by Beth Bloom
“I was somewhat, vaguely, very lazily looking for you, yes.” He nodded.
“Why? I didn’t tell anyone, I didn’t do anything crazy”—I thought about that one for a second—“I’m not like that.”
“I had to make sure. And also I wanted to make sure you were okay. I was worried that you might be, like, really scared. Or sad or something.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“So?”
“So worrying about me is, like, pointless. Worry about…Naomi.”
“She’s fine. But clearly you’re not.”
“Clearly?” Whit came on strong.
“You weren’t hotboxing in that car, you were crying. Which means you’re sad. And maybe a little goth, which I can get into.”
I looked up at him. He reached a hand across the table to me, warmly.
“Hence awesome milkshakes, hence awesome newly forming friendship.” He pointed to himself, then me, then back to himself. Us. He wanted us to be friends.
“You just want to be sure I won’t tell anyone anything, but I won’t. I already promised, so you don’t have to pretend like you want to be friends with me.”
“Fine. I won’t pretend.”
“Good.” Wow, I really wasn’t a daffodil. I was one of those pointy, scratchy balls that gets stuck on your socks. I was a burr. Those sucked.
“Can I hang out with you anyway?” Whit looked unembarrassed to ask. “I haven’t had friends in L.A. for a couple years, and Naomi isn’t in the hanging-out mood. So I’m pathetic, you’re cool, I’m begging you, please be my friend. You can even fake it if you want. I have no pride. But I don’t have anything to do out here. I’ve been back less than a week and I’m already bored out of my mind.”
“Oh, in that case.”
“And, of course, I obviously have to keep an eye on you so you don’t ruin the lives of all my family members. Loads of fun to be had.”
“Then I should let you know up front that boring’s kind of my thing.”
“I’m not bored now,” Whit said, feigning a yawn.
“Why won’t Naomi hang out with you?”
“She’s pissed. I wasn’t there, but I think…you guys did something to piss her off?”
“Ha, ha. Cute.”
Calling James and me “you guys” was like the most random, abnormal thing I could imagine. “You guys” made us sound like buddies, like just a couple of coolies hanging out, like two humans. As the middle child of the Laurel Canyon Addams family, Whit was surprisingly chill on the subject of ampire-vays.
“But even if we did piss her off, you didn’t.”
“Yeah, I tried that one. Not working.”
Our phony fifties geek came back with the black and whites in two Mel’s to-go cups. Whit pushed a milkshake directly under my chin and nodded enthusiastically. I rolled my eyes. He paid the bill. He opened the door for me, and we walked across the parking lot to his car.
“Did they have Styrofoam in the fifties?” I asked, holding my cup up for further carbon-dating inspection.
“Has anyone ever told you how adorable you are?”
“No one has ever, ever told me that.”
We just sat in his car in the parking lot, not really staying, not really leaving, not even drinking our milkshakes—which were, as Whit had promised, totally rad-tasting. Then he turned to me, suddenly serious, staring at me in a way that made me sink back against my seat.
“Well. You are.” He started the car and drove me wherever.
Later, sitting in his parked Camry in front of my house with the windows rolled down and a light breeze tossing through the canyons, I felt kind of okay. We didn’t say anything on the drive home from Mel’s, but it wasn’t tense, just quiet. In one afternoon we already weren’t strangers, we weren’t really friends yet, just weird knowers of each other’s secret stuff. I didn’t want to get out of the car. He didn’t seem to want to make me. We sat together finishing off our milkshakes in silence.
“So.” I cleared my throat and tapped my empty cup against the dash. “You’re in college.”
“Sort of.”
“What’s sort of in college? Community college?”
“No,” he said, nudging my shoulder. “I dropped out of Brown. Just haven’t told my parents yet.”
“Does anyone in your family tell the truth? You’re like the Olympians of lies.”
“Gold medalists in freestyle withholding.”
“Silver in men’s false pretense.” I held back a smile.
“We would have gotten the gold for that, but someone had to open his big fangs.”
I stared at Whit, frozen.
“Quinn.” He reached out and held one of my wrists. “It’s a joke.” He sighed and said, “Maybe you are as fragile as a flower.” Then he looked down at the scrapes of dried blood where he held on to my arm. “What happened?”
“I was being an idiot.”
“Idiot how?”
“I was chasing after you—” I stopped, shaking my head at the memory. “Yesterday, on Lookout Mountain, riding your bike. I thought you were him.”
“During the day?”
“I know.”
“That should’ve been your first clue.”
“I know.” Joking about James didn’t work. Even the humor hurt too much. I swallowed hard. “Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know.” Whit looked at me; we looked at each other. “Probably.”
He took our empty cups and threw them into the backseat, then slumped down behind the wheel and turned his face away from me, toward something out the window. The breeze ruffled his hair a little. I would’ve guessed he was nineteen, but everyone sexy in these hills was a weirder age than they looked.
“Well, do you know what happened? Why James left? Did he tell you?” I stared out my own window.
“No, he didn’t tell me anything.” Whit thought for a second, then said, “Well, he told me to take care of you.”
Even with my head turned I could feel Whit eying my bandages. “I said I fell.”
He shrugged.
“Chasing you. So if anything, this is your fault.” I turned back to meet his eyes.
“You must think he’s really great, huh?” Whit asked.
I shifted in my seat. “So?”
“So nothing.” Whit put his hands on the steering wheel and looked ahead at the empty street.
“What, he’s not?”
“No, he’s awesome.” When Whit said it, I could tell he meant it.
More silence, more weirdness.
“Told you I’m boring.”
“Yeah,” he said, and laughed. “This sucks, dude.”
“Let’s talk about the ways in which you’re a screwup now that we’ve exhausted the topic of my sorry-ass life.” I stretched my legs out on the dashboard and picked at a tiny scab on my thigh. “You dropped out of college? So you’re an academic failure?”
“Maybe this would be good for our next hang-out.”
I dropped my legs. “Fine.”
“It’s late.”
It was like four thirty or something and James, wherever he was—assuming he was still in the Pacific Standard time zone—wasn’t even awake yet.
“Yeah.”
Whit jiggled his key chain hanging in the ignition. The members of this family could not get rid of me fast enough.
I reached for the door handle, then paused. “You want my phone number or what?” It was lame but whatever. Had to ask.
“Yeah, you want mine?”
“Have it.” I finally opened the door, grabbed a pen off the dash, and scribbled my digits on his hand. “Call if you feel like it.”
“I’ll call tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we have to make plans for tomorrow. Know what you want to do? And don’t say Mel’s Drive-In, we already did that.”
I knew what I wanted to do.
“Nothing too boring,” he warned.
I nodded, shut the Camry door, wa
ved, and watched Whit take off.
Okay, Libby, I thought, make it through tonight. Libbits Casey Block, just make it through tonight and we’ll be solid.
At dinner my mother stared across the table at me with a smile that said, I know what you’re up to, missy, but in a totally, like, okay-with-it way.
“So,” my mother said, blowing on a piece of steamed broccoli speared through her fork, “tell your father what you did today.”
“Um, you know. Hung out with a friend.” I shoved the hot vegetable into my mouth, hoping it’d scar my tongue and render me unable to elaborate on the matter.
My father nearly choked at my casual use of the word “friend.” This was news. It was, like, the headlining topic of tonight’s local news. Then I had to endure this:
“You did? That’s so great, Quinny.” Dad.
“She did. Isn’t it wonderful?” Mom.
“Is this person special?” Dad.
“Do we know this person?” Mom.
“I just think it’s really positive.” Dad.
“Would this person like to come over for dinner?” Mom.
“We thought, well, we were worried, for sure.” Dad.
Whoa.
“Are you guys retarded?” I asked, actually expecting an answer.
“Quinn.” My mother held her fork in the air, using it as a wand to conduct the words: “We are not ‘you guys,’ we’re Mom and Dad.”
“Yeah.”
The thing was, and even I couldn’t really express this in any way that would make sense to anyone, it had been a pretty good day. Skip the health-food-store part and the crying-in-the-car part, but past that—all through and even up to the part where Whit sort of kicked me out of his Camry—was actually nice. So I didn’t really want to talk about it too much, because if I couldn’t understand it myself, then I didn’t want to ruin the not-so-bad vibes I was feeling by analyzing them to death. I just wanted to go upstairs, drink a Diet Coke, jump on my bed, listen to some songs that reminded me of this exact situation, and in a mainly relaxed way wait for Whit to call. That’s how I would have done it…before. And not just before James left, but before he came along too.
Normally this would also be the juncture when I peaced out of the dining room. My plate was basically one-fourth finished, I felt like I had nothing left to say but dull, passive-aggressive things, and my parents had switched their attention from my hang-out to such amazing topics as what was in the mail and who called and who left a message and how good is this bok choy! But in the past week I’d set this new precedent where I acted like an actual member of the family, so I decided to just sit it out till the end. Yesterday my parents were so bummed for me, and today they were so pumped for me. Ugh, the guilt was so boring.
I clanked my fork against the plate. “His name is Whit. He’s pretty cool, he’s a nice guy, he’s my friend. We’re hanging out tomorrow.”
My mom reached across the table and lightly yanked on one of my braids. “See, was that so hard? It didn’t kill you.”
“I think it’s great,” my dad said, and winked.
Then, as if I’d shown them an X-ray of my mended heart with a doctor’s note saying everything was fine, my parents moved on. Something besides the bills had come in the mail. Invite to a Fourth of July party at the club near Griffith Park, and suddenly I was old news.
I didn’t have to wait long for Whit to call. Even his ring sounded confident. I was lying on my bed reading an article in an old issue of Sassy magazine about the perks of dating older guys. One, confidence. Two, loyalty. Three, experience. Gross.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi, you,” Whit said.
“Are you in your bedroom?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve been in that room.”
“Did you get yelled at for trespassing?”
“Only after I tried on your shoes.”
“You tried on my shoes? That’s nasty, dude.”
“I liked all your stuff. I liked your life.”
“Well, my stuff isn’t my life.”
I looked around my room. My stuff was, like, pretty much my entire life. Once I’d added James’s blue T-shirt to the archives, my stuff meant everything to me. Total definition.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked.
“Obviously. Who doesn’t want an excuse to go on and on about themselves?”
“That’s what I’m saying!”
That made him laugh, and we laughed together.
“Hey, Whit?” I said after we were quiet again.
“Oh, you want to get serious, don’t you?”
“I need your help.”
“Done.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m serious too.”
“This isn’t a normal favor to ask. It’s awkward as hell, and totally out of line, but I’m desperate. And it can’t wait.”
“That’s cryptic. Translation, please?”
“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.”
“Becoming clearer…”
“And James won’t want you to do it.”
“Explain, lady.”
I tried to hold back, but it came out in a gush. I told him everything—it already felt so natural to—except…for that end part, that last bit, when Stiles told James he’d come after his family if anyone messed with Libby again. That we had to leave them completely alone or something terrible would happen to the Sheetses.
I couldn’t tell Whit about that stuff or else he wouldn’t help me. But I also wouldn’t have asked for his help if I didn’t believe that Sanders and Stiles would only come after me if something went down, not him or Naomi. Not James, because James wasn’t around.
But otherwise I told him everything, the past, the present, and my plan for the future, where we raided their lair during the daytime and rescued my best friend. And the cherry on top: Libby’s aunt Lynn in the desert. Crucial witness protection pad. I rambled and rambled until I hit a crescendo and couldn’t think of anything else to add.
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Whit said nonchalantly.
“Wait, really?”
“Yeah, they’ll be asleep. It’ll be fine.”
“And we just go…get her?”
“Yeah. I know how this works.”
“Then that’s it?”
“Then we can listen to The Chronic in my car.”
“I think Libby actually likes that album.”
“And then eat some pizza.”
“Wait. Pizza? Milkshakes? Are you trying to make me fat?”
“Yes.”
“That’s unique.”
“I’ll pick you up at two. Wear something big so you can eat a lot of pizza.” Then he hung up.
I liked Whit. I loved James. I guess older guys were my thing. Confidence, loyalty, and experience. Not so bad.
13.
CONFETTI
Maybe I woke up before noon, but maybe I never fell asleep. I was exhausted or I was wired. I was both. There is no getting ready to do the stupidest thing a person could ever do. So I did the only things I could do. I fastened twenty necklaces around my neck for armor; I drew on so much eyeliner I looked like a sobbing drunk raccoon on a tequila bender; I plowed through a third can of soda.
I felt alive, wildly so, because I was scared out of my mind. My heartbeat thumped out louder and louder and crazier and louder to all the hibernating vampires in the Los Angeles hills. My insides were insane, ribs rattling, lungs hyperventilating, my whole human teenage form dissolving into a permanent panic attack. At two, when Whit was supposed to pick me up, I thought I might die or shatter or explode or melt—whatever happens to a person when they’re never going to be the same again.
Then I heard a car horn honking twice from the street. I peeked out the blinds. Whit was thirty minutes late, sipping from a Starbucks cup, his head in his hands, looking sleepy.
I hurried down the walkway and into the Camry.
And we were off. Whit sipped his coffee and shot m
e a bleary smile now and then as we wound through the hills. I stared out at the houses passing by. It felt like we were going eight miles an hour. If a car could crawl, Whit’s was on its hands and knees.
I couldn’t unclench my insides. I needed origami to unfold. I wanted to rip paper into confetti.
“What’s going on with this?” Whit tugged on the giant Mickey Mouse tank top I was wearing as a dress.
“Distraction tactics.”
He looked from the road to my naked thighs, then back to the road. I looked down at my lap too. The color of flesh; I was still human.
“Distraction achieved.”
“What are you wearing, a Celtics jersey?” He was. He had on a green-and-white jersey with those stupid cute jean shorts from yesterday and his nasty Converses. Kobe might have actually been comforting. Even Shaq would’ve been cool. “Traitor.”
“Imagine how crazy they’ll go when they see this.”
I nearly choked. “You said they’d be asleep.”
Whit sipped from his cup, shrugged.
“No.” I grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. “You said you ‘know how this works’ or something. That’s what you said.”
He pulled his arm away and adjusted his glasses. “They’ll be asleep, it’s daytime. Chill. Let’s listen to something.”
I dug through his CDs, not really paying attention to the writing on the spines.
“Not The Chronic, though,” he said. “That’s for our victory slice.”
Ugh, pizza.
I picked up the first CD in the pile, but when I moved to slip it into the player, Whit grabbed my wrist. I followed his eyes to the object in my hand.
“Not that one either, okay?” It had hearts all over it and stupid shiny stickers.
“Okay, fine.” I put it back.
We were both on edge and a long way from some pizza-Dr.-Dre-confetti-Libby rescue celebration.
Who knows what album we settled on? Sounded like the last thing I’d ever hear.
Finally we cruised to a stop in front of the twins’ guesthouse. It was three. Outside it was hot and sunny and normal. Inside the car it was a panic room.
I tried to relax my muscles and visualize my plan working, but now that we were here I couldn’t. So my only choice was to pretend the plan still made sense.