by Erin Saldin
All of it.
All of it.
The cold air stings my cheeks, and I breathe out, heavily. Shit. Why the hell did I try to kiss her? And the other question—the one I don’t want the answer to.
Why doesn’t she want me?
I could hit myself. I came this close to ruining everything. Georgie knows all my bullshit. She knows about my mom. She’d probably call me out on all of it. Why would I want that?
Because, the voice in the back of my head says. Because it’s Georgie.
Another breath. Steady, steady. I can’t blame her for not wanting it either.
Better to stick to the Kellys and Mischas and Jessies of Tri High. The Dead Ender girls I hook up with aren’t stupid, exactly, but they’re no Georgie. No one is, really. When it looks like they might actually start liking me, I gently tell them that, because we understand each other so well, I know it’s time to let go. Yes, I use that stupid saying about how if you love something, you have to set it free. But I never say the rest: If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever. I never say that.
Because those girls—they’ve got no idea who I am, what I’m capable of. To them, I’m just the local track star. Going places. Getting a sports scholarship and blowing this town. And that’s one story, sure.
But it’s not my story. It’s not my story at all.
Georgie. I wanted you to be my story. Georgie. God. I almost told her, too. Almost said what I’ve been thinking for the past two weeks, ever since I found out: There’s no scholarship, Georgie. Not anymore. Now there’s only you.
But instead of telling her, I just went for it. And now I know. There’s no scholarship in my future. There’s also no Georgie. I tried—finally—for the thing I’ve wanted ever since we met, and she made it clear. She doesn’t want me. And can I blame her? Who’d want my baggage anyway? No one’s taking me with them.
I’m just turning to head back down the fire road when a pair of headlights swerves around the corner on the lake road and heads toward me. I don’t flinch, don’t move. The car—Land Rover, of course—skids to a stop in front of me. Staccato blare of the horn.
“What the—” A girl’s voice comes from the driver’s side of the car, yelling. “Man! Didn’t you see—” But the voice stops. There’s a long pause. I peer through the glare of the headlights to the shadows within the vehicle—two, maybe three other girls, heads bent together, conferring. The door opens, and I see brown cowboy boots, scuffed. Upscale-vintage-store variety. Two tanned legs, thin sundress, a sweater that wouldn’t keep a housefly warm. Leather bracelet wrapped around one arm like a snake. Long brown hair—like Georgie’s. Curly—not like Georgie’s. Pixie face.
She walks toward me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I’m watching her, the way she moves, like she’s got time. Like we’re not standing in the middle of a road. “Sorry,” I say. “You caught me by surprise.”
She shrugs. “That’s okay.” We’re close enough now that I can tell she’s a foot shorter than me. “Hey,” she says, “you going to Fellman’s?”
“Just came from there.” And I jerk my thumb toward the fire road off to the side. “You’re almost home.”
Her face opens in a smile. “Good. It’s my first time,” she says, and then laughs at how that sounds. Her laugh is bright and unburdened. She probably laughs at most things, most of the time. What that must be like. “First time here,” she adds.
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
“No,” she says, looking at me, “I won’t.”
Then she moves back toward her car, taking her time. I step out of the way as the Land Rover turns down the fire road. She pauses as she passes me, and leans out the window. “See you down there?” she asks.
I nod.
That smile again. “Good.”
I give them ten minutes to park their car and get drinks. Don’t want to look too eager. But something’s fluttering around the edges of the night, something like hope, and I don’t want to wait too long. Give it too much time and it might burn away.
• • •
By the time I get back to the party, it’s probably close to twelve thirty. I haven’t missed much. It’s louder now, the group moving around more fluidly. I recognize most people. Someone’s rolled a keg down from the parking area, and a group congregates around it, filling plastic cups or water bottles with beer. I don’t see the girl from the Land Rover. Georgie’s hanging out by the rock where the speakers are set up. She’s chatting with a group of younger girls, and she looks up when I come back. It hits me like it always does—a fist to the gut. Georgie’s not blandly pretty, like the Kellys of Tri High. She’s not basic. She’s something else. I know some guys think she’s hot because she deals—not giving a shit can look sexy. But I don’t care about that. To me—and God, if I ever said this out loud—she’s just interesting. And that’s beautiful. I watch her a second, give her a little wave. She gives me a thumbs-up and a smirk. I push back my disappointment. That girl.
I wave at a few people, get the requisite high fives, the handshakes. It’s a good group, but I keep moving.
Davis is sitting on a log that someone dragged over to the fire and talking to Ana about something. He’s got a book on his lap. I walk over.
“—on it for a couple of months,” he’s saying.
“Can I see?” Ana holds out her hand. The scar on her arm is long and thin, like an accusing finger. I look away before she catches me staring.
Davis starts to pick up the book and then catches me watching. He puts it back in his lap. “Hey, Erik,” he says. For a second, he leaves his mouth hanging open like he’s going to say something else, but then he snaps it shut.
I nod at him. “Hey. Hi, Ana. Surprised to see you here.”
She shrugs. “Davis talked me into it.” Looks at him. Smiles.
“What are you cats up to?” I say.
Ana laughs quietly. “Cats?”
She’s pretty hot. I’ll give her that. She’s no Georgie, but Ana has curves in all the right places and skin the color of caramel topping. (I described her that way once to Georgie, and she said, Oh yeah? What color is ignorance? Then she stared hard at my hands.)
I nod. “Yeah, you know, you cats?”
Davis taps the log next to him. “Pop a squat?”
“I feel like I’m in a nineteen-fifties sitcom,” Ana says, and Davis laughs.
I have no idea what’s so funny, but I laugh too. Sometimes, talking to Davis is like stepping into the conference hall where a giant nerd convention is taking place. But honestly, I didn’t think I’d see Ana there too.
“So, what’s that?” I ask, pointing to the book. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Kelly and a group of her friends arrive. I made sure to cut things off with her long before school got out. Don’t know what I thought might happen, but I sure as hell knew it wouldn’t happen with her. She scans the crowd. Says something. Her friends will all be looking over here in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . .
“Why are all those girls looking over here?” Ana pushes her hair off her forehead. “Is something wrong?” She glances down at her outfit, as though maybe she spilled beer on it earlier.
“I don’t think they’re looking at you,” Davis tells Ana. “They appear to be watching their prey quite carefully.”
“I’m nobody’s prey,” I snap, just as Ana says, “Oh, I know. I’m not, like, a narcissist or anything.”
Davis pats her knee, just like a grandfather. I swear to God. Nerd convention. “It’s a book I’m working on,” he says.
“What?”
“You asked what this is.” He holds up the book. “It’s a graphic novel.”
“Let me see.”
“When it’s finished.” He puts it back in his lap. Then, watching me watching him, he zips it into his backpack. “I’ll show you when it’s done.”
I don’t think Davis trusts me much. And why should he? Lately, I’ve caught myself watching him—his easy l
ife, brains and money and two parents who’ll make sure he gets where he needs to go—and I’ve been filled with a hot rage that I can’t control. It’s not fair to him, I know. (Then again, nothing’s fair—that’s become painfully clear to me recently.) But Davis has a habit of looking at me like I’m about to steal his lunch money or stick a Post-it on his back that says, “Tell me I’m your bitch.” He probably thinks I hooked up with Jane or something. But I didn’t. I didn’t even try. Because Davis is all right. I wouldn’t exactly call him to help me move furniture or anything, but he might be the guy I’d call if I had a broken heart. It’s hard to imagine, but yes—I think I’d call Davis.
Not that I’ll tell him about Georgie.
(I’ve sometimes wondered how he got a girl like Jane to go out with him in the first place. I mean, he has all the moves of a born-again—doubt he even got her shirt off. I heard that’s why Jane broke up with him. She got tired of waiting for him to grab her ass. But that’s just a rumor. I would never tell Davis that.)
“Okay,” I say. “So what’s it about?”
“High school.”
“It’s not about aliens? What do your people call them? Cyborgs?” Davis is always lugging around some sci-fi or fantasy book, usually something the size of the Bible. He probably gets through one a week. And really, what other kind of person do you see at a nerd convention?
Davis shakes his head. “I dabble in realism.”
“It’s not about—” I don’t have to say it.
“No. It’s not about the fire.” He shakes his head. “I’d never write a book about that.”
I try to imagine the description. Ana’s arm, dripping blood. The sound of her voice as she screamed, I can’t get to them! Someone, help me! I can’t get to them! How she fainted just outside the chapel before she could try again.
The sound of Chrissy’s screams.
Don’t write about it. Don’t think about it. Pretend it never never never happened.
Ana smiles. “It’s really good, Erik,” she says. “I saw the first page.”
“Oooh,” I say, too loudly, “a whole page!” It comes out harsher than I intended. Most things do. I try again. “Okay. I’ll wait for the finished product.” Then I add, “But you better show me.”
“I have a feeling you’ll be my toughest critic,” says Davis. He’s looking at me intently.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing. Just—” Davis does a kind of fake shrug.
“God. What?”
“Anything new going on with you? Like, any interesting Weekender sightings?”
“Nothing more interesting than what’s going on here.” I glance around. Still no sign of Land Rover. “Why?”
He’s about to answer when Georgie joins us, planting her feet so that she blocks the light of the fire. I can hear a few Weekenders calling her name behind her, but she raises one hand and turns her wrist, and they shut up.
“What, are we meditating now?” she asks, jabbing her finger at the way Davis is sitting, legs crossed like fucking Gandhi. She squats down in front of us but doesn’t make eye contact with me, and I wonder if she’s still thinking about what happened earlier. I’m not a blusher—no one but Georgie would call me sentimental—but I feel my cheeks burn for the second time tonight, and I look away from the fire. Shit. What if I ruined this?
“Just Davis,” I say, then turn back to her. I don’t care if she can see me blushing. This is all I have.
“Well, he’s certainly the most enlightened one here.” She rocks forward and hits the back of my head with the heel of her hand. She lets her hand rest there for a minute, then pulls it away.
So we’re okay, then. I swallow.
“Davis is writing a book,” Ana tells her.
“About us,” I add.
“Wrong,” Davis says. “Not about you. About life.”
“And therefore us. What, is it some advertisement for church youth groups everywhere?” I say.
Davis looks down at his lap. “No.” And I know he’s thinking about the fire, his mom’s church burning to the ground. I know he blames himself. And yet again, I’ve made him feel bad. Great work, Erik.
“Whatever,” I say. “The only good thing the Beast’s ever done was to let me join your mom’s youth group.”
“That’s sweet,” says Ana, just as Georgie says, “Awww. You wuv us.”
I can’t look at her.
“Doesn’t seem like that would’ve been a hard sell,” Davis says.
“You don’t know the Beast of Burden.” And I remember the two days of asking, of trying to make it seem like my mom’s idea instead of a favor. How I understood, even then, that Georgie was the only person I wanted to know in this town and the youth group was the best way to know her better. “But,” I add, “she thought it would look good on my college applications. She thought the big names would want a ‘scholar-athlete’ ”—I make air quotes with my fingers—“but it’s not like I was suddenly going to inherit a brain.” And then I laugh, so they know it’s okay.
“Your mom was thinking about these things in junior high?” asks Ana. I watch her expression turn from incredulity to pity. “Wow. Mine just wanted to make sure I wasn’t sitting at home watching telenovelas with the subtitles on.”
“The Beast never sleeps,” says Georgie, putting her hand on my shoulder.
“No,” I say, trying to ignore the warmth of her hand, trying not to want more, “she doesn’t.”
“Well, I’d say it worked out,” says Ana. “I mean, you got that award, after all.”
“Home free,” adds Davis.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah.”
But I don’t tell them about how I called the coaches at my dream schools last week and they said sure, they’d gotten my information, and they’d be happy to have me walk on, no problem, but there wouldn’t be any money, not with my grades and my measly District Championship. I don’t tell them that being the Tri High track star and winning District is nothing like winning State. That coming in fourth at State is the same as wearing a shirt that says I CAN’T RUN FAST ENOUGH. I don’t tell them that without this award, I don’t have jack.
Really, when it comes down to it, I don’t tell them anything.
Davis laughs. “Don’t worry, Erik,” he says. “You might not be in my book, but one way or another, you’ll leave a legacy. I’m sure of it.”
I don’t know what he means, but what’s new? So I laugh with him. He’s looking around the party but trying not to, eyes darting here and there, his fist grasping one strap of the backpack like he’s afraid I’ll reach over and take it.
Or maybe he’s not afraid of me. Maybe he’s afraid someone else will see his book. Or that he’ll have to see someone else. And suddenly I get it.
“She’s not here,” I say to him.
Davis nods. “I know,” he says. “If she were, I’d have gone home a long time ago.”
“Ah,” says Georgie. “Still pining.”
“ ‘The path of love never did run’—whatever.” Davis shrugs. “At least I’ve got my support group.” He knocks his knee against Ana’s. “And no shortage of subjects for my sociological study on the cross-cultural mating habits of Weekenders and Dead Enders.”
Nerd. Convention.
“I mean, this is so strange,” Davis continues.
“What do you mean?” Ana smiles.
Davis waves one arm around. “Just that everyone’s still so cautious. Have you noticed how they pretend to have forgotten one another’s names? It’s like no one can quite admit that they might have”—gasping, clutching his chest—“missed one another.”
“I don’t recognize anyone,” says Ana.
“Really?” Georgie raises her eyebrows. “I know about half of them.” And she raises a hand in greeting at some guy on the other side of the fire. He’s standing next to a dark-haired girl with braids in a too-thin sundress and a sweater. The girl from the Land Rover and I lock eyes. Her smile shifts a fraction of a millimet
er, and the meaning totally changes, becomes a message only for me. She turns and walks away, but I know she knows I’m watching.
“Well,” I say, standing up, “it’s been real.”
“Where are you headed?” Georgie glances around her and then shakes her head. “Never mind. I’ll use my imagination.” She pats her pockets and stands. “I’m heading home anyway,” she says. “I’m all sold out. It was a good night.” She catches my eye and looks away.
“See you both later,” says Ana.
Davis is already leaning over his backpack, unzipping it again. He looks up. “Call if you need us,” he says to me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He’s been acting strange all night, and now this. “Do I need a babysitter? What are you, like, Mary Poppins or something?”
Davis looks like he’s going to say something else, but then he just shakes his head and turns away.
I try not to think about the way Davis sounded as I walk away from the fire. Like a TV dad. Like a TV dad who knows about a dead grandmother and doesn’t want to say anything yet. Whatever. He doesn’t want to tell me? Fine. If we’re friends, it’s by tragic circumstance. The four of us are a strange mix to begin with, but Davis and I are oil and water. If we didn’t have Georgie reminding us every week to meet up at the Den, if we didn’t have the fire and our secret (my secret, I remind myself), we wouldn’t even nod at each other on the street. He’s never trusted me much anyway—and he shouldn’t. In fact, the last thing I need is Davis focusing in on my lies. He’s the kind of guy who’ll keep digging until he finds the box you’ve hidden in the ground, so far down you thought no one would ever touch it. Davis is not someone I need to be near right now.
Besides. I’ve got better things to do anyway. The party’s almost over. I head toward the cars. It’s just a matter of time now (I hope), of waiting and pretending not to wait, of looking like I’m taking a break from the action when really, action is what I’ve come for. Because I think—no, I’m pretty sure—that, in five minutes or maybe ten, the dark-haired girl in the too-thin dress will follow me here. And then things will start to get interesting.