When Charlie reached the dog, he scooped him up with one hand without stopping, cradling him like a football to his chest. He ran toward me, then past me to the curb, where Mrs. Domingo met him to collect the wriggling wad of her mutt. “Oh, you’re a good boy. A good boy,” she said, and I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Charlie or the dog.
Eight years later, whenever I taste a Tootsie Roll, I still imagine that ball of fur running amok while little-kid Charlie breezes past. I suppose that vision of him, his hat askew, a red blur, is pressed somewhere against the curve of my mind. Quilted now with other memories, paper-thin, that have built up, layer by layer to this, tonight, right now:
Grown-up Charlie Hunt as he perches against the counter in Matt Graybill’s kitchen—long legs, red Solo cup in hand, a dazed, drunk look on his face.
I haven’t been to a party for months, but it is Saturday night and Lindsey has spent the afternoon alternately moping and raging about Robert. She has guessed and second-guessed (and four-hundredth-guessed) everything she did or didn’t do the night before. And because I’m her friend, I listened.
But I’m not certain I can hear the words asshole or don’t care or my fault any more without seeking out the nearest cliff for a nice cozy jump.
And so, we made a plan. I told my mom I was going to spend the night at Lindsey’s, and Lindsey told her mom she’d be spending the night with me. And together, hand in hand, metaphorically at least, we set out for the great wide world—or the living room dance floor at Matt Graybill’s house, whichever came first.
“What can I get you ladies?” Matt’s little brother, Dylan, is manning the drinks.
“Aren’t you a little young to be playing bartender?” Lindsey asks. We slip off our coats. She is dangerous tonight, wearing a lacy chemise over a V-neck tank and white short-shorts over pale pink leggings. Her entire outfit is confused, like her underwear is trying to escape.
Dylan looks at her as if she’s covered with whipped cream.
He reaches past the assorted half-full bottles of gin and vodka on the counter, fills two red cups from a keg, and hands them to us. I set mine down and rifle around in a cooler for a can of soda instead. “Driving,” I say, which is true. But it’s also true that I haven’t partied since the whole facedown in salsa thing. Plus, it’s Lindsey who needs mood alteration, not me.
I pop my can and raise it to Lindsey. “Cheers!”
She bangs it with her cup, sloshing foam on my wrist. I toss my coat on the back of an empty chair.
Without moving his head, Charlie lifts his eyes to the two of us.
“Cheeeers,” he says, drawing out the “eeer” in a slur, not bothering to raise his cup. “I haven’t seen you at one of these things for a while.” With his free hand, he points at me.
“I haven’t been,” I say.
“Get comfortable,” he says. “It never ends.” Which I suppose makes a drunk sort of logic.
“Right,” I say, and Lindsey pulls me out of the bright kitchen, through a large, dimly lit living room full of noise, dance music, and sweat. Arms and hips pulse with the bass line as we dodge our way through the crowd. When we reach the edge of the room, Lindsey takes a gulp of her beer and sets it on a coffee table. She starts to dance across from me, tilting her shoulders like a desperate boat. I put down my soda and dance with her, hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel.
We inch our way deeper into the room; Lindsey raises her arms over her head and shuts her eyes as she sways. After a minute, I feel something brush against my back and turn to find Jared Hilley gyrating in the general area of my butt. I think for the second time this evening of Mrs. Domingo’s dog.
“Hey, girl,” says Jared. Very Ryan Gosling. The beer is frothy on his breath.
“Hey,” I say, still dancing. I ease away, creating a cushion of space between my body and Jared’s. The song transitions into an elaborate guitar riff and Jared’s hands start to twitch in a face-melting air guitar. “You still play?” I ask him.
He nods, enthusiastic. And I wonder if I’ve encouraged him in some way I didn’t intend to.
I step away and do a little spin. But when I turn, I notice Lindsey isn’t dancing. She is standing. Staring.
At Robert.
He wasn’t supposed to be here—he was supposed to be at Tony Somebody’s bonfire out in the woods near Eagle Creek because Tony Somebody is on the football team and rule number one of the football team is “Players Party with Players”—but here’s Robert, regardless, broad shoulders blocking Matt Graybill’s kitchen doorway. The light behind him makes the tips of his blond hair seem to glow.
“You want to go?” I touch Lindsey’s shoulder. “Come on.”
She shakes her head. “I’m here to dance,” she says, and she starts up her engine again. But she might as well be listening to chainsaws for all she hits the beat.
I do a sort of shuffle-dance, keeping my eyes on her face. Meanwhile, my radar, invisible, is sending out pings, bouncing off walls. Without looking, I sense the space occupied by Jared, the space occupied by Robert, and beyond, the space occupied by drunken Charlie.
There is movement behind me—not Jared’s dancing, but a more general crowd-making-way movement. Lindsey’s eyes widen, which means Robert is walking toward her. I make way, too.
Robert slips in beside Lindsey and puts his lips next to her ear. Whatever he says, it’s working. She rolls her eyes like she’s pretending not to give in, but with another word from him, a slow smile tugs at her lips and she flushes a rosy pink.
Oookay, I think. So much for the last eight hours of my life.
It kills me how stupid she is about that guy. But whatever. It’s her heart, not mine.
Jared moves closer, like he’s about to say something, but I pull away. “Thirsty,” I say, and step back, making a beeline for the coffee table where we left our drinks.
I so don’t want to be here—the extra in a bad teen movie. Lonely girl at party.
Robert holds Lindsey’s hand and leads her out of the living room, back through the kitchen. She catches my eye on the way out and gives me a happy little wave. I wave back, not smiling, but trying not to frown either.
I glance down at my soda and, beside it, Lindsey’s red Solo cup. It’s half full. I pick it up instead and take a sip. The beer tastes lukewarm, bitter and ashy, like someone put a cigarette out in it.
“Wanna dance?” Jared has caught up with me. He thumbs his goatee in a way I’m sure he thinks is sexy.
I let out a frustrated breath.
He leans against the wall behind us. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Ugh,” I say, and that pretty much sums it up.
My phone vibrates. A message from Lindsey.
!!! Heading out wiht Robert. Don’t wait forme. Lol. Talk tomorow. Bugs!
Lindsey is a bad speller, but what she lacks in spelling skills, she makes up for by being sloppy. For some reason, she turned off the auto-correct on her phone a week ago and never turned it back on, so now half her texts read like she’s an extraterrestrial who learned English by scrolling through the comments section on YouTube.
K
If she were paying attention, she would know that means I’m irked. But what does it really matter if I wasted an entire day marinating in Lindsey’s big vat of misery, listening to her wail about Robert? What does it matter if I lugged us both out to this party where neither one of us particularly wanted to be in some misguided attempt to cheer her up? What does it matter if we’re supposed to be having a girls’ night… because WHO NEEDS THAT JERK ANYWAY? and GIRL POWER! and CHICKS BEFORE PRICKS… BESTIES BEFORE TESTES! What does any of that matter if Robert, who up till twenty minutes ago was, and I quote, “the asshole to end all assholes,” waltzes in and bats his eyelashes in her direction?
Yes, they are nice eyelashes. But really, Lindsey, really?
I take a gulp of her beer. Then shuddering, chug what’s left.
“Look, Jared, I’m not great company right now,�
�� I say.
Empty cup in hand, I make my way back to the kitchen where the keg awaits.
Pig Latin
Twenty minutes later, I’m downing my second refill when Dylan Graybill jabs my shoulder. “I thought you were driving,” he says.
“New plan!” I give him a sloppy grin as I finish the cup and toss it in the general direction of the sink. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Down the hall.” He points past the living room.
I slither my way through the crowd, moving with the music. I’m a snake, I think. A sneaky snake. Who needs to pee. The thought of it makes me laugh, because, you know, beer.
I slide through the dance pit and halfway down the hallway, but before I can reach the Vessel of Sweet Relief, someone swats my bottom. I pivot on my heel, and now the swatty hands grip my hips and a bristly chin presses against my neck.
“What the—?” I try to pull away.
“You’re so hot.”
“Ugh. Get your—”
But then a surge of burly mass is driving me backward, crushing me against the wall.
Panic bolts through my body and I push back hard, but he—who is he?—is made of grizzly bear hormones and gut.
“Get off!” I yell, thinking back to my self-defense teacher, Miss Nancy, in her baggy sweats. Say it girls: “Knee to groin!”
Steeling myself, I ram a blunt knee into his privates. The guy, a blur of brown, stumbles back, and I exhale.
“What’s your problem?” the guy barks, holding his privates.
“You’re my problem!”
“Come on, babe. You know you—”
“Who ARE you?” And then it hits me. Todd Firebaugh. The dude who blows on a maroon plastic horn at every pep rally. One of those long horns that make a crap-ton of noise.
“You okay?” It’s Jared, but his voice sounds oddly high, like the cartoon version of his voice. “This guy giving you trouble?”
My eyes dart from one to the other. “This guy” is about two of Jared in bulk alone.
A hand still cradling his groin, Todd turns on Jared. “LEAVE.”
Jared straightens, his shoulders expanding. “Bite me.”
Todd takes the first swing, but Jared dodges to one side and jabs Todd in the ribs.
Snorting, Todd gives an ugly grin. He shoves Jared against the wall, “Okay, let’s do this.”
“Back off!” I jump between them, holding out my hands like a traffic cop.
“Step aside, babe.”
“I’m not your babe!”
He looks at me like I’m spouting pig Latin. And yeah, I might be slurring a little, but I’m certain I’m speaking actual words.
“You’re just some tease, aren’t you?” Todd gets up in my face, exhaling his sour breath. “You think you get to walk around, shaking your ass, licking your lips—”
“Are you insane? Yes! Yes, I get to walk! And I get to take my ass and my lips with me when I do!” My heart is beating out of my chest, but I look right at him when I say it.
“Unbelievable! You’re such a slut!” He clamps his hands around my shoulders.
Is this really happening? My mind throbs with the bass of the music and I can’t find my breath anywhere. What will get him off me? Finger wrench? Ear slam?
Head-butt!
I hear Miss Nancy’s voice in my head, “Chin down. Aim the top of your head at their face. Move in hard, like you’re letting out a big sneeze.”
I grab Todd by the ears, tuck my chin, clench my teeth, and pound the crown of my head hard into his nose. There’s a loud thwak!, and Todd’s hands break from my shoulders.
Staggering, he wobbles to one side, and I spring away.
It’s then I see who’s behind him. Charlie, fists clenched. “Leave. Her. Alone.”
My first thought is to get as far away as fast as possible, but Todd and Charlie are between me and the way out. So I’m there for it all: Todd shaking it off, wiping blood from his nose with his forearm, laying into Charlie with both fists; Charlie pushing him back, striking with a fierceness I didn’t know a drunk could muster. It all goes in a quick blur. Someone gets someone in a headlock—bodies tilting in a mass—grunts and thumps, some kicking.
Jared and I stand there like forgotten marionettes, dangling by a single frayed thread.
Charlie steps back, then throws himself into a punch, making a dense thunk against Todd’s chin. Blood sprays, and my stomach sinks beneath the floor.
It ends with Charlie pinning Todd against the wall, delivering one punch after the other. Todd looks like a demented bobblehead.
“What the f—” I look to Jared, my head blaring with pain. “We’ve got to stop… we’ve got to stop.…”
I don’t know if I’m making sense, but Jared nods, grabs Charlie by the shoulders.
“Lay off,” he says. “You don’t want—”
Charlie turns, fist raised, face raw, eyes wild. No trace of the Charlie I know.
“Stop it,” I say. He lowers his fist, his back turned to Todd, who after a second regains himself and, from behind, slugs the broad side of Charlie’s jaw.
Charlie’s head jerks. He falters to the floor.
“Holy mother! Is he okay?” Jared angles himself in front of Charlie, putting himself directly in the path of Todd.
“Back away!” I yell, though it’s not clear who I’m yelling at. I kneel down to check on Charlie. He looks at me through bleary eyes.
By now, everybody from the living room has crowded into the mouth of the hallway. A few boys chant, “Fight! Fight! Fight!”
Matt Graybill squeezes through the crowd, takes in the blood-splattered wall, a picture of a barn in snow hanging sideways on its nail; Todd Firebaugh, breathing heavy, rubbing the fist of one hand in the palm of the other; Charlie and me on the floor; Jared in between.
“What the hell!” Matt puts one hand on his hip and points the other at the general mayhem.
“It’s not… it’s not…” Todd starts.
But I can’t say exactly what Todd Firebaugh thinks this is not, because he never finishes.
“You.” Matt points at Todd, then the three of us. “All of you. Out!”
Light of Morning
Light. Sharp. Pinpricks to my eyes.
I clamp shut, tunneling down, back to the den of sleep. But the light is still there. A thick smear of it crosses my eyelids. A thrum of white.
My neck feels crooked, like it’s one of those angled wrenches that come with a make-your-own-furniture set.
Everything is bent metal.
Everything is clotted gravy.
Everything is dull roar.
I force my eyes open. My first question: Am I going to puke? My second: Where am I?
It doesn’t make sense.
I’m half-sitting, half-slouched over the arm of a sofa. Someone’s arm rests heavy across my lap. Brown hair, boy body. I’m in a garage—no, it’s one of those big, stand-alone sheds, fitted out like a man cave. In front of me, a flat-screen TV; beyond that, a band setup, complete with drum set, keyboard, speakers, mic stand. I turn my head. On one side, a mini-fridge, and on the other, a recliner with Jared Hilley, mouth open, snoring.
I check my clothes. Jeans and top—intact. All my buttons buttoned. I wiggle my toes. Shoes off, but socks still on.
There’s a snort, then a cough. Jared wakes and looks over at me. “Hey. How you doing?”
I pat my hair, which is matted and stiff, and then wipe something wet—drool?—from my cheek. Is this a question that really needs to be answered?
He stands and stretches, rumpled, in the same jeans and Van Halen T-shirt he was wearing last night.
Beside me, the boy-body shifts. Charlie Hunt in profile, black-eyed and bruised—but sleep has turned him younger, less guarded, more like the little boy who chased stray dogs all those years ago.
“Is he all right?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t want to be him this morning. Or Todd.” Jared holds a hand out to me. “You, either, for that mat
ter. You up to standing?”
I nod, push Charlie’s arm aside, and Jared hoists me gently to my feet.
“There we go, Sleeping Beauty.”
How did I get here?
That’s when it comes back.
The fight. Charlie, Jared, and me, out on the street, in no shape to go home, in no shape to drive. Jared saying he knew a place—a couple blocks away, a guy in his band who wouldn’t mind. Us walking the streets like a wolf pack, bony shoulders hunched against the dark. There’s a weird black-hole quality to the whole thing. I remember arriving here, settling onto the sofa, exhausted, Jared getting me a Dr Pepper from the mini-fridge, but the rest is lost in space.
“Nothing happened last night, right?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’m a two-headed unicorn. “What’s your definition of nothing?”
“You know.” I gesture in the general direction of my body. “You guys didn’t—while I was out?”
Jared blinks, like I threw dirt in his eye. “Are you serious? We’re not—do you really think—?”
“Sorry,” I say, but he has already recovered. He puts on his good-ole-boy mask.
“It’s okay.” He wets his lips, and I see a flicker of the skull-and-bones tongue stud. “You know I’m at your service whenever you want,” he says. “You just name the time. But you’re gonna be there when we get together. I don’t want you to miss a second of all this.” By which he means his general manliness, I guess.
“Um…” I’m not sure how else to respond.
There’s movement on the couch. Charlie sits up, running a hand over the mess of his hair. A clump near his temple is jutting out at a right angle in a way that looks sort of absurd and sort of cool.
“Is there any food?” His voice is sandpaper.
“Let’s see,” Jared says, walking over to a cupboard beside a small utility sink.
Charlie rumbles to his feet. He rubs his neck and groans. “You get the license plate for the truck that hit me?”
How She Died, How I Lived Page 5