“How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat. Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.”
I was keenly aware of how the downpour plastered my clothes to my body, outlining every curve, and how it did the same to him. And it made me feel reckless and scared. His voice in my ear, the rain, his hands on my waist, mine on his chest. How had this become a thing with us, dancing to slow songs?
For maybe the first time in my life I was aware of my lips, like you could take my pulse with them. They wanted skin—his skin—against them and, God, I couldn’t think. It felt so good to not care about anything, just feeling my bare feet on the concrete, my breath as it struggled down my throat. And warmth. Between my legs and in my belly and everywhere in my head until it was just warmth and need and Josh.
The last note of the song faded, and he tilted my chin up, his face suddenly serious.
This is the moment, I thought.
And I stood there on the knife’s edge of us, holding my breath, time expanding so that I felt every drop of rain, every thud of my heart. His lips, so close—
There was a burst of thunder, and Josh jumped, his fingers slipping from my chin. The moment gone. Like a balloon floating up to the sky, unreachable.
I tried to smile, I think. Wanting to cry and glad the rain would hide it if I did. “We should get back in,” I said. Whispered. Choked.
I didn’t know if he’d heard me. He was staring at the pool, watching the water flow into the planter, drowning the few flowers that had struggled to survive the heat.
“Josh?”
His eyes swept over my face and then he straightened his body and nodded. I didn’t wait for him. I just turned and ran back to the lobby.
JOSH
You sure you’re ready for this, bro? I flip Blake off. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, giving me all kinds of able-bodied attitude, then hikes his arm back and throws the football toward me. I try running, which is surprisingly not too bad, but looking back while I do it—impossible. The football soars past me, and I watch it fall to the grass, then thud around. Pathetic. I haven’t sucked this bad at sports since we played those kids in that village where Gomez kissed a goat. And Blake’s giving me this embarrassed look and I just tell him, Let’s get shitfaced, and he says okay and we go through a twelve-pack really fast. I’m drunk-ass drunk, so wasted I can’t even walk, I’m like all over the place and I tell him Skylar’s hot and he says, Yeah, she’s a great kisser but she only let me touch her boobs. And I just full on punch him, but I’m so wasted that I kinda nick his shoulder and he’s all, What’s that for, and I say, Don’t touch her, and he’s all, Holy shit, you’re into her, and I tell him to fuck off and he just keeps shaking his head and saying, Holy shit. So I close my eyes and let my body float and I try to feel nothing except now I’m thinking of a girl I can’t have because the war won’t even let me kiss her, scared of goddamn thunder Jesus Christ and I don’t know why I tell Blake this because this is fucking embarrassing to admit but I say, I haven’t been laid in over a year. Isn’t that the saddest thing you ever heard? And he’s like, We need to fix that right fucking now, and I say, Hell, no, maybe tomorrow. I’m gonna pass out. And he’s like, Okay. And now I’m lying in bed and can’t sleep because my leg is starting to do that thing that feels like growing pains except my leg is not fucking there and I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so goddamn sorry. Should’ve been me, not you.
JULY
chapter sixteen
It was like we’d never danced in the rain or woken up at dawn holding hands in the back of his truck. For the next few days, Josh and I were friendly, like you’re supposed to be with your coworker. He’d be fixing a rain gutter or installing a new screen in a room, and I’d wave when I came in, and he’d wave back and then that would be it. I’d read a book or collage, and I’d tell myself it was good he hadn’t wanted to kiss me, good things were cooling off between us. I was moving to San Fran, and he was probably staying in the Marines. It wasn’t like we would have been anything more than a summer romance. Still, the loss of our easy banter made me realize how much his friendship had started to mean to me. He was the parts of the day where I smiled.
“How many times have you read that page, Skylar?”
I looked up from my book—I hadn’t even noticed Marge standing right in front of me. And Marge was not a small woman.
I shrugged my shoulders. “How long have you been here?”
“Awhile.” She handed me a Coke while she opened a Diet Dr Pepper. She stuck one of her straws in the can and took a long sip. “So a little birdie told me you were sleeping in your car this morning.”
Billy had been over again, and by three A.M., it’d been clear he was spending the night. I’d opted to sleep in my car instead of listen to him and my mother freaking out over a bunch of old CDs he’d brought over. The irony of them belting out Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places” was not lost on me.
“Amy,” I said.
I thought I’d been so clever, parking behind the hippies’ Winnebago.
“Josh.”
I took a long sip of my Coke. “Oh.”
Marge leaned over the counter and put one of her thick hands on my arm. There was a ring on each finger: costume jewelry that sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight. “Honey, why didn’t you just sleep in one of the rooms?”
“I like my car. Besides, it was only for a couple of hours.”
I wasn’t into airing my family’s dirty laundry, and the car was comfortable enough. Whatever. Why did Josh say something to Marge and not to me? If he was so worried about me, why didn’t he just—
“What’s going on at home?” Marge asked.
“What do you mean?” I frowned. “Did this little birdie who happens to be over six feet tell you something?”
She let my annoyance roll right on over her. That was the thing about Marge—she was a rock to Mom’s Jell-O.
“Is Billy Easton still coming around your place?”
“Good to know you and Josh sit around and gossip about me like a bunch of old ladies.”
Marge rolled her eyes. “Sky, he’s just worried about you.”
I didn’t know how that made me feel, Josh being worried. Relieved, like maybe things weren’t so weird between us, after all. Annoyed that he was talking to Marge instead of me.
I could hear the faint sounds of a classic rock station playing on the boom box in the courtyard. Josh was fixing the tiles around the pool. “Hotel California” came on, and was it just my imagination, or did he turn the radio up?
“Sky?”
I blinked. “I’m fine, Marge. Seriously. Mom’s just … you know. With losing the job she’s—”
“I told you to bring her here. We’d figure something out.”
I twirled a pencil around. “She’s thinking about it.”
Mom resented Marge for being there for me when Mom couldn’t be, and Marge resented Mom for being Mom.
“Uh-huh.”
She reached over the counter to grab a quarter from the till and put it in the candy dispenser that held stale Hot Tamales. “Want one?” she asked, when they came tumbling out.
I shook my head. “I’m gonna eat some real food when I’m off.”
All I’d had to eat was a bag of Skittles from the nearly empty vending machine—no home, no breakfast. At least having my Pump and Go money meant I could buy some lunch when I got off work. The owner had agreed to give me an advance, something I never would have asked Marge for. Money was tight enough for her as it was.
Marge chewed on her Hot Tamales for a while, looking at Josh. Then she turned back to me. “You going to watch the fireworks down by the creek tonight?”
It was a Creek View tradition on the Fourth. There was this abandoned field that everyone would bring their fireworks to—whatever they’d bought illegally in Vegas or whatever. Then they’d hang around and drink beer and set them off.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ll probably hang with
my mom. The kids in the neighborhood will have some fireworks.”
“You all ready for school?”
The million-dollar question.
“Yeah. My roommate called. Her name’s Cynthia. She’s from Vermont—seems nice.”
But when she’d called me yesterday to introduce herself, the conversation hadn’t felt real. Not with everything in limbo. Stay. Go. Stay. Go. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Marge’s face lit up. “That’s great! What’s her major?”
“Something with journalism or—” My cell rang, and I held it up. “Sorry. Important. Can I…?”
Marge nodded, and I ran outside.
“Hello?” I made my voice low, like my mom’s.
“Hi, is this Denise Evans?” said a woman.
“Yes, it is.”
“Hi, Denise. This is Sharon down at the Valley Outlet Center. We got your application, and something in our customer service department just opened up. I wanted to see if we could have you come in for an interview this Thursday, around three?”
“That’d be great. Thank you so much.”
“Excellent! We’ll see you then.”
I did a silent dance. “Thank you. Looking forward to it.”
I hung up and clutched the phone to my chest. Now all I had to do was get my mom sober enough to go.
* * *
“You what?” Mom was sitting on the couch, her legs folded, staring at me.
Somehow, this was not the reaction I’d pictured. I’d imagined something between Really? and Hallelujah!
I bit my lip and repeated what I’d just said. “I filled out the application and set up the interview. You’re good to go. They’re really excited to meet you.”
I’d tell her later that I lied and said she’d graduated from high school. It wasn’t like they were going to ask to see her diploma, anyway.
Mom stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “You have no business filling out applications in my name—”
“Mom! I’m just trying to help you. I know it’s hard to—”
“I don’t care!” She screamed the words, her face suddenly ugly. “I didn’t ask for your help, I don’t want your help.” She threw her cigarettes across the room. One of her porcelain angel figurines wobbled as the pack hit the shelf it was sitting on. “Jesus, Sky, you’re driving me crazy!”
She pushed past me, stomping toward the fridge.
“Great, Mom. Just go get another wine cooler. I’m sure that’ll fix the problem.”
She turned around, her eyes narrowed in this hateful way that I’d never seen before. “Get out.”
“What?” She had to be joking.
“I said, get out. Just”—she put her hands over her eyes, took a deep breath—“give me a couple hours to clear my head, okay? I don’t wanna fight like this.”
I crossed my arms and dug my fingers into my ribs to keep from crying. I stared at her for a long moment, then grabbed my keys and my wallet. I made sure to slam the door behind me.
A breeze had picked up outside and a dusty sunset lingered in the sky. I was free for the night, but I didn’t know what to do with myself. I sat in my car, taking deep breaths, trying to remember what it felt like to throw a glass bottle. Was she kicking me out for a few hours, or for good? I knew which one Billy would prefer.
Dylan didn’t answer when I called—she was probably working. I dialed Chris.
“What you need,” he said, “are some seriously good burritos.”
“This is your answer to my life crisis?”
Long pause, then, “Just come over.”
As soon as I got to his house, his mom sent us to Market to grab some Cokes. On the way there, I told Chris what had happened at home.
He shook his head. “Sounds like she’s having a total breakdown.”
“Yeah, I know. She’s like a completely different person.”
He pulled into the little parking lot in front of the bodega and shut off the engine. “Okay. Let’s take this step by step—”
“Chris, my life is not an equation or a word problem, okay? It sucks to the tenth power—that’s all you need to know!”
I was shaking, literally shaking, and I couldn’t stop. Didn’t people only do that in movies?
“Come here,” Chris said, his voice soft.
He reached over and hugged me, and I wasn’t going to cry, I wasn’t. That wouldn’t solve anything. I closed my eyes until the tears retreated down my throat and back into my chest, where they seemed to live these days.
Chris squeezed me, and I squeezed him back before I pulled away. “It’s gonna be okay, chica. Trust me. You’re getting out of here, one way or another. But you need a day off: just one to have fun and chill out. Can we do that?”
I nodded.
“Come on, let’s get these Cokes and go back home.”
“Okay.”
I wanted to argue with him, but the truth was, I needed a day off from the mess that was my life. I stepped out of the truck and slammed the door behind me. I heard a whistle and turned around. Josh and a bunch of people he’d graduated with were standing outside, drinking out of bottles covered with small brown paper bags.
“Garcia! What’s up, man?” one of the guys yelled. He was looking at Chris and me with a dirty grin. He must have been the one that whistled.
“David. What up?” Chris walked over to them, and I followed with a reluctant shuffle.
Josh nodded to me but kept talking to some girl that we’d gone to school with. Stacie. Or Stephanie. Something like that. She had big boobs and long red hair. And his finger was hooked into one of the belt loops on her tiny jean shorts. For a second, it was the only thing I could see.
“You guys together now or what?” asked David.
I looked away from Josh and shook my head. “Friends.”
“With benefits,” said some other guy. He was one of those white guys who tried to look all hip-hop, with a gold chain and baggy shorts that showed off most of his faded boxers. Chris just rolled his eyes at me as if to say, Morons.
I said “Shut up” at the same time that Josh said “Don’t be a dick.” He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him. The wannabe gangster laughed and gulped his beer.
I couldn’t figure out where the whole “with benefits” comment came from until I realized that from where they were standing, it must have looked like Chris and I had been making out in the truck. Shit. Josh probably thought—wait, I didn’t care. Did I?
“I’m gonna go inside,” I said.
Here I was, worrying about what Chris and I had looked like in the truck when what I really needed to be focusing on was the fact that my mother was losing her mind. And how was I suddenly caring about Creek View sexual politics? I was getting out. This crap shouldn’t rattle me. But was I getting out? I crossed over to the sodas and yanked open the door to the refrigerated section, closing my eyes as the cold air blasted me. The bells on the door jingled as someone came inside.
“Hey.” Chris grabbed a couple two-liter bottles of Coke, and I shut the door. “Those guys are idiots—just ignore them.”
“I thought that’s what I was doing,” I said, my voice hard.
“You are. I’m just saying, you know, screw them.” He rolled his eyes. “You wanna know what they were talking about?”
“Something obnoxious?”
“They went cow tipping last night. Cow tipping.”
“That’s a new low for the youth of Creek View,” I said.
“Dude, I can’t get out of here soon enough.”
We paid for the Cokes, and I tried not to look like I was in too much of a hurry, but when we got back outside, Josh’s truck was gone.
So was the redhead.
JOSH
Her name is Shannon and her skin’s like milk with flakes of cinnamon in it and she’s pressed up against me and it feels good, I guess, I mean it should, and she whispers in my ear that her parents aren’t home and fuck it Skylar’s obviously into that Chris dude, I saw them in his
sorry excuse for a truck, should have totaled it when I had the chance, so what the hell am I waiting for and I just say, Okay, cool, and we get to her house and I’m kissing her like what Skylar said about her and Blake—to forget, like I need a body—and I can’t believe he felt her up and what did she do to him, doesn’t matter, and I kiss this girl, kiss her hard, bite her lips and her neck and she moans, but she tastes like beer and cigarettes and I bet Skylar tastes sweet, like the powdered sugar on those little white doughnuts and I shouldn’t be thinking about Skylar, not when this girl’s hand is in my pants and—fuck—it’s been so long, but I can’t. I want this but I don’t want her. I close my eyes and try to relax, relax, goddammit, relax. This used to be so easy why isn’t it easy and my hands are on her breasts, which feel good, I mean, I’m not fucking gay so they feel really good and I don’t deserve Skylar, never will, so I should just go for this because she’s going for Chris and this girl says to me, she says to me, I’ll do anything you want.
And that’s it.
My hands fall from her chest and I go, What did you say? And she says, I’ll do anything you want, and I pull her hand out of my pants and back away and almost trip on her shoes that she’d kicked off and I keep saying, Sorry, sorry, and I get myself out of her room, her house, and I don’t look back because you know what I’m thinking about, don’t you? That woman running out of her hut and waving her arms around and screaming, I’ll do anything you want—how the hell’d she know English?—and we had to take her son anyway because he was killing our guys with his little homemade bombs and the look on her face … I drive away fast and I go to my favorite spot off the highway and I sit in my truck until the sky turns black. I keep replaying the whole thing in my head, how I couldn’t get it up and what the hell does that mean, isn’t there enough wrong with me already? I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do this again. Be close to someone. Maybe it’s a punishment, I don’t know. I don’t deserve to be here and I’m a worthless piece of shit so yeah, me not being able to get it up just evens the scales a little bit more. Just a little bit, though. Why did I make it when so many other guys got wasted? And now it’s like I lost a leg and gained another fuckin’ eye that’s letting me see everything in this totally new, crappy light and all this shit that used to make me me I either can’t do or is so fucking stupid—God, what’s the point of me? I just want to go back, man. I want to be on post—I don’t care how boring it is. All I need is my gun and the guys and it doesn’t matter anymore that everything there is sad and hopeless and dead or dying. It’s like that here too.