by Mimi Cross
“It means I got high. Tried a lot of different drugs, different . . . things. Always trying to find that first easy high again.”
“You got high? But you’re a jock.”
“Ah—no. I mean, yes. I was. But that’s got nothing to do with what I’m talking about. Who I was, who I am—it doesn’t change the fact that back then, all I wanted was to forget.
“Like I said, it was easy at first. A few beers . . . I’d be somewhere else. Someone else. Someone who didn’t feel so much. After a while, it took more. Vodka. Gin. Whatever my father wouldn’t miss from the liquor cabinet. Prescription drugs—but they made me sick.
“Even when I found my drug of choice? Like I’m telling you, I always needed more. And until last summer, that was fine. It always worked. Maybe because, until last summer, I didn’t get that it was a drug. I thought it was just something I enjoyed. Something I was good at.”
“You mean sports?”
“Ah—no. But I don’t want to talk about me anymore—I’m worried about you. What you’re trying to do, using me, using drugs—”
Her eyes widen.
“Everyone knows, Cate. They see you at school. They see your eyes.
“It’s not going to keep working. You’re going to need more and more of whatever you’re taking to stay in that state, where you don’t have to think. No matter how you get to that place—even when that place is no place, just a place that isn’t this one—you’ll have to increase the dose of whatever the hell you’re on to get you there, to keep you high.”
“I’m not on anything, David.”
“Maybe not tonight,” I’m about to say. But she goes on.
“And I don’t drink.”
“Yeah, but you would’ve let me screw you up against the car, if—”
“What? That is not true.”
But I’m looking at her face, and I see her asking herself, “Is it?”
“Not true, huh?” I fold my lips. Look away. Look back at her. She’s wearing a fierce scowl, but I don’t care. I want her to admit it, not for the strokes, for her own sake. So I nod and say, “Okay, maybe not against the car. Maybe you would have waited until we got inside.”
“Fuck you, David.” She spins away, heading for the house.
“Wait,” I call after her. “Am I wrong? Hey, tell me I’m wrong, Cate. Come on! Were you even kissing me?”
“Fuck off!” she shouts over her shoulder.
Damn. “Cate!” I shout. “I’m sorry! Cate!”
But she’s already at the top of the porch steps. Now she goes inside.
I yank open the driver’s side door. Damn, damn, damn. But hell, I don’t want to be part of her downward spiral, don’t want to be her escape hatch—I want to be more.
Cate’s changed since the accident, since losing her friend. She’s hurting, and I get that. But she’s running from the pain. Whatever she’s taking, it won’t work forever. She’s going to crash, probably soon. I should know. I’m an expert when it comes to this kind of shit.
Did I really think I could help her by telling her all that? Was she even listening?
She’s so deep in her stuff, still caught up in grief. I can’t compete with a dead guy.
I start the car. Crank the heat. Pull out my cell.
I start to punch in Trish’s number, then remember Whitaker’s hand on her arm.
I call Tammy.
She practically purrs my name.
ROCK & ROLL
CATE
I hear David calling my name, but it’s too late, I can’t talk to him now. I never even kissed Cal, but I was about to drag David up to my bedroom—to help me forget about Cal?
To forget Cal, to satisfy my curiosity, for entertainment’s sake—I’m sure if I keep thinking about it, I can come up with more sucky excuses for coming on to David Bennet.
What if he’d been someone else? What if drugs had been involved?
But maybe they had been. Maybe love isn’t a ghost—maybe it’s a drug. I’d been trying to use David like a drug. He basically said so.
That isn’t love.
Sex then, sex is the drug.
Love. Sex. I know there’s a difference, but that’s all I know. Why wouldn’t he kiss me?
Magazine girls, remember? That’s what he likes. Girls who wear come-fuck-me shoes, like Tammy-Trish.
But Bryn said—
Bryn Bennet is messed up. Even more messed up than I am.
Definitely, I’m messed up, but apparently not messed up enough because when I get inside, I do a big bump of K.
And when I wake up in the morning, the edges of my life are all fuzzy, and I don’t know what I want. David and I are so different. Thinking again now of his reaction when I asked him about Canada, a shiver runs through me.
By Friday evening when he hasn’t called, I decide to call him and let him off the hook for the following night, let him off the hook for the dinner date we’d made so long ago. We already rescheduled once—it obviously isn’t meant to be.
I call Bryn’s line because I know it will be busy, and I leave a message for the Bennets in general, something about not being available tomorrow night, as if I’ve forgotten if they’ve asked me to babysit, like they usually do on Saturday nights, or not. As if I’ve forgotten that David and I have a date.
Then I text Dale Waters and tell him I’m going to be in the city.
I’m out of K so, right, that’s the reason I’m going in, but it’d be kind of cool to see Dale, because even though I’m pretty sure he’s fanning me—we had a long conversation on the phone, plus he’d texted—I am a fan. Also, I want to pick his brains about Deep Dark Love, ask him how the band got together and maybe, maybe play something for him. I’d told him I was looking for suggestions.
Of course at that, he’d said something, well, suggestive.
I’d glossed over it, just like I’d glossed over the rest of his flirtatious remarks . . .
I’d been at school—in that hidey-hole behind the cabinet down in the basement. He’d been in a recording studio.
“Wow. Cool,” I’d said at that point in the conversation. “Tell me more about that.”
“Show is always more fun than tell, why don’t you come in? I’ll show you the studio—and some Southern hospitality.”
I’d laughed, mostly at the way he’d managed to pack two words with so much innuendo, then said, “I’m not sure when I’ll be in. Soon.”
“Soon. That’s as far off as the moon, Angel. Gimme a date. A time. Let’s jam. Or am I not a good enough player for you? You sure you liked my upright?”
“You were great.”
“Yeah? So tell me how much you liked the band.”
“How much? A lot.”
“Would you say we were—what? Hot?”
Oh my god. This guy—his tone. I’d known he was joking, but it was boiling in school that day—the furnace set to Incinerate—and with his lazy smile coming at me even over the phone, it was too much, embarrassing. Still I’d said, “Yes, totally hot.” Because they are.
“Would you say you love the music?”
“Yes, love.” In the spirit of the “interview,” I’d laid it on thick, but it was also true. I couldn’t wait to hear him play again.
“So you’ll come see us again.” He was smirking—I could hear it. “And you’ll come see me at my place in Chinatown.”
“Okay. Chinatown. Text me your address.”
Then I’d had to go, because how many classes could I cut? And I nearly ran into David Bennet. I mean, really, almost smack into him.
I’d wondered what he’d been doing down in the basement. I’d so wanted to stop and talk, but there was no time.
Now? After last night?
Who knows when he’ll talk to me.
WAVES
CATE
White-capped waves slap against the sides of the ferry as it flies across the water toward the sparkling Manhattan skyline. I peer out windows covered with clinging droplets. The black night
sky hangs over the black bay.
The 150-seat commuter ferry is the fastest way to get into the city, but at this time of day it’s half-empty. In the artificially bright light of the boat’s cabin, the scrap of paper I’d retrieved from the driveway is whiter than white, and Dee’s loopy handwriting is a spiderweb. The address she’d written is followed by
Tues Thurs Sat, 6–8
I don’t even want to think about the Saturday part of the equation because then I’ll start thinking about David Bennet, about how this was supposed to be our night. I try not to care.
I stare down at Dee’s writing, as if it will reveal what Laurel sees in her.
When I’d called Laurel just a little while ago, her tone had been matter-of-fact.
“No problem. You’re here studying. Or sleeping over, depending on what time they call.”
“But they won’t call.”
“I know.” And she does know. She knows my parents. Knows they don’t act like parents. “So what’s so important in the city?”
I don’t want to tell her I’m going in for K. I also don’t want to tell her I’m going in to see Dale—because I don’t necessarily want Dee to know. Also, I might not be seeing Dale.
I was supposed to meet him at his apartment, but our last stream of texts got interrupted. His drummer, Trevor, is playing a gig out of town and is apparently having some problems. Dale didn’t go into detail, but he also didn’t text back. I have a time but no address.
Laurel’s voice is full of innuendo, so I go with that. “I—er—met a guy.”
“What? You didn’t tell me!”
“I’m telling you now.”
She makes an exasperated sound.
“Hey, you’re never around these days.”
“Yes I am!”
“Yeah, if you count wrapped around, as in, you’re wrapped around Dee’s finger.”
“Not for long,” she growls. “But you don’t want to hear that drama. Tell me about this guy.”
But I can’t, because there isn’t one. So I just mumble something else about Dee.
“Once you know Dee better, you’ll like her.”
“Hmm.” Why would I want to get to know someone I don’t like better?
She gives a little Laurel-laugh, the vocal equivalent of rolling her eyes. “Lovecats?”
Offering up an exaggerated sigh, as if responding is an effort, I say, “Lovecats.”
She smiles. I can hear it. She’s reassured by the quick check-in, the use of our code word. But tonight, Lovecats, our way of connecting, of making sure everything’s cool, only makes me feel worse. It reminds me that, lately, Laurel and I haven’t been connecting. Not like we used to. It reminds me that I’m lying to her.
After I hang up, I think about Dee, remembering her serpent’s smile. I think about Laurel, and that whole thorny visit. About Bryn, in the backseat of the Mercedes.
She’d been drinking from a bottle of something. She’s definitely got a problem, but maybe I’m no better. Lying to L so she won’t give me a hard time. Going into the city for drugs.
Now I picture Johann, his blue eyes and blond hair, his handsome face. I can almost hear his German accent, comic and charming. His paintings are violently beautiful.
Comparing Bryn and Johann is easy somehow, but me . . . do I fit the same mold?
Bryn’s beautiful and angry, Johann’s handsome and pissed off—well, he used to be, till he stopped drinking. Fair hair, ice eyes—they’re not related, but they could be, although Johann has no family left. Bryn, of course, comes from a whole family of charmers. The old Bryn was just as golden as David.
But then came the night of the party and Rod.
Guess anyone can become an addict.
Again, I see Bryn, with a bottle to her lips. You were right, Laurel.
But Bryn has her part in Rod’s suicide to contend with. Who could blame her for trying to wash that away?
With Johann . . . I don’t know details about his past, but something made him leave Germany. When he came to the States, the art scene loved him, but he loved drinking, and it cost him. On his downward spiral, he met my folks.
But I’d seen Johann’s transformation. I’ve seen my parents’ struggle, too.
Maybe I can help Bryn after all.
(I imagine Laurel, wagging a finger at me, saying, “Pot calling the kettle black, Cate Cat.”)
Or not.
The ferry sways over the bay, slowing as it gets close to Lower Manhattan.
In my mind I argue with Laurel, telling her K’s different, that I’m not addicted, that I don’t even like it, really.
That I just want it—to get out.
“It’s not like I’m Johann,” I picture myself telling her. “Or Bryn. Not at all.”
CITY
CATE
Even with the hood of my purple coat up and my hands shoved deep in the pockets, I’m shivering as I search the fronts of the buildings on White Street for numbers.
I stop at the bottom of a flight of steps leading up to a black-brick apartment building.
The dark-haired singer from Deep Dark Love is at the top.
I do a double take. “Dale?” He’s leaning in the doorway, a cell phone in his hand.
“Hey, Angel. An hour early, must be my lucky night.”
“Wait—how are you here? And—you never texted me back. Do you live nearby?”
“Near as your nose. I live here. Check your phone, darlin’. Sent you my address an hour ago.” He straightens and steps out of the shadowed recess of the doorway, then trots down the stairs.
In slow motion, I check, a knot forming in my stomach. There’s his text. It probably came in while I was on the boat, no cell service there. I glance at the address he sent, then at the building. There’s no number on it, but to my estimation, it’s the address I’m seeking—the one that Dee gave me. My heart sinks a little. It’s one thing to do drugs, but dealing?
“You’re Dee’s connection?”
“Is that what she calls me?” He gives a short laugh. “Girl’s such a drama queen. I’m just about done doing her dirty work, thankfully.” His lips make their way into that lazy smile. “Have to say, though, didn’t expect to see you here for lychees.”
His eyes narrow just a little, and he tilts his head slightly back. It’s like there’s something he can’t quite see, but he thinks if he changes the angle, it might come into focus.
“I mean, I’ve helped Dee out a couple of times, but—” He’s still got that looking-for-something-I-can’t-find expression on his face, and now I recognize it. Disappointment.
“Lychees? No, I—”
His expression turns sharp. “I know what you’re after. And I sure hate to put out a pretty girl like you, but I’m not gonna re-up, Angel.”
This is a surprising combination of words, and I hesitate, trying to decide how to respond.
“But,” he says, “gotta go anyway.” He glances at his watch. “Come on with me. Won’t take but a minute, then I’ll explain why I can’t hook you up.”
“Ah—” Again, I hesitate, confused.
He lifts my left hand and runs his fingers over my calluses. “Come on—sooner we go, sooner I can wash my hands. You can celebrate with me. We’ll jam.”
He’s speaking in low, smoky tones now, reminding me how much I loved the way he sang, loved the evening sound of his voice with the band.
“Sure.”
We head over a bunch of blocks, then turn up Church Street. When we reach what’s probably the last crumbling building in this gentrified neighborhood—a skinny stack of red bricks slumped between two sleek, much newer buildings—he stops, and looks down the street.
“So your drummer. Is he okay?”
“He is. He just—hey, gimme a sec, will you?”
A long black car pulls up in front of us. The back window behind the driver glides down, and a man gestures for Dale to come closer.
They talk for a minute, then the guy passes a brown paper bag th
rough the window. Dale doesn’t take it, just says something. The guy yanks the bag back into the car. Next he rummages through it, uttering a string of vicious insults, and pulls a clear plastic baggie from its mouth.
After whisking the baggie into the car’s dark interior, he shoves the brown bag back at Dale, who laughs and tucks it under his arm.
Then the man crooks a finger. Dale bends down.
He slides a hand behind Dale’s neck—
And kisses him full on the lips.
Dale rears back. “The fuck!” He wipes his mouth. “That’s just another reason I’m out, got it? I am out.”
Then the guy says something I can’t hear.
Dale shakes his head emphatically. “I don’t owe you shit. Get rid of it someplace else.” He bangs twice on the roof of the car.
The man inside the car shouts several choice words at Dale, then begins berating the driver. A second later the car roars away from the curb, the man’s left arm hanging out the window, his hand raised high, middle finger extended.
Turning around, Dale offers me a crooked smile and then the bag.
“Lychee?”
LYCHEE
CATE
When I don’t take the bag, he pushes it into my hands. Then he gives me a little nudge, and we start walking back the way we came.
“What was that all about?”
“You don’t need to know. You do need to try one of those, though.” He nods at the bag.
Reaching inside, I pull out what looks like a bumpy strawberry with rough leather skin. It has a fairly long stem, and I’ve pulled it from a rubber-banded bundle of a dozen other long-stemmed, obliquely heart-shaped leathery berries. I’m confused.
“What? Don’t want to mar your manicure?” He glances at my hands. “No nail polish. Nice. So what’s the problem? Too messy for you?”
The problem is, I’ve just had an extremely intimate view into this guy’s fucked-up life, and now, instead of walking away, I’m walking back with him to his place.
Also, I have never seen a lychee.
“I don’t like lychees.” I hand him the bag.
“What? How can you not like lychees?”