“I just need to be held,” she said. She rubbed against him. “Not by Marcus. By you.”
Charlie felt the sinkhole pull that was Starrla.
Ten minutes, he told himself, checking his watch. I’ll give Starrla ten minutes. Then I’m going to Wren.
“Things are going to get better,” he said.
Starrla snorted.
“If you want them to, they will,” he said, and he believed it, because look at himself. “You can change your life, Star.”
Starrla snorted. “Oh, fucking Christ. The World According to Wren Gray—is that what this is? ‘Oh, Charlie, just think! You could be president one day!’”
Screw you, Starrla, he thought, because dammit, she still had the power to get to him. It wasn’t just how Starrla mocked Wren, either. It was the fact that, yes, Wren did make him believe in himself. That he didn’t have to work in Chris’s shop forever. That he was going to do great at Georgia Tech, and that he was smarter than anyone she knew. She’d even suggested, tentatively, that he go to Guatemala with her.
“You’d get accepted to the program in a heartbeat,” she said. “You could help build houses! Or you could do computer stuff. I’m sure they need people who are good at computers. You could do anything. You’re amazing, Charlie.”
No one had ever told Charlie he was amazing.
“I’m sorry,” Starrla said. “I’m such a bitch. Forgive me?”
Starrla kissed Charlie’s collarbone, the barest flick of lips against skin.
“Star, quit it.”
“But you do know she’s too good for you, right?” She took his hand and put it under her shirt. Stomach, ribs, breast. No bra. He resisted, but she kept his hand where it was. She put her other hand on his jeans. On his dick.
“I said, quit it,” he said, but her touch made him hard.
She laughed. “I’m not saying that to hurt you. I’m saying that to keep you from getting hurt.” She stroked him. “When she realizes who you really are—where you really came from—do you think she’s going to want you?”
Charlie stood up. Starrla tumbled backward onto the sofa. She laughed again.
“Look at you,” she said, jerking her chin at his erection. “You still want me. You’ll always want me.”
Anger rose in Charlie’s chest. Could he help what his body did? How his body responded?
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he said curtly. “I’m sorry she took the car. Wash your face, put some nice clothes on, and go to your job. Take the damn bus.”
“Won’t you take me?” Starrla said. “Or forget Rite Aid. We’ll go … we’ll go anywhere, do anything. Whatever you want.”
Charlie walked toward the door.
“Please, Charlie!” she cried. “I won’t tease you anymore. I’m sorry, and I do want you to give me a ride. Please?”
When everything else failed, she could always get him with a “please.” Goddammit. He didn’t want to help her. He didn’t want to care. He had told himself he was done with all of that, and he tried to act on it, but old habits died hard.
He turned around.
Later, Charlie drove toward Wren’s house, but he stopped on a side street before he got there. Hadn’t she said she was at Tessa’s? He should call her first. He would pick her up, or they could meet at their ditch. Whatever Wren wanted, Charlie wanted. Whatever Wren wanted, Charlie wanted to be the one to give it to her.
He pulled out his flip phone. Thank God it was at least advanced enough to receive pictures, because the one Wren had sent …
Again, her beauty took his breath away. Only the lower half of her face was visible: her lips, the bottom one caught anxiously between her teeth. She had nothing to be anxious about. He hoped she knew that. He would tell her again, when he saw her.
And then … her unbuttoned blouse. Her bra, pushed to the side. All breasts were not equal, Charlie thought. He didn’t think about Starrla’s breast, or his hand on it, because Star wasn’t Wren.
Looking at the picture Wren sent, and knowing she had sent it to please him, made him crazy with love and longing. I miss you, she’d said. I want to make love to you.
He punched in her number. His call went straight to voice mail. “Hi, this is Wren. Um … leave a message!”
“Wren. Hey,” he said. “Where are you, baby? Call me. I want to see you.”
He hung up, puzzled and disappointed. Wren’s phone hardly ever went straight to voice mail. Come to think of it, Wren’s phone had never gone straight to voice mail when Charlie called her. He racked his brain and couldn’t come up with a single instance.
So why now? Was something wrong? Had something happened to her?
Relax, he told himself. She’s fine.
He called again. “Hey. I’m not getting through for some reason.” He closed his eyes, feeling like an idiot. “I guess you have your phone turned off? I just want to see you, baby. Call me, okay?”
He hit the END button. Do not call again, he told himself.
He could text her, though. Yes. Maybe she was at a movie, or somewhere else where she had to be quiet. But after sending that picture, she’d want to hear from him, wouldn’t she?
Hey, baby. You there? he texted.
He drummed his fingers on his thigh. Nothing.
Wren, you all right?
Wren?
He wasn’t sure what to do. He could go home. Should he go home? Or he could drive to Tessa’s …
Half an hour ago he’d felt exhilarated. Now his stomach knotted up. He knew he was overreacting, but he would feel so much better if he just heard from her.
She’s busy, that’s all, he told himself.
Except she usually answered his texts immediately. She’d set a special text tone just for him, and when she turned the sound off, she set her ringer on vibrate. And the whole straight-to-voice-mail business? Not good.
He texted again.
Did I do somehj wrong? Just let me know yr ok.
He realized the bad spelling too late.
*Something, not somehj. I dont even know what a somehj is.
He hoped that would make her laugh. He hoped it would make him laugh, or lighten his mood, but it did neither. The blank screen of his phone taunted him.
He started the engine. Loitering on this side street wasn’t doing him any good. He’d drive to Tessa’s house, just to check. Maybe Wren and Tessa were in Tessa’s backyard, or listening to Tessa’s loud music, or … playing Parcheesi, with their phones in another room? He’d driven two blocks when an alert flashed on his screen:
WREN GRAY
TEXT MESSAGE
His heart leaped. He clicked to read her message.
I’m fine dont worry
He felt relieved. Then, within seconds, his confusion returned. Wren usually used perfect grammar when texting, first of all. His own texts, painstakingly tapped out on his crappy ghetto phone, were riddled with misspellings, which amused Wren. She dubbed his errors “thumbles.”
But more troubling than her lack of punctuation was the brevity of her message, especially since she hadn’t added a smiley face to help him read her mood. Without a smiley face, her text seemed curt.
He pulled over.
Wren, where are you? he typed. You sure everything’s all right?
Her response came quickly.
I’m a little mad, but whatever. Don’t worry. Just … whatever.
He read it twice. A buzzing filled his head. Wren was mad? Why? At him?
He typed quickly, text after text, and now she replied quickly, for the most part. Every so often there would be a pause, and when there was, Charlie could hear how loudly he was breathing.
Mad? Why are you mad?
You really don’t know?
I really don’t. Are you mad at me?
Well I’m not mad at Tessa.
And I’m not mad at PG
There are a lot of ppl I’m not mad at. I wish I weren’t mad at all. So let’s just pretend I’m not.
What did
I do? Just tell me.
nvm.
I’m worried I let you down somehow. i’m so sorry
Wren?
Oh, and will you delete that pic I sent you? Plz?
Wren, that picture is gorgeous. So sexy. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you rigt away.
You are SO sexy, baby. I shld have told you immediately. I hd to go, thats all.
Can you forgive me?
Have you deleted the picture?
Baby …
I feel like my heart is being ripped out. I know I let you down and I’m so sorry. YOU ARE THE SEXIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD!
Uh-huh, and that’s why you disappeared. You were just … gone. Poof.
I told you I had an emergency to deal with, remember?
Oh, ok, it’s my fault, then. My bad. Bye.
Wren, I don’t understna.
I’m sorry I had to go. Next time I won’t.
Wren?
Listen. I suck.
Where are you? I’ll come. We’ll talk.
If I cld hold you, I’d feel so much better—and maybe you wld too?
Seriously, plz stop txting. We’ll talk soon. I guess.
Can I call you? Can we talk over the phone at least?
Um, nah. Bye for real. I’m turning off my phone.
Wren? Wait.
Are you still there?
I feel like my world is falling apart. Can I please please call?
She didn’t respond.
Charlie tried to stop panicking, but he couldn’t.
When they were talking earlier—when Wren was at Tessa’s, right before she sent the picture—he told her he had to go. He’d said that Pamela needed him, because of Dev. Could Wren have found out he lied?
He shouldn’t have lied. He was an ass. He was an idiot.
But Wren …
Refusing to tell him what was really wrong, refusing to talk to him—that wasn’t cool, either.
He felt gutted. Long shadows from the trees on the side of the street fell over his car. Everything was wrong. Everything was broken.
He shouldn’t have gone to Starrla.
He should have told Wren how beautiful and smart and sexy she was right away, the very second she sent that picture. But Starrla sounded so desperate, so urgent, and it had touched on old needs.
He needed to be needed—but by Wren, not Starrla. He’d messed up.
But why didn’t Wren cut him some slack? If she thought he’d gone to Dev—which was wrong and a lie, and he would come clean when he got the chance—why hadn’t she cared how Dev was? If it had been a Dev emergency … It hadn’t, but if it had …
He was trying to rationalize his behavior, which was wrong. Everything was wrong. His thoughts circled and spiraled until he felt like he was going crazy. Please text back, he prayed. Wren? Please, just text back.
Ten seconds passed. Thirty. Had she really turned off her phone? “Um, nah,” and she was gone?
One minute.
Two minutes.
Ten minutes.
For ten and a half minutes Charlie sat in the deepening gloom. His soul hurt. He shut his phone and drove home.
in a two-dimensional world. Her head pounded. Her lips were chapped, and her tongue was fuzzy. A memory of something bad—something potentially very bad—pressed down hard on top of her, only she couldn’t call up the details. They slipped and slid just beyond the reach of her consciousness.
What was it? What was the bad thing? She attempted to sit up, and an ice pick stabbed her brain. Ow. Ow, ow. She gazed at her surroundings through half-shut eyes. Where was she? At Tessa’s?
Yes, because there Tessa was, her hair a tangled river on her pillow. She still had on her shirt from last night. Wren looked down at herself. She did, too. Jean shorts, the waistband digging into the skin above her hip. Her summery periwinkle blouse with buttons down the front.
Buttons down the front. Something … something about buttons.
She pressed her fingers against her temples. Crap, how much had she had to drink?
She needed to pee. She pushed herself up, squinting even more. She found the floor with her bare feet.
Move, she told herself.
Ow, ow, owwww. Pain shot through her skull. She was surely dying, or might as well be. But she waited, and the pain dulled. She held on to Tessa’s bed as she made her way around it. She gripped Tessa’s desk chair for balance, and then she used the wall to steady herself. Years later, she reached the bathroom. She didn’t turn on the light. She might never turn on a light again. She tugged down her shorts and sat on the toilet, which was cool on the back of her legs. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, resting her arms on her thighs and her head on her forearms.
She peed forever. Afterward, she was sorely tempted to curl up on Tessa’s fluffy pink bath mat and take a nap.
But the bed would be softer. There were covers to crawl beneath. And Tessa. She could ask Tessa what the hell they had done last night to make her feel so totally, utterly shitty.
She shuffled from the bathroom to the bed and eased herself onto the mattress. She lay her aching head down.
Did something happen with Charlie? Something bad?
Her blouse, with the buttons.
Oh.
Oh no.
But so much was foggy still.
“Tessa,” she croaked. She found Tessa’s calf with her toes and nudged her. “Tessa. Wake up.”
“No doughnuts on my coffee,” Tessa mumbled.
“Wake up, or I’m going to throw up all over you. All over your long, pretty hair.”
Tessa moaned. She rolled over, slowly, and peered at Wren with one eye. “That again? Really?”
“What again?”
“My ‘long, pretty hair.’ Last night, at P.G.’s house. P.G. and I went swimming, and you went on and on about my long, pretty hair.”
“We went swimming?” Wren said. Tessa’s hair, which usually was long and pretty, was matted in places, as if she’d slept on it wet.
“Not you. Just me and P.G.,” Tessa said. Her breath was sour. “You sat in a lounge chair. You weren’t happy. You were very, very not happy. Can I go back to sleep now?”
Wren frowned. In her mind, she saw the moon, as well as littler moons that were underwater, their light radiating upward. Pool lights? Yes. They had been at a pool—P.G.’s pool—and Tessa, with her long, pretty hair, had resembled a mermaid.
“You swam naked,” Wren said.
Tessa sighed. “I did.”
“Did P.G.?” Another image came to mind, which she shooed away. “No, forget I asked.”
Tessa felt around beneath the covers. Next she patted her T-shirt. “Huh. I must have left my undies there.”
“Wait—are you undie-less right now?” Wren asked. She held up her hand. “Again, no. Forget I asked.” She paused. “How did we get to P.G.’s? How did we get back? And I didn’t skinny-dip … did I?”
“P.G. came and picked us up, and later he drove us back to my house. You don’t remember?”
“I kind of do,” Wren lied.
“Well, you were pretty wasted. More wasted than I’ve ever seen you, to tell the truth. And you were mad at Charlie. Do you remember being mad at Charlie?”
Wren’s stomach turned.
Tessa wasn’t wearing underwear, and Wren had been mad at Charlie. Was she mad at him still?
She searched her heart. What she (almost) recalled scared her. She stared hard at the ceiling.
“You kept saying your parents were right, that boys were bad news,” Tessa said. “Again and again. You were on auto-repeat. But you wouldn’t tell us what Charlie did. What did Charlie do?”
Was that the grand prize question? What did Charlie do? Or was it what did Wren do?
Abruptly, Tessa rolled over, got out of bed, and announced, “I’ve got to piss like a racehorse.”
Wren turned away to give bare-bottomed Tessa some privacy. When it seemed as if Tessa had reached the bathroom, she said, “Would you bring me a glass of
water?”
Tessa stuck out her arm and gave Wren a thumb’s-up. She accidentally whacked her hand on the bathroom door-jamb. “Dammit,” she said, but she laughed as she drew her hand to her chest. After a long time, she returned to her bed with a glass of fresh, cold water. Also, she had lounge pants on.
“Hey, don’t drink it all at once,” Tessa said.
Wren took one last sip and passed the glass to Tessa. She dragged her hand over her face and said, “I don’t feel so good.”
“No, no, you don’t,” Tessa agreed. “You don’t look so good, either.”
“Neither do you.”
Tessa gave herself a once-over. “We both look pretty rough, I gotta say.”
Cautiously, Wren sat up. Her head still hurt, but she no longer felt as if she were being stabbed by an ice pick. She propped her pillow against the headboard and leaned back on it.
“This is progress,” she said.
Tessa patted Wren’s knee. “Absolutely. And you didn’t spill water all over yourself.” She cocked her head. “Do you remember spilling your Manx Whore all over yourself? Last night at P.G.’s pool?”
“My … I’m sorry, what?”
Tessa arched her eyebrows. “Really? We had such a long discussion about Manx Whores. Wow. No more hard liquor for you, my friend.”
“What is a Manx Whore? Will you just tell me?”
“P.G. made them for us, but he didn’t have one himself, since he knew he’d be driving us home.” She considered. “He had a beer or two, though.”
“But we had Manx Whores.”
“We did.”
“And we drank them out of Mason jars. And they tasted like licorice?”
“Because of the sambuca. It’s coming back to you!”
Wren covered her ears. “Too loud, too loud. Sambuca? I don’t remember that. I don’t even know what that is. But I do remember …”
She didn’t finish. She bit her lip. And then it was happening, her memories mixing with the contents of her stomach, and all of it toxic. She stumbled out of Tessa’s bed, and the ice pick was back, but she made it to the bathroom in time. She threw up again and again, but at least she did it in the toilet and not all over Tessa’s long, pretty hair.
Tessa’s mom was teaching a yoga class, so Tessa and Wren had the house to themselves. After a shower, a piece of toast, and a tall glass of orange juice, Wren felt … better. Not good, but better. Able to piece together what had happened the night before without making a mad dash for the bathroom again. Able to tell Tessa she needed a little time to herself, if that was all right, so she could try to sort out her tangled-up feelings.