Before Goodbye

by Mimi Cross

  “Maybe. But it wasn’t your fault, okay? Just forget that idea.”

  I nod.

  “Bryn, she feels alone in this. I thought maybe if . . . look, I wanted to know—want to know—what did Rod say to you? What was he saying, before I—damn—” David looks down. Running a hand back through his hair, he takes a deep breath. Blows it out.

  Before you shoved him off me? You mean, how did it get to that point? How did Rod Whitaker’s hands wind up on me?

  Suddenly I start to shout. “Why does he even care so much about Laurel and me? It’s bad enough Laurel’s dating a jerk, bad enough that I see her less than before. This isn’t how we planned it! I moved here, and we didn’t even see each other for half the summer!” Words gush out of me like blood from a wound. “And now Rod, and his—his idiot posse. They’re making it worse, with their stupid comments, in the cafeteria, the halls. As if I could make someone a lesbian. Where does he get his stupid ideas? Like, I must have ‘turned her,’ because ‘No gay girl looks like Laurel.’” I bring my fingertips to my mouth. “Too much information,” I murmur.

  “No, not at all.” David gives me a perspicacious look, although his next words don’t match it. “But I’m confused.”

  A long minute goes by. Then I whisper, “Rod said he’d straighten me out.” My voice is so quiet that for a second I think maybe I didn’t say anything. “That’s what he was telling me, when you—when you knocked him off me.”

  “He said he’d ‘straighten you out’? By mauling you at a party? By—” David’s eyes turn dark. “That’s idiotic.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re not even gay!”

  “I know!”

  “You’re not, right?”

  “Would it matter if I were?”

  “No! I mean, yes. I mean, it shouldn’t matter to anyone. The only reason it matters to me is because—” David watches a stream of cars streak by. In a moment the road is empty again.

  “Because?”

  He continues to watch the empty road. Then he says my name.

  “Cate.”

  The way he says it gives it weight somehow. My name, coming from his mouth, sounds important, and it feels, for a second, like he’s talking about someone else, someone beautiful. The weirdest wish fills me, to be the person whose name he’s saying.

  “Cate,” he says again, as if he hears something special, too, or he’s saying a word that’s new to him, a word he wants to remember. “I like . . . being around you.”

  He turns to me now, his eyes finding mine. A kind of space opens inside me.

  But he can’t mean this. So I slide off the rock and start walking. His short laugh follows me. It’s different from earlier. More . . . hollow, like the shadow of a laugh. Then he’s walking next to me, and I want to remind him that his house is the other way, but of course he knows.

  At the bottom of my street we say goodbye. Halfway up, I turn around. Down on Chapel, David stands with his thumb out. I imagine what Laurel would say, how her voice would whisper-hiss like it does when she’s sharing a secret.

  “No one in their right mind would leave him by the side of the road, manwhore or not.”

  But I don’t need to be played by David Bennet, especially not now.

  REACH

  DAVID

  I would’ve kissed her, but all of a sudden Cate was standing, gone from her seat on the rock, gone from the moment, that second where I thought maybe she, maybe we—that maybe I was good enough for her.

  I’m glad she stood up, put herself out of my reach.

  It takes the entire walk home to convince myself of this.

  ALCOHOL

  DAVID

  Clink. Ice cubes submerged in liquid, knocking against the side of a glass. The sound greets me as soon as I open the front door. My father is only a few feet away, in his study.

  Clink. The sound is a part of him, coming again now, reaching me where I sit on the stairs, taking off my shoes. I can almost see him behind the closed study door, the heavy crystal tumbler in his hand, a perpetually present prop.

  Not wanting to actually see him, I head up to my room.

  The sound of the ice in his glass, the glint in his eyes, I remember both from that day, The Charm Day. Or maybe I remember it from every day. Scotch and water, twist of lemon.

  When I was tiny, Dad used to ask me to mix his drink with my pinky. Then he’d sip, and I’d lick my finger. Medicine. Something worse. Maybe the memory of that taste is why I don’t like to drink, except for a beer now and then. Or maybe I don’t like to drink because he and my mother do. Either way, I don’t like it, so I don’t do it.

  But Rod does.

  Rod drinks the same way he plays sports. It’s an all-or-nothing proposition. Extreme.

  One day after school, Rod and some other guys from the football team organized a kegger at the Dey Estate. A lot of people got trashed, including a slightly familiar spindly freshman Ron started making moves on late in the day. Most of the other kids had drifted away by then, headed for home or wherever kids go on a June afternoon two weeks before the end of the school year.

  “Giving out your quarterback smile like candy,” Rod slurred. “So where’s yours?”

  I laughed. “My what?”

  Rod gestured vaguely toward the girl.

  I shook my head. Said I was out of there.

  “Yeah?” He reached out, snagging the girl’s hand, reeling her in until she collided with his chest. I watched her bob unsteadily against him. Found myself thinking of a balloon, on a string. “How about we go to your house?”

  I hesitated. It wasn’t like I wanted to take some drunk girl home with me, but leaving her there didn’t seem like the best idea, either. Coffee, then a ride, that’s what she needed.

  The girl was bird-boned and leggy. We held her up between us. She did okay on the walk.

  When we got to the house, we took her up to my room. Then I went back downstairs for some food. I figured a sandwich would be good for Rod’s friend.

  The smell of coffee filled the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, searching for cold cuts, condiments.

  But after a minute, I realized I wasn’t really looking for anything, just staring into the bulb at the back of the fridge.

  Rod Whitaker doesn’t have any friends.

  Rod had teammates, not friends. He had a gang of guys.

  Almost automatically, I reached for the bread. Cheese. Pickles.

  Meat.

  Rod also didn’t have a girlfriend. He had one-night stands, or fiery, truncated relationships. At parties he sought dark corners, backyards, parked cars—drunk girls.

  My father passed me, heading for the coffeemaker. “Smells good.”

  I nodded, looking down at the half-made sandwich. Bread spread with mayo.

  Hair rose on the back of my neck.

  I raced upstairs—

  The two of them were on my bed—Rod kneeling over the girl.

  “Rod, that’s not cool, man!” She was on her back with her shirt rucked up, cutoffs around her ankles.

  “You do it all the time,” he mumbled, pushing down his pants.

  “Not like that, you’ve got to stop—she’s out cold!”

  At the sound of my father answering the front door, we both froze.

  A woman’s voice made its way up from downstairs. “Her friends said she was with David and another boy, that the three of them left the Dey Estate together.”

  Sandy. All at once I remembered the girl’s name, knew why she looked vaguely familiar. She lived a couple blocks away.

  I hurled myself at Rod.

  “The fuck, Bennet?” he hissed, rocking sideways before regaining his balance.

  “Honestly, Jane, I haven’t seen her.”

  And now it was me whose balance was in question, as my father’s words ricocheted—I haven’t seen her.

  The sound of the doorbell ringing had been lost in the halls of the house, yet I could almost hear the ice cubes—clink—th
e swirling liquor in my father’s glass. Could almost see him shrug, his blue eyes earnest without even working at it. Honestly, Jane.

  His voice came again, pinning me in place.

  “I’ve no idea where David’s gotten off to, don’t think he knows your daughter. I’ll ask Betsey when she gets home, but she’s up at the Short Hills mall with Bryn and Kimmy, so . . .”

  So I can stand here and lie to you.

  And he was. He was totally lying. He’d just seen me in the kitchen.

  But that wasn’t the most awful part. No.

  The most awful part was that he’d seen us when we’d first arrived.

  “Mr. B,” Rod had exclaimed, laughing as he stumbled to a stop on the stairs that led up from the foyer to the second floor. The girl had been cradled against his chest at that point. But my father had given her nothing more than a cursory glance, had just greeted Rod with a conspiratorial smile, a shake of the head.

  “You boys behave yourselves, hear?” Steps unsteady, he’d disappeared into the study.

  A moment later, the theme from the evening news blared from behind the closed door.

  Rod had swayed on the stairs for a second, then asked, “He doesn’t mind?” Without waiting for me to answer, he continued up the steps, staggering more from all he’d had to drink than from the weight of the girl in his arms. “Your dad’s cool, dude.”

  Honestly, Jane. I haven’t seen her.

  The front door shutting with a bang echoed through the house—

  Rod echoed too, repeating his words from earlier. “Your dad’s way cool.”

  Then he climbed on top of Sandy.

  Whatever insidious ice had frozen me in place thawed in an instant. “Whitaker!” I grabbed hold of his shoulders—

  He shook me off like a dog shedding water.

  Leaping on him, I locked one arm around his neck—

  He flung his head back, smashing my nose, knocking me to the floor, where my head hit the desk. By the time I got to my feet—

  He was done.

  “You ought to go for it,” he said, zipping up.

  “I ought to call the fucking cops!”

  That made him pause. Then he said softly, “But you won’t.” And headed for the door.

  In the doorway he turned around, smiled, his mouth curling tightly, at the corners.

  The smile he reserved for opposing teams, for his enemies.

  “Because that daddy of yours wouldn’t want his cocktail hour interrupted by the po-lice. Hey, speaking of David Senior—David the first? Are you a second, Bennet?” He laughed. “Seriously, speaking of your dad—and seconds—think he might like a go?” He nodded toward the bed.

  My hands turned to fists. “Get the hell out.”

  “Yeah, think I’ll be on my way. But really.” Again, he inclined his head toward the bed. “You ought to take a turn. Nothing like a girl who doesn’t talk back, you know?”

  CONNECTION

  CATE

  The sheet music perches on the black metal stand, a stack of white flags begging for surrender. But I will not. The music itself looks like a war zone: Pencil strikes are everywhere, the pages filled with casualties—discarded fingerings, interpretive markings. Added, then savagely crossed out. I am trying desperately to get the changes right, Cal’s changes.

  The upcoming concert is my inspiration to get up in the morning. Making these changes is my homage to Cal, my connection to him.

  But the Brooklyn gig . . . that show was for us. I need to cancel, yet can’t make the call.

  There are so many people I can’t seem to call, my friends in the city—some who knew Cal. A few have called me, but I’m not sure that it matters. They all seem a lifetime away.

  Besides the addition and blackened subtraction of musical direction, there are comments written in my music: maybe I’m just a crazy person with this boy in my head.

  Cal Woods is not the only guy on my mind.

  When Mr. Close finally showed today, he acted like he didn’t know why David and I were there. He probably just didn’t want to punish David for something everyone wanted to do, and he didn’t want to punish me because he doesn’t even know who I am. Half the time in PE I’m like a ghost. Or maybe Close knew I didn’t deserve a detention. Yes, I served a volleyball at the back of Dee’s head, but it couldn’t have hit her that hard, I can’t spike for shit. Of course the volleyball incident was right after I went off on her for telling me not to call Laurel. That was a big deal—to me, but not to her. So neither of these things should have sent her crying to Close. I think she was just pissed at me because of that guy she was talking to earlier.

  I haven’t been able to go into the cafeteria for lunch since the accident—too many people, too many eyes on me. Hardly anyone at school knew Cal, but the fact that I was in the car with someone who died in an accident on Chapel Hill Road means that now everybody knows me.

  So I’ve been going to the library with my lunch, when I remember to bring it, but I didn’t quite make it today. I couldn’t. Couldn’t stop crying.

  Laurel heard I was having a meltdown in the girls’ room and came looking for me. We’d just taken seats outside on the stone wall surrounding the patio when Dee appeared at the far end.

  “Dee.” Her name was a small noise escaping my lips, a sound not at all like Laurel’s secret sharing whisper-hiss, but more like choking. Dee was the last person I needed to see.

  Laurel waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about her. You’re all pale. I’m going to get you some food.”

  I nodded, then glanced back at Dee. But she’d already turned away, calling to a tall boy with dark hair standing at the edge of the woods that border the closest playing field.

  Even with everything I was feeling, as the boy approached the patio, I was struck by his looks—he had that kind of face. Plus, he seemed familiar for some reason. But it wasn’t his face or the odd feeling of familiarity that got my attention. He was carrying a guitar case.

  I watched him, watched Dee bum a cigarette. But when she started using it to gesticulate, jabbing it angrily in his direction as she spoke, he appeared to stop listening. His eyes flitted from face to face—

  Till they landed on mine.

  One summer the Ridgeways took me to Montana, to a dude ranch called Triangle X where we rode horses all day. Out West the sky is somehow higher and wider, bluer.

  Even from where I sat on the wall, I could see the boy’s blue eyes. They reminded me so much of that sky . . . I couldn’t look away.

  Dee followed his gaze and shot me a cyanide smile, then tugged on his arm. But even as they were walking away, the dark-haired boy’s eyes held mine, his head swiveling to keep the connection. There was a slow-motion feel to everything as my head turned, too—

  But then Laurel returned, plopping down on the wall, and time snapped back to its normal tempo. A minute later, I’d forgotten all about the boy. But maybe Dee hadn’t. She’s with Laurel now, but who knows. Maybe she had a thing with this guy.

  I picture her jabbing her cigarette in his direction. Obviously, she knows him well.

  So, right, I bet that’s what it is. Not the volleyball, the boy.

  Then again, Dee would find a way to hate me no matter what.

  No one has ever really hated me before, except . . . That night, the night David insisted on talking about. Wasn’t what happened just another kind of hate?

  My left hand travels automatically up and down the fretboard, fingertips splayed like spider legs, running scales again and again. The fingers of my right hand dutifully hop from string to string— but these exercises don’t absorb me, not fully, not now.

  Closing my eyes, I concentrate harder. Hammer-ons, pull-offs, be stiller than still. Classical musicians must not move, must not let our bodies express. The music expresses. We are merely the vehicles for the composers. For Saint Cecilia, for the Muses. Maybe, even, for God.

  I do not play an instrument; I am the instrument. I serve.

 
My fingers move up and down the fretboard, skip, skip, skip across the strings . . .

  Silently, a window in my attention span slides open.

  At first I notice nothing, too busy playing . . .

  But then a dark intruder—a recent memory—slips over the sill like vapor.

  SILVER

  CATE

  “Damn. We should have come sooner.”

  “Told you, man, last party of the summer.”

  “Forget summer, last party on the planet is more like it. Come on!”

  The running commentary comes from the knot of boys walking in front of me. They break into a trot now, cutting across several meticulously mowed lawns as they head for the rambling Tudor on the corner of White Oak Ridge Road and Long Hill Drive.

  The front door of the Tudor is wide open, as are the windows. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree.

  Fireworks scream overhead, and a cheer erupts from a crowd gathered at the top of a grassy slope alongside the house, as a shower of stars spill from the sky. The slightly sulfurous smell of gunpowder and the lemony scent of citronella mingle and hang in the hot, humid air.

  Another round of fireworks explodes as I start up the front walk, the bright light of each bursting rocket gleaming in the eyes of the appreciative onlookers. Paradoxically, at the bottom of the slope, the shining surface of a long, rectangular reflecting pool shows nothing but night.

  I’ve never been to one of the Halls’ infamous open-house parties. Sammy Trumpet—a pink-cheeked, white-haired retired cop known for his bowler hats and bad puns—directs traffic at one end of the long curving driveway. The party must have a parental seal of approval, if not an actual parent somewhere on the premises, although that’s hard to believe.

  I’m supposed to meet Laurel here but wonder how I’ll find her.

  “Remind me again why we can’t go together?” I’d asked her that afternoon.

  “Dee wants a date night.”

  “Really. Biggest party of the summer and she calls a date night?”