And I hate it when girls cry.
Standing, I down the last of my beer and approach the two sisters. Kristie tries to hold me off, but I didn’t come to a party to hang out by myself. Besides, I know them both well enough to arrogantly feel like I might be able to help.
“Everything’s good,” Kristie says, preempting my question with a vague intervention. Joanne turns away to wipe her eyes so I won’t see.
“What’s got her upset?” I ask.
“Girl stuff. Can you give us a minute?”
“What’s wrong?” I ask Joanne.
Kristie gives me a look, but I downplay it. Joanne turns back and tries to smile. Her eyes are damp as she pushes her long bangs behind her ears.
“She came here alone,” Kristie says.
I frown. “So? Half the people here came alone.”
Kristie rolls her eyes then cocks her head as if waiting for me to magically connect the dots.
“I mean…” I try, looking around, wondering who we might be able to hook her up with, but the only single guy I see is Ritchie, and that won’t work. “It’s not like it’s end of the world.”
“Don’t try,” Kristie says. “You’re a guy.”
Joanne looks miserable.
“I’m just thinking…”
“Again, you’re a guy,” Kristie says. “So, don’t think either.”
This time Joanne grins.
“That’s not fair,” I insist. “Being a guy doesn’t mean I’m automatically stupid.”
But Joanne thinks I’m adorable, or at least she thinks I’m adorably dumb, because she’s laughing, and laughing is good because it also means she’s not crying.
“So, what’s the bottom line?” I ask. “She’s lonely?”
Any good humor Kristie had disappears, leaving her ugly and angry.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
“Then how exactly did you mean it?”
“Joanne,” I say, ignoring Kristie. “Take your pick,” I say, spreading my arms. “You’ve got the pick of the litter. Any guy who turns you down is an idiot. You’re gorgeous. Own it.”
“Hey,” Kristie murmurs.
“Well, you’re gorgeous too.”
An angry glare.
“I’m not implying anything.”
“You better not be.”
I turn to Joanne. “Pick a guy. Any guy…”
“Any guy?”
“Except for Ritchie…”
Joanne laughs out loud then covers her mouth though she’s actually taking a look around, taking stock of her choices. She seems to be cheering up.
“Joanne, honey,” Kristie says. “It’s a party. Have a good time.”
“I need a drink,” she says in that awkward slur of hers.
“Let me get her something,” I say.
Kristie shakes her head. “I’ll get it.” She wanders off toward the makeshift bar, disappearing into the shadows.
“You okay?” I ask.
Joanne just hovers, though she does nod.
“Good, because ‘okay’ is on special. Buy one, get two free.”
“So, I owe you big then, huh?”
I nod. “We can work out a payment plan.”
“Settle for a hug?” she asks before opening her arms. It’s scary how much she looks like Kristie, a thought which makes me hesitate. Then again, it’s just a hug. Conceding, I accept her offer, and we embrace like it’s no big deal. And at first it isn’t. Then it is. The scent of her hair is exactly the same as her sister’s. The frame of her body is exactly the same too, and for a fleeting second I wonder if I’d be able to tell the difference. If I can’t, then is it love or just lust? This frightening moment gets me thinking about all kinds of screwed up scenarios until I realize she’s breathing against my neck, her head on my shoulder, one of those screwed up scenarios suddenly becoming real. Feeling guilty and even more confused, I gently try to pull away, but she tightens her grip and holds on. She doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if it’s the scent of her hair, or maybe the pheromones she’s releasing. Or maybe it’s because I’m a teenager, and teenagers can’t help it. Whatever it is, I want her. I want to kiss her, taste her, feel her—fuck her. I want her, and I have to forcibly break from her and step back.
“Dance with me,” she says with a smile, swaying to the music coming from the radio drifting from beyond the fire.
“Maybe I’ll just…”
“Come on. One dance.”
“Kristie will be back in a second.”
“I’m not talking about my sister.”
“But…”
“One dance.”
Sighing, I hold out my arms, and she steps up, a smile on her face. Her eyes are big and blue, her lips full and curious as her hands fold into mine. She presses up against me—crotch to crotch. Glancing toward the fire, I’m afraid I’ll see Kristie staring at me with venom in her eyes, but everyone is doing their own thing. Nobody seems to notice anything as we sway just beyond the edge of the firelight.
Well, almost nobody.
Someone’s noticing, and that someone is lurking at the edge, eyes trained on me, boring holes directly into my soul.
Ritchie.
He’s standing still, all by himself, eyes locked on me, his mouth curved downward in a perpetual frown. The fire dances in his slanted eyes, his hands curled into fists at his side. I don’t think he’s angry with Joanne. I think it’s me.
I pull away from Joanne, ending the dance. “Come on,” I say quietly. “Let’s find your sister.”
Part II
We’re almost back to my place. Ritchie hasn’t uttered a single word to me since we left the party. In fact, he hasn’t talked to anyone since he saw me with Joanne. He’s upset, drifting behind me, eyes zeroed in on my back. That much is obvious, and even if I get the chance to explain, he’d just see it like he wants to.
It was nothing. It was a hug. Two friends hugging it out. Nothing more. Besides, I’m with Kristie, not Joanne. I wasn’t doing anything more than trying to console a friend. Of course, this clairvoyant explanation has been worked out only in my mind. I thought for sure he’d confront me once we left Lawton and were out of earshot. Perhaps down by the Beaver. But he stayed quiet, hanging back a few steps the entire trek back into Payton.
My neighborhood is nearly dark. Only a few scattered windows are lit, and it’s late—probably three in the morning. I didn’t get much time alone with my girl. What was supposed to be a great night wound up a bitter disappointment, and now all I want is to put the evening behind me and get past this ‘thing’ with Ritchie. I stop at the foot of my driveway knowing I need to say something. Ritchie and I don’t fight. We’re too close. But not knowing what to say, I settle on ignorance and pretend as though I’m completely unaware that anything is wrong. “Well,” I say, faking a yawn. “Goodnight.” I turn and make my way up the driveway.
“What you did…” Ritchie says, his voice gruff as it trails after me. I stop. “It ain’t right.”
“What isn’t right?” I ask turning.
“I saw it,” he continues. “And I saw you seein’ me see it.”
“Saw what?”
“You and Joanne.” He’s not looking away. He’s looking right at me. “Was that your way of provin’ you can have both at the same time?”
“What are you talking about?’
“That hug.”
“A hug?”
“Yeah. When you hugged.”
“Is that what you’re all bent about?”
“I saw you.”
“It was a hug, Rich. That’s it.”
“Then why you all nervous?”
“I’m not nervous. It was a hug.”
“A hug.”
“A hug. She was feeling down. And where were you? As usual, you avoided her like the plague.”
Ritchie is silent.
“Did you even talk to her tonight?”
He says nothing. He just stares.
“Go home,” I say. “Sleep it of
f. We’ll sort it out in the morning.”
“You already got her sister,” he growls. “You leave Joanne alone.”
“You’re right. I already got her sister,” I snap. “Jo’s also my friend, so no, I’m not going to leave her alone.” I turn away then turn back. “And for the record, nothing happened. It was a hug.”
Ritchie takes a step forward, and I feel my heart seize, but I hold my ground. My best play is to continue pretending this is just a regular conversation between friends. He’s not going to punch me, because I’m not angry, and if I’m not angry then it’s not a fight.
Ritchie smiles, his stained teeth glinting under the single street lamp. “You think you got what it takes, small time?”
I shake my head. “You’re drunk, asshole. Sleep it off.”
Ritchie glares at me. I can smell his beer breath and the sweat that’s permanently caked into his shirt. He’s breathing heavy, probably from the long walk, but maybe because he’s still worked up. He chuckles before doing something I never would have predicted. Rather than pounding my face into the concrete like I’m half expecting, he merely turns his back and lumbers away. I’m not sure if this is a good or bad thing. Ritchie’s not much of a thinker. He reacts to the moment, and there’s no way he’s going to just let it go, so that means he’s planning something else.
I watch after him for a minute just to be sure he’s not coming back before turning up the driveway toward my comfy bed and my big, fluffy pillow. I’m exhausted. The windows are dark, and all I want is to collapse into bed and wake up sometime next year.
I crawl through my bedroom window, careful not to knock anything over or trip on a wayward baseball. I carefully slide the window shut, slip out of my shoes and crawl into bed. I even nearly get away with it.
Nearly.
“That you?” I hear Mom call from far away.
“Go back to sleep, ma,” I mumble, burying my face in the pillow.
There’s a long pause, and for a moment I think maybe she did go back to sleep. That’s when I hear her plodding along the hall. Our house is old, and so is everything in it, so I even hear the doorknob squeak as it turns. A shaft of light cuts across the floor.
“You’re in late,” she says.
“It was a party. Party’s get over late.”
“No more fights?”
“No more fights.”
“Then what was Ritchie talking about?”
“You heard that?”
Her silhouette shrugs. “The window was open.”
“That was nothing.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Did you make a move on Joanne?”
“No, I did not make a move on Joanne. I’m with Kristie. The whole thing’s a big misunderstanding.”
She stands there, her huge frame filling the doorway. “I just don’t want to see you and Ritchie fighting. You two mean too much to each other. Don’t let some silly little girl fuck it up.”
“I got it, ma. Thanks for the graphic image though.”
“I’m just worried.”
“You’re still worrying.”
She stands still for a moment. “Goodnight.” She pulls the door shut, her footfalls fading along the hall.
“Outta here,” I whisper as I collapse into my pillow and stare up at the ceiling. One week. One week and I’m all the way gone. And as if to demonstrate the rebel inside dying to break out, I pound my mattress, tearing off the covers, refusing the tears welling at the corners of my eyes while mouthing over and over, “outta here, outta here, outta here …”
Fifteen
Today
My hotel window is open. Rain is falling steadily outside. It’s the kind of rain I remember as a kid, but nothing seems as familiar as the emptiness in my heart. I’m disappointed in myself. I lied to her, not because I needed to, but because lying is easier than telling the truth. She had it in her head that we’d find her sister’s body out at the old Johnson Farm, yet we found nothing, and I let it go. To top it off, I was not vey sympathetic or patient with her. I made up excuses, conjuring up ‘that’s-how’ instead of ‘what-ifs.’
I want to go back to Atlanta, but I’m stuck here until Allstate settles my claim. I’d ride the public bus just to get out of the city except there are no buses, and this isn’t a city. It’s Payton. It’s barely even a town, yet I’m stuck here, just like Hotel California. Once you’re in, you’re in for good.
Parting the curtains, I watch the rain. It’s coming off the roof in a clear sheet of water, a reminder that no matter how much change there is, things tend to stay the same. I’m stuck here, destined to wait out the storm.
My hair has dried, and I’m wearing fresh clothes, my drenched shirt and jeans draped over the stained chairs in the corner of the room. The television is on in the background, and the cheery sounds of some sitcom I’ll never watch is my company. A car drives through the parking lot, its high beams cutting through the rain before pulling into the parking spot next to my room. A couple darts out and disappears from my line of sight, the sound of a slamming door next to mine synchronized nicely with a boom of thunder overhead.
I let the curtains slip shut, and I pace the room, watching TV with my arms crossed, utterly disengaged. My mind is elsewhere—somewhere between here and twenty years ago. At some point after leaving the Johnson farm and before getting dropped off at the hotel, something inside the gray matter of my mind clicked, and memories began trickling in like a slow leak, feeling like a paper cut bleeding out. Things I intentionally forgot, things I unintentionally forgot—things. And what I’m suddenly remembering is scaring the hell out me while reminding me why I left in the first place. I feel clammy, dirty and cold, and when there’s a knock at my door, I wonder if it’s Lucifer himself coming to collect his toll. It’s not until I remember that I ordered in that I grab the bills I’d neatly stacked on my nightstand and cross the room.
“Abbott?” the pimply girl asks I open up. She holds up a pizza box stained with grease. “Room sixteen?”
“This is seventeen,” I say all smug.
She looks down at the piece of paper she’s holding, the rain cutting through the fabric of her shirt and plastering the hair to her forehead. Then she looks at the number hanging on the door. “It says sixteen.”
Now I feel bad. “Never mind. It was a joke. A bad one at that.”
She frowns, looking like she might cry. “So, this is the right room?”
“Yeah, it’s the right room.”
She holds out the pizza. “$21.49.”
“The guy on the phone said twenty bucks.”
“Inflation.”
“In the last forty-five minutes?”
She shrugs. “Blame global warming.”
I pay for the pizza and throw in a tip. “Have a nice night,” I say, shutting the door in her face. Peering through the peephole, I watch her stare at the door a moment before shaking her head and turning away.
Settling on my bed, I open the top and grab a slice of hot pizza, the cheese stretching the way the commercials say it should. The breading is crunchy, but the toppings are soft—the tomato sauce thick as it runs from the edge of the V-shaped slice. Everything about my meal should be perfect, but something’s missing.
The television show is going on about some parade, and the cast is making cracks while the audience laughs on cue. My cell-phone rings, and I check the number. Kristie. Wiping my fingers on my jeans, I answer.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine. Why? What’s up?”
“Nothing,” she answers after a pause. “I mean, nothing’s wrong.”
“Then why are you calling?”
Silence.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say.
“You got quiet earlier. I thought you were mad at me or something.”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m not mad.”
“Then what?”
I stare at the TV and the make-believe people imitating real life. It’s funny. Not the sho
w or anything about this day, but everything that’s supposed to appear one way but instead is the other. I’m supposed to feel sad because everyone in this screwed up town is sad. Or maybe I’m supposed to laugh because of my stupid bell-curve shaped life, my average apartment and my meaningless job.
“Tony?” she asks from across the line.
“It’s nothing,” I answer.
She’s quiet, and I can hear her thinking from five miles away. I know her. She conjures a hundred different choose-your-own-adventures at once, and then she gets flustered when she doesn’t know which door to open. Suddenly it’ll be all about me and what I’m thinking even when I haven’t said a word.
“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
I shrug before remembering that we’re talking on the phone. “Eventually.”
Silence.
I might be the world’s biggest moron. The girl of my dreams is within reach, and I’m once again holding her at arm’s length. I let her go once before, and now I’m doing it all over again. And why? So I can go back to my cocoon life in the big city. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I say. “I need tonight off. My head’s all messed up. I need some time to process.”
“Guys don’t process.”
“We process.”
“Guys aren’t built to process.”
“Then maybe I’ll ruminate.”
She’s quiet a few moments. “And tomorrow?”
I stare across the room at the TV where people are pretending to be alive. For some reason, to the rest of the world, that’s funny. “Pick me up in the morning.” I do the math in my head. “Around ten.”
“Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something.”
“Show me what?”
I stare out my window while smelling the pizza in my lap. “You’ll see.” Thunder rumbles beyond the window and the audience cracks up from the television. Watching the idiots hopping around onscreen, I feel like my life is a script pinned together by mediocre actors and sub-par jokes like a sitcom with no punch line. Yet everyone’s laughing while I feel like crying. “You’ll see,” I repeat, hoping she’ll finally give up then hang up.
“I’m going to lie awake all night wondering what.”
Payton Hidden Away Page 17