The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  We stare at each other, the heavy beat of the latest pop-rap sensation thrumming around us. Everything we haven’t said is reverberating in the room, making me dizzy.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Fine. Good.”

  “Come on, Erik.”

  “I’m good.” He looks away.

  “You haven’t returned my calls,” I say, and he shrugs. “Look. I know it’s shitty—it’s so shitty—but, what? Have you talked to him again? Are you going to see him?”

  Erik holds up a hand. “Can we not?” He glances toward the kitchen. “I’m here to enjoy myself.” When he looks back at me, his eyes are scrunched tight like he’s in physical pain. Then he blinks and his face is clear again.

  I nod. I know Erik. “Okay.” I look toward the kitchen too. Let a beat pass. Then I say, “Layla. Pretty name. You sure she’s tough enough for you?”

  Erik shakes his head and smiles. “They can’t all be you, George.” He pauses. “Besides,” he adds, “she’s wilder than you’d think.”

  I raise my hand, palm flat in front of his face. “Stop. I don’t need details.”

  “Suit yourself. Just thought you might want some pointers.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Anytime.” It’s our usual banter, but it feels off.

  “You’re a broken record, Erik.” I turn and take in the scene around us, pretending everything’s cool. He needs this from me, I know.

  Small groups of Weekenders and Dead Enders are bunched around the cabin’s living room, perching on the arm of the Pendleton sofa, sifting through Jeff’s parents’ record collection. (Davis says that having retro pieces like record players in one’s cabin is a hallmark of Weekender design.) God. I was just at band practice this afternoon—the last one before half the band moves to the city. Our sound blows this trash out of the water.

  I should be going with them. Soon, I remind myself. Soon.

  Out on the deck overlooking the lake, there’s a big group huddled around a bong. Someone brought fireworks, but no one seems that interested. A few people light sparklers and wave them around lazily before they burn out. I know what they’re thinking. Fireworks are kid stuff.

  “Erik, right?” Jeff-the-spastic is standing next to us, a microbrew in one hand, cigarette in the other. “Thanks for coming, man.” He smiles at me. “I don’t have to thank you, I know.” His smile is just this side of charming—more condescending than friendly. He turns back to Erik. “You’re the guy who got that local scholarship, right? Free college in a year, right?”

  Erik winces at the word “local.” “Yeah,” he says. “It’s a pretty sweet deal.” I’ve seen that look on his face before. It’s the look he has whenever he’s with his mother. Bland. Cautious. Erik once said a conversation with his mom is like waiting in the trees while she stands on the porch with a gun, shooting into the dark.

  Jeff takes a swig of beer. “My parents were talking about it. It’s awesome that they have things like that, you know?” He shakes his head. “My dad was thinking about setting something up, too, you know, for more kids like you, but then he saw the price of tuition for my brother and me, and he was like, ‘whoa.’ ”

  “Whoa,” Erik deadpans, but Jeff must be tone-deaf, because he soldiers on.

  “Not that you’ll need anything like that, huh, Georgie?” He kind of punches me in the arm. “You got it made here.” He looks toward the sliding glass door to the deck. “Man, I’d stay here if I could. Fuck college.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Fuck it.” Fuck you. Then I remember that Jeff’s going to need a refill after this party. “Hey,” I add, “when do you want me to come by again? Or do you just want to load up now for the next week or so?”

  “Oh, man,” says Jeff, “sorry. This is it for me.” He kind of dips his head, embarrassed about something. “My parents are a little freaked, right? About the fires? They’re dragging me back to the city on Monday.”

  “That’s fucked up,” I say. “Talk about an overreaction.”

  “That’s what I said,” says Jeff, “but it’s not just my parents. How many, now? Four? Half the lake’s going to be gone by the end of next week.” He shrugs, then looks at someone over my shoulder and tips his hand in front of his mouth, pretending to chug a beer. “Shit. I’ll catch you all later, right?”

  “Later,” I say, trying to quell the panic that’s rising in my chest.

  “Prick,” says Erik when he’s gone. His face has gone kind of splotchy, and his fists are tight at his sides. He looks like he’s about to explode. “I bet his dad thought about starting some sort of fund. I bet he fucking did. For about two seconds.”

  “Erik,” I say, “did you hear him? They’re all leaving. They’re leaving.” I can feel the drugs in my pockets, weighing me down like rocks. “How the fuck am I supposed to work if I don’t have any customers?”

  He stands there for a second. “You’ll be fine,” he says.

  “Easy for you to say. God. I have to get to work. I have to unload this stuff before they all go home.” And I want to scream, knowing what this means. More boat deliveries. More Dodge.

  Erik looks around the room. “I hate these people,” he says. “All of them.”

  Layla’s walking toward us, a couple cans of beer in her hands. She smiles at me, but the smile is more of a question mark—anything to worry about here? I smile back: I don’t know, is there? I look at her closely. She’s pretty—I’ll give her that. But is she enough for him? Can anyone be? He needs—

  God. I want to kick myself. Like I’m in any position to be deciding what Erik needs. He’s made his choices, and I’ve made mine.

  I step back from Erik and look around. A few other kids are in various states of consciousness around the room, but there’s a group by the bookshelves laughing loudly, talking with their hands. I’ve been at this long enough to know when people are getting restless. And a restless party is a prime market. “I have to get busy,” I say.

  “Sure you do.” Erik shakes his head.

  “Hey,” says Layla. Her smile is genuine, with a touch of possession. “Georgie, right? I’ve seen you around.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I don’t have time for small talk. Especially not with her. I turn to go, and then look at Erik again. “But I’m serious,” I say, my voice low. “If you want to talk.”

  I watch him turn toward Layla. His smile is wide, bright, and fake. He takes the beer from her. “Thanks,” he says, not looking at me. “I’m good.”

  As I walk away, I hear her ask him a question. I can’t hear what he says in return, but when I turn again she’s stepped closer to him so that the bottom of her head touches his chin. I watch as he closes his eyes for a second. Then I look away.

  I swallow. There’s no getting through to him. Not here. And besides, I have too much to do.

  • • •

  Erik may hate these people, but I need them. $1,900 to go, and suddenly, what feels like a ticking clock. So, I spend the next hour working the room. I’m fairly successful, especially once I make it down to the beach. Turns out naked, swimming Weekenders want a top-off, something to keep them flying into morning. I do my best, but I’m still going to leave the party with some bud and a teener, a handful of caps. I stand on the deck and look out over the lake, where half of the kids from the party are swimming. It’s dark, but I can still see that the beach is dotted with clumps of clothes. I consider just leaving my backpack here and going home, letting someone else find the stash. Happy birthday to you.

  $1,900. $1,900. $1,900.

  I can hear the sound of the fireworks show starting up at the marina in town. The pop before the color. Sure enough, the sky fills with bursts of red, blue, purple, white. It looks like it’s raining fire on the swimmers below.

  “This is my favorite part.” Erik’s standing next to me, peering down at the swimmers. “Wish I’d brought a flashlight.”

  “Remind me never to go skinny-dipping when you’re around.”

  “I
’ll do no such thing,” he says, and looks at me quickly, then away. His voice is missing some of its customary cockiness.

  I look behind us, but I don’t see her. “Where’s Layla?”

  “Had to go home. Something about early breakfast with her parents.”

  “Does she know?” I ask. “About your dad?”

  “No.” And before I can press it, he adds, “I don’t want to burden her.” Erik leans on the railing, and I can see that he isn’t even looking at the swimmers. Instead, he’s glaring at the lake itself, his gaze cast toward the far end, where I can see the lights from the bigger homes glowing yellow against the black. “I can’t wait to get the hell out.”

  “Me too,” I say. “In fact—” I pause, not sure if I should tell him.

  “In fact?”

  “I’m getting out.”

  He shrugs. “I know that.”

  “I mean, I’m getting out now. The end of this summer. Headed to the city with the band.”

  I watch him for a reaction, but he doesn’t give me one. Instead, he looks out over the lake.

  “What, nothing?” I say.

  He’s quiet for a second. Finally, he turns toward me. “I think I always kind of knew that, George,” he says. “We’re never—this town was never going to be enough. So yeah. Go.” He doesn’t sound mad anymore. Just different. Sad. Then he smiles at me. “What is it you always say? Grit, guts, glory?” He nods. “You’ve got that. You’ll be fine.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Worst Case Scenario: Saskatoon.”

  “Where the fuck is that?”

  “Canada.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I bet it’s got decent restaurants, at least.”

  “Don’t let Mr. Chin hear you say that.” Then I add, “Don’t worry. That’s not going to be your only option. In fact, my friend,” I add, scooting over and jostling him with my shoulder, “you’re the only one with a guaranteed ride out of here. You’re going—”

  “Just stop, okay? Just stop.” He glances at me and then looks away. “There’s no scholarship.”

  “What?”

  He raises his right hand, fingers pinched together, and then splays them open, mimicking a dropped bomb. “Bam,” he says. “Gone.”

  “Bullshit,” I say. “A scholarship doesn’t just disappear.”

  “Doesn’t it?” A hollow laugh. “Sometimes it just fucking does, Georgie.”

  “That’s—” I start to say, but I feel a hand on the small of my back and hear a hoarse voice singing quietly.

  “Four-alarm girl, nothing to see.”

  Shit. Shit shit shit. Erik can see Henry behind me, and I watch Erik’s eyes widen with recognition.

  And yet. And yet: God, I love that voice.

  I turn to Henry and my stomach flips. He looks cuter. More punk. Less sure. And yes, it’s only been a week, but a week in the summer is a month during the rest of the year. I’ve been ignoring his calls, responding to texts with one-word answers. He doesn’t know that I saw him at the Den, and I don’t know how to tell him. “Hey,” I say, and my voice sounds thin and hopeful.

  Jesus. This was not how I wanted it to go down.

  I turn to Erik. Grip his arm, hard. “Have you met Henry, Erik?” Because maybe? Maybe I haven’t wanted to think that it matters—that Erik’s dad being Henry’s stepdad is even a problem.

  His eyes rake over mine, and for half a second I can see panic and fury and betrayal. I’ve been lying to myself. How could I think it wouldn’t be this way? I hold my breath.

  But then: “Not really, no.” He holds out a hand to Henry, eyes now empty. “Hey.”

  Henry’s less polished. “You’re . . .” A pause as he chooses his words, like he’s speaking through thick oil. “Kyle’s son.”

  “Something like that.”

  Henry looks at me. I have to remind myself that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that I know everything.

  “Erik’s one of my best friends,” I say, and I feel Erik’s arm tense under my hand. “You were asking who my friends are. Well. We’ve been friends for years.” I let my hand slide down his arm until it finds his hand, and I squeeze. Then because fuck it, I can’t help myself: “I’m surprised you two haven’t met.”

  “Didn’t know I existed, did you?” says Erik, just as Henry says, “The other day.” He gives me a long look that’s more of a question, and then he adds, “But I’d seen pictures.”

  “What?” Erik pulls his hand away from my grip.

  “Pictures. Dad—your dad—has a few from when you were a little kid. So.” Henry shifts from foot to foot and squints down at the water. His eyes are rimmed red. I didn’t notice before. That’s why this conversation seems like such a struggle for him.

  “He has some pictures.” Erik looks frozen, arms by his sides, legs planted. He looks like a warrior in the moment before battle. “I bet he does. What . . . ?” he starts to ask, and then stops himself. “Doesn’t matter.”

  From across the room, Jeff yells a hello to Henry. “Man! You gotta get a taste of this!”

  Henry steps away from me a few inches, raises his hand in a wave to Jeff. “Give me a minute,” he shouts back. Then he turns to Erik. “Hey, man,” he says. “Look. I didn’t know—I didn’t think—he said you’d probably moved, you know? Or I’d have . . .” He swallows. “I’m not a dick. I’m not the problem here.”

  My head snaps in his direction. “What kind of bullshit is that?” And I’m furious. Furious at him—for being stoned, for being part of this, for not-knowing but maybe-knowing that Erik was here all along. But I’m also furious at my body, and how it seems to move closer to Henry of its own will. God.

  Henry reaches out and touches my arm. “I’m just saying. Our dad is complicated.”

  “You don’t have to tell me what he’s like,” says Erik, his voice growing louder. “Okay? You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I was just—” says Henry, but Erik’s voice, now a shout, cuts him off.

  “DON’T TELL ME!”

  A few people in the water stop splashing one another. I can see their bobbing heads in the lake, turned toward the cabin. There’s a whistle and a screech in the air, and the fireworks finale begins, the sky lighting up with sunbursts of color.

  “Okay. Okay,” says Henry, taking a step back. “Got it.” Then he looks at me and says, under his breath, “Call me back sometime, would you?” He leans in like he’s going to kiss me, but he stops and pulls back a little. Looks around and whispers, “I’ve missed you.”

  Shit. There goes my stomach again. Traitor.

  Erik watches him head back inside. “So that’s your hookup?” His voice catches and he shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair. He looks up. “What are you even doing with him, George? I mean, does it have to be him? Come on.” His eyes are bright in the light of the fireworks. There’s something else in his voice—something small and hurt. “Just don’t let it be him.”

  I push back a defensive twinge. “That’s, like, the least of it, Erik,” I say, but it’s not. I know it’s not. I’m watching him carefully. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, and he’s standing there, rigid, like a trap that’s about to be sprung. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Okay? No, I’m—” He takes in a long breath. “I mean—what? Maybe Erik doesn’t even live here anymore? Was he even going to try to find me? We haven’t moved. My mom and I—we haven’t gone anywhere.” His face kind of crumples for a second. Then he blows out another breath and says, “He’ll be gone soon.” Looks at me, pleading. Make this all go away.

  Out in the water, everyone’s forgotten about the shouting. I hear splashing, the occasional scream of protest, laughter that sounds like howls. We’re such animals, when it comes down to it. Survival of the fittest. Fight or flight.

  “I’m heading out,” I say. “Wanna come? We could hit the diner or something. Talk—or not. Whatever you want.” I’m supposed to meet Dodge down on the
beach in a little bit, but he can wait. This is more important. Was Kyle really not going to get in touch? Christ. And I want to hear more about the scholarship—that kind of thing doesn’t just disappear, does it? I reach out, put my hand on Erik’s cheek.

  “Erik,” I say, “come with me.” I try not to think about how angry Dodge will be—or what he’ll do. I say to myself again, This is more important.

  “No,” says Erik. “Thanks.” He moves his head so that my hand falls away from his cheek. He smiles at me, but his eyes are empty again. “You should probably go find Henry. I’m sure he’s waiting for you.”

  “Erik. It’s not—” But I can’t finish.

  He nods back toward the living room. “Besides, you’ve got work, right? Aren’t those the two things you care about—Henry and work?”

  “And you.”

  He laughs quietly. “Yeah. Sure. And me.” Erik reaches over and grabs me by the shoulders, drawing me toward him. I lean in until I can feel his breath against my forehead as he whispers, “To market, to market.” Then he pushes me away gently. “Isn’t that the way the song goes?” He laughs. “You can’t take it all on, George. So don’t try.”

  There’s nothing to do. Nothing to say. I reach out and squeeze his arm, then turn. As I shut the sliding door to the deck behind me, I hear his voice follow me in a broken singsong. “Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.”

  • • •

  Dodge is waiting for me on the next dock over. It belongs to a little A-frame that’s empty for most of the summer—owners are geriatric, I think—so it doesn’t matter that he’s tied the boat up there.

  “Took you long enough,” he says when I show up. He jumps in, jerking his chin toward me. “Hurry up.” He starts the motor as I untie the boat. Then I get behind the wheel and putter out past the dock. Davis was right: Practice enough, and it’s easier than driving a car.

  “Where?” I ask. I don’t want to speak more than I have to. This night has already sapped my ability to string a thought together, much less a sentence. Erik’s voice in my head: Just don’t let it be him.

  “East side,” he says from where he’s kind of crouched beside me. “Tollefson.”