Oh God, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. But I guess nothing really ever does, does it?
After my parents killed Wendy and we moved into the mausoleum—which is exactly what that stupid house was, seeing as how I was usually the only one ever in it—eighth grade let out and I kind of got lost. The interior decorators did their thing. Lourdes, the housekeeper, came, cleaned, and left dinner in the fridge. Her son Horace planted all these tortured, twisted bushes and weeping midget trees. He drank from the hose, ate his lunch on the tailgate of his pickup, and made sure he was gone before the parade of Mercedes hit the cul-de-sac at dusk, beelining up their driveways and straight into their garages.
The landscapers were the only ones in the development that I ever saw get dirty.
Horace? No, I didn’t really talk to him. I was too depressed to talk to anybody. Not even Ardith, who kept trying to open me up somehow. And when I think about what she was dealing with at the time, well, I give her a lot of credit for sticking by me.
I mean, you know about Ardith’s family.
No, in the beginning I didn’t really know how bad they were. Well, I guess I knew, but I didn’t really believe what she told me. It’s not that I thought she was lying; it’s just that my life was so different that I couldn’t understand hers without actually experiencing it.
But that’s for later, along with the whole miserable Dellasandra mess.
For now I’ll just say there’s always one hangout house in town where the parents are “cool” and almost anything goes.
Ardith’s was it, and she hated it.
Chapter 4
Ardith’s Story
Unlike Blair, who’s an only child, you’re the baby of the family. You have a seventeen-year-old brother and an older sister. That makes your parents up there in age, since your sister’s twenty-five and you’re fourteen, but you seem to be the only one who realizes it.
Your mom dyes her hair Goth black, wears eyelet-trimmed Daisy Dukes, halters, and shiny, lip-plumper gloss. She laughs too loud and overlooks too much, especially when she’s drinking. She sits by the pool in a crocheted bikini, flirts with your brother’s friends, and says she’s only thirty-five, but the rose tattoo on her breast is becoming long-stemmed and sort of crinkly. She’s embarrassing.
Your father’s a faded lion, a slack-muscled, shaggy-haired ex-utility worker out on permanent disability for a work-related foot injury. He tells his glory days stories over and over again, roaring his rockabilly talent show triumph, purring about all the girls he had before getting your mom pregnant in college. Given the beer and the time, he’ll ramble on about the Cuban cigars he handed out for your brother’s birth, his thirty-year high school reunion singing comeback, and the lucky break that brought him early retirement, ending the saga with a wet grin and a good-natured, “I stepped in dog shit, fell on my ass, and still came out smelling like a rose.” He sells used adult movies at the flea market for extra cash, shaves his monobrow, and has an endless repertoire of twangy songs that makes him sound like he’s from anywhere but New Jersey. He sings the first verse of “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” when he joins your brother’s friends on the deck for a few beers, sucking in his belly and wearing baggy shorts that gap when he sits, proving he doesn’t wear underwear. He cops feels off your brother’s girlfriends and his favorite ambush site is the bathroom hallway.
“Uh-oh, dirty old man on the loose,” he’ll croon, flexing his fingers and backing his chosen one up against the wall. “You have to pay a toll to get through.”
And his victim will laugh, nervous and grossed-out by his stale breath and hooded gaze, but she doesn’t want to piss off your father, who has the power to ban her from the house, so she’ll play along and try to slip by unscathed. But your father is good at what he does. Few escape his touch.
The girls endure it because your brother’s a hot bad boy with bedroom eyes, a killer smile, and a dangerous edge, and the house is a haven where partying is the norm and no one proofs you when you kick in for beer. There’s always a place to crash, even if you do wake up sometimes with an anonymous hand trying to slip between your legs.
So you learn to padlock your door both coming and going and turn a deaf ear to the jeers as you tackle your homework. You call your parents Connie and Gil, because they hate the heavy tags of Mom and Dad, and buy baggy, boring clothes so your mother won’t borrow them. Your hair is short because the guys like it long and your bras are minimizers, designed to flatten the C cup you inherited from your mother.
You keep your dream of becoming a podiatrist to yourself because the one time you mentioned it, your mother said, “Why?” and your father smirked and said, “I should have been a gynecologist,” and your brother laughed and said, “Great, a freak with a foot fetish.” Your older sister is a financial advisor and never comes home to visit. You wish you could never come home to visit, too, but the only place to go is Blair’s and she’s been too distracted by moving and some kind of private misery to offer you sanctuary.
So when the public pool opens in June and the swim dance is announced, you latch on to it because it will keep you away from your own pool, where the drinks flow and skinny-dipping after sunset is the norm, not the exception.
You wear your bathing suit under your clothes and meet Blair down at the park at 8:30. You cut across the football field toward the fenced area and the faint, laughing shrieks from this pool are nothing like the forced-humor cries of “Gil, stop it!” from the high school girls when your father sinks beneath the surface to play pinching crab.
You wonder why your brother lets your father do it, and why your mother acts like she doesn’t know. And you remember snatches of conversation between the girls, warning each other to steer clear of the lech, and wonder what they would say if you told them that everytime he gets drunk, you’re not sure being his daughter will continue to grant you immunity.
You and Blair drop your towels under a tree and strip. Her bathing suit is last year’s and her breasts are too big for the top. Before you think, you poke the pale side of one soft overflow and say, “Hey, who do you think you are, Pamela Anderson?”
Her head snaps up and she stares at you, shocked by the trespass, but no more than you are. She snorts, says, “Yeah, right,” and you’re off the hook, except that your heart is pounding and you’re almost tempted to reach out and do it again.
You don’t, though, because through major effort you’ve managed to separate your home experiences from your public life, and it scares you that the lines just blurred.
“Hey,” Blair says, grinning. “You cold?”
You glance down at yourself and blush. The sage green, adjustable-strap, underwire bikini top is perfect in all ways but one; it’s isn’t lined. You didn’t even notice it when you bought the suit back in April because the store was overheated and you were so happy to find something underwire that wasn’t ugly, but now—
Gary, the ninth grader who kissed you and cut your lip, slouches by in a jostling knot of boys and calls, “Hey Ardith, nice tits!”
Mortified, you cross your arms over your chest, but the damage is done; you can still hear those same words whispered in the dark, prepadlock days at home, right before you woke up flailing and broke your brother’s friend’s nose.
“He’s such a waste,” Blair says with a derisive sniff. “C’mon, let’s go swimming.”
“Okay,” you say and keeping your arms folded, pad to the water’s edge. Dip a toe.
Blair bullets past and dives, going deep and popping up in the center of the pool. She waves and sloshes toward you. Her dark hair is slicked back and her eyebrows need plucking. “You going to swim, or just stand around showing off?” she says, then grabs your arm and pulls you down into the water.
You play like kids, sinking to the bottom to walk on your hands, racing, diving, gasping, and splashing inside your own shiny bubble. When you stagger out, exhausted, you share a Coke and endure more Gary remarks until Blair finally masters a perfect, draw
ling, “Like I really give a shit,” which she shortens to lirgas. The tone, coupled with her attitude, stance, and jutting breasts are too much for him. He gives her the finger and leaves with her hurried “In your dreams” ringing in his ears.
You stay until the end, swimming and playing while the older kids hook up and dance to a local garage band, but when you’re cutting back across the parking lot toward the football field, wearing your towel sarong and carrying your clothes, someone calls your name. It’s the guy whose nose you broke last year. He’s hanging out of an Isuzu, buzzed, and says, “Wanna party?” You look at Blair. She says, “Yes,” but you say, “No,” because you know the price he’ll charge and it’s way too high.
So he laughs and rummages around. Yells, “Here, catch!” and you miss it, but Blair doesn’t. The Isuzu peels away, leaving her holding a screw-top bottle of fizzy, pink wine.
And something changes.
You walk to the far side of the field and end up under the trees. By mutual, unspoken consent, neither of you are ready to go home yet.
Blair gives you the bottle and her clothes. She spreads her towel on the grass, sits, and holds up her arms for her stuff. You hand it over and spread your towel beside hers. The night is cool, so you hug your knees.
You hear the metallic crackle as Blair fumbles with the cap and watch her pale throat arch as she tilts the bottle and drinks.
“Ack,” she says, scowling and rubbing her nose. “Sour bubbles. You should have warned me.”
“It wouldn’t have stopped you,” you say, accepting the bottle.
“Well, no,” she says. “But then at least you could have said, ‘I told you so.’”
You pass the wine back and forth until it’s empty and there’s a dark sort of determination about the way you’re drinking.
Blair sets the bottle aside and swivels to face you. “I have to tell you something.” Her expression is smudgy with shadows and you can hear her breathing.
“What?” you say, going still.
“Wendy was murdered,” she says thickly and the story spills out. By the time it’s done you’re both crying, Blair as though she’ll never stop. “It h…hurts so m…much,” she whispers and sounds so heartbroken that you cry harder, too, adopting her loss as your own, hugging her and patting her back until her sobs are replaced by staggered, hitching breaths and she eases out of your arms.
You watch as she wipes her face. Tears glisten in her lashes and her bottom lip still trembles. The sight fills you with a rush of love and protectiveness so fierce that it hurts. “Don’t be sad anymore, okay?” you say, and in a move you never would have made if you were sober, reach out and touch her cheek. “You still have me.”
“I know,” she says in a pitiful voice, catching your hand. “You’re my best friend now, Ardith. For always, right?”
You nod, throat too tight to speak.
“Good,” she says, sniffling and reaching past you for the wine bottle. She tilts her head back and upends it over her mouth, catching the last few drops. “All gone,” she says mournfully, dropping it and shivering. “Everything’s gone. Brrr.” She rubs her bare arms. “Now I’m cold.”
“Here,” you say, tugging your towel out from beneath you.
“We’ll share.” You move onto her towel and huddle together under yours for warmth. You don’t talk about the prickly razor stubble on her leg or the drift of thick, soft hair brushing your shoulder. Instead, lulled by the wine and the glory of your newfound closeness, your reins go slack and you confess what you saw last night when the pool lights were dimmed and everyone thought you were inside, asleep.
You got up to pee. Unlocked your door and went into the bathroom without turning on the light, because lights have a way of drawing pests. When the murmurs penetrated your brain, you stood up without flushing and parted the blinds. In the pool, with the half light casting mermaid spangles across the water, you saw your brother and his current girlfriend bobbing together in the deep end.
You closed the blinds and backed out of the room. Padlocked your door and crept into bed. Thought about all the summer nights ahead and wondered if you can get pregnant from swimming in sperm water. There’s no one you can ask.
“‘Sperm water?’” Blair says and catches her breath. “Wait, you mean they were doing it in the pool? Where anyone could see them? No way!”
You nod. “Yes way.”
“That’s-so-gross,” she says, slurring the sentence into one long, run-on word. “I’d never even be able to kiss somebody if I knew people could see me.”
“Me, either,” you say solemnly.
“You guys have a lot of parties,” Blair says after a moment.
“How come you hardly ever talk about them?”
You lower your head and study your feet. They’re sleek, slim, and perfectly arched, elegant even, not that anyone but you has ever noticed. “They’re not real parties, they’re just my brother’s friends, drinking and hanging out.”
“Cool,” she says wistfully.
You snort. “Sure, if you’re a guy. If you’re a girl, it can get pretty hairy.”
“You know what I mean,” she says, bumping you. “God, they’re all there, all the time. Don’t you want any of them?”
You think of the regulars. Some are cute and some are funny…well, before they grope, puke, and pass out. “Nope.”
“But they’re older guys, and all different ones, like a smorgasbord.” She giggles and snakes an arm out from under the towel.
“Let’s see, I’ll have one of those and one of those and oh, let me have a little of that one, too.”
You shake your head.
“What?” she says, pouting. “I’m not talking about sex, I’m just talking about…I don’t know. Love. Romance. Boyfriends. Hanging out. Doing stuff.”
“Well, they’ll hang out and do stuff to you, all right,” you say grimly.
“Oh, stop,” she says, laughing. “They wouldn’t be like that. I mean, it’s not like I’m irresistible or anything.” She cocks her head.
“Am I?”
“You don’t have to be irresistible at my house,” you say, because she’s missing the point. “You just have to be a girl.”
“Well, then, what if I don’t drink?” she says, determined to discover the key to the kingdom and finagle some fun out of your household. “Wouldn’t that give me the upper hand?”
“A padlock gives you the upper hand,” you say, running your fingers through your damp hair. “That, or a set of cojones.”
She sways, burbling with laughter.
“You think I’m kidding,” you say, releasing a reluctant grin.
“No, but nothing ever happens at my house. It sucks.” She rests her head on your shoulder. “Have you ever seen anybody doing it in real life? I mean, like, out of the pool?”
“Yeah.” Drunk people are not shy. “It ain’t pretty.”
“It is in the movies. But it would be weird to be naked with a guy. I don’t even think I’d want to see it, you know?” Silence.
“What does it look like?”
“What?”
“It. You know.” She elbows you. “His thing.”
“I don’t know,” you say, because you don’t like knowing so much more than she does.
“You lie,” she says, laughing and tickling your ribs. “Come on, Ardith, tell me. Or take me home with you so I can go see for myself.”
“Right, okay, stop,” you say, because her fingers are making your skin ripple and you would rather burn down your house than bring Blair over there to be mauled by the masses. “It looks like a big red mushroom, okay?”
Her hands still. “Really? They all look like mushrooms?”
“I haven’t seen them all,” you snap.
“No, I didn’t mean…you know what I mean,” she says, poking you. “Don’t be mad, Ardith. I just wanted to know.”
“I know,” you say. “I’m not mad.”
“Gary kissed you, didn’t he?” Blair asks and
you feel the weight of her gaze but there’s little to see, because here beneath the pines, the darkness is deepest.
“Yeah,” you say.
“I haven’t even been kissed yet. I always thought I would be first.” She tilts back her head, reels, and clutches your knee.
“Whoa, I’m spinning.” She laughs and leans closer. “Have you ever been felt up?”
“Does being groped behind a Burger King count?” You mean it as a joke but it comes out breathless; the wine and her heat are making you dizzy. You don’t understand it, but you’re just blurry enough to indulge it.
“I guess,” she says. “What does it feel like? I mean, I’ve done it to myself but it can’t be the same. What are you supposed to do while it’s happening?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “I only got it on the outside and I didn’t do anything except push his hand away.” And now you’re wondering what a soft touch on bare skin would feel like, too. “But don’t tell anybody, Blair. They’ll think I’m a slut.” And you won’t be, ever, because you’re going to be a podiatrist instead.
“I’ll never tell,” she promises, dragging her finger across her chest in a little-kid cross my heart. “I wonder what it feels like.” She looks at you. “We should find out.”
You’re not sure what she means. “How?”
She leans close. “Here. Now. Don’t you want to know, so that when it happens for real you won’t be caught by surprise?”
The pit of your stomach throbs. “I guess.” What’s “for real”? Are you allowed to disqualify casual pinches, gropes, and whoever corners you next until you choose someone to make it “for real”?
“Good,” she says. “So you’re the one with the experience. How do we do it?”
“I don’t know.” You can’t look at her. “If we do, does it make us gay?”
“No,” Blair says, but she sounds unsure. “I mean, isn’t this like playing doctor?”
That hits your funny bone, and your giggles spark her giggles, and before you can catch your breath you’re kissing, tasting sweet wine and strawberry lip gloss. Your hand slips up to touch her breast. She stiffens, tentatively touches yours, and somehow both your hands wiggle their way inside of both your damp tops. Breathing blends with cricket chirps and the persistent pounding of blood coursing through your veins.