Nine Inches: Stories

  “Evening,” he said.

  “Hi.” She made a point of not returning his smile. “I’m a volunteer?”

  “Too bad,” he said with a chuckle. “Looks like you got the short straw.”

  “Looks like we both did.”

  “Least I’m getting paid.”

  Liz nodded, conceding the point. She could hear music leaking through the closed double doors, the muffled whump, wah-whump of the beat, a girlish voice floating on top. She wondered if she might be able to get in a little dancing later on, if adults were allowed to join the fun. She hadn’t danced in a long time.

  “So how’s it going?” she asked, not quite sure why she was prolonging this encounter with a man she actively disliked. It was almost as if she were giving him a second chance, holding out for a sign of belated recognition — Hey, wait a minute, aren’t you that lady . . . ? — some scrap of proof that she wasn’t as completely forgettable as she seemed to be. “Everyone behaving themselves?”

  “They’re good kids.” Yanuzzi’s face seemed softer than she remembered, a little more boyish. “Not like when I was in high school.”

  “Tell me about it. My graduation night was insane. The little of it I can remember.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The cop looked intrigued, as if he were seeing her in a new light. “You were a party girl, huh?”

  “Not quite,” Liz told him, making a conscious decision to leave it at that, to spare him the details of that disastrous evening, the Southern Comfort and the tears, the fact that she’d made out with three different guys, none of whom she’d even liked, and then thrown up in Sandy Deaver’s kidney-shaped pool, thereby ensuring that her classmates would have at least one thing to remember her by at their upcoming twenty-fifth reunion. “I was just young and stupid.”

  Yanuzzi nodded slowly, as though she’d said something profound.

  “So were those kids who died,” he observed. “They were just young and stupid, too.”

  THOSE KIDS who died.

  Liz had been hearing about those kids for the past twelve years, ever since she’d moved to Gifford. The accident was fresh in everyone’s mind back then, five friends speeding in a Jeep on graduation night, open containers, no seatbelts. Good-looking, popular, three boys and two girls, never in any kind of trouble, just a terrible mistake, the kind kids make when they’re drunk and happy.

  The memory of those kids was a dark cloud hanging over the town. You’d see people having a hushed conversation on a street corner, or a woman touching another woman’s arm in the Stop & Shop, or a man wiping away a tear while he pumped his gas, and you’d think, Those kids who died.

  There were memorial services in the fall, the football season dedicated to the memory of the victims. Everywhere you went you saw their names soaped on the rear windows of cars, usually listed in alphabetical order, along with the date of their deaths, and the phrase IN LOVING MEMORY. The school district increased funding for drug and alcohol education; the cops cracked down hard on underage drinking. And on graduation night the following June, Gifford High held the first annual All-Night Party, a heavily supervised affair at which the graduates could celebrate in a safe, substance-free, vehicle-free environment. Parents loved the idea, and it turned out the kids liked it, too.

  Over the past decade the All-Night Party had outgrown its sad origins, maturing into a beloved institution that was the source of genuine local pride. Each year’s cohort of junior parents vied to outdo their predecessors in the lavishness of the decorations and the novelty of the offerings — a Nerf-gun war, a circus trapeze, a climbing wall, sumo-wrestling suits, and, memorably, an enormous Moonwalk castle that had to be deflated well before dawn, due to highly credible reports of sexual shenanigans unfolding within remote inner chambers. More recently, the party had gone thematic — last year was Twilight and vampires, and the year before Harry Potter, complete with lightning-bolt face tattoos, a Sorting Hat, and a Quidditch tournament in the gym. For this year’s theme, the Committee had given serious thought to The Hunger Games — too depressing, they’d decided — before settling on Gifford Goes Hollywood, a more open-ended concept that accounted for both the red carpet outside and the lifelike Oscar statue that greeted Liz when she entered the building, an eight-foot, three-dimensional replica of the trophy with a sign taped to its base: FOR BEST PERFORMANCE BY A GRADUATING CLASS.

  SALLY WAS manning the Volunteer Sign-In table along with Jeff Hammer, the presidente-for-life of the Gifford Youth Hockey Association, and a ubiquitous figure at local athletic and charitable events. Hammer didn’t bother to acknowledge Liz’s arrival — he’d been cold to her for the past several years, ever since Dana had quit a promising hockey career to focus on indoor soccer during the winter season — but Sally’s greeting was so warm Liz barely registered his snub.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” she said, rising from her chair with a wan but sincere smile. She looked washed-out, as if she hadn’t slept for days. “You’re my hero.”

  “Not a problem.” Liz leaned across the table for a quick hug and kiss. “How’s it going?”

  “Great.”

  Sally glanced at Hammer for confirmation, and he responded with a grudging nod. He was an unpleasantly handsome man with a mustache he couldn’t keep his fingers off.

  “Kids are having a blast,” he admitted.

  With the indifference of a clerk at the DMV, Hammer slid a blank name tag and a Sharpie in Liz’s direction. After a moment’s hesitation, she scrawled her married name — LIZ MERCATTO — and affixed the white rectangle to her shirt. At least this way everyone would know she was Dana’s mom, instead of some random adult who’d wandered in off the street.

  “Ready?” Sally circled the table and took Liz by the arm. “They’re waiting for you at the Chilling Station.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a place to relax and hang out, kind of away from it all. You know, if the kids need a little downtime. I think you’ll like it.”

  They set off toward the distant clamor of the party, turning right at the library, heading down a long hallway paved with a galaxy of construction-paper stars, each one bearing the name of a graduate.

  “This is our Walk of Fame,” Sally explained. “We stayed up until two-thirty cutting out the stars and writing the names. And then it took us all afternoon to arrange them on the floor.”

  “How many are there?”

  “Two hundred forty-three.” Liz could hear the pride in Sally’s voice. “But who’s counting, right?”

  They veered apart, making way for a pack of pretty girls charging by in short skirts and high heels, each one taller and skinnier than the next, glammed up as if they were heading to a nightclub. Not a single member of the posse bothered to glance at Liz or Sally as they passed, let alone say, Hi or Excuse me.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Sally watched with a wistful expression as the girls clattered down the hallway, talking in loud, theatrical voices. “They have no idea how beautiful they are.”

  Oh, they know, Liz thought. The world only reminds them every day.

  “They probably think their butts are too big or their boobs are too small,” Sally continued. “That’s how I felt when I was their age. Like I could never measure up.”

  “Me, too.” Liz decided not to mention that the feeling had never gone away. “All through high school I tried to be the last person out of the classroom after the bell rang. I didn’t want any boys walking behind me, snickering at my ass.”

  The girls stopped midway down the hall to take cell-phone pictures of a star that must have belonged to one of them, or maybe to a boy they liked.

  “They’re probably on some ridiculous carrot-stick diet,” Sally said. “But they’re perfect just the way they are, you know? That’s what I keep telling Jamie, but I can’t seem to get through to her.”

  Liz nodded, not quite sure how they’d segued from the high-heeled hotties to the entirely different subject of Jamie, an Amazonian three-sport athlete wh
o only ever seemed at home in sweats or a team uniform. Tony always referred to her as a “bruiser,” insisting that he meant it as a compliment.

  “It’s hard being a girl,” Liz observed. “Doesn’t matter what you look like.”

  “What about Dana? She have any issues like that? You know, body image or whatever?”

  “Not really.” Liz flinched as two boys barreled past, one of them trying to bash the other in the head with a pink flotation noodle. They looked sweaty and slightly crazed. “She’s been lucky like that. Never had to worry about her weight or her complexion, none of it.”

  Sally nodded, as if she’d figured as much. “She’s always been such a pretty girl. Ever since she was little.”

  “It’s a fluke.” Liz added the obligatory disclaimer: “God knows she didn’t get it from her mother.”

  They stopped to peek into the cafeteria, half of which had been cleared to make a dance floor. A mob of kids were out there, most of them moving with a confidence Liz could only have dreamed about at their age. A few looked like trained professionals, or at least like they’d spent a lot of time practicing in front of their bedroom mirror.

  “I’m glad it’s finally picking up,” Sally said. “When the DJ started, the boys were hiding out in the gym, shooting hoops and beating up on one another. The girls had to drag them over here.”

  “Well, it looks like they’re having fun.”

  Liz would have liked to stick around, but Sally was in no mood to linger. Her shift was over; she just wanted to get Liz settled, then go home and get some sleep.

  “I saw Dana’s prom pictures on Facebook,” Sally said, as they rounded the corner onto a corridor lined with cardboard cutouts of Hollywood stars, Meryl Streep sandwiched by Dirty Harry and Homer Simpson, Jeff Bridges with an eyepatch. “She and Chris looked really happy together. Such a perfect couple.”

  “I guess,” Liz agreed without enthusiasm. “I just wish they weren’t so serious.”

  “They’ve been together for a while, right?”

  “Ever since freshman year.”

  Sally hesitated, shooting Liz an apologetic sidelong glance before venturing the inevitable question.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but are they . . . ?”

  Liz shrugged, trying to hide her discomfort. It was weird how many other parents felt that it was okay to inquire about her daughter’s sex life just because she’d been dating the same boy for the past couple of years.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We don’t really talk about it.”

  TECHNICALLY SPEAKING, this wasn’t a lie. The one time Liz had asked her daughter straight out if she and Chris had gone all the way, Dana just rolled her eyes and said, Mom, I’m really not comfortable with this conversation, and that was where they’d left it.

  Of course, this exchange had taken place over a year ago, and a lot had happened since then. But what was Liz supposed to do? Tell Sally the truth, which was that Chris sometimes spent the night in Dana’s bedroom and, in fact, was doing so that very night? Because Liz knew exactly how that would go. Sally would pretend not to be shocked and then say, Really? And you’re all right with that? And then Liz would either have to lie and say yes or admit that she hated the situation, but felt powerless to change it.

  It was a fait accompli, she would have had to explain. Nobody asked my permission.

  Ever since freshman year, Dana had been spending the occasional weekend with Chris’s family at their vacation house in Vermont. It was a lovely second home, by all accounts, just twenty minutes from Killington, and Chris’s parents were lovely people. The dad, Warren, was a financial guy, and the mom, Jodie, a working artist with her own studio and a gallery in Boston, the kind of limber, fresh-faced woman who could let herself go gray and seem all the more youthful and attractive as a result. Both parents thought the world of Dana, repeatedly telling Liz what a pleasure it was to have her as a houseguest, such a polite girl, always helping with the dishes — something she rarely did at home, Liz always wanted to interject, though she never did — and so beautiful, too, such a graceful, fearless skier.

  This past winter, Jodie had phoned Liz after Presidents’ Day weekend. She started by reciting the usual compliments, but then her tone changed, turned solemn and careful.

  “I thought you should know,” she said. “The kids have been sharing a bedroom. At the ski house.”

  “What?”

  “Dana said you were okay with it, but I wanted to double-check.”

  “She said I was okay with it?”

  “More or less. She said you wouldn’t care.”

  “Of course, I care.” Liz was glad Jodie couldn’t see the color spreading across her cheeks. “They’re just so young to be — ”

  “I know.” Jodie’s voice was dreamy and forgiving. “But they love each other. And they seem really responsible. To tell you the truth, Liz, I think they’ve been sneaking around for a while now, playing musical beds in the middle of the night. At least this way it’s out in the open. I just don’t want them to think there’s anything to be ashamed of. As long as you’re all right with it.”

  Liz knew the moment had arrived to state her objections. The problem was, she wasn’t quite sure what she was objecting to. She’d slept with college boyfriends when she was just a little older than Dana, guys she’d known for a lot less time than Dana had known Chris, guys who didn’t even pretend to be nice to her, let alone love her. And besides, she knew it wasn’t Dana’s age or the sex itself that bothered her. It was more that she resented her daughter for getting everything all at once, for being so pretty and happy and lucky, skiing all day and then slipping under the warm covers with her ridiculously cute, totally adoring boyfriend. But how could you even begin to talk about that?

  “Liz? Are you there?”

  “No, you’re right, Jodie. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just as long as they’re being careful.”

  “That’s exactly what I told them.”

  At the time, Liz had consoled herself with the knowledge that winter was almost over, that there wouldn’t be many more Vermont getaways before the snow melted and club soccer started up. Pretty soon everything would be back to normal.

  The trouble was, Dana and Chris liked sleeping together, and it didn’t make sense to them that they could share a bed in Vermont, but not in Gifford. Before long, Dana was heading out on Friday night and not coming home until Sunday afternoon. Liz made a belated effort to put a stop to the sleepovers, telling her daughter that she missed her and needed to spend time with her on the weekends, but the only result of this intervention was that the lovebirds started switching off, spending one night with Chris’s parents, and the next with Liz, like newlyweds trying to keep both sets of in-laws happy.

  It was actually kind of fun to have them around. Sometimes the three of them would watch a movie together or play Scrabble or go out for ice cream; Dana and Chris were less self-centered, a lot more available to Liz, now that they knew they’d have all the alone time they wanted once they went to bed. The only real awkwardness came after lights out, when Liz had nothing to do but lie awake and listen for the telltale sounds of passion coming from down the hall, wondering how two teenagers managed to be so utterly silent, making it seem like the only sex in the house was taking place inside her own muddled, dirty-minded head.

  THE CHILLING Station was a smart concept, a makeshift living-room/rest area that glowed like a mirage at the end of a deserted corridor, a cozy, lamplit oasis. It was equipped with a motley array of furniture — couches and chairs, two army cots, even a freestanding hammock — along with a stack of board games and some rickety card tables to play them on. The only thing missing was the kids.

  “It’s been dead,” grumbled Craig Waters, the volunteer on the eight-to-midnight shift. He’d been napping on the recliner when Liz and Sally arrived and still looked a little out of it. “There were a couple of chess nerds early on, but nothing for the past two hours.”

  “It?
??ll pick up,” Sally said. “The kids get pretty tired around four in the morning.”

  Craig pondered Liz with groggy curiosity. “How late are you staying?”

  “Till the bitter end,” she told him. “Six A.M.”

  “Wow.” He yawned. “Good for you.”

  And then they were gone, leaving Liz alone among the mismatched furniture, with nothing to do except kick herself for not having brought something to read. It was a ridiculous oversight, considering that it was her policy never to leave home without a book, a soccer mom’s best friend when practice ran late. But she happened to be reading The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, and the library hardcover was massive, not the sort of volume you could easily slip into your purse on the way to a graduation party. So she’d left it on her bedside table, where it was doing no one any good.

  She could hear music and voices from the other end of the building, the sound of young people having fun, and it struck her almost like a taunt, a reminder of everything she was missing, not just tonight but every night, the void that had become her life. She felt a minor panic attack coming on — or maybe just an urgent need for fresh air and human contact — and wondered what would happen if she marched back to the sign-in table and demanded a better assignment, something that would at least allow her to join the party, to interact with the kids and the other volunteers. The worst they could do was tell her no.

  Oh, come on, she scolded herself. Don’t be such a baby. It’s not even twelve-thirty.

  But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She still had five and a half hours to go. Five and a half hours. A whole endless night. Just the thought of it was exhausting. She found herself sneaking glances at the beige velour recliner that had been Craig’s undoing, imagining how sweet it would feel to crank back the handle and put her feet up. But there was no way she was going to allow herself to fall asleep in public, to be that vulnerable in front of people she didn’t know, especially teenagers.