Playing Nice

by Rebekah Crane

"This isn't really the time for you to get all 'cryptic-goth-girl' on me. I'm trying to help. So tell me where you live or I'm taking you to the hospital." I bang my hand on the steering wheel to get her attention.

  "Is that anger I detect?" Lil slurs. "Doesn't it feel good?"

  "Darn it, Lil! I had a great time tonight with Matt. We danced and he sang in my ear and it was beautiful. Now you're messing it up. So either tell me where you live or I'm leaving you here for goatee guy. Your choice." I cross my arms over my chest, my heart beating wildly. I'm so mad at Lil and so scared something might really be wrong with her. What will I do if it is?

  After a few moments of silence, in which the only noise in the car is the fury pounding in my ears, Lil says, "The Addison Farm. That's where I live."

  I stare at her for a second. The Addisons have been in Minster as long as my family has. If she's an Addison, Lil is most definitely not new to town.

  I reach over her, buckle the seatbelt snug around her chest, and pull away from Lake Loraine, my stomach in knots and my head swimming. I hope Lil doesn't die on the way home. I don't know how I'd explain that to my parents.

  ***

  The roads are dark as I drive back toward Minster. Lil sits in the seat, her head rolling back and forth, and every few seconds, I stare at her gold sequin covered chest to make sure she's still breathing.

  "Lil, I need you to keep your eyes open," I repeat, hoping maybe she can still hear me.

  "You need to keep your eyes open."

  "You think you'd be more appreciative of the fact that I just saved you," I say, thinking even in a drug-induced stupor, Lil has bite. I've thought about these exact situations before, me saving someone and the glory that comes with it, like giving someone CPR or the Heimlich, but it doesn't feel the way I thought it would. My stomach is in knots and I'm worried I might puke. My hands shake as they grip the steering wheel just thinking that someone who would drug a young girl is still at that party and probably doing it to someone else right now. I want to turn the car around and warn everyone or cut off his penis. I won't let my mind go to what he wanted to do to Lil. I can't or I'll cry. I just want to be back at my house in my room, safe.

  "Don't you ever wonder why people made these roads so straight? Like it's against the rules to take a curved path. But nobody ever does, because then they'd end up with cow shit on their wheels and the whole town calling them a murderer." Lil says. She's talking crazy now. The drugs have messed with her brain. She might even be hallucinating. I just want to get her home so she can sleep it off.

  "What are you talking about?" When Sarah and I got drunk, I said things I would never say out loud, like how she has bad breath in the afternoon and that I think sometimes she's mean because she's insecure. Sarah said I was a prude with a mediocre voice who's destined for a life in the community theater chorus, before she stomped upstairs and left me to sleep on her basement couch.

  "Haven't you ever wondered why you stay on this straight boring road, when you can just turn the wheel?" Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lil move. At first I think she's just going for a cigarette or adjusting her pants, but then I see she's coming toward me, toward the steering wheel!

  My mind races, but before I can push her back, she yanks it down. DAMN IT! The car turns in a quick jerk and my stomach drops to the floor. I'm going to die doing something nice with a never-been-used vagina!

  We skid on the dirt, the car careening toward a deep, dark ditch filled with water and certain death at the bottom. Why does she hate me? Why did I come tonight? How did I forget that Tony ends up dead at the end of West Side Story? And now, my decision to come to Lake Loraine means I'm going to die with a drugged-up Lil! Our bodies will be found at the bottom of a creek and people will always remember me as the girl who bit it with a druggie. I won't get a plaque or one of those flowered wreaths on the side of the highway, just a dedicated PSA about the dangers of drug use!

  I slam on the brakes, my hands clenched so tightly I think the paramedics might have to pry my lifeless fingers one by one from the steering wheel. A cloud of dust encases the car, and seconds before we disappear over the edge, it stops.

  "What the hell are you doing?! Are you stupid?!" I yell as I push her hand away.

  Lil doesn't even flinch, just plops back in the seat, eyes half-closed and empty. "You tell me. We're in the same English class."

  "You could have killed us!" I think I'm having a panic-induced heart attack. Everything is fuzzy and numb and hot. Angry tears prickle my eyes, begging to be released.

  "You should scream at me." Lil looks at me. Her eyes are clear for the first time since I pulled her away from the lake and the guy with the tainted beer. "Go on; do it."

  I shake my head back and forth. What good would that do in this moment? I need to get her home before she tries to do another crazy thing, like pull out all her hair or cut herself. That's what nice people do. They help and smile.

  "What are you so afraid of, Pollyanna?"

  "Don't call me that," I bark. But the nagging pinch in my chest is back and growing with every moment I spend with Lil. It's a balloon expanding in my lungs, pushing me to my breaking point, and I just want to pop it.

  "Go on, Marty, do it."

  I look at Lil with her crystal blue eyes and fire in her voice, like a match dangling over a pile of wood drenched in gasoline. All she has to do is drop it.

  "Why?" My voice wobbles.

  "Do it!" Lil yells, jerking her head, her dark hair swishing chaotically.

  I don't know why I roll down the window, why I stick my head out, why the weight of seventeen years is pressing on every speck of my being and screaming, at this very moment, feels like the only thing in the world that will ease the pain. I suck in a gulp of air and open my mouth. I don't know what will come out. A weak meow. A short staccato bark.

  And then a yelp releases from the bottom of my gut, like a corked champagne bottle popped and everything inside of me is spewing out uncontrolled, covering the air and ground. Seventeen years of holding my tongue, of standing up straight, of only speaking when spoken to bursts from my throat in a giant exhale of noise.

  When I'm done, I slump back into the seat, pulling the red scarf from around my neck, my shoulders and chest lighter.

  "You're different than this town. You're better," Lil says, the glaze returning to her eyes. Her shoulders slump forward as she sits in the seat. It's like whatever that guy put in her beer is a truth serum; I'm finally seeing the real Lil behind all the black and she's exhausted.

  "But you hate me," I say.

  "I don't hate you. I hate this place."

  I wait a second to see if she'll say more. Nothing.

  "Lil? Lil?" I shake her, panic spreading in my veins. Oh my God. She's dead. She's DEAD! How do I explain this to my parents? I'm going to jail. U of M will never accept me and I'm going to have to wear a jumpsuit. I've never even seen a cell.

  Then Lil's gold sequin shirt rises and she breathes. Shit. I collapse my head onto the steering wheel. Taking a deep breath and filling my lungs to capacity, I pull Lil's dirt-covered car back onto the road. My hands rattle on the steering wheel, not from almost dying, not from Lil lying next to me practically comatose, but from the surge of energy still pulsing through me. Lil was right, it felt good to scream. So good, I might have to do it again. But what would happen to my voice if all I did was walk around screaming?

  As I drive down the road, Lil passed out next to me, I keep imagining the different paths I could take through the fields. How I could knock down row after row of corn and replant new, curvier lines. And then I think how mad everyone would be if I messed with their perfect crops and how they'd never let me plant anything ever again.

  ***

  I pull up to the whitewashed house and matching picket fence and red barn. Up until now, I haven't thought about what to say to Lil's parents or about what will happen when they call mine. I close my eyes and tell myself it's not important. Getting Lil to bed is what matters.
My dad once told me that if I was ever in trouble to call him and he wouldn't be mad; he just wants me to be safe. I thought he was bullshitting me at the time. It's like all those moms who want their daughters to tell them once they have sex so they can put them on the Pill. All the mom really wants to know is if some scumbag boy has stolen their daughter's innocence. I convince myself that this situation fits the bill and my parents can't be upset at me, even if it came out of a lie.

  "I need you to try and sit up," I say to Lil.

  She grumbles in the seat, shifting back and forth, and then rests her head out the window.

  I walk around to her side of the car. Lifting her the same way I did to drag her away from the lake, I start toward the front door. This is not going to be good. Remember to smile and say that you had nothing to drink, I tell myself. Be polite.

  "This isn't where I live," Lil says as we get closer to the house.

  "You said the Addison farm. That's where we are."

  "I don't live here. I live there." Lil picks up her arm like it weighs a ton and points to a silver trailer next to the red barn on the side of the property. It's small, like one-bedroom small, and rusted around the bottom. It looks like a meth lab someone would ditch on the side of the highway.

  "You live in that trailer?"

  She nods, silent. I can't believe anyone could live in something like that. I don't even know if it has running water.

  I walk Lil to the door; unsure of what to do, I knock and wait. The trailer rocks back and forth as someone makes their way to the door, and butterflies rumble in my stomach. Who might it be? I always pictured Lil living in a house with parents and maybe a cat, but not this. Never this.

  "Who is it?" a female voice asks from inside.

  "It's Martina Hart," I say, "I'm friends with Lil."

  The door bursts open, and a woman stands in the trailer door. She's tall, slim and striking with dark brown hair and crystal blue eyes. In her hands is a beat-up copy of East of Eden by John Steinbeck. I recognize the cover from our bookshelf at home. I look back at her face. She is Lil, just older. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what to do." They're the only words I can think of to say. Lil's head hangs down over her chest and I stumble, trying to hold up her weight.

  "What happened?" the woman says, grabbing Lil under the other arm.

  "We were at a party and I think she was drugged."

  The woman looks at me, her eyes connecting with mine like she's trying to see past the surface and into my brain for the truth. I can't seem to wrap my head around how much she looks like Lil. There's no doubt in my mind; I'm staring at her mother.

  "Did you say your name is Martina Hart?" I nod, frozen. The woman sighs and grabs Lil's car keys from my hands. "I'll take her from here."

  The door slams in my face before I even have a chance to say goodbye.

  ***

  I walk the three miles home and make it to my door five minutes before curfew. As I stand in the clean kitchen with my mom's gourmet appliances and the smell of cinnamon and fresh apples in the air, I can't feel the pain in my legs and arms, but I know it's there. I lug myself upstairs and poke my head into my parent's room. They're asleep, tucked under the pristine yellow quilt my mom bought earlier this year in Columbus. She'll switch it out for a blue one once the winter comes and bright colors are no longer appropriate. My parents never wait up because they trust me.

  "I'm home."

  My mom rolls over and opens one eye. "Make sure to turn off all the lights." She's back asleep before I even shut the door.

  In my room, I'm so tired I feel like I could fall to my knees. My brain can't wrap itself around the night, and all I want to do is scream again. Dancing with Matt feels like a lifetime ago. Deciding only one thing will make me feel better, I open my laptop, hook up my iPhone, and download all the Bob Marley songs I can find.

  In bed, I plug my ears with headphones and put one song on repeat. I want to remember what it felt like to dance with Matt, how I wanted to melt into his skin and let him feel me all over. One love, My Hart, let's get together and feel all right. I fall asleep replaying that moment and blocking out the rest.

  CHAPTER 7

  Searching in the night for a path unmarked

  Clouded by fog so thick no one could see through

  Rain on my dashboard pounding like fists on a drum

  Ever clear my sou

  Awake

  My life drowned in a lake of murky black only to find the light.

  Sitting at my desk, I remember the night. The good and bad parts. The touching and screaming and row after row of straight lines. I thought I would feel like myself again with the sun in the sky, but instead my mind is more confused than ever. It's like I've fallen off a tight rope and now that I'm bouncing on the trampoline, I don't know if I want to get back up.

  On the walk home last night, I imagined a thousand things going wrong. Lil choking on her own vomit. Her mom driving down to the police station and telling them I was responsible. Lil and her mom leaving in the middle of the night and me never seeing Lil again. That thought made me sad, so I started singing the entire score of Wicked to myself.

  I open my computer and e-mail Lil.

  To: RPMcMurphy@o-mail.com

  From: marty.hart@o-mail.com

  R u okay? I couldn't sleep last night. I'm worried.

  As I wait, hoping Lil will respond and tell me she's not dead or in jail and that her mom isn't going to bang down my door and scream that I'm a liar to my parents, I stare at the U of M application collecting dust on my desk. The day I got back from visiting, I asked my mom at what point in college she knew she wanted to marry my dad.

  "He was going to be a dentist and that was the type of man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with," Mom said as she set the table, placing the knife and fork and spoon in their proper spots.

  It wasn't what I expected. It was so mathematical, like she had an equation. If she was X and my dad was Y then they equaled Z.

  "Did you fall in love with him right away?" I asked.

  "There are lots of layers to love, Marty." Mom breathed into a spoon and wiped away the spots left from the dishwasher. "I have to go make dinner."

  She walked out of the dining room and we never talked about it again. But I watched them for days, waiting for a sign that my mom was making light of the story, being modest about her love for my dad.

  It took four days for them to touch. It finally happened when Mom cut her finger slicing tomatoes.

  "Let the doctor see it," my dad said. She stuck her finger out and he kissed it. She blushed, and all my worries washed away. I told myself in that moment I was an X and if I found my Y, I would have a good life, just like my parents. Like so many people in Minster.

  Now I can't stop thinking about dancing with Matt and how my parents wouldn't approve of his shaggy hair and bad grades and pothead mother. How my mom would complain that she couldn't monogram Hart-James-Morrison-Walker on anything. But I still want to dance with him again and have his hips press against mine and kiss his fingertips until they're silky smooth. Maybe Lil is right, maybe I'm different. Maybe I'm not an X. Maybe I'm not a letter at all.

  But if I think about that, panic starts to gurgle in my stomach and everything goes blank. I don't know how to define myself. I go from:

  Marty Hart: Noun. Nicest Person in Minster High School, WelCo president, musical theater goddess, U of M graduate, future Mrs. ______ to hot Dr. ______.

  to

  Marty Hart: Noun.

  I place my hand on the application and wait for the surge of rightness I usually get when I think about my future. Nothing comes. You're different than this town. You're better.

  What does that even mean? I don't know anything other than Minster, and I'm not sure I want to. I stare out the window at the crops surrounding my house, the straight rows of corn plowed year after year. My grandma's fields. Why is it that this morning I keep finding holes, like one of the corn plants was bad, so it was torn from the groun
d and thrown out?

  I email Lil again.

  To: RPMcMurphy@o-mail.com

  From: marty.hart@o-mail.com

  Seriously. I'm scared. R u dead? If u r, I'll never forgive u.

  I wait ten more minutes. Nothing. Finally, succumbing to my grumbling stomach, I head downstairs.

  "How was the movie?" my mom asks. She's in her pink eyelet bathrobe and holding the mug she uses every morning, one with pink, red, and orange polka dots, filled with English breakfast tea.

  "Good." I stuff my head into the refrigerator and pretend to look for orange juice. Good? How about terrible and wonderful and scary all rolled into one?

  "So is Alex a good kisser?" She smiles behind her mug.

  I slam the fridge closed with a thud. "Mom!" I bark, and look at my dad who's trying to act nonchalant, spatula in hand behind a griddle full of blueberry pancakes.

  "What? All the boys in Minster should want to kiss my daughter." My mom walks over to me and tucks my hair behind my ears. "You're a catch."

  "I told you; it wasn't a date. We're friends."

  Mom sniffs like she doesn't believe a word I just said and walks back over to her seat. "Fine. If you want to be a spinster for the rest of your life…" She sings her words, but they still hurt. I force myself to remember Matt's hips on mine, his breath in my ear. My hand on his heart. One love, My Hart. Shivers cover my skin.

  "Do you want some pancakes?" my dad asks. He flips one with the spatula and it lands on the ground. "Okay, maybe not that one."

  Can Mom and Dad tell I'm different? Not the kind of different I'm sure I'll feel when I finally have sex for the first time, but the kind someone feels when they've dyed their hair or cut bangs where there were never bangs before.

  "Eat them quick. We need to leave for church in an hour," my mom says, her eyes now fixed on the Sunday edition of the Columbus Dispatch.