Perfectly Good White Boy

by Carrie Mesrobian

  “Just to my house, if that’s okay.”

  “So, are you all right? I mean, is Ivy . . . was he having a party?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey. Are you all right? Did he hit you or something?”

  She laughed that fakey laugh again. “No, of course not. God. It’s just . . .” She turned toward me. “Do you really want to hear all this crap? Because it’s totally fucked up. I mean, I could go on for a million years about it, probably. I don’t want to depress you.”

  “Why didn’t Ivy come with you? I thought she hated Tristan.”

  Neecie pressed her hands to her eyes. I thought she was crying. I hoped she wasn’t. I didn’t know what to do when girls cried. My mom cried so much before my dad left. My favorite part about him leaving was that my mom’s crying was reduced by like 95 percent.

  “I didn’t know he was having people over,” she said. “He just texted like normal. Said to be ready, whatever. He picked me up at home, even. I didn’t even ask him about anything. It’s usually like we don’t have a lot of time. Like, someone’s coming home. Or he has to be somewhere. Or I have to be somewhere. So it’s kind of like, walk in, strip down, do it, leave.”

  I tried to keep my face normal. But I hated Tristan Reichmeier even more now.

  “But sometimes, he doesn’t have anything going on afterward,” Neecie went on. “Like, he’ll want to hang out. Watch a movie or something. Usually never on weekend nights, though. Usually weekend nights he’s got stuff going on.”

  “So, why exactly is that bad? You don’t like the movies he likes or something?”

  She laughed. Not a fakey laugh. A surprised one. “God! No! I don’t know what movies he likes, actually. It’s just, I used to do that stuff with him. Hang out. But I won’t do it anymore. It’s like, he can’t have both things, you know? He can’t ignore me in school and then expect me to snuggle with him on the couch whenever he’s bored or lonely, you know?”

  “So, you’re the one who doesn’t want to be with him?”

  “No,” she said. “No, I do. I would do that stuff with him. I have. It’s just that it makes me want it every time. And he won’t do it every time. The only thing he’ll do every time is . . .”

  “It?” I interrupted.

  She laughed again. This one was a real laugh. I liked that. Not just because it distanced things from crying.

  “I just feel like shit when he talks me into more,” she said. “More than it. And then I swear I’ll never see him again. And Ivy will come over and I’ll cry and she’ll yell at me and then she’ll cry and we’ll make a plan. Swear off him. And then he’ll text a week later . . .”

  “And you go.”

  “Yeah. But this time, Ivy was already out at his house. And some other people, too. And she was drunk. And he . . . he’s been bugging me, okay? For a while. To do that.”

  “What?” I said, though I already knew.

  “To be with both of us.”

  I didn’t say anything. And there were too many things to ask.

  I guess she could tell I was upset, because after a minute she asked me what was going on.

  I laughed. “You mean, with me? Nothing’s going on with me. I’m totally boring.”

  Neecie shook her head. “You’re not talking. Usually you say things.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, just say it, won’t you? Ask me what I know you want to ask.”

  I sat with that for a while, drove. Considered the millions of ways to ask, all the shit rolling around in my head, all the questions and how mad I was and how jealous I was and how everything was stupid and unfair and made no goddamn sense.

  “What I don’t get is why he won’t just hang out with you all the time? Like, normally? Where everyone can see. I mean, it’s been so long now. Obviously he likes you.”

  “Wow.” She laughed. “I didn’t expect you to say that.”

  I shrugged. I was still trying to stop imagining punching the shit out of Tristan Reichmeier. The worst part was that thinking about that felt good. Also, bad. Guilty-bad. And then there was The Horn. Too many things going on in me, as usual.

  “But he doesn’t like me,” Neecie said. “Liking me is not the issue.”

  “That’s stupid,” I said. “Of course he likes you. If he wants to hang out with you, you know, afterward, even a little bit, even sometimes . . .”

  “He just can’t be alone. That’s the main thing, Sean. He’s kind of spoiled and he’s kind of dumb and he can’t handle being alone . . . It’s not really that complicated . . .” She leaned back in her seat, started combing her fingers through her hair. “God. I’m so tired. It doesn’t seem like New Year’s Eve, does it?”

  I nodded. For a few minutes she was quiet, and I just drove. Thinking all my things and not knowing which to pick from, not knowing what thing to say would be right, wanting to be able to say them, all at once. Too bad you couldn’t do that.

  But when Neecie turned on the radio, I snapped it off two seconds later. She looked surprised at me.

  “Not to be an asshole, but if you’re just interested in sex, you’d never want to just hang out, okay?” I said. “That’s the shitty truth, really. For a guy, if he wants to do anything besides, well, it, then that means something.” Then I wanted to barf. Because: God, I love you so much.

  “Thanks for saying that, Sean, but don’t worry about trying to make it nicer than it is,” she said. “I’m okay with the reality.”

  I turned on the radio, then. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t say all the things in my head. And I was trying not to speed or plow off the road right now. Trying to think about nothing, all the way back to town.

  “Is anyone home at your house?” I asked.

  “My sisters, probably. I don’t know about my mom. Do you want to come over?”

  We went to her house, and it was like any other time we’d hung out, Neecie’s house all white and bright and colorful. The giant old washtub full of hats and mittens in the front entryway, the mat full of smooth stones where Neecie set her boots. Neecie’s house was definitely a Shoes Off house. You could tell by how it smelled—like strawberries and cake or something.

  In the TV room, Jessamyn was packing a duffel bag, and in the kitchen, Melanie was wrapping up plates of cookies.

  “Where’s Mom?” Neecie asked.

  “With Gary. They’re at some deal for his work.”

  “Is it going to be late?”

  “I don’t know, she told Jessamyn, not me. I was in the shower.”

  “I thought you had a thing over at the Dobranaks’?”

  “We do; we’re just packing. Jess didn’t want to go at first. But then I called Tasha and she said Gwen wasn’t coming and so then . . .”

  Neecie nodded, and I could tell she didn’t want to hear more, but she stood there, listening to this big long pointless story, being all nice about it. She was way nicer to her sisters than me and Brad were to each other.

  Finally, Melanie stopped talking, and she and Jessamyn put their coats on, started collecting up their bags and stuff. Neecie got a giant can of iced tea—peach—from the refrigerator and yawned, asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I said no, and then she asked if I’d drive her sisters down the block, because they looked like sherpas with all their shit.

  In my car, Jessamyn asked me if I liked Neecie.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “But as friends, right?” Melanie interrupted. “You don’t like-like her, do you?”

  “Jesus,” I said. “We’re friends.”

  “Who’s the guy with the red truck, then? Is that her real boyfriend?” Melanie said, very suspicious.

  “We saw him come get her tonight,” Jessamyn said.

  “It’s right here, on the left!” Melanie yelled, pointing, and I hit the brakes.

  “Wow, you’re kind of a bad driver,” Melanie said. “So who was that? In the red truck?”

  “You have to tell us, Sean,” Jessamyn said.
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br />   “I don’t know anything about anyone,” I said. “Seriously.”

  “Well, you need to find out,” Melanie said. “It’s weird.”

  “Neecie’s weird in general,” Jessamyn said.

  “No, she’s not,” Melanie said. “Move your stuff, Jess, god!”

  When I got back to the Albertsons’, Neecie was nowhere to be seen. I took off my shoes, went to look for her. Into the living room, with the old-fashioned stereo with big foamy speakers and a record player, all stuff Kerry would have bitched about getting at the donation door. Two couches in a bright flaming orange. A giant piano with a tower of books on top of it (Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, which we always sold at the Thrift Bin in dusty boxes by the lot) and a plant that looked like a bunch of green beads dribbling down the side of the pot. Which wasn’t a pot but an old ceramic milk bottle. I mean, it looked like Neecie’s job working at the Thrift Bin was all according to the plan of whoever decorated this house. Still, it was a nice house. Like, intentionally nice. Like someone gave a damn. Someone who said, “Let’s have a milk bottle with a plant in it! And not just any old plant. Something weird that looks like it’s from Mars or the Amazon or whatever!” I liked it, though. I liked Neecie’s house. It was a good place to be.

  I found Neecie in her room. She was flopped on the bed, which wasn’t made, and the floor was covered in clothes and books and crap. She was sometimes messy, sometimes clean; either way it was nice. She told me to toss the crap off the chair in the corner, which was all gooshy and pink and covered in clothes. She seemed her Home Self, all comfortable, asking if her sisters got to the party okay and thanking me for doing that.

  “And thanks for picking me up,” she said. “I mean it. I really like that we’re friends, Sean.”

  “Sure. Okay. I mean, no big deal.”

  “Ivy thinks that guys and girls can’t ever be friends, but I feel like she’s just pissy that I spend time with you and not her. I don’t think she gets it, how we’re not like that. We’re normal. We’re really friends. There’s no weird sex thing, you know?”

  “Right.”

  “God, I’m so glad to be out of there.”

  “Was it . . . bad? The whole . . . thing?”

  She rolled to her side, looked at me.

  “No,” she said. “I was the only one sober, though.”

  I wanted to know what they did so bad I wanted to rip the strings out of my hoodie. Which I was gripping and picking at like a psycho. But I didn’t talk about sex details like that with Eddie even. That was need-to-know information, if you were having sex or not. And then, it was only if you’d done it, not all the details. The only guys who talked about sex in long gross detail were generally total douchebag liars.

  “It was terrible,” Neecie said. “Like, he expected us to know what to do. Like Ivy and me should have studied up on the same porn he’s been watching or something. I figured Ivy might bail, say something, but she was just looking at him and not me and then he just kind of started things and it was so uncomfortable and stupid. I couldn’t stand it. I’m telling you, it was totally unsexy, Sean! So I just kind of left. We were in the bathroom and someone was banging on the door, anyway. I kind of hate him for the whole thing. Hate me, too, for even going along with it, you know?”

  “Whoa,” I said.

  She flopped on her back, turned on the nightstand light. “Will you turn off the overhead light, Sean? My eyes are killing me. It’s just so bright.”

  I got up, flipped off the light. Sat back down. Tried not to imagine Neecie with Tristan and Ivy in a bathroom.

  “I think I should just stop it,” she said. “I’ve never thought I should before. But I think I should. It makes me crazy. It makes me feel so bad.”

  I nodded. This was twice she’d said that—It makes me feel so bad—and I couldn’t stand it. It made me feel so bad, too. For her. For myself. For the world, where nobody normally said things like that out loud. Not without losing it or breaking down.

  I wondered if she’d ever lost it or broke down in front of Tristan.

  She wasn’t going to lose it or break down now, though, thank god. She just looked tired, lying there on her bed, with her legs in the air, tugging off her socks.

  I wondered if she put her legs in the air when she fucked Tristan.

  Hallie never did that.

  God, The Horn. It was a good thing no one could see into my mind.

  She sat up, stretched. Opened a drawer in her dresser, pulled out a little bottle of nail polish.

  “I’m gonna paint my toes. Want me to do yours?”

  Chapter Eleven

  If I had to map it out, when it was, it was probably then, that night when she made it clear that we were just nonsexual friends. That night she painted my toenails. She painted them blue—“to match your car,” she said, laughing—and she was grossed out by my toenails and the hair on my feet and that was when it was, when I knew it wasn’t just friends with us, that I’d crossed over without her, somehow.

  Because, The Horn.

  Because I felt embarrassed by her looking at my feet and touching them and touching me in general.

  Because now she was cute to me in a way I wanted to hog all to myself and not let anyone else have, because she smelled really good, kind of like cake, and something else, like the candles they kept in the bathroom and her hair was all shiny and long and she moved around in this completely unaware way, in a way I don’t think she saw at all, or anyone else did, maybe not even Tristan, but I could see it now, her little boobs denting out the top of her shirt, the straps of her bra were yellow and sticking out the neck of her T-shirt, and her body, too, I could see how she had a little curve going there, and how it might feel, my holding onto her hips and ass, how you did when you were fucking, which made me wonder if she shaved down there too and if it was blond or darker or what, and did he go down on her, Tristan? Did he make her come? Did he know how to do that, or was it just silent between them, and he just got off, alone? Or could she get off with him? Because he was so hot or because the whole thing was all secretive? Or maybe she told him how to get her off? Because maybe Neecie knew how to get herself off? And wasn’t afraid to say it to him, to show him? She wasn’t afraid to go in sex stores or try a threesome, after all. Or say how things made her feel so bad.

  You’d think that it would have been a good thing, us alone, with no parents, on New Year’s Eve, in her bedroom. Privacy. But I was so panicked, I almost left. I felt like a dope, maybe it was the nail polish fumes, maybe it was just the niceness of the whole thing, the naïve way Neecie was acting, like I didn’t have The Horn or any shitty suspicious motives. Like this was just another cookie-dough-in-the-basement situation. Less than that, even.

  I just needed to get through this dumb year of school and ship out to boot camp and be done with it—I am leaving and never coming back—maybe I needed to be done with it too, where Hallie was concerned. But thinking of Hallie and The Horn and all of it just seemed impossible. I couldn’t say no to Hallie. But I couldn’t tell Neecie that. So, then, when I should have left or said anything else, probably, I just asked her if she wanted to smoke some weed.

  “I’ve never done it,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Sorry,” she said, her neck and face getting all red. She took a handful of her hair and shook it behind her back, like it was bothering her. Like it was alive or something. I tried to not be fascinated by that. I really did. But I was staring, and she assumed I was judging her about the pot.

  “I’m not that cool, I guess,” she added.

  “It’s not a big deal. It’s just an idea.”

  She looked at her fingernails for a minute, which were freshly painted this weird yellowish color that reminded me of the spray paint Kerry used to mark the parking lot lines at the Thrift Bin.

  “Will you do it too?”

  “If you want, I won’t. In case you freak out.”

  She looked a little panicked.

  �
�But the stuff I have, it’s nice,” I said, real quick. About this I wasn’t lying. This wasn’t Kerry pot; it was some stuff Eddie got from his sister’s boyfriend. “It’s mellow. It’ll make you laugh. You’ll laugh about weird stuff.”

  “Okay, let’s do it,” she said. She got up then and started brushing her hair. Neecie was always brushing her hair, too. It sounded weird, but her hair was just this long blond sheet all the time, but she never really did anything with it, so it didn’t seem overly vain, her brushing it constantly. She even kept a hairbrush in her purse. But I didn’t want to watch her do it now; now it seemed like something different than before.

  “You’ve got me kind of concerned. You know how I’m all uptight and tense sometimes.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “What if I lose my mind and you have to take me to the emergency room?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “It happened to this girl Ivy’s cousin knows. Her parents found out and it sucked.”

  “That’s not gonna happen to you,” I said. “I promise.”

  She kept brushing her hair, so I went out to my car and got the weed, and when I came back in, Neecie was standing in the hallway.

  “I put a pizza in the oven,” she said. “For eating, like you said. Where do you want to do this?” That made me laugh, how prepared she was being. Like getting high was a quiz and she was going to bust out the flashcards any second now.

  “Somewhere with a window we can crack,” I said.

  “The bathroom?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  We went into the DREAM bathroom. Neecie opened the window and the cold started streaming in. While I was getting my one-hitter ready, she sat down on the wicker chair beneath the window. I always thought having a chair in the bathroom was weird. I mean, if you’re going to sit down in a bathroom, isn’t the toilet the main place? Who wants to, you know, lounge around in a damn bathroom?

  “Okay, so have you ever smoked a cigarette?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”