’s first act of celebration was to remove the silver torture devices from her feet. Then, keeping her promise to Raúl, Alma took the phone from her purse and tucked it into her bra.
She propped her mangled feet onto the dashboard of Evan’s car.
“Good Lord, Alma!” Evan exclaimed, glancing over at her blistered toes. “What the hell happened to your feet?”
“A pair of three-hundred-dollar shoes happened to my feet,” Alma said. “Aren’t they great?”
“That’s just plain stupid,” replied Evan. “When we get home, we’re gonna find you a tube of Neosporin and some flip-flops.”
“Do you really care about my feet,” Alma asked, “or are you looking for an excuse to get me alone inside?”
“Uh, both?” Evan said.
Alma had no trouble imagining making love to Evan, but she couldn’t shake the image of waddling around pregnant, or pushing a spit-up-covered baby through Walmart, stroller laden with diapers and bottles. As much as she hated to admit it, Mrs. King was right. There was no room for dreams and ambitions in that picture. Alma hadn’t worked so hard, against so many odds, to put her future aside for a baby. She reminded herself that Evan understood how she felt, and he wanted to be sure it was right. But on nights like tonight, she sometimes wished she could forget about consequences, that she could just live in the moment.
Evan’s car eased down the driveway toward his darkened house. Alma saw a crowd of people gathered around a dark figure sprawled across the front lawn. Whoever it was did not appear to have any interest in moving.
Evan stopped the car and lunged out.
“What the hell, y’all? Can’t you even make it to the backyard before somebody passes out?” Evan’s voice had an e
dge that Alma didn’t recognize.
Peavey looked up from where he was standing with Conway and Caroline. “It’s Whit again,” he replied offhandedly. He turned back toward the other two and said something that made them all burst into laughter.
Whit hoisted his body onto one arm. He was beyond wasted. “Evan, darling! I’ve brought you a birthday present!”
He fumbled in the pocket of his tuxedo pants and drew out a bottle of prescription medicine. Lucy was nowhere to be seen, but his other sister, Annabeth, stepped forward and thrust her hand toward him.
“Give me the bottle, Whit.” She spoke with calm authority, but anger came through in the slight tremor of her voice.
“Y’all go on back to the guest house before the neighbors call the cops,” Evan said to the spectators. “And no one goes in the main house. My mom will kill me if we trash her house.”
The crowd dispersed. Evan and Annabeth stood above Whit and scrutinized the writing on the prescription bottle. Alma sat in the car with the door wide open, unsure of whether she should try to help them, or whether this was something only Whit’s family should be a part of.
Mary Catherine arrived at the car door and tugged on Alma.
“Don’t worry, Alma. This happens all the time with Whit,” she said, interlacing her arm with Alma’s. “Evan and Annabeth will drag him inside and make him puke, and he’ll be good as new … or as new as Whit’s wrecked body can be.”
Alma grabbed the torture devices in her free hand and started off, barefoot, toward Evan’s guest house.
She saw Lucy then, skipping toward the guest house, her arm gripping the stiff arm of her boyfriend, whose name Alma had not yet been able to glean. Everyone just called him the Inman boy. As Whit had explained, the name signaled his position in the Atlanta Coca-Cola dynasty. It reminded Lucy and everyone else that this handsome, dull boy would make an extremely desirable match. Each time she heard him referred to as “the Inman boy,” Alma felt like she’d been transported into Amor Real, a bad telenovela about the Mexican aristocracy, set in the nineteenth century. Her tía Pera had been obsessed with that show—she loved all of the Victorian costumes and romantic plot twists. When it was released to DVD with English subtitles, her aunt found the perfect excuse to watch it obsessively—she said she was working on her English. Because phrases like “remove your corset” are really important to know these days.
But when she walked into the guest house with Mary Catherine, she knew this was not a scene from Amor Real. Alma had seen her share of drunken people over the years, almost always men, but this was different. The dozen people inside already had razor-sharp focus on one and only one pursuit, an almost magnetic draw toward the sources of their release. Alma couldn’t begin to imagine what it was they were all so desperate to escape. Their lives seemed pretty darn easy to her.
Mary Catherine led her in the direction of the kitchen table, around which were splayed her least favorite of Evan’s friends: Peavey, Conway, and a skinny kid named Paul.
“Pull up a chair, ladies,” Peavey called out, with much more volume than was necessary. “You’re just in time to get acquainted with my good buddy Seen-yor Pay-tron,”
He lifted a full bottle of tequila to the table. With his free hand, he patted the seat of an empty chair at his side, urging Mary Catherine to take it. Logan and Caroline came to join them with a sleek stainless steel saltshaker and thick slices of lime arrayed haphazardly on a cutting board.
“Aowwll-lma,” Peavey exclaimed, gesturing toward her, “you ready for one of these?”
Alma shook her head in silence, wondering whether Peavey still didn’t know how to say her name, or whether he exaggerated the Southern drawl to be funny.
“I don’t really drink,” Alma replied.
“Come on, Aowwwllma,” Conway jumped in. “We’re celebratin’.”
“Just give her a beer,” Logan said, gesturing toward a cooler by Conway’s feet.
“Take the beer and nurse it,” Caroline whispered in her ear. “He’ll leave you alone.”
Alma shrugged. “Sure, Conway. I’ll have a beer.”
“Ahh,” he exclaimed as he lifted a dark beer out of the cooler and gazed at the gold label. “Negra Modelo. It’s even named for you.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Conway?” Logan asked.
“You know, man. She’s not quite as black as a nee-gra,” Conway said, shrugging, “but she’s hot like a model.”
Nausea overtook Alma. Hot bile rose from her stomach and stung the back of her throat.
Caroline stared hard at Mary Catherine, as if they were having some sort of conversation without words. Then she yanked the beer from Conway’s hand and pulled Alma to her feet. As Caroline handed her the beer and led her away from the table, Alma heard Mary Catherine speak.
“Shut up and pour me a shot, Conway.”
Caroline plopped down on the couch and motioned for Alma to sit next to her.
“He’s just one of those guys,” she said to Alma. “You know?”
No, Alma didn’t know.
“I mean, if he decides you’re the one, he’ll follow you around all night and try to get you drunk.”
“The one?” Alma asked, darting her eyes toward Conway.
“Listen, Alma,” Caroline said. “Just keep your distance and keep a drink in your hand. We’ll make sure he leaves you alone until Evan gets back.”
Alma wrapped her arms around her chest and slouched over. She felt vulnerable, and she hated it.
“Relax, Alma,” Caroline said. “We’re here to have fun, remember?”
Evan needed to come back. Now.
* * *
Annabeth’s cool control was gone. Evan watched, dying of frustration, as Whit’s older sister pleaded with him.
Evan stepped in. “For God’s sake, Whit. Just make yourself puke so I can get back to my party.”
“If you don’t,” Annabeth said, “I’ll take you to the hospital and you know what will happen.” She shoved Whit in front of the bathroom mirror. “Do you want to end up on the cover of some supermarket tabloid looking like this?”
Whit fluttered his eyes open and took a long look, his vanity more powerful than his stubbornness. He leaned over the toilet and stuck his finger down his throat.
He missed the toilet entirely. Evan volunteered to help Annabeth sop it up with a towel, and then he wrangled Whit out of his vomit-covered tuxedo and took everything downstairs to the washer. Struggling to discern the meaning of the dozens of buttons surrounding the washer’s electrical display, it crossed Evan’s mind that a tuxedo should be dry-cleaned, but what dry cleaner in town would be open? And would a dry cleaner take a puke-covered tuxedo? Even if they could find a place, the risk of it becoming a newsworthy event—“Sexton Prentiss’s partying son goes overboard … again”—was not worth taking. These were the sorts of things Evan always had to think about when he was with his mom’s brother and family. They lived their lives under an intense public watch. Every mundane decision and private event had the potential to become public property.
When he had mashed enough buttons to make the washer start, Evan was free to go back to his own party.
“I’m heading back to the party,” he called out. “Are you coming?”
“Evan,” Annabeth replied, anxiety coursing through her voice, “I think you need to come up here.”
* * *
Conway stared Alma down. It felt like he was standing in front of her in full camouflage, like she was a deer that he chased in the predawn hours. Maybe he didn’t chase at all. Maybe he waited, silent and still, crouched in high grass until the unsuspecting creature wandered into firing range.
Alma stepped out of the bathroom and tried to squeeze past him. He was standing alone in the doorway, holding a small paper cup. He wouldn’t let her by. He casually blocked the passage with his outstretched arm.
“I saved you a Jell-O shot,” he said, smiling.
“No, thanks,” Alma replied.
She hoped he couldn’t tell that her voice was shaking.
“Just take it, Alma,” he said, thrusting the paper cup toward her. “It’s cherry. Yum.”
She watched him slowly lick his lips, and her heart started to race. She had to get out of this hallway.
She took the cup and gulped down the glob of red gelatin.
“Thanks,” she said as he dropped his arm from the wall and she slid past him.
She needed fresh air.
Alma rushed through the French doors and collapsed onto the edge of a pool chair. She held her head in her hands and breathed in the cool March air.
A pair of arms wrapped around her.
It was Evan. Thank God.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I am now,” Alma replied, leaning into his chest. She suddenly felt warm and light-headed. “Where have you been?”
“My cousin was puking blood. I had to take him to the hospital. Annabeth stayed with him.”
“Do we need to go back?” Alma asked.
“Definitely not,” Evan said. “This shit just happens with Whit. He’ll get over it. Are you having fun?”
“Not really,” she said, nodding toward the guest house. “It’s sort of weird in there.”
He tugged her gently from the chair and she stood unsteadily.
“Were you drinking?” Evan asked, looking at her with concern in his eyes. He knew she didn’t drink.
“A couple of beers,” she said, shrugging.
How many beers did she drink? Her mind felt hazy and she couldn’t concentrate.
“OK.” He pulled her close and whispered into her ear, “If you don’t wanna go back to the party, then let’s go take care of those feet.”
Wrapping his arm tight around her waist, he led her toward the main house. He fumbled with the key and she clung to him, feeling the charge of his body against hers. The door flew open and they tumbled through, tripping over each other as they made their way up the stairs and into his room.
Alma’s head hit the shimmering mound of pillows, and her hands found the buttons of Evan’s white tuxedo shirt. He shrugged out of it and then paused, hovering above her. Their movements slowed. Her fingers traced the ridges of his chest, ribs, and abdomen, searching down toward the black line of his waistband. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and pulled him toward her.
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