by Amy Bryant
Ian was fully dressed and sitting on a stool at the counter, eating toast with jam and drinking coffee. Mom was unloading the dishwasher. “I visited England when I was your age,” she was saying. “I didn’t get to spend nearly enough time there, but I loved it. I keep meaning to go back one of these days.”
“Mmm,” Ian said. His mouth was full of toast. I poured a glass of orange juice and walked around him to sit at the table. Mom opened the silverware drawer and dropped a stack of clean forks inside. I had no idea that she’d ever been to England. I thought of the way she looked in her wedding album. Her long, wavy black hair. I wondered if Dad was with her in England, or if she’d gone with someone else. Maybe she’d had a British boyfriend, too. I wanted to ask her about it but it didn’t seem right, in front of Ian.
After my orange juice I took a long shower. I took my time packing my things while Ian waited downstairs. When I was ready, Ian helped me carry my bags outside and load them into his trunk.
“Do you think you have enough shit here?” Ian slammed the trunk closed, and his car swayed back and forth.
“It’s just my laundry plus some stuff I got for Christmas,” I said. I turned back toward the house, where my mother was waiting to say good-bye. It was then that I remembered that Ian and I hadn’t exchanged Christmas presents. I hadn’t gotten him anything at all.
Ian waited in the car, gunning his engine, while I hugged Mom.
“I’m sorry William isn’t here to say good-bye,” she said. I nodded. William had gotten up earlier than usual and gone into the office.
“Bye, Eye-an!” Mom yelled. Ian jerked the car away from the curb.
Once we were on the highway he finally spoke.
“Your mother told me this morning that you were really disappointed in your report card, and that you were going to be making a lot of changes when you got back to school.”
“Yeah, well.” I took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. I caught sight of myself in the side mirror; there were dark circles under my eyes and my hair was even flatter than usual.
Ian shifted in his seat. “So I was trying to figure out who you’re going to go out with now,” he said. He had sped up and was tailgating a station wagon. “I’m guessing Andrew. I assumed he was a fag or something, but you’re always talking about how funny he is.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it again. “If you’re going to act like this the whole way home, you can just drop me off at the bus station,” I said.
We drove in silence for two hours. When I got hungry I asked if we could stop somewhere for lunch. Ian acted as if he hadn’t heard me, and then made a show of speeding up to pass the next exit that had a sign for food. I turned off the radio and sulked in my seat until he finally found a McDonald’s. We ate our Big Macs in the parking lot, and then Ian sped back out to the highway, screeching the wheels as he made turns. When he wasn’t cutting people off, he was tailgating. I locked my knees and waited for us to crash.
It wasn’t until we passed the first sign for Virginia Tech that Ian spoke again.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, “because you don’t just break up with someone for no reason.”
“I know.”
“When I met you I thought you were mature for your age,” he said. “But you’re not. You’re a child. A freshman.”
“I can’t help how old I am,” I said.
“You’ll probably be like this your whole life.”
It was only a few minutes past five, but it was getting dark. I thought about the first trip I made to Virginia Tech the August before. It seemed unbelievable that only five months had gone by.
“You have no concept of what it means to love someone.” Ian was yelling now, and his accent was almost gone.
I reached for a cigarette. “We never said we loved each other,” I said. “We never talked about that.”
“You want me to tell you I love you? Is that what you want?”
My hands were shaking. “I just know I don’t want to go out anymore. That’s all.”
“That’s all? You just don’t want to?”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
We were heading into town, past the Ford dealership and the Photomat and Kroger Foods. I stubbed my cigarette out and pushed the ashtray in. We passed the turnoff to Ian’s apartment and continued on toward campus and my dorm. I hoped Julie was back. Maybe the dining hall was open. I wanted to see Andrew and Sam and Mark. Even Cynthia.
Ian pulled over in front of my building and turned the engine off. Students were herding themselves inside, dragging large suitcases and plastic bags. I had that long-car-trip feeling: I wanted to eat and sleep and shower all at the same time.
He surprised me by carrying most of my bags to my room, leaving only a duffel bag and my new boom box for me to carry. Even though he carried more weight than I did, he walked quickly and I lagged behind. I watched the way his hair curled over his jacket collar. When I’d met him, his hair had been shorter. I concentrated on how this was the last time I would see him here, climbing the stairs of my dorm.
It took me a minute to find my keys. Ian let out a dramatic sigh. When I got the door open he stepped past me and dumped my stuff in the center of the room. There was a crash, like something had broken. Laura wasn’t home, but her clarinet case was on her bed.
I sat on the edge of my desk. “I think it would be better if we didn’t talk for a week or so,” I said. “And then maybe we can—”
Ian had lurched out into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. His footsteps were drowned out by the sound of my phone ringing.
six BRENDAN
Other people went to Florida for spring break, or volunteered for Habitat for Humanity. I went home to Reston.
Mike’s mom and sister were out of town visiting his grandparents, and according to Carrie he was having people over Friday night. I cut my last couple of classes and got home late Friday afternoon.
I hadn’t seen anyone since Christmas, and I wanted to look good for the party. My roots had grown past what I thought of as my Debbie Harry stage into something I was just going to have to wait out. I was growing my bangs out, too, and had taken to wearing a wide, black headband every day. I thought the headband made me look mod.
It was spring break, but it was still cold out. I put on the gray crewneck sweater I wore practically every day at school, and my baggy blue-and-gray-satin pajama pants. I’d bought the pajama pants the summer before at Classic Clothing, a cc store in D.C. Classic Clothing was dark and dusty and jammed with racks of old clothes. Up front under a glass counter they kept vintage pocket books and white gloves and plastic cigarette holders and sunglasses with rhinestones on them. I felt artistic and cool when I shopped there. I bought the pants, which weren’t something I would ordinarily wear, because the cute, older salesclerk said they looked good on me.
“That’s what I like to call an exact fit,” he said, circling behind me when I came out of the dressing room. The pants had an elastic waistband and were baggy all the way to my ankles. The salesclerk was wearing a turquoise and black bowling shirt with the name RICKY stitched onto the left pocket, and his dark hair was gelled up into a perfect pompadour. He had a tattoo of a pinup girl on his forearm, and he was smoking right inside the store. The pants were more than I could afford, but I bought them anyway. Whenever I wore them I thought of cute Ricky with his tattoo and his cigarette.
“Don’t be surprised if Mike gets all flirty with you,” Carrie said on the ride over. “He hasn’t gotten any action in forever, and today he came by my locker to ask me if you were getting back in time to come over. Then at lunch he asked me if you were going out with anyone.”
“I’ll try not to take it personally,” I said. I pulled my cigarettes out of my coat pocket and lit one, cracking the car window as I did so. I understood how Mike felt. In the three months since breaking up with Ian I hadn’t kissed a single boy. Neither had Julie. We told ourselves it was because we spent all our time
with Andrew and Sam. But my grades had gotten better. That was something.
It wasn’t much of a party. The same Minor Threat blared out of the stereo while the same bored people stared blankly around the living room. Adam Schreiber was being his usual self, sneering over his beer. I wondered why I had been looking forward to this so much. I was sorry that Theresa’s spring break was a week later than mine.
Mike rushed in from the kitchen and hugged me. I waited to feel attracted, but nothing happened. Brendan Davis wandered in behind him. I didn’t know Brendan very well because he had spent most of high school completing various rehab programs. He had a world-weary air about him, like an old man. He was carrying two beers, one stacked up on the other. I caught a whiff of patchouli as he passed me.
“Hey,” Brendan muttered in my direction.
“Hi.”
I watched him arrange himself on the couch next to Adam. There was a large, yellowing bruise on his forearm.
“You need a beer. I’ll be right back,” Mike said.
I went over to a brown, fake-leather La-Z-Boy and sat down. I pulled the handle and flipped the leg rest out and then back in again. Mike reappeared with my beer.
“Hey, Polly, want a bong hit?” he said. “I think you remember where everything is.” He pointed up at the ceiling.
“That’s okay. I don’t really smoke pot anymore.”
“Does it make you paranoid? That’s what happened to Adam for a while, but then he got over it.”
I held up my can of Budweiser. “I don’t like to combine.”
Lyle came up behind Mike. “Do you have pot for everyone, or just for people with high school diplomas?”
The two of them went upstairs. After a minute, Carrie followed. I watched her body vanish as she climbed the stairs. Black thermal shirt, red and green kilt, black tights, black boots. Red and green kilt, black tights, black boots. Black tights, black boots. Black boots.
I swiveled the La-Z-Boy. Todd Wilson was standing at the entrance to the kitchen, drinking by himself. He hadn’t changed a bit since I’d last seen him: skinny, pasty, noticeably drunk already—he reminded me of a blond Sid Vicious. And there was something of his brother there, too, around the mouth. Even the way he raised his beer to his lips seemed mean. I swiveled again before he could catch me staring.
Brendan cleared his throat. “So things have really changed around here, huh Polly?”
“If you say so.”
I got up from my chair and went to the kitchen to get another beer, finishing the one I already had on the way. Todd nodded when I passed by him, and my stomach tensed up. I wanted him to follow me into the kitchen, to look at me like I was something he wanted.
The next few hours slipped by without incident. We drank beer and talked about bands and drugs. We figured out what was going on in other people’s love lives. We smoked cigarettes in the backyard.
I was hanging out in the kitchen when Carrie asked if I was ready to go.
“Since I have a car now, I can drive you home if you want,” Mike said before I could answer. He had told me about the car earlier. It was an old brown Datsun stick shift with 150,000 miles on it that he had talked his mother into buying from their neighbor. I was impressed that Mike had learned to drive a stick shift.
Peering around Lyle and Carrie, I glanced into the living room. I hadn’t exchanged a single word with Todd all night. I didn’t see him, but his leather jacket was lying across the back of the couch.
“How are we doing on beer?” I asked.
“We can always break into the liquor cabinet.” Brendan was sitting on the counter, his baggy work pants fluffed out around him on the Formica. I looked into his hooded, bloodshot eyes.
“Liquor after beer will make you sick,” I said.
“Polly, do you think you can make a decision on this?” Carrie said. “Some of us still have curfews.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll stay.”
Mike clapped his hands together and hooted, and I felt a wave of embarrassment come over me. He walked over to the fridge and opened it with the bravado of a magician’s assistant.
“Uh-oh, I think there’s only one left,” he said, still rooting around in the refrigerator as Carrie and Lyle shut the door behind them. He straightened up. “Are you sure you don’t want to get stoned?”
“Let’s just split it,” I said.
Since the beer was gone the rest of the party emptied out within fifteen minutes. Todd took off without so much as a backward glance at me. I was alone with Mike, Adam, and Brendan.
“I guess I’m ready to go,” I said.
But Mike was driving Adam and Brendan home, too, and they wanted to get stoned again before we left. As I looked for my coat, I tried not to think about whether Mike was okay to drive.
I was coming out of the downstairs bathroom when Brendan loomed up before me, close enough to make me stumble backward. I could smell his patchouli.
“Jeeze, look out,” I said, stepping around him.
He kissed me, grabbing me in his arms as if we had been waiting to be alone together. For a second I kissed him back. A part of me was flattered. Even when the biggest loser I knew kissed me, there it was.
I pulled away from him. “I don’t really, you know, I don’t really like you like that,” I said. I edged toward the front door.
Brendan’s face was uncomprehending. He gestured toward the staircase that led to the basement. “Can we at least talk?” He looked up at the ceiling. “Will you come downstairs?”
I folded my arms in front of me. “Talk about what?” I asked.
“About this.”
I followed him down the basement stairwell, which was wallpapered with the same garish floral pattern that covered the basement walls. Brendan sat down in the middle of the couch, so he was on both cushions. I sat on the arm. There was dim light from the stairwell, but other than that the room was dark. I knew Brendan was probably going to try to kiss me again, but now I was prepared. I would tell him that we could be friends. I would remind him that Mike was my ex-boyfriend, and Brendan was Mike’s friend.
I was reaching for the lamp that sat on the side table when I felt him on me. He pulled me down onto the couch and pushed his face into mine. He was half kissing me, and half holding my head in place. I struggled to move out from under him.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Get off me.”
Brendan gathered my wrists together and brought them up over my head while I wriggled and grunted. When I tried to yank my wrists free, he tightened his grip.
The reality of what was happening dawned on me, and I shut my eyes. Then I opened them. It was worse with my eyes closed.
Brendan put his mouth back on mine. He was holding my wrists with one hand. With his other hand, he yanked the elastic waist of my pajama pants until it was halfway down my thighs. He tugged my underwear down after them. Beer swirled around in my stomach and traveled partway into my chest. I broke my face free of Brendan’s face.
“You have to stop,” I said. My voice sounded strange. Matter of fact.
He shifted his weight on top of me. I heard the slow, quiet sound of his pants unzipping. I thought about Mike and Adam two floors above us.
I cried out when he got inside me, and Brendan forced his tongue further into my mouth. He brought his hips down against mine. The smell of patchouli and pot only faintly covered the sharp smell of his body odor, and our muffled breathing was the only sound in the quiet. Again I tried to yank my wrists free, but his grip was still too tight. I let myself go limp.
He took his tongue out of my mouth, gasped for air.
I turned my head to the side, away from his face. “You’ll get me pregnant,” I said. He didn’t answer me.
“I’ll get pregnant,” I said again. And then more times. “I’ll get pregnant you’ll get me pregnant I don’t want to get pregnant just please stop just stop.”
Then he did stop, tearing out of me like he had only just now heard what I was saying. I had no
t felt him come. He lifted up and released my arms, and I felt the blood begin to circulate back into my wrists.
Brendan stood and pulled his pants up. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I could see a flash of white skin beside me. He wasn’t wearing any underwear. My pants and underwear were still bunched up around my knees, exposing my dark, full pubic hair that stretched from thigh to thigh. I hadn’t shaved in more than two months.
I jerked my pants up, scrambled to my feet. Brendan stepped out of my way and I ran up the basement stairs and into the living room. I could hear Mike strumming his guitar upstairs. I opened the front door and ran down the porch steps and across the yard and to the sidewalk. The cold hit me all at once.
It was too far to walk home. Slowly I crossed the front yard and sat down on the porch steps. It wasn’t even a real porch, just a tiny structure tacked on to the front of the house, supported by two pillars scarcely five feet apart. The porch matched all the others on the street. The whole neighborhood looked like it was made out of plastic. There wasn’t a single tree to block out the hideous, man-made landscape. I wanted to burn it all down and start over. Let Mike’s house burn with Brendan still in it.
I wrapped my arms around myself and breathed in. Then I closed my eyes and opened them again. I didn’t feel drunk anymore.
I heard the door open behind me. Brendan was holding my coat in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I stood up. On the porch steps I was much shorter than Brendan, though in fact he was the same height as me. He was one of those guys who was big through the shoulders and had thick arms and legs, which made him formidable despite his height.
He held my coat out. I grabbed it by the hem so I wouldn’t have to touch him. One of my gloves slipped out of the pocket, and we both leaned over to pick it up. The glove was one of my mother’s old black leather gloves. Mom called them her driving gloves, though she didn’t wear them just for driving. She teased me when I pulled them down from the top of the coat closet and asked if I could have them. They were nearly worn through in places, but I loved them. They were broken in just right, and they reminded me of my mother at her most glamorous, when she had worn dark sunglasses and shift dresses and high heels every day. This was how she looked when she met William.