by Beth Bloom
I didn’t totally sink into my old black hole—and for that the entire Lacey family was grateful—but there was a lot of numb TV-watching and nervous hair braiding going on. Saltine-and-soda dinners were definitely back on the menu. My parents didn’t really seem to notice. Maybe because it seemed so realistic.
But most nights when dusk settled and I sat in my room, nothing could block out the thoughts that haunted me: Libby lost in the desert, bloodless and brainwashed; the twins prowling the hills for payback; James, far away and getting farther every day. My parents bustled around downstairs, listening to records with the windows open while making dinner, enjoying the summer nights. Whit called and told me what good shows were on TV, and we’d talk and kill time.
And every night I’d lie there in bed and look out at the hills behind our house, listening. I knew there’d be consequences, there had to be. Actions meant reactions. Sunrises meant sunsets. Every new day was just another new chance for Stiles to catch me at my weakest moment. My fear was too permanent, lasting longer than eyeliner, something I wore every day and didn’t wash off.
Still no sign of him. Or him, either.
I’m afraid I’ll forget you, James. I’m afraid I’ll forget who I was with you.
It had been a week and a half since Whit found me in the Lexus and a week and a half minus one day since we’d rescued Libby. How we’d jammed a summer’s worth of trivial activities and casual bonding into such a short span of time was a mystery and a miracle. One that Whit and I decided to finally celebrate with a victory slice of pizza.
So we went to a Round Table Pizza in the Valley on a sunny afternoon and claimed a booth in the back. We ate too much and told dumb stories and asked for refills on our unlimited fountain drinks. We got grossly stuffed and didn’t care.
“Ugh, pizza,” I moaned after my fourth slice. “No more.”
“They’ll have to roll us out of here,” Whit groaned, holding his stomach.
“James is going to dump me when he sees how fat I’ve gotten.”
“Weren’t you always fat?”
I stuck out my tongue at him. “Weren’t you saying James might be coming home soon?”
“No, I never said that.” He nibbled at a piece of half-eaten crust.
“Yeah, you did. You said he was probably coming back.”
Whit stopped chewing and got sort of serious. “Look, you know when Robert Plant says, ‘Baby, baby, I don’t want to leave you, I ain’t jokin’, woman, I got to ramble’?”
“What?” I blinked over and over.
“‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You.’”
“What?” Blinking. Blinking.
“Led Zeppelin.”
“Are you, like, a hundred?”
“Yes,” he said sarcastically. Then he folded his arms. “No, I’m not a hundred, I’m nineteen, and in six months I’ll be twenty. Then I’ll be twenty-one, then twenty-two, and on and on until I’m old and gray and cussing at buildings and small children. Then I’ll die, hopefully in my sleep, and stay dead forever.”
Damn.
“Never mind.” He stared off at the arcade games.
“Whatever, Whit.”
“Yeah.”
Major tension. But the tension didn’t last long, because suddenly some stoner dude in a ragged Depeche Mode shirt was standing next to our booth, reeking, giddy, hovering over us.
“Sh-sh-sh-Sheets, Sheets,” he said like he was scratching a turntable.
Whit reacted slowly. “Hey, Jody. It’s been a long time, man.”
“It’s been forever, man!” Change that: super stoner. “How’ve you been? Who’s your lady?”
“Quinn, this is Jody Bennett. He’s—” Whit paused, thinking of a word, but gave up.
“Hey.” I waved.
“Hey to you.” He turned to Whit and said, pointing to me, “Nice, man.”
“So what’s up?” Whit looked tired of this already.
“Here’s the deal: You guys have to come to this thing I’m having.”
“A thing? Like a party?” I asked with a bit more disgust than was polite.
“Yeah! You like to party?”
I sank lower into the booth.
“She loves it,” Whit interrupted. He raised his eyebrows, daring me.
“Really?” Jody moved his red, weeded eyes from Whit to me to Whit and back to me. “Killer. It’s tonight at my house. You’re gonna come, right?”
“Totally, Jody.” Whit gave him a thumbs-up.
“Awesome. Don’t bogart the babe, man,” he said, looking at Whit but pointing to me again. “Do not be a Bogart.”
“No way, man.”
Jody held up both of his hands for Whit and me to high-five. When we both sort of lazily complied, Jody clasped our hands in his and then brought them together to form one giant hand-holding clump. Then he dropped the clump, put a hand on each of our shoulders, shook us lightly, bowed his head, lifted his head, said the word “tonight” like it had any other meaning than just a portion of the day, and walked away.
“Best friend from middle school?” I asked, watching him leave.
“Something like that.”
“Jody sucks.”
“Maybe,” Whit said, pretending to consider the matter. “But he’s such a lover of fine things. Like Humphrey Bogart. And parties.”
“Yeah.”
“So you’ll come?”
“You’re kidding.”
I hadn’t been to a nighttime social gathering since…since Joshua Tree. That just wasn’t something I did anymore.
“Aren’t you getting cabin fever?”
“Cabin fever, cabin flu, cabin measles, cabin mania…”
“So come.” Whit reached over and touched my hand. “Please? Jody thinks you’re”—he made quotation marks—“nice.”
“Jody sucks.”
But it wasn’t a no.
Whit dropped me off at six-twenty, per usual, but promised to be back by ten to drive us to the party. That gave me more than ample time to scheme a story for my parents, float in the pool, put on more eyeliner, drink a Diet Coke or two, listen to a Fugazi tape, break into a good cry, fear for my life, then pull the whole mess together with a pair of party pants. Seriously. I decided I was going to rock these super-fitted black matador pants with little red pom-pom balls going up the sides that Stella scored from some nineties Madonna video shoot she had styled. She ended up giving them to me because they were too small for her and too short for Libby’s legs, but I fit into them fine. Just like Madonna. Madonna danced in my pants.
It was a rare feeling, but tonight I had to admit it: I looked kind of pretty. Despite my annoyance at having to attend a real party, my anxiety at having to seem charming to some of Whit’s older friends, and my faint terror at being out past midnight at some stoner’s house in Bell Canyon where anyone could stalk up the hills and nab me and suck my blood—despite all that—I thought I looked okay. My eyes were bright and awake, my lips felt full and shiny under a layer of cherry ChapStick, my skin was slightly tan, my bruises and scrapes were gone, and my long brown hair had that cool, chlorinated, wavy thing going on. I didn’t know when—if ever—I’d get back that way James made me feel, but I’d take just feeling pretty, at least for tonight.
I scavenged my room for some accessories to complete tonight’s look. Under some magazines I dug up my single pair of eighties thrift-store pumps, which I’d totally forgotten even existed. Then I tucked a silky white camisole into my party pants—because Courtney Love would have done that—and put on literally every piece of jewelry I owned.
I was just about ready when I heard the doorbell ring downstairs, then the door open, then my father’s voice. Oh God, Elliott and Whit. I snatched the ChapStick off my dresser and downed the rest of my soda.
“Quinny,” my dad shouted, “Morgan’s here to pick you up.”
I dashed down the stairs without remembering I had high heels on and so stumbled the last few steps before wiping out into Whit’s arms.
He was wearing a white V-neck and a pair of tight ripped-up Levi’s with his usual high-tops and that stupid necklace with the crucifix pendant. Whit was dressed just like him and it sucked.
“Thanks, Dad, leaving now.” I waved good-bye and pushed Whit out the door, shutting it behind us.
“Your dad thinks I’m Morgan,” he said.
“It’s possible my dad thinks I’m Morgan.”
“Hey.” Whit stopped me as I was opening the car door. “You look good.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said, “Oh, cool.”
Up Bell Canyon, still inside the car, parked a couple of houses down, waiting a full ten minutes before we made our entrance, Whit rested his chin on the top of the steering wheel and stared out at the night.
“I want to talk about earlier.”
“No, you don’t,” I said. I didn’t.
“What I meant about Led Zeppelin,” he started, as I rolled my eyes dramatically, “is that Plant really loves this chick, like there’s no question about that, but he’s still got to leave her, you know?”
“Is he bummed about it?”
“Dude, he’s, like…so, so, so bummed.” Whit turned to look at me. “He’s in major pain.”
“I’m in pain.” It was the first time I’d said it out loud.
“You haven’t seemed so bad.”
“I’ve gotten better, I guess.”
“That’s good.” He touched my shoulder.
I shook his hand off and said, “Why are you wearing that?” I looked at the shirt, the necklace, the messy hair. I was getting déjà vu bad.
“Why am I wearing what?” He looked confused.
“I don’t know.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Forget it.” I opened the door.
Whit got out too and locked the car, and then we headed toward Jody’s house.
“Hey, don’t ditch me in there,” I said.
He threw an arm around my shoulder and kissed me on the top of the head. “Where’m I gonna go?”
No one answered the door when we knocked, but it was unlocked and we could hear music so we just went in, through a foyer into a wide living room area that sprawled onto a sweeping back balcony with a stupidly stunning cityscape view. We helped ourselves to glasses of what I guessed from the label was fairly expensive red wine and then wandered out to the deck, which was draped with several canopies of tiny multicolored lights and paper lanterns. There was a nice desert breeze drifting up the canyons, and it struck me then with weird force: Night was beautiful. I’d missed it during my past two weeks of self-enforced house arrest.
I leaned against the wooden railing and closed my eyes, letting the night air float across my face. Then I heard several voices behind me greeting Whit. Everyone said hi, hello, and soon he was deep into a story about a recent run-in with an old mutual friend.
Five people stood in a semicircle around him, rapt, eyes sparkling, mouths on the verge of laughter, waiting for the next punch line, eating up his impression of Howie or Huey or whatever this random guy’s name was. I slipped in beside him while he talked, sipping my wine. I felt somehow in awe. Whit was my best friend now, so I obviously knew he was clever and cool and cute and charming but tonight, under the glow of the lanterns, on my first night back in the real world, his presence was like a revelation. He was the center and, when he reached his hand up and rubbed the soft part of my back, so, so centering.
A few dudes came up and offered me a drink and tried to flirt, but not a ton. And that was fine. I was happy just to stand near the glow of Whit’s magic, silently sip wine, stare away into the shadowy canyons, and sway slowly back and forth to some Nina Simone record Jody had thrown on. My dad loved Nina Simone, so I felt doubly protected as her heavy, honeyed voice washed over me. Or maybe it was the dry L.A. wind drifting through my hair. Or maybe it was my third glass of Shiraz.
I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my wooziness until one of the dudes who’d been smoking with Jody all night tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was feeling all right. His shirt said LOSER across the chest in giant black letters, making it hard to concentrate.
I tried to nod like a sober person. “I’m…awesome.”
He introduced himself as something that I knew wasn’t Owen but sounded like Owen, so I said, “Cool to meet you, Owen,” and held out my hand for a shake. But because he was holding a joint in his right hand I awkwardly grabbed for his left one. And then, because I was so out of it, I didn’t let go.
“Oh, feels nice. Your hand is so cold,” I said, still shaking.
“Are you cool?”
“I don’t think I understand the question.”
“How old are you?” He finally pulled his hand free from mine.
“I just need some fresh air, you know?” I stared at his chest. LOSER, LOSER, LOSER.
“We’re outside, man.” Owen took a deep hit and blew the smoke behind him, gesturing with his face, the joint, the smoke, his whole body, that we were in fact outside. “I should get Whit before you go bananas or something.” He nodded above my head and immediately Whit was there, pressurizing the cabin, checking for vitals.
“I’m okay, I’m okay,” I stuttered.
“I see you’ve met Joey,” Whit said, indicating Owen.
“Joey, yeah.” I tried to shake his hand again, but both of them were full this time so I sloppily shook his elbow. “Don’t drive home,” I said as steadily as possible.
“You don’t drive home.” He laughed, already walking away.
Then it was just me and Whit. Like always.
“You don’t have to get drunk.” He leaned in, serious. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”
Before I realized I was saying it—before I even knew I was really feeling it—I said, “I’m scared.” Then I couldn’t hold it in. “They’re looking for me. They want to kill me.”
“They’re not looking for you, Quinn. They have no idea about anything.”
“You have no idea.” I tried not to cry. The music was louder now. There was a small blurry dance floor in the living room. The lanterns gave everyone’s skin an eerie glow.
“Calm down, okay?” He held me at the elbows. “They don’t know it was you.”
I shook my head. “Yes, they do.”
“How do they know that?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Whit tensed up. “What are you talking about, Quinn?” His fingers squeezed harder.
“They know where I live….” My words drowned in drunken slurs.
“They’re not going to—” he started to say, but a voice somewhere called out Whit’s name. He held his hand up, yelled, “One second, man,” and leaned in even closer.
“Do you want me to take you home?”
“No.” I wanted to go to his place. His room.
“Quinn. You’re safe here. I promise.”
I rubbed my eyes.
“Nothing’s going to happen. Please try to have a little fun.”
“I am having a little fun.”
“Well, you don’t exactly look like it.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people.”
“I have to go to the bathroom first.”
He shot me a distrusting look.
“I do.”
“Fine. But come right back, okay?”
“Okay.”
He gave my elbows a final squeeze and headed over to a group of people down at the end of the deck. I wiped my eyes again and then slid open the sliding doors, went through the living room, past the five people on the couch watching a movie, past the trio snacking from a bowl of popcorn on the kitchen island, past the couple Frenching up against a collection of Jody’s baby pictures hanging in the hallway, and into an enormous Italian marble bathroom. I stood staring at the two-person Jacuzzi for about five minutes before I climbed in. I collapsed in the empty tu
b and tried to keep my eyes closed, but too many bad things were swirling beneath my lids, so I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyeliner was smudged, but that was nothing new.
On the wall next to me, right above a shelf loaded with shampoos and conditioners, was a small cream-colored telephone. I hit my head with the palm of my hand. There wasn’t a doubt in my fuzzy, sloshed mind that I was going to use that phone—and for evil, not good. This was really happening. I was really dialing his number.
It rang twice.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“I thought you were dead or something.”
“I am. Sort of.”
“So you got my message. Thanks for calling me back.”
“I am calling you back.”
“Are you drunk?”
Then someone knocked on the bathroom door.
I cupped my hand over the receiver. “Hold on!”
“Who? Me, or…?”
“Not you.”
“Where are you?”
“Uhh…” I looked around, unsure of the right answer. Bell Canyon. Jody Bennett’s. A Jacuzzi. None of it really made sense.
“Never mind.”
“Yeah, it’s weird.”
The person at the door banged some more.
“So you’re okay then.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’m gonna go.”
“Right.”
“Say good-bye, Quinn.”
“Thanks for lying to the Spaders for me, Morgan.”
“Good-bye, Quinn.”
He hung up. I listened to the dial tone and the banging on the door for a few seconds before climbing out of the tub.
“Okay, okay,” I said while unlatching the lock and opening the door. Then my heart lurched: A pale guy in a polo shirt with black hair was standing there glaring at me, arms crossed.