by Jessica Raya
She’d gone with Joyce. It wasn’t a surprise, but it still sent blood to my ears.
“Joyce isn’t my friend,” I said.
“Well, I’m your friend, right?”
Mom tapped her wrist. Tick-tock.
“I have to get off the phone,” I said.
“Oh, okay.” Jamie gave me the address. “Just in case you change your mind.”
The evening was endless. Mom smoked at the kitchen sink with one eye on the driveway and the other on the wall phone. I should have been studying my vocabulary homework—koan, lassitude, myriad, and other words nobody would ever need. Instead I parsed my mental transcript while I poked my eyes with a mascara wand, failed to brush the ponytail bump out of my hair, and faced the slim virtues of my closet with dread. There were a hundred reasons not to go—myriad reasons, you might say. What if I went and Melanie ignored me? What if Troy didn’t? Melanie was usually the one who talked me into things. I knew what she’d say now. Spread your wings, Robin! Spread your wings! I ruined a can of SpaghettiOs just thinking about it. My stomach was too knotted up to eat anyway. Mom, wisely, stuck with dry toast.
“Do you want to watch some television?” she said as we scraped our plates into the garbage. “We can turn up the volume. We don’t have to watch the news.”
“You’re a real party animal, Mom.”
“Fine, fine. It’s all brain rot anyway.” She fished a cigarette out of the pack. She’d started leaving it and her silver lighter out on the counter. She didn’t bother with the enamel box anymore.
“You look pretty,” she said, turning her head as she exhaled. “Why are you all gussied up?”
“I’m going to Melanie’s.” I gnawed my lip. I had to say it before I could change my mind. “And I’m spending the night.”
She looked at me one-eyed, like a bird. “You put on makeup to go to Melanie’s?”
“Nobody says gussied up, by the way. Except country bumpkins. And Canadians, I guess.”
The eye narrowed. Suck, sigh, suck, sigh.
“You tell me to dress nice all the time, and then when I do I get the third degree.”
“All right, all right. I only said you look nice.” She twisted at the waist. Her head was already halfway there. She wasn’t going to stop me. She was going to look out the window. Suck, sigh, suck, sigh.
I breathed deeply, but it didn’t help. She left no air in the house. I felt another scream coming. “You smoke too much,” I said.
“Do I?” she said to the black glass. “I didn’t know it bothered you.”
“Well, it does. It’s disgusting. You’ll probably get cancer.”
Her head snapped around, tears welling in her eyes. “That’s enough. I’m still your mother.”
Still, as in so far. As in count your lucky stars, kiddo. As in nobody ever wanted you. As in nobody wants you now. Except maybe Troy Gainer.
“No wonder Dad doesn’t want to be married to you.”
Mom pushed herself away from the counter slowly and straightened her spine. It was easy to forget how tall she was. Like many women of her generation, you could measure her self-confidence in inches. Or her anger. Her hand was so quick, it was seconds before I understood I’d been slapped.
She’d never hit me before, but you wouldn’t have known it. My cheek hummed from nose to ear. As she dropped her cigarette in the sink, her hand was shaking. “I hope you have better manners at the D’Angelos’,” she said and went to her room.
I waited a few minutes, then followed her there. Pressing my cheek against her door, I heard the faint pop and rattle of her Valium bottle, the rush of water from her ensuite tap. She’d be out cold in half an hour. I watched an episode of All in the Family with the volume off. I never got the jokes anyway. Gloria and Edith were getting worked up about something and making Archie miserable. When it was over, and everyone on TV loved each other again, I knocked on Mom’s door just to be sure. I imagined a studio audience watching me with my ear against the wood, the laugh track kicking in as I grabbed a bottle of something from the liquor cabinet and sped off on my bike.
Dusk had always been my favourite time of day to ride, when lights glowed storybook yellow and everything else was a different shade of blue. The streets were quiet at that hour, all the cars tucked in their driveways where they belonged. Melanie and I used to ride our bikes everywhere, all the time, streamers and hair whipping the air. One more thing we were too old to do now. I let go of the handlebars, arms out, feet off the pedals, smiling at myself in the dark. I was free. The world was mine. Melanie didn’t know everything.
For all its lore, The Place was just a small white bungalow in another development going the way of the bulldozer. Nothing lasted long in Golden. Last year’s mini-malls were blasted to make way for stucco homes with built-in barbecues and two-car garages while homes were razed to make room for new mini-malls with movie theatres and rooftop parking. The bungalow sat at the end of a long row of identical bungalows, flanked on one side by a line of scrawny trees. A tricycle lay on its side on the overgrown lawn. A family had lived here once, before moving on to something with more closet space. Within the year it would probably be an Orange Julius. What did I care? I dumped my bike behind some bushes and went inside.
The front room was empty, except for a couple making out in the middle of the floor, their legs entwined double-lotus style. There was no mattress, just shag carpet and an old lumpy pillow squatting against a wall. Girl laughter and the scratch of a portable radio drifted in from another room. I stepped around the couple carefully and followed Jim Morrison down a hall.
It was your standard rec room—low ceiling, gloomy. Empties lined the windowsill, some swollen with cigarette butts, some choked with candles. There wasn’t any furniture, just wooden crates pushed against the walls and a pile of mangy pillows on the floor. A dozen kids lounged or leaned around the room, their hands wrapped around beer bottles or stuffed in their pockets. Pot smoke camped around shoulders, like a gathering storm.
There was a wet bar on one wall and a brick fireplace on the other, painted black with soot, as if a bomb had gone off. Fireplaces weren’t uncommon in Golden, just not intended for use, like guest soap and wedding china. Now it was the only source of heat against the looming desert night, and nobody knew how to work the flue. Someone had tried to burn a chair leg. It lay charred but whole amidst the cardboard boxes and yesterday’s news. A guy knelt at the hearth, jabbing things with a poker. I could hear my dad drilling me. Are your fire extinguishers in working order? Where are your exits? Stop, drop, and what? I walked over to the fireplace, reached inside, and pushed the lever back. There was enough smoke in the air as it was.
Melanie and Joyce Peyton stood awkwardly in a corner, hiding behind plastic cups.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” Melanie said when she saw me, more surprised than happy, I thought. But then she smiled and threw her arms around me and whispered in my ear, “Guess who else is here.”
Right then Troy Gainer strode into the room, carrying a bag of sunflower seeds. He flopped down beside the fireplace and watched the guy poke at the fire. I was standing five feet away, but Troy didn’t notice. I could have been a floor lamp for all he cared.
Jamie Finley was right behind Troy. When he saw me he smiled. “You came,” he said, sounding as surprised as Melanie, but in a good way. There were dimples everywhere.
Troy flicked his eyes over me and away. He popped a seed in his mouth, turned and spat. Sunflower shrapnel stuck to blank wall. “This place is a real drag,” he said. “Nobody ever brings any booze.” Melanie and Joyce looked guiltily at their cups. “I brought something,” I said and took the wine out of my bag.
Troy groaned. “Does this look like a dinner party?”
Jamie smiled again. “I think I saw a corkscrew somewhere,” he said and led me out of the room.
The kitchen was in the back of the house, if you could still call it a kitchen. A tower of beer cases tottered where the stove and
fridge had been. The linoleum was sticky under my Keds.
“This place could use a woman’s touch,” Jamie said.
“This place could use a blowtorch.”
We held candles to cupboards and drawers, searching for a corkscrew, but all we found were mouse droppings. “Maybe in the sink?”
As I dug through the plastic cups and empties, my thumb grazed something sharp. I jerked back and brought my foot down on a broken beer bottle. I yelped and hopped around on my other foot, but I couldn’t get away from the pain.
Jamie put his hands on my shoulders to stop me. “Just hold still for a sec. And maybe don’t look down.”
I did, of course. I hadn’t expected to see my heel wedged inside the cylinder of brown glass, jagged tips cradling the laces. It made me think of the ships in a bottle that Melanie’s father built in his garage.
Jamie looked at me gravely, dimple-free. “It’s gotta come off,” he said.
“I’ve actually grown kind of attached to it,” I said. “Seriously, it’s fine. I’m pretty sure I can walk like this.” Mr. D’Angelo had shown us how the ships got in the bottles, but he’d never said anything about getting them out.
Jamie put his hands on my shoulders again. “Do you know how people walk on burning coals? They believe it won’t hurt, so it doesn’t. Mind over matter, right?”
I nodded, grateful. If it had been my dad in that kitchen, I’d be listening to a story about a girl who stepped on glass one day and dropped dead the next.
“Okay,” Jamie said and hooked his hands under my arms. As he lifted me onto the counter, a giggle bubbled up from somewhere. I could feel myself blush. Jamie’s cheeks had two permanent splashes of pink that made it look like he’d just stepped in from the cold. “Close your eyes and take a deep breath,” he said. I followed his instructions. He smelled like apple shampoo again. I hoped my foot didn’t smell like foot.
I heard the crack of glass and felt the bottle release its grip, then Jamie’s hand warm around my ankle. He slipped off my shoe and peeled away my sock.
“You’ve got big feet,” he said.
“Is it bad?”
“Nah, you’ll grow into them. Does it hurt?”
“Only when you make me laugh.”
“The good news is, I found the corkscrew.” He laid it in my open palm. “I’ll look for a Band-Aid. You open this. It’ll help.”
I’d never opened a bottle of wine before. I couldn’t get the screw to go in straight. I tried using the tiny knife to carve out the cork instead. Troy came into the kitchen and watched me making a mess.
“You’re doing it wrong,” he said, taking over. “You really screwed it up.” Eventually he gave up and pushed the cork in. He smiled and held up his hand. It took me a while to understand that I was supposed to slap it.
Troy was shorter than Jamie but wider and thicker. The muscles on his neck flexed when he drank. “Not bad,” he said, leaning against the counter beside me and taking a second long pull. He handed me the bottle. I took a sip and fought back a grimace. The wine was sour and warm.
“Your foot’s bleeding,” he said.
“Uh, yeah.” I took another drink to stop myself from talking any more.
Troy saw my sock on the counter, dotted with blood. He picked it up and bit into the cotton, making a small hole with his teeth. Then he tore the sock in two and slid the elastic cuff over the arch of my foot. “I guess Boy Scouts wasn’t a total waste of time,” he said. He wrapped his lips around the bottle and sucked. I watched, amazed, this boy who’d put my sock in his mouth.
Between swigs, Troy moved around the room. He was one of those guys who can’t sit still, all fast-twitch muscle and new testosterone. He ran his hands over his half-inch of hair. He did a drum solo on the counter, hummed something I didn’t recognize. Melanie said boys liked getting compliments, so I told him he had a nice voice.
“You like the Eagles? I took you for one of those Carpenters chicks.”
“Yeah right,” I said, feeling bad for Richard and Karen.
He really got into it then, singing and strumming his stomach. When he bent into the bridge, I could see his scalp through his buzz cut, white and vulnerable. Dog tags were tucked inside his T-shirt. You could buy them in the city, where broke vets traded them for a few bucks at the army surplus. Half the guys at school wore them. Nam, they called it, staring off at the horizon as if they were remembering the jungle and, man, the shit they’d seen.
Troy sang, swaying toward me until his thighs pressed against my knees. “You ever make out underwater?” he said. I shook my head. He took a big swig and mashed his lips against mine. Bordeaux flooded my mouth. He laughed while I coughed.
Melanie watched from the doorway, grinning at me as if I’d won the lottery—or she had. Jamie stood behind her, looking like he’d lost.
“I guess you don’t need these anymore.” He dropped a wad of napkins on the counter.
Troy took one and wiped his mouth. “You were right,” he said. “She does have cock-sucking lips.”
“I never said that.”
“Yeah, sure. Finley here’s a real gentleman.”
Troy pointed the bottle at Melanie. She stepped into the room and held out her cup. When he pointed the bottle at Jamie, he shook his head. It was my turn again. Fine by me. Jamie settled against the doorframe and watched me dribble wine down my shirt, me and my cock-sucking lips.
The wine swished between me and Troy. I took small sips, trying to get used to it. Melanie sipped delicately from her cup. Nobody had much to say, but I was used to couples that didn’t talk. Troy and Robin and Jamie and Melanie. I saw the four of us riding around in Troy’s red Mustang, happily ever after.
Troy wasn’t exactly Prince Charming, but then I was no Cinderella either. Selling is believing, my dad always said. When he told clients they could step outside his office and be hit by a bus, he believed it one hundred per cent even though his office wasn’t anywhere near a bus route. I could do this, I told myself, taking a bigger sip this time. Falling in love with Troy Gainer wouldn’t be nearly as bad as getting hit by a bus.
“Jamie made varsity,” Melanie said.
I tipped back the bottle, gulped. The wine was starting to taste pretty good.
“It’s no big deal,” Jamie said.
“He almost broke the two hundred last week,” Troy said. “Not bad for a beanpole. Tell her, Thinly.”
“Tell her yourself.”
“What’s your problem?”
“I don’t know, Gainer. Why don’t you tell me what my problem is?”
“Two hundred what?” Melanie asked, but nobody answered.
“Hey, Jamie,” I said. “If you’re so great, can you do this?” I grabbed the eyelashes of my left eye and flipped my lid inside out. Jamie was the only one who didn’t laugh.
He crossed to the window and stared out at the dark. The frilled curtains had pieces of fruit all over them. In some past incarnation of our kitchen, we’d had the same ones. Now they were plaid. Why have curtains at all when you never shut them? But I liked the fruit, which had begun to swirl pleasantly. My foot didn’t hurt at all anymore. I felt good. I was swirling pleasantly too. It was the right decision to come, maybe the best decision I’d ever made. When Troy and I were a couple, we’d come back every weekend, maybe every night. Music trickled in from the rec room. I wished they’d turn it up so we could dance. Everything was wonderful and everyone was happy. Everyone but Jamie.
“Why don’t you have a drink, Mr. Finley. Loosen your tie.” I held out the bottle. “Don’t make me limp all the way over there.”
“If I drink, will you stop whatever it is you’re doing?”
“I’m just having fun, Thinly. Is that a crime?”
Joyce appeared in the doorway. “Is what a crime?” When nobody answered, she crossed her arms and pursed her lips.
The fireplace guy came up behind her, using the poker as a cane. “Keg party. You jackasses coming with us, or are you staying he
re and babysitting?”
Jamie kicked at the empties on the floor. They scattered noisily across the linoleum. “I hate this fucking town. Drink here, drink there. Who the fuck cares? The day I turn eighteen, I’m out of here.”
“Me too,” Melanie said, though like most of us she’d never gone farther than Anaheim. There were only three reasons people left Golden: divorce, draft, and death.
The guy with the poker picked up an empty plastic cup and flung it at the pile on the other side of the room. “Babysitting it is,” he said. Melanie put her plastic cup on the counter. Nobody else moved.
“Well, I’m going,” Joyce said and followed him out.
“Aren’t you guys coming?” Melanie said.
Troy put his arm around my shoulder. “Maybe later,” he said. I took another drink.
Jamie grabbed the bottle from me, swallowed the last of the wine, and tossed it in the sink. “No point hanging around this dump.” Then he pivoted on one of his own big feet, crossed to the doorway, and was gone.
“Are you sure?” Melanie said nervously.
Now who’s the brave one? I thought. Now who’s spreading her wings? I stuck my hands under my armpits and flapped. Melanie rolled her eyes and followed the others out.
We heard the front door open, kids talking, shuffling outside. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” someone yelled from the living room. A door slammed shut.
“So,” Troy said.
He took my hand and led me slowly through swaying halls to a small room at the back of the house. There was no candle, only moonlight and not enough of it. As my eyes adjusted, I was relieved to see the rumours about mattresses weren’t true. It was just an empty second bedroom with cowboys on horses leaping across the walls. A child’s room, a little boy’s.
Troy moved closer, lips parted. I did the same. Our first real kiss.
“You know, I don’t usually go for freshmen,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, hoping he meant I was special.
Kyle Lincoln had given me a hickey at the winter dance. When Dad saw it, he told me the human mouth was dirtier than a dog’s. Mom brought home a bunch of pamphlets on venereal diseases and left them in my room. For weeks I’d thought I had syphilis on my neck. I hadn’t even wanted the hickey. The junior boys, I found out later, had a bet going over who could mark more freshman girls that night. I guess Kyle really wanted that ten bucks because he went for the jugular the second the spinning lights hit our faces. Troy’s mouth was no less startling. His lips and tongue were everywhere, as if he was trying to eat me. Somewhere in the middle of all this, he pulled me to the floor. I tried to feel good about the way things were turning out.