and I glance over at Brady and see
that now he’s surrounded by people.
I head outside,
chugging a sip of night air
like it’s something that will make me so happy
and so drunk
I’ll forget where I am
or who I am
or how badly I suck
at being normal.
Derek’s Party
Derek’s house is a five-bedroom affair that sits atop Westridge Estates. It’s famous for its sweet pool table, bought by Derek’s divorced dad, who’s always out of town with younger girls he’s trying to impress.
When I get there, I’m greeted with the sight of a hammered Jenny Heder and Serena Bell rapping along to Kanye blasting out of a huge sound system. (I love how hip-hop is the voice of white-girl suburban angst.) Derek’s dad works at Adidas, making him single and loaded, so he’s tricked out the house with speakers and games and is so desperate for his son to love him that he tells him it’s okay to have parties when he’s gone. Mix that with Jason Baines having an older brother who buys him booze in bulk, and you’ve got a winning combination of party possibilities.
I make a quick detour into the kitchen to retrieve an extremely crappy strawberry daiquiri from Patrick Cushman, who’s apparently appointed himself Blender Master.
“Special recipe created for teenagers who want to get drunk quick,” he says.
“How’d you get put in charge of cocktails?”
“Does it matter?”
I shrug. Patrick is one of those guys who don’t seem to belong to any group; he always floats along with everyone—tennis players, smart kids, band geeks, skaters—and sometimes he even hangs out with Brady’s lacrosse friends. It probably means he’s insecure and can’t decide who he is. We had freshman gym together. One day I got pegged really hard in dodgeball by some dickhead, and Patrick walked me to the nurse’s office to get an ice pack for my arm. He was obviously creeping on me, but it wasn’t bad to have the company.
I take a giant chug of daiquiri. It’s strong and sweet and sour. The taste makes me pucker.
“So, you must really want to get drunk, huh?” he says.
“None of your business.” I glare at him.
“Whoa. Sorry,” he says, looking taken aback.
“Whatever.” I don’t need his pity. I leave him standing there and head for the living room, taking another glug of daiquiri as I go. He may be annoying to talk to, but I have to admit, Patrick Cushman does make a pretty delicious, extremely crappy strawberry daiquiri.
“Hey, Tabs,” Brady says, smirking at me as I walk up and say hi to everyone. Taryn’s too busy texting to say hi back.
Brady puts an arm around my waist and pinches the spot where a teeny bit of flesh bubbles out over my jeans. I’m only a size 6, but clearly this is his way of telling me I’m fat. Sometimes it seems like guys really hate girls, with all the little things they say and do to try to get us to hate ourselves.
I fight the urge to hit him and instead turn and plant a kiss on his perfect mouth. I’ve seen my mom do it to my dad when he’s being a dick. She tries to trick him with affection into being in a good mood. Sometimes it even works.
“Where did you go earlier?” Taryn asks.
“Cabbed it home,” I say with a shrug, trying to play it off.
“You could have texted us. We sat at Yopop for twenty minutes waiting for you,” she gripes.
“Like I have to broadcast everywhere I am at all times?” I snap. Taryn looks away. I mouth cramps to Kayla. Any explanation involving people’s periods works for Kayla. She got hers late—she was fourteen, which is practically menopausal—so she loves stories about the follies of menstruation. Her favorite is one about her cousin’s first attempt at wearing a maxi pad. Her cousin got her period in the middle of a family Christmas party, so someone gave her a pad. She came out of the bathroom looking tragically uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?” Kayla asked when her cousin waddled over like she had on a diaper full of fire ants. Her cousin pointed to her crotch and whispered to Kayla, “Sticky side up, right?”
Brady lets go of my waist. “We’re going to Jason’s for an after-party. You ready?”
I stare at him. “I just got here.”
“So?”
“So, I haven’t even finished my drink.” I hold up my daiquiri as proof, then look at his perfect mouth, which I once again want to punch.
“So? Finish it in the car.”
I stare at Brady. How did I end up with a boyfriend like this? A boyfriend whose talents are scoring points in lacrosse, monitoring my body fat, and being a dick. He knows I don’t like Jason Baines. I’ve told him that a hundred times. I don’t like this Jason or any Jason. “Jason” is the universal moniker of assholes. I’ve never met one who’s cool. And this particular one—with his jock complex and his self-absorbed, IQ-limited girlfriend, Dakota—is definitely not cool. I see the night unfolding exactly as every night with Jason unfolds: Brady and Jason staying up until four in the morning, getting drunker and drunker and stupider and stupider, and me sitting there talking to Dakota. Who, by the way, has been known to make racial slurs when she’s hammered. Sometimes I wish I could kidnap her and drop her smack-dab in the middle of Felony Flats in the middle of the night and see how far her mouth gets her.
Brady knows how I feel, but he’s decided to trap me into going to Jason’s by suggesting it in front of ten other people. If I say no, I’ll look like a bitch. As of right now, he’s winning this battle. I gulp my daiquiri.
“Can I talk to you in private for a second?” I say, fake-smiling.
“We can talk on the way. Right, guys?” He grins at the guys and then turns back to me with an even smugger smile.
“I’m not going.” I glare at him.
“Oh, really?”
“Yep.”
“Typical,” he sneers.
Kayla shoots Noah a look. Jason gloats. Dakota looks bored.
“What do you mean, ‘typical’?” I retort.
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. Typical.”
“Fuck you,” I blurt.
Everyone starts to look uncomfortable now. Because of all the people who’d be fighting at a party in front of everyone, it shouldn’t be me and Brady Finch. We’re supposed to be this awesome prince and princess of the high school, two people who look great together and are madly in love.
“I kind of wish you’d pull that giant stick out of your ass,” he says.
Brady and Jason and Noah all laugh. Kayla doesn’t look at me. Suddenly, I don’t want to punch him anymore. I just want to run away. I’m hit with the realization that this is what happens to princesses in real life. They don’t get kissed awake by princes. They don’t get handed the keys to the kingdom. They don’t live happily ever after. In real life, they are publicly humiliated; they are thrown from their towers. This is what they don’t tell you when you are a little girl: Everyone secretly hates a princess. Everyone wants to see her fall.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I turn and walk out, pawing my way through the drunk crowd like a newly crowned pariah. Finally I get to the front door and walk out of Derek Godfrey’s house, fighting the overwhelming feeling that if I keep going, I’m on my own now, and I’m on my own for good.
On the Porch
I’m on the porch,
still holding the sweaty beer
the drunk guy gave me,
when someone smashes into me
and my cup goes flying.
I turn to see Tabitha Foster,
her white shirt dripping with pink drink.
She is lean and mean,
all honey hair and devil-may-care.
She is nothing like you, and she is nothing like me.
Of all the queens of all the schools I’ve been to,
there’s something ultra-something
about Tabitha Foster.
She looks like she’s stepping
o
ut of a movie
or a dream
or a story that
has a happy ending—
except, apparently,
for this one.
Handkerchief
“Fuck!” I yell.
I’m drenched in beer, spilled on me by a girl who looks vaguely familiar, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and a slim build, wearing leggings and a lavender sweater. Basically, she looks like every other girl at LO: utterly, blandly normal.
“Oh! Are you okay?” She looks at my tight white Vanessa Bruno shirt with regret. I stole it six days ago, and tonight was the first night I wore it. Now it’s coated in sticky pink ick. Thanks, bitch.
I hear somebody cackle, and I look back over my shoulder into the house, where Brady and Jason are staring at me. Dakota has her hand over her mouth. A pang of rage zips through me.
I spin back around and snarl at the girl. “Why don’t you watch where the hell you’re going?!”
“I’m—so sorry,” she stammers. “I know people always say they’re sorry when they don’t really mean it, but I’m not one of them. Although—I guess there are some people who don’t say it at all, so maybe it’s better to be someone who says it but doesn’t mean it….” She trails off.
I stare at her. Seriously? She’s choosing to embark on a weird theory about apologies on Derek Godfrey’s porch right now?
The girl digs into her coat pocket for a second and then says, “Here. Use this.”
She holds out a small, folded square piece of cotton. It’s lacy and yellow. I yank it out of her hand and mop my shirt with it.
“You carry this for times when you spill shit all over people?” I snark. Then I realize how bitchy I sound. It’s not this idiot’s fault I’m in a bad mood. I curse the security guard at Nordstrom and low-self-esteem Jean and my wet shirt and Brady Finch and my whole life, before taking a breath. “Sorry,” I mutter.
The girl looks at me for a second, then says, “See? You just did it.”
“What?”
“Said you’re sorry and didn’t mean it,” the girl says. She grabs her yellow handkerchief out of my hand and walks off, down the driveway and into the night.
Leaves & Branches
It’s starting to drizzle
as I cut through someone’s side yard
beginning to bloom with spring flowers.
Eminem’s “Not Afraid”
thumps at my back as
I beeline toward Rachelle’s house.
I’ve always had a good sense of direction;
my mom said it was one of the gifts
I got from my dad and not from her.
She was always going on about how alike
we were,
probably because she knew we weren’t.
How could we be?
My dad specializes in strategic planning,
and I just not-so-strategically
insulted one of the most popular girls in school.
I call Rachelle and she answers,
sounding like she’s in the middle of riding a roller coaster.
I think I’m gonna stay awhile! she yells.
I thought you weren’t having any fun, I say.
She covers the mouthpiece for a second,
then says, AwmwichJamminjeeyaz!
What? I say, and she hisses,
I said, I’m with Dustin Diaz!
Who’s that? I say.
Wait—he’s going downstairs! Call you tomorrow—
With that, she hangs up on me.
The rain starts to come down harder,
and I duck underneath a big elm tree
that has probably been giving out shade and oxygen
for the last fifty years.
I realize the thing
about friends you’ve only had for four months
is that they aren’t going to stand over you
and protect you with their branches
and photosynthesize carbon dioxide for you;
they aren’t going to shelter you from the sun
and shield you from the rain;
they’re going to throw you over
for a guy they barely know
as you stand there getting wetter
and wetter.
MARCH 8, 4:22 A.M.!!
I got woken up by Noah knocking on my window. He said he left the party because “it was boring without you there.” I thought it was just the alcohol talking, that all he really wanted to do was hook up before going home and passing out, but then he actually started telling me about his night.” He told me Brady Finch is kind of a dick and one time pissed in Patrick Cushman’s locker for no reason. And Patrick, he said, is a guy who’s never done anything dicky to anybody. It confirmed my suspicions that I wouldn’t want to be friends with those types of people. That is, if they ever even tried to talk to me. Although maybe my friends are just as bad, who knows. None of us are perfect, I guess. Anyway, I kept waiting for him to lean over and kiss me, but instead we talked until he fell asleep mid-sentence, and I’m writing this now as he sleeps. He snores a little bit, which is kind of adorable.
Mush
I hate breakfast.
Especially when it’s oatmeal and especially
when I have to listen to Jenna’s review
of her night at the Stegemans’:
how nice everyone was
and how much fun they had
and what a great neighborhood this is
and how happy she is we moved here.
We heard from one of the parents
you kids had a party last night?
she says, all coy. Did you go?
I grunt a nonresponse
and cram a spoonful of wet oats
into my mouth.
She looks at my dad and smirks.
I guess we don’t get to hear all the juicy details, do we, Ray?
She leans over to kiss him,
because that’s what you
really want to see at nine in the morning:
your dad and stepmom making out.
Fortunately, my dad breaks free
and says he has a big presentation on Monday
and he needs to go get ready for it,
which makes sense because
he’s not really one for public speaking,
but I still wish that didn’t require him
to get up and leave me sitting there alone
eating mush and blueberries
with the secretary
he married.
ROMANTIC HISTORY
My parents met when my mom was just out of college and working as an assistant for an interior design firm in Seattle. Her company was brought in to design one of my dad’s office buildings, a six-story building on Pike Street. He was a brash associate architect then, and after a few weeks of flirting, he asked her out for a drink. She wasn’t sure she should go, because she was still half seeing her college boyfriend, but she figured this was just work and what could one drink hurt? So he took her to the top of the Space Needle for gin gimlets, which she’d never had before. Two of those turned into four, and as the story goes, they stayed for a five-hour dinner, talking and laughing and requesting bad seventies songs like “The Piña Colada Song” from the piano player, who thought they were charming. At the end of the night, my dad drove her home and shook her hand like a gentleman. She thought that must mean he didn’t like her as much as she liked him or he was dating someone else. But he kept finding excuses to show up at her job, even though his work on the building was basically done. He claimed it was his responsibility to “oversee” everything down to the very last detail, and she didn’t argue, but she kept her distance. On the night before the building opened, everyone was toasting with champagne, and he introduced her to his boss as “the woman I’m going to marry.” She thought he was joking and said, “We’ve only gone out once. How could you say that?” And apparently he responded, “Once was all it took,” or something cheesy. But I guess she did
n’t think it was cheesy, because she got married to him three months later. They were so in love, they had a baby eight months after they got married, causing anyone with half a brain to realize there was some sort of miscalculation in terms of either birth control or logical thinking.
Now a couple of decades have passed, and my dad’s off working in the living room, and my mom is on the phone with my older brother, Jake, who’s in his freshman year playing hockey at the University of Michigan. I’m sitting on the couch watching a lame movie on TNT and listening to my mom laugh at all of Jake’s stupid jokes. The way she used to laugh at my dad’s, which makes sense, since Jake’s a clone of my dad.
“Lemme talk to Jake,” my dad calls out, and my mother crosses to the dining room to hand over the phone reluctantly. She says, “I love you so much, Jake,” and for a second I get confused because my dad’s name is Jacob too, and when I was little I sometimes remember her calling my dad “Jake” and my brother “Jakey.” So for a second I think she’s saying “I love you” to my dad, but it’s obvious I’m mistaken.
“Hey, bud,” my dad says, and launches into bro code as my mom disappears upstairs. Men sometimes talk to each other in these fake voices, like they’re weird androids without feelings or emotions, their conversations peppered with words like buddy and dude.
Just then I get a text from Taryn: WHAT HAPPENED TO U LAST NITE?
I type back: I WAS ANNOYED.
That seems like as good an answer as any, and I go back to what I was watching on TNT. It’s an old Sandra Bullock movie, one where she meets her dream guy on the Internet and falls in love with him, but it turns out he’s a total asshole and then he ruins her life. I wonder if my mom’s ever seen this one.
MARCH 8, 9:32 A.M.
I’m really glad Aunt B didn’t walk into my room this morning to wake me up like she normally does. She would have been pretty shocked to see Noah Simos in my bed. I was a little shocked to open my eyes this morning and see him staring right back at me. He kissed me good-bye, which was nice but I wish I had had a chance to brush my teeth first. It sucks to be ignored by him sometimes, but when we’re together he’s so sweet that I almost forget about everything else.
Trinkets Page 3