Dear Cassie

by Burstein, Lisa

  “You don’t know who I am?” he asked, putting his drink down and leaning on the counter like he was planning to stay a while.

  “Should I?” I was going to kill those assholes in the back room. Maybe even call the police on them one night when I wasn’t at work, so they could be stupid enough to get arrested. So they would realize it wasn’t about being stupid, it was about being doomed.

  “I’m one of the guys who stood you up for prom,” he said, taking another sip of his soda. It was good I wasn’t taking a sip of it, because I probably would have spit it out, right in his face.

  “Well, fuck you, then,” I said.

  He smiled.

  I didn’t.

  “I came to apologize,” he said.

  “Not to me,” I said. “You were Amy’s date.” I picked up a rag and started wiping the counter. I was afraid if I didn’t do something with my hands I would strangle him. “Go apologize to her.”

  “I want to apologize to you,” he said, smiling again, his crooked tooth coming down over his bottom lip.

  “I don’t need your apology,” I said, still cleaning the counter. My cheeks started to burn.

  He put his hand on the wrist that held the rag and squeezed.

  “You probably want to let me go before I make you,” I hissed.

  He didn’t move. “I know everything that happened that night,” he said.

  “Wait,” I said, my head starting to spin with fear. “Did Brian send you here to kick my ass or something? Because you can tell him Lila’s the one who stole his shit.”

  “I know,” he said. “Brian knows.”

  “So now we’re back to how I don’t need your apology,” I said, my anxiety turning to anger again, the heartbeat in my ears changing from the pounding of running feet to machine-gun fire. I pulled my wrist free, left the counter, and went back to my bucket of dough. I grabbed a baseball-sized glob and started rolling it out on a pastry board, smacking the middle of the dough harder than I had to, to get it started.

  “Who says?” Aaron asked, leaning even farther over the counter, grabbing onto the shelf on the other side to hold himself up.

  “You’re not supposed to be back here,” I said, still pounding on my dough.

  “Who says I was Amy’s date?” he asked, hanging halfway into the kitchen like a kid on a jungle gym.

  I rolled my eyes but didn’t turn to look at him. “Lila. Lila said you were Amy’s date.”

  “Oh, Lila,” he said, making his voice sound fake haughty. “Well, I guess she knows everything.”

  “Lila sucks,” I said. We hadn’t talked since prom night and I doubted we were going to, unless she apologized to me, which she would never do.

  “I’ve met her,” Aaron said. “I agree.”

  I turned to look at him. His eyes were still on me. Boys didn’t say Lila sucked—most boys, anyway.

  “When’s your break?” he asked, letting go of the counter and standing back up.

  “Why?”

  “I want to take you somewhere so we can talk more,” he said. He folded his slice in half and ate the whole thing in three bites.

  “Forget it,” I said, pretending my dough was really interesting.

  “Come on, you got something better to do?” he mumbled through his full mouth.

  I turned and looked at the closed door of the back room. I could still hear my coworkers laughing behind it.

  Assholes.

  “I’ll give you twenty dollars,” he said, taking it out and shaking it in front of me. His blue eyes were big.

  “What, do you think I’m a fucking prostitute?” I asked.

  “I just really want to talk to you,” he said.

  “We’re talking now,” I said.

  “No,” he said, “not here.” He walked up to the counter and traced a circle on it, waiting.

  “You’ve got to do better than that,” I said.

  “This is the best I can do with the lights on,” he said.

  I fought back a smile, even though I knew it was a line. This boy was something. “Fine,” I said, wiping my hands on a rag. “Meet me outside. And I still want that twenty.” I walked to the back room and kicked the door, once, twice, three times. “Going on break, fuckers,” I said, throwing off my apron and grabbing my cigarettes.

  Aaron waited for me in a black convertible, so clean that it shined in the streetlights like an oil slick. I walked over to the driver’s side and put a cigarette in my mouth. He pulled out a Zippo and leaned over to light it before I could even grab my lighter.

  “Wanna take a ride?” he asked.

  Fuck yeah, I wanted to take a ride.

  I walked around the back of the car, opened the door, and sat in the passenger seat—leather, bucket. The dashboard had so many lights and buttons it reminded me of the Batmobile.

  Aaron lit his own cigarette, moving his Zippo through his fingers like a baton, pinkie to thumb and back again, as he put the top down. We started to drive, the wind blowing the flour out of my hair so that it flew behind me like snow.

  It made me think about my own car. My poor impounded Civic, which I might be able to get back if I stayed out of trouble. Sitting next to Aaron in his car, staying out of trouble was looking doubtful.

  He pulled into the entry lot of the park down the street and turned off the car.

  “I thought you wanted to take a ride,” I said, throwing my spent cigarette on the ground. I watched it fly through the air like a miniature rocket.

  “We just did,” he said, taking the last drag of his cigarette and doing the same.

  I stared at the windshield. The headlights were still on and were spotlighting two empty benches, a garbage can, and a sad little aluminum slide.

  “How much longer do you have?” Aaron asked, his hands circling the steering wheel.

  I looked at the clock on the dash, the same bright green as a glow stick. “Forty-five minutes.”

  “Well I’d better hurry up, then,” he said, taking off his seat belt and leaning in to kiss me.

  I pushed him, hard, in the center of his chest. “No fucking way, Aaron Chambers.”

  “You don’t want to kiss me?” he asked. He seemed surprised. I guess people didn’t usually push him away.

  I pointed at my forehead. “Does it look like I’m wearing a sign that says chump?”

  He stared at the steering wheel like he didn’t know what to do.

  “You said you came to apologize, so apologize,” I said. I caught my reflection in the side mirror. I still had flour on my nose. I rubbed at it.

  “I’m sorry,” Aaron said, turning to me, making his face go soft.

  “On your knees,” I said. If this boy wanted to apologize, he was going to do it right. I mean, he wanted to kiss me, so who knew what I would be able to get him to agree to?

  “Seriously?” he asked.

  “Um, you stood me up for my prom,” I said. “I got arrested that night. My life is a world of shit because of you. Get on your fucking knees.”

  “You’re pretty cute when you’re angry,” he said, reaching for my hair.

  I whipped my head away. “Apology,” I said.

  “Okay, Miss Cassie,” Aaron said, getting out of the car and coming over to my side. He opened the door and held out his hand.

  I looked at it, waiting.

  “You’re supposed to take it,” he said.

  “Ugh,” I said, “fine.” He led me to the front of the car. The headlights were still on, shining out for miles into the darkness. He kneeled in front of me and held both my hands. It was very marriage-proposal and I felt my cheeks light up.

  “I’m sorry about prom night and I would like to make it up to you,” Aaron said, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “How?” I asked. It felt pretty good to have someone on his knees in front of me begging for my forgiveness. After the shit luck I’d had, it felt better than good.

  He kissed one hand then the other. I felt static electricity travel up from them, to my
shoulders, neck, and the base of my skull.

  Who was this boy? Why wasn’t he afraid of me? Why wasn’t I afraid of him?

  “I don’t think you can make it up to me,” I said, but I didn’t pull my hands away.

  “I’d like to try,” he said, looking up at me, his eyes very puppy-dog.

  “How?” I asked again.

  He stood and took my chin in his hands. “Like this,” he said, kissing me. I reared up to knee him in the balls, but his lips made me stop. They were persuasive and warm and doing all the right things. The kind of lips that make you forget you’re even kissing. I guess I did, because I stood there kissing him for minutes upon minutes, my leg cocked and loaded but never making contact.

  He stopped and looked at me. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Not even close,” I said. I could still taste his pizza and Pepsi, onions and sugar, on my lips.

  We made out for the rest of my break standing like that, his hands grabbing the back of my head, the car’s headlights reaching out on each side of us and into the night, like the arms of a star.

  That is what I would take back. Not because of what happened that night, but because of everything that came after.

  Because of everything I can never take back.

  24 Fucking Days to Go

  This morning, we followed Rawe down to the waterfront—Nez in front, me in the middle, Troyer in the back. Nez kept turning around and whispering to me about Arm Sleeve Tattoo Guy, making X-rated facial expressions and tongue movements like she was having some kind of porno stroke.

  I didn’t want to hear about it and tried to ignore her, but that just made her keep going.

  “Then he put both hands on my butt,” Nez said, holding her hands up and squeezing.

  Rawe twisted around to bust her, but it was like Nez could sense it and she turned away from me, staring straight ahead and marching like she was a model prisoner, before Rawe could say anything. I looked down at my boots, clomping on the dirt path. Even with our short escape the other night, that was still how I felt. Like a prisoner.

  Maybe I would have felt that way even if I wasn’t here.

  The four of us finally hit the rocky beach. Murky green lake water gurgled with seaweed and foam like a cappuccino. The boys were already there, standing in front of three canoes. Weathered Adirondack chairs were piled up with a bike lock. The door of a boat house, no bigger than our cabin, banged open and closed in the wind.

  “It smells like I’m in a goldfish cemetery,” I said, covering my face.

  “You can handle the pit toilets, you can handle this,” Rawe said, spinning her head around, Exorcist-style, to look at me.

  I didn’t want to get into the fact that any toilet was really a goldfish cemetery.

  “Sweet,” Nez whispered. “Maybe Andre and I can slip away for some afternoon delight.” She licked her lips.

  “If it will finally shut your mouth, I hope so,” I murmured.

  “How do you make out with your mouth closed?” Nez asked.

  “Once I staple yours shut you can figure it out,” I said, not wanting to let Nez get the last word. It was about all I had left.

  “Ladies, line up,” Rawe commanded.

  We were in a line already, so we all looked at one another. Maybe Rawe was showing off for Square Head—Nerone or whatever. The boys were already in a line, too. Ben turned and waved to Troyer. He mouthed, Hi Laura, before he glued his eyes back on Nerone.

  Nez looked at me, her mouth hanging open practically down to her knees.

  “We had our own fun while Andre was squeezing your butt,” I said, making the same hand motions Nez had. I bet Ben was probably only being nice to Troyer to piss me off, but if I could piss off Nez in the process, all the better.

  “We’re splitting up three-two-two, co-ed,” Nerone yelled. Then he went through some canoe safety tips. Like Rawe or Nerone really gave a crap about our safety.

  I looked at the canoes, laying diagonally like huge green bananas on the lakeshore.

  “I hope I get three—boy sandwich,” Nez whispered, practically drooling.

  “Seriously, Nez, shut the fuck up,” I said.

  She turned and stuck her tongue out at me, as opposite a facial expression as any of the ones she made on the walk over here. I was learning that Nez viewed sticking her tongue out like I might view giving someone the finger. And like me, she did it a lot.

  “All right, Nez, Wick, Troyer, pick a boat,” Rawe said. She stood next to Nerone, breathing heavily through her nose. She was shorter than he was, skinnier, paler, and unlike him, her head didn’t look like a Rubik’s Cube.

  We each walked over to a canoe. I looked inside. Three sandy, wet life jackets lay in the bow. How long had those been in there?

  Nerone sent the boys over next. He put Ben with Nez, Troyer with Arm Sleeve Tattoo Guy, and me with Brace Face and Curly.

  “Looks like I’m with your boyfriend,” Nez said to me, shaking her ass as she bent over and picked up a life jacket.

  “Looks like Troyer’s with yours,” I sneered. I could have told her that I got the boy sandwich, but thinking of those two in a boy sandwich would put anyone on a hunger strike. I also could have told her Ben wasn’t my boyfriend, and I wondered why that hadn’t been the first thing to come out of my mouth.

  Fucking Ben.

  Nez snapped her fingers to get Troyer’s attention and mouthed, Touch him and die, making a slicing-open-her-neck motion. I wondered why everyone thought they had to mouth words to Troyer. Even if she didn’t talk, it was obvious she could hear, and it was even more obvious that she’d looked scared even before Nez’s warning. Stravalaci’s hair was as dark as the black tribal tattoos that snaked up his arms. Troyer had heard from Ben why he was here and I was pretty sure she didn’t want to be alone with him on the water or anywhere else. I mean, I could probably handle him, but Troyer was afraid of words.

  I waited while Eagan and Leisner walked over to our canoe. At least Leisner had some muscle on him, flabby as it was, but Eagan had arms like pipe cleaners. Unless his braces gave him superpowers, it looked like it was going to be Leisner and me carrying most of the weight.

  I put on a life jacket. I could smell mildew. It had that disgusting, cold, wet feeling that only lake water can give.

  “Do we get helmets?” Eagan yelled over to Nerone. “There are two million traumatic brain accidents each year.” He slurped on the saliva that got stuck on the metal attached to his teeth.

  This was going to be one long fucking boat ride.

  Nerone sighed. “You’re not fighting the rapids, Eagan. It’s a simple trip to the dock at the middle of the lake and back.”

  “I’d still prefer a helmet,” Eagan said.

  “What you prefer doesn’t matter,” Nerone yelled, his square head turning red, like someone had solved that side of the Rubik’s Cube. “Get in the goddamn boat.”

  “You girls got anything you want to whine about?” Rawe yelled. I guess she wanted to make sure Nerone knew that she could be an asshole, too.

  None of us spoke. I looked out at the dock we were supposed to paddle out to—it didn’t look simple. The lake was huge. To make it to the middle would probably take an hour at least.

  With Eagan in my boat, probably longer.

  “Hi Cassie,” Leisner said, sidling up next to me, his curly blond afro shining around his head like a pubic hair halo.

  “How the hell do you know my name?” I hissed.

  Leisner looked at me and smirked. He didn’t need to answer. Ben had told him my name. What the hell else had Ben told him? I watched Nez and Ben take off in their canoe, Ben in back, Nez in front, each paddling on opposite sides, their paddles splashing water.

  “Eagan should probably sit in front in case we need his brace-face for radar,” I said, throwing each of them a wet life jacket.

  Leisner caught his, but Eagan winced as his hit his chest and fell on the sand.

  “Nice catch,” I said.

  “Ni
ce throw,” Leisner said. I didn’t think it was possible, but he was worse than Ben. It could have been because he didn’t look anything like Ben.

  I glanced over at Troyer, who was sitting at the back of her canoe with Stravalaci in the front. Her mouth was closed so tight it looked like it was glued.

  “You get in the middle, Cassie,” Leisner said. “Let the guns run the stern.” He made a muscle.

  “Your guns look like they’re out of ammo.” I laughed. There was no way I was letting one of them be in charge of steering this thing. If I was forced to go out into the middle of the lake with these two idiots, at least I wanted to know I would be able to steer my way back.

  Leisner’s face screwed up as he stepped closer to me. “Maybe I should test them, Cassie.”

  Was he starting something? I hoped so. I wanted to punch the curls right out of his hair. “Call me Cassie one more time and it will be your last.”

  “Wick,” Rawe yelled.

  “Leisner,” Nerone yelled.

  I got into the back of the boat before Rawe could say anything else. There was no way I was doing pushups on sand covered with dead fish guts.

  “Sorry, Cassie,” Leisner taunted as he got into the middle seat.

  I picked up the paddle and ignored him. I knew how to steer a boat. My brother and I used to go fishing on Lake Erie when I was a kid. During the summer we would stay for a week with my dad’s sister who had a beach house that she lived in all year round. It was filled with seashells and too many cats. Every morning, before anyone woke up, my brother and I would sneak out and down the path to the rowboat rocking in the water at the dock. We would row into the middle of the lake to fish while the sun rose, talking about how we could survive on a desert island without anyone in our stupid family.

  So yeah, I knew how to steer a fucking boat.

  I also knew that once the ’roids were out of Leisner’s system, I could probably lay him out with one punch.

  Eagan got his life jacket on and sat in front of the canoe. With everyone in place, we finally pushed off, gliding on the water, our paddles thrusting us forward.

  “You know drowning is the fifth highest cause of accidental death,” Eagan said.