Ohio

by Stephen Markley

  She’d plotted it so carefully, her first time. As dictated by her young theory, Love was giving the person you cared about something you’d never given anyone else, the one thing only you could give him. During the winter of her freshman year, after football season had ended, she constructed an alibi involving FCA. Fifty-six had the perfect idea: his friend and teammate Ryan Ostrowski (No. 63) was throwing a party to celebrate their 10–2 season, one of the best finishes for New Canaan football in a decade. He basically had his own place because his dad was long gone and his mother drove a truck that took her down south for weeks at a time. The team was getting a keg from the brother of Jake Levy (No. 16), and most of the upperclassmen would be there. Fifty-six said that Strow had promised them the basement guest room.

  At school that Friday, she spent her entire day composing. The contents of that letter were mostly lost to time, but she remembered explaining how dear he was to her, how much she loved him, and how she couldn’t believe she was so lucky that they had somehow ended up in the same continent, country, and small town, in the same high school, born in the same wonderful age. How God must have planned for them to meet and fall in love. After going through three drafts, she carefully printed out the final version, folded it into a thick, tight triangle and taped it shut. She wrote 56 across blue notebook lines.

  The party was more than she had expected. Everyone she could think of from the senior and junior classes was there, along with many sophomores and a scattering of freshmen. Red Solo cups cluttered every surface of the Ostrowski house, a humble little bungalow at the end of a dirt lane, far enough from the neighbors that it was unlikely they’d be bothered. The music was headache inducing, vibrating out of a car stereo and subwoofer rigged together in a complicated knot of electrical cords. Ostrowski greeted 56 with a high five and a one-armed embrace. Strow greeted Tina with the back of his index finger grazing her cheek and a Solo cup of warm beer. She sipped it because she didn’t want to seem lame but planned to pour it down the toilet later. She’d always considered Ostrowski fairly gross. He was beefy, bordering on fat, with a shaved head and a little goatee overwhelmed by the pudge drooping from beneath his chin. His acne was total. Zits not only conquered his face, but you could see them through the hair on his skull, on his neck, even on the palms of his hands. She made her way into the dim recesses of the crowded living room, stood with her beer, pretending to be part of a conversation between a few juniors she barely knew. The loathed Jess Bealey was there, as were Matt Moore and Tony Wozniak. She recognized Kirk Strothers, the rat-tailed cretin who 56 had remained friends with even though Strothers had been expelled. He now sat on the couch in a daze, staring at Mackenzie Boylan’s chest. Tina knew many of the faces, but not the people. She kept smoothing parts of her outfit, picking threads and hairs from her black pants, pressing at a wrinkle in her top, tugging her jean jacket so that it fit correctly on her chest. She had an urge to check her makeup in her compact but resisted. She watched as 56 moved from room to room and thought about the compact wad of her note pressed into her back pocket.

  She eventually finished the beer and went to the keg for another. She spotted Kaylyn across the room. It was a friendly face, someone to talk to, but the stupid rumors—no matter how baseless they were—kept her from approaching. She didn’t want to hate Kaylyn because of dumb lies told by people who were jealous, but the rumors at least gave her pause.

  Around midnight, arm wrestling broke out at the dining room table. Jake Levy challenged Curtis Moretti (No. 8), the quarterback, and the crowd gathered to cheer and jeer. Their arms flexed, their wrists curled, their faces broke into dual sweats. Curtis had an odd face, she decided, sniveling and a bit rodenty, especially when he peeled a lip back in exertion like that. He shaved his whole skull except for a little cap of brown on top. He wore a tank top, so she could see all the muscles in his body go taut. His lat muscle jutted out from his side like a sleek tumor.

  The night hammered on. The beer was making her light-headed and warm. At some point, she wasn’t sure when, she went back for her third. Kaylyn approached her at the keg.

  “Here, tilt the cup or you’ll get all the foam,” she said. Tina did so, and the golden fluid streamed down the side with only a small white cap. Kaylyn dipped an index finger in and stirred. “Party trick.”

  “Is Rick here?” she shouted.

  The older girl bounced her eyebrows twice. “Nope. And wouldn’t you know, I’m actually having fun.”

  “You don’t have fun with him?”

  “No, I do. Just not at things like this.” She stirred her hand around the party. “He gets jealous about everything, especially the older guys. So stupid. Boyfriends are the absolute worst.”

  She tittered at her own comment and sipped. Tina did the same.

  “You look kinda miserable,” Kaylyn observed.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” She looked around. Brent Brandon (No. 27) had gotten on one knee to take the hose end of a beer bong in his mouth. His neatly moussed hair had a loose strand. “It’s just, like, absolutely crazy in here right now. We’re yelling to hear each other, you know?”

  “Welcome to the life of dating the team.”

  “Rick’s a starter—he should be here, right?”

  Kaylyn was so beautiful. Even now as she wrinkled her face into the expression of someone who’d just smelled rotten eggs, she still glowed. Her freckles added some lovely component to her fluorescent eyes, which reminded Tina of the smattering of green in the stained glass windows at her church.

  “He doesn’t get along with these guys. Your boyfriend makes him uncomfortable. He’s sort of a closet nerd, you know.”

  “Todd?” she asked, confused. She was two years younger than 56 and often helped him with his homework.

  Kaylyn laughed. “Nuh-nuh-no.” She laughed some more. “Rick. Rick’s a math nerd. He can do crazy calculations in his head. What I mean is he’s like a secret brain. I guess that’s why he hangs out with rich preps like Ben and Ashcraft.”

  These rumors about Kay and 56 simply could not be true, she decided. Where had she first heard them? Probably from Stacey, who was obviously jealous of her. If 56 was cheating on her, it meant Kaylyn was cheating on Rick, and that just seemed absurd. And yet the image of 56 and Kaylyn in the hall stayed with her, so that she could almost hear that gristly sound as his fingers kneaded strands of Kay’s hair together.

  She was roused from this unpleasant pit of jealousy by the sound of someone crying out, “Strow, no! Don’t do it.”

  They both turned to see Ostrowski empty a twenty-four-ounce can of malt liquor to the brim of the beer bong, held by Brent Brandon. He then took a knee. The crowd had differing opinions of whether or not this was a good idea.

  “Back up, faggots,” he told them.

  By the time he sucked down half the liquid, Tina thought he would finish. He did in fact succeed, but the last of the foam had no sooner vanished than he was buckled over, hands on knees, vomiting like a garden hose when you put your thumb over the nozzle.

  People screamed and stumbled backward to avoid the spray, which was hard to do given the pressure with which the liquid exited him. Watching it, Tina felt like she might hurl. People were streaming outside when Kaylyn grabbed her arm.

  “C’mon, this place is going to smell like ass.”

  They pushed past all the revelry and found themselves in what must have been Mrs. Ostrowski’s room. The bed was made, a flower duvet stretched over crisp sheets and half a dozen throw pillows. Tina sat while Kaylyn wandered over to the bookshelf, which had only books on CD.

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “Todd’s a good guy. He’s going to be the biggest deal to come out of this place maybe ever.”

  “I hope so.” Jealousy flared. What had Kaylyn done with him? She’d never asked 56 if he was a virgin. She hoped so but realized there was a chance he wasn’t, maybe even a chance she was staring at the girl he’d given it to.

  “My friend Hailey—you know her?”


  “Kowalczyk?”

  “Yeah, so she’s like a little feminist, right? But you know it doesn’t matter what your opinions are— If you can, you’ll always date a football player.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I overheard these girls in the hall—you know, Goths and skanks, typical, just talking all this shit about fucking jocks, fucking preps, and it’s like, you dumb bitches, you don’t even know what those categories mean. You got that from every fucking tired, bullshit high school movie. You’re just using that to make yourself feel better about your inability to actually talk to anyone and get to know them. It just drives me crazy.”

  It was strange hearing such volatile language come out of Kaylyn’s beautiful mouth. She held a hand to her breast.

  “Like I’m some rich girl? I don’t fucking think so. My dad’s been on disability since I was five. He walks around town looking for people who need their lawns mowed or their houses painted because if he gets a real job that check goes away. It all drives me crazy,” she repeated.

  Tina surmised that this was what it was like to be drunk: because all of this actually made a lot of sense. Kaylyn ran her fingertips—nails painted a bright pink—over Mrs. Ostrowski’s audiobook collection, her long-haul-trucking companions: Tom Clancy, Joel Osteen, and Danielle Steel. Tina sipped.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever drank this much,” she said.

  “Ha, better get used to it, you ho. You want something so the hangover’s not so bad?”

  She did. Amid the bubbling anticipation of the night, she still feared her mother would know she’d been drinking when she got home the next morning from her “FCA sleepover.”

  Kaylyn groped in the coin pocket of her jeans and withdrew a small round pill. “It’s just a vitamin, like B12 and stuff. It’ll definitely make you feel better tomorrow.”

  Tina washed it down with a gulp of beer.

  She looked like she might say something else and then stopped. Tina felt watched by her. Something passed through her stare, a look of judgment or spite she thought at first, but then it was gone. “You’re really beautiful,” Kaylyn said.

  “Thank you. You too.”

  Kaylyn lay down beside her on the bed, stretching across the flowers. She propped her head on a hand.

  “Do you like traditions?” Kaylyn asked.

  “Depends on what you mean by that. Like going to church?”

  She laughed. “Oh my god, you’re so cute. No, I mean like outside that stuff. Rituals.”

  “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “I love traditions. Anything that lets people celebrate or remember something that binds them.”

  Tina sipped her beer.

  “Like I heard about this one school in New York, like a prep school where rich kids go. And not just rich kids, but like the rich kids. The kids whose parents have more money than they know what to do with. The boys have this thing where they divvy up the freshman class, and they all get assigned someone. And then they spend a month just making that kid’s life a living hell. Beating him, making him eat nasty shit, making him wipe his ass with pinecones.”

  Tina grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah, but when they’re seniors, those kids get to do it to the incoming class. It’s a way they bond. Something they never forget and can take with them all through life.”

  “I’ll stick with church, thank you.”

  Kaylyn threw her head back, and when she laughed, Tina could see the boxing bag in her throat vibrating, and the one tooth trying to push past its neighbor. “You’re hilarious.”

  She wanted to throw out the rest of her beer; she felt gross.

  “C’mon,” said Kaylyn, hopping off the bed. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  “Why?”

  “ ’Cause that’s where the party’s at.”

  Kaylyn led her to the basement. It was a dim wood-paneled space with a low ceiling and carpet the color of bathwater. The furniture all looked secondhand, cobbled together from the Salvation Army and yard sales. They were alone down there. A case of Busch Light, half-empty, sat on the coffee table along with a bottle of vodka. Tina took a seat on the couch. The music still thumped upstairs.

  “I’ll be right back,” Kaylyn said.

  Tina was left to think about how gross she felt. Like she needed to poop. Kaylyn was gone for a long time. Eventually, she heard the rowdy sounds of 56 and his friends descending the stairs. It was an odd crowd. Fifty-six in front, followed by Ostrowski with a bit of vomit still staining the collar of his shirt, then Brent Brandon clutching the bannister because he was clearly wasted and having trouble staying upright, then Jake Levy, Curt Moretti, and Stacey’s older brother Matt. She felt extremely awkward when Matt’s gaze fell over her since she knew him from eating breakfast in his kitchen, from spying on him and his friends with Stacey in order to gain access to their older-boy secrets. Matt, Brent, and Curt were arguing about something very loudly, but she only really saw 56, so she smiled. He gave her the same expression right back. She felt dizzy—not like she was dizzy, but like she was watching herself feel dizzy.

  “Where you been, babe?” he asked.

  She nodded to Kaylyn, now descending the stairs, brushing a strand of hair from her face. Her pink fingernails were curled around something, a box.

  Fifty-six collapsed onto the couch next to her, his eyes a bit bleary but still handsome. “We had to go outside. The smell was just—” He fake-gagged.

  Brent Brandon stumbled onto the carpet, sat cross-legged. “You guys said I was second. I got you it, so you said I was second.”

  Ostrowski punched him in the shoulder and told him to shut up. Kaylyn continued down the stairs, and as Tina watched her descend, she could see her feet making ripples in the carpet and the surrounding air, as if she was tapping water with her toes. It wasn’t a box she held—it was a camcorder. Fifty-six asked if she wanted another drink, but his voice sounded like it came from another room. The ripples glided out in concentric circles from Kaylyn’s slender feet. They made the air shimmer in tones of violet and a deep midnight blue.

  That was the last thing she remembered of the night.

  She woke naked on the couch hurting in ways she’d never experienced and would never forget. Her head ached, but her privates screamed. It felt like someone had jammed something barbed and rusty far up inside her. There was a sheet under her and the stains were rust-colored clouds. She couldn’t breathe through her mouth, and it took her a moment of confusion to realize something was clamping her lips and face together. Stretching the skin painfully, she peeled away a piece of shiny gray duct tape. Dumbly let it drop to the floor. She looked around at the mess of beer cans and clothes. Slowly, she fished through the mayhem and found her underwear. The ache ran all the way into her stomach, sharp, stabbing. Gingerly, she pulled on the purple pair, a favorite, and went about getting dressed. She searched the house and found 56 sleeping in the guest bedroom. Ostrowski snored on the floor with one of the couch cushions tucked under his head. He wore only boxers and the shirt with the stains still on it. No Jake, no Curtis, no Matt, no Kaylyn. When she woke 56, he blinked as if he didn’t recognize her. Without saying anything, he dressed, and she followed him upstairs, past the massive puddle of reeking puke that coated the kitchen linoleum. It wasn’t until she saw this that she began quietly weeping.

  They drove, and she tried to suck back her tears. It wasn’t that she was confused about what had happened. She hurt so badly that there was no question. Yet it all seemed so bizarre, she couldn’t quite make sense of it.

  “Was it just you?” she asked. A stupid question, and he looked at her like it was stupid.

  “You wanted it from everyone in the room, babe. You kept asking for it.” Splotchy red patches broke out on his neck—the same hot flush she’d seen in Friendly’s on their first date.

  She wanted to explain that she didn’t remember anything beyond that drink, but she knew that was stupid too. />
  “I think I need to go to a doctor,” she said. “I’m bleeding.”

  He looked over at her, then back at the road. “Sorry if things got wild. We’ll just sometimes do stuff like that. Share stuff like brothers, you know? Don’t make more a deal of it than it really is. You kept saying you were into it . . .”

  She wanted him to stop stammering his explanation. She could still feel the gluey gunk the tape had left on her face.

  When he dropped her off, she went to the bathroom and put a towel between her legs and knelt over the toilet until she threw up. Then she shredded the note she’d written and left it in the trash. For a day and night she pretended she had homework, locked herself in her room, and agonized about whether or not she needed to go to the hospital. But the bleeding stopped, if not the crush of the pain. For the next week, she thought about telling her mom what had happened. Maybe she would know what to do. But the more she thought about it, the worse an idea it seemed. After all, what had happened? Those guys would say she’d wanted to do all that, and she wouldn’t have any proof she’d tried to stop them. Then everyone at school, at church, and in the town would think she was a liar, a slut, both. Maybe some people would believe her, but mostly they wouldn’t. Mostly they’d think she was trying to get attention for herself. The more she thought about saying something the more awful the consequences manifested in her imagination. As the heat of the pain dulled, the idea of telling did as well.

  At school, she’d pass some of the guys who’d been there that night and avoid their gazes, although she could sense them whispering about her. Fifty-six carried on like nothing out of the ordinary had gone on. He came up behind her and patted her butt. He put his arm around her in the hallway. He talked about recruiting letters. That week, Kaylyn stopped beside her locker.

  “How was that party?”

  Tina honestly couldn’t tell what lay in the older girl’s smile. Was she making fun of her? She wanted to run away. Instead, she said, “Fine. Had a great time.”