“Okay, you’re right,” I say, remembering that nuance. “The answer is no.”
“Student?”
“No. That’s five questions. Fifteen to go.”
Darcy says she knows she’s on five, she’s counting. “Teacher we both had?”
“No,” I say, six fingers hiding under the covers. Darcy has been known to “miscount” during this game.
“Teacher you had?”
“No.”
“Teacher I had?”
“No.”
“Guidance counselor?”
“No.”
“A dean?”
“That’s ten. No.”
“Other staff?”
“Yes.”
“Janitor?”
“No.”
“The nark?”
“No.” I smile, thinking about the time the nark busted Darcy leaving school to go to Subway with Blaine at lunch. Darcy told him to get a real job as he escorted them to the dean’s office. “What are you, thirty? Isn’t it time you left high school?” The comment earned her an extra pair of demerits.
“Ohh! I think I got it!” She starts giggling uncontrollably. “Is she a lunch lady?”
I laugh. “Uh-huh.”
“It’s June!”
“Yep! You got it.”
June was a high school icon. She was about eighty years old, four feet tall, and massively wrinkled from years of heavy smoking. And her main claim to fame was that she once lost a fake nail in Tommy Baxter’s lasagna. Tommy ceremoniously marched back to the lunch line and returned the nail to June. “I believe this belongs to you, June?” June grinned, wiped the sauce and cheese off the nail, and stuck it back on her finger. Everybody cheered and clapped and chanted, “Go, June! Go, June!” Other than reapplying her nail, I’m not sure what she did to earn the respect of our student body. I think it was more that somebody in the popular crowd just decided along the way that it was cool to like June. Maybe it had even been Darcy. She had that sort of power.
Darcy laughs. “Good ole June! I wonder if she’s dead yet.”
“Nah. I’m sure she’s still there, asking kids in her raspy voice if they want marinara or meat sauce on their rigatoni.”
When she finally stops laughing, she says, “Aww. This feels just like a sleepover from way back.”
“Yeah. It does,” I say, as a wave of fondness for Darcy washes over me.
“We had fun as kids, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. We did.”
Darcy starts laughing again.
“What?” I ask.
“Do you remember the time we spent the night at Annalise’s house and hanged her sister’s Barbie dolls?”
I crack up, picturing the Barbies, tied with yarn around their necks, dangling from the doorways. Annalise’s little sister cried hysterically to her parents, who promptly met with the two other sets of parents to come up with a suitable punishment. We could not play together for a week, which is a long time in the summer. “That was sort of sick now that I think about it,” I say.
“I know! And remember how Annalise kept saying it wasn’t her idea?”
“Yeah. Nothing ever was her idea,” I say.
“We always thought of the cool stuff. She was a big-time coattailer.”
“Yeah,” I say.
I am quiet, thinking about our childhood. I remember the day we were dropped off at the mall with our paltry sixth-grade savings, racing to the Piercing Pagoda to purchase our “best friend” necklaces, a heart inscribed with the two words, split down the middle, each side of the charm hanging from a gold-plated chain. Darcy took the “Be Fri” half, I got the “st end” half. Of course, we were so worried about Annalise’s feelings that we only wore the necklaces in secret, under our turtlenecks, or in bed at night. But I remember the thrill of tucking my half of the heart inside my shirt, against my skin. I had a best friend. There was such security in that, such a sense of identity and belonging.
I still have my necklace buried in my jewelry box, the gold plate turned green with grit and time, but now also tarnished with something impossible to remove. I am suddenly overcome with profound sadness for those two little girls. For what is now gone between them. For what might never be regained, no matter what happens with Dex.
“Talk more,” Darcy says sweetly. There is no trace of the brash, self-centered bride-to-be whom I have come to resent, even dislike. “Please don’t sleep yet. We never get to hang out like this anymore. I miss it.”
“Me too,” I say, meaning it.
I ask her if she remembers the day we bought our “best friend” necklaces.
“Yes. But remind me about the details,” she says in her charming way.
Darcy loves to hear my accounts of our childhood, always praising my more complete memory. I tell her the story of the necklaces, give her the longest version possible. After I am finished, I whisper, “Are you asleep?”
No answer.
As I listen to Darcy breathing in the dark beside me, I wonder how we got to this. How we could be in love with the same person. How I could be sabotaging my best friend’s engagement. In the final seconds before sleep, I wish I could go back and undo everything, give those little girls another chance.
Seventeen
The next morning, I am awakened by the sound of Darcy rummaging through my medicine cabinet. I listen to her bang around as I try to piece together my dreams from the night before, a series of incoherent vignettes featuring a wide cast of the usual characters—my parents, Darcy, Dex, Marcus, even Les. The plot is unclear, but I recall a fair amount of running and hiding. I almost kissed Dex a dozen times, but never did. I can’t even be satisfied in my dreams. Darcy emerges from the bathroom with a happy face.
“I’m not hungover at all,” she announces. “Although I took some Advil just in case. You’re out. Hope you didn’t need any.”
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Not bad for the day after a bachelorette party! What do you want to do today? Can we spend the day together? Just doing nothing. Like old times.”
“Okay,” I say, somewhat reluctantly.
“Awesome!” She walks toward my kitchen, starts rooting around. “Do you have any cereal?”
“No, I’m out. You want to go to EJ’s?”
She says no, that she wants to eat sugar cereal right here in my apartment, that she wants it to feel just like old times, no New York brunch scene. She opens my refrigerator and surveys the contents. “Man, you’re out of everything. I’ll just run out and get some coffee and some essentials.”
“Should we really drink coffee?” I ask her.
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because I thought we were going to be authentic. We didn’t drink coffee when we were in high school.”
She thinks for a second, missing my sarcasm. “We’ll make an exception for coffee.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” I offer.
“No. That’s okay. I’ll be right back.”
As soon as she leaves, I check my voice mail. Dex has left me two messages—one from last night, one from this morning. In the first, he says how much he misses me. In the second, he asks if he can come over tonight. I call him back, surprised at how grateful I feel when I get voice mail. I leave him a message, telling him that Darcy is over and plans to stay for a while, so tonight won’t really work out. Then I sit on my couch thinking about last night, my friendship with Darcy. Will I be able to live with myself if I get what I want at her expense? What would life be like without her? I am still thinking about it all when Darcy returns. Bulging plastic bags hang from her forearms. I take the coffees from her hands as she dramatically drops the bags to the floor and shows me the red indentations the bags made on her arms. I make a sympathetic noise until she smiles again.
“I got great stuff! Froot Loops! Root beer! Cranapple juice! And Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream!”
“Ice cream for breakfast?”
“No. For later.”
br />
“Aren’t you worried about your wedding weight?”
She waves her hand at me. “Whatever. No.”
“Why not?” I ask, knowing that she will eat now and ask me later why I let her do it.
“’Cause I’m just not! Don’t rain on my parade!…Now. Let’s eat Froot Loops!”
She busies herself in the kitchen finding bowls, spoons, napkins. She brings them out to the coffee table. She is in her giddy, high-energy mode.
“Would you rather eat over there?” I say, pointing to my little round table.
“No. I want it to be just like my house after a sleepover. We always ate in front of the TV. Remember?” She aims the remote control at the television and flips through the channels until she finds MTV. Then she pours cereal into bowls, carefully making sure we have the same amount. I am not in the mood for Froot Loops, but it is clear that I do not have a choice in the matter. Although I find it somewhat touching that she wants to re-create our childhood, I am also annoyed by her bossiness. Running roughshod, Ethan said. Maybe it is a precise description after all. And here I am, a willing participant, letting her steamroll me.
“Tell me when,” she says, pouring whole milk onto my cereal. I hate whole milk.
“When,” I say, almost instantly.
She stops pouring and looks at me. “Really? They are barely moist.”
“I know,” I say, appeasing her, “but this is how I liked it in high school too.”
“Good point,” she says, pouring milk in her own bowl. She fills it to the brim.
I take a few bites as she stirs her cereal with her spoon, waiting for the milk to turn pink.
Dido’s “Thank You” video is on. Of course, it makes me think of Dex.
“This song,” Darcy says, still stirring. “You know the part when she says she’s home at last and soaking and then ‘you handed me a towel’?”
“Yeah.”
“That line totally reminds me of you.”
“Of me?” I look at her. “I think it’s supposed to be a romantic song.”
She rolls her eyes. “Duh! I know that. Don’t worry.” She takes a bite and continues to talk with her mouth full. “I’m not dyking out or anything. I’m just saying you really are always here for me. You know, when the chips are down.”
“That’s sweet.” I smile, push away the guilt, sip my coffee.
We listen to the rest of the song as Darcy noisily eats her cereal. As she finishes her last few bites, she raises the bowl to her lips, gulping the pastel milk.
“Am I being too loud?” she asks, glancing up at me.
I shake my head. “You’re fine.”
“Dex calls me the Slurper whenever I eat cereal.”
I get a pang as I always do when I glimpse a private part of their relationship—which I like to pretend does not exist. Then I realize with an even sharper pang that Dex doesn’t have a nickname for me. Perhaps I am too bland to deserve one. Darcy doesn’t have a bland bone in her body. No wonder it is hard to leave her. She is the type of woman who draws you in, holds your attention. Even when she is annoying, she is compelling, captivating.
Jennifer Lopez appears on the screen in all her voluptuousness. We watch wistfully as she gyrates over a rural landscape. “Is her butt that great?” Darcy asks.
“I’m afraid so,” I say, although I actually enjoy telling Darcy this. She even views celebrities as competition, whereas no part of me begrudges Jennifer Lopez her fantastic ass.
Darcy makes a clicking sound. “Don’t you think it’s kind of fat?” she asks.
“No. It’s great,” I say, knowing that both of Darcy’s cheeks equal one of Jennifer’s.
“Well, I think it’s kind of fat…”
I shrug.
“Dex loves her. He thinks she’s totally hot.”
New Dexter information. Ding! Ding! Ding! What might this mean in the equation? I am fuller-figured than Darcy, but she is darker. I decide to discard the tidbit as not particularly helpful. I mean, most guys appreciate J-Lo no matter what their type. It’s like Brad Pitt for us. You might not like blond men with pretty features, but c’mon, it’s Brad. You’re not going to kick him out of bed for eating crackers.
“Don’t worry, though, I’m sure she’s not that pretty in real life,” Darcy says, assuming all women are like her and need to be consoled whenever they run across someone prettier.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“I mean, makeup artists can work absolute wonders,” she says knowingly, as if she has been in the industry for years. She pulls the blanket down from the back of my sofa and wraps herself in it. “I like it here.”
So does Dex.
“You cold?” I ask.
“No. I just want to be all comfy-cozy.”
We watch videos until I almost forget about Dex. As much as you can forget someone you’re in love with. Then, out of the blue, during a Janet Jackson video, Darcy asks me a question I never anticipated:
“Should I marry Dexter?”
I freeze. “Why are you asking that?”
“I don’t know.”
“There must be some reason,” I say, trying to appear calm.
“Do you think I should be with someone more laid-back? Like I am?”
“Dex is laid-back.”
“No he’s not! He’s totally type A.”
“You think?” I ask. Maybe he is. I guess I just don’t see him that way.
“Totally.”
I mute the television and look at her as if to say, go on, I am ready to be a really good listener. I think of putting on your “listening cap” in elementary school, fastening the imaginary strap under your chin as the boys always did. I swallow, pause, and then say, “It concerns me that you’re asking this question. What’s on your mind?”
I can feel my heart thumping as I await her answer.
“I don’t know…Sometimes the relationship just seems a bit tired. Boring. Is that a bad sign?” She looks at me plaintively.
This is my chance. I have an opening. I consider what I could say, how easily I could manipulate her. But somehow I can’t do it. I am already doing the unspeakable, but at least I will be fair about it. I am conflicted out, as they say at my firm. I can’t take her case.
“I really don’t know, Darce. Only you and Dexter can know whether you are right for each other. But you should really examine your concerns carefully—marriage is a very serious step. Maybe you should postpone,” I say.
“Postpone the wedding?”
“Maybe.”
Darcy’s bottom lip protrudes and her brow furrows. I am sure that tears are imminent when her eyes dart over to the television. She brightens. “Oh! I love this video! Turn it up! Turn it up!”
I unmute the television and turn up the volume. Darcy bobs up and down, doing a head and torso dance, singing a song I have never heard by some boy band. She knows every word. I watch her, marveling at her sudden transformation. I wait for her to bring up Dex again, but she does not.
I blew my chance to tell her to call the whole thing off, that Dex is all wrong for her. Why didn’t I steer her in that direction, water the seed of discontent? I never play my hand right. Then again, I don’t think Darcy really wants my advice. Other than to tell her that everything will be all right, that she should marry Dexter. And if I won’t say what she wants to hear, she will find a video to cheer her up instead.
“That song’s the bomb,” Darcy says, tossing aside the blanket. She gets up and shuffles across my apartment. She surveys my bookshelf where I recently put the Altoids tin and dice.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for your high school yearbook. Where is it?”
“Bottom shelf.”
She squats and runs her fingers over the spines, stopping at the Husky Howler. “Oh yeah. Here it is.” She stands back up and notices the tin, placed foolishly at eye level. “Can I have one?”
“It’s empty,” I say, but she has already deposited the yearbook onto the foot
of my bed. Her long, sculpted arm darts toward the tin. She opens the lid. “Why do you have dice in here?”
“Um, I don’t know,” I stumble, remembering how Darcy used to tell me that I should never go on a timed quiz show. She used to lord it over me, saying that if she ever got picked to be on The Family Feud (never mind that we aren’t in the same family) she’d have to think twice before selecting me to be on her team. And no way would I get to do the bonus round at the end.
“You don’t know?” she asks.
“No reason, I guess.”
She stares at me as one might look at a babbling schizophrenic on the subway. “You don’t know why you put dice in an Altoids tin? Okay. Whatever, weirdo.”
She removes the dice from the tin, shaking them as if she is about to roll them.
“Don’t,” I say loudly. “Put them back.”
It is not a good idea to tell her what to do. She is a child. She will want to know why she can’t roll them. She will want to roll them just because I told her not to.
Sure enough: “What are they for? I don’t get it.”
“Nothing. They are just my lucky dice.”
“Lucky dice? Since when do you have lucky dice?”
“Since always.”
“Well, why do you have them in an Altoids container? You don’t like cinnamon Altoids.”
“Yes I do.”
She shrugs. “Oh.”
I study her face. She is not suspicious, but she is still holding my dice. I will run across the apartment, tackle her, and wrestle them from her before I let her reroll them. But she just looks at them one more time and replaces them in the tin. I am not sure if they still have sixes facing up. I will check later. As long as they are not rolled again, I am okay.
She picks up my yearbook and carries it back over to the couch, flipping to the sports and intramural pages in the back. This will keep her busy for hours. She will find a thousand things to comment upon: remember this, remember that? She never tires of our high school yearbook, discussing the past and speculating about what has become of so-and-so who didn’t show up at the reunion because either (a) he has now become a total loser or (b) the opposite phenomenon has occurred and he is so spectacularly successful that he doesn’t have time to return to Indiana for a weekend (the category Darcy says I am in because, of course, I had to work that weekend and missed it). Or she plays one of her favorite games where she opens the book to a page, closes her eyes, scribbles her index finger over the page until I say stop, and whichever guy is closest to her finger will be the one I must have sex with. Those are classic Darcy games, and when our senior yearbook first came out twelve years ago, they were grand fun.