Leftovers

  His reverence of you has been replaced with self-assurance and casual possession. He’s grown tired of your hand and keeps urging your head south. You resist and an uneasy stalemate reigns.

  You’ve been together for almost five months.

  Your parents invite him to your brother’s eighteenth birthday bash and he lifts a beer to Broken Nose’s drunken, “To legal age and sealed juvie records! Let’s hear it for starting over and raising hell!”

  You stand beneath Gary’s arm, wondering how you became a part of this, watching as he downs four more beers and kids with the others. One of the junior girls spills a drink down her front and he calls for a wet T-shirt contest, which almost happens until your mother hears and promptly forbids a drenched carpet.

  Your brother’s giving out birthday kisses and a mock struggle breaks out as the girls hold him down for his birthday spanking.

  Gary is stomping, clapping and shouting out each year with the rest of them.

  Four. Five. Six.

  You edge away. Skirt the crowd and slip into the shadowy living room. Stand at the window, shake a cigarette from your pack, and watch as the lighter flame shivers in your hand. Draw, exhale.

  Nine. Ten. Eleven.

  The porch light throws a golden blanket over the sprouting lawn. Spindly, yellow daffodils spear up in the empty flower beds.

  You wish you were eighteen tonight.

  Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.

  Headlights arc onto your dead end and sweep away the shadows.

  Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

  The patrol car cruises slowly past, then brakes. The driver’s window is down.

  Eighteen. And one to grow on.

  You come alive. Bolt past the back of the cheering crowd and out the door.

  “Officer Dave!” You toss your cigarette, hurtle down the steps, and latch on to his door, laughing, singing. “Where have you been? What’re you doing here? Oh my God, it’s been so long!” You’re not drunk so you can’t tell him how much you’ve missed him, but oh, you have.

  He tips back his baseball cap and his mustache curves in a smile. “How’re you doing, Ardith?”

  “Fine,” you say and crouch so you’re eye level. “How’s your family?”

  “Good,” he says, gazing at the cars lining the street. “Party time again, huh?”

  “My brother’s eighteenth birthday,” you say, making a face.

  “Why, did you get a complaint?”

  “Not at all,” he says, refocusing on you. “Just figured I’d cruise by. Funny that you spotted me.”

  “I’m so glad,” you say, unsuccessfully stifling a shiver. The daffodils might be spring’s but the breeze is still winter’s, and you’re only wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

  “You’re freezing,” he says, shaking his head. “Where’s your jacket?”

  “I’m fine,” you insist, scared he’ll make you go back inside.

  “Really.”

  “Right.” He isn’t fooled. “Here.” He reaches across the seat and hands you a whispery, blue windbreaker. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.” He watches as you put it on. “Add a couple of stakes and a few poles and you’ve got yourself a pup tent. Man, I think I’d better go on a diet.”

  “Stop. It’s perfect,” you say, giggling as the sleeves swallow your hands. “Well, I could always belt it.” Funny how one thin sheet of nylon chases the chill from the night. You wrap the excess tight around you and lock your arms across your chest. “Blair’s going to be so sorry she missed you.”

  “Yeah, so how’s your sidekick doing anyway?” he asks, stretching. “I haven’t seen her around lately, either. Her mother’s building herself quite a reputation, though. She getting ready to run for mayor or something?”

  “No, she—” you say.

  “Hey!” The shout cracks the night. “What the hell is this?”

  You spin around. Your brother is standing on the porch, Gary right behind him. The doorway fills with sullen partyers.

  The sight slams you back into your skin and reminds you of where you are. Of who you are.

  “Get in here, Ardith,” your brother says, starting down the steps. “You don’t have to talk to the fucking pigs. They’ve got no right to be here.”

  You look at Officer Dave in mute appeal, ashamed to even have to ask.

  He holds your gaze for a moment and in that heartbeat between what is and what may be, you see what he sees; a skinny, needy kid wrapped in a too-big, borrowed jacket who, despite her intention to be more, is destined to be less.

  “Ardith,” your brother calls again. “Don’t tell him jack shit. He can’t—”

  You raise a sharp hand without turning, telling him to stop. To shut up. Telling him, without words, how close you are to stepping back and letting him rant his way straight into jail. How small a sacrifice he would actually be.

  “I’m sorry,” you whisper to Officer Dave and the shivering starts as you shrug halfway out of the windbreaker.

  “It’s not your fault. Keep the jacket till I see you again,” he says quietly, stopping you. His gaze flickers past you, holds and hardens. He shifts the patrol car into reverse, gives you a brief nod, and backs straight down the dead end past the rows of parked cars. His headlights sweep the wooded corner as he turns onto the main road and he’s gone.

  Your brother whoops and his friends slap you on the back for having driven away the fucking pig. Gary envelops you in a hug and gives you a sloppy, show-off kiss.

  And then your father taps the second keg and the crowd flocks to greener pastures.

  You slip into your room and take off the windbreaker. Fold it carefully. Rest your cheek on the slippery material for a moment and breathe in the sharp, cool scent. Place the jacket under your pillow next to your hammer.

  Finish padlocking your door right as Gary comes lurching down the shadowed hall to find you. Beer makes him pushy and he backs you against the wall, nuzzling your neck and sliding his hands over your body.

  “I want to be with you tonight,” he murmurs, eyes snaked with red veins and lids drooped near to closing. He smells like family.

  “Me, too,” you say, and the pain in your chest makes you breathless. “But let’s go back to the party first.” And you kiss him good-bye and lead him back into the TV room, settle under his arm, and stay there as he drinks until he passes out, until the partyers crawl away and you’re the only one left standing.

  You go into your room and padlock your door. Lock your window.

  The next morning you leave while the house is still sleeping and meet Blair at the bookstore for coffee.

  “I’m breaking up with Gary,” you tell her, staring down into your cappuccino until your eyes stop burning and the ache eases enough for you to go on.

  Chapter 21

  Blair

  I was glad Ardith broke up with Gary. I mean, I felt bad because she was hurt, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t happy to see him go. He was taking up way too much of her time—

  No, that’s not selfish of me. Let me finish and I’ll tell you why. Geez.

  Although she’d quit doing that “go ahead, be a moron, I’ll just endure all your embarrassing bullshit” thing with him, she was still altering herself to make nice, you know? I’m not saying Gary was a total jerk, because for a while he was better than I expected, but then he went and screwed it up anyway.

  No, I didn’t feel sorry for him. I mean, he was devastated—didn’t even see it coming—but he brought it on himself. If he’d been paying attention to Ardith, real attention, the way he should have been doing if he loved her like he said he did, then how come he didn’t notice the most obvious things about her?

  Oh God, like the fact that she’d done everything she could to keep him out of the party zone for as long as possible. Or that she didn’t drink or get high and that she’d never gone out with any of the jerks there who did. She didn’t go all trashy like her mother or screw him on the first night they were together. Sh
e wouldn’t even go down on him! Didn’t he even see the limits she’d put on herself? Didn’t he realize that Ardith was great because of Ardith, not because of her family or him?

  She was the best thing in his life and he blew it, and hurt her in the process. And then he had the nerve to ask for a second chance.

  No, he didn’t deserve one. Because he willingly became an honorary asshole in her family’s Partyer Hall of Fame, instead of being there for her.

  Look, here’s a clue. If you have a son, pass it on to him. When a girl says, “Pay attention to me,” she probably doesn’t mean, “Ogle me, have sex with me.” She means, “See me. Learn me. Make the effort to know me. Pay attention!”

  I’m sorry. I know. This freaks me out.

  You’re right. I do feel guilty for setting her up with Gary. I should have just done it myself. I mean, hey, I’m supposed to be a pro at putting out and getting out, right? Yeah, well, the problem was that he didn’t like me, he liked her. She wasn’t supposed to like him back, though, or get hurt again, dammit.

  That’s why I was so pissed at Gary, and at myself.

  And especially at my mother, for making me sneak around to see my best friend, who needed more from me than just an hour over coffee. She needed a safe place to crash and because of my mother, I didn’t have one to offer.

  Because of my mother, I hadn’t had one for Wendy, either.

  I know. I’m shaking.

  Because it all adds up, you know?

  It all adds up.

  Chapter 22

  Ardith

  Did Blair tell you that she didn’t think Gary deserved a second chance?

  Did she tell you that I gave him one?

  Because I was lonely. God, that sounds pathetic, but it’s true.

  I mean, I still had Blair during the day, but she was Dellasandra’s at night and on weekends so there wasn’t much time left for us. And then school let out and it was summer, and you know what happens when my parents open the pool. I had to get out of there, only I didn’t have anywhere to go or anyone left to go with, so when I ran into Gary one afternoon and saw that the distance between us wasn’t as vast as it could have been, I said okay. Sure.

  And you know what? It was hard.

  He was different.

  I’d hurt him and he wasn’t gonna let it happen again, so the indifference that had surfaced when he was mad was there all the time now and he wouldn’t let me get past it. His reactions were always distant and controlled, like he was holding himself out of reach.

  He was different in other ways, too. He wanted more from me, faster. No dawdling around the bases, as Blair would say. His only goal was to slide into home.

  No, I didn’t let him. Maybe I should have, maybe things would have been different if I had. I don’t know.

  Weird, huh? I didn’t have very much left to hold on to, but by God, I held on to my virginity. Like that was going to be my ticket out of here or something.

  Anyway, what’s left to tell isn’t really about me and Gary.

  It’s about going back to the pine tree at the edge of the football field with my best friend and digging a hole. Dropping in two new hammers and an old screwdriver and then covering them up and walking away without looking back.

  Chapter 23

  Blair’s Story

  When you graduate from junior high your parents are in the audience, so there’s no way you can run over and hug Ardith, which is the only thing in the world you want to do. But you don’t because they’re already pissed at you for neglecting to mention the big graduation dance and for not going because you supposedly didn’t have a partner. The truth is that if you couldn’t go with Ardith, you didn’t want to go at all. So you didn’t.

  Ardith didn’t go, either, because Gary wanted to hang out at her family’s pool party and strip down instead of dress up. She said she stayed for ten minutes, then left him there and went into her room. It wasn’t a good night.

  Your parents take you to your grandparents’ house the next morning so they can give you your graduation gift.

  Your grandfather is a skin-and-bone remnant in an Adirondack chair placed in the sun. His eyes leak sadness behind his glasses and his fingernails are long, thick, and gnarled.

  You bend and kiss his sunken cheek, shocked to be so much bigger than he is. He smells like Cheer laundry detergent and, beneath that, mushrooms. You remember when he used to smell like fresh garden tomatoes and how he used to pat your face with his gentle hand like you were something precious or easily bruised, like a big, red Beefsteak tomato ripening on the vine.

  Your grandmother gives you a money card and a box of family heirlooms.

  “The lace tablecloth is right on top,” she says and hugs you like you won’t see her again for a very long time. She gives you lemonade and angel food cake and turns away when your mother broaches the nursing home subject.

  “Please,” she says quietly. “Just this once, let’s not argue.”

  Surprisingly, your mother agrees and goes on to regale her with her latest career developments and the fine, new young people you’ve been meeting.

  You leave shortly after that because your parents are throwing you a graduation party that evening. You don’t really care—no one from your school is invited, only your mother’s associates and their kids—and so you sit as the hairdresser French braids your hair and the manicurist paints your nails a bland mauve. When you get home, you spell out LIRGAS with glittery alpha decals on every other pristine fingernail. Slip into the poufy, mauve dress your mother’s picked out and paste on the mandatory mask.

  You check your smile. Put some teeth into it. Your incisors seem pointier and you wonder if they really are or if it’s just wishful thinking.

  Before you leave for the banquet hall, your mother looks askance at your nails and says the silver locket doesn’t match the rest of the outfit.

  “Then I’ll change the rest of the outfit,” you say and flash your pointy teeth.

  She walks away, shaking her head like you’re hopeless.

  This cheers you immensely and you go on to the party, greeting your guests and accepting your envelopes of cash with all the charm you can muster.

  Della and her parents arrive late because she says they had to make a special trip all the way upstate to get your gift.

  “Open it,” she says excitedly, thrusting the bulky, rectangular package into your arms. She hops up and down, beaming, clapping, and nearly causing a busboy pileup. Her bra straps must be elasticized. “C’mon, Blair, I can’t wait anymore!”

  “Hold your horses, will you?” you say, laughing in spite of your irritation at being pushed. You’re used to her bossy joie de vivre now and know how far you can go without forcing her hand. “I don’t want to rush into anything here.”

  “Bla-ir, come on!” Della spins and tugs on your mother’s arm.

  “Make her open it, Mrs. Brost! Please?”

  “All right already,” you say before your mother can order you to do it.

  “Here, sit right here,” Della says, pulling you backward into a chair and hovering above you like a brilliant, scarlet hummingbird. “Okay, now go ahead.”

  Her enthusiasm is drawing a crowd and you’re definitely curious, so you locate a neatly taped seam on the side of the pink, foil-wrapped rectangle and rip it open to reveal an ornate, gilt frame.

  “Oh, how pretty,” you say.

  “That’s not it!” Della squeals, whipping her hair back over her shoulder. It splashes through your father’s drink and he frowns, but doesn’t comment. “Look at what it is!”

  So you tear off the rest of the paper.

  And it’s a good thing you’re sitting down.

  “Read it,” Della cries, prancing with glee.

  But you have. And you can’t. Your vision has gone black.

  “Goodness, what is it, Blair?” your mother says, and the joviality in her voice doesn’t quite hide the underlying thread of uneasiness. She leans close and her perfume roil
s around you in waves, cutting off your air.

  “I’ll read it,” Della says, pulling the frame from your paralyzed fingers and holding it up. “It’s a gift certificate to Golden Sunrise Kennel, good for one golden retriever puppy from the next litter out of champions Ladylee Linnea Sun and Masterful Boy’s Precious Golden Doubloon, winners of last year’s Best in Breed.” Della bounces again. “Wait’ll you see these dogs, Blair! They’re beautiful and they’re the best of the best. Ladylee’s going to be bred again in July so her puppies should be ready for Christmas and my mother already said that we can all go up together and make a day of it!”

  You hear her. You hear her mother say that normally they would have talked to your parents first but when your mother mentioned your old dog’s passing, well, they just knew that a puppy would be the perfect gift.

  Your tendons creak as you turn your head and gaze up into your mother’s face. You watch. Wait. And when she smiles and says, “Of course, how wonderful,” you look back down at your trembling hands with their fingers splayed out, palms flat on the table. And you stare at them until someone says, “Maybe she’s in shock,” and then you look up and smile at Dellasandra and her parents and everyone else. You smile and smile and when no one’s looking, you turn the framed certificate upside down so you won’t have to look at it again.

  Because your mother’s going to make you get that dog.

  She’s going to make you replace Wendy, just like she’s replaced your home, your clothes, and your best friend.

  You can see it all now and for the first time you realize that this temporary reform you’ve agreed to was never meant to end, not even after your mother makes judge. Especially not after that, because by then you will constantly be in the public eye and appearances will count even more.

  This bubble you’ve agreed to climb into has sealed shut and will never pop open because it wasn’t born of whimsy, soap, and water, but sculpted with intent as durable as glossy polymer varnish. And it hardened while you weren’t looking, shrunk into a carapace, a seamless, custom-designed, full-body cast from which there is no escape.