Winner Take All

by Laurie Devore

  “You were great, honey,” his mom says, her voice slight. He gives her a smile that would probably melt a lesser person’s heart. He glances over at his dad and then averts his eyes.

  “I’m glad y’all came,” he says to them. Even though I can acknowledge something deeply depraved in it, I can’t stop watching him. Like I’m looking through a funhouse mirror at a different version of Jackson Hart, one who’s missing color around the edges, who lacks clarity. “Hungry?” he asks then, putting his arm around his mom like a person who’s overcompensating. “I’ll take you to dinner. My treat. Maybe Dad will even look up from his phone when the food comes out.”

  His mom is totally enthralled by him, I can tell, but his dad’s face doesn’t twitch in the slightest. “Do you have to be cute about every goddamn thing?” he asks, as if he’s been holding it in the whole time.

  “There it is,” Jackson says. He glances over at me, and I look away. “That was fun. What did that take, Dad, only two minutes?”

  His dad sighs, takes his phone back out, and starts walking toward the parking lot. His mom hardly falters at all. “Don’t be like that. He always looked up when you were coming to bat.” She touches his cheek. “You’re so talented, my dear.”

  His eyes are soft. “Thanks, Mom.” He kisses her on the cheek. “I’ll meet you in the car,” he says in a way that is clear he is dismissing her, and she seems more than happy to be dismissed. She walks the way his dad went, and Jackson stands there, alone. He smiles at Columbus’s parents as they file by and grabs on to Columbus’s hand as he passes. I see Columbus’s eyes go to Lia and me, and as if he can’t help it, he says, “Hey, Nell. Hey, Lia. Hope y’all have a nice night,” and then his mom puts her arm around him and they head in the direction of the cars.

  Lia sighs, rubbing her hands over her arms. “Where is Taylor?” she asks.

  I glance at Jackson again, standing still, eyes on the ground. His hands are working at his side, his fingers twisting around one another. And then he sees me watching him; a light clicks into place behind his eyes.

  Taylor comes out of the dugout and Jackson looks away, staring down at his hand, flexing it into a fist. “Hey,” Taylor says, bending to give his sister a hug. “Thanks for waiting.”

  “Nice pitching, Reagan,” I compliment him.

  He gives me a weak smile. “Thanks.” Then to Lia, “You okay?”

  She shakes her head and says something quietly back to him, and I step over to give them their space.

  “What’d you think?” Jackson calls to me then, his voice low.

  I look off, away from him. “About what?”

  He puts both hands out at his sides. “The show.”

  I know he’s referring to his parents and I force all my features into a straight line. “You’re always exactly who I think you are, Jackson.”

  He tips his cap at me and then follows everyone else, whistling all the while.

  It’s unfair of him, really, even at his worst, to barely flinch at all.

  * * *

  My family has always jokingly referred to the Reagans’ house as the White House for obvious reasons. Namely that it’s white—shining white—and because their status as the First Family of Cedar Woods has been around longer than I have.

  It’s less funny now, with the Reagan name so tarnished.

  Lia, Taylor, and I are spread out on Mrs. Reagan’s exorbitantly expensive white couch eating pizza and watching a movie. Taylor has mixed himself a vodka and something, and he’s finding the lines in the movie funnier as time goes on.

  After a particularly loud guffaw, Lia cuts her eyes at him. “You need to put that back in the liquor cabinet,” she tells him. “And lock it.”

  “So she can drive to the store? Brilliant idea,” Taylor says, his voice meaner than usual.

  I’ve seen the current look on Lia’s face often—it’s when she’s ready to destroy someone. “I think this type of behavior is called mimicry.”

  Taylor stares at her, his eyes narrowed, and sips his drink.

  “You’re going through a stressful situation, so you’re drinking to deal with it. Like Mom,” Lia goes on, as if explaining it to him will help.

  “Lia,” I start.

  “What?” She throws her hands up. “I’m the bad guy for pointing out the self-destructive tendencies in this fucking family?”

  “No, Lia, as ever, you’re the one true hero for us all,” Taylor replies.

  “Oh, you’re one to talk,” she snaps. “It’s not like people didn’t notice you not speaking to Columbus the entire game.”

  Taylor laughs, flattening his back on the couch. “Or you sitting on the opposing team’s bleachers. I mean, poor Columbus. How does he make it through his day knowing the family his mom’s ruining won’t talk to him?”

  “We need to maintain appearances.”

  “And that’s what I do,” Taylor says, “for the other twenty-two hours of the day. I won the game for us, didn’t I? Look at me. I’m fucking perfect. Now let me have a couple of minutes to not be.”

  My eyes go back and forth between the two of them. My family is all passive-aggressive insults and usually the Reagans work the same way, so this outright hostility between Lia and Taylor isn’t something I’m used to.

  There’s been a lot of it lately.

  Lia turns off the movie, flouncing through the family room and out the back door. I give Taylor a look and move to follow her.

  “It’s one drink, Nell!” he calls behind me. I hear him reaching for the remote as I follow Lia outside.

  The Reagans’ backyard is pristine, the local landscapers visiting once a week to keep everything clean. Mom keeps a garden in our backyard; it’s a mess of mismatched plants and trees growing in unexpected directions, twisting around one another, the pruning somewhat sporadic. But in Mrs. Reagan’s garden, everything has a place: rows are planted carefully, and shrubbery is maintained as if it’s open for public viewing. There’s a table and chairs on the patio, with a brick path cutting through the garden and leading toward a koi pond.

  Lia is in front of the pond, staring down into it. I go stand beside her and look down, but the fish are doing the same old thing they always are. I wait a moment.

  “I’ve always hated these fish,” she says to me, not looking up. “Whenever Mom is sober, she becomes obsessed with them. She’s always all, ‘But what about the fish?’ and ‘Who will take care of the fish?’ and out here feeding them and shit, and I’m like, you know, where is that ounce of care for me? Would she like me better if I was a fucking fish? Because then I wouldn’t be quite so complicated, right? I would just swim around and eat. That’d be ideal for her, don’t you think?” She glances up at me. “If Taylor and I didn’t feel anything, and were just here to calm her and be perfect. And we both try. So. Damn. Hard.”

  “Do you want to kill one?” I ask her. “We could get like a fishing rod or something.”

  Her whole face shifts into disgust. “What?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. You hate the fish, and I’m a problem solver.”

  She laughs. A little bit at first, and then it keeps building until she’s laughing so hard she doubles over, taking in small hiccups of breath. The more she laughs, the funnier it gets, and then I can’t stop laughing, either. We collapse next to each other on the ground beside the pond, Lia’s curly hair tickling my skin. Our laughter fades out slowly, along with the sunlight. Finally, Lia manages to say, “You are so twisted.” She pushes a tear from under her eye. “And that was a really poetic speech, too.”

  “I know,” I tell her. “It was good. I was honestly moved.”

  “To commit fish murder,” she says with another laugh. “Which you’d rather do than talk about my feelings, apparently.”

  “I’m sorry.” I squeeze her shoulder. “I didn’t know what to say.”

  “Clearly.” Her smile fades slightly. “Do you think Taylor’s okay?”

  “He’s fine,” I tell her, confident. “Ta
ylor’s so even-keeled all the time, of course he needs to act out every now and then. If he didn’t, he would explode.”

  “This is going to be the death of us all.” She sighs, staring up at the pink-streaked sky. “Sometimes, I wish I could be more like you. Know what I want, not be so caught up in appearances.”

  I glance at the back of the house, at Mr. Reagan’s dimly lit office window and then at Mrs. Reagan’s dark bedroom window. I don’t see much of either of them anymore, even less than before—which still hadn’t been that frequently.

  “It’s not as great as it looks,” I admit to her at last. But Lia knows. That’s why she’s always trying to pull me back from the edge.

  “You get to be your own person in the world. Not so tangled up in who your parents are. Do you know what my mom would say to me if she found out I was telling off Jackson Hart in English class? ‘No one wants to marry a girl like that.’”

  I laugh, loud. “To be fair, she’s probably right.”

  “‘Be smart but not too smart. Be a leader but step aside. Be an athlete but never look too strong.’ It isn’t all about the trial. It’s about playing a part, and I’m tired of it. Taylor, too. Mom and Dad can go make a scene whenever they like, but we’re not worth anything unless we look good.”

  I shrug. “You don’t have to play a part for me.”

  “It’s nice,” Lia answers. “To really feel like myself sometimes.” She sits up, hugging her legs.

  “Why don’t we watch a really bad movie?” I suggest. “Or you could tell me more about all your feelings. I don’t know. Whichever.”

  She laughs again, a crisp sound in the settling dark.

  5

  Smoke curls into the air, fire reaching out and grabbing at every last bit of wood on the bonfire at the Waccamaw River shore. I watch it go up up up in flames, everyone stepping back as much as they can from the heat because it’s way too damn hot on an April Tuesday night this close to the beach.

  “Burn, baby, burn,” Lia says, falling into my side and pushing me away. I laugh, shoving her back.

  The bonfire marks the beginning of spring sports playoffs this week, when the proud Knights of Cedar Woods Prep will destroy every poor bumpkin school in the state of South Carolina who deemed themselves worthy to put another team on the field. It is a metaphorical funeral, really, for the hopes and dreams of those sickeningly average kids who would never be asked to stand in the heat with Prep’s best and brightest.

  “You look like you’re having a dark thought,” Lia says to me then.

  The flames dance in my eyes. “No more than usual.”

  “Are you girls having fun?”

  We both turn around to find Lia’s mom over our shoulders, dressed in all white. The bonfire is a storied occasion, too important to miss. I’d also heard her say something about not being scared off by a bunch of sanctimonious low-country Democrats. Mrs. Reagan’s red Solo cup of Chardonnay sloshes to and fro as she puts an arm around Lia’s shoulder.

  “So much fun,” Lia says in a clipped voice as she pushes Mrs. Reagan’s cup of wine aside to give us a wider berth from any spillover. “The time of our lives.”

  “Nell, you look very nice,” she says, removing her arm from Lia’s shoulder and resting a hot hand against the side of my face. “You put yourself together very carefully, don’t you?”

  I look at her, not sure if it’s some sort of passive-aggressive insult or not. Her eyes are kind of sharp, the way she’s always looked at me, even during her sober stretches. I have on a tasteful sundress and a headband holding my auburn hair in place, understated, unlike what some of the other girls showed up in.

  “Jesus Christ, Mom,” Lia says, pulling her mother away from me. “I’m taking her back to Dad,” she adds, to me.

  “Well, Nell knows it, sweetie,” I hear Mrs. Reagan still saying as Lia ushers her off. “She’s perfect. She’s got everything all planned out.”

  I roll my shoulders, staring into the flames. Mrs. Reagan has always been like that, since I met Lia in seventh grade. I was never sure if she liked that Lia and I were best friends when there were so many better-bred options around the halls of Prep. But Lia and Taylor had adopted me, given me a place in this world, and never looked back.

  Sometimes, I think that I should appreciate what they’ve given me more.

  “Perfectly Planned Nell.”

  Goose bumps rise all over my body. I glance over my shoulder, then back out at the fire and the water. “God, are you following me?”

  Jackson steps beside me. I can smell the alcohol in the cup he’s holding. “You wish I was following you.”

  I press my lips together. Sigh. “Do you want something?”

  “She’s right, you know. Annie Reagan might be turned up to ten, but she’s right about you.”

  “Oh, yes, please psychoanalyze me some more,” I say. Then I look him over. “Are my feelings toward you not clear enough?”

  “You’re so dull,” he says, sipping on his drink, continuing to stand next to me.

  I laugh. “And you’re so obvious.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I shake my head.

  “What, Becker?”

  I face him. He has on a nice light blue button-down, a pair of khaki shorts, and ridiculous boat shoes. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, sticking up at angles as if the wind helped him plan it. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’re antagonizing me because you’re bored.”

  His eyebrows go up.

  “Your fan club isn’t entertaining enough for you so you have to come over and pick a fight with me. You guys are all the same—your games can only entertain you for so long. But please, go on about how I’m the dull one.”

  Jackson opens his mouth for what I’m sure he thinks will be a devastating rebuttal, but I never hear what he would’ve said because at that moment, Taylor calls my name.

  “Nell!” He’s jogging over to the two of us. “Lia just texted me. Everything all right?”

  I shrug, stepping back from Jackson.

  Taylor nods at Jackson the way boys do. “Hart.”

  Jackson sips his drink in a maddeningly superior way. “Reagan.”

  “Sorry about Mom,” Taylor says, looking only at me.

  “I’m used to her,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Taylor gives me this look and I realize I’m used to her probably wasn’t a thing I should have said.

  “Are you coming to the game on Friday?” he asks me. He sips from a cup of water.

  “Yeah, for sure.” I look around at everything but Jackson. “I’m wondering how long before it will be socially acceptable to leave this thing. I’ve got a bunch of work to do before tomorrow.”

  Jackson laughs. “Of course you do.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I have a lot going on,” I say.

  He offers me his drink and I bat it away.

  The wind carries a voice up from down near the water where most of the parents are standing. It takes a minute before I’m able to track it to a woman yelling. All I can see from here is that she’s petite and blond, which puts her in the majority of women at this event, and that quite a few people are looking at her in alarm. The tall dark-haired man with her looks to be on the receiving end of her anger.

  “Oh shit,” Jackson says next to me. He drops his cup right in the sand and takes off running toward the fray. Taylor exchanges a look with me and we follow him, watching with interest. Us and everyone else in the general vicinity.

  I catch some snippets of what the woman is saying as we approach. Something about how no, I won’t calm down and no, I don’t need a drink and to get out of my face before I throw it on you. Jackson grabs her before she can say something else and he’s mumbling to her and then she bursts into tears, and he momentarily pulls her into his chest. He pushes her through the crowd of staring people, right in our direction, and the man trails behind them. I recognize Jackson’s parents from last week’s baseball game. As the trio ap
proaches us, I hear Mr. Hart say, “You two always have to go and make a damn scene.” Jackson laughs at that, and I watch the lines of his face, the way he doesn’t think it’s funny at all. He’s rubbing his mom’s back.

  “It’s just the antidepressants,” she’s saying to him. “Throwing me all off.”

  Jackson’s eyes catch mine as he brushes past Taylor and me. I open my mouth like I’m going to say something helpful but then close it and let them walk away. For a moment, everything around the bonfire stays quiet, but slowly the conversation builds back up, leaving the incident forgotten and Jackson long gone.

  Just another night in Cedar Woods.

  “What was that?” I ask Taylor.

  “The Harts,” he says darkly. “I’ve never seen them do that. They’re usually the most normal parents at any given party.”

  I swallow the sympathy bubbling up in my chest. For Jackson. Screw that. “Do you think they’ll be all right?”

  “Yeah.” Taylor nods. “I saw Doug running after them. I’ll shoot him a text, though.”

  That’s Taylor—determined to help everyone. I watch him type up the text, refusing to show any curiosity.

  “I know what that’s like, you know? When your parents become the scene,” Taylor says at last. It isn’t polite for me to agree with him, so I don’t. Progress.

  I stare off at where Jackson’s mom was standing, remembering the wind whipping her blond hair around her face. I wonder if she’s okay.

  But I don’t ask Taylor. I get the feeling from his expression that the answer is probably no anyway.

  * * *

  Our street looks cheerful as we pull back into the driveway. Cozy, even. It would seem like a nice place if you hadn’t just been on the other side of town with all its landscaped lawns and beautiful architecture and perfection.