by Sarah Dessen
“Nope,” I said, poking at my coffee with the spoon.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, picking up his drink. “Are you lying to me?”
I sighed. This entire scenario was like the default talk-to-a-girl-at-a-bar script, and I was only playing along because I wasn’t entirely sure I could get off my bar stool without stumbling. At least Jess was coming. I’d called her. Hadn’t I?
“It’s the truth,” I told him. “I’m really just such a bitch.”
He looked surprised at this, but not necessarily in a bad way. In fact, he looked kind of intrigued, as if I’d just admitted I wore leather panties or was double-jointed. “Now, who told you that?”
“Everyone,” I said.
“I’ve got something that’ll cheer you up,” he said.
“I bet you do.”
“No, really.” He raised his eyebrows at me, then pantomimed holding a joint between two fingers. “Out in the car. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
I shook my head. Like I was that stupid. Anymore. “Nope. I’m waiting for a ride.”
He leaned closer to me: he smelled like aftershave, something strong. “I’ll make sure you get home. Come on.” And then he put his hand on my arm, curling his fingers around my elbow.
“Let go,” I said, trying to tug my arm back.
“Don’t be like that,” he said, almost affectionately.
“I’m serious,” I told him, jerking my elbow. He held on. “Let go.”
“Oh come on, Emmy,” he said, finishing his drink. He couldn’t even get my stupid name right. “I don’t bite.”
Then he started to tug me off my stool, which normally I would have made more difficult, but again, my balance wasn’t exactly right on just then. Before I knew it I was on my feet, then getting yanked through the crowd.
“I said let go, you fucking asshole!” I pulled my arm loose, hard, and it flew up, smacking him in the face and sending him stumbling, just slightly, backward. Now people were looking at us, in that mildly-interesting-at-least-until-the-music-starts-again kind of way. How had I let this happen? One nasty remark from Chris and I’m bar trash, fighting in public with some guy named Sherman? I could feel the shame rising up in me, flushing my face. Everyone was looking at me.
“Okay, okay, what’s going on here?” That was Adrian, the bouncer, too late as usual for the real commotion but always up for a chance to throw his little bit of power around.
“We’re just talking at the bar and we go to go outside and she freaks,” Sherman said, pulling at his collar. “Crazy bitch. She hit me.”
I was standing there, rubbing my arm, hating myself. I knew if I turned around I’d see that girl again, so weak and screwed up. She’d go to the parking lot, no problem. After that night at the party, she’d gotten a reputation for it. I hated her for that. So much I could feel a lump rising in my throat, which I pressed down because I was better than that, much better. I wasn’t Lissa: I didn’t trot my pain out to show around. I kept it better hidden than anyone. I did.
“God, this is swelling,” Sherman whined, rubbing his eye. What a wuss. If I’d hit him on purpose, well, then that would have been different. But it was an accident. I didn’t even really have my arm in it.
“You want me to call the police?” Adrian asked.
I was suddenly so hot, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back with sweat. The room tilted, just a bit, and I closed my eyes.
“Oh, man,” I heard someone say, and suddenly there was a hand enclosing mine, squeezing slightly. “There you are! I’m only fifteen minutes late, honey, no need to cause a commotion.”
I opened my eyes to see Dexter standing beside me. Holding my hand. I would have yanked it away, but honestly I thought better of it, after what had just happened.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Adrian said to Dexter.
“It’s my fault, though,” Dexter replied in that quick, cheery way of his, as if we were all friends who met coincidentally on a street corner. “It is. See, I was late. And that makes my sweetums so foul tempered.”
“God,” I said under my breath.
“Sweetums?” Sherman repeated.
“She clocked him,” Adrian told Dexter. “Might have to call the cops.”
Dexter looked at me, then at Sherman. “She hit you?”
Now Sherman didn’t seem so sure, instead pulling at his collar and glancing around. “Well, not exactly.”
“Honey!” Dexter looked at me. “Did you really? But she’s just a little thing.”
“Watch it,” I said under my breath.
“You want to get arrested?” he said back, just as low. Then, back in cheery mode, he added, “I mean, I’ve seen her get mad before, but hit somebody? My Remy? She’s not even ninety pounds soaking wet.”
“Either I call the cops or I don’t,” Adrian said. “But I got to get back to the door.”
“Forget it,” Sherman told him. “I’m out of here.” And then he slunk off, but not before I noticed that yes, his eye was swelling. Wimp.
“You.” Adrian pointed at me. “Go home. Now.”
“Done,” Dexter said. “And thank you so much for your cordial, professional handling of this situation.”
We left Adrian there, mulling over whether he’d been insulted. As soon as we were outside, I yanked my hand loose from Dexter’s and started down the stairs, toward the pay phone.
“What, no thank-you?” he asked me.
“I can take care of myself,” I told him. “I’m not some weak woman who needs to be saved.”
“Obviously,” he said. “You just almost got arrested for assault.”
I kept walking.
“And,” he continued, darting ahead of me and walking backward so I had no choice but to look at him, “I saved your butt. So you, Remy, should be a little more grateful. Are you drunk?”
“No,” I snapped, although I may or may not have just tripped over something. “I’m fine. I just want to call for a ride and go home, okay? I had a really shitty night.”
He dropped back beside me, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Really.”
“Yes.”
We were at the phone now. I reached into my pockets: no change. And suddenly it just seemed to hit me all at once—the argument with Chris, the fight in the bar, my own pity party, and, right on the tails of that, all the drinks I’d consumed in the last few hours. My head hurt, I was deadly thirsty, and now I was stuck. I put my hand over my eyes and took a few good, deep breaths to steady myself.
Don’t cry, for God’s sakes, I told myself. This isn’t you. Not anymore. Breathe.
But it wasn’t working. Nothing was working tonight.
“Come on,” he said quietly. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“No.” I sniffled, and hated the way it sounded. Weak. “Go away.”
“Remy,” he replied. “Tell me.”
I shook my head. How did I know this would be any different? The story could have been the same, easily: me drunk, in a deserted place. Someone there, reaching out for me. It had happened before. Who could blame me for my cold, hard heart?
And that did it. I was crying, so angry at myself, but I couldn’t stop. The only time I ever allowed myself to be this weak was at home, in my closet, staring up at those stars with my father’s voice filling my ears. And I wished so much that he was here, even though I knew it was stupid, that he didn’t even know me to save me. He’d said it himself, in the song: he’d let me down. But still.
“Remy,” Dexter said quietly. He wasn’t touching me, but his voice was very close, and very soft. “It’s okay. Don’t cry.”
Later, it would take me a minute to remember how exactly it happened. If I turned around and moved forward first, or he did. I just knew we didn’t meet halfway. It was just a short distance really, not worth squabbling over. And maybe it didn’t matter so much whether he took the step or I did. All I knew was that he was there.
Chapter Seven
I woke up with
my mouth dry, my head pounding, and the sound of guitar music coming from the direction of the door across the room. It was dark, but there was a slant of light stretching right to where I was, falling across the end of a bed in which I had apparently, up until now, been sleeping.
I sat up quick, and my head spun. God. This was familiar. Not the place but this feeling, waking up in a strange bed, completely discombobulated. Moments like this, I was just glad no one was there to witness my absolute shame as I verified that yes, my pants were still on and yes, I was still wearing a bra and yes, okay, nothing major had happened because, well, girls just know.Jesus. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath.
Okay, okay, I told myself, just think for a second. I looked around me for any distinguishing details that might clarify what, exactly, had happened since the last thing I remembered, which was me and Dexter at the phone booth. There was a window to my left, along the sill of which there was what appeared to be a series of snow globes. A chair across the room was covered with clothes, and there was a bunch of CDs stacked in piles beside the door. Finally, at the end of the bed, in a pile, were my sandals, the sweater I’d been wearing around my waist, and my money and ID. Had I put them there? No way. Even drunk, I would have folded them. I mean, please.
Suddenly I heard someone laugh, and then a few guitar chords, playing softly.
“You gave me a potato,” someone sang, as there was another snort of laughter, “but I wanted a kumquat. . . . I asked you for lovin’. . . . You said—hey, wait, is that my cottage cheese?”
“I’m hungry,” someone protested. “And the only other thing in here is relish.”
“Then eat the relish,” another voice said. “The cottage cheese is off limits.”
“What’s your problem, man?”
“House rules, John Miller. You don’t buy food, you don’t eat. Period.”
A refrigerator door slammed, there was a second of silence, and then the guitar started up again. “He’s such a baby,” someone said. “Okay. So where were we?”
“Kumquat.” This time I recognized the voice. It was Dexter.
“Kumquat,” the other voice repeated. “So . . .”
“I asked you for lovin’,” Dexter sang. “You said, do what?”
I pushed off the blankets that were covering me, got out of the bed, then put on my shoes. For some reason, this made me feel better, more in control. Then I stuck my ID back in my pocket, slipped on my sweater, and sat down to think.
First off: the time. No clock, but I could see what looked like a tangled phone cord poking out from under the bed, half buried under a couple of shirts. This place was a mess. I dialed the time and temperature number, listened to the five-day forecast, and then found out it was, at the tone, 12:22 A.M. Beep.
It was really bothering me that the bed wasn’t made. But it wasn’t my problem. I needed to get home.
I dialed Jess’s number and bit my pinky nail, awaiting the inevitable wrath.
“Mmmpht.”
“Jess?”
“Remy Starr. I am so going to kick your fucking ass.”
“Hey, okay, but listen—”
“Where the hell are you?” She was wide awake now, managing to sound totally pissed and keep her voice down at the same time. Jess was multitalented. “Do you know that Chloe has been on me for the entire night about you? She said she dropped you at Bendo for one beer at eight-thirty, for God’s sake.”
“Well, see, I ended up staying a little bit longer.”
“Clearly. And I ended up driving there to look for you, hearing that you were not only drunk but also in a fight and, to top it off, had left with some guy and completely disappeared. What the hell are you thinking, Remy?”
“I understand that you’re mad, okay? But right now I just need to—”
“Do you think I enjoy repeated phone calls from Chloe telling how if you’re dead or something it’s my fault because, obviously, I was supposed to have some kind of psychic connection that would enable me to know I was supposed to pick you up without the benefit of a phone call?”
This time, I was quiet.
“Well?” she snapped.
“Look,” I said, whispering. “I screwed up. Big time. But right now I’m at this guy’s house and I need out and please can you just help me?”
“Tell me where you are.”
I did. “Jess, I really—”
Click. Okay, well, now we could both be pissed at me. But at least I was getting home.
I walked to the door and leaned against it. The guitar music was still going, and I could hear Dexter singing that line about the potato and kumquat, again and again, as if waiting for inspiration to strike. I inched the door open a little more, then peered through the crack. I could see right into the house’s kitchen, where there was a beat-up Formica table with a bunch of mismatched chairs, a fridge covered with pictures, and a brown-and-green-striped couch pulled up against the back window. Dexter and the guy I recognized as Ted, the guitarist, were sitting at the table, a couple of cans of beer between them. The dog I’d met earlier, Monkey, was asleep on the couch.
“Maybe kumquat isn’t the right word,” Dexter said, leaning back in his chair—a wooden one painted yellow—exactly the way your teachers in school always told you not to, balancing on the back legs. “Maybe we need another kind of fruit.”
Ted picked at the guitar’s strings. “Such as?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Dexter sighed, pulling both hands through his hair. It was so curly this just added volume, springing loose as he let his arms drop. “What about pomegranate?”
“Too long.”
“Nectarines?”
Ted cocked his head to the side, then strummed another chord. “You gave me potato but I wanted a nectarine. . . .”
They looked at each other. “Terrible,” Dexter decided.
“Yup.”
I shut the door back, wincing as it made a tiny click. It would have been bad enough to face Dexter after what had—or hadn’t—happened. But the thought of there being someone else there was enough to make a full-on window escape necessary.
I crawled up on the bed and pushed the snow globes—God, who over the age of ten collected snow globes?—aside, then undid the latch. It stuck at first, but I put some shoulder in it and up it went, rattling slightly. Not much space, but enough.
One arm through, about to start wriggling, I had a small but noticeable pang of guilt. I mean, he had gotten me to a safe place. And, judging by the taste in my mouth and past experience, it was highly likely that I had puked at some point. Since I didn’t remember getting there, he must have had to drag me. Or carry me. Oh, the shame.
I dropped back down on the bed. I had to do something decent here. But Jess was on her way and I didn’t have many options. I looked around me: not enough time to straighten up the room, even though my fast cleaning skills were legendary. If I left a note, that was an open invitation to get back in touch with me, and honestly I wasn’t sure I wanted that. There was nothing else to do but make the bed. Which I did, quickly and thoroughly, with hospital corners and the pillow trick that was my trade secret. Even at the Four Seasons they couldn’t do better.
So it was with a less heavy conscience that I pushed myself through the (small) window, trying to be stealthy, and pretty much succeeding until I kicked the back of the house on my dismount, leaving a scuff mark by the electric meter. No biggie. Then I cut through the side yard to find Jess.
There was a time when I’d been famous for my window escapes. It was my preferred way to exit, always, even if I had a mostly clear path to the door. Maybe it was a shame thing, a punishment I chose to inflict upon myself because I knew, in my heart, that what I had done was bad. It was my penance.
Two streets over, on Caldwell, I stepped off the curb by the stop sign and held up my hand, squinting in Jess’s headlights as she came closer. She reached over, pushed open the passenger door, and then stared straight ahead, impassive, as I got in.
&n
bsp; “Just like old times,” she said flatly. “How was it?”
I sighed. It was too late to go into details, even with her. “Old,” I said.
She turned up the radio and we cut through a side street, then passed Dexter’s house on our way out of the neighborhood. The front door was open, the porch dark, but from the light inside I could see Monkey sitting there, his nose pressed against the screen. Dexter probably didn’t even know I was gone yet. But just in case, I slid down, dropping out of sight, although I knew in the dark, and at this speed, he couldn’t have found me if he tried.
This time, I awoke to tapping.
Not normal tapping: tapping in a rhythm that I recognized. A song. It sounded, in fact, like “Oh, Tannenbaum.”I opened one eye, then looked around me. I was in my room, my bed. Everything in place, the floor clean, my universe just as I liked it. Except for the tapping.
I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow, assuming it was one of my mother’s cats, which were all having minor breakdowns in her absence, attacking my door in an effort to get me to feed them more Fancy Feast, which they devoured by the case.
“Go away,” I mumbled into my pillow. “I mean it.”
And then, just then, the window right over my bed suddenly opened. Slid up, smooth as silk, scaring me to death, but not quite as much as Dexter shooting through it, head first, limbs flailing. One of his feet hit my bedside table, sending my clock flying across the room to crash into a closet door with a bang, while his elbow clocked me right in the gut. The only thing slightly redeeming about any of this was that he had so much momentum behind him he missed the bed entirely, instead landing with a thunk, belly-flop style, on the throw rug by my bureau. The whole commotion, while seemingly complicated, was over in a matter of seconds.
Then it was very quiet.
Dexter lifted up his head, glanced around, then put it back on the carpet. He still seemed a little stunned by the impact. I knew how he felt: I had a second-floor window, and climbing in off the trellis, as I had many times, was a bitch. “You could at least,” he said, eyes closed, “have said good-bye.”