by Mimi Cross
“Listen to you, all badass, ‘How it went down.’ I do know, though. My uncle’s a cop.”
You couldn’t escape the conversations. Every class. The halls. The cafeteria.
“You going? Whitaker would’ve wanted his funeral to be a fucking party!”
“Would have wanted to be embalmed with beer.”
“Buried between a girl’s legs.”
At lunch I sit next to my sister. My skin is gooseflesh. My head is stone. I never went to bed last night.
Laurel Ridgeway and her girlfriend—Dee, I think her name is—are at the other end of the table. They’ve been arguing. Now they’re having makeup sex with their eyes.
Everyone else is talking about Rod. How he killed himself with his father’s gun.
Sandy Clayton sits at a table not far from ours. Her eyes find Bryn’s. Bryn looks away.
My sister was among the first to find out because, for some weird reason, the first call Mr. Whitaker made after he found his son’s body was to our father. Not because our father had also lost a son, but because he’s a lawyer. She’d overheard the call.
Bryn’s already told all this to Laurel. Now Laurel, her eyebrows going ballistic, tells everyone else. “And,” she says, “there’s this: Rod Whitaker was far too fond of himself to take his own life, right?” She directs the last part of this comment to Cate, who, to my surprise, has just appeared at the table. Her gray eyes are ghostly oceans today, glassy, with dilated pupils.
Dee slithers onto Laurel’s lap and slit-eye smiles at Cate.
“I heard,” she says to the table in general, “there were signs of a struggle.”
Signs of a struggle, possibly, signs of two people, definitely. That’s the rumor.
Two chairs facing each other, two glasses on the table. One glass full, one glass empty. The rug mussed. A desk moved. Books and papers that had been piled up, scattered on the floor. The cops said it looked like a conversation had turned into an argument. Two people, a friendly chat that went south. Dee suggests this is why Mr. Whitaker called my father.
“He probably killed Rod and knew he’d need a lawyer.” For some reason, Dee looks smug as she says this. Or maybe that’s the expression she always wears. I don’t like her.
Cate is silent, writing in a notebook. The rest of us eat lunch. Various people drop by the table with pieces of conflicting information.
Mr. Whitaker has been arrested. He’s been released.
He’d been home at the time of Rod’s death. He’d been away.
He’d caught Rod drinking. Stealing. Drugging. Dealing.
Screwing some girl in his parents’ bed.
By dismissal, the most popular rumor was that a team of detectives had concluded Rod’s struggle had been only with himself. Also, that Mr. Whitaker had been out of town at the time of Rod’s death, and the only fresh fingerprints were those of his son.
That night, Rod’s mom posted prayers on his Facebook page.
And she wrote that, although her son hadn’t left a note:
“Rod recently confessed to having some sinful issues. Please pray for his soul.”
LIE
CATE
With a start I sit up.
“Cate?”
Light leaks in through the crack under the bedroom door.
“Cate? Are you awake?” Mom’s voice drifts up from downstairs. The front door bangs.
If I hadn’t been awake, I certainly would be now.
“Can you come down, Cate?”
“Hang on,” I call, pulling on a pair of jeans and grabbing a sweater—
A small square of paper falls to the floor and slides beneath the bed.
Bending down, I sweep my hand around and find the little packet up against a pile of notebooks.
Pulling it out, I finger the edges. I haven’t seen my parents together in forever. Getting high right now is either a really good idea or a really bad one.
The utopia of feeling even a little “gone” is tempting. Especially because it’s usually accompanied by feeling like everything will be okay when I’m pretty sure nothing will ever be okay again. I’d have no problem giving up K physically, but emotionally? I think how good it would feel right now to take just a little before facing my folks.
They went to some event in the city tonight, so I can’t imagine why they’re hollering for me at—I glance at the clock on the bedside table—just after eleven.
“Catherine?” Catherine. This must be serious.
I shove the K into my messenger bag between a bunch of ten- and twenty-dollar bills I’ve been meaning to deposit. By the time I get downstairs, my parents are sitting at the kitchen table.
It’s such a rare thing that we’re even all in the house at the same time, let alone together in the kitchen, that the hour seems by far the least off thing about this.
“Tea?” Mom asks.
I shoot a look at Dad. Is this, or is this not, totally weird?
A frown pulls at his lips.
Cal. They must have seen him—no. Impossible. This must have to do with Rod. The school counselor led the students in a minute of silence at an assembly today, then told us that, for parents, the death of a child in the community—
“Did we wake you?” Mom bites her lip, as if I’m going to reprimand her.
“Not really.” My eyes are Ping-Pong balls—Mom, Dad, Mom, Dad. As much as I’d like to be in bed, stalling for time while I figure out what they want seems like a good idea. “How was New York? How was your, ah, your . . .”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “We went to Johann’s opening.”
“Oh. Right.” It’s surprising, even with everything that’s happened, that I’d forgotten the show. The tall German artist who’d slept on our couch for an entire summer when I was nine has been a great friend to all of us. He’d been at our apartment constantly. “So was the exhibit a—”
As if he can’t contain himself a moment later, Dad bursts out, “Cate, your guitar. Why was it lying on the floor out in the barn? What happened?”
“What happened?” Mom echoes.
What happened?
Once more I look back and forth between the two of them. Then I do what any self-respecting teenage girl would do.
I lie.
“It’s . . . an experiment for science—I mean an art project.”
“What?”
“What?”
“Art. Project. For school.”
“Catherine Reese. Do you have any idea how much that instrument cost?”
“Jesus Christ, Cate.”
“Yes, and no—but close. The experience I mean. It was . . . a spiritual thing. I felt . . . called. To do it.”
“But Catherine, the cost. I don’t just mean the money—”
“But mostly the money. Holy Mother of God, Cate.”
“Please.” I hold up both hands and go still, like I’m a conductor about to cue an orchestra. “First of all, Dad. Your Catholicism is showing. I’m sure you don’t want that. Second. You two. You should know better than anyone, except maybe Johann. Artists need to make sacrifices. Consider the guitar . . . to be a fatted calf. A tithe. To the art gods.”
The kettle screams from the stove.
I swan out of the room.
LINOLEUM
DAVID
Tammy’s waiting for me to look at her, at more than just her feet, but I don’t look up. Only shove my hands deeper into my pockets, lean back against the wall of the cafeteria. Imagine that if I lean hard enough, the wall will give way. I’ll fall through. Wind up in a different dimension or, at the very least, a different room.
“What is your problem, David? You don’t return my calls, don’t answer my texts.”
Tammy’s heels are so high she’s standing at an angle. I’m thankful for gravity, or whatever it is that’s keeping her from pitching into me.
She’s going on now about “our relationship.” Like she’s forgotten we don’t have one. I should never have given her a ride the other day. A couple
of miles in the car, a hug hello, the chem-test answers—apparently it means that we’re a couple. Trish did the same thing recently, went hot, then cold—and blamed me. She cried. Told me that I “send mixed signals.”
Her voice is getting louder. I continue to study her feet. Cocking my head a little, I try for a different view. One that might possibly enlighten me to the “how” of her heels, maybe even the “why” of them. Her feet, balancing on the ridiculously steep slopes, are practically perpendicular to the floor. I can’t look away.
“What? What are you staring at?” Her voice drops and she says something else—she’s getting serious. But I’m not listening anymore.
For some reason, all I can think about now is the floor. The linoleum is a sickly yellow, while the walls of the cafeteria are gray. Wolverine Gray they call it. We’re the Wolverines. Or rather—I was a Wolverine. Now I’m just me.
Apparently, like my father, Tammy isn’t happy about this.
“All of those games I went to last year, and you just go and quit? The way you’re acting like ‘we’ don’t matter—does it mean you’re quitting ‘us’ again now, too?”
How long did we go out last year? Seems like I should know this. But we’ve hooked up so many times . . .
She’s going for the Oscar now, eyes filling up with tears.
“David,” she whispers dramatically.
It’s another chance. I can still jump in, say sorry, and pull her against me. Kiss her and tell her, I want you. Because isn’t that all she wants?
High school guys get a bad rap for thinking about sex all the time, but we’re not the only ones—
Suddenly Tammy is up against me—
Only all at once I’ve had enough. Hands pop out of pockets, reach for her shoulders—but then I think better of it, and sort of slide out from between her and the wall.
“Just not working out,” I say softly, as if continuing a sentence I’d already started. I begin to walk away—only she grabs my arm, spins me around—and kisses me.
Through the edge of her blonde bob I see Cate.
Cate—sees me.
AIR
CATE
It’s like their kiss is taking up all the air in the room.
Then Laurel has my hand and is tugging me out the back doors of the cafeteria, onto the flagstone patio.
I’m busy muttering “I’m an idiot” over and over again like it’s the chorus of one of my favorite pop songs. Laurel objects.
“You’re not.” She settles next to me on the wall and searches my face. The wind lifts her long blonde hair. “You’re just in love.”
“In love? Please. How can I be in love with David Bennet?” A crush. Maybe. For some sick reason, but what would that reason even be? I want to be used? “He’s gone out with a million girls. Plus, I babysit his sister. And he’s a senior. He’s like, in a different world.”
“Hello? Last thing I knew? You, me, David—we were all inhabiting the same planet.”
“Are you sure about that, L? Because I never, ever see you anymore.”
Laurel frowns.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just . . . I miss you. Thanks for hauling me out of there, by the way.”
“Yeah, sure. I kind of had to. That fish-out-of-water look? So last year.”
“Ha-ha.” But I don’t know what my problem is. I knew he had a girlfriend. He always has a girlfriend. And a . . . whatever. A whoever. A few whoevers. “Dee’s right: he’s a slut. He’s gone out with a million girls.”
“You already said that.”
“It’s worth repeating.”
“Is it? Is he going out with a million girls today? Besides, just because he’s been with a lot of girls doesn’t mean he’s not a nice guy.”
“Why are you defending him?”
“Because you’re in love with him.”
“I’m not! Besides, Tammy’s beautiful. Magazine beautiful. Even after he went out with what’s-her-name, he went back to Tammy. He’s never going to break up with her, not for me.”
Suddenly, the door across the patio flies open and slams against the side of the school. David Bennet strides out, swiftly crossing the flagstones, and stops right in front of me. One of his cheeks is red. The shape of the redness vaguely resembles a hand.
Inside the cafeteria, Tammy bangs on the window.
David purses his lips but keeps his eyes on mine.
“I think,” Laurel says softly, “he just did.”
The bell for fifth period rings.
“Where’s your class, Cate?” David asks. “I’d—I’d like to walk with you, if that’s okay.”
We walk, but we don’t talk. I try to figure out what he wants. His smile is lopsided. Mine probably is, too.
We reach my class and he turns to me. “Did you ever talk to my sister?”
“What—oh. You mean about—not really. Sort of. Well, yeah, I did. We did. Talk.”
He nods a little but seems unsatisfied. I can’t blame him, but what does he want me to say? “Is that why you wanted to walk with me?”
“No. Well, yes. And no. I’m worried. I think . . . Bryn might have been over there.”
“Over where?”
“Rod Whitaker’s.”
CRACKS
CATE
Why haven’t you been practicing?
Goosebumps spring up under my clothes. “Cal?” I’m high, but still. “Cal, is that you?”
I listen closely, but all I hear is the wind blowing in through the back of the barn, through a new crack up by the eaves that lets in too much weather and the occasional bird.
Miraculously, there are no cracks in my guitar. Just those few superficial dings from where it hit the ladder. The neck, however, is horribly out of alignment. The instrument is unplayable.
“Cate?”
I whirl around— Dad.
“You . . . are you talking to yourself? I’ve—hmm—done that before. Out here.”
But he looks worried, and I’m not sure I believe he’s ever talked to himself. He barely talks to me. Or Mom. Alone out here, maybe he utters a choice swear word now and again, but a conversation with himself? Not likely. I wonder how much he’s heard.
Surreptitiously, I look around the barn, scanning the dark corners.
“You okay, honey?”
“I’m fine.” And, yep, pretty high. “Oh hey, Dad? Stop doing the dad thing. It isn’t you.”
“Hmm. Well, ah—your mom and I are going to the city.”
“Gee, what a surprise.” I set the Martin in its case. My fingers trip over the latches.
“Cate, are you . . . on anything?”
“Nope. You must be projecting.” He looks stricken. “Dad. I was joking.”
But referring to his past addiction is a very bad joke, and we both know it. I know it, but I can’t feel it. Can’t feel that I’ve just stuck a knife in my father. Not with a bump of K in me.
“You’d better go. You guys are going to miss the boat.”
“Right. I’d better. Have, ah—fun.”
Fun. Painting is Dad’s way of having fun now, but it wasn’t always like that.
“Guess anyone can become an addict,” Laurel had said to me one day after we’d talked about my dad, about how he’d slipped.
He’d used. I didn’t know what he’d used, only knew that he’d disappeared for a few days and had sent my parents’ marriage into a tailspin.
I’d tried to hang on—been yanked back and forth, back and forth—a reluctant rider on the most dangerous attraction at a theme park I was too young for.
The mental whiplash had sent me crying to Laurel.
She’d been a good listener, had even made me laugh. “The grace of Laurel,” I’d said afterward.
“What?”
“Oh, you know. That expression: ‘There, but for the grace of God, go I.’ You’re a close second, Lovecat.” I’d grinned at her then. All better.
“I love you, too. But what does that mean, ‘There but for the’—wha
t was the rest of it?”
“Grace of God. It’s something they say at meetings. AA meetings, NA meetings. It basically means without a line to God—without God’s line to you—you’re screwed.”
“How do you know about those kinds of meetings?”
“Remember Johann? Artist slash gallery owner?”
“Family friend? Kind of whacked? I’ve met him a few times.”
“Right.” And then, even though twelve-step programs are supposed to be anonymous, I tell her Johann’s story. How he used to show up at our apartment high on—well, I don’t know what he was on, I was too little to know. But I knew what high looked like.
“They have this thing, in the program,” I told Laurel. “A saying. Something like, ‘Wherever three or more are gathered.’”
Laurel gives me a blank look.
“Basically, they started a meeting in our living room. I used to sit on the stairs and listen.”
I love Johann, but at the time, I didn’t know him well. He was funny and nice, though, so I wanted to help. But when I walked into the living room one night, Mom sent me back to bed. Which of course made me more curious about what they were doing.
“So I spied on them. It was only after another half-dozen people showed up over the next few weeks that I understood: My parents weren’t just hosting a meeting. They were active participants. Once I started paying attention, I got it. Both my parents had problems with drugs and alcohol. There were other problems, too. Other people. Affairs.”
“Wow.”
“I know.”
Now, in the barn, I imagine what Laurel would say if she were here: “I probably shouldn’t have given that ketamine shit to you.”
But it’s my parents who have—had—problems with drugs, not me. Ketamine is the only drug I’ve ever done—I’m way too responsible. Then again, what I said to Dad tonight . . .
When he’d left the barn, he’d still worn that wounded look on his face. I’d used way too much ammunition. I’d only wanted to fire a warning shot, to get him to go. I hadn’t meant to obliterate him.
I kick at the floor. If I forget about the fact that I just did something unforgivable, I feel good, and that’s what I want: I just want to feel good. Throwing my arms out, I spin— and high overhead, the ceiling spins with me. I laugh, and for a second I think I hear Cal laughing, too.