I had a weird fluttering feeling in my stomach. What was this? Why wasn’t my dad happy about this. I would have guessed he’d always wanted a daughter who looked like, well, a girl.
“I don’t think I know what you mean,” I said.
“You’re doing this because of Brandon, right?” he asked.
“I thought you liked Brandon,” I said.
“I like him fine,” he answered. “That’s not the point. Are you happy making such a big change for any boy?”
“It’s just one night, Dad. Just one party.”
He nodded again. “Of course. I just . . . If you were going to make changes in your life, I’d hoped you make them because you want to, and not because of anyone else.”
“He’s not Professor Higgins, Dad, and I’m not Eliza Doolittle.”
He laughed at that. “You certainly aren’t,” he said. “I just love the hell out of you, Courtney, and I want you to be happy.”
I wasn’t sure where this emotional stuff was coming from.
“I love you, too, Dad. And I’m reasonably happy.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes that’s all you can ask.” He kissed the top of my head.
A car honked outside and we both looked toward the street.
“That’ll be Crystal,” I said. “She’s giving me a ride since Brandon and Ken are busy out at the cabin getting stuff ready.”
“Have your phone?” Dad asked. I nodded. “Emergency cash?”
“Check.”
“Your, you know.” He cocked his finger and thumb in the shape of a pistol.
“Yep.”
“Condoms?”
“Dad!” He just gave me a look. “I can say with ninety-nine percent certainty that I will not be needing condoms tonight.”
“It’s that one percent of uncertainty that worries me.”
“I won’t need them,” I said. “And if I do, I’ll make him get some. Or them. I hear the whole football team will be there, so . . .”
“How was I blessed with such a funny daughter?”
We walked down the hall and into the living room. I grabbed my wrap off the back of the couch and opened the door to leave. Before I did, I turned and kissed my dad on the cheek—smeared lipstick be damned!
“Have fun,” he said.
“I’ll try. Thanks.”
He smiled at me and I hurried across the yard, through the gate and into Crystal’s waiting VW Rabbit. She smiled and told me I looked great as I climbed in. I told her the same thing, which was the absolute truth. She looked like a model in an orange dress that was so tight I wondered how she moved her legs enough to work the car’s pedals. I noticed that the dress also had long sleeves. She made a pfft noise and waved away my compliment. We both waved at my dad as we pulled away onto the street and headed out to the cabin.
Crystal and I ran out of conversation long before we got to the cabin. Mostly we just stared straight ahead and listened to music. Every once in a while, one of us would say that we liked a band that came on the radio. This sparked a conversation lasting about half a minute or so—did the other one agree? Had we ever seen them in concert? Were all the band members still alive? Then we’d fall back into a really uncomfortable silence. It reminded me of the last time I saw my mom, minus the preamble of screaming and reproachful tears.
As we rode along in silence, I started to feel—I don’t know—a presence. I kept hearing Sherri’s voice ring through my head. “I hope you have fun at your party, Courtney. I mean, I’m having a blast being worm food. Except, maybe, I think they cremate zombies, right? Flames are cool, too.” I actually looked over my shoulder at the backseat a couple of times, but of course there was nothing there. Crystal finally asked me if everything was okay.
“I’m great,” I said. Crystal was nice enough to let it slide.
So much for telling my dad I was happy earlier. For the rest of the ride, I resisted looking behind me and tried to ignore Sherri’s voice.
My sense of relief at seeing the cabin was Bible-sized. We parked in back, right next to Brandon’s truck. I admired his Benelli shotgun again for a second before heading inside.
Brandon and some of his pack had strung up white Christmas lights everywhere inside. I could tell it was going to be really pretty once it got dark enough to justify turning them on. The kitchen table groaned under the weight of about a million bottles of liquor. Crystal took one look at the bottles and shook her head.
When we walked into the living room, the boys who were hanging the last of the lights all stopped and shouted out their hellos to Crystal. For me they just kind of glowered and gave me slow-motion bro nods. You know, the kind you do just with your chin. Great. Either they all hated me, or they couldn’t remember my name.
Brandon came out from the back of the cabin carrying an empty box. He still wore jeans and a T-shirt. He spotted Crystal and jerked his head back at the rooms behind him.
“Hey, Ken is in my room.”
She walked past him and he took a step into the living room and then stopped. He smiled when he saw me.
“Jesus, Courtney, you look great!”
“You should try to sound less surprised when you say that.”
“You’ve got to know it’s a big change,” he said.
I couldn’t think of any way to argue that, so I changed the subject. “What’s in the box?”
“Nothing yet,” he said. “I’m going to fill it with anything too breakable or steal-able and then stow it away. You know what these parties can be like. I don’t want my dad freaking out afterward.”
“Say, speaking of your dad, he’s okay with the frat boy shrine in there?” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder in the general direction of the booze in the kitchen.
“Well, it’s not like he knows about it.”
I thought about that for a second while he went around the room picking up trinkets and putting them in the box.
“Wait,” I said after I’d finally processed it. “Isn’t your dad gonna, you know, see all the booze?”
All of the boys stopped what they were doing again, looked at one another, and laughed. What was the joke? I didn’t like that it seemed to be me.
After they all calmed down, Brandon said, “Of course he’s not going to be here. Like he doesn’t have anything else better to do than watch after all of us.”
“But he told my dad . . .”
“That’s what he tells uptight parents who call him. But he doesn’t show up here. He trusts me.”
So Brandon’s dad lied to my dad about chaperoning the party. He doesn’t really come to these things because he trusts Brandon. Brandon exercises that trust by buying up all the booze in the state for his little shindig to serve to his underage friends. That was all just sweet.
“Was he lying about the extra police patrols tonight?”
“Are you still worried about that?” he asked. He had the gall to look incredulous.
“Yes, Brandon. Yes, I am still very worried about that.”
Brandon shot a look at one of his friends. It must have taken all of his strength not to roll his eyes.
“Okay. Sorry,” he said, and I could tell he wasn’t really. “Yes, there will be extra sheriff’s patrols tonight. Okay?”
“Yes, thank you.” All I could do was wonder if he was really telling the truth. Oh, God, I felt like a pain in my own ass. I just needed to let it go and trust him.
He hefted the box. “I’m going to take this in the back. Then I’m going to get dressed, okay?” Then, to the group of guys still milling around the living room he said, “We’d better all get ready. People will be here soon.
“I’ll be right back, okay? Make yourself a drink,” he said to me, then turned and disappeared into the back of the house and all of his friends did the same. That left me all alone and unsure what to do with myself. So, of course, I did like he said and got a drink.
I was on the couch sipping a Red Bull and vodka and leafing through a copy of Architectural Freaking Digest whe
n Brandon finally emerged from the back. I had to admit that he cleaned up nice. He wore a navy, single-breasted suit with a skinny black tie. He looked like the youngest cast member of Mad Men. I threw the magazine on the coffee table and whistled a wolf call at him. He stopped in his tracks and looked down at himself.
“Really?” he asked. “I look okay?”
I tried to figure out if he was serious. Did he really not know that he was good looking? I gave him the benefit of the doubt because he was a boy. “Yeah,” I said, “you look good.”
He smiled and looked at himself again. “Thanks. I had to step it up a notch so I looked okay next to you.”
Again I could detect no trace of sarcasm in that statement. I stood and walked over to him, grabbed his hands, got up on tiptoe, and kissed his cheek.
“Thanks,” I said.
“If that’s the reaction they get, I’m going to be slinging compliments left and right.”
“It only works when they’re sincere,” I said.
“You think I’d compliment you and not mean it?”
“We should get you a drink,” I said.
“Sure,” he said. “Yeah, before everyone else shows up.”
“Too late, Romeo.” One of his friends had come from the back of the house and stood in front of the picture window in the living room. He finished tying his tie as he spoke. “It looks like the first group is here, man.”
Brandon went to the window.
“We’re on,” he said. Then he winked at me. “Showtime!”
It felt like I was attending two parties simultaneously. Throughout the night, any time Brandon was nearby, his friends were bright and funny and they acknowledged the fact that I was a living organism sharing the space with them. When he wasn’t there, not so much. It took me a little while to clue in to that fact, though, because I am apparently developmentally challenged where social situations are concerned.
After everyone arrived, I stuck close to Brandon’s side. He greeted everyone and made sure they knew where the booze and snacks were located—though, to be honest, everyone behaved as if they’d been to the cabin a million times and they knew where everything was. Brandon introduced me to everyone. Which was funny because I’d known most of these people since kindergarten. Everyone smiled and greeted me like it was the first time they’d ever laid eyes on me. I played along and didn’t bring up things like, for instance, the time Kimmy Parnell barfed all over herself at my sixth birthday party and had to go home in hysterics. I just smiled and waved and said things like, “How nice to meet you!”
That was strange enough. The real weirdness started after we’d all been standing around talking. Brandon told a story about some amazing football exploit of his and everyone laughed and said how diesel it had been to be there. I said I was sorry I missed it and everyone jumped in and told me how great it had actually been—even though I was standing there and had just heard for myself that it was utterly amazing. Jessica Lyman actually put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Girl, you should have been there.”
Then Brandon had to go locate some more chips or something. He gave me a little squeeze and told me he’d be right back. I watched him walk away and when I turned back I noticed that everyone we’d been talking to had splintered off into little groups and none of those groups included me. I thought that maybe I was being paranoid—something I’m prone to at parties—so I walked up to one of the groups and tried to muscle in on their confab. I was given the big ol’ cold shoulder. I tried it twice more and got the same reaction.
When Brandon returned, I was part of the group again. Even if I didn’t already have a finely honed awareness of personal rejection, I would know I was being snubbed. The worst part was that I couldn’t even complain to anyone about it. If Sherri was with me, we could go stand in the corner, glower at the mean kids, and talk about what total bitches and assholes they all were. I couldn’t even talk to Brandon about it.
Finally I just got to the point where I would wander off whenever Brandon left and I’d look at the paintings on the walls, the books on the shelves, or whatever. I’d only go back to whatever group Brandon was talking to when he returned.
I sort of wished the phantom Sherri voice would come back so I’d have someone to talk to.
During one loneliness interlude I stood there studying the titles of the books on a shelf that was sort of hidden, and I was practicing my telekinesis by willing everyone in the cabin except for me and Brandon to burst into flame. I had my back to the room so I couldn’t see anyone and there was music blaring. I still heard the murmur of conversation and every once in a while the sound of laughter rose above the noise. Each shrill exclamation of joy felt like a rusty nail being driven into my soul.
A hand touched my shoulder and I spun around to find Brandon there, his brow creased with worry.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Super. How could I not be?”
He frowned at me and then he got this weird look on his face—like he had a secret.
“Hey, you should come with me.”
“Where?”
He didn’t answer; he just grabbed my hand and walked through the crowd. I let him lead me away and I couldn’t help noticing that several girls made a point of making eye contact and glaring.
What is this? I wondered as he led me down the hall and into one of the back rooms. His room by the looks of it. Posters for the Portland Trail Blazers and swimsuit models decorated the walls. He led me in, closed the door, and then sat me on the bed. Then it hit me, My God, he wants to have sex! Suddenly it felt like I didn’t know how to sit—cross my legs, or not? I didn’t know what to do with my arms and I was breathing too fast. I didn’t even think I wanted to have sex.
“Hold on,” he said to me, and then started to scrounge through a drawer in his dresser. Looking for condoms, I supposed. After a minute he stood up, turned, and held his hands out to me. He held a Ziploc sandwich baggie. Were his condoms in there? I took the bag and looked at it. Inside were three smaller bags. Inside each bag was a finely granulated black powder. Vitamin Z.
“What the hell, Brandon?”
“I thought we could have some later. You know, after most of the crowd thins out.”
“Are you kidding me?”
He looked confused. “You don’t want to?”
Suddenly I knew exactly what to do with my body. I stood up and threw the baggie to the floor.
“Well, the first time was great since I ate a freaking cat and my best friend died.” I retreated from him when he took a step toward me. “I can’t believe you went out and bought this and thought I’d want to smoke it with you.”
“It’s not a big deal, Courtney.”
“Not a big . . .” And I stopped. A really terrible idea floated into my head. “Have you smoked it again since last Saturday?”
“Just once with Ken.”
I backed away from him toward the door. He stooped to pick up the bag. I was so pissed. Pissed at him, at me, at a world messed up enough to think up making a drug out of a goddamned zombie brain. Especially me for selling that shit, even though I didn’t bring that up to him.
“Jesus.” It was all I could think to say.
He sat on the bed pouting, staring down at the baggie he held in his hand.
He looked up. “If it’s so freaking evil, why are you still selling it? Or have you stopped since the last time I saw you?”
“Congrats on scoring that debate point.” I turned and walked out the door. I stormed down the hall. I needed to find Crystal. I’d demand that she take me home. I almost stopped and went back to scream at him that I had not, in fact, sold any more black powder.
When I got to the living room, I scanned the faces there. I couldn’t see Crystal. It was the same thing in the kitchen. Once I was in there, I decided that I couldn’t stay in the house for another second without screaming and going crazy.
I burst out the back door into the dark and relative quiet outside. A slight breeze cam
e in off the reservoir and added a chill to the air. I knew I’d get cold soon. For now, it felt great. I walked over to a small shed that stood about forty feet or so away from the house, and I slipped around to the back side. I didn’t want to be found too easily. If someone came looking for me, that is.
I leaned against the wall of the shed and felt the rough boards through the thin material of my dress. I took a few deep breaths, trying to clear my head. What was Brandon thinking? After everything that had happened, how could he go and bring some Z to his damned party? And what was so terrible about his life that he needed to get high and forget it? It made absolutely no sense.
Deep down a voice whispered that it was my fault. I had dragged him along to see Buddha. I had been the reason he hadn’t refused the pipe when it was offered to him. He hadn’t wanted to lose face in front of me. That was right, wasn’t it?
I heard a rustling in the woods in front of me and I held my breath and tried to listen. Soon my lungs ached and I couldn’t hear anything because of the sound of blood pounding through my ears. I let out the breath and stood, ready to run. My hand curled around the butt of the revolver in my purse.
Two figures came out of the bushes right in front of me, and I nearly blew the heads off Phil and his buddy, Cody. When they saw me, Cody gave me a goofy smile and a wave. Phil just looked at me, as if he was assimilating my existence into his worldview.
“Hey, it’s that chick we saved,” Cody said.
“Hi, Courtney,” Phil said.
“Hi, Phil. And no one saved my ass,” I said to Cody.
“If you say so.” Cody peered around the shed to look at the house. “They look like they’re having a good time. This is pure horror movie fodder, man.”
I ignored him for the moment and took in their outfits. They were dressed a lot like they were the last time I saw them—camouflage pants and shirts, homemade weapons, face paint.
“What the hell are you guys doing out here? Did you ride your bikes out here?”
“Hell, no,” said Cody. He was still scoping out the house.
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