by Lara Zielin
Mom covered Dad’s hand with hers. “I want to work,” she said. “My oncologist says it could help.”
Dad didn’t say anything, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw his posture slump slightly. He was always telling my mom she worked too much, but she never listened. Apparently not even when cancer was part of the equation.
“When’s the surgery?” I asked.
“A few weeks,” Mom said. “Right before prom. But I’ll be back on my feet in time for the dance.”
Great. The prom. Even my mom was scheduling her surgery around it. I guess she took her role of placing the crowns on the heads of the winners very, very seriously.
After dinner, I helped clear the dishes with an eye on the clock. Sylvia was pulling up in less than ten minutes. I could either head to my room feigning exhaustion and sneak out the window or ask my parents for permission. It was a long shot, given the Brainerd debacle, but I was hoping the fact that I’d tried to make dinner and had taken out the eyebrow ring counted for something.
When my mom went to go get a movie set up in the living room, I rounded on my dad. “Can I go out tonight?” I asked, rinsing a plate and loading it into the dishwasher. “Just for a little while?”
My dad covered the leftover salad with plastic wrap. “Out where?”
“Just driving around for a while with Sylvia. Probably we’ll stop at IHOP.”
My dad’s eyes scanned the mess in the kitchen, eventually landing on my now ringless eyebrow. Then he seemed to pause and take in all of me: my hair, parted to the side and swept over my left eye; my lids, heavy with dark color; my skin, pale and powdered; my lips, dark and lined; my fingers weighted with silver rings.
“I just don’t know, Ag,” he said. “We ask you time and time again to abide by the rules we set, and you defy us over and over.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Like what? I mean, other than the eyebrow ring, which I took out, what have I done lately that’s been so totally awful?”
My dad gave me a look like he couldn’t believe I actually had to ask that. “You skipped school to get that eyebrow ring. We’ve asked you to stay in class and get your grades up. But you don’t. That’s one thing.”
“Well, fine,” I conceded, “but I hadn’t skipped in a while before that.”
“You’ve been reprimanded for drinking,” my dad continued, “on numerous occasions. And I have no evidence that that’s changed at all.”
“The last time I drank was forever ago.”
His face was skeptical. “The school documented you with alcohol six months ago. You call that forever?”
“It was way back at the beginning of the school year,” I said.
They’d done a random locker sweep on a Friday in September, and I’d had a bottle of vodka stashed underneath my coat. I’d swiped it from home intending to drink it that night with Sylvia while her mom was out of town.
“And you want me to believe that was the last time you drank?”
“Yes,” I replied. I did want him to believe it. Even though the truth was that I’d had plenty of alcohol since then. I just hadn’t been caught.
As if reading my thoughts, my dad closed his eyes for a long moment. “Your attire, your attitude, your grades, your behavior. Everything, Aggie, seems to be out of kilter in your life.”
“It’s not out of kilter,” I protested. “This is the way I am. You guys just don’t like how I look.”
My dad shook his head. “No. That’s not it. I think both your mom and I could live with the whole Goth thing if we thought there was a whole, happy young woman underneath all the makeup. But you keep acting out in ways that say differently.”
“I am happy,” I said. I was happier this way than I was when Tiffany Holland was ruining my life, at least. “I’m fine. I just want to go out tonight and blow off some steam. It’s been a tough week, you know?”
My dad’s tired look came back. “You can go if—Just, for the sake of your mom, don’t do anything stupid. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Home by midnight,” he said.
I exhaled. “Thanks,” I replied, and dashed upstairs to change clothes.
Chapter Four
SATURDAY, MARCH 14 / 9:21 P.M.
My eyeliner smeared to my temple as Sylvia careered around a corner. “Cripes, just slow down for a second,” I said, wiping away the black line.
“Ryan’s already there,” Sylvia said. “He texted me a half hour ago.”
“Five more minutes won’t change that,” I replied, “but it might save me from stabbing myself in the pupil.”
Sylvia let up on the accelerator. “Fine,” she said. “Just get it done already.”
Sylvia’s bossiness always increased in proportion to her crankiness. Right now, on an overall bitchiness scale of one to ten, she was an eight, easy. After reapplying my eyeliner, I figured the rest of my makeup freshening could wait until we got to Jefferson’s. I resigned myself to watching the spindled trees flicker past the car window.
When we finally pulled up, lights were blazing in every window. A bunch of kids were scattered on the lawn, red cups in their hands. Someone had made a go of a bonfire, despite the cold and slush.
Someone wolf whistled as we walked by. A bunch of people cackled. “I used my strap-on on every single one of your moms this morning!” Sylvia yelled at them. That shut them up.
We stepped through the gilded foyer, and Jefferson held out his arms. “My lovelies in black have arrived,” he said. “Thanks for leaving the underworld to be with us.”
I snorted, and Sylvia grabbed his beer. I pretended not to notice as she took a swig. I didn’t know what part of me actually thought she’d stop drinking because of the baby.
“Nice party,” Sylvia said, handing the beer to me. I drank what was left, and Jefferson grinned. He was an honors student, the president of our student council, and was probably headed for an Ivy League school. But he liked to party, and he was famous for throwing bashes with obscure themes whenever he felt like it. We’d been to a spontaneous Flag Day party in June and a National Watermelon Day party in August. Not to mention a luau when his parents took off for Hawaii a few months back.
“I’m afraid you need to tell me the secret password before you enter,” Jefferson said, looking right at Sylvia.
“The password is bite me,” she said, reaching down the front of her shirt and pulling out a small bag of pot. Jefferson grinned and snatched it from her.
“Indeed, you shall pass,” he said with a fake British accent. He bowed slightly.
My stomach fell. Why I thought this was the time he’d let us in without making Sylvia score him pot was beyond me. Sylvia didn’t look one bit put out, probably on account of how Jefferson threw awesome parties provisioned like he was a forty-year-old millionaire. Also, being here raised our status in the school—at least a little. We might be freaks, but we were freaks who partied with the right people.
Still, it would be nice if once—just once—Jefferson let us in because he seemed to actually like us, not because he traded invites for pot. Also, it bothered me that he thought of us as novelties, which was exactly the word he used the first time we showed up at his house. He was drunk, wearing a bathrobe, and sipping Scotch. He took one look at us and said, and I quote, “The novelties are here. Now the party is interesting.”
For this party, Jefferson was wearing more than a bathrobe—thank God. But not much else had changed. As if on cue, I felt the heat of eyes on me and looked up to see a group of perky freshman girls huddled in the corner, staring. I glared at them.
“No looks of death at this party, please,” Jefferson scolded, seeing my expression.
“What?” Sylvia asked me. “Is someone giving you shit? Do I need to go pull out some hair?”
“No,” I said. “Forget it. It’s cool.”
“They’re freshmen,” Jefferson said. “Let them be. They don’t yet know the rule that you are to be feared and respected—from a dista
nce.”
I turned my narrowed eyes on him, but instead of being intimidated, he just looked me up and down. “There’s strip poker in the study,” he said slowly. “I’d love it if you joined.”
“Not fucking likely,” I replied, and Sylvia punched me.
“Be nice,” she said. “Use your manners.” Then she turned back to Jefferson. “Pardon my friend. What she meant to say was thank you, but it isn’t fucking likely.”
A cheer erupted from the corner of the room, and we all turned. Strung around a table were four guys high-fiving over a beer pong victory. Ryan was among them.
Tall and blond, he looked like he belonged on a beach in California—not in Minnesota. His dark green eyes caught the stare of one of the girls nearby, and he winked.
A flush crept into Sylvia’s pale cheeks. She pulled out her phone and texted a few words. A moment later, Ryan checked the phone on his belt and looked straight over at her. He grinned like a hyena.
“I’ll catch you guys later,” Sylvia said, walking to the perimeter of the beer pong game. Knowing Sylvia, she’d hang out there until Ryan gave some kind of sign, then they’d sneak off, one after the other, to meet at some prearranged location.
“See you,” I mumbled, and headed toward the kitchen. Thanks to the frozen pizza and salad mess, I was starving.
Another gaggle of girls was clustered near the microwave when I walked into the kitchen. They whispered and giggled as I helped myself to some kind of fancy cheese, a handful of crackers, and another beer. I chewed and drank the beer down and watched them.
They all had their phones out and were texting furiously. Their tight sweaters looked like they came from the same store; they all wore the same lip gloss.
One of them—Cassie, was it?—raised her eyes to me, and I glowered. She dropped her gaze back to her phone. Damn right, I thought.
Inside, I wobbled. Sure, Sylvia and I dressed and acted in a way that ensured the two of us didn’t get shit from anyone—but there were days when it was a lonely space to live in. Jefferson and a few others tolerated us for the “novelty” factor of our dark clothes and scary makeup, but it wasn’t like they were actually friends with us. Not really. No one was.
I watched the girls burst into another bout of giggles and thought that if it weren’t for Tiffany Holland, I could be one of them. I could be in that circle, giggling and whispering about boys and hair and shopping. I could belong, instead of—
No.
I crumbled the last cracker in my fist. Whatever stupid shit they thought was important, I didn’t want any part of it. They were all the same—all vapid and hollow. They were all like Tiffany Holland, and I’d never be one of them. Ever.
I left the kitchen and elbowed my way through the crowd to get to the back porch for some air. Just before I made it to the door, my cell buzzed. I pulled it out and saw a new text message.
NEIL: where u going?
My head whipped up. The living room was packed, the noise pounding. I had no idea where he was, but clearly he could see me.
I opened the door and stepped out into the night. No way was I going to stand there like a dumbass and let him watch me.
I trembled. Neil is texting me. He is here at the party.
Since I’d hoped this would happen, I had no idea why my entire body suddenly felt like lead. Outside, the house lights barely penetrated the darkness. The quiet pressed against me.
NEIL: im followng u.
I barely had time to register the text before the door opened and Neil strode out. I saw the whole thing happen in slow motion. Every step he took made his thick black hair flop; his mouth curled into a smile.
“Aggie,” he said. His smell—vanilla and cigarettes—jolted me back to real time. When we were dating, there were days when I’d just press myself against him and inhale, hoping that scent was strong enough to replace the atoms or ions or cells or whatever it is that makes us human. I wanted to be constructed out of it. Like Adamantium, only Neilsmelluminium.
“Hey,” I said. Surprising myself, I took the drink out of his hands and took a massive gulp, so I could do something instead of just stare at him.
“Didn’t know if you’d come,” he said, like he’d been watching for me.
“Didn’t know you wanted me to,” I said. My body was inches from throwing itself into his arms. My brain was working overtime to stop myself.
“You look good,” he said, stepping closer. His dark brown eyes looked black in the night. I could make out his full lips, see the stubble on his square chin, all but feel the texture of his skin against my fingertips.
Don’t do this, I thought. Please don’t do this. But Neil was doing it. He was doing what he’d done since we’d broken up last fall. He wanted me in private and ignored me in public. Just like Ryan did with Sylvia.
“I miss you,” Neil said.
I miss you too, I wanted to say. Words collected in my throat. I wanted to tell him about my mom, and how Sylvia was pregnant, and how there were days when I didn’t think my heart could go on beating because being without him felt like someone had stuck a firecracker in my aorta and let it explode.
“Do you miss me?” he asked, putting a warm hand against my cheek. I leaned into it, thinking how I used to call him Oatneil and tell him I wanted to bake him into a cookie. Neil had made it okay to say that kind of stuff.
Neil had about a thousand reasons for dumping me—I don’t have time for a girlfriend, I need my space, my parents don’t think I’m ready for a relationship, on and on—but the simple truth was that Neil had surpassed me on the high school food chain, and I just wasn’t cool enough anymore.
When we’d first hooked up, at the end of sophomore year, he’d been new to the school, with his scale tipped toward dork. He carried about twenty extra pounds on his frame, and he drove his rehabbed Chevrolet around like it was the greatest car in the world, blasting songs from the sixties. That had people calling him Danny Zuko, the name of John Travolta’s character from Grease, and speculating that he was gay.
Personally, I didn’t care. I liked his old-school taste in music, liked how easy he was to talk to, liked the way his dark eyes studied me as if he was trying to learn everything about me.
That summer, Neil started playing basketball and lifting weights almost every day. He wanted to get healthy, he said. He wanted to lose his pudge once and for all.
The change was almost immediate. He didn’t just lose the weight. He filled out. He gained confidence. He carried himself differently.
When school started in the fall, it was like he was in another social stratosphere. His car was suddenly cool. His taste in music was edgy. His Goth girlfriend? Not so much. He moved up and left me behind.
On the porch, Neil leaned in so our noses were almost touching. “I still think about you so much,” he said.
My nerves were quaking. “I think about you too,” I whispered.
“Then come over next weekend,” he said.
I squeezed my eyes shut and fought back the word yes. The truth is, I could have been okay with being dumped, except it wasn’t a clean break. Neil didn’t do the rip-it-offlike-a-Band-Aid thing. He broke up with me right after homecoming, in October, but was in touch again by November asking to see me.
I’d suggested we meet at Tickywinn’s, a café we sometimes hung out at, and he’d said no. In an IM he said, Come ovr whn my parents r aslp. I’ll let u in when u get to my house. I’ll watch for u. I’d missed him so much, I’d snuck out and visited him in November. And I’d done it three other times since then, too. Four times total. But I knew what was going on. These weren’t dates—Neil was using me. Not for sex (we’d never done that, actually) but for everything else.
“Neil,” I whispered, “we can’t keep doing this. You have to know tha—”
Suddenly the back door flew open. “Bromes!” It was Paul Towes, a senior. He squinted against the darkness. “Neil Bromes! You out here?”
Neil whipped around, shoving me behind
him. In the blackness, I could have been anyone.
“’Sup, Towes?” Neil yelled back.
“You’re wanted in here. The strip poker game calls!”
“Sweet,” Neil said. “There in a sec.”
“Awwwooooo!” Paul howled, and shut the door.
Neil turned back around and tried to kiss me. I shoved him away. “No,” I said. “Leave me alone. Please.”
“What? Why? What’s the matter?”
“I can’t take this anymore. It’s too much.”
Even in the dark I could see Neil’s eyes widen with surprise. And maybe hurt.
“I only wanted to see you,” he said. I suddenly longed to take my words back, but before I could say anything else, he’d turned away. He was headed back into the house.
I stood there, shaking with cold and pain, before I realized I was still holding Neil’s drink. I brought it to my lips and slammed half of it down, wanting to guzzle anything and everything until I passed out. Whatever it took to make the pain go away.
“Easy there,” came a voice from the shadows.
I sputtered and squinted against the darkness, trying to make out who else was around. To my horror, Fitz stepped forward.
“Don’t drink too fast. You’ll get a headache.”
My face burned, even in the cold. How much had Fitz heard? I stared at the cup in my hand. I was so tired suddenly. How bad would it be if I just lay down? Could I sleep on the deck with no one noticing?
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Fitz said. He inched closer, like I was a rabid raccoon or something. The next thing I knew, he’d put his jacket around my shoulders.
“You’re freezing,” he said.
I lifted my eyes. His huge mouth was pulled into a frown.
“Thanks,” I said. Then, “What are you doing out here?”
“I was getting some air when you and Romeo dropped by. I decided to wait you guys out.”
“Oh,” was all I could think to say. Neil’s drink had been strong, and I’d had some beer on top of it. My brain was slowing down, and my insides were heating up.