That Weekend

by Kara Thomas

  A tug on my ponytail. Jamie Liu appears at my shoulder and takes a swill from the Solo cup in her hand. “What up, bitch?”

  I point at the hot tub, and Jamie says, “Oh. Shit.”

  Jamie and I stand like that, side by side, watching the scene in the hot tub. She doesn’t tell me Ben and Anna are only being playful and that I have nothing to worry about. Since elementary school, Jamie Liu has been the friend I go to when I need someone to be brutally honest about my breath or to talk me out of getting bangs.

  After a few moments of silence, Jamie says, “What are you going to do?”

  I don’t know. I need time to think. “Wanna go inside?”

  Jamie glances down into her empty cup. “Sure.”

  Inside the house is considerably quieter. We wander into the kitchen, where Jamie grabs a bottle of Bacardi from the libations Anna has set out. She pours a few inches of rum into a cup and tops it off with a splash of Coke. Hands it to me. “Let’s turn this night around.”

  Or, more likely, upside down.

  We clink rims. The first sip of Jamie’s death concoction is so foul I almost gag; there’s no choice but to treat it like a shot. I drain the cup in a fluid motion. A shudder passes through me, followed by warmth.

  “Woo,” I say. “Wow. Make another.”

  Jamie obeys, more than happy to help me board the train to Sloppy Town. My muscles tighten, and suddenly my head is clearer.

  Kat, my best friend, says I hate confrontation. If she were here, she’d remind me just how much I hate confrontation, but she’d still march right up to Ben for me and say something to make him evacuate his bowels in the hot tub.

  Kat is not here, though.

  I need to be a big girl and not leave without handling this. I knock back another drink, make a third, and follow Jamie into the living room. We nestle into a free corner of the couch; the World Cup soccer match, and reason for this party, is on Anna’s television, which is approximately Dad-Owns-a-Chain-of-Ford-Dealerships inches big.

  My eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. During a commercial for Buffalo Wild Wings, Jamie puts a hand on my knee. “Can we go be mean to Ben now?”

  When I shake my head, the room does a full tilt. I shut my eyes and chug the rest of my drink.

  “I’m going to Mom you now.” Jamie reaches over and guides the cup away from my mouth. “No blacking out on me.”

  “Okay.” My body gives a twitch and a shudder. “I’m ready to talk to Ben.”

  Jamie is at my heels like a cat as I pick my way around the crowd gathering in Anna’s living room. Through the kitchen, out the sunroom, and onto the deck, my heartbeat mimicking a terrier’s.

  I stop short of the hot tub. The spot Anna and Ben had been occupying is empty. Noah McKenna, reaching for a beer on the ledge of the tub, spots Jamie and me. Freezes.

  “Where’s Ben?” I ask.

  “Hey. When did you get here?” His eyes ferret around, avoiding mine. “Uh, I think Ben went to get a refill?”

  “Huh. We were just in the kitchen,” Jamie says. “It’s so weird we didn’t see him.”

  I’m already making my way back toward the house, taking the deck steps two at a time. The patio doorway is jammed with underclassmen—friends of the younger Markeys, there are three—and I lose Jamie to them.

  The brief excursion into the hot June night has made my skin clammy; a bead of sweat rolls down my chest, and I can feel the hair at my crown frizzing. I swallow an acidic burp. Scan the kitchen. No Ben.

  I step through the dining room, into the living room. Where the hell are you?

  My gaze locks on the top of the stairs. On Anna, a towel wrapped around her waist. Ben, following her.

  I say his name. I don’t know how anyone can hear it over the TV, but Anna does.

  Her head swivels toward me. She stops short on the stairs. Reaches for Ben’s hand and gives it a panicked tug.

  He shouts for me to wait, but I’m already halfway to the front door. I stumble on the last step and roll my ankle. Home. I need to go home.

  I can’t drive, obviously. If I call my house, one of my parents will be here in five minutes to pick me up, and even though I won’t get in trouble for the drinking, I don’t think I can stomach the humiliation of telling them what happened with Ben.

  The shame levels me; I sink so I’m sitting on the curb outside Anna’s. Stupid, stupid. Stupid for drinking that much—stupid for thinking I could ever fit in with Ben Filipoff’s friends. There are only two people who don’t make me feel like a fool and they’re not here right now because they’re together.

  I dig out my phone. It slips through my fingers and clatters to the pavement. Someday the screen is going to decide it’s had enough and shatter on me. For now, it’s intact. I fumble for my favorites.

  Kat sounds worried when she answers. “Claire? Are you okay?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. “Are you home?”

  “We’re at Jesse’s.”

  “Can you come get me?”

  A pause. “Where are you?”

  “Anna Markey’s. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  “Okay. Stay where you are. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The thought of Jesse Salpietro seeing me like this is the cherry-shaped turd on top of this absolute shit sundae of a day.

  “Claire.” Ben’s voice reaches me, breaking through the clouding in my brain. “Wait.”

  “Leave me alone.” I stand up off the curb.

  “Claire.” Ben grabs my arm.

  I yank it back and slap him across the face with my opposite hand. He blinks at me, stunned. Commotion by Anna’s backyard gate—some laughing, Noah bleating, Damn, wish I got that on video, followed by a girl shouting, That’s not funny!

  Ben puts his palm to his cheek. “I was just—I didn’t want you to step into the road without looking.”

  Someone says my name. I turn around; Jesse Salpietro is at the foot of Anna’s driveway. “What’s going on?”

  Off to my side, Ben says, “I’m taking Claire home.”

  “No, you’re not,” I growl.

  “I’ve got it from here,” Jesse says to Ben.

  “Of course you do.” Ben shakes his head. Tosses his hands up and steps away from me. “Have fun. She’s all yours.”

  Of course you do. What does he mean? By the time I compose myself enough to ask him what the hell he meant, Ben is gone, and Kat Marcotte is standing next to Jesse. She’s in a loose denim button-down shirt, crisp white shorts. Gold-streaked, beachy waves that can withstand the swampiest of June nights.

  I buckle over and vomit on Anna’s lawn.

  Kat loops an arm through mine. “Babe, help me get her.”

  Jesse’s familiar smell—grapefruit shampoo, and the hint of Febreze he sprays on his clothes to cover up the cigarette stench from his aunt and uncle’s house. I close my eyes, fighting off tears. One hand on the small of my back, Jesse guides me into the backseat of his car. Instead of slamming the door behind me, Kat squeezes in. Lifts my legs and lays them across her lap so we both fit.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. The adrenaline is gone from my body, and I’m crashing, my anger replaced by the crush of shame.

  “Why are you apologizing?” Jesse asks.

  “I threw up.”

  Kat shifts under me. “You missed. You should have aimed for Ben. Exorcist-style, right in his stupid face.”

  “I slapped him,” I mumble.

  The world around me swirls. I catch pieces of their conversation:

  Can’t take her home like this—

  Can’t bring her to my house, my mom will call hers—

  “My car,” I mumble. “I can’t leave it.”

  “We’ll get it in the morning,” Kat says.

  “I slapped Ben,” I repeat.<
br />
  “Good.” Kat strokes a piece of hair off my forehead. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

  “I love you,” I say.

  The satisfied smile on her face is the last thing I see before everything spins to a halt.

  TWO DAYS EARLIER

  THURSDAY

  When I wake up, I’m staring at Carlos Santana.

  I close my eyes in an attempt to ward off the jackhammering in my brain. Santana poster, twin bed. I’m not in my room.

  I blink until a black electric guitar propped up in the corner comes into focus; a Les Paul, found on eBay last year after his old Fender strat was stolen from a show. Kat and I pooled our money for his birthday so we could buy him a new guitar.

  Jesse is at his desk, his back to me, watching a Marvel movie trailer on YouTube, headphones in.

  “Jesse,” I say, but he doesn’t move. I lob his pillow at him.

  He swivels in his chair so he’s facing me and tugs out his earbuds. “She lives.”

  I scramble into an upright position, the back of my skull knocking on the headboard. “What time is it? I have work at noon.”

  “It’s ten-ish. You’re good.” Jesse moves toward the bed, eyeing me like a dog that might bite. He perches at the edge, leaving a safe two feet of space between us. On his carpet, I spot a pillow and a lump of a blanket.

  “You didn’t have to sleep on the floor,” I say, even though we both know that’s not true. His bed is a twin, and Jesse Salpietro would not leave a drunk girl to sleep on the floor.

  “It’s fine,” he says around a yawn.

  I prop myself up against the headboard. When I close my eyes, I see Ben, following Anna Markey up those stairs.

  I think I might puke again. “Do you know what happened to my phone?”

  Jesse tosses it to me. “We texted your parents saying you were staying at Kat’s.”

  Scrolling through my phone is a brief reprieve from the awkward silence. No calls or texts from Ben. The only new message is a reply from my mom. Tell Kat hi.

  I set my phone down, swallowing hard and praying I won’t cry in front of Jesse.

  He is watching me, carefully, as if he wants to say something.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing.” Jesse swivels in his chair so he’s facing away from me, a little too quickly. “I can take you to get your car whenever you’re ready.”

  My stomach curls like ash, and a horrifying thought rises up in me. Me, babbling to Kat about how much I love her.

  I am not religious, but I say a silent prayer to whoever that after I professed my undying love for Kat, I had the presence of mind to keep my goddamn mouth shut about how I feel about her boyfriend.

  * * *

  —

  Anna Markey’s car isn’t in her driveway, saving me the humiliation of being spotted picking up my car looking like a sewer rat in last night’s clothes. Jesse idles at the curb.

  “Thanks.” I pause, my hand on the door.

  What would it cost me to say it? I miss you. I miss how things were.

  Jesse moved into town in the sixth grade. The first day of school, I picked a seat by the front of the bus for the afternoon ride home, squashed to the window and hoping Noah McKenna wouldn’t sit next to me, because he sat behind me in social studies the year before and snapped my training bra strap every day.

  When he plopped down next to me, Jesse’s long, dark eyelashes were clumped together. For a moment, I thought it was the rain outside, but his cheeks were splotchy.

  I couldn’t remember ever seeing a boy cry at school, in front of people, since kindergarten. “Are you okay?” I’d asked.

  He shook his head. “I forgot my key. I have to wait outside until my mom gets home at six.”

  “Can you go to one of your neighbors? Or call your mom at work?” I asked.

  He shook his head—just barely, careful not to disturb the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. I took the hint and stuck in my earbuds. It was hard to look away from him. The birthmark at the corner of his right eye. Soft, brown curls. The Oreo dirt under his fingernails.

  The next afternoon, while I was smashed up against the window of the front seat, I saw him getting onto the bus. I held my breath. Scrambled for my headphones, praying I looked convincingly absorbed in untangling the wires.

  Someone plopped into the seat next to me. “Hi.”

  I tamped down the urge to put a hand to my lips, to cover the dopey smile blooming there. “Hi.”

  “What are you listening to?” Jesse asked.

  I handed him one of my earbuds, and we listened together. I’d been listening to “American Girl” by Tom Petty, my favorite song, and I’d been hoping he’d ask because I wanted Jesse Salpietro to know everything about me.

  He told me he played the guitar; I’d just watched my favorite movie, Almost Famous, for the first time that year, and I told him it was my dream to write for Rolling Stone one day.

  “Good,” he’d said. “You can write about how awesome my band’s music is.”

  We spent the next few years making crazy plans like that. On the bus, at the merry-go-round at the marina playground.

  “Claire,” Jesse says, bringing me back. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I unbuckle my seat belt and climb out of the car without looking back at him. “Thanks for the ride.”

  * * *

  —

  My parents are at work when I get home. Mom is a psychotherapist who sees patients from an office forty minutes from our house, Dad is a librarian with a rotating schedule, and I work at a restaurant, which means the three of us are rarely home and awake at the same time.

  I shower and take a twenty-minute nap that makes me feel even worse before dragging myself to Stellato’s Italian Table.

  I’ve had a job there since I was fifteen, first as a busser and then a waitress. Serg, the owner, has been letting me hostess for the past month or so, since the last girl quit and no one inquired about the Help Wanted sign in the door.

  No one wants to work these days, he always grumbles. Really, no one wants to work for his wife, who is a nightmare of a human being. The kitchen staff is a revolving door.

  Serg’s wife has sent me home crying a handful of times, and I think about quitting once every two weeks, but I’m too comfortable to ever go through with it. Comfortable with the regulars, who slip me an extra twenty around the holidays. Comfortable knowing exactly where everything is and never having to ask.

  I slip through the kitchen entrance, where Carlos, the chef, is stirring a stock pot of Bolognese. The smell makes bile rise up in my throat. When I cover my mouth, Carlos says something to the dishwasher—a boy I don’t know—in Spanish, and they laugh.

  “Stop making fun of me,” I say.

  “How do you know we’re making fun of you?”

  I scowl. “What does resaca mean?”

  “Didn’t pay attention in Spanish class?” Carlos clicks his tongue, shakes his head.

  “All we ever did was watch movies,” I tell him. “The only thing I know how to say is ‘¿Dónde está Nemo?’ ”

  The dishwasher boy laughs again as a girl’s voice says to my back: “He’s saying you’re hungover.”

  I turn. Kat is standing in the kitchen entrance. Carlos keeps the door propped open to make stepping out for his hourly chain-smoke easier. Kat’s golden retriever, Elmo, is tied to the fence post behind her, his nose in the air.

  I look at Carlos, then at Kat. “You know Spanish too?”

  Kat took French, and she speaks near-perfect Italian, a byproduct of living on the Aviano Air Base in Italy for three years.

  Kat shrugs. “I mean, it’s obvious he’s calling you hungover.”

  “She’s right.” Carlos whisks past us, headed for the back lot, cigarette between h
is lips. He gives Elmo a pat on the head; when the dog sees me, he begins to whine and paw at the gravel.

  “He misses you,” Kat says.

  I step forward and rub Elmo’s ears with my thumbs. “He just thinks I have food for him.”

  The Marcottes live around the corner from the restaurant. Kat passes it on her dog-walking route. She knows I could get in trouble for this, so she only ever does it when she sees Serg’s truck missing from the back lot. It’s been weeks since she’s come by.

  We both know things are weird, because Kat wouldn’t have stopped coming to see me at work unless she knew things were weird.

  I guess the weirdness became a tangible thing when college admissions letters went out in April.

  Kat got into Boston College and NYU, her dream schools. I was too embarrassed to tell her I got rejected from mine—Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism. So, I lied and told her that I’d changed mine and hadn’t bothered applying to Northwestern since I wouldn’t get in anyway.

  Now, Kat glances at the patio seating area. The empty tables I have to set up before we open at noon. “Want help?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

  I duck into the linen closet at the back of the kitchen and grab a stack of tablecloths. Kat’s waiting on the patio when I return. She watches how I arrange one of the tables before grabbing a tablecloth from the stack.

  “Have you talked to Ben?” she asks.

  “No,” I say, shaking a tablecloth open.

  “Are you going to?”

  “No.”

  There’s nothing more to say; dating Ben Filipoff was a failed experiment. But that’s not why she’s really here. This is a recon mission: How will my breakup affect our weekend plans?

  I try and fail twice to lay the tablecloth on evenly before Kat is at my side, grabbing the other end.

  “I don’t know if I should go with you guys,” I say, looking up at her when the tablecloth is finally on straight.

  Kat’s face falls. “Claire.”