13
I woke up the next morning to the sound of Bailey retching in the bathroom next door. That hangover was going to be hell.
I stayed in bed for a while, thinking about the night before. Poor Bailey. The first hangover was always the worst. I felt a little guilty for not giving her a better warning, for not keeping an eye on how much she’d had. At ninety pounds, it probably didn’t take a lot to get the kid smashed. I hadn’t even thought to tell her that.
Probably because no one had warned me about limits the first time I ever drank.
I hadn’t been awake long when Sylvia found Bailey in the bathroom. I listened to their muffled voices, unable to make out the words. I heard them leave the bathroom and walk down the hallway, Sylvia’s heels clacking past my room, the door to Bailey’s room shutting a moment later.
I wondered if Sylvia would be able to tell Bailey had a hangover, or if she’d think the kid was just sick. If she knew it was a hangover, how much trouble would Bailey be in? How did someone like Sylvia punish her kids for drinking?
The truth was that I’d never actually been in trouble before. Not once.
Back when my parents were married, Mom had been the authoritarian. It was hard to imagine now, but she’d been tough on Trace and me as kids. Not that I needed any sort of discipline. Before the divorce, I’d been the good kid. Straight A’s. Middle school student council. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
Obviously, that had changed.
But by the time I became a “bad kid” or whatever, Mom was too busy being angry at Dad or depressed about everything to care what I was doing. So I’d never been punished for the drinking or the parties or staying out too late.
Whatever happened between Sylvia and Bailey, it didn’t involve yelling. The house was nearly silent for almost half an hour. Then I heard Bailey’s door open and shut again, and Sylvia walked back up the hallway. Three light taps on the door across the hall. She’d moved on to Nathan.
I sighed and climbed out of bed, grabbing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt from my duffel. My own hangover was pretty minimal, since I’d stopped drinking around ten thirty. Most of the time, I didn’t hit my stride until midnight or later. So I wasn’t feeling half bad when I reached for the doorknob, intent on grabbing some breakfast downstairs.
At least I wasn’t until Sylvia spotted me.
“Whitley,” she said as soon as I walked out of my bedroom. She was sitting on Nathan’s bed, staring at me through the open door. I could see Nathan on the other side of her, still in a T-shirt and pajama pants. He was facing the wall, so I couldn’t see the expression on his face.
“Um, yeah?”
“Would you mind going back to your room and waiting for me?” she asked. “I need to have a talk with you.”
Shit.
“Uh, sure. But will it take long? I’m really hungry and want to grab breakfast.”
“It’ll only take a second.”
I nodded and slouched back into my room. This could not be good.
I sat down on the bed, twisting my hands together. Why was this worrying me? What the hell could Sylvia do? Nothing. She had no proof that I’d done anything wrong. That’s what I told myself when she walked into the guest room five minutes later, anyway.
“Whitley.” She sighed, not looking at me at first. “Whitley, Whitley…”
Yeah, that’s my name, I thought. Get to the point.
I watched as she sat down in the chair in front of the desk, turning it to face me. “So…” she said, her eyes wandering the room. After a moment, they fell on my duffel bag. “You haven’t unpacked yet?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
I shrugged.
“Oh… well, okay.”
There was a long pause. She wasn’t saying a word, just looking around the guest room and occasionally glancing at me. It was driving me nuts. So nuts I had to break the silence and get her to the point. Even if I was in trouble, that was better than letting her sit there screwing with me.
“Did you have something you wanted to talk about?”
“Yes.”
I sighed loudly. “Well, I mean, like I said, I’m really hungry, so can we hurry this up?”
Sylvia shot me a sharp look, warning me to watch my step. At least I thought she did. The menace disappeared so fast I wasn’t sure if I’d really seen it or not.
“Okay,” she said. “It’s about the party you kids went to last night when you told me you were out bowling.”
So Nathan or Bailey had ratted. Lame.
“I’m very upset that my daughter—my thirteen-year-old daughter—was at a party and drinking, especially when I hadn’t been informed.” She paused, as if I should respond to this. I didn’t, and she continued. “I don’t condone that kind of behavior in my home, Whitley—or outside of it, if we’re getting technical. Not from my children.”
“Okay,” I said. “So tell Bailey that.”
“I’ve already spoken to both her and Nathan.”
“Good to know.”
After a mini staring contest, Sylvia started to shake her head. “Listen,” she said. “I’m not your mother, or even your stepmother yet, but—”
“No,” I agreed. “You aren’t. I’m not your responsibility, and it isn’t your place to punish me. You can’t even prove I did anything wrong at the party.”
“You let a teenage girl drink,” she replied. “And I’m sure I can safely assume she wasn’t the only one of you drinking. I’m a lawyer, Whitley. Don’t challenge me to prove anything.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“And as long as you are living under my roof, spending time with my children, you are most definitely my responsibility. I’ve already discussed punishments with Nathan and Bailey. I’ll be discussing yours with your father when he gets home.”
“Gets home,” I repeated. “Where is he now? He didn’t have to cover Tommy’s show until four.”
“He had to run a few errands before work,” she said.
“Right.” I gritted my teeth, staring out the window. “Good luck discussing that punishment thing with him. Apparently, he’s impossible to talk to alone for more than five seconds. Maybe he’ll make the time for you, though.”
“I know he’s been busy this week,” Sylvia said. “It must be hard not getting to talk to him, but—”
“No,” I said. “What’s hard is living with an embittered psycho twenty-four/seven and only seeing my dad once a freaking year. Then, when I finally do see him, he’s too busy trying to make his new family happy to spend any time with me.”
“That’s not—”
“Don’t tell me it’s not true, Sylvia,” I snapped. “Your freaking guest list was more important than talking to me about college yesterday. The first time we’ve talked alone since I got here, and you and your wedding had to ruin it.”
I knew I was being selfish and overdramatic, but at that moment, I didn’t care. If Sylvia was mad at me because of something as stupid as a party, I was allowed to be pissed at her, too. I thought she’d raise her voice, yell at me, tell me how ridiculous I was being, and that would have been fine. But she didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I stood up and started toward the door. Sylvia reached out for me, but I pushed her hand away. I didn’t want her to console me. I didn’t want her to try to be a good stepmom. I just wanted her to go. Because if Dad weren’t marrying her, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t have gone to that party, Bailey wouldn’t have gotten drunk, and I wouldn’t be in trouble now. If she had never met him, Dad and I would be having one of our great summers together right now.
Dad would still be mine.
“Look,” I said to her when I reached the door. “Why don’t you just figure out my punishment yourself and let me know. Because Dad’s just going to agree to whatever you want, anyway.”
“Whitley…”
“I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m getting breakfast. Just tell m
e what my punishment is when you figure it out.”
I opened the door and ran downstairs as fast as I could, hoping she wouldn’t follow me. She didn’t.
Nathan was sitting at the dining room table, eating a Pop-Tart and using his laptop. “Good morning,” he said without looking up.
“For who?” I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a bagel before heading back into the dining room. “I cannot believe you ratted us out.”
“I didn’t.”
“So Bailey just admitted to your mother that not only did she get drunk, she also lied about where we were going?”
“She didn’t have to. Mom’s not an idiot, Whit.”
“But you acted like you had it all figured out last night,” I said.
“Yeah, well, that was before Bailey woke up with a massive hangover. Kind of obvious she didn’t get that from the bowling alley.”
“We still could have made something up,” I argued. “We could have—”
“Look,” Nathan said, finishing off his Pop-Tart. “Mom’s not clueless. She can figure this stuff out. We couldn’t have lied our way around this. Trust me.”
I didn’t question him any more. It was just weird to me, the idea of someone who paid that much attention, someone who actually tried to see through the bullshit stories. Sylvia definitely wasn’t like my mother.
“All right, kids.” Sylvia appeared in the doorway of the dining room. “I’m going to the office to do some last-minute research for this trial. I shouldn’t be gone long. Keep an eye on Bailey for me, please. Whitley…” She looked at me for a long moment, then shook her head. “You’re grounded for the week, unless your father says otherwise.”
Oh, well, I thought. It’s not like there’s anything to do in this town, anyway.
“Nathan, come on,” she said. “I’ll drive you to the gym on my way.”
“Okay. Give me a second to grab my stuff.”
She nodded and walked back into the living room.
“Why is she driving you?” I asked as Nathan crumpled his Pop-Tart wrapper.
“I lost car privileges for two weeks,” he said. “I can’t go anywhere unless she or Greg drives me. So, basically, I’m grounded.”
It didn’t seem fair that Nathan was being punished for two weeks when I only got one. Not that I felt sorry for him, but he really hadn’t done anything wrong. Sure, he’d made up the lie, but he’d stayed sober and taken care of Bailey when I hadn’t. I decided to keep my mouth shut, though. I should be grateful I got off easy by comparison.
“Why is she letting you go to the gym, then?” I asked.
“I have to stay in shape for basketball,” he said, taking his trash and empty glass of milk into the kitchen. “The season doesn’t start for a while, but it’ll be easier to get back into the swing of things if I keep working out.”
“I didn’t know you played basketball,” I said, nibbling on my bagel.
“You never came to a single game in high school?”
“If I did, I was usually hanging out under the bleachers.”
Nathan sighed and walked back into the dining room. “Well, then, yes. I do play basketball. I got a scholarship to UK and everything.”
I stopped chewing for a moment and stared at him. “UK?” I repeated. “You mean the University of Kentucky.”
“Uh-huh.”
As if this summer with Nathan weren’t awkward enough, we would be going to the same college come late August. I tried to tell myself that UK was huge and the chances of us running into each other were probably slim, but I knew, I just knew, that wouldn’t be the case. With my shitty luck, I’d probably have every class with him, or we’d live on the same floor.
“All right. I’m getting out of here.”
I nodded, swallowing a piece of bagel. “Fine. Um, do you care if I use your computer? I’m kind of bored and wanted to surf the Web.”
“No,” Nathan said quickly. “I mean, yes, I do mind.” He snapped the laptop shut and tucked it under his arm. “It’s defragging, so it’ll be a while before anyone can use it.”
“Ooo-kay,” I said. “Whatever.”
It was so obvious he was lying. Maybe he did have porn on there.
“Right. Well, I’ll see you later, Whit.” He carried his laptop out of the dining room, leaving me sitting alone at the table.
After Sylvia and Nathan had gone and I finished eating, I went upstairs. I’d barely been in my room five seconds when my cell phone started to ring.
“Hey, Boozy!” Harrison said as soon as I picked up. “You hanging out with the toilet today?”
“Hardly. That was nothing last night,” I said.
“Oh, really? God, I’d be afraid to see something, then. So what’s up today, babe? Bonding with the stepbrother?”
“No,” I said. “He went to the gym.”
There was a long silence, and I heard Harrison let out a low sigh. I knew he must be imagining Nathan all sweaty and shirtless on the treadmill… or the exercise bike… with those lean, muscled arms and…
Christ, now I was thinking about it, too. Not a good idea.
“So,” I said, clearing my throat. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Just wondering if you had plans today.”
“Nope.”
“Want to hang out?”
“I can’t,” I said. “Grounded for the week. I’m not allowed to leave the house.”
“That blows.”
“I know.”
“Hmm.” He paused, then said, “Well, are you allowed to have people over to visit?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I wasn’t told not to. So…”
“Fabulous. I’ll be at your place in twenty.”
14
Sometime between Wesley’s party and the Father’s Day cookout Sylvia planned, Harrison Carlyle and I became friends. At least, that’s what he claimed we were. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.
Don’t get me wrong. Harrison was fun to be around. He’d come over almost every day during the week I was grounded (just as I’d predicted, Dad hadn’t altered Sylvia’s punishment). We watched movies and swam and talked about college plans. I had to give him credit; he kept me entertained, and Sylvia never said a word about me having guests over. If it weren’t for Harrison, I might have gone crazy.
Still, once my sentence was over and Harrison and I began venturing out of the house, I wasn’t totally comfortable with the way he introduced me as “my friend Whitley” or the way he’d laugh when we were talking and say things like, “I’ve never had a friend quite like you.” I wasn’t really sure how to contradict him, though, since I did like having him around—which is more than I can say about most people.
We spent time together almost every day, and when I told him about Sylvia’s big cookout plans, he offered to crash the party to keep me from stabbing myself in the eye with a shish kebab rod. A party devoted to celebrating a father I’d barely spoken to in weeks, thrown by the people who’d taken him away? Since getting hammered wasn’t an option, I knew I’d need Harrison’s support.
We sat at the dining room table playing Crazy Eights—possibly the lamest card game in the world—while everyone else milled around the backyard with their hot dogs and red cups full of lemonade. Sylvia had invited all of her coworkers and their families, plus the other anchors from Channel 34. The turnout was pretty decent, I guess, but I couldn’t help thinking that I should be spending Father’s Day with my father, not with everyone he and his fiancée knew, and not with Harrison.
“You guys should come outside,” Sylvia said, poking her head into the dining room. “It’s a beautiful day, and everyone would love to meet you.”
“We’re fine,” I said, slapping the eight of spades down on the pile and watching Harrison groan. “It’s too hot out there, anyway.”
“All right.” She sighed. “But I hope you change your mind.”
A minute later I heard her slip through the screen door in the kitchen, back to where her guests waited.
“I don’t know why she won’t leave me alone,” I mumbled. “She’s always breathing down my neck. Checking on me, asking if I need anything, wanting to know if I’m okay. I feel like I barely get a second to breathe.”
“She’s being nice.” Harrison laughed, drawing from the deck of cards. “It’s cute.”
“It’s annoying.”
“At least she cares.”
I remembered what Sylvia had said to Sherri at the bridal shop about being a better stepmom than the one she’d had growing up. “Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”
“Oh, you know what I just thought of?” he said. “You should stay over at my house soon. We could totally have a slumber party.”
“Don’t you think your mother would have a problem with a girl spending the night?” I asked.
“My mom knows I’m gay,” he said. “She’s fine with girls. Especially when I make new friends. She tries to fit in and be cool. It’s kind of sad. So, will you stay over? We could watch movies and talk about boys and do all that fun stuff.”
Was that stuff still fun? I didn’t remember. I hadn’t been to a slumber party since seventh grade.
“I don’t know, Harrison.”
“Please.”
I frowned and tossed an ace of diamonds onto the pile. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s make a deal: You throw a party, let me get wasted, and I’ll stay at your house that night.”
“God, Whitley. You’re practically auditioning for a starring role on Intervention.”
“What?” I grinned at him. “I’m more fun when I’m drunk, anyway. Give me enough to drink, and I might even let you give me a makeover.”
He laughed. “Okay. It’s a deal,” he said. “I’ll just have to trick my mother into leaving the house for the night.”
“Will she freak about the party?”
“Hell no.” He snorted. “She’ll want to hang out with us. And I wouldn’t be able to survive that kind of social humiliation.”
So it was settled. Harrison decided he would hold the party/sleepover on the Fourth of July, just over two weeks away. He could get his older sister to buy the alcohol, and his mother would be on a holiday retreat with some girlfriends. Perfect.
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