They resumed the card game, but I was only half paying attention. I had just noticed Ricky standing in the corner of the kitchen, not far from Tucker and Bianca. His whole body seemed to be contracting in on itself, his arms wrapped around his torso like he was trying to hug warmth into his body.
I caught his eye, and he pushed his way across the kitchen, staring determinedly away from Tucker.
“Let’s go, Codi, I’ll drive your car,” he said stormily. Then he swept out of the house without looking back.
“Is he okay?” Terrica asked.
“He’s fine,” I said with a wave of my hand. “You know how dramatic boys can be.”
It wasn’t until I hugged the girls goodbye that I realized the true extent of our drunkenness. Terrica held on to me and started crying like she would never see me again. Natalie rubbed my head like I was a cat, muttering about how soft my hair was.
And then it was just Lydia.
She hugged me tightly, her hair pressing against my face. She smelled like shampoo and perfume and every pretty thing. “Drink lots of water when you get home,” she whispered into my neck. “And eat carbs. Lots of carbs.”
“You got it, bro,” I said, tugging on a strand of her hair.
She grinned and hugged me one more time, and I turned and made my way out the door.
* * *
The night was loud. Crickets were trilling and whirring, cars were whooshing by on distant streets, even the heat itself seemed layered with heavy sound. Ricky said nothing as we drove down dark, winding streets. He lowered my car windows but didn’t turn the music on, which even my drunk ass knew was out of character for him. It wasn’t until he parked in my driveway that he made any sound at all.
“All right,” he said, handing me the keys. “Have a good night.”
He moved to get out of the car, but I held him back. “How’re you getting home?”
“I’ll walk. No big deal.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
His voice was gruff, strained. “I’m fine.”
I held on to his forearm, trying to seem more in command of myself than I was. “I saw Tucker with that girl,” I said quietly. “Bianca.”
A muscle twitched in Ricky’s jaw. “That’s nothing.”
“Okay.”
We sat there in the driveway, the night enveloping us.
“He’s just a fucking coward,” Ricky said suddenly, his voice searing through the quiet. “Makes no difference to me how he wants to live his life, but it’s aggravating to see him with someone he doesn’t give two shits about.”
“Ricky.”
“What?” he snapped, his voice shaking.
“He means something to you,” I said softly. “It’s okay. I think you mean something to him, too.”
Ricky was staring through my windshield. I could hardly see his face in the darkness.
“Sorry for yelling,” he said abruptly. “Get some sleep.”
He got out of my car before I could say another word.
* * *
I snuck into my house as quietly as I could, half-afraid that my parents would be waiting up for me, even though I’d lied to them that I was watching a movie with Maritza tonight. I was relieved to see the lights turned off in the kitchen, no sound except for the air-conditioning humming steadily in the background. I tiptoed to the sink, poured myself a glass of water, and grabbed a box of cheese crackers from the pantry. Then I crept up the stairs and headed toward my room, eager to lie in bed and replay the night in my head.
But as I crossed the hallway, my brother’s light switched on.
I froze where I was, standing halfway between his room and mine, looking at him where he stood in the doorway. He was squinting as his eyes adjusted to the light, wearing a T-shirt he’d clearly outgrown months ago.
“What are you doing?” he grumbled.
“Shhh. I told Mom and Dad I’d be home late. Go back to sleep.”
“I wasn’t sleeping, I was watching Netflix. Why do you look all guilty?”
“What?”
“Were you drinking?”
I cursed inwardly. Could he tell by my voice? By my body language?
“I wouldn’t tell on you,” he said defiantly.
The crazy thing was, I believed him. But it didn’t matter: My defenses were too high to let him in.
“Don’t be an idiot, Grant,” I growled. “I was just watching a movie with Maritza. Stop being so nosy.”
He stared me down for a few seconds, and I stared back, and then he shook his head and snapped his door shut like I wasn’t worth another breath.
10
Let’s just say my first hangover was a shock.
I woke up with a pounding head, dry mouth, and queasy stomach. For a moment I hoped I was the only person home, but then I remembered it was Saturday, and I could hear my parents bustling around downstairs, their favorite nineties rock playing in the background. I chugged the water on my nightstand and went back to sleep.
A while later, someone was rubbing my back. I rolled over, hazy-eyed, to find my mom peering down at me.
“Do you feel okay, honey? It’s almost noon.”
“Yeah,” I croaked. I wasn’t sure whether I sounded hungover or just tired, but I didn’t have the energy to care.
“You came home late last night,” Mom said. She left it hanging, and I tensed up, expecting her to put the pieces together, to deduce that I’d been out drinking like a typical teenager. In that moment, I wasn’t sure whether I wanted her to know or not.
But then: “You and Maritza must have watched more than one movie, huh?”
I swallowed. I didn’t know if she was handing me the lie for my sake or her sake, or if she realized it was a lie at all. Maybe it was just outside her realm of possibility to consider that I’d been drunk—that her shy little artist had started rebelling after all. I remembered my brother standing in the hall last night, accusing me of drinking. At least he thought it could actually happen.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “A few movies. You know how Maritza gets.”
“Mm-hm,” Mom cooed. “Well, why don’t you take a shower to help yourself wake up, and then come down and help us clean out the garage.”
* * *
I finally saw Maritza and JaKory on Monday night, after JaKory got back from Florida. We went to Chick-fil-A and sat on the patio and talked as loud as we wanted to. I hadn’t seen them in days, but neither one of them asked much about what I’d been up to. I was somewhat relieved, since I wouldn’t have to lie through my teeth again—but their assumption that I’d merely been working and painting also reinforced how boring and predictable they thought I was, and I resented it.
“Y’all should drop by the dance studio one of these days,” Maritza said, stirring her strawberry milkshake. “There’s always something dramatic going on. Did I tell you about the seventh-grader who got her period for the first time the other day? She ran out of the bathroom screaming that she was dying. Didn’t even know what was happening. Absurd. Coach Leslie had to take her into the bathroom and tell her what to do through the stall door, and the other girls were trying to act all compassionate, but mostly they were acting superior, and—”
“Did anyone have something to give her?” I asked.
“I had some tampons with me, but she was too freaked out to try that, so Coach Leslie said we should get her a pad instead—”
“Ugh,” JaKory interrupted. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Stop being such a boy,” Maritza said, kicking his ankle. “How many times do we have to tell you that we’ll be talking about period stuff in front of you until your dying day? So anyway, Coach Leslie’s like, ‘We need to get her a pad,’ but none of the girls had one, so of course fucking Vivien Chen went to CVS to buy her some—”
“That was nice of her, though,” I said.
“She didn’t do it to be nice,” Maritza said exasperatedly, “she did it to suck up to Coach Leslie and prove that she’s
all captain-y or whatever.”
“Isn’t she just the worst?” I said, catching JaKory’s eye.
“An absolute she-devil.”
“Y’all don’t know her like I do,” Maritza said darkly.
“You’re so dramatic,” I told her, trading out our milkshakes. “Tell us something good about the dance job.”
Maritza shrugged. “It’s pretty great, overall. I mostly hang out with Rona. She’s perfected her impression of Vivien, even down to the bizarre way she holds her water bottle—”
“I’ve started talking to this guy,” JaKory interrupted. He said it in a rush, and I got the impression he’d wanted to tell us since the moment we’d sat down.
“What?” I asked breathlessly.
“Who?” Maritza squealed, swatting his knee.
“His name’s Daveon.” JaKory’s eyes were shining, but he looked away from us. There was a pause. “We met on Tumblr.”
His words hung in the air. Maritza and I traded looks, and I hurried to speak before she could.
“Wow,” I said in the most neutral tone I could muster. “What’s the story?”
JaKory started talking so fast he could barely breathe. “He writes the funniest, most sarcastic posts about, like, everything. He’s in the Doctor Who fandom, too, so he’s always reblogging GIF sets and fan art and really incisive commentary. But he’s into serious stuff, too, like LGBT issues and Black Lives Matter and international politics. A couple of days ago he wrote this post about how annoying it is to be gay in Alabama, and I didn’t even know he was from Alabama, but I reblogged his post and was like, ‘This. this. this. except Georgia,’ so then he messaged me like, ‘You’re from Georgia?’ and we got to talking, and he’s so brilliant and interesting, and he makes these clever jokes all the time, and…” He let out a deep sigh. “I just can’t stop talking to him.”
Maritza and I stayed silent. We’d seen this feverish side of JaKory many times before—usually about the latest book or TV show he was obsessed with—and there was always an infinite, voracious nature to his yearning, like nothing could ever truly satisfy him. We usually had to ride out each obsession until he moved on to the next one.
“But … he lives in Alabama,” Maritza said reasonably.
JaKory gave her a challenging look. “Yeah, I realize that. But it’s only one state over.”
“But you don’t have a car.”
I cut in before JaKory could snap at her. “How old is he?”
“Our age,” JaKory said pointedly, as if that outweighed the car problem.
“Well … how do you even know he’s attractive?” Maritza said. “He could be ugly.”
“Ugh, he’s not,” JaKory said, rubbing his hands down his face. “He’s posted pictures of himself before. On a scale of one to ten, he’s a number we’ve never even heard of.”
He pulled out his phone and handed it to Maritza.
“You saved his pictures?” she asked.
“Only two of them!”
“He is handsome,” she said fairly. “Look at that jawline.”
“I know. You could cut diamonds with his jawline.”
I reached for the phone. “He’s cute,” I said, scrolling between the two pictures. “I mean, for a boy.”
“Oh, you sweet ingénue,” JaKory said, taking the phone back. “You could never appreciate an Adonis like him.”
“Let’s just hope that’s actually him,” Maritza said, “and he’s not some weirdo trying to catfish you.”
“It is him,” JaKory insisted. “I have good instincts about these things.”
Maritza shot me a look. I glanced away from her before JaKory could notice.
We finished our milkshakes and wandered over to Target. It was Maritza’s mom’s birthday that week, so we helped her search through the jewelry section. “Something Christian,” Maritza instructed us, “but anything flashy works, too.”
I stood side by side with her, picking through the necklaces to find something Mrs. Vargas would love, until I realized JaKory was missing.
“Hey,” I said, knocking her elbow. “Where’d lover boy go?”
We found him in the men’s section, trying on a fedora that made his skinny head look even smaller.
“Please don’t buy that,” Maritza said. “You look like a Bruno Mars wannabe.”
“Daveon will love it,” JaKory said, modeling for himself in the mirror.
Maritza looked meaningfully at me, urging me to step in, but I shook my head and kept quiet.
“JaKory…” Maritza implored, “do you really need to spend money to impress a guy on Tumblr?”
“I can’t hear you,” JaKory said, tilting the brim of the fedora over his eyes. “Love makes me immune to negative energy.”
After we’d dropped JaKory off at his house, fedora and all, Maritza exploded.
“He’s living in la-la land,” she said without preamble. “He’s such an idealist, never thinks about the practical side of things. It’s not gonna work with this Daveon guy—if he’s even real—and then JaKory’s going to be heartbroken, and we’ll be left to pick up the pieces.”
I bit my lip. “What if there’s a chance it could work?”
Maritza looked at me like I was crazy. “How?”
“Maybe Daveon has a car—or maybe their emotional connection is enough for now—I don’t know, shouldn’t we just be happy that he’s found someone he likes? Isn’t that what you’ve been talking about this whole time?”
“I’ve been talking about something that could actually work. For every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction, right? You put forth effort into the universe, and the universe gives you something back. But how does fantasizing about someone on the internet lead to practical application?” She sighed, long and pained. “It’s just wish fulfillment. He’s letting himself get excited about this because there’s no actual risk involved.”
I fell silent, absorbing her words. I often forgot how wise Maritza could be, and then in moments like this, it walloped me in the face.
“You’re really smart,” I said, shaking my head. “Sometimes I kind of hate it.”
She laughed a pure, bright laugh, and for one shining second our friendship was golden again.
“So what about you and me?” she asked. “We’re deep into summer and neither one of us has any prospects.”
I fidgeted in my seat. Could I tell her about Lydia? Maritza would understand better than anybody. She’d ask a million questions, demand to see her picture, make me offer up every detail so we could analyze it together. She might be the only person who could help me figure out if Lydia liked me back.
But I couldn’t explain Lydia without explaining Ricky and Cliff and Natalie and everyone and everything else I now had in my life, including the fact that I’d been lying to Maritza and JaKory for weeks now.
“I don’t know, dude, I’ve just been working a lot,” I lied, even though I knew she would judge me as soon as I said it.
“Yeah, well, you’re not gonna meet anyone there, unless you count those weirdos who come in looking for kitty cat overalls.”
“You had kitty cat pajamas until eighth grade,” I pointed out.
“They were cashmere,” she said, her mouth twitching.
“They were the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever owned, and you know it.”
Her smile lingered for a beat, but then her expression turned heavy again. “I don’t know, Codi-kid,” she sighed. “We need to find some other way to meet people. We could try to hit the bars down in the city, but neither one of us has a fake.”
“I’m not interested in that.”
“What are you interested in?”
I shook off the question. “You haven’t met anyone around here that you like?”
She snorted humorlessly. “Yeah, I’ve got a major crush on the new barista at Starbucks, but he’s twenty-five and has a girlfriend.”
“At least he’s someone cute to talk to.”
“Aren’t you l
istening to what I’ve been saying? I don’t want to just talk to someone cute, I want to date someone cute. Someone I can get excited about, who makes this long-ass summer feel special and meaningful and new…”
We fell quiet, nothing but plain suburban roads in front of us. I didn’t know what—or who—Maritza was thinking about, but I knew what was on my mind.
* * *
Just as Lydia had predicted, Cliff asked me to paint his portrait next. He’d already gushed about Natalie’s portrait when we were hanging out at Samuel’s, but he texted another slew of compliments that had me blushing with pride.
Cliff Broward: My favorite thing about that girl is her spunk and somehow you made that come thru in a painting. I’m ready to pay that bigggg cashhhh moneyyyy for mine!!!
I agreed that we could meet up on Wednesday afternoon, after my morning shift, and that Natalie should come to help him relax just as Lydia had done for her.
The sky was overcast as I drove out to Cliff’s house. He’d texted me to come around the back, where the basement door was, so I parked in the driveway and traipsed down the back path, hearing blaring music from the inside. I stepped in through the open door and felt more like I was in a gym than a basement: There were weight machines, treadmills, and exercise mats everywhere.
“Ayyyy!” Cliff roared, springing off the rowing machine. He hustled toward me and high-fived me with a slap that turned my hand red. “Whoops, sorry. How’s it going?”
Natalie eased herself off the bench press, where she’d been lounging with her phone. “What’s up?” she asked, pulling me in for a hug. “Welcome to Cliff’s sandbox.”
Cliff laughed and paused the music. He was drenched in sweat and stinking like hell, and as I watched, he squirted water sloppily into his mouth, wiping his chin on his sweaty bicep.
“So I figured you could paint me like this, huh?” He grinned. “Fresh off the circuit.”
“How do you have so much exercise equipment?” I asked.
Late to the Party Page 12