by Amy Sparling
I have 20/20 vision and can see that Bluntz is a drug user, yet I can’t stop the fluttery feeling of my crush on him from forming in my chest. My heart can’t be trusted to tell me what it wants. It wanted Daniel up until, and even a few days after, he broke up with me. Now my heart is telling me to dance with Bluntz to this totally depressing song, to feel his hands on my waist and see what his face looks like up close. But that’s just what my heart wants. Not what it needs.
A thundering noise comes from inside the house, causing Bluntz and I to jump so fast we almost clash into each other. Several other noises happen in quick succession. A girl screams, a guy yells “oh shit” repeatedly, a few people trample down the stairs and then the music goes silent.
Bluntz scrambles for the back door but I push in front of him and bolt inside. I shuffle and squeeze through the throngs of people toward the direction they’re all staring. A guy—the one screaming “oh shit” like a broken record—lays in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs, a spilled beer next to him, his left wrist bent acutely toward his forearm. The wrong way.
I swallow the lump in my throat. It tastes like vomit. For a long time no one says or does anything, we all just stand here staring at the oh shit guy, who’s still saying that by the way. I slip in front of a girl who’s covering her mouth with her hands, drop to my knees by him and run my fingers over his sticky hair, pulling it back so I can see his eyes. “Are you okay?” I ask. He stares at me incredulously, his eyes saying what his mouth doesn’t need to say—that his freaking wrist is broken. Of course he’s not okay.
“Is he dead?” A guy with three lip piercings peers over his girlfriend’s shoulder. Several people murmur that he’s not dead, and someone yells out that he’s faking it. Drunken laughter fills the room. Someone turns the music back on and people disburse.
“Ben!” My eyes flit to every face in the crowd, searching for my brother, otherwise known as the host of this party. He should be here. He should be taking care of this, not me. Bluntz touches my arm. In my panic, I hadn’t noticed him kneel down beside me. “Ben is indisposed upstairs.”
“Indisposed?” My eyes narrow. “Are you kidding me? How much sex does he need to have anyway? This is a serious situation!”
“He needs medical help and we need to find someone sober enough to drive him to the hospital.” His calm words help soothe my panic. “You,” I say, remembering that Bluntz showed up alone so he must have driven himself. “You drive, right? You have a car?”
He shakes his head. “I said someone sober.”
“You’re not sober?” It was less than five minutes ago when we were talking in the backyard. He wasn’t a blabbering drunk then. He leans back on his heels with a sigh and stares at the wall. His eyebrows knit together in concentration as he holds one hand in front of his face and then looks back at me. “Nah, Lexie I’m sorry. I can’t drive.”
“But you weren’t drinking.”
He plays with the leather bracelets around his wrist and cocks his head to the side as if to say, you already know the answer, don’t you? My shoulders fall. “You’re high.”
The clumsy guy on the floor groans. “God somebody kill me. I can’t deal with this pain anymore.”
“Shit,” I curse, the weight of my responsibility finally setting in. “I’m getting you help,” I tell him. He nods, his grimace so big it almost looks like a twisted smile. I stand, my body rigid as I look around the room trying to form a plan. All around me people are lighting up, drinking up, or—in the case of the girl with blue hair hovering over the trashcan—throwing up.
This is enough. I don’t care about looking cool in front of Bluntz anymore. I don’t care that Ben is probably naked right now—he’s going to deal with this. I step over the guy’s legs, careful not to step on him as I maneuver to the stairs. Ben will probably never forgive me for barging in on him like this but, oh well. I take a deep breath and jog up the stairs.
My cell phone flops loosely in my back pocket, so I clamp a hand over it to keep it from falling out as I continue up the stairs. And then it hits me. It’s as if a neon sign flashing the words duh you idiot appears over my head as I realize that all I needed to help this guy is my cell phone.
My back falls against the wall as I both sign in relief and gasp to catch my breath after jogging at full speed up a flight of stairs. Unlocking my phone, I press 9-1-1 and hold it to my ear, realizing that I’ve never once had to call this number. It’s a surreal feeling.
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The lady on the other end of the phone sounds almost bored. If I answered a phone for emergencies, I’d be on the edge of my seat every time I answered it. I shrug off my surprise and reply, “Um, yeah. A guy fell down my stairs and his wrist is broken so bad it’s like bent around.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Yeah, he’s in a lot of pain though.”
“Is there anything else wrong besides the broken wrist?” I can feel her condescending annoyance from across the satellites that bring her voice into my phone. She’s thinking that if it’s just a broken wrist, why can’t we take him to the hospital? I say yes and try to stutter a more lengthy reply about how no one here can drive him.
She says that since I’m calling from a cell phone that they’re having trouble tracking and asks for our address. “It’s one-two-two-one,” I say slowly, trying to remember dad’s address since I haven’t used it in so long. She repeats it back to me as the door to Ben’s room swings open so fast, it makes the wall behind me shake.
Ben, who is surprisingly fully dressed, bolts out of his room and yanks the phone from my hand. He looks at the screen, which still has the numbers I dialed on it, and ends the call. He glances down the stairs to where that guy is still there writhing in pain, and then glares at me. His face could be on fire right now and I wouldn’t even notice it through the piercing look in his eyes.
I shrink against the wall. “Why did you do that? He needs help.”
“Don’t fucking tell me what he needs,” Ben snarls, my phone still gripped in his hand. In the corner of my eye I see Marla lean against Ben’s door frame, arms crossed, hair silky and straight and perfect just like her. “I don’t care if he just dropped the fuck dead. You do. Not. Call. The. Police.”
Tears fill my eyes as he yells at me. I’m more humiliated than I’ve ever been with Mom and Dad. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, but I don’t think he even notices it.
“Look around. Are you trying to get us all thrown in jail?” He goes on, yelling at me so loudly that I know everyone downstairs can hear over the music. “Would you be happier if I was in jail? Would you?”
I shake my head no. “Then don’t fucking ever call the police again, do you understand?”
I nod. With a flex of his bicep that’s bigger than my head, Ben hurls my phone toward the wall and I jump to catch it before it shatters into pieces. Marla and Ben load him into Ben’s car and speed off to the hospital.
I’m too ashamed to go downstairs and face Bluntz after getting that verbal lashing from Ben, so I slip into my room and lock the door. I think about going home to Mom’s. I think about staying here and seeing if Ben wakes up totally normal like he did that day after the beach. I think about the massive drug use I saw tonight, and how I never would have thought I’d be a part of a party like this. Vaguely, I remember that I had some kind of mission I was supposed to do tonight. Whatever it was, I failed. It’s all just a blur. Everything in my mind is a blur now, all blocked behind the only thing I can see clearly.
Memories of Ben yelling at me.
Chapter 7
Life at Dad’s house—without Dad—is superb. I feel like a college student living in a dorm, only with all the fun and none of the school work. Ben and I go grocery shopping once a week and we take turns cooking dinner, although Marla usually does most of Ben’s cooking for him.
Ben works odd hours that don’t coincide with the YMCA’s schedule, and I suspect he no longer works there but I haven’t had th
e courage to ask about it yet. Some days he’s gone all day and others we’ll spend hours on the couch watching movies with Marla.
Jill has noticed the difference in Ben’s attitude too, but she blames it on Marla. “She’s too pretty for him,” she says as we eat ice cream out of the carton in the kitchen. Marla and Ben had just come home and barely had time to say hi to us before locking themselves in his room.
“How can someone be too pretty?” I ask. I’ll admit, I’m jealous of Marla’s infinite beauty, but not enough to insult her. Jill can be pretty if she wants to be. Instead, she masks any potential she has by wearing baggy jeans and big shirts and carrying around an oversized helping of self-consciousness.
Jill twists her spoon around the carton, making a perfect egg-shaped scoop of cookies and cream ice cream. “She’s like a porcelain doll and all she does is smile and laugh.” She shoves the entire glop of ice cream into her mouth. “And it’s disgusting.”
“You’re pathetic. How does Jordan put up with you?”
She shrugs. “Because he’s fat too.”
Jill and Jordan have only been dating a few weeks now, but they’ve already bonded into some kind of old married couple. She’s so bitter about her life and how ugly she thinks she is, that she never even allowed herself the giddy excitement of being in love or even experiencing puppy love. And that sucks for me because I have to put up with her.
All I’ve wanted, for as long as I can remember, is puppy love.
Real love would be great too, but I’m not an idiot. I know it takes many crushes and heartaches to find “the one” and I’m not about to rush into anything serious. I just want to feel like I’m in a Taylor Swift song—carefree, happy and in puppy love.
I hadn’t seen Bluntz since the night we danced, a little over a week ago. Not that it matters, because he’s a stoner, I remind myself. If I were to date a stoner, then I wouldn’t be moving up from Daniel at all. Plus I had convinced myself that Bluntz didn’t like me in a Taylor Swift song kind of way. He didn’t ask for my number or promise to see me again after that dance.
“Earth to Lexie,” Jill says in a robot voice, waving her hand in front of my face.
“What?” The ice cream in my spoon has melted into a cold soup.
“I was telling you how Jordan’s grandmother told him he could do better than me, and that I had a serious attitude problem. God, Lexie, did you even hear a word I said?”
No, I hadn’t. I have more important things to discuss than Jordan’s side of the family. “What do you think about marijuana?” The words fall out of my mouth.
She blinks. “I think it’s stupid, why?”
“Why is it stupid?”
“Because it’s illegal and only idiots do stuff that’ll get them thrown in jail. You know that.”
“Yeah, but what if they were your best friend?”
She points her spoon at me accusingly. “Are you smoking pot, Lex?”
“No.”
“Then what’s your point?” She rolls her eyes at me in exactly the same way Mom does when she’s pissed. “And why can’t we get back to talking about what an old hag Jordan’s grandma is?”
I slurp the ice cream soup and dig my spoon back into the carton. Obviously I can’t talk about this with Jill. And I can’t talk about Ben to Ben. I sigh. “Yeah, Jordan’s grandma is totally a hag.”
Jill leaves exactly eleven minutes before Jordan gets off work so she can meet him and make out or play Scrabble, or whatever teenagers in love do. I stand in the kitchen finishing what is left of the ice cream and wondering about Ben. As much as I like Marla, is she the one to blame for his new addiction?
Bluntz had said that Ben didn’t smoke much, which is good, but I’m not stupid. Ben didn’t sell swimming lessons to those guys at the party. He sold them drugs, which was about a million times worse than just smoking.
My phone vibrates with a text from Jill saying she left her DVDs but will get them tomorrow. It’s great having a phone now so I can do things like text, but now that I know it was bought with drug money, I’m not so attached to the phone anymore. Its cool features are tainted with what it took to purchase them.
Marla and Ben come downstairs while I’m washing my spoon in the kitchen sink. The vanilla incense doesn’t smell so great when they’re bathed in it. Marla yanks open the fridge and grabs a juice pouch.
“We’re going out for a bit,” Ben says after giving me a quizzical look about the spoon and empty ice cream carton. “I’ll call on my way home and pick up some dinner if you want.”
“Sure, sounds good,” I say. Marla sucks on her juice, staring at me with one eyebrow raised.
“Why can’t she just come with us?” she asks. Ben laughs. “That’s not happening.”
Marla sucks the juice box dry and crumples it in her hand, then gives it to Ben. “She can come. She needs to do something other than sit here all day.”
Ben sighs, defeated. I’m excited to get out of the house, despite not knowing where they are going and how much fun it may or may not be. Marla is right—I do need to get out of the house. She tugs at Ben’s jean pockets. “Come on, Babe. Max isn’t there today.”
Ben nods, kissing her forehead. He flicks his wrist toward me. “Come on.”
The four long windows of the Greene Shoppe are littered with squares of paper taped on the inside. Flyers for a gig by some band named Zombie Radio. Some are faded and old but others look crisp and new. The windows are covered from floor to ceiling in these flyers, all for the same band. It’s as if they are used for decoration instead of to advertise the gig. They make it impossible for me to see inside the shop.
Ben grabs the massive carved wooden door handle and opens the door for us. The darkness inside deeply contrasts the sunlight outside and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The heavy scent of fresh burning incense fills my lungs. Grunge metal music plays from somewhere far away.
I follow them through the shop. Trying to look cool like Marla, I stifle the urge to look at the interesting stuff around me. The floor is made of large stones, probably all original from the 1900s. The tiny shop space is packed with shelves that are taller than me with rows and rows of bongs. Multi-colored glass of all colors and shapes. It’s a freaking bong wonderland. They are fascinatingly beautiful and yet simple. And I have no idea how they work.
Marla and Ben stop at a door at the back of the store and turn to me. “You stay here for a minute, okay?” Ben says.
My face must have gone white because Marla grabs my hand. “This place is cool, don’t worry. We’ll be back soon.”
I nod and wonder why the word cool has so many damned meanings. This place isn’t exactly what I could call cool. Unique, maybe. They disappear behind a beaded curtain in the doorway. I lean against the wall and hope that my wait will be painlessly short. The bongs are to my left and to my right is a wall of dildos. I flush. Why would these two things be sold in the same store?
Sudden laughter makes me spin around. I think of a lie about why I’m staring at dildos. They’re for a friend, not me. Yeah. A gag gift. But no one is standing behind me pointing and mocking my naughty shopping trip. The laughter had come from the front of the shop. Relief floods through me. From the dildo aisle at the back of the store, I have a clear view of the cash register though a crack in the shelves.
Two shady-looking guys are telling a story of how they outwitted a cop to the girl behind the register. She’s smiling, humoring them, but looks bored. She has this super cool demeanor about her as she leans across the counter all sexy-like. A rock chick, but also kind of mature. Like she graduated from the school of hard knocks instead of Lawson High. She has white blond hair with black tips, rings on all her fingers and a chest tattoo that stretches from strap to strap of her bra.
I duck behind a shelf of brightly colored pipes before they can see me. There is an older man in this isle, holding two different pipes in his hands and comparing their weight. Since I’m stuck here until Ben comes back, I grab a pi
pe and turn it over in my hands. I try to seem interested in the craftsmanship even though I know nothing about bongs.
Minutes go by and the beaded doorway stays closed. Quietly, I wander through the isles toward the back, past an old hippie lady who looks like she belongs here. I wonder around aimlessly, past rows and rows of drug paraphernalia, handmade peace sign ornaments, beaded bracelets and natural earthy decorations. What’s taking Ben so long? Maybe I would have been better off staying home.
I’m on the other side of a rack of key chains when a curious voice calls out from the front. “What’s up, cupcake?”
It’s the taller of the two guys, the more shady-looking one. His hair is shaved so short he’s almost bald and the tattoo on the side of his skull literally says fuck you. His arms are littered in amateurishly done tattoos that disappear under the sleeves of his black shirt. His mother must be so proud. My eyes meet his, which are bloodshot and rimmed in dark circles. He winks.
“I said what’s up?” he repeats. Since ignoring him probably isn’t my best option, my brain flips into a frenzy trying to think of something coy and clever to say.
“Nothing.” Guess my brain is taking the day off. I shove my hands in my pockets and lean against the wall with the beaded door. My heart races. He’s probably going to call me out on not belonging here and the way he’s staring at me makes me feel like I’m about to become someone’s dinner.
I take a step toward the door. I’ll ditch this place and hang out by Ben’s car. The guy’s worn out combat boot takes a step to the right, blocking me. Louder than I intend, I groan. The girl behind the counter laughs, which makes the guy’s smirk grow about a mile wider. “You just got here, why you leaving so soon?”
“Um,” I start. He interrupts me before I can say anything else. “What’s a sweet little thing like you doing here? Are you even eighteen?”