Cherry recoiled.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing,” said Vi.
“Molesting, more like.”
“Come on, don’t be weird.” Her eyes were over Cherry’s shoulder again. She draped her arms around her friend’s neck. Cherry removed them.
“Would you relax? Guys like it when girls dance like this,” Vi said.
“If you were a guy, I’d kick you in the balls.”
“Whatever. He’s not watching us, anyway.” She dropped back and straightened her skirt. “I need to pee.”
They cut through the crowd and waited in line for the ladies’ room, then waited in line again to check their makeup at the vanity. Cherry liked the way she looked. The other girls were gaudy, a child’s drawing, colored outside the lines. Compared to them, Cherry looked refined, adult. Sophisticated.
“You’re starting to look like her,” said Vi.
“Who?”
“Ardelia.”
“That’s stupid. We don’t look anything like each other.”
Vi studied Cherry’s reflection. “I don’t know. It’s, like, how you’re standing or something. It’s weird.” She let it drop, reapplying her lipstick. “So, Maxwell seems cool.”
The girl next to Cherry reapplied her eyeliner, pretending not to listen.
“Ignore him,” said Cherry.
“Don’t you like him?”
“No, I do. I mean, I don’t like him like him. He’s nice. It’s just, he’s also kind of a sleaze? You know how he and Ardelia were a thing?”
“Hello, I’m the one who told you about that.”
“Yeah, well, I think he slept with her friend. The bitchy one. Spanner.”
“While they were still together?”
“No, but . . .”
Vi shrugged. “Seems okay to me.”
“So, you’d be fine with me hooking up with Neil?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Neil’s not a movie star.”
They returned to the dance floor, and Cherry let the full wattage of her ire radiate at Vi’s back. She’d forgotten about Single Vi, who was even more flirtatious and petty than Attached Vi. At Mel’s they could just be friends, but at the club they were competitors, even if Cherry wasn’t trying to win anything. She wasn’t competing. But she hated the way Vi just assumed Maxwell would be checking her out and not Cherry. Vi so wasn’t his type. If anyone was —
Cherry dropped back into a corner and texted Lucas.
Clubbing w. Vi. Huge disaster. Wish I was with u.
She waited a beat, hoping for the friendly buzz and glow of a return text, then remembered that Lucas turned his phone off at work.
Vi emerged from the crowd, grinning and flush.
“Come on. Maxwell’s waving us over.”
“Vi, no —!”
Her wrist in Vi’s robo grip, Cherry was yanked across the floor to Maxwell’s booth. He was tucked into the leather half-moon with his dates on either side. As Vi toddled over, he gently pushed one of them out and gestured for the girls to slide in.
“Have a drink with us.”
“No —”
“Yes!” said Vi. “We’d love that, thanks.”
Maxwell leaned in so only Cherry could hear. “Please save me from these two. I swear they’ve got one brain between them, and they left it in the car.”
Maxwell’s dates were staring blankly in the same direction. Cherry laughed.
“Fine. One drink. One.”
Cherry slid in beside the other girls, Vi next, with Maxwell at the end. This made a speedy escape impossible. She felt claustrophobic. Maxwell’s dates bobbed to the music. The nearest looked familiar.
“Are you an actress?” said Cherry. The girl smiled. Her breath was spearminty.
“Kendra!” she shouted over the music.
“Cherry.”
Kendra pointed to her friend. “Kendra!”
“You’re both Kendra?”
Kendra nodded.
“Can you say anything other than Kendra?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Vi was leaning on Maxwell, using the noise as an excuse to bring her face close to his. “I’m a big fan.”
“Then you must really blow,” said Maxwell.
Vi squinted, then shoved his arm. “You’re teasing me.”
“I never tease.”
“He’s a scoundrel,” said Cherry. “Don’t trust him.”
“Scoundrel,” said Vi in a British accent. “He’s a scoundrel, dahling.”
Maxwell raised a finger, and a waitress appeared with a bottle and a tray of glasses.
“You know we’re underage,” Cherry said.
“Not in London,” said Maxwell. “The drinking age is eighteen —”
“We’re seventeen,” Cherry put in.
“And that’s why there’s less bingeing back home,” Maxwell finished.
“That is so cultural,” said Vi.
Cherry rolled her eyes. Trapped between Ditzy and Desperate.
She sampled her drink, remembering how much she’d enjoyed Alan’s wine at Ascot, and how it made her feel happy, dopey, sleepy — the best three dwarves. Whatever it was that Maxwell had ordered shot down her throat like molten lead.
Cherry wheezed. “Ay, caramba.”
“Grappa,” said Maxwell. “The peasants’ drink.”
“Drink what?” said Vi.
“My dad drinks this,” said the other Kendra.
Vi pounded her glass and poured another.
“Easy,” said Cherry.
“She’s right,” said Maxwell. “This is a man’s drink.”
He leaned in as he said it, setting his glass on the table beside Vi’s so their rims were just kissing. He placed his hand on Vi’s knee, her best friend’s knee, his smile in Cherry’s face like something obscene. The grappa flash-boiled in her stomach. A movie star in a small town with four girls at his table.
And she was one of them.
“What does that mean?”
“Hmm?” Vi had whispered something in Maxwell’s ear, and he’d lost the thread. He blinked. “What does what mean?”
“What does that mean?” Cherry repeated. “Man’s drink?”
“I just mean it’s strong.”
“So men’s drinks are strong and women’s aren’t?”
Vi slouched into the booth. “Here we go.”
“Chemically, men have a higher tolerance for alcohol,” said Maxwell. “It’s science.”
“It’s bullshit,” said Cherry. “Next you’re gonna say men are better at sports.”
Maxwell zipped his lip and threw away the key. “Well, I mean . . . they are, though.”
“Uh-oh,” said Vi.
“Oh, really?” said Cherry. “So, you think, scientifically speaking, that you are a better athlete than me?”
Maxwell shifted, looking sheepish. “I can see I’ve kicked the hornet’s nest.”
“So, you’re not saying that?”
“I’m not saying . . . What I’m saying is . . . Well, yes. I’m reasonably certain I could best you in any athletic arena.”
“How about a push-up contest?” said Cherry.
Maxwell tried to laugh. “Wait. You’re serious?”
“Yep.”
“Here?”
“Parking lot,” said Cherry. “Unless you’re afraid to get your ass whupped by a girl.”
“Excuse me, sweetheart. There is no question I would win.” He stated this as an obvious if somewhat lamentable fact of life.
“Then let’s go,” said Cherry.
People at the nearby booths were starting to pay attention. It was clear from Cherry’s body language that a conflict had arisen, and the gawkers leaned in.
“This is exciting,” said one of the Kendras, and hiccuped.
“Well . . .” said Maxwell, glancing at his audience. “A gentleman never competes with a lady when it comes to physical prowes
s. It wouldn’t be sporting.”
“So, you’re chicken?”
“That’s not what I —”
“It’s okay,” said Cherry, patting his shoulder. “You’re chicken. It’s not a big deal.”
Lightning forked in Maxwell’s eyes. “Lady, you’re on.”
The lot beside Shabooms was a flurry, the crowd circling, camera phones flashing, the clitter-clatter of texting thumbs. Maxwell stripped off his jacket. He winked at Vi.
“Ready to be impressed?”
Vi wrinkled her nose. The grappa had done its work. “You’re going to lose.”
In the center of the ring, Cherry hopped, stretched her arms, cracked her neck. This wasn’t just for personal pride. This was for Female Honor. This was for Womankind.
Maxwell gestured to the asphalt. “Shall we?”
Cherry pointed at the sky. “Count ’er off, Vi.”
“On your marks! Get set! Go!”
Cherry dropped to the ground and executed three perfect reps before Maxwell had completed his first. Soon they were in sync, the crowd counting along, “Sixteen! Seventeen! Eighteen!” Maxwell puffed, face reddening. Cherry was expressionless, eyes closed, in a state of Zen flow.
“Thirty-three!” the crowd shouted, drawing out the words as the combatants’ pace slowed. “Thirty-fouuuur!”
Maxwell tried showing off, going up on one arm, clapping his hands at the zenith, but Cherry couldn’t be baited. He glanced her way, the fear starting to show in his eyes, until at last, with a wet cough, Maxwell collapsed, turning onto his back, blinking, gasping.
“We have a winner!” Vi held Cherry’s fist in the air like a prizefighter’s. The crowd was hysterical. Maxwell, on his feet at last, held out a hand. Cherry looked at it warily.
“I know when I’ve been bested.”
They shook. “Don’t feel too bad. You never had a chance.”
Maxwell’s smile strained. He turned to Vi and the Kendras. “What do you say to a victory lap in the limo? There’s room enough for five.”
The Kendras squealed. Vi raised her eyebrows at Cherry. “What do you think?”
Aglow with the pride of victory, Cherry shrugged. “Fuck it.”
“Excellent,” said Maxwell.
He offered his elbow, but just as Cherry moved to accept it he pivoted oh-so-slightly, and it was Vi who walked arm and arm with him to the limo.
Cherry followed behind.
She had been in a limo once. Junior prom. Vi’s mom had sprung for a rental, with cigarette burns in the carpet and the stink of stale beer. The interior of Maxwell’s stretch was like a mini-nightclub, LEDs along the floor and an illuminated bar that glittered and rang. An opaque window hid the driver, who could be contacted by pressing an intercom switch. Despite the spacious interior, the passengers were pressed in on each other, legs interweaving in the well between the long leather seats. Cherry sat between the Kendras on one side; Vi sat with Maxwell on the other.
“I just got out of a relationship,” Vi said.
“My boyfriend thinks I’m studying for the SATs,” said one of the Kendras. This seemed directed at Cherry, so she nodded. “What about Lucas?”
“Sorry?” said Cherry.
“How’s Lucas? Your boyfriend?”
It hit her: the Kendras were students at Aubrey Public. Her year. She hadn’t recognized them in their fancy clothes. She’d assumed they were older.
“He’s . . . fine,” she said, trying to recover. She glanced at Maxwell. Vi was chatting in his ear. Cherry couldn’t hear her words over the music, and Maxwell didn’t seem to be listening, either. He was watching Cherry, his gaze at once guilty and brazen. His eyes rested on her a moment, then he turned to Vi . . .
“You want some?” Kendra was asking. “They’re Maxwell’s.” She held out her cupped palm. Three lavender smiley faces beamed up at Cherry. It took a moment to register what she was looking at. Her mind felt sluggish, lagging behind the others’, the last to get the joke. Maybe it was the booze plus push-ups. The muscles in her arms twitched and jumped.
Kendra popped one of the pills in her mouth.
“Oh, Cherry won’t,” Vi said. “She’s a prude.”
“No, I’m not. Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Maxwell. “She seems pretty bold to me.”
She groped for a way to defuse the situation without saying something dorky. Like, I don’t do drugs. An old Bugs Bunny anti-drug campaign popped into her head. Just Say No, Doc! Cherry felt childish. A little kid in a car full of adults. She took a pill from Kendra and swallowed it, grimacing as it went down dry.
“Who’s a prude now?”
Vi raised her eyebrows. “Wow.”
She expected to feel different. She didn’t feel anything. At least, not physically. But something clapped shut inside her. First times, large or small, were one-way doors. Once you moved through them, there was no going back. They split your life into before and after. She didn’t like this feeling of finality, of irreparability. She wanted to reach into her throat and pluck the pill out, undo the decision. She wasn’t sure whether she regretted it; just making the choice felt wrong. Oddly, this made her think of sex, and why she was glad she and Lucas were waiting until marriage. She was proud of that. Of waiting. That felt good. It felt really good.
She was thrilled about how good that felt.
Now that she thought about it, everything felt good.
“Whoa,” said Cherry.
Kendra grinned. “Right?”
The limo sped along a dark stretch of highway, streetlamps blipping like a heart monitor. Cherry was a hovercraft. She floated above her seat on a cushion of glee. She glanced at the Kendra who’d taken the pill, to see how she was acting. Kendra was playing with Cherry’s hair.
Panic in a joy blanket. Her heart was a toxic seed encased in sweet, soft fruit.
“We should go,” she said, leaning forward to touch Vi’s knee. “Home. We should go home.”
She wanted only to go home. She imagined the glory of her bed. The sheets. How good would those sheets feel? So good.
Maxwell put his hand over Cherry’s, her fingertips dissolving with the warm contact on both sides.
“We’re almost there,” Maxwell said.
Cherry tried to focus. “You’re trouble. Blue eyes.”
Maxwell removed Cherry’s hand from Vi’s knee and gently pushed her back into her seat.
“Be nice,” Vi was saying, though Cherry wasn’t sure which of them she was addressing.
Kendra twirled her finger in Cherry’s hair.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“Chartreuse,” said Cherry.
The limo dropped them someplace bright. Cherry recognized the doorman’s gold frogging. This was Maxwell’s hotel. They were in Boston. This was a disaster, but Cherry could not make herself feel bad about it. That one-way-door image occurred to her again, only this time all the doors were blown open, and she could go wherever she wanted and do whatever she wanted. She walked around to the back of the limo and puked in the street. The pill made her feel nauseated, but the nausea was weirdly disembodied. Someone else was sick. Someone else was scared.
She rejoined the group, dragging her finger along the black, beveled limo, liking the way it squealed.
There were already people in Maxwell’s suite, and at first Cherry thought, We’re already here. They were men and women she didn’t recognize. They had also returned from a night of clubbing, their skinny ties low-slung, high heels kicked off. They raised their glasses and offered Maxwell and company drinks, and Cherry moved away from their warm little circle toward the piano. There were scuff marks on top from somebody’s shoes. Ardelia’s shoes. No, Cherry’s shoes, which Ardelia wore when she stood on the piano, a thousand years ago. She traced the streaks with her fingertips.
Maxwell was at her elbow.
“You turn up in funny places,” Cherry said dreamily. “Like my car keys.”
“Do you want to go home?”
Vi’s laughter rang across the room. She was perched on the bar, chatting with a man in a blazer.
“I can’t leave her.”
“You look after her, don’t you?”
“I worry a lot. About people.”
“Who worries about you?” he asked.
And then she began to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. One of her internal trapdoors had been holding it in, and now the feeling surged up from the basement and overwhelmed her. She wiped her eyes, not too far gone to be embarrassed, and couldn’t stop her shoulders from shaking. When she composed herself, he was there, shielding her from the room, so the others wouldn’t see.
“What do you want to do?” he said.
“Come on.”
She led him into the small room with the painting on the wall, the one of the woman in the movie theater. She washed her face in the private bathroom and drank some water from the faucet. When she came out again, Maxwell was standing by the window.
“Feel better?”
Cherry sat on the bed. “A bit, yes.”
He was watching her.
“What are you looking at?” she said.
“You.”
“Can you see my orange stripe?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
She held out her hand, and he came over. He sat beside her, his weight on the mattress pressing her toward him. His hand was on her back now. His fingers pressed on her skin. He kissed her. She kissed him back. It was happening. What was she doing? A little flame of panic licked her insides. But, no, it was okay. She could venture out. Just a little. Just a tiny exploration. She wanted to see the show. All the doors were open, and she could just see what it was like. What she was like. And then she could come safely back to herself, and it would be okay.
You don’t know what you like. You haven’t tried anything.
Cherry Money Baby Page 15