by Tom Leveen
“That’ll learn him,” I say, yawning and stretching. My heartbeat kicks up a notch as I realize it’s time. Time to go spill my guts and see what happens.
“You sure you’re okay about Sydney?” Robby asks.
“Pretty sure.”
“Cool.” He leans down and picks Justin up in a fireman carry, as if Justin weighs as much as a throw pillow.
I walk with him to the parking lot. Robby dumps Justin into the backseat of his car and pulls out his keys. “You know it’s a dick move to go over there and go all Romeo after breaking up with Syd, right?”
“You just told me to do it.”
“I didn’t mean ten minutes after dumping Syd.”
“She broke up with me.”
“Semantics, Ty. Come on.”
“Hey, you ever stop to wonder why if I’m such a dick, she didn’t break up with me before this?” I ask, a little harsher than I mean to. And once I start, I can’t stop. “Everyone knows I like Becky—Sydney knew it this whole time, you guys knew it, the whole world knew it—okay, fine, whatever. But Syd stuck around, Rob! Why am I the asshole now?”
“She loves you, man.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t love her, okay?”
“That’s why you’re the asshole.”
I stare at the blacktop. Robby flips his keys in his hand. In Robby’s car, Justin groans.
“I’m going to go to Becky’s house and get this over with,” I say at last. “I’m gonna read this story to her and tell her how I feel. She will then promptly laugh, or scream, or kick me in the nuts and tell me to leave. Best-case scenario, she says some bullshit like ‘You’re like a brother to me.’ Fine. But it’ll be out, and it’ll be over, and everyone can just move on. Sydney, me, you guys—god, my freaking sister. And then I’ll be sad, and listen to sad music, and write a sad story, and just be, you know, sad. Because apparently that’s what I’ve been this whole time. One sad sack, right?”
I fall back against my car and cross my arms.
Robby belches. “Okay. Got that outta yer system, Nancy?”
“… Yes.”
“Good. Go do your thing. Lemme know how it goes.”
I glance up. “That’s it?”
“It’s your story. Give it a big finish.” Robby isolates his car key on the ring. “I’ll see ya later, writer man.”
He climbs into the car and drives out of the parking lot. I watch him go, not sure if I’m still pissed or what.
Guess it doesn’t matter.
I get into my car and leave the park behind.
I stop at a 7-Eleven to pick up a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie for Becky, and head for her house. Upon pulling up to the sidewalk, my usual space, it occurs to me I don’t want to ring the bell or knock on the door; it’s past one, and her dad’s Jag is in the driveway, and I don’t want to risk waking him up. Especially if he has a houseguest.
Becky solves the problem by opening the front door just as I’m shutting off my lights. She stands there waiting for me, wearing sneakers, jeans, and a fitted black T-shirt outlining the concave curve of her waist. Her hair, which she’s let grow the last few months, is pinned back off her face. She gives me a weak wave as I approach.
I have the LQR in my hand, and I suddenly don’t want to reveal it to her, so I fold it once, remembering how I almost smacked Sydney for doing the same thing, and stuff it into my back pocket while still in shadow so Becky can’t see me do it. I walk up to her.
“How’s it going?” I say, giving her a hug.
After her hug last summer, the way was paved for Becky and me to make more physical contact. It wasn’t a lot by your usual standards; nothing like what Matthew and Ross got, for instance. But I was allowed to hug her now, and that was awesome.
Sydney and I started to drift apart at that point, too. Quite suddenly we weren’t necessarily talking every night on the phone, or going out twice, three times a week. I was ambivalent about the shift, and still too gutless and self-involved to actually call it off. But then, I suppose, so was she.
I made the decision at the start of junior year to go ahead and leap headlong into the drama department as a techie. Ross and Matthew had both graduated, which probably helped.
Becky’s star continued to rise as she was cast as the lead actress in the fall play, a comedy called Sylvia, in which she played a dog. I know how that probably sounds, but it was actually pretty cool; she had lines like a normal person, but they were all “dog thoughts.” I thought she was hysterical.
Apparently, so did everyone else working on the show, because they kept laughing during the rehearsal process. But still, I couldn’t help but see that most everyone ignored her except for when she was onstage or involved in something directly related to the show, like taking notes after rehearsal or talking to the costume and makeup people. No one was cruel or anything, and they all seemed happy enough to say hello to her and work with her onstage. But beyond that, I saw no other friends besides me. Or boyfriends.
We grew closer as friends during that show. But only as friends. Which hurt in many ways; I sometimes thought about just coming out with it, telling her how I felt and what I wanted, but I couldn’t. What I wanted amounted to little more than a kiss. To just feel her lips one time. And not on my forehead.
Maybe she’s a terrible kisser, I’d try to tell myself. Maybe if I kissed her once, I’d somehow get over her. God knew I liked kissing Sydney well enough. When I saw her, that is.
After closing night of Sylvia, I ventured to ask Becky if her parents had made it to the show.
“No,” she said, like it didn’t bother her in the least.
Which made me wonder if she’d even told them, so I asked her that, too.
“Ty,” she answered, “have you been in my kitchen?”
“Sure.”
“Ever see a magnet or photos or anything on the fridge? A shopping list, a menu from Hungry Howie’s, anything?”
“No.” It was true; their kitchen was immaculate. Un-lived-in.
“I put a poster for the show up there two weeks ago,” she said. “A poster, Ty. It’s still there. Last week I circled my name in the cast list with a black Sharpie. Okay?”
I nodded quickly. I got the message. And my rage at Mr. and Mrs. Webb swelled. Here was this cute, intelligent, talented kid, and they just didn’t give a shit? You go to your kid’s events. That’s common knowledge. You just do. You do, unless you’re too wrapped up in your insurance business, or in how much you hate your wife or husband.
I wanted to gently offer this common sense into their minds. With, say, a baseball bat.
“So, are you going to the cast party?” I asked Becky.
“Nah,” she said. “Maybe next time.”
I was relieved. I didn’t need a repeat of certain previous parties.
“Well then, you want to go get a bite to eat or something?” I asked.
“Not tonight,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow?”
Damn, I’d thought, and fought hard not to dwell on what she might be doing until then. “Okay, yeah,” I said. “Tomorrow’s cool.”
“Cool. Great job tonight, Sparky.”
“You too, Mustardseed.”
She gave me a hug. “I ever tell you how much I love when you call me that?”
The defeat I felt at not going out with her that night disappeared. “No, actually,” I said, grinning like a fool.
“Well, I do,” Becky said. She released me. “I’ll call you.”
“Cool. Drive safe.”
“Oh, you know me,” she said, rolling her eyes. She waved and began making her way down the hall. No one else hugged her or congratulated her on the performance.
I watched her go toward the double doors that led outside—and blinked rapidly when I realized she was being followed by this guy Scott, one of the actors. Not closely, but maybe ten feet behind.
When Becky got to the doors, she opened one, then glanced over her shoulder. Scott picked up his pace just a tiny bit. Becky, s
eeing this, went on through the door. Scott got to it before it latched closed and went after her.
I could have screamed. Instead, I spent as long as possible in the auditorium doing my idiot check, and when I was done, I kept my head down on the way to my car in case they were still out in the parking lot.
On Sunday, Becky called, and we went out to a Mexican food place and talked about TV shows, movies, and Not Scott.
Standing in her driveway, Becky says, “I don’t want to talk about it.” She says this as she hugs me. “I want to talk about what’s in that plastic sack.”
I step back and hold the bag toward her. “Ben and Jerry’s, as requested.”
“You are made of awesome,” she says. “Come on in.”
I follow her back to her bedroom, where she shuts the door and sits down at the head of the bed, her back against the headboard. I sit beside her.
“So, you broke up with Syd, huh?” she says, digging in to the ice cream.
“She broke up with me,” I say. “Technically.”
“Yeah? How are you feeling?”
“Good, mostly,” I say, which is true. Jesus, I think, I’m sitting beside the girl of my dreams on her own bed. It isn’t the first time, and yet it never, ever gets old. I have no complaints.
I mean, we could be doing more than sitting … but whatever.
“How about you?” I ask her.
“Tyler, you worry way too much,” she says, taking another bite of her ice cream.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just haven’t heard you talk like you did tonight on the phone.”
“Yeah?” she says around a mouthful of chocolate ice cream. “How’d I talk?”
“Upset.”
“You’ve never heard me upset before?”
“Not like that.”
Her mouth stops working, as if the ice cream has frozen her jaw. After a moment, she swallows and puts the carton on her night table. She swaps chewing ice cream for chewing her lip.
“Did I ever tell you that my parents only stayed together because of me?” she asks.
“Yes, actually. A while back. You said your brother told you something along those lines.”
“Well, it’s true.” Her shoulders spasm up and down, a careless shrug.
“How do you know?” I ask, except from the feeling in my gut, I’m pretty sure I have the answer.
“They said it tonight.”
Bingo.
“Not long after Mom told me she hated me,” Becky goes on. “After Dad came home. We had a bit of a discussion. It was volcanic.”
For the most part, I’ve never known Becky Webb to get overly emotional or melodramatic, so I use a joking tone to cover the truth of what I say next. “I feel like I should put my arm around you now or something.”
She turns her head to me. “Why?” Her face is serious.
So much for a joke.
“Because I hate to see you hurt,” I say. And then once that’s been said, I can’t stop the rest: “I hate them. Both of them. I hate how they treat you, I hate how they dismiss you. I hate that you put a poster for the last show on your fridge and they ignored it. I hate how they went off about how great Matthew was last year and didn’t say one word about you.”
Becky’s face grows even more serious, more inquisitive.
“You remember that?” she says quietly.
“Yes. I wanted to kneecap them right then and there.”
Becky centers her head, appearing to gaze down the bed at her outstretched legs.
“That’s …,” she begins, then stops. Shakes her head wonderingly.
I sit quietly. She’s clearly thinking hard about something. Time drags. I study her star tattoo. The blue in the ink seems vibrant tonight.
“Sometimes,” she says at last, “I wish they hit me.”
I start to argue this view, but she steamrolls on.
“Or were into drugs,” she says, “or were alcoholics. I’ve tried for years to … if there was something I could blame, it might be easier, you know? Instead, they’re just genetically predisposed to be assholes.”
I risk putting my hand on her leg. Low, near her knee.
“It sucks,” I say.
“I’m supposed to be grateful,” Becky says, her voice edged. “I’m supposed to be happy they don’t do those other things, that they have money. That they’re still married, if you can believe that.”
“Who says that?”
“My psychiatrist.”
I try not to react to that, but the news kind of surprises me. On the other hand, who hasn’t seen a therapist? More to the point, really: who shouldn’t?
“That’s a pretty messed-up thing for a psychiatrist to say,” I tell her.
Becky nods. “Yeah, isn’t it? But it might be, it just might possibly be because he’s a golfing buddy of my dad’s.”
My head juts out from my neck in disbelief. “That’s bullshit!” I say. “He can’t do that! He can’t have a patient who’s the kid of one of his friends. That’s totally unethical! Hell, maybe it’s illegal, for all I know.”
“Which is exactly what I said,” Becky goes. “On a number of occasions. Including this fine evening.”
“Jesus, Becky. You can’t get out of it? Out of going to see him?”
“Not if I want dear old Dad to pay for college, I can’t. You should see the list of meds I’m supposed to be on, Sparky. He’s trying to get me doped up so I don’t interfere with his precious job or his precious fucking mistress.”
“What are you on, exactly?” I ask tentatively.
“Nothing. I don’t take them.”
“What about … are you still smoking?”
“Nah. I only did it so the drug tests he gave me came back positive.”
Which at least clears up what she meant by smoking out only when “they” were looking for it. But it leaves another question.
“Um … why did you want the tests to be positive?”
“See if it made any difference. It didn’t. Mom insisted on it, I guess to factor rehab and defense attorneys into their budget. My brother’s had more than one issue with drugs, and … damn, Sparky, you are really hung up on this drug thing! You precious prude, you.”
“I just worry about you.” Which is one way to put it.
Becky’s snarky tone drops. “Thanks,” she says. She takes another bite of ice cream. “We’re all just counting the days till I can get out of here, get out of the way, and we can all go on with the rest of our lives.” The bitterness in her voice could pierce concrete.
“So you can … I mean, you have the grades to get into a good school?”
“I didn’t say a good school,” Becky says. “Just out of town. Anywhere. They don’t care. I don’t care. Maybe a junior college in a former Soviet state. Wherever.” She pauses for a moment, glaring at her toes. “Hey, do you like my tat?”
“Your—yeah. I do. It’s pretty cool.” Cool enough to factor into my LQR story, anyway.…
Becky contorts her face into a malevolent grin, a super-villain divulging her master plan. “Wanna know what my dad thought when I got it?”
“Oh, man. What?”
Becky drops the villainess act. “Couldn’t tell you. They didn’t say a thing.” She studies her hands. “William did, though. He swung by for a little visit in between rehabs. He saw it, took a good look, and said, ‘It won’t work.’ That was all.”
I rub my eyes with my other hand. “God,” I say, at a loss for anything else.
“Oh, don’t even get me started on him,” Becky says with another sick laugh.
“Why the nautical star?” I ask, since we’re on the topic and I’ve always wondered. “What made you choose that?”
“It was the first thing I saw on the wall,” Becky says. “Good god, I picked it off the wall. That’s how seriously I took getting a tat.” She shakes her head. “Stupid,” she adds in a whisper.
We sit in silence for a few more minutes. I vaguely wonder if she’ll get up to put her ice cream
in the freezer for later.
That’s when I remember the Literary Quarterly Review, folded once and stuffed in my back pocket.
Reading it to her, telling her everything, seems like a terrible idea now. She’s got to have so much on her mind, so much going on with her family, it seems selfish to ask her to add me to her list of worries.
So instead of whipping out my story, I ask her, “What can I do? I mean, I know there probably isn’t anything, but …”
Becky says nothing. She takes a deep breath through her nose, holds it a moment, and lets it out. She slides down the length of the bed, and I move my hand so I don’t accidentally touch her somewhere else as she moves. She sits on the edge of her bed, crosses her knee with one foot, and starts unlacing her shoe. Once it’s loosened, she flips the shoe into a corner, then switches to the other foot. Her socks are blue, her feet small.
I wonder if she’s going to repeat her shower thing. Which would be great.
And then—
Then.
Becky lifts her shirt up and over her head, tossing it toward her shoes. Her hands reach behind her back to undo her black bra. She wriggles out of it and drops it to the floor.
“One rule,” she says as I try not to let my mouth hang open. “You ever tell anyone about this, it’ll never happen again. Got it?”
I have lost forever any power of speech.
Becky stands up and faces me. It’s a physical impossibility for me not to gawk at her bare chest.
Her hands move to the button on her jeans, but stop.
“This is a lot easier if you take your clothes off,” she says.
She’s not smiling, not being sexy, and not kidding. I hardly recognize her voice.
Mechanically, I slide off the bed to one side and pull my shirt off. I step on the heels of my shoes and step out of them. Seeing this, Becky continues to undress in front of me, pulling her jeans down, kicking them into a denim puddle at her feet.
I follow her lead, taking my jeans off. I stop, thumbs hooked into the waistband of my boxers, when she slides her underwear down.
This isn’t happening—this really is happening—this can’t be happening—it’s really happening.
My hands quake at my hips, and tremors vibrate my legs. My breath comes out in tiny, silent gasps. I pull my boxers off as Becky climbs back onto her bed and rolls to one side, opening the drawer in her night table. She pulls out a bottle, squirts something into her hand—