This Lullaby

by Sarah Dessen

  We pulled up in front of the Quik Zip and Trey cut the engine. “Who wants what?” he asked. “It’s a long ride ahead.”

  “We definitely need provisions,” Paul told him, opening his door. A small, polite chiming noise sounded, bing bing bing. “Beer and . . . ?”

  “Skittles,” Lissa finished for him, and he laughed.

  “One pack of Skittles,” he said. “Okay. Remy?”

  “Diet Coke,” I told him. “Please.”

  He hopped out of the car, shutting his door behind him. Trey jumped out as well, leaving the keys in and the radio on low. We were on our way to the drive-in one town over that played triple features on summer nights. It wasn’t a double date, since Trey had a girlfriend at school, and we’d originally invited Chloe and Jess as well. But Jess had to baby-sit, and Chloe, having already dumped her nerd boyfriend, was now pursuing some guy she’d met at the mall.

  “If I had a car like this,” Lissa said now, turning around completely in her seat, “I would live in it. I could live in it. And still have room to rent.”

  “It is huge,” I agreed, glancing behind me, where there were two more rows of seats before you even got close to the back door. “It’s kind of sick, actually. Who needs this much room?”

  “Maybe he buys a lot of groceries,” Lissa suggested.

  “He’s a college student,” I told her.

  “Well,” she said, shrugging, “all I know is I wish he didn’t have a girlfriend. I’ve decided I like cute rich boys.”

  “What’s not to like,” I said absently as I watched Paul and Trey eye the guy behind the counter—it was well-known underground information which Zip clerks checked IDs closely and which didn’t—and make their way to the rear of the store, picking up not one but two packs of Skittles for Lissa on the way. These boys did nothing in a small way, or so I was learning. Everything Paul had bought me in the two weeks we’d been dating had been Supersized or Doubled, and he always reached for his wallet immediately, not even entertaining my efforts to go Dutch every once in a while. He was still Perfect Paul, the Ideal Boyfriend Exhibit A. And yet something in me continued to nag, as if I just wasn’t enjoying this—the fruit of so many years of hard dating work—enough.

  I heard a rattling noise and glanced over to my left, startled to see the Truth Squad van pull up right beside us. I started to lean back, out of sight, before remembering that the windows were tinted so black you couldn’t see in. Ted was behind the wheel, a cigarette poking out of his mouth, and John Miller was in the passenger seat. As we watched, he leaned down and pulled on his door handle, and it swung open, but for some reason he forgot to let go and was taken with it, quickly dropping out of sight, the door left ajar.

  Ted glanced over at the empty seat, sighed in an irritated way, and got out of the van, slamming his door behind him. “Idiot,” he said loud enough for us to hear as he rounded the front bumper, where we could still see him through the windshield. He was looking down at the pavement. “Are you hurt?”

  We couldn’t hear John Miller’s reply. But by then I was distracted anyway, because I’d spotted Dexter climbing clumsily into the front seat of the van, tripping over the gearshift before tumbling into the driver’s seat and then out the door, dropping to the pavement a bit more gracefully than John Miller but not by much. He had on the same orange T-shirt as the day I’d met him, with a white oxford cloth shirt over it. Sticking out of the front pocket was another one of those warped wedding cameras. He looked in Lissa’s window, peering close, but couldn’t see anything. She just stared back, as if on the hidden side of a two-way mirror.

  “Isn’t that Dexter?” she whispered, keeping her voice low—Trey’s window, on the driver’s side, was open—as he pulled the camera out of his pocket and leaned in, taking a picture of her black window. The flash lit the whole inside of the truck for a second, and then he went to stick it back in his pocket, missing once, before fitting it back in.

  “Yeah,” I said as we watched him stumble slightly as he rounded the front of the van, reaching out a hand to touch Trey’s bumper for support. He was weaving, and not in the typical Dexter-clumsy way. He seemed drunk.

  “Okay, look you two,” Ted announced as Dexter ambled up, “I said I’d get you here and I did. But I’ve got a date with Mary and she’s already pissed at me so this is the end of the line. I’m not a taxi service.”

  “My good man,” I heard John Miller say, in a faux Robin Hood voice, “you have done your duty.”

  “Are you going to get up, or what?” Ted asked.

  John Miller got to his feet. He was still in his work clothes but looked entirely wrinkled, as if someone had balled him up in a pocket for a couple of hours. His shirt was hanging out, his pants totally creased, and he, too, had a disposable camera, sticking out of one of his pants pockets. He had a scratch on his cheek, too, which looked fresh, probably the result of the tumble from the van. He reached up and touched it, as if surprised to find it there, then let his hand drop.

  “My good man,” Dexter said, flopping an arm around Ted, who immediately made a face, clearly fed up, “we owe you the greatest of favors.”

  “My good man,” John Miller echoed, “we will repay you with gold, and maidens, and our eternal allegiance to your cause. Huffah!”

  “Huffah!” Dexter repeated, raising his fist.

  “Will you two cut that shit out?” Ted snapped, shaking off Dexter’s arm. “It’s annoying.”

  “As you wish, comrade,” John Miller told him. “Raise a glass and huffah!”

  “Huffah!” Dexter said again.

  “That’s it.” Ted started back to the van. “I’m gone. You guys can huffah all you want—”

  “Huffah!” they yelled in unison. John Miller, throwing his arms into it, seemed close to tumbling over again.

  “—but you get home on your own. And don’t do anything stupid, okay? We don’t have bail money right now.”

  “Huffah!” John Miller said, saluting Ted’s retreating back as he walked away. “Thank you, oh kind sir!”

  Ted flipped them the bird, obviously over it, then coaxed the van’s engine to life and backed away, leaving them there in front of the Quik Zip, where they commenced taking pictures of each other posing by the newspaper racks. Inside, I watched as Paul and Trey chatted up the guy behind the counter as he slid their two six-packs into a paper bag.

  “Okay, now give me some pout,” Dexter was saying to John Miller, who struck a model’s pose, sticking out his chest and using a stack of coupon fliers as a prop, fanning them in front of his face and peeking over them, seductively. “There, that’s good! Great!” The flash popped, and Dexter wound the film, giggling. “Okay, now do somber. That’s right. You’re serious. You’re hurt . . .”

  John Miller looked out at the road, suddenly mournful, contemplating the Double Burger, which was across the street, with a wistful expression.

  “Beautiful!” Dexter said, and they both busted out laughing. I could hear Lissa chuckling in front of me.

  John Miller had struck his best pose yet, draping himself across the phone booth and fluttering his eyelashes, when Dexter popped one last flash and ran out of film. “Damn,” he said, shaking the camera, as if that would suddenly make more pictures appear. “Oh, well. So much for that.”

  They sat down on the curb. I kept thinking we should roll down the window, say something to let them know we were there, but already it seemed too late to do so without repercussions.

  “Truth be told, my good man,” John Miller said solemnly, turning his own disposable camera in his hands, “I am somber. And serious. And hurt.”

  “My good man,” Dexter told him, leaning back on his palms and stretching his feet out in front of him, “I understand.”

  “The woman I love will not have me.” John Miller squinted up at the sky. “She thinks I am not husband material, and, in her words, a bit immature. And today, in defiance of this proclamation, I quit my very easy job in which I made nine bucks an hour
doing not very much at all.”

  “There are other jobs, my squire,” Dexter said.

  “And, on top of that,” John Miller continued, “the band will mostly likely be rejected by yet another record label because of the artistic integrity of Sir Ted, who will drive us all into retirement by stubbornly refusing to admit that his potato opuses are a bunch of crap.”

  “Aye,” Dexter said, nodding. “It is true. Young Ted may, indeed, shoot us all in the foot.”

  This was news to me, but not entirely surprising. Dexter had told me that Ted’s vehement insistence that they do no covers for a demo, ever, had worked against them in previous towns, with previous chances.

  “But you, fine sir.” John Miller clapped Dexter on the shoulder, a bit unsteadily. “You have problems of your own.”

  “This is true,” Dexter replied, nodding.

  “The women,” John Miller sighed.

  Dexter wiped a hand over his face, and glanced down the road. “The women. Indeed, dear squire, they perplex me as well.”

  “Ah, the fair Remy,” John Miller said grandly, and I felt a flush run up my face. Lissa, in the front seat, put a hand to her mouth.

  “The fair Remy,” Dexter repeated, “did not see me as a worthwhile risk.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I am, of course, a rogue. A rapscallion. A musician. I would bring her nothing but poverty, shame, and bruised shins from my flailing limbs. She is the better for our parting.”

  John Miller pantomimed stabbing himself in the heart. “Cold words, my squire.”

  “Huffah,” Dexter agreed.

  “Huffah,” John Miller repeated. “Indeed.”

  Then they just sat there, saying nothing for a moment. In the back of the Excursion, I could feel my heart beating. Watching him, I knew there was nothing I could do now to take any of it back. And I felt ashamed for hiding.

  “What kind of money you got?” John Miller said suddenly, digging into his own pocket. “I think we need more beer.”

  “I think,” Dexter said, pulling out a wad of bills and some change, which he promptly dropped on the ground, “that you’re right.”

  Paul and Trey came out of the store then, and Paul yelled over at us, “Hey, Remy—was that diet you wanted or regular? I couldn’t remember.” He stuck his hand in the bag he was carrying and pulled out two bottles, one of each. “I got you both, but . . .”

  Lissa put her hand on the window button to lower it, then glanced back at me, not knowing what she should do. But I just froze, my eyes on Dexter. He looked at Paul, slowly comprehending the situation, and then over at the truck, at us.

  “Diet,” he said out loud, looking right at me, as if suddenly he could see me.

  Paul looked over at him. “What’s that?”

  Dexter cleared his throat. “She wants diet,” he said. “But not in a bottle, like that.”

  “Hey man,” Paul said, smiling slightly, “what are you talking about?”

  “Remy drinks Diet Coke,” Dexter told him, standing up. “But from the fountain drink thing. Extra large, lots of ice. Isn’t that right, Remy?”

  “Remy,” Lissa said softly. “Should we—”

  I opened up my door and was out, dropping to the ground—it was unbelievable how high up the Excursion was—before I even really knew what I was doing. I walked up to them. Paul was still smiling, confused, while Dexter just looked at me.

  “Huffah,” he said, but this time John Miller didn’t chime in.

  “This is fine,” I said to Paul, taking the drinks from him. “Thanks.”

  Dexter was just staring at us and I could tell Paul was uneasy, wondering what was going on.

  “No, it’s okay,” Dexter said suddenly, as if someone had asked him. “Not awkward at all. But we’d say if it was, right? Because that’s the deal. The friends deal.”

  By now, Trey had started toward the truck, wisely knowing to keep out of this. John Miller walked into the Quik Zip. And then there were three.

  Paul glanced at me and said, “Everything okay?”

  “Everything,” Dexter told him, “is just fine. Fine.”

  Paul was still watching me, waiting for verification. I said, “It’s fine. Just give me a minute, okay?”

  “Sure.” He squeezed my arm—as Dexter watched, a pointed look on his face—then walked over to the truck, climbing in and shutting the door behind him.

  Dexter looked at me. “You know,” he said, “you could have let me know you were there.”

  I bit my lip, looking down at the Diet Coke. I lowered my voice, then said, “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he said, too quickly, then snapped his fingers, all happy-go-lucky. “Absolutely-freaking-fantastic!” Then he looked at the truck again. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “That thing has a freaking Spinnerbait sticker on it, for God’s sake. Better hurry, Remy, old Tucker and Bubba the third are probably getting impatient.”

  “Dexter.”

  “What?”

  “Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?”

  Okay, so I knew why. This, in fact, was the standard post-breakup behavior, the way he should have been behaving all along. But since it was starting now, instead of then, I was thrown a bit.

  “You were the one who said we should be friends,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Oh, come on. You were just playing along with that, right?”

  “No,” I said.

  “This is all you,” he said, pointing one somewhat wobbly finger at my chest. “You don’t believe in love, so it just follows logic you wouldn’t believe in like, either. Or friendship. Or anything that might involve even the smallest personal risk.”

  “Look,” I said, and now I was starting to get a little pissed. “I was honest with you.”

  “Oh, well let’s just give you a medal, then!” he said, clapping his hands. “You break up with me because I might really like you, enough to look past just hooking up for the summer, and now I’m the bad guy?”

  “Okay,” I said, “so you would have rather I lied and said I felt the same way, then dumped you a month later instead?”

  “Which would have been just so inconvenient,” he said sarcastically, “making you miss Mr. Spinnerbait and that opportunity.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Is that what this is about?” I asked him. “You’re jealous?”

  “That would make it simple, wouldn’t it?” he said, nodding. “And Remy likes simple. You think you have everything figured out, that you can chart my reaction and what I’m saying on some little graph you keep tucked away. But life isn’t like that.”

  “Oh, really?” I said. “Then what is it like? You tell me.”

  He leaned in very close to me, lowering his voice. “I meant what I said to you. I wasn’t playing some kind of summer game. Everything I said was true, from the first day. Every goddamn word.”

  My mind flitted back then, over the challenges, the jokes, the half-sung songs. What meaningful truth was there in that? It had only been that first day that he’d said anything big, and that was just—

  There was a whirring noise behind me, and next Lissa’s voice, slight and tentative. “Um, Remy?” she asked, then cleared her throat, as if realizing how she sounded. “We’re going to miss the beginning of the movie.”

  “Okay,” I said, over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

  “We’re done anyway,” Dexter explained, saluting the truck. To me he added, “That’s what this has been all about for you, correct? Making it clear. That you and me—it was nothing more than what you’ll have with Spinnerbait boy, or the guy after that, or the guy after that. Right?”

  For one split second, I wanted to tell him he was wrong. But there was something in the way he said this, a cocky angriness, that stopped me. He’d said himself I was a bitch, and once I would have taken pride in that. So sure, okay. I’d play.

  “Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “You’re right.”

  He just stood there, l
ooking at me, as if I had actually changed before his eyes. But this was the girl I’d been all along. I’d just hidden her well.

  I started to walk away, toward the truck. Paul opened the back door for me. “Is he bothering you?” he asked, his face serious. “Because if he is—”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s fine. We’re done.”

  “Young knight!” Dexter yelled at Paul, just as he was shutting the door. “Be forewarned, when she does have the fountain drink, she has a vicious arm on her. She will peg you, my good man. When you least see it coming!”

  “Let’s go,” Paul said, and Trey nodded, starting to back up.

  As we drove away I was determined not to look back. But in Lissa’s side mirror, I could still see him standing there, shirttails flapping, arms spread, up in the air, as if waving us off on a grand trip while he stayed behind. Bon voyage, take care. Go in peace. Huffah.

  The next day when I got back from spending the night at Lissa’s, my mother was home. I dropped my keys on the side table, my purse on the stairs, and was just starting into the kitchen when I heard her.

  “Don?” she called out, her voice bouncing down the hallway that led to the new wing. “Honey? Is that you? I took an earlier flight, thought I could surprise—” She rounded the corner, the sandals she was wearing clicking across the floor, then stopped when she saw it was me. “Oh, Remy. Hello. I thought you were Don.”“Obviously,” I said. “How was Florida?”

  “Heavenly!” She walked over and hugged me, pulling me close against her. She had a nice tan and a new haircut, shorter and streaked with a bit of blond, as if in Florida you are required by law to go tropical. “Just wonderful. Invigorating. Rejuvenating!”

  “Wow,” I told her as she released me, stepping back. “All that in only three days?”

  “Oh,” she sighed, walking ahead of me into the kitchen, “it was just what I needed. Things have been so busy and stressful since the wedding, and then before the wedding with all the planning and organizing . . . it was just too much, you know?”