by Liz Miles
A useless question. I know it is. I feel it fluttering in my throat, hungry at my temples for more of her heat. Her breath sinks through wool to my skin, a bright, white point of warmth that slowly spreads.
She shifts, melting to fill all the spaces between us. As the edges of her nails glance across my shoulders, she complains, “I’m warmer than you are.”
“I coulda told you that.” Rubbing my cheek against her hair, I tighten my arms around her. “Livvy’s got a fire going inside, I’m pretty sure.”
Her breath stops, hitches, and she presses against me. “I know.”
“Hey,” I say, when the weight between us changes.
“I was so scared.” She turns her head, rubbing her brow against my collarbone before looking up at me. “You went and died on me, and I never …”
Cold collapses around me. It’s like the weight of water, like trying to run through it. I think, I’m sure I don’t want her to say what’s coming next. I manage a quiet, “Chelsea …”
“Seriously, Evan, I know I talk all the time, talk, talk, talk, babble, even, I’m babbling right now, but I don’t, I can’t, you have to know.” She stops; I hope. Then she goes on, this awful, unstoppable hitch when she says, “Evan, I love you.”
“I know.”
She stiffens; her hands fall—ghost touches down my spine to escape my sweater. “Oh, really?”
Mumbling, I nod. “I was trying to ignore it.”
The subtle fall stops. Chelsea jerks back. Her eyes glitter, a hard and angry grace note to the set of her jaw. “Wow.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, but when I reach for her she deflects my hands. “You know it’s not you. You’re amazing.”
Her posture suddenly perfect, Chelsea smoothes her shirt and glares at me. That’s one of the amazing things about her—she’s not ashamed. She won’t look away. “Why can’t I be your exception? It happens all the time!”
I hate that I’m the reason she’s trying not to cry. “If anybody could be, it would be you. I’m just not … I just don’t …”
“God, you take advantage of me!” A ripple wavers out from the middle of her lips, and she fights it with angry blinks and shoulder bobs. “Hugging me, putting your arm around me, God, I am just …”
Trapped on the stage of the patio, I shove my hands in my pockets and try to hide in my raised shoulders. The music still plays, and an uncomfortable spotlight of attention turns its glare on me. “Chelsea, I never lied to you.”
At first, it seems like she has no reaction at all.
Then, she slaps me.
It’s a white hot moment that fades to black, and by the time I turn to find her, she’s lost in the sea of the party.
ANOTHER ANGLE
The funny thing is, I’m the one standing there with the sting of her hand on my face, but everyone’s looking at me like I’m the sinner. Staring, really. Asking with their eyes, What did you do to her, asshole?
“’Scuse me,” I say.
Girls I’ve known for ever lower their gazes. They shrink and angle away, parting to let me pass through them, but not without dirty, defensive looks. Not without accusing glares. Cutting through them, I feel their heat at a distance.
For the first time since the ice, I have fire of my own. It’s small, just a faint glow, but it pulses in my wrists and my hands and my spine.
My hands make fists, and I don’t apologize when I bounce off J.P., our second baseman. Drink sloshing, he bristles and turns, but to hell with him, he’s in my way.
“What’s your problem?” he starts, but I cut him off.
“Have you seen Chelsea?”
His expression changes. Oh, Chelsea, oh yeah, that one—it’s the subtle life of a party at work. Everybody knows when something happens, even if they don’t know what that something is, kind of like a bruise you don’t remember getting.
Subtly sympathetic, he nods toward the stairs to the loft. “Went that way with the pussy posse.”
“Thanks,” I say, and thump his back harder than I need to as I head that way.
The last thing I want to do is get into this in front of a bunch of people, but I’m hacked off and feral and pissed. I’m not going to raise my hands or my voice. I just want an explanation.
It’s probably the movies; how good it looks up on a screen when beautiful women coil and strike. How bad guys try to earn it, like it’s proof of their heat. But you know what? Getting slapped is humiliating.
Before I’m halfway up the stairs, the landing above me explodes. A thundering wave of shouts roll through the air—one is Tyler, for sure. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I see him slam his palms into Nick Blake’s chest.
A two-step stagger, and Nick lunges back. Their collision vibrates through the wooden steps; I feel it buzz the soles of my feet. Rushing up I grab the first scarlet jacket I come to and yank him back.
“Get off me!” Nick rages, and surges. It’s like trying to hold back a landslide. He almost slips free. I scramble to haul him back again.
I can’t tell who’s caging Tyler. All I can see of him is arms and a haze of dark hair. He’s got his arms banded back around his shoulders. Hands locked. Laced. Tight. Unbreakable even as Tyler heaves and twists against them.
Straining, his teeth bared, he snaps at Nick, “I will drop you.”
“Come get it!”
Sharp with adrenaline, I haul Nick off his feet. “Knock it off!”
For a moment, they still siege and seethe, but they’re going nowhere. There’s another flash of temper, and then it’s gone; they’re still pissed, no question, but they’re probably done trying to kill each other. Without the prospect of more blood, onlookers drift away and I finally remember to breathe.
“Let go,” Nick says, his tension unspooled. I wait, just another second, then release him. With a warning look, Nick straightens his shirt and bounds down the stairs.
Once he’s gone, I ask Tyler, “What was that all about?”
“Forget it,” he says, and brushes past. No explanation. No eye contact. Whatever’s shifted his tide, it’s pulling him farther and farther away from me.
“Well, that was exciting.”
The comment comes from the guy who held Tyler back, and I finally get a good look at him.
His letter jacket is blue and gold, a cougar on his sleeve. Gold floss spells out Ex Beauchamp across his heart and his varsity letter glints with swimming pins. I would have guessed basketball. But we’ve played all over Indiana, and I don’t recognize his school. He’s a stranger, completely random.
“It’s not a party till somebody throws a punch,” I say.
“Then this is definitely a party.”
I look past him at a wall of closed doors. Chelsea could be behind any of them, but I’m hitting that long slide from angry to tired.
“Sorry, am I in your way?” Ex’s face is kind, his brows thoughtfully apologetic, and he moves to let me pass.
I shake my head. “Nah, just trying to figure out if I’m coming or going.”
We shake hands, clap each other on the shoulder, because that’s how you thank a stranger for breaking up a fight with you. Then I skim past, playing a shell game with the doors. I know two are bedrooms, and one’s a studio—Olivia’s stepmother paints landscapes.
The middle bedroom opens. Carrying a bundle of used paper towels, Sinjai steadies them against her chest when she comes out. She narrows her eyes and reaches back to pull the pale pine door closed.
It doesn’t catch.
When Sinjai walks away, I peer through the open wedge between door and frame.
Surrounded by wads of tissue, Chelsea sits on the floor. She’s blotchy, slumped against the wall. But in spite of sailing a sea of Kleenex, she has an almost-smile for someone I can’t see.
Fuck it. I’ll talk to her later.
CUT TO:
THE NEXT MORNING
We’ve always had a system.
After one of Olivia’s cabin parties, Ty
ler and I get up first thing and haul out the beer bottles and makeshift ashtrays. While we do that, Olivia drives home any leftover guests, and then midway to noon, Tyler’s dad shows up with his truck to clear out the rest of the mess.
Some of the parents bitch about it under their breath, but not too loud. We haven’t had one drunk-driving accident since Livvy started throwing her parties back in freshman year. Nobody with alcohol poisoning. No drunkenly fatal stunts like train dodging, or car surfing or ghost riding.
Yeah, pretty much the only student at Stonard that’s died in three years is me.
And I was sober at the time, so … hate the methods, but they work, right? Anyway, Mr. Ross walks in as usual. I guess because I’ve been thinking about it lately, I suddenly realize how much he looks like Tyler. How much Tyler looks like him. He’s the salted, aged version, with silver wings at his temples, a roughness around his jaw, but the smile is the same.
“Plausible deniability?” he asks with a grin.
I shake his hand and vow, “We played checkers all night.”
“Good enough.” Laughing, he tosses Tyler a box of trash bags and turns to survey the damage. It’s not that bad. We’ll be out in an hour at the most, as long as we can find the vacuum. “How about this spring, Evan?”
Gathering cups into towers, I nod. “I’m probably playing.”
“Good enough, good enough,” Mr. Ross says. He gestures at Tyler, cheerful. “I dunno what that one would do all alone out there.”
“I know how to play,” Tyler says. Black plastic snaps in the air.
“Sure you do,” Mr. Ross agrees. He makes a face, sweeping popcorn off the couch and on to the carpet. “Ross and Todd, though, that’s a team.”
“I dunno,” I say lightly. “I’m looking forward to giving him hell when he’s captain.”
Before Tyler can deny becoming captain, his dad does it for him with a snort. No words at all, just a sound that speaks all doubt.
My pile of cups is becoming a pyramid. “I’m voting for him. He deserves it.”
Mr. Ross says, “Sure would like to see State again.”
“I’ll get the sweeper,” Tyler says.
I bow my head when Tyler leaves, then ask his dad, “Is he okay?”
Taking his time, Mr. Ross finishes putting the chair back together. Sliding the cushion into place, straightening the whole lounger so it’s perfectly angled to catch the morning light. Finally, he says, “He’s got his moods.”
Unsettled, I stop and almost look at him. Sideways, my right eye meets his left, leaving space to give us cover if the truth is ugly. “Maybe seeing me like that did something to him. If he talked to somebody …”
“He needs to man up, that’s what he needs,” Mr. Ross says.
That’s all; that’s the end. I’m not Mr. Ross’s buddy any more. And honestly—I’m a little relieved.
DISSOLVE TO:
Home and showered, I wrap myself in a towel and stand in front of my blanked mirror. At the edges, condensation rolls down, peeling away strips of steam. I’m still safe, shrouded in the hazy middle.
“Evan,” my mother says from my bedroom door.
“Yeah?”
Her footsteps fall soft and familiar. I hear her touching the things on my dresser. Straightening them. “How was the party?”
“It was all right,” I say, flattening my hands on the counter.
“Did you have a good time?” she asks.
A bead of water wells at the top of the mirror. It pulses, almost alive, growing and straining until it’s too heavy to cling to the glass any more. It doesn’t reveal me. It only threatens to.
I listen to her sit on my bed. Resigned, I say, “I guess.”
“I’m sorry it wasn’t more fun for you,” she says. There’s something distant, distracted in her voice. She segues suddenly, cutting past frames of small talk to ask, “What you said at the nurse’s office, Evan. It’s bothered me all week …”
With the heat of the shower slipping from my skin, the shadowy ache of cold starts to spread again. I reach for my robe, trying to shake it off. “I thought you were going to call Dr. Strickland.”
“Don’t change the subject,” she says softly.
Bundled in my robe, I turn out the light and lean against the wall. I feel her on the other side of it; I don’t have to look to know she’s hollowed with worry. “I’m not. I just thought you were.”
“I did. We have an appointment.” She sighs. “You have an appointment.”
I don’t want to wear the weight of her grief. She should leave, go away, let me reclaim my room—just be downstairs and not up here. Anything I have to say will let her down. What kind of prick makes his mother cry on purpose? “Okay.”
“Come here.”
“Ma, I’m not even dressed.”
“I thought I bought you a robe.”
The instant irritation is familiar and normal and it almost makes me laugh. Rolling against the wall, I peer around the corner at her. “What?”
Hands folded in her lap, she raises her head to look at me. “How are you, Evan?”
My mouth says, “I’m dead.”
She snaps up and flies from the room.
FADE OUT
THE END
Headgear Girl
BY HEIDI R. KLING
CHER’S LIST OF NO’S
No gum
No peanut butter
No nuts
No grape juice
No hard candy
No dark soda
No raw carrots (no big loss)
No drama camp
No Eve
No Dad
No brother
No Jesse
No chance for a lead in the play
No freaking life!
I’m not kidding when I say I look like a wimpier version of Long Duck Dong’s uberdork girlfriend in Sixteen Candles. If you haven’t seen the greatest eighties movie of all time, get thee to the video store and rent it now cuz that’s so me and if you’ve already seen it, I won’t have to go into a long boring descriptive scene where I stare at myself in the mirror and tell you all about my hair color (clown) and eye color (dirt) and boob size (can’t complain). I won’t have to tell you today is my first day of sophomore year, and I’m standing here on my curb in the direct Indian summer heat, sweat dripping down my forehead onto the leather strap holding my headgear and neckgear in place. I won’t have to explain that yes, I mean THAT KIND OF HEADGEAR. The real-deal, full-on, eighties-style headgear—Google it for a visual cuz it’s practically an artifact by now, and if you’ve never laid eyes on it then lucky you. But of course my orthodontist dug up this hideous thing because I have some rare and extremely serious case of “imbedded incisors insert-long-and-boring-dental-term,” which basically means I have vampire fangs that supposedly only medieval torture devices from Orthodontia Archives can help yank out of my gums and down into my mouth to join my more normal teeth. Phew. Got that?!
So Mom bought Dr. O.’s toilet of crap—even though I wanted a second opinion—and, because I’ve never won an argument with my mother in my life, I’m standing here alone, unable to move my head, waiting for the Giant Yellow Twinkie. No, I’m not six but since I have no car or license here I am, but that’s not as crucial as the fact that my teeth are encased in barbed wire and my perm-gone-bad bozo bangs are puffing out from under the strap.
I’m freaking out cuz none of my friends have seen me yet.
Not even Eve, not even George.
Especially not Jesse, who looks like Young Paul Newman and whose baby blues rip my heart out of my chest every time I let myself think about them. Since I’ve hidden out like a California-teen version of bin Laden in his cave all summer and because they’ve all had decent things to do, I’m terrified our reunion will be a re-enactment of the villagers chasing Frankenstein with their fiery sticks.
If my orthodontist were here, he would be standing here dead.
The only thing that makes the whole girlfri
end-of-Long-Duck-Dong scenery worse is that my BFF since pre-school, Adamless Eve, is sitting on Said Bus sure-as-Sherlock as gorgeous as she was at the end of the last school year before she bid me “Ta ta” and headed off to Musical Drama Camp. Yes, the one my mom couldn’t afford to send me to because of monetary reasons due to my date from hell with the Evil Dr. O. and because Dad drained our bank account and moved in with Sally. (But that’s another horrible story for another horrible day.)
Honk! Honk!
Here it comes, with all of its exhaust-exhaling delight.
BOARDING THE TRANS-FAT-LESS TWINKIE …
No, Ms. Busdriver-wishing-you-had-a-Camel-straight-dangling-from-your-cherry-red-lips, no, I don’t need the disabled level lowered. No, please stop lowering it. Yes, I can walk up two stairs without—Oops. Nope, I’m fine. (Bang knee against door. Feel large bruise swelling up.) Oh, yeah, yeah, freshman idiots, laugh it up. It’s so funny. I’m such a freak. Yes, I’m drooling. Yes, this is headgear. No, it’s not illegal. Fascinating that your aunt had to wear something freaky like this. I’m glad you feel sorry for me. No, I can’t move my head to see the spitballs firing in my direction. Yes, I just cracked my hip on the metal rod jutting out from the vinyl seat. Yes, I can see your beat-up black cowboy boot sticking out in the aisle and no, it’s not funny to trip the girl with the freaked-up orthodontia, and Eve, will you pretty please scoot your gorgeous butt over and make room for Frankenstina?
(Gasp!)
A VOICE: Cher? Is that YOU?
CHER (ME): Duh.
EVE: (swooshing hair in slow motion) Oh. My. God.
CHER: Thanth.
EVE: I just didn’t realize …
CHER: Yeth.
EVE: Why are you talking like that?
CHER: (points to mouth without moving head)
EVE: Your mom seriously is making you wear that to school?
CHER: Obviouthly.
EVE: Poor you! Poor Cher! Does it hurt? I’m sooo sorry!
(rests gorgeous head on Cher’s thick shoulder)
CHER: Ith no big deal.
EVE: Huh?
CHER: (louder) ITH NO BIG DEAL.
EVE: (bats eyelashes)