“What if we went someplace besides Mexico?” he asks, suddenly quiet and entreating. “I can cancel the trip, and we can go to Crete. Or anywhere. Anywhere you want.”
She listens with her eyes closed, concentrating on the soothing timbre of his voice, the Georgia accent that makes her think of white-gloved debutantes and simpler times. Althea sees herself as rebellious, but realizes now how unaccustomed she is to openly defying her father; she’s used to doing what she wants because he doesn’t pay attention, not because she battles him and wins. She feels like she does after too much coffee on an empty stomach, or a couple of Oliver’s pills—sweaty, queasy, weirdly euphoric. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it won’t work, and she’ll go home and get the biggest “I told you so” of her life. But for now, in this moment, there’s no room for doubt. “I don’t want to go anywhere,” she says finally. “I want to stay here and explore the New World.”
The softness in his voice disappears. “Cortés was an asshole, you know. The man was not a role model. He was a greedy megalomaniac, and you’re a teenage girl coping with her first romantic disappointment. This matter isn’t settled, so if I were you, I wouldn’t set fire to the Camry just yet. You’ve bought yourself a couple of weeks, but this conversation isn’t over.”
Althea considers this. Maybe by the time Garth gets back from Mexico, he’ll be so engrossed in his book and the new semester that she can put him off a while longer. She’ll be eighteen in June—six months away, but still, if she tries hard enough, maybe she can run out the clock on him. He’s a formidable adversary, but she’s played enough Risk; she knows how to wage a war of attrition. “Can I take a rain check on Crete?”
“I should have locked you in that basement when I had the chance,” he says, and she’s pretty sure he means it.
“No matter how miserable I was in Wilmington, I would have never gone to stay with Alice,” she says, as if that will bring him any solace. “I’d never switch teams in the final inning like that.”
“Am I supposed to find your loyalty touching?” he says. This is the tone he used with the student plagiarist, Althea’s sure of it: gentle but icy. It’s his confidence that makes him scary, how certain he is that his words will find their mark. “Considering how much you loathe your mother, you’ve got more in common with her than I ever imagined.”
She opens her mouth to respond with something equally cruel, and then stops. They’ve hurt each other enough for one day, so all she says is, “Happy New Year, Dad.”
“Good-bye, Althea.”
She disconnects. In the backyard there is a crash, the clatter of hundreds of empty beer cans as the Natural Iceberg collapses, and then a united, devastated shout of grief.
• • •
Oliver tries not to stare at Althea while they peel potatoes in the living room. It’s her neck in particular that interests him. He never realized how long it was before.
Althea flicks her peeler nimbly, and potato skins fall into the bucket. Oliver can’t match her pace. There’s a pink scar on her wrist he hasn’t seen before; he runs his finger along the puckered line. “That’s new,” he says.
“It was no big deal.” She shrugs, without offering to elaborate. Just last night he finally saw her naked; he had uncovered whatever might remain of her body’s secrets. But a new one has sprung up already and he hates it, this little piece of her story that she doesn’t want to share.
“Tell me about the lithium,” she says.
“The lithium?”
“Right before he went back up to the clinic, Will told you to tell me about the lithium. So go ahead.”
He repeats what the doctor said, about how the medication might help and the possible side effects.
“And you don’t know what to do?”
“Yeah.”
“Flip a coin,” Althea says.
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry I told you.”
“Let me see if I understand. The doctor told you he could help so you ran away from the hospital. Are you sure you actually want to get better?”
“It’s not much help, is it? Right now, I’m not sick. Right now, I’m sitting here peeling potatoes and I feel fine. I’ll be fine until I’m not, and then I’ll be asleep and I’ll be someone else until it’s over and I’m me again. But if I try it, I might feel like someone else all the time. I could be the guy with the facial tic hanging out at the 7-Eleven trying to find enough change on the ground to buy myself a Snickers bar. What if I start walking differently? What if I don’t talk the same?”
She keeps peeling without meeting his eyes. “You’re thinking that maybe the KLS isn’t so bad, because at least you know what to expect. Sort of. You’re thinking maybe you can just sack up and stick it out. Except you already tried that. You didn’t come all the way to New York because it wasn’t so bad—you came because it was. You’re thinking that you’re fine when you’re in between like this, but you aren’t fine, you’re terrified. All the time. You’re worried that the medication might change you. Do you think the last year hasn’t?”
“You seem a little different yourself. That doesn’t mean we should lobotomize you.”
Her potato slips out of her fingers, landing on the rug in a pile of cat hair. She picks it up and makes an earnest attempt at wiping it off. Oliver confiscates the ruined potato, setting it on the coffee table. “We don’t eat things that are covered in fur.”
“What are your choices? Just keep white-knuckling it?” Althea says. “Come on, Ol, give yourself a chance. You should go to college. You’ve got shit to do. You’ve got a wormhole to find.”
They work, falling into one of their comfortable silences, as if they were sprawled out on Oliver’s bed doing their homework and not here in this strange house in Brooklyn peeling potatoes filched from a Dumpster. The smoke-stained curtains and unraveling carpet, the dusty painting of Saint Cajetan hanging above the sofa—it’s surprising that it doesn’t seem more surreal. He’s amazed by how quickly he’s been able to adjust to this reality after all that fear of the unknown; even Althea’s short blonde hair no longer garners a double-take when it appears in his peripheral vision. Her knee is touching his knee. Salsa music plays in the kitchen.
Althea had done it. She wasn’t sitting around in the basement waiting for him anymore; she wasn’t looking around expectantly for some sign that things were finally going to get back to normal, or change between them the way she wanted, knowing they never could. She had put it all on black and found these people; she had won something, something real. Maybe he could do the same. Maybe it’s time he sees what else is out there for him.
“You know,” he says, “I really do like your new haircut.”
• • •
In the kitchen, Kaleb is serving food onto sectioned paper plates, handing them to everyone as they filter in from the backyard and drift toward the living room, where twenty-five people are eating dinner off their laps. Althea and Oliver hover in the doorway, awkwardly holding their plates, but Ethan stands up, vacating his Papasan chair.
“Here,” he says. “You guys take it.”
Gregory and the cat, the drummer, the dropout, someone from Philly, and someone from Cambridge are all squeezed onto the couch; Matilda and Dennis are on the floor by their feet. Leala sits on Kaleb’s lap in the recliner, and everyone else is piled in together like a litter of puppies. Althea and Oliver curl up in their chair, pressed together, watching the room share a year’s worth of anecdotes and misadventures.
“Tell them about the scavenger hunt,” Dennis says, elbowing Matilda. “Tell them how you went to the bad place when you thought we were going to lose and you acted like a fucking lunatic.”
“You guys had a scavenger hunt?” the brunette from Cambridge says. “What a fucking awesome idea.”
“It was Althea’s idea,” Matilda says quickly.
“Who won?” someone else asks.<
br />
“We won,” says Ethan.
“Because of me,” Althea chimes in. “Because I was willing to cut off the finger to save the hand.”
“What did you do?” asks Cambridge Brunette. “Tell us the story.”
Althea sets her plate on the floor; Mr. Business leaps off the couch, races over, and laps up the carrots like a dog. In the backyard, a trash can full of ice and champagne is waiting; the clock ticks on toward midnight. Oliver, smelling like apples, puts an arm around her shoulder. Something prickles gently inside her. It’s not the racing feeling, it’s not that. It might be contentment, but she can’t be sure.
• • •
After dinner, Leala and Matilda whisk her upstairs to get dressed.
“But I’m already dressed,” Althea says.
“Not for New Year’s, you’re not,” says Leala.
The two older girls change into slinky black dresses; Althea is too tall for any of Matilda’s clothes, but Leala finds something in the back of her own closet, a royal blue number, short and tight.
“There’s no way I’m wearing this,” says Althea.
“That dress makes your legs look three miles long,” Matilda says.
Leala puts on red lipstick in her vanity mirror. “You got great gams, kid. It’s a crime not to show them off. I heard this rumor, by the way.”
“About Ethan and the syph?” asks Matilda. “I’ve heard that one, too. It’s not true.”
“A different rumor.” Leala smiles into the mirror, brushing her hair. “I heard a rumor—Oh, fuck it. I don’t feel like being all mysterious. Althea, is it true? You gonna stick around for a while longer?”
Althea tugs at her hemline. “If it’s okay.”
“Shit yeah, it’s okay,” says Leala. “Finally. Another girl.”
“What about Oliver?” asks Matilda. “You’re really going to send him home alone?”
“You know what?” Althea says. “I don’t want to talk about Oliver. I’m sick of feeling like all I ever talk about is Oliver.”
The girls descend the stairs to a chorus of catcalls. Kaleb passes around the bottles of champagne, one to every person, and the corks pop off one at a time, the sound filling the house like fireworks, foam spilling down everyone’s hands. The TV doesn’t get any channels so they don’t watch the ball drop, counting down with the wall clock to midnight instead. When everybody cheers “Happy New Year!” Oliver pulls Althea in for an earnest kiss. People crowd into the living room and the kitchen for an impromptu dance party led by Leala and Matilda, while a frantic Gregory looks for his misplaced cat, only to find him on top of the refrigerator, his fur vibrating with the hum of the motor.
The colored flashing Christmas lights taped to the ceiling are the only illumination as everyone writhes around in the near dark, and it’s not unlike being in the pit at Lucky’s. Althea dances with Matilda to the Replacements, feeling strangely exposed without her old mess of black hair flying around her face, but drunk enough not to care, whirling around her new friend—her housemate, now—the living room windows steamed up from the heat of everyone inside. Matilda’s blonde hair comes out of its tidy knot while she moves; they circle each other, shouting lyrics and stomping their feet.
Leala comes over with the Polaroid camera and tells them to smile. Matilda puts her arm around Althea’s waist and they look into the camera; the flash pops, the picture slides out, and Leala waves it eagerly.
“This one’s going on the fridge,” she says.
Kaleb walks into the room naked, received by an exasperated chorus of groans.
“Here we go,” Leala says. “I don’t know why he insists on getting naked at parties.”
“Dude! Cover up your junk!” Ethan yells.
“Lick my chicken, motherfucker!” Kaleb shouts, cupping one hand over his crotch.
Althea, afraid of giggling or staring or in some way betraying her age, slips outside onto the front porch to roll a cigarette and get some air. Dennis is already out there with some other people, so she bums a smoke instead and, emboldened by alcohol, tells him that she draws and sketches and paints a lot. They talk for a while about how one actually goes about becoming a tattoo artist, and he tells her about being an apprentice and how having a trade is great because if you’re good at it you’ll never go hungry. He asks if she has any tattoos yet, and that’s how she ends up in the bathroom, sitting on the toilet seat facing the wall while he tattoos the top of her spine with the zodiac symbol for Gemini, Matilda snapping pictures from the bathtub, Kaleb in the doorway wearing boxer shorts now, assuring Althea he will never question her commitment to fun again.
When it gets too hot inside, everyone puts on shoes and takes their champagne into the backyard, maneuvering around the Iceberg detritus. Ethan brings his baseball bat and Kaleb builds a pitcher’s mound out of snow. Soon everyone is taking turns swinging at the empty beer cans, hitting them onto the roof of the house. Althea scores three in a row before she hands the bat to Oliver.
“Give it a shot,” she says.
Kaleb scoops up another can and winds it up. “You ready, champ?”
“Come on, Ol,”Althea says. “Knock it out of the park.”
He points the bat at the roof, Babe Ruth–style, and winks at her; Kaleb tosses the can underhand and Oliver takes a swing.
Ethan sidles up to Althea as she watches. “You guys make a cute couple, in a Flowers in the Attic sort of way.”
Althea finishes the beer she’s drinking and crushes the can in her hand. “Kill yourself. Seriously.”
Ethan takes off his glasses, folds them, and puts them in the pocket of his coat. He leans in, so close she can see each pore and freckle and the tiny flecks of green around his irises and smell the whiskey on his slightly parted lips. Behind her, she can feel Oliver frozen in place. Everyone’s watching and waiting, dozens of people she barely knows elbowing one another and whispering, holding their collective breath, and she can sense the hive mind’s confusion and excitement. It’s like she’s plugged into the electrical current of their thoughts and right now everyone is wondering the same thing: Is Ethan really going to kiss Althea?
“Go ahead,” he says softly, but still, everyone can hear. “I want you to. Go ahead and hit me. As hard as you can.”
“What?”
“Punch me. In the face. As hard as you can.”
“No.” She’s shaking.
“I want you to. Come on. It’ll feel so good.”
Of this she has no doubt. It would feel tremendous. But she didn’t climb all the way to the top of this slide just to enjoy the ride back down. She’s a backslider, no doubt about it; there’s something built into her that makes her love to lose her shit, and sooner or later it’ll probably happen again because Matilda was right, it is exhausting to hold yourself in check all the time, and eventually Althea will get tired and slip up. But not tonight, and not at Ethan’s invitation.
“Cut it out, Ethan,” she says, dismissing him. “You’re making a goddamn fool out of yourself.”
“Jesus jumped-up Christ,” says Matilda. “It’s like watching two twelve-year-olds taunt each other.”
To Althea’s utter, utter surprise, the intense, determined expression on Ethan’s face dissolves and he begins to laugh. Not mean laughter, either. Sincere. Althea steps back, confused by his sudden merriment, until Kaleb comes over and cuffs Ethan on the back of the head.
“Asshole.”
And that’s it. It’s over. Everyone just shakes their heads and shrugs and reaches into the garbage can to grab another Natty Ice. Still smiling, Ethan puts his glasses back on.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Sometimes I get a little carried away.”
• • •
Eventually all of the beer cans find their way onto the roof, lining the gutter, blown across the cracked and peeling shingles by the wind. The Wa
rriors’ guests mill about, disappointed that the game is over. Matilda stares up at the roof, squinting and drunk.
“Is it bad that those are up there?” she asks. “Or is that just where they go now?”
“They make pretty music,” Leala says. “Like wind chimes. Sort of.”
“We need them back so we can collect the deposit money,” says Ethan. “Who feels like climbing out a window?”
“Who’s sober enough to climb out a window?” someone else asks.
“No one,” says Matilda. “No one in this entire city is sober enough to climb out a window right now.”
“I can do it,” Oliver says, eager to have maybe a few minutes alone, or away, somewhere a little quiet and removed. The roof sounds perfect.
“Are you sure?” Matilda asks.
“Yeah.”
“Be careful. We can’t afford any lawsuits.”
“I’ll go with him,” says Althea.
He follows her upstairs, into a bedroom he hasn’t yet glimpsed, the one that Kaleb and Leala share. A mangy, taxidermied deer head hangs on the wall over the bed, a thong dangling from one of its antlers. The mattress is bare and stained, the dirty sheets in a pile on the floor beside it. Althea plows right through the mess and heaves open the window, giving Oliver a mischievous smile over her shoulder.
“Is it me, or is there something kind of familiar about this?” she asks, climbing onto the fire escape.
“I guess sometimes the Non-Stop Party Wagon travels in a circle.”
They hurl the beer cans down into the backyard. Oliver tries not to aim too many directly at Ethan’s head. When they’re finished, instead of retreating back inside the house, they sit on the edge of the roof, their feet dangling below them. Althea produces two fresh beers from her coat pockets and hands one to Oliver.
Althea and Oliver Page 30