by Alexis Bass
“Everyone I know who’s gone to jail, it’s always been for something stupid,” Wren tells us when the laughter has died down.
Jonathan averts his stare, tracing his finger along the top of his cup. He’s no longer leaning in her direction. I hope Wren feels like crawling under a rock. “Everyone.” All these ex-cons she knows who didn’t have to commit vehicular manslaughter to earn their bad-boy stripes.
“Lighten up,” she says. She reaches out her foot and pokes him in the shin until he looks at her.
“This is as light as it gets,” he tells her.
This is the saddest thing I’ve heard him say out loud in a long time. I think Wren will melt with sympathy. But there’s a fierce look in her eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. Challenge accepted.
When we leave a little while later, Jonathan’s the one to tell her, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He looks like he could smile once we’re in the car. He doesn’t, but he seems peaceful instead of exhausted. I’d blame it on the Jack Daniel’s if I hadn’t already seen him like this the other morning after his run.
This—she—is what’s gotten into him.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
I barrel down the stairs on Friday night when the doorbell rings. Not fast enough, though. Standard Dad answers the door first and spouts some typical lines from the manual to Graham. Chapter 10: “What to Say to That Dude Dating Your Daughter.” This entails him clearing this throat a million times, as if everything he says has another connotation.
“Great costume. But what are you supposed to be?” Standard Dad says curiously when he sees what I’m wearing. It’s just a black dress. It’s still surprising to see me dressed up for a non-homecoming event, I know—of course he assumes it’s a costume.
“It’s a black-and-white party,” I explain. Halloween or not, this party is a tradition that the soccer team will not let go.
“You look great,” he says. He nods again, noticing that Graham’s wearing slacks.
“Good,” I say, wiping at my forehead like I was worried. It makes both him and Graham laugh. I think it’s a nice dress, and Dawn said she liked it when I modeled it for her via video chat. Becky liked it, too.
“Why a black-and-white party?” my dad asks. He even scratches his head.
I roll my eyes. “It’s the soccer team’s party. Black and white, like a soccer ball.”
“Very clever.” But Standard Dad doesn’t sound too enthused, since That Dude Dating His Daughter is still standing right there.
There’s a gap in the conversation where I think Graham wants to say, “I’ll have her home by midnight” but sticks with, “Good night” instead. He blushes. If he does have me home by midnight, it’s because that’s when his parents want him home.
“Are you coming home tonight?” A Standard Dad line he never uses.
“I—I think so,” I say.
Graham nods, licking his lips and popping his knuckles with his thumb.
“I’ll have her home by two,” he says.
I take his sweaty hand and lead him outside.
I’m surprised to see it’s not Graham’s car out front; the two of us climb in the backseat of the blue sedan.
That’s how it works at this particular party. I forgot until now. It’s an initiation of sorts. The seniors are allowed to go crazy—this gathering is for them, a last hurrah—and the other teammates live to serve them, forced to act as their personal waiters and chauffeurs. Per tradition, the underclassmen are required to dress in Hawaiian shirts, complete with leis and sunscreen smeared white across their noses.
The house hosting the party is decorated with black-and-white streamers, with a few of those blow-up palm trees placed randomly throughout the house. Halloween shows itself in the form of carved pumpkins and cobwebs. Graham and I are by far the most boring, just dressed as fancy versions of ourselves. A lot of the other senior soccer players and their dates have combined the black-and-white theme with Halloween and are dressed in skeleton suits or as referees or convicts in black-and-white stripes. The girls are donning French maid costumes or black cat ears with whiskers painted on their cheeks. Even some of the underclassmen soccer players have fake blood splattered across their Hawaiian shirts and are claiming to be Scarface.
I’m sort of at a frat party, I text Dawn.
You haven’t been to a frat party until you’ve been to a frat party, she texts back.
So, fine. I’ll never know about the fun she’s having until I’m having it, too.
The thing this party and frat parties—I presume—have in common is that the second I arrive, I wish I were anywhere else. The seniors are being sucked up to, waited on, and cheered at, like everyone here is the former Jonathan Tart. You can see the entitlement in their eyes. It looks so strange on Graham, I try to forgive it. He’s only doing what’s expected of him.
We stand in a circle, chatting and sipping on the vodka-crans the sophomore teammates were handing out. I huddle next to Graham, trying to be as friendly and fun as everyone else.
“Stacey, where are you applying to college?” I ask.
And: “How do you think you did on that chem test, Aran?”
And: “What did you think of the game last week?”
I sound like I’m interviewing them, or worse. I am Standard Girlfriend. Except I never got a manual. Just a How to Stand There Quietly So You Won’t Be Too Awkward pamphlet.
I try for a joke about wearing white after Labor Day, since 80 percent of the party is dressed in black. It falls flat except for a delayed courtesy laugh from Stacey.
I hear someone say, “Crane said he was coming, man. I don’t know, he’ll probably be here soon,” and feel a relief that is completely unwarranted.
When Henry finally appears, the balloon that was my heart deflates. As much as I don’t want to look at him with Imogen—one hand slung casually around her shoulders like it’s actually more comfortable for him to stand with her tucked under his arm like that—I can’t stop myself from stealing glances every few seconds. They’re also dressed only as fancy versions of themselves.
Sometimes I get the impression that he keeps looking at me, too. It’s this first drink playing tricks on me, though, I’m pretty sure of it.
Higgins, one of the poor juniors who’s had to put up with this party for three years since he made the team as a freshman, comes over to give Graham and me more drinks.
Any chance to be responsibly drunk and Graham will take advantage of it. It’s like homecoming all over again—and that was barely a week ago.
Graham trades his empty cup for a fresh glass of whatever Higgins gives him. I hold up my half-full drink, to indicate I don’t need another.
“Are you still on your first?” Higgins asks.
Higgins and Graham are both highly confused that I’ve been here for nearly two hours and have yet to finish a drink.
“Get her something she likes,” Graham says.
They both look at me again, eyebrows up, waiting.
“What do you like?” Higgins says.
More stares. My mind is actually blank. The desire to laugh tickles my throat.
“Whatever you want.” Graham nudges me. “They’ve got everything.”
I try to give the kind of smile that makes me seem pleased and excited about so many possibilities.
“Come on,” Graham says. He takes my watery drink and hands it to Higgins. “What’ll it be?”
“I’m fine with this,” I say, taking it back, sipping a little, hoping my expression doesn’t reveal the truth.
“You’re clearly not,” Graham says. He leans in close but makes no attempt to lower his voice. “You’ve got a ride home, so you don’t have to worry about the thing I know you worry about.” He slouches so we’re at eye level. He looks tired, and his breath smells like a bowl of fruit that’s been left out in the sun. “I know you’re not huge into this kind of stuff, but I think you should . . . join in. Have fun, Amanda. You’ll be surpris
ed how much fun it is.”
It sounds like something Jonathan would say.
He smiles, so I smile back, nodding, too, like I can’t believe how right he is. His gaze drifts to the surrounding party, and mine follows. Everyone is clutching their drinks in front of them, their faces red and pinched but undeniably happy. Carefree. I wonder if it’s obvious that I’m not.
I think about Grace as I look around at where people are gathered; places she should be standing, but isn’t because she left the safe confines of a party just like this one and carefree slipped ominously into reckless.
“So what’ll it be?” Graham says. “Well?” His smile has turned pleading. I think of his words. Join in. You don’t have to worry about the thing I know you worry about.
Do you ever worry about it? I think. But I know the answer; of course he does. It’s exactly like Jonathan said. The party’s not the problem. And: Only you can prevent forest fires. And here we are with all these designated drivers. Nothing to worry about. It’s that simple.
“I’ll have a gin rickey,” I tell him. The only drink that comes to mind.
Graham hesitates, but instead of asking me what I presume he must be thinking—what the hell is a gin rickey?—he says, “Okay.” He turns to Higgins. “Got that?” His voice is demanding.
Higgins has one eyebrow up and a slight grimace. But he gets out his phone, flashing it for Graham. He will research this gin rickey and report back. I feel terrible for making him go the extra mile.
“Is that even a real thing?” Graham asks after he’s gone.
“Oh, yes,” I say. “It was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s favorite drink.” Which is the truth.
Graham squints at me. “How do you even know—you know what? Never mind.” He tips his drink back so far as he gulps it down that the umbrella falls out.
“It’s all I could think of. . . .” But Graham’s head is already turned; he’s waving someone over. We’re surrounded by others in seconds, but I feel more alone than ever, like I’m the only student at Garfield High who is completely lost and not having a good time.
My eyes fall on Henry across the room, and he’s looking back at me.
What Higgins brings me is gin and Sprite with two lime wedges floating in it, which he claims is technically the same as a gin rickey. Honestly I wouldn’t know the difference. I take a large swig and try to smile appreciatively, even though I’ve instantly concluded that gin rickey is entirely the wrong name for this drink. Sparkling Pine-Sol would be a more accurate fit. I mean, it’s really terrible. With every sip I think: this, this, must’ve been what Sutton was drinking that night she threw up in our driveway; what my brother was drinking on his eighteenth birthday when I found him on the bathroom floor with his hand in the toilet.
I sip slowly. Graham drinks like he’s trying to win a contest. But the more he drinks, the more he forgets that I’m depressing and starts thinking that I’m the “most fun, most prettiest girl in the room.” And then, after a while, he’s having so much fun he forgets I exist at all, and I can walk away.
I go outside to the far side of the house, by a woodpile and a wheelbarrow full of succulents. Light from the driveway makes it brighter back here than I’d like, but for the purpose of dumping out the large remainder of my imitation gin rickey, I think it will do the trick. When Henry comes around the corner, right behind me, I’m not surprised. He’s all in black too—black slacks, black dress shoes, black soccer Windbreaker.
Maybe it was those five sips of faux gin rickey, but I really believe that Henry was waiting to catch me alone.
I accidentally smile when I see him. He does the same thing, turning his head as if that will hide it from me.
“I can take you home, if you want,” he says.
“Uh-oh, another failed attempt at hiding what a depressive mess I am.”
“It’s not that. You just seem like you’re ready to go.” He looks away when he tells me, “I’ve only had one bottle of this vitamin-infused water—which is awful, in case you were wondering.”
“Are you sidelined from partying with the soccer team, too?” A lame joke, but he still rewards me with a laugh.
“Imogen has decided to drink enough for the both of us,” he says.
My insides shudder at the way her name sounds coming out of his mouth, with that accent.
“And Graham is drinking the rest,” he says, peeking at me with a smirk.
I allow myself a real smile. Henry won’t care if it still seems sad.
We’re quiet for a while. “Higgins is going to give me a ride,” I say.
“All right,” he says. The conversation feels over, but neither of us goes anywhere.
Time passes, and we stand there, not quite looking at each other, but my entire body is aware of his presence. I don’t know how long we remain like this, and I don’t care.
“Can I confess that sometimes all I can think is: why?” Henry blurts out. “Why did it have to happen, and why that night . . . ?”
“We should have kept fighting with each other,” I conclude.
“And then what?” he says. Mocking laughter swells out of him. I wonder if he’s had this conversation with himself many times before. “We’d have saved them all?”
I shake my head and shrug, and he does the same. The thing is, we don’t really know.
We leave behind a millions selves, a herd of them who have moved on without us, making different decisions. There’s a version of me who said, “No, I don’t want to,” when Dawn was just the new girl across the street who showed up at my front door with her mother, toting a Barbie, asking if I wanted to play; a version who said screw it to stage fright and tried out for Annie; a version who kept my growing feelings for Henry Crane buried; a version who didn’t answer any of Graham’s phone calls those days after Jonathan’s incarceration, when he would call to check up on me; there’s a version of me who never kissed him. The worse things get, the more I think about those selves and wonder if their lives are turning out better than mine.
“We could really punish ourselves with that one,” Henry says, kicking at the ground.
“Aren’t we already, though?” I glance around us, at the seclusion we’ve chosen.
“I guess,” he says. “You’re with Graham.”
I stare at him. Baiting me, tricking me, trying to get a rise out of me—whatever he’s doing, it’s working. But I can shoot back. “You’re with Imogen.”
“Okay.” He smiles. “That’s not the same.”
“Why not?”
He puffs out his cheeks and lets his breath out slowly. “Graham is—how do they put it—a ‘sucker for a fixer-upper.’”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“He likes that you’re kind of a depressive mess, even if he complains about it.”
“That makes total sense, Henry. Wow.”
“I meant nothing bad by it, and I’m sure you’ll scamper off to Santa Barbara and that will be that with him. No harm done. But that’s why you’re sticking it out. He’s invested in you, so you try to invest back.”
“You’re infuriating. This is so typical of you, thinking you know what’s going on with things that have absolutely nothing to do with you. You’re not as smart as you think you are.” I’m thirteen again, telling Henry to shut up and mind his own business after he asked why my brother came to see me at the science fair instead of my parents. I’m back at the homecoming after-party. And outside Ludwig’s. Henry forces me to defend the parts of my life I have no defense for.
“And Imogen is the most obvious person you could have chosen,” I add. “Talk about willing and able.”
“Okay, okay. Leave her out of this, please.”
The way he sticks up for her makes my bones ache, like they’ve shattered into a million pieces and I’m going to whoosh into the ground any second.
“How is that fair?” I say.
“Because what I said wasn’t insulting to Graham, and it was the truth. You’re just reaching for
anything to bash Imogen with.”
I don’t need this. I turn to go.
“She’s not you, is really what you want to say,” he calls to me, and I have no choice but to pivot back around. His face has opened up; it’s radiating hope. He holds out his arms, his hands in the air, mad at the world or surrendering to it, it’s hard to tell. He focuses on me and gives one more shrug. “I’m sorry about that, too, all right?”
There’s nowhere to keep his admission, nothing to do but let it float away. I’m leaving behind another self, the one who kisses him angrily, passionately—there’s a fine line between them—and says, Then let’s not just forget it.
Instead, I’m the version of myself who says, “Not all right.”
My voice is so quiet I don’t think he’s heard, but he rubs his forehead, then tugs on the left side of his hair the way he sometimes does when he’s waiting for the teacher to pass out a test, or those moments when he takes his place on the soccer field before the start of a match.
“Amanda,” he finally says, more to the sky than to me. Henry chooses the self who walks toward me. I listen to the twigs crack under his shoes, until he’s right in front of me.
“It’s useless,” he says. I want to ask what he means—useless to deny what we want, or useless to give in to it—but I’m entirely too distracted by his closeness. His hands trail up past my shoulders, my neck. He holds my face and kisses me until I’m kissing him back, stumbling against the woodpile, and then, pressed up against the side of the house. It’s almost too much. I think I might be gripping him really hard, but I don’t care. It wasn’t like this the last time we kissed, when I’d thought I’d get to do it a hundred more times.
I don’t think about anything else outside of how much I want this, how good it feels. I don’t think of Graham or Imogen. I don’t think about the rest of the party. I don’t think about Jonathan or Sutton or Grace.