White Rabbit

by Caleb Roehrig

  “Neither,” I say promptly, surprising him. “I’m thinking first we take on the biggest gossip in Chittenden County.”

  “Ramona? You really think she knows something?” He screws up his mouth. “I mean, probably she just got wind of that video, if Fox was sending it around.”

  “Maybe,” I acknowledge. “But then she’d be asking about Peyton and Fox, right? And, like, the timing … I mean, tonight of all nights she’s desperate to confirm something she’s heard about Race and Peyton? No matter what it is, I’d like to know about it before we go after them. We need all the ammunition we can get right now. You know where Ramona works?”

  “Actually, yeah. It’s a diner I eat at sometimes,” Sebastian says, firing up the Jeep. “I gotta warn you, though: The food’s disgusting and the ambience is worse.”

  “Just so long as it’s not Suzy’s American Diner, I’m in. I’ll take gross food over twitchy biker dudes trying to blow my head off any night of the week.”

  “Got your heart rate up, though,” Sebastian points out as he steers away from the curb. “Running from bullets totally counteracts mozzarella stick calories.”

  “Yeah, and getting hit by one makes them irrelevant. But as fad diets go, don’t expect Oprah’s endorsement.”

  A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of Silverman’s—the same twenty-four-hour diner where we parked while April called Peter and asked for a lawyer. It’s almost four thirty in the morning now, but still there are cars bathed in the electric glow of the building’s broad front windows. Inside, the place is a throwback vision of Formica countertops, chrome trim, and padded vinyl seats, and—owing to its dirt-cheap menu and casino-style hours—it’s incredibly popular with both Ethan Allen kids and the university crowd alike.

  When we walk in the door, I’m instantly overwhelmed by the smell of breakfast sausage, maple syrup, and fried something, and I almost go weak in the knees. Looking around, I see no sign of Ramona Waverly, but the hostess—an ample woman with a tangerine bouffant and glasses like two hula hoops roped together in the middle—spots us immediately and starts heading our way.

  And then I hear someone shriek my name. “Rufusssssssss!”

  I turn around just in time to see a wild-eyed Asian girl bounding at me from the other direction. Launching herself into the air, she cannonballs into me in a body slam–slash–bear hug that knocks all the wind from my lungs and nearly takes me off my feet. It’s my best friend, Lucy. Her hair is down, a dark mane of loose, bohemian waves that sweeps past her shoulders, and despite the late hour, her winged eyeliner is still just as perfect as ever.

  “Holy poop, dude, I’ve been texting you all night long!” she exclaims, punching me in the arm. It’s a typical Lucy Kim love tap—enough muscle behind it to draw up a welt I’ll still have well into my twilight years. My children will be born with dents in their shoulders. “Where the shit have you been, anyway? You missed half my party!”

  “It’s a really long story,” I say awkwardly, suddenly feeling Sebastian’s conspicuous presence like a sunburn. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hangover precautions,” she explains. “Brent said he could drink me under the table, so I had to prove him wrong, and then we both barfed for like twenty minutes straight. So now we’re soaking up what’s left with potato skins.” She keeps her eyes fixed on Sebastian through this entire account, and when she finally looks back at me I can feel her sharp gaze poking around in my cerebellum. “What are you doing here?”

  “Um.” I scratch the back of my head. “It’s a really long story?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Lucy gives Sebastian a bright, friendly grin. “’Scuse us for just a second, okay? Best friend shit.” She drags me about two paces away, still well within earshot, and stage-whispers, “You said you were ditching me for April, but then you come sauntering into Silverman’s with Bash Williams, of all people, searching for midnight munchies and looking like the cat who swallowed the nine-inch canary. I think you owe me an explanation. And make it as graphic as possible.”

  “You know he can hear everything you’re saying, right?”

  “Shut up and start talking,” she commands. “Is this what it looks like, or not?”

  “It’s … I mean…” I struggle pathetically, not even sure how to start. “Honestly, it’s a really—”

  “A really long story, I know,” she finishes wryly. “Just tell me if this ‘really long story’ involves a ‘really long’ ride on Bash Williams’s ‘really long’ d—”

  “Lucy!”

  “Your face is turning pink!” she declares triumphantly. “Your face is totally pink, Rufus, which means I’m right, and you just gave yourself away. You dirty little slut!”

  “Lucy, seriously,” I begin, but I can feel my face escalating well beyond pink and deep into Miami sunset territory.

  “And when did we take up lacrosse, hmm?” she purrs, fingering the jersey I’m wearing. “I have to say, Rufus, I really like this look on you—it’s so masc 4 masc.”

  “I’m ready to die now, Jebus,” I declare to the ceiling, certain my face can be detected by infrared satellite. Sebastian, who overheard this entire exchange, has an expression on his face that’s a mix of one half amusement and one half sheer, paralyzed terror, and I swallow a rush of nerves. “The thing is, um … maybe you’re not, like … totally wrong?”

  “I knew it!” She punches me again, in the other arm this time, and so hard she’s probably bruised my bone marrow. “You are going to tell me everything, mister, and I want all the hot, juicy, throbbing details.”

  “You are such a gross pervert.”

  “That’s why you love me.” She boops my nose with tipsy affection, and then turns back to Sebastian. The hostess stands there, having reached us just in time to catch most of the humiliating things that were said, but the look on her face suggests only jaded disinterest as Lucy declares, “They’re going to sit with us.”

  “It’s okay,” I say quickly, suddenly thinking it might be better for Sebastian to get to know Sober Lucy before he gets to know Drunk Lucy. Both versions of my best friend are hyperactive and inappropriate, but at least the former is two percent less likely to intentionally embarrass me. “You and Brent were already doing your thing and hanging out. We weren’t even planning to st—”

  “There is not a chance in H-E-double-penetration that you’re wriggling out of this one,” she assures me pleasantly, “so just suck it up and park your skinny butt at our table.”

  She marches me across the restaurant, Sebastian following behind and staring in wide-eyed fascination as Lucy manhandles me into a chrome-frame chair at a four-top, where Brent Bosworth is already seated. Lanky and pale, Brent is too uncoordinated to be much of an athlete but too cute to be a total outcast; lucky for him, girls tend to think his perpetual, clumsy-footed bumbling is adorable. A giant platter before him shows the remnants of their potato skins, and two chocolate shakes as thick as Play-Doh are packed into tall metal cups that anchor the table. My best friend plunks herself down across from me and gestures graciously for Sebastian to sit by my side.

  “We’ve finished eating,” she says, her voice musical and exaggeratedly polite, “but we would love to keep you boys company whilst you dine.”

  “Hey, bruh,” Brent says to me, shooting a paranoid look across the table at Sebastian, his experience with Ethan Allen’s ruling class about as awesome as my own. Calling me “bruh” was an ironic joke that he started up freshman year, and which very soon got completely out of hand; now it seems as if he’s totally lost the ability to refer to me as anything else. “Where’ve you been all night?”

  “Brentford James Bosworth!” Lucy exclaims in mock horror. “That is an extremely personal question! Are they not entitled to their privacy?”

  “My middle name is Ezra,” he returns. “And my first name is not Brentford.”

  “I know that, but Brent Ezra Bosworth sounds like a leprechaun’s curse,” she complains back. “I fixed it for
you. You’re welcome.”

  “Where have you been all night?” Brent asks me with desperation, like he’s barely holding on to his sanity after a night alone with Lucy. It’s all bullshit; Brent has been madly in love with my best friend ever since she kissed him on New Year’s Eve, but he’s so certain she’ll reject him that he’s refused to make any kind of a move in the months since. He’s a neurotic mess, and in some ways perfect for her; but Lucy likes an intellectual joust, and Brent’s obvious—almost obsequious—devotion frustrates her. There are times I suspect the current status quo is really the best for everyone.

  “Rufus was just getting ready to tell us about his evening, actually,” Lucy says pointedly, resting her chin in her hand.

  “Um.” I scratch the back of my head again, the lacrosse jersey suddenly like a wool blanket as my body temperature climbs. I’m nervous about outing Sebastian, even with his permission—but still more nervous about how Lucy will react when she finds out what I’ve been keeping from her. There’s far more at stake here than the simple question presumes. Under the table, I feel Sebastian’s hand sneak into mine and squeeze, and I swallow a gulp of air. “So … uh, yeah. Bash and I are … kind of … together. Like, as in boyfriends.”

  “Gasp!” Lucy exclaims out loud, gaping at me in a way that’s simultaneously teasing, happy, and interrogative; it’s all vicarious excitement edged with the faintest glimmer of hurt. Just like that, I can tell she’s wondering how long I’ve been holding important details back from her. She banishes the look quickly, though, and scoops up her chocolate shake. With a signature lack of tact, she asks Sebastian, “Do any of your sportsball friends know yet? Are they shitting themselves over all the assholey things they’ve said about gay people for the past, you know, ever?”

  Sebastian squirms a little bit, his hand tightening on mine. “Uh, actually, none of them really know yet? So I’m not sure how they’re gonna react. I can guess, maybe. I mean, there probably will be some self-shitting.”

  My best friend processes this for a moment, and shifts her jaw a little. Setting down the chocolate shake, she wipes the moisture off her fingers and states expansively, “Well, if Rufus likes you, then you’re probably too good for them anyway. And as long as you keep him happy, you’re welcome to hang out with us.”

  “We can’t play sportsball,” Brent admits with effort, visibly putting aside his instinctive distrust of the athlete in our midst, “but between the three of us, we could probably recite every line of Scott Pilgrim for you.”

  “And if you don’t keep Rufus happy,” Lucy continues, twirling a butter knife rapidly around in her fingers like one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, “I will be selling your organs off on Craigslist. Just so you know.”

  “Duly noted.” Sebastian straightens up a bit, eyebrows in a high arch. “Now, when you say ‘Scott Pilgrim’ … are you talking the movie, or the graphic novels?”

  “Um, are you freaking kidding?” Brent practically squeals. “The graphic novels, bruh, they’re epic. I mean, how could they leave the ‘stark, existential horror of Honest Ed’s’ out of the movie? Bryan Lee O’Malley is a damn genius!” In a stagey voice, he quotes, “‘I need some kind of, like, last minute, poorly-set-up deus ex machina!’”

  Slapping her palms down on the table, Lucy chimes in gleefully, “‘I had sexual relations with your mother! Your mother was not that good in bed!’”

  “‘Let’s be friends based on mutual hate,’” I submit—a personal favorite.

  “‘You listen to me,’” Sebastian fires back, beaming. “‘I’m the one who tells you what your mom says, okay?’”

  The four of us giggle stupidly for a moment, and then Lucy snatches up her milkshake again. “Okay, I guess he’s all right.”

  At that moment, a waitress sidles up to our table, her reddish-blond hair tied back in a collapsing knot of thick curls. Of all people, it’s Ramona fucking Waverley. “If you guys don’t keep it down, you’re gonna wake the other customers.”

  With a sardonic expression, she gestures to an old man who has passed out, face-first, in a plate of toast at a nearby table. Contritely, Lucy offers, “Sorry, Ramona. We promise to use our Inside Voices.”

  “Puh-lease don’t!” Ramona casts a greedy, conspiratorial smile around the table, silently claiming membership in our disjointed clique without waiting for permission. It’s her signature move: skipping all the History and Trust Building stages of friendship and going straight to Familiar Intimacy. With a flourish, she produces a check and places it facedown between Lucy and Brent. “There you go, guys. Pay that when you’re ready, but take your time—you’re the most exciting thing that’s happened in here for hours, and I’m still on till six. Graveyard shift sucks, am I right?”

  “’Specially if you’re a vampire,” Lucy replies cheerily, shoveling up some of her shake with a long-handled spoon.

  “Hey, Bash.” Ramona’s eyes glitter like a hungry raccoon’s as she turns them on my boyfriend. I swear she even licks her chops a little. “Guess there’s a whole lot of drama going down tonight, huh?”

  “You’re talking about Race and Peyton,” Sebastian hazards in a neutral tone. It’s a thin line he’s started walking, here; Ramona, like all gossips, treats information as power—and an uneven exchange of it will not be in her best interests. If we ask her flat out what she knows, she’ll shut down faster than my crappy laptop every time I get to the—ahem—good part of an adult-type movie clip online.

  “It must be really tough on your group, huh?” Ramona goads with overbaked sympathy. “Like, everybody taking sides and whatever?” Misinterpreting Sebastian’s hesitation to answer, she sighs. “All right, I get it: You don’t want to blab. At least just say if they’re officially broken up or not. You can tell me that.”

  “Uh…” Sebastian, it turns out, is total crap at the gossip game. “How much do you know about it?”

  I almost groan out loud as, predictably, Ramona’s eyes narrow. “How much is there to know?”

  This vaudeville routine could go on all night, I realize, so I head it off at the pass with an abrupt announcement. “Fox Whitney is dead.”

  Ramona, Lucy, and Brent all react in unison. “What?”

  “It’s a really long story,” I say, with a look to my best friend, “but that’s what was up with April tonight. We had to take her to the police so she could make a statement. They just sent her home a little while ago.”

  “A statement?” Ramona grabs a free chair from another table, dragging it noisily across the floor, and plops down next to Brent. “So, when you say he’s dead, what you mean is…?”

  It’s a leading question, and I shake my head. “You first—what have you heard about Race and Peyton?”

  “Okay, okay!” Her curiosity is too piqued to hold out. “It’s not what I heard; it’s what I saw.” She leans forward and we all mimic the move unconsciously, like a bunch of spies in a made-for-TV movie. “So, it was early on, like, not long after my shift started. You know—when everybody else was out partying?” There’s a faint rebuke in her tone, which we all choose to ignore. “Anyway, I’d only been on for like an hour or so, when guess who stomps right through that door, alone, and orders an herbal tea?” She scans our faces, waits a beat, and then announces, “Peyton.”

  “How did she seem?” I ask carefully.

  “Super upset. Like, her face was all blotchy and swollen from crying and stuff, and, I mean, she ordered an herbal tea for Pete’s sake—it’s a total cry for help. Like, either she’s ninety years old, or she’s in emotional free fall, you know? Anyway, she just sat there, messing with her phone for about fifteen minutes, and then all of a sudden Race walks in.” Ramona straightens up importantly. “And, I mean, they were obviously not expecting to see each other, because he takes, like, two steps through the door, catches one glimpse of Peyton, and I swear it was like the start of a brand-new fucking ice age. Race spins right around, not a single word, and storms out again. Peyton chases after him
—literally—and they totally just get into it. Waving their arms around, shouting at each other in the parking lot—like really shouting—and then they just … took off.”

  “Together?” I ask.

  “At the same time, anyway. They both had their own cars.”

  “Did you hear what they were saying?”

  “Um, if I had, would I be asking?” Ramona counters deprecatingly. “They always play the music too loud in here.” She pouts in a way that can only be described as aggressive. “But it was clearly an epic fight. They were both totally red in the face and, I mean, they looked pretty dunzo to me.” She fires a beady-eyed gaze at Sebastian, seeking confirmation—but I’m not “dunzo” with Ramona Waverley just yet.

  “What time?” I demand, and I must sound like a lunatic, because Lucy, Brent, and Ramona all raise their eyebrows at me. “I just mean, you know, about what time did Peyton get here? Do you remember?”

  “Well, I didn’t, like, check the clock or whatever…” Ramona pauses gratuitously, letting me pay for my eagerness. “But it had to be about ten thirty, maybe quarter to eleven? And Race came along fifteen, twenty minutes after.”

  Sebastian and I stare at each other, and I feel abruptly more grateful than I ever thought possible for Ramona Waverley and her great big mouth. More than an hour elapsed between the time that April’s outburst prematurely ended Fox’s Independence Day party and the occasion whereupon Peyton and Race arrived—separately—at Silverman’s Diner. Just like that, the biggest gossip in Chittenden County has handed us exactly what we’ve been looking for: proof that Ethan Allen’s cutest sophomore couple were lying through their perfect teeth when they said they’d gone straight back to the Atwoods’ together after leaving South Hero.

  23

  Feeling obligated to compensate Ramona for the valuable information she provided, Sebastian and I offer a heavily redacted version of the night’s events over a fresh basket of fries. Another wave of guilt steals over me as I feed lies and half-truths to Lucy one more time, but I promise myself that once the night is behind us—when everything is settled and I’m four thousand George Washingtons richer—I’ll tell her the whole story.