You Don't Know My Name

by Kristen Orlando

  I hug my knees and rock my body back and forth on the icy concrete floor. I cry for Anna Taylor and Alejandro and Luke and my parents and me. My ribs begin their slow ache and my dark hair becomes matted to my cheeks. I pull at the wet strands and open my eyes, catching my distorted reflection in the glass gun case. My eyes are swollen and mascara runs down both cheeks.

  “I cannot do this,” I whisper as I force my tears to slow. My cheeks are hot from sobbing, but the tears that cling to the skin around my eyes are growing cold.

  I will myself to get up. My hands push down on the smooth concrete, forcing my body to rise. I cannot stay here. I have to take care of this. Before it’s too late.

  THIRTEEN

  As Harper and I walk arm in arm toward Mark Ricardi’s house, my senses are heightened. The sound of pebbles scraping against the sidewalk seems louder, the smell of Harper’s sugar-and-citrus perfume is stronger, and the October air feels cooler. My training has taken over, forcing me to focus on my next move.

  Just do it, Reagan. Do it for him.

  “My giirrrllllsss,” someone yells from an open window. I look up. Malika is waving wildly at us from a second-story window. “Get your butts in here immediately.”

  “We’re coming,” Harper yells back.

  “She’s drunk already,” I say, snapping pretender Reagan to attention. Act normal. Act normal, I repeat until I’m able to force a smile. “I call not babysitting her tonight.” I rush to touch my nose before Harper does, a little game of “not it” we both play. Harper touches her index finger to her own nose, but it’s too late.

  “Ugh! You suck, you know that?” she says and bumps her hip into mine. “You’re so watching her at the next party.”

  “Fine, fine,” I say as we climb the brick steps that lead up to Mark’s ginormous house. We’re still several feet away, but I can feel the beat of the hip-hop flavor of the month coming from inside. The music intensifies as I push open the heavy front door.

  “Well, this doesn’t look like one of Mark’s intimate affairs,” Harper says as she surveys the scene. “I think the entire senior and junior class is here.”

  “And half the sophomore class too,” I reply as we weave our way through the packed foyer. I scan the crowd, surprised by the number of young faces, and lock eyes with someone I didn’t expect to see. Tess. Claire’s bully. Her hair is straightened and she’s wearing a little makeup. She looks pretty. I raise my eyebrows at her and she immediately bolts down the stairs that lead to the basement. As she should.

  Our boots clack against the white marble floors. There are elements of old money in this house. Antique furniture, sterling silver frames, and expensive-looking art. But there are signs of new money too. Enormous plasma-screen TVs, embarrassingly large portraits of Mark and his family, and the biggest chandelier I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Very look-at-us.

  I pull Harper across the great room and head straight for the kitchen. If I’m going to do this, I need more than my training. I need liquid courage.

  The white-and-gray marble island is littered with half-empty beer cups, lip-gloss-stained wineglasses, and empty liquor bottles. I take two red cups off the counter, inspecting their questionable cleanliness, ready to down a beer.

  “Shot, ladies?” a guy I recognize from the soccer team asks, carrying a tray of shot glasses with pale pink liquid.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Vodka with a splash of cranberry,” he says and pushes the tray toward me. Shots are better than foamy beer. I grab two shots off the tray. Harper holds out her hand to take one from me but I down them one right after the other. The vodka burns my throat and waters my eyes. Once my vision clears, I see Harper’s mouth come unhinged. I rarely drink, let alone double fist shots.

  “Holy shit,” Harper yells over the music and smiles. “You’re in rare form tonight. What happened to Mama Reagan?”

  “I left her at home,” I yell into Harper’s ear. “Your turn to play mom.”

  “Okay by me,” Harper says with a smile, putting her shot back on the tray. “I’ll take it easy. So how was your day with Luke?”

  Just hearing his name pulls me out of my numbed state. My muscles tighten and my stomach twists until it’s pretzeled and heavy beneath my skin.

  “Fine,” I say quickly and turn away. I don’t know what’s written in my eyes but I don’t want Harper to see. I look out the large window over the farmhouse sink. The light in the room and the darkness outside has turned the window into an imperfect mirror. My reflection stares back at me, but my silhouette is hazy, my features hollow.

  “Everything okay?” Harper asks, pulling at my arm.

  “Everything’s great,” I lie and give her a sweet smile that turns my stomach even more than the vodka sloshing around inside.

  “Harper!” Malika yells as she takes four giant steps across the kitchen, grabbing Harper by both of her hands. “Come on. Peter Paras brought a bunch of his super-hot Australian teammates and I’ve been telling one of them all about you.”

  Before Harper can even agree to play wingwoman, Malika is grabbing her by the arm while running down the list of his hot-guy stats: Tall. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Six-pack. Harper grabs me by the hand and pulls me past the flip cup tournament and into the crowded great room. The field hockey girls are bouncing around, dancing and lip-synching to a Taylor Swift song while frat boys in training sit on the deep leather sectional and cheer them on. I can think of about a thousand other places I’d rather be than here. But I have to stay. I have to do this tonight.

  My eyes scan the room, looking for a target. Sitting with the group of Australian soccer boys is a dark-haired guy I don’t recognize. But he’s looking straight at me. His lips crack into a lazy smile as soon as our eyes lock. Perfect.

  As I walk toward him, a wave of claustrophobia hits me hard. I take deep breaths through my nose to try to center myself, use my training to stay sane. But it’s hot and loud in here and I feel the party encircling me like a snake, waiting to strike. A few more steps, a few more breaths, and I’m at his side. I swallow the panic crawling up my throat and flood my blood with one more breath of oxygen. The numbness returns. It’s go time.

  “Hi, I’m Reagan,” I say, taking a seat and extending my hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Reagan,” he says with an Australian accent. “I’m Oliver.”

  “Love that accent,” I say, touching his arm and turning on the charm.

  “Not as much as I love a gorgeous American girl,” Oliver replies, the right side of his lips turned up. Tall with sculpted features, a smooth-as-a-statue complexion, and athletic body, a compliment like that from a guy like Oliver would make every girl in this room lose their minds or consciousness or both. But his words prick at my skin, threatening to shatter my numbed state. My muscles begin to twitch; my brain pleads with me to run. To stop this. But I can’t.

  “What are you drinking?” I ask, nodding toward a glass tumbler filled with dark liquid.

  “Spiced rum. Want a sip?” Oliver says, offering me his glass. I take it and gulp. It’s smokier and smoother than the vodka but still burns my throat.

  “Not bad,” I say and take another gulp. I need more alcohol before I lose my nerve.

  “A gorgeous American girl who can drink,” Oliver says, leaning in, his breath in the hollow of my ear. “Double bonus.”

  Oliver puts his hand on the top of my knee and I let his fingers linger. His touch is strong. Respectful, but not soft and gentle like Luke’s. After today, I can’t imagine anyone else’s hands on me. I look down at the dark hardwood floors as the heavy weight of guilt settles at the bottom of my already-sore stomach. When I look up, Harper is staring at me from four soccer players away. She cocks her head to the side, What are you doing? written in her narrowed eyes.

  I turn away from Harper’s questioning gaze and lean into Oliver. “So what do you think about Ohio so far?” I yell in his ear over the music.

  “Very different from back home,” Ol
iver replies, steadying his hand on my arm as he leans into me. “But I like it. It’s really pretty here. And I keep finding better and better things to look at.”

  Oliver pulls back, revealing a smile so unfairly handsome, it’d probably help him get away with murder. I can’t tell if it’s the sight of his stunning white teeth or the precarious concoction of liquor in my stomach or the thought of what I have to do next, but suddenly, I feel nauseous.

  Someone in the corner turns up the music several notches and the party is in full swing. Harper and Malika pass around a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 with the rest of the soccer players. Madison and her crew have turned the enormous blue stone coffee table into their own personal dance platform and about thirty other juniors and seniors are holding red plastic cups in the air, dancing around them.

  Just then, I spy Luke standing in the kitchen, checking his phone and looking out into the crowd—looking for me. He hasn’t seen me yet. But he’s about to.

  “Want to dance?” I ask Oliver, willing my lips into a pretender smile.

  “Absolutely.” Oliver stands and holds out his open palm to help me up. I place my hand in his and as we walk, he laces his fingers with mine. His hands are soft but our grip is clumsy and forced. Still, I don’t pull away.

  Oliver leads me out to the middle of the dance floor. I throw my arms around his neck and dance to the beat. Oliver wraps his hands around my waist, slowly pulling me closer and closer as the bass crescendos.

  After a song and a half, I spy over Oliver’s shoulder to see Luke’s eyes locked on us. I quickly look away. Time to make my move.

  I tug at Oliver’s neck and swing my hips from side to side, our bodies colliding with every note. As we dip in unison, he pulls at my hips and I let my body fall into him. I feel Oliver’s hot lips on my cheek, his hands gripping the back of my waist. I run my hands along his shoulders and across his strong chest, tears scratching and bullying the back of my throat. I take a breath and pull at Oliver’s shirt until our lips are centimeters away.

  Do it, my mind demands.

  And so I do. I let the Australian kiss me while I swallow the scream in my throat.

  With one kiss, I destroy Luke. But even as I betray him, my heart, beating and bleeding within me, calls his name.

  I pull out of the kiss and immediately regret looking at Luke’s fallen face. His pale blue eyes turn glassy before his gaze leaves mine. And as I watch him shove his hands in his pockets and walk out of the room, a tightening knot of sorrow grows under my breastbone.

  The broken look on his face shatters any remaining trace of numbness and my skin feels like it’s wrapped in scalding barbed wire. Every cell within me wants to run after him. My brain is on fire, shrieking at me. Begging for me to explain that falling in love with him … letting him fall in love with me … soon the pain will be ten times worse.

  I crane my head toward the foyer and watch Luke quietly slip out the front door. My job is done. This mission, a success. I want him to hate me. But he’ll never hate me as much as I hate myself. Tears sting my eyes as Oliver comes in for another kiss. I push him away and break free of his grasp. I walk quickly across the great room, grab the Mad Dog straight out of Harper’s hands, put it to my lips, and chug.

  FOURTEEN

  “No! I don’t want to go. I want more Mad Dog,” I announce, several octaves too high for the dark and silent streets of New Albany’s most expensive neighborhood. Harper loops her arm in mine and I try to pull away.

  “No more Mad Dog,” Harper says, tightening her grip on me. “Let’s get you some coffee at the diner.”

  “No, I want Mad Dog,” I whine, throwing my head back in the air and looking up at a blur of stars, glittering pinholes in a black, cloudless sky.

  “Reagan, nothing good happens when you drink Mad Dog, remember?” Harper says, guiding me to her parked Range Rover. “It’s your party rule for a reason.”

  Harper eases me into the front passenger seat. She closes the door and climbs in the driver’s side. The motor turns on and a warm blast of air hits my face. I lean my head against the cold window as we pull down the street, lined with impressive estates.

  “I want to go home,” I say, as the alcohol begins to weigh heavy on my eyelids.

  “No way! Your parents will kill you,” Harper exclaims, turning left onto Route 62 and away from the country club neighborhoods. “Let’s get you some food or something.”

  I close my eyes as Harper drives the seven miles out of New Albany and into neighboring Gahanna where the Dead End Diner sits at the end of, you guessed it, a dead end street. Open twenty-four hours, the Dead End has been owned by the same family for over sixty years and has become a Columbus institution. You can get a cheeseburger at nine in the morning and coffee and eggs at midnight if you want. The owner says he doesn’t even have a key to the place anymore since they never close. Even on Christmas Day.

  As Harper pulls into the gravel parking lot, I open my eyes. There are a few cars parked in front of the classic fifties diner that looks more like a train car than a building. I look for Luke’s truck. The Dead End is his favorite. He’s not here.

  “Caffeine awaits you,” Harper says, turning off the SUV and hopping down on the gravel. We walk in silence up to the front door, her hand placed gently on my shoulder blade. The crunch of the gravel and the buzz of the Dead End’s neon sign fill the space between us, drowning out the silent questions that have to be running through Harper’s brain. How could you? What’s wrong with you? I asked myself the same questions while downing a half a bottle of Mad Dog that looked like Windex and didn’t taste much better. Mad Dog tastes like somebody liquefied blue Jolly Ranchers in cough syrup and then mixed it with rubbing alcohol. The taste still lingers on my tongue.

  A couple tables are occupied. One booth holds a group of teenage boys I don’t recognize, scarfing down big plates of fried eggs and hash browns. In the back, a twenty-something couple share loving gazes and a plate of fries. Vom. A Gahanna cop sits on a red stool at the cream Formica counter, sipping a cup of coffee and reading yesterday’s newspaper.

  Harper and I slide into our favorite booth next to the cigarette machine that even with Ohio’s strict smoking laws, the Dead End still keeps.

  We don’t even bother to look at the menus. Rachel, the forty-something night shift waitress, brings freshly refilled pops to the boys three booths behind us. She sees us and walks over to our table.

  “Hey, girls,” Rachel says, pulling a pencil out of her messy bun. “French fries with a side of ranch and coffee?”

  “Please,” I answer, fighting the urge to lay my head on the table while Rachel grabs two ceramic cups and one of the pots behind the counter. The cups clang, clang, clang with every step back to our table. She places them in front of each of us and pours.

  “Reagan, you look like you’ve had a long night,” Rachel says, studying my face. She fills my cup, slides it closer to me, and places the pot on the table. “I’ll leave this for you ladies. French fries will be up in a few.”

  The Dead End’s fries are the best. Hand cut and generously seasoned. I know I should get something in my stomach to soak up the alcohol but I’m not very hungry. In my Mad Dog state, I almost forget why. But Luke’s shattered face comes back to me. Pain crawls up my body, tightening my muscles and squeezing my lungs. I deserve it. I deserve every gut-wrenching breath. There’s no such thing as a happy ending for a girl like me. How selfish am I to forget that?

  I pour cream into my coffee and stare at the swirling patterns until the milk takes over, infusing itself into the hot liquid, turning its black hole a caramel cream. I can feel Harper’s eyes on me, the air between us dense with questions she’s too good a friend to ask and answers I’m too broken to give.

  “So…” she says, breaking the silence. “What are the chances Mal gets some rare form of mouth herpes after making out with that Australian guy?”

  I spit out a laugh. Harper always knows exactly what I need.

  �
��From what I saw, he was pretty cute,” I answer and bring the coffee to my lips. I blow at the steam before taking a sip.

  “Yeah, too cute for me,” Harper declares, stirring cream and sugar into her cup. “You can just tell he’s banged a ton of chicks, right? He’s got that look to him.”

  “Well, I think Malika won’t let things get too far with that guy,” I answer and fold my hands in front of me. “Maybe just a kiss so she can scratch another continent off her list.”

  “She’s freaking hilarious,” Harper says and shakes her head.

  “So what else did I miss tonight?”

  “You mean while you were downing a Mad Dog basically by yourself?”

  “Exactly,” I answer with a nod.

  “Let’s see,” Harper says, tapping a finger to her forehead. “My Australian soccer player seemed like a nice guy until he spotted Madison wearing a dress about an inch from her vag. He took one look at her, turned to his friend, and yelled ‘dibs’ right in front of me. So that was awesome.”

  “What an asshole,” I reply and take a gulp of coffee. “Would you like me to beat him up?”

  “Not necessary but thank you for the kind offer, darling,” Harper answers with a wink. “Let’s see, what else … Owen cheated on Annie with some skanky freshman, the Goldach twins broke some really fancy, expensive crystal vase in the foyer, and I heard Renee puked all over the wine cellar after she and Jenna chugged a two-thousand-dollar bottle of wine.”

  “See. I told you nothing good happens at Mark Ricardi parties.”

  Without a word, Rachel slides a hot plate of fries in front of us and steals a full bottle of ketchup from the table behind us before disappearing to tend to the couple in the corner who have taken their cuteness to new obnoxious levels by sharing the same side of the booth.