The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  “I know,” says Erik. He waves his hand toward a group of guys who are standing by the fire, a sea of plaid, denim, and perfect jawlines. He blows out a puff of smoke. The air around us is herbal and musty. “I mean, I’m pretty sure they don’t listen to Neil Young all year long, but once they get to Gold Fork, man, it’s ‘Rust Never Sleeps’ on repeat for the whole summer.” He starts humming “My My, Hey, Hey.” Then he turns to me. Sings, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” Even at this distance, the firelight paints hollow shadows on his cheeks. “That was in Cobain’s suicide note, you know.”

  I know that—of course I do—but I say, “Watch it, All-State. You’re starting to sound angsty.”

  “Don’t call me that.” His voice is brittle, and he closes his eyes and then opens them again. “Sorry.”

  “Touchy much? Here,” I say, handing him the joint. “You finish. Clearly, you need it more than I do.”

  “Thanks.” After he blows the smoke out again in a little puff, he says, “Tulsa.”

  “What?”

  “I’m thinking Tulsa. Des Moines. Someplace like that.”

  He’s playing Worst Case Scenario. Our little game. If you could get out, but the only place you could go was someplace worse, would you still go? Erik and I’ve been playing it ever since we burned down the chapel and getting out began to feel more necessary.

  “No,” I say. “Never.”

  “I’d do it,” he says.

  “You wouldn’t. What, and be a mall walker? You’d go bat-shit crazy in a place like that,” I say.

  “Better to be bored crazy than just fucking nuts,” he says, voice rough. He looks away.

  I know who he’s talking about, and I watch the side of Erik’s face as he steadies himself. No. He doesn’t want to talk about her. He never does. “Fair point,” I say. “Well, you don’t have long to worry. You’re out of here in a year. I am too.” I don’t tell him that if I play my cards right, I’ll be gone sooner than that.

  “Hey,” he says, smiling, “here’s an idea. Why don’t I come with you?”

  “Yeah, right. To the city?”

  “Sure,” he says, and studies something on his shoe. His voice is too casual when he adds, “Could be fun.”

  I’m flustered by his tone, but I say, “Keep dreaming. I don’t think your scholarship is transferable.” I laugh. “Don’t worry,” I add, leaning over and resting my hand on his head, tapping twice. “I won’t forget the little people when I’m famous. I’ll still take selfies with you at my concerts.”

  “Asshole,” he says, and looks away. When he turns back to me, he’s smiling and loose, the old Erik.

  I take the joint and rub it against the sole of my sneaker before slipping it into a pocket. “Well,” I say, “that took the edge off.”

  The light from the bonfire flickers across his face, and I can see his eyes, rimmed red like a little mouse. I pull a bottle of Visine from my back pocket.

  “Here,” I say. “For your condition.”

  He laughs, tipping his head back and squeezing the drops into the corners of his eyes. When he looks back at me, a single tear trails down his cheek.

  “Don’t get all sentimental,” I say.

  He gives me the Visine and catches my hand, pulling me toward him. His eyes crinkle, and he bites his lip before whispering, “You bring it out of me.”

  For the briefest moment, we pause, foreheads touching. I feel myself sinking toward him, a forceful yes rising in my chest. A yes two years coming. Then I pull away. No. Not now. Not when I’m so close to getting out. “Erik, dammit,” I say, trying to keep it light. “You have me confused with someone else.” This isn’t how we are. It might be Erik’s routine, but it’s never been his routine with me.

  “Georgie.” He swallows. “You’re ridiculously beautiful.” He puts one hand on my cheek and tries to draw me in again.

  I tip my head down. “And you’re high,” I say quietly. But I’m breathing fast, and I know I could just turn my face up an inch and give in, just this once. Erik, I remind myself. This is Erik. It would cost too much. I don’t move.

  There’s a pause. Then he whispers, “What? You’ve never—” His voice is low and husky.

  But I know him too well. I’ve seen him with the other girls. This is all part of his game.

  “No,” I say. “I never have.” I let the lie rest between us for a minute. “Erik,” I add, trying to catch my breath, “you’re not ready for a girl like me.” Never mind whether I’m ready for a guy like him. Sure, I love him, but I love him like you love the cousin who wrecked your uncle’s car and shrugged when he told you about it. I have to love him at arm’s length. Right?

  So that’s what I put between us. I push away from him and smile. “Besides,” I say, just to smooth it over, “if we hook up, you’ll have no one to complain about it with.” And then I smile, a smile I didn’t know I had in me. The smile says, There’d be nothing to complain about.

  He rubs his hand over his cheek. Shakes his head, stands up, looks away. When he glances back at me, I’d swear he looks sad, if I didn’t know him better. But this is Erik, and he finally says, “I swear to God, Georgie, you are one tough bitch.” His voice cracks a little, but I pretend not to have heard.

  “Compliment accepted.”

  He’s smiling, even though I can detect the faintest blush on his cheeks. It can’t be every day that Erik gets turned down. “Well, all you have to do is let me know,” he says.

  “Noted.” I’m trying—we’re both trying—to sound normal.

  “Day or night.” He steps toward me. “Georgie, I—” He swallows. “Rain or shine.”

  “Got it. You’re a man for all seasons.” My voice sounds unfamiliar and loud.

  He turns to head back to the fire.

  “Hey,” I say, and he wheels around. “You know Andrea?”

  Erik nods. “Toney with a place near the bank?”

  “Yeah. If you see her, will you send her over? There’s something I gotta talk to her about.”

  Erik winks at me. “Sure.” He turns back again. Says over his shoulder, so soft that I almost don’t hear him: “Georgie, I—” I see him shake his head. “Sorry.” Then he’s gone.

  For a minute, then, I’m alone in the trees. What just happened? The way Erik looked at me—

  No. After all this time? Just when I’m about to break free from this place? When you see the light at the end of the tunnel, you have to ignore the hands that reach out to you from the walls, grasping at the corner of your shirt, trying to pull you back. Does that sound heartless? Maybe it is. Or maybe it’s easier to think of it that way, instead of considering what I’m missing. Those hands. His particular hands. Leaning in, pulling me close, doing the thing I’ve been thinking about for two years. Fuck the consequences.

  No.

  It would cost too much, with Erik. We know each other too well. Every summer, I allow myself a fling—some nice-enough Weekender who wants nothing more than I do and who doesn’t want to know me or be known by me. That’s what’s safe. That’s what works.

  Erik and I wouldn’t work, and he knows it. We’d go up in flames. So why did he try something now?

  I shake my head and pull my knees up to my chin, letting myself sink into the music. With each drumbeat, I let go of what just happened until the music is all there is. No more Neil Young now. There’s a heavy beat, insistent and repetitive, thrumming through the speakers. The party’s on.

  This town is shit for music. It’s one of the most glaring divides between Weekenders and Dead Enders. You know exactly whose party it is as soon as you drive up and hear the music blasting from the deck. Weekenders are Neil Young before the party gets started, hip-hop once things are moving; Dead Enders are country all night long. And during the summer, all the restaurants with anything even resembling outside seating host live bands that always fall somewhere between folk and rockabilly. Usually it’s a pair of sisters, or an orphan, or a family of banjo and tambourin
e players.

  Never what I want to hear.

  My music’s different. There’s rage in the music I like. Rage and grit. All the musicians sound like they eat sand. It’s the most real sound there is. Broken Social Scene. Japandroids. Car Seat Headrest. And the older bands too: Neutral Milk Hotel. The Breeders. Nirvana, of course. Those are the people whose lives I want—not the Weekenders. And I was almost there. $8,920.30. I had eight thousand of it already—until the Nelson fire.

  So now I’m starting over, kind of. After paying Dodge for the lost product, I’ve got $5,500 left.

  But maybe I can still do it in one more summer. That’s all I need, if I hustle. One more summer of my fake nanny job.

  One more summer of Dodge.

  Dodge. The classic example of what not to do. What happens when you stay in Gold Fork past its expiration date. I think at one point he was even the guy you might see up on the ski hill after the last chair has gone up, carving the final figure eights of the day into the mountainside, no poles, just arms. In one hand, a joint. Voice just this side of comatose.

  And then he went away for a couple of years. To the city, I heard. And when he came back, he wasn’t the kind of lovable, reckless stoner I remembered. He was hard. Flinty. Hung out in the alley behind Grainey’s in that old jacket of his, those old scuffed boots. No more afternoons on the mountain. Different powder, now. Because when he came back, he had product. Better product. People started talking. So when he cornered me by the gas station and told me that my previous supplier was out of the business and it was time to step it up and could I fucking deal with that, I knew he could make things either really, really easy or really, really hard.

  It was just a slap. That’s what I keep telling myself. Dodge slapped me in the face when I asked about dialing it back a bit for the summer. Summer’s the best season. You don’t dial anything back, he said. Of course. So stupid of me to think I could just cut my hours, like I’m working at Walmart or something.

  Just a slap. Right.

  That’s when I did the math. Figured out what I need to go. That’s when waiting until graduation didn’t seem so important anymore.

  The others don’t know about Dodge. I mean, they know there’s someone—obviously there has to be—but they don’t know who he is. They probably think my supplier is, like, my friend or something. But I’ve worked hard—really hard—to keep my business life and my social life separate. And Dodge is no friend of mine. Also? They don’t know how close I am to leaving—how close I was—and they definitely don’t know that Dodge is both my ticket to freedom and the chain around my ankle.

  That’s the thing about lies. Even the most authentic friendship can be based on one. The trick is to bury that lie so deep that no amount of digging can ever touch it.

  I scan the crowd: bodies leaning in and away, swaying, trying for a touch here and there. Everyone hoping for something. Am I the only one who knows they’re not going to find it here?

  God. That’s what I should’ve told Erik. You’re not going to find it here.

  Or should I have—

  No. Light at the end of the tunnel. Remember that.

  I’m just about to stand up and look for Andrea myself when a guy kind of flops down next to me. He’s tall and rangy, all legs and arms. Messy blond hair. Lip ring. Combat boots like mine, but they look somehow more authentic on him. Like he’s had them for a decade, not half a year. College kid, maybe. I haven’t seen him before.

  “Whoa,” I say. “Steady on.”

  He looks at me, turns on a smile. “Georgie, right?” He’s got a beer in one hand, and he holds it out like an offering.

  I can almost hear Davis in my head: Ah, another supplicant.

  I nod, ignoring the beer. “That’s me.”

  “Yeah, Jonas told me about you.”

  Jonas . . . Jonas . . . Oh, right. Goes to the university with my brother. Gets in touch when he’s in town. Dime bags, mostly. Pretty typical.

  “Sure,” I say. “I know Jonas.”

  He looks relieved. “We know each other from school. He told me to find you.”

  The guy’s staring at me, waiting, and I want to say, Dude, there’s no password. But I say, “Yeah,” instead, and stare right back. I know I could make it easy on him, but these little moments of awkwardness? Another perk of the profession. Plus, if I’m being totally honest, I don’t mind the view.

  Then he laughs—a quick bark—and claps me on the back. “You’re good,” he says. “Jonas said you’re all right. So,” he adds, “how ’bout a QP.”

  Jesus.

  But the way he says it, drawing out the words, makes me think this is just a warm-up.

  There’s always the risk. The risk that this one, this totally harmless, and sure, fairly hot guy could be the narc. The plant. The whatever. Imagine every gritty detective show where an undercover cop says things like, “They won’t even see me coming,” or, “Whatever you do, don’t get involved,” and you’ve basically got the soundtrack to my nightmares.

  So. The test. “No problem,” I say. “Tomorrow soon enough?”

  “Really?” His face is pure wonder, like he thought it’d be harder. A+. Cops can’t fake this look—they wouldn’t want to. On a cop, this kind of Christmas-morning excitement would be a giveaway. They’d never risk looking like they want it. But on this guy, it’s kind of cute.

  “A grand.”

  “A grand.” The smile dissolves and he leans back. “Resort prices.”

  “You pay for the ambience,” I say.

  His laugh is quieter now. “Jonas didn’t say you were funny.”

  “The more you spend, the funnier I get.” I realize that I’ve been leaning forward, filling the space between us, and I roll back my shoulders, settle my palms into the dirt.

  He nods like he’s deciding something. “Henry,” he says, holding out his hand.

  When we shake, I can feel it all the way down into my low belly. I close my eyes briefly, then open them again. “A pleasure,” I say.

  He nods at my jacket. “Nice throwback. Who are you—Sid Vicious?”

  I laugh. “Something like that.” I look him up and down again, taking my time. “What brings you to Gold Fork, Henry?” Time to figure him out: Toney? Weekly? Dockside? “Where are you staying?” The underlying question: How hard will it be for you to come up with a thousand dollars in the next twenty-four hours?

  Henry smiles. Puts on a detective’s voice. “ ‘Or is your name even Henry?’ Lots of questions from someone who should value privacy.” He pauses. Raises his eyebrows. “Look. I’m the one taking a risk here. Jonas didn’t give me much to work with.”

  “Oh?” Now I’m interested.

  “Said you’d be the hot girl who looked like she’d rip you a new one if you got out of line.” Another smile.

  “And?” I say. “Think you got the right girl?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “Half of what he said is true, at least.” He shifts his shoulders toward me. I feel the pull toward him. Just like a fucking magnet, just like a fucking cliché. But I don’t care. Erik is too risky—too much at stake. I don’t know what he wants. But this guy? He wants what all Weekenders want, ultimately: a good summer story. I can give him that.

  Our flirtation is easy. And easy is what I want. He’ll do just fine.

  “Hey,” says Andrea. She’s standing next to us, eyes nervous. “Is now, like, a good time?”

  I smile at Henry. Feel the magnet break apart. I catch my breath and say, “Good as ever,” as he stands.

  “See you later, Georgie,” he says.

  My name sounds right coming from his mouth.

  I watch him leave, joining some friends and giving someone a slap on the back. He’s in a black T-shirt, black jeans. A fucking QP.

  “Some party,” Andrea’s saying.

  She’s anxious, but I don’t have time to make her feel better about her first buy. I reach into a pocket and pull one of the white baggies that I so carefully measured out
this morning. The kind of Ziploc you’d put a pair of earrings in so you don’t lose them in your suitcase. “Just a taste. Twenty,” I say. She hands over a Jackson, and I hand over the baggie. “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks.” She looks at the coke. “Should I just place another order now for next month?” God. Such a fetus. She heard from Lisa who heard from John who bought some from me last summer, and now she wants to become a regular. Will probably try to order something ridiculous like an ounce—something she can’t possibly get through by the end of the summer. But she likes to think she would.

  “No,” I say, still watching Henry. “Wait till you’re done with this one.”

  She crinkles her brow. “But how will I find you?”

  Henry turns back around. Even from the shadows, I can see his smile. His lip ring glints in the firelight. “It’s Gold Fork, Andrea,” I say. “You’re going to see me everywhere.”

  WHERE YOU GET WHAT YOU WANT WHEN YOU WANT IT

  We take what we can. From the Weekenders, sure, but also from the town, the land, ourselves, other Dead Enders. We take unchained bicycles, sex, Peppermint Patties, forgotten sweaters, firewood, friendship. We take what we can because we know that we don’t have time to waste. If we want it, we want it now. If we need it, we have to take it. And once we have it, we hold it close, knowing that we could lose it at any moment. Wildfire. Avalanche. Recession. Guilt. In this place, everything is both a gift and a weapon. Our only hope lies in knowing what can wound us.

  ERIK

  I go through the motions. That’s easy enough. It’s all I ever do. School, track, the Beast of Burden, Dead Ender girls like Kelly, Mischa, Jessie, and all the others—I know exactly what’s expected of me. I perform.

  After I leave Georgie, though, I can’t. Not yet.

  I walk away from the party, away from where Georgie’s sitting, hair tucked behind her ear, waiting for her next client. My hands are shaking, and I stuff them into my pockets. I head up the rutted fire road until I hit the main lake road and, beyond it, the black skin of the lake itself. And I stand there, feet planted, looking out over the water, wishing I could take it all back.