I Like You Like This

by Heather Cumiskey

  “So, how long have you guys been going out?”

  “Over a month, I guess.”

  “Seems longer.” Toby drifted away from her and stopped in front of Gillian and Taylor, who were talking at their lockers. She realized then that the two of them must have gotten a ride that morning.

  “Hey you!” purred Taylor in her gooey-sweet, singsong voice.

  Oh great, now they’re all friends, Hannah thought and picked up the pace

  CHAPTER 24

  DEACON FELT LIKE A KID AMONG THE SWARM OF COMMUters buzzing around him when he stepped off the train at Grand Central Station. No one took particular notice of him, it seemed. Many of them, especially the few females he saw, appeared to be late for wherever they were headed and stressed out. He watched them take flight into the grand concourse. He couldn’t imagine his mother running in the same circle as these workingwomen, each of them out to prove something—“He-women,” as Babette liked to call them.

  He quickly moved aside to let one of them—a woman carrying an expensive-looking briefcase and wearing a long, double-breasted coat with leather lapels and her commuter sneakers—zip in front of him. He was in no rush for what he had to do today. He hung back instead with the men, who walked noticeably slower in their shiny wingtips, wool topcoats, and fat gold watches, each of them dripping with more success than the last.

  Jade and Bobby were taking a later train, giving him just enough time to make the call he’d been dreading since he woke up. Let’s get this deal over with.

  The first two payphones he found had severed receiver cords, making him feel like a jackass since he’d already put a quarter in each of them before realizing it. The third one was in a more remote part of the terminal—not ideal, but at least it worked.

  “Yo.”

  “Tell him I’m coming by in a few . . . I don’t know, twenty to twenty-five rocks or so . . . yes, cash,” Deacon said. He hung up the grimy receiver, which smelled like a nasty buffet of puke and malt liquor—and just then, a creepy feeling came over him. He turned to find a guy waiting behind him for the phone wearing a ripped NEW YORK, NEW YORK! sweatshirt and carrying a filthy pillowcase filled with God knew what. The stranger was standing far too close for Deacon’s liking.

  They locked eyes. The older man’s straggly, unwashed hair and sunken, strung-out face prompted Deacon to move out of the way, but he held the stranger’s stare. He dug his hands into his coat pockets with feigned resolve and turned to walk out onto East 42nd Street; he looked back once, but the guy had disappeared, the phone receiver dangling helplessly over the ground. Better make this quick, he told himself.

  He walked as fast as he could to his destination, pushed the button to call up, and waited. He could barely hear the electronic door’s speaker over the noise from the street, and it seemed to take forever to get buzzed in, which only added to the nerves racing inside of him. He scanned both sides of the sidewalk for cops before walking through the double-glass doors into the vestibule. The stench from the narrow, ill-lit hallway overwhelmed him—human body odor mixed with fecal waste, reminding him of a train station bathroom but a million times magnified.

  His eyes slowly adjusted, and he spotted the shapes of three people down at the far end. He started to lose his nerve and thought about turning around, but by now they’d seen him. He cursed himself for bringing so much cash. Then he heard the sound of a lighter and caught a halo of light moving in small circles under a pipe, warming and liquefying its contents into pure gold, illuminating three eager faces. One belonged to a woman with the longest, skinniest arms and legs Deacon had ever seen, followed tragically by her expectant belly. He suddenly felt sick.

  The sound of the popping got louder as he passed the three gaunt junkies intent on getting their high. He knew the transaction would be swift once he was inside, but still his heart pummeled inside his chest. He thought of Hannah and wished he were home with her. He counted two more doors and knocked softly.

  A tall, lanky kid, the one who’d probably spoken with him on the phone, opened the door slowly. He was dressed like he’d just come off a rap video, decked in parachute pants with a matching track jacket. The small room smelled of Vanillaroma car freshener, and held little furniture except for two white armchairs flanking a square, black-lacquered table. Most of the supplier’s stash was hidden elsewhere, Deacon presumed, for very little was laid out in front of him.

  He presented his cash with little preamble, noticing the soiled mattress in the corner on the floor—probably for those who needed to “pay” another way—as he handed over the bills.

  The skinny kid performed most of the transaction; the other guy—a heavy, older man—just sat solemnly, clasping his pudgy hands over his voluminous belly. He wore a flourish of gilded medallions, as if he was an Olympian. Deacon felt the older man’s eyes sizing him up, and he didn’t like it; as soon as the kid handed him the drugs, he grabbed them, nodded, and quickly got out of there.

  Deacon stepped around the extended legs of the three junkies in the hallway, holding his trench coat around his legs to avoid brushing against them, as he exited. Their vacant eyes stared off eerily, their brief fix dangerously deflating.

  He caught the blue-uniformed cop out of the corner of his eye, not more than a few yards away, right as he swung open the exterior glass doors. With his stomach in his throat, the bag of rocks bulging inside his coat, and his legs forgetting how to walk, he forced himself to keep moving, seeing his father’s face the whole time.

  Bobby was kissing Jade near one of the broken payphones in the terminal, his hands roaming up and down her back, when Deacon walked past them. He cleared his throat, and Bobby broke their embrace. The two of them inconspicuously fell in line several feet behind him. Suburban teens ditching school for a day in the city: that was the plan Deacon had told them. So they’d dressed and were acting the part. The tall lacrosse player wore his country-club good looks well in a preppy pink Lacoste shirt and pink sweater, his blond hair carefully combed to the side; and Jade, green-eyed and olive-skinned, had donned tight designer jeans and a matching denim jacket adorned with a handful of concert pins across her chest. Her long, dark, china-doll hair swayed as she strutted hand in hand with Bobby, clearly enjoying the eyes that followed her. Together, they made an ideal distraction.

  Deacon shook his head at the charade, especially Jade’s, questioning her taste in lovers—first Gillian, now Bobby. He’d never seen much in her himself, but she’d been the first one in the park that night to volunteer for the city run, which had surprised him.

  Dealing the rock would take his business to a whole other level. It hooked customers hard on their very first try, it was cheap to get, and it provided an intense, fifteen-minute high. Just to get another hit, Deacon knew his fellow (rich) classmates would steal off their parents, friends, even their little sisters’ piggybanks. His mouth watered just thinking about the amount of cash he could easily pull in—up to a few thousand a day. He could almost taste the power.

  His growing reputation for having the “good stuff” had unfortunately made him a walking target. Increasingly, the wrong types of people were finding out that he carried both drugs and plenty of cash. For that reason, Deacon never stashed his drugs in his car or at home anymore; he placed them in crumbling walls around school and occasionally at acquaintances’ houses without them knowing, to keep them secure. That weekend of Hannah’s LSD trip, he had even stored some in her bedroom. Which reminded him: they were due for another nighttime rendezvous.

  CHAPTER 25

  “KERRY, ARE YOU OKAY ?”

  Her sister’s boney back protruded from her denim coveralls, and her scalloped pink turtleneck made her appear smaller and more fragile than the last time Hannah had seen her. She entered the little bedroom—once her own childhood nursery, decorated in blues and yellows, but now exploding in Pepto-Bismol pink, from the walls down to the ruffled curtains and matching bedspread. Kerry’s dainty dresser and shelves corralled a barnyard of stu
ffed animals in every color and size. She was crazy about animals: horses, sheep, even frogs, it didn’t matter. Their father seemed to buy her a new stuffed something every other week.

  Kerry was currently playing with her beloved Droge bear, the one she slept with every night. His name came from Kerry’s mispronunciation of “droopy drawers,” the moniker her parents gave her when she first started walking because of the way her diaper hung between her pudgy legs. Hannah smiled at the memory as she watched Kerry stroke her beloved bear’s matted, thoroughly sucked-on fur with a sense of purpose. Her sister’s little lips were pressed into a pout, her little legs dangling motionless off the bed.

  “Kerry?”

  Her sister stopped petting her bear for a moment. Then the sound of a boy riding his bike and calling to someone down the street pulled her attention toward her window, and she gazed out through the glass, ignoring her sister.

  Hannah waited. She couldn’t remember the last time Kerry had had a friend over. She seemed to spend all of her time either obsessively monopolizing their mother’s attention or getting engrossed in another episode of Little House on the Prairie.

  Hannah walked slowly around the bed, searching Kerry’s face for any possible clue to what had happened and why, but stopped short, horrified, when she saw the dark, purplish circles under her baby sister’s eyes.

  “Kerry, can you tell me what happened?” Her voice caught. She wanted to put her arm around her little sister and rub her back—to somehow make the scary accident and ordeal in the hospital all go away. “Was it because of me?” she asked in a small voice, afraid to know the answer. “Maybe because you saw me take a couple pills when I broke my nose, so I could sleep?”

  She felt guilty and cursed herself for not spending more time with her little sister. All Hannah had ever wanted as a little girl was to have a big sister—someone to share stuff with and show her how to deal with the kids at school. Now she was that big sister, and apparently a pretty crappy one.

  Kerry stared silently at the bear cradled in her lap. After a moment, her tiny voice came out in a whisper. “I wanted . . . to be like Mommy. I pretended, by taking her golden pills. They always made her so happy. I wanted to feel happy, like Mommy.”

  Hannah closed her eyes, seeing her mother asleep in her car outside and the way she staggered back into the house. No, no, no!

  “I started taking tranquilizers to calm my nerves,” her mom said, suddenly appearing like a ghost in the doorframe, her voice casual and nonchalant, as if everyone in town medicated themselves whenever the mood struck.

  What “nerves” exactly? Hannah wondered. Her mom wouldn’t meet her questioning face; instead, she poured her attention into her youngest daughter like she was a box of Cracker Jacks, her glassy pupils eyeing the prize inside.

  “Kerry thought they were candy, that’s all. Right, honey?”

  Hannah wanted to scream at her mother and the game she was playing. Is that what you told the hospital, Mom? Then she saw Kerry’s tiny elbow jerk back, ripping off pieces of fur from her Droge bear, her teeth clenched, her eyes fierce with resolve. They both watched Kerry attack her beloved bear and take it apart bit by bit, rolling each clump of fur between her thumb and middle finger into a tight little ball before placing it inside one nostril, then the other, alternating sides while she worked.

  Hannah felt the heat rise in her neck. She sucked at the air that was trying to escape from her lungs. Like a deranged dollhouse come to life, the tiny, pink, ruffled bedroom started closing in on them. The upper walls tilted inward, forming a tent that began scraping the little bedroom’s white, immaculate ceiling, making Hannah duck for cover.

  The black marble eyes of Kerry’s stuffed animals suddenly spun and grew in size as the whole barnyard pulsated off the dresser and shelves. Neither Kerry nor their mom took notice. Not wanting to share her hallucination, Hannah kept silent. She kept closing and opening her eyes, madly trying to decipher what was real and what wasn’t. This is all in my imagination. None of this is happening. But then, like a dance Hannah had seen too many times before, her mother began stroking her youngest daughter’s hair, humming an unrecognizable tune as Kerry fleeced her favorite, most trusted bear, lodging more and more fur balls up her nose. Hannah had to look away, feeling sick. When she did, the walls and the stuffed animals gradually stopped their show. But the reality of what was left terrified her most of all.

  CHAPTER 26

  “HELLO ?” SHE WHISPERED. HER THROAT FELT LIKE SANDpaper, her voice rough. She’d pulled the phone into her room after her parents had gone to bed.

  “Hi.”

  “What time is it?”

  “After ten.”

  “I must have dozed off . . . waiting.”

  “Sorry.”

  “So, how was your trip into the city?”

  “Fine, I guess. Jade pissed me off. Long story.”

  “Try me.”

  Deacon exhaled into the phone. “We almost got busted coming back on the train. An undercover cop asked Bobby some questions and Jade started to freak out. Nearly blew it. The guy’s been following me around with his partner. I didn’t see him until it was too late.”

  “Kerry overdosed on my mother’s Valium.”

  “Shit.”

  “Happened yesterday, when I was at your house . . . they pumped her stomach and everything.”

  “Geez, she okay?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hannah said, feeling the back of her throat contract. “I had another flashback, this time in front of my mom and sister . . . a bad one.”

  “Oh my god, that sucks . . . I’m really sorry, Hannah. I wish I’d never given it to you. I kick myself just thinking about it.”

  She could hear the tenderness in his voice and wished she could see his face—see his chocolate brown eyes and red pouty lips making it all better.

  “About tomorrow . . . I was thinking, let’s hang out, just us.”

  “I’d like that,” she said, trying to conceal the excitement in her voice. She couldn’t stop smiling and knew she probably looked ridiculous; she was glad he couldn’t see her face. One call from him and everything was suddenly right in the world.

  “Pick you up, then?”

  Hannah’s mind raced. How would she get out of the house without her parents noticing? But she couldn’t miss this chance to have some alone time with Deacon. She would figure it out.

  “Most definitely.”

  She felt quite glamorous strolling up the grand staircase with Deacon that morning. They exchanged knowing looks and shared a playful giddiness over the fact that they had the house to themselves while Deacon’s parents were out conducting their last-minute campaign rounds. Hannah was supposedly at the library, studying all day for exams. It hadn’t been too hard to convince her parents to let her go, especially with them being so preoccupied with Kerry. Her mother just seemed relieved that Hannah had someplace to go.

  She ran her fingertips along the dark oak banister, taking in the opulent décor for a second time, fantasizing for a moment that she and Deacon were married and this was their house, where every night he’d take her up to the bedroom and have his way with her. Hannah chuckled at the thought.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said, grinning, feeling her cheeks flush.

  Deacon closed the massive bedroom door behind him and on cue, Hannah’s palms started to perspire. She turned and lowered her head to casually smell her armpit, but Deacon caught her and laughed.

  “Wait, are we in your parents’ bedroom?”

  “No, mine.”

  It was nothing like she imagined. It looked more like a guest room than a bedroom for a teenage boy; it was decorated in dark paneling and sparse, antique-looking pieces, from the queen-size sleigh bed in the center of the room to the heavy, ornate matching bedside tables and floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all filled with leather-bound editions that appeared more for show than reading pleasure. It was void of boyhood knickknacks or any stuff at all, for
that matter; in fact, the room contained little evidence of him actually living there. On the walls hung a couple of large oil paintings; both portraits of bearded men in decorated military uniforms that Hannah assumed were distant relatives.

  “Your room . . . it’s so grown-up.”

  “It’s been the same ever since I moved back.”

  “Moved back?”

  “Yeah, my mom had me live with my grandfather until I was fourteen.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Deacon shrugged. “So, beautiful, how is that lovely schnoz of yours?” he teased, pulling her closer, his hands resting on her shoulders.

  “Pretty much healed,” she replied, scrunching up her nose and making him laugh.

  “I’m really glad you’re here,” he said, turning serious, his hands running underneath her hair and cupping the back of her neck. Hannah shivered at his touch, aware again that she would be unable to move away from his grip if she wanted to. Something behind his eyes lured her in closer, though: the same unguarded look she’d seen when they were alone in the park talking. Gone were his candy cane smile and cavalier seductiveness. To Hannah, this felt real. It felt like love.

  “What do you want to listen to?” he asked, walking over to the stereo—the only thing in the room that seemed like his.

  “Anything.”

  Deacon pressed play without changing the cassette. “I just got this and can’t stop listening to it.”

  Hannah recognized it immediately: “A Sort of Home-coming,” off U2’s new album, filled the air around them. Deacon draped his arms around her again, this time straddling his legs wide on either side of her, making it so the two of them were at eye level with one another. His hands found her hair again, gently grabbing fistfuls. Hannah closed her eyes, wanting his lips to find hers, realizing that he was the one she’d been hungry for her whole life.

  “Deacon, I . . . ”