Autofocus (13 page)

“Definitely,” she says, then hangs up. I shake my head because there she is, back in Orlando, flirting with Starbucks Guy. She's doing the same thing she was doing last week. And here
I
am, at a college party, one drink in, and about to talk to a guy. How did I get so far? She was right—a few days
can
change so much. And at the moment, I really don't mind it.

I put my phone in my pocket and feel Treena's bike key. It makes me think of riding and moving and feeling alive. It makes me think of learning about my mother today. Mr. Wayne said my mother was sure of herself, was confident and moved to her own beat. Maybe I can be, too.

So I look at Bennett and say, “Hey.”

“I'm going to assume that whenever I can't find you,
you're hiding out in or nearby a stairwell,” he says, pointing to the stairs and shifting his weight from the front to the back of his feet repeatedly.

“Phone call from home,” I say, still leaning back.

“Boyfriend?” he asks.

“Girlfriend,” I say, and his eyebrows shoot up. I laugh, then add, “But not like that. She's a girl. Who's my friend.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, leaning on the railing next to me. “I mean, it would have been cool if you had a girlfriend and all. . . .”

“But I don't. Or a boyfriend, for that matter,” I add, turning my body so I'm looking at him. “Did I miss anything in there?”

“Nah, Trey wants to play beer pong, so I was tasked to come find you,” he says, and I feel a bit disappointed, knowing that he had to come, not that he wanted to.

“I see,” I say, leaning back on the railing, away from him.

“I mean, I was tasked to find a partner, and obviously it was going to be you.”

“Really?” I ask, turning my head. Our arms are close, nearly touching against the cold bar. One move and they'd be together. In fact, all I want to do right now is close any gap between us. I know it's probably the excitement of the day, and the drinking, but I feel myself being pushed toward him.

“Of course,” he says, shoving himself off the railing and facing me. He's close, and I look up to meet his eyes. He stays
there, staring at me softly, then looks down, breaking contact. The air leaves my chest and my face feels like it flushes. “Come on,” he says with a grin, then grabs my hand and leads me back to the party. “We can be the Wonder Twins and totally take them.”

When we get inside, it's louder and more active.

“Hmmm,” I muse. Bennett drops my hand and looks at me. I nod in the direction of Treena, who's lip-locked with Trey in another session I don't care to be privy to.

“Yeah,” he says. “Treena and Trey are totally flirty drunks.”

“There are different types of drunks?” I ask, feeling off—or, more so, feeling more on than ever. My senses are activated. The room is bright and dazzling, and Bennett is bright and dazzling, too. I want to feel what we had outside again, if only for a moment. I want to be that close to him again.

“Oh yeah,” he says, bringing me over to the desks, where he sets up the cups to look like bowling pins. I help him, moving them around just so. “There are flirty drunks, who lose all inhibition and just want to, well . . .” he says, nodding his head toward Trey and Treena, who seem to have woven themselves together atop the couch. “Angry drunks, who start fights. Sad drunks, who cry about everything. Happy drunks, who cheer for everything. And sleepy drunks, who just fall asleep,” he concludes, nodding toward Film Guy, who's conked out on the couch, on the opposite side of Trey
and Treena. I laugh at the sight.

“So what are you?” I ask, meeting him in front of the table.

“I am a supremely awesome drunk,” he says, leaning back.

“I don't recall that on your list. . . .”

“Right, it's a special category for just a select few of us.”

“So what would that make me?” I ask, eyeing him.

“Hmm, let's see,” he says, circling me and rubbing his chin with his hand. “You're not sleepy, definitely not angry. I don't see you crying, and you're not forcing yourself on top of anyone. . . .”

“So happy drunk?” I ask, wondering if I am, in fact, drunk.

“I think the verdict is still out,” he says, stopping his circling in front of me. I feel a bit dizzy, but his steadiness is keeping me grounded.

“Out on what? Us beating your ass?” Trey's voice booms, ending our moment. I look over and he and Treena are on the other side of the table, ready to play.

“We'll just see about that,” Bennett says, and I take my spot beside him.

Beer pong, it turns out, is not as easy as it looks. Especially when drinking. Trey shoots his first ball and gets it into one of our cups easily.

“I've got it,” Bennett says, drinking the beer inside. They're not very full, thankfully, just a few sips. I don't know
how much I can take. He turns the cup over, empty, then gives me a ball. “Ladies first.”

I throw the ball and miss. Treena does, too, hitting the party's host on the head. He doesn't even notice.

Bennett misses his, but Trey gets his in again, and I drink this time. Beer is just as bad as the drink last night, but I take it down and put on a game face. I notice Bennett watching me as I take the ball and sink my shot in. We cheer and he gives me a hug. Trey lifts the cup and effortlessly finishes it in one gulp.

We keep playing until Treena leans on Trey and announces, “Sleepy,” in a childlike voice. She gets whiny when she's tired; she always has.

“I'll take you home,” Trey says with a grin, then literally picks her up like a baby.

“Wait,” I say, rational despite how I feel. “How
are
we getting home? We can't drive.”

“I can drive,” Trey says, then wobbles with Treena in his arms.

“Not so much,” Bennett says. “Night bus.”

“Like Harry Potter?” I ask, confused.

“I wish. No, it's an off-campus bus system thing. You can call if you need a ride and are within, I don't know, so many miles of the campus.”

“Oh wow,” I say. “That's cool.” Then I realize something. “So . . . the campus expects you to get drunk?”

Bennett laughs. “Guess so. I mean, college and all.”

“Still sleepy,” Treena announces.

“I think she's hit sleep drunk,” I whisper to Bennett before walking over toward her. “It's okay, we're going home,” I say, petting her hair. She's still in Trey's arms, and she looks cute, sweet.

Bennett looks at us and says, “Yeah, it's time. Okay, I'll make the call.”

The bus picks us up and drops us off near the dorm. Treena sleeps the entire ride, leaning on Trey's lap. When we stop, we all amble out into the night and into the dorm's elevator.

“Hey, I'm gonna take Treena home. You cool?” Trey asks me, and my heart jumps.

“Wait, what?” I ask. “Treena?”

She smiles, and leans on Trey. “We just want to snuggle. Nothing more,” she says. “Okay, maybe a little more.” And then she hiccups, and I remind myself that she's drunk. So she probably shouldn't be making this decision.

“Tree, I really don't think—”

“It's cool. I'm not an asshole or anything,” Trey says.

“Yeah, I know, but she's drunk,” I say.

He looks at me dead serious and says, “I'm not going to do anything. I promise.”

I stare at him for a beat, and then nod.

“Benneeeeett,” Treena whines. “Can Maude stay with you for the night? She's a great sleepover friend. She picks fun movies, and will jump in your bed with you if you're scared.”

“Oh god,” I say, my face turning red.

“This night has just gotten weird,” Bennett says, and I refuse to look at him.

The elevator opens onto Treena's floor. “I love you, I'll call you in the morning, thank you,” Treena says, all as one statement, and before I realize it, she's out of the elevator and the doors close, and I remember I'm with Bennett. Alone in the elevator. And I'm about to spend the night in his room. And I'm upset and worried that Treena just left me. This night
has
gotten weird.

“I've got you, don't worry,” Bennett says. I look back at him and he's looking at his hands. He's not an angry drunk, or a sad or sleepy one. He's flirty, yes, and happy, definitely. But he's also shy. He wouldn't carry me out of the room in some big display like Trey. He wouldn't make out with me in public view. He'd ask my permission. He'd make sure things were okay.

“Okay,” I say, and he looks up with shining eyes, and smiles. “Treena's okay, you think?”

“Yeah, Trey isn't
that
guy. She'll be fine.”

I nod, and when we get to his room, he says, “You can take my bed, I'll take my nonexistent roommate's. I don't think he's changed his sheets since we've been here; I refuse to put you through that pain and suffering.” He laughs awkwardly, standing in front of his bed.

“Are you sure it's okay?” I ask.

“Of course. Where else are you going to go? I'm not sending you to the common room. And I'm not making you go
into
that
room,” he says, nodding toward Treena's room, one floor down. I smile, then sit on his bed, still in my clothes. I feel tired, noticing that it's 3:00 a.m., but my mind is awake, alive. I look up and catch his eye and realize I want him here next to me. He's taken me in. He's helped me out with my trip. He's
interested
.

“Well, I don't want you catching some disease in those unclean sheets,” I say, watching him.

“I think I'll survive,” he says, not getting my hint. Maybe he still does have a girlfriend, or maybe he's just not interested. But I'm here, in his room, way past midnight. He looks at me and I know thoughts are running through his mind—I just wish he'd tell me what they were. He rubs his hands together, then says, “Right, so, good night?”

I sigh inwardly, then smile at him. It's not the right time, maybe. “Night, Bennett. And thank you. For everything.”

“Of course,” he responds, then retreats over to the other bed. I lie down, facing away from him, and wrap myself in the blankets. The scent of him is overpowering, and I have to inhale deeply to stop my heart from pounding out. One breath. Two breaths. Three. I hear every movement he makes, and I'm sure he can hear me. So with every nerve on edge, I close my eyes and try to sleep, but I know, despite exhaustion, it'll be a while until I pass out.

WEDNESDAY

It's morning. I know that when I open my eyes, but that's the only thing I know. I have no idea where I am. The sheets are soft, but not the same as the ones in my room, or the ones in Treena's. I lift my head and look around. There's a laptop, a lamp, a desk, some DVDs, including
Toy Story
.

Bennett. I'm in Bennett's room.

The night's events immediately fill my consciousness. The party. The talks. The cups. The drinks. Treena leaving with Trey. I'm in Bennett's bed. I open my eyes wider and freeze.

I'm in Bennett's bed.

I hear movement from the other side of the room and
remember that he's still here, only not in the same bed. I roll on my back slowly, quietly.

“Does your head hurt?”

I look over and he's sitting up, legs off the side of his bed. His hair is everywhere, a mess of curls. He's wearing the same thing as last night, and he looks so cute there, first thing in the morning, despite hanging his head on his hands.

“I'm not sure yet,” I say, then sit up. There's a sting in the back of my head, and I squint my eyes shut. “Ouch.”

“Yep,” he says. “Sorry.”

“For what?” I ask, leaning forward and copying his position. I roll my legs off the bed so we'd be looking at each other, were we looking up.

“We shouldn't have played the game. Drank too much. Didn't drink water or eat anything before bed. Hangovers suck.”

“So this is a hangover?” I muse, looking up at him. Another rite of passage? An induction Trey would be proud of?

“Yeah. First one?”

“Yep. Yaaaaay. Ouch.”

He looks up and smiles at me. “I'd like to point out that, despite you being hung over and in my room, I've still not gotten in your pants. Promise still kept.”

“Thank you for being a decent guy?” I laugh, then wince.

“Okay, here's the deal,” he says. “I'm going to run
downstairs and get us something to eat and drink. Make yourself at home.”

“I can come with . . .” I start.

“Nah, no use both of us suffering.” He grins.

“Thanks,” I say, and he waves, then leaves.

Once he's gone, I flop back down on the bed and smile to myself. I'm conflicted because, no, I shouldn't be here. But I am. In his room. He invited me here, and though nothing
happened
between us, I felt something.

And I like something.

I grab my phone off the desk to tell Treena, but as I pull up her number, I remember last night again. How she chose Trey over me. I wasn't hurt about it then, but now I feel torn. Sure, she was drunk, but . . . I'm visiting her. And she just left me behind. She
never
did this—or would have even thought of doing it—in high school. And why'd she get so drunk anyway? For Trey? The thought that she does all of this for him festers in my mind until I shake it out.

But still, I want to talk to her. I want to make sure she's okay. So I shoot her a quick text.

   
Awake @ Bennett's. Wha! Call me xo.

If I don't hear back from her in twenty minutes, I'm going to the room.

I shake my head and focus on where I am. Once again I feel Bennett all around me. His smell of grass and sunshine
from yesterday's ride. I smile at the thought. I sit up and flip through my phone, deciding to check Facebook. And, maybe, while there, take a brief glimpse at his profile because . . . why not?

There's a cute picture of him in a classroom, looking off to the side, off the screen at something else. There's a hint of a smile in his face. There are a few comments on his page, friends from home it looks like, who are arranging something for his Thanksgiving break. I click over to his About section. He likes
Adventure Time
and
The Catcher in the Rye
and
Star Wars
. He likes video games, and dinosaurs, and animation. He plays Dungeons and Dragons.

I bite my lip and click Photos, in full investigation mode now. He's tagged in a few from graduation, a few from here. One girl is in a few photos with him on the beach. Maybe that's the ex he mentioned?

I look at the time and realize I've spent the last five minutes poring over his profile. I shake my head, slightly embarrassed by what I did, and go back to my homepage. It's then that I see I have an unread message. I open the screen. It's from Bee Trenton-Shrayer. My heart leaps as I open the message and read.

Maude, I can't say digging up the past and discussing Claire is a pleasant task for me. We did not get along well, and though I should be over it by now—it has been 17 years, after all—some scars never heal.
What I can say is this—we were friends, we were not friends, and she did things in between that contributed to our falling-out. I am sorry to hear about her, however, and wish you luck in finding the information you seek. I'm sorry that I cannot help you. —Bee.

Whoa. I sit up straighter and read it again. And again. Each time it seems meaner, and a wave of emotions comes over me. What could have happened that made her feel this hostile toward my mother so many years later?

I think about what Mr. Wayne said about my mother, remember that she was a ringleader, a popular person who might have been a bad influence. Maybe this Bee was jealous. Or maybe not.

My heart is pounding in my chest as I drum my fingers on the bed. The door opens, and I jump up, practically attacking Bennett.

“Whoa,” he says, balancing two coffees in his hands.

“Sorry! Sorry, I have news,” I say, backing away.

“Really? What news?” he asks, handing me a cup. “Sorry, no food—the line was crazy long. Like,
Lord of the Rings
extended version long. So, coffee now. We'll go out for breakfast.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, looking down at the drink and smiling at the reference. He wants to go to breakfast with me.

“So what's up?” he asks. He sits on the bed behind the
desk and takes a sip of coffee.

“I got a response from Bee.”

“What's it say?” he asks eagerly, leaning forward.

“Nothing good.” Before I know it, I'm showing him my phone and letting him read the terrible message.

I watch him take in the words, and notice how his eyebrows immediately go up.

“Wow. She hates your mother.”

“So it seems,” I say, putting my phone down.

“Like, seventeen years later still hates her,” he says, leaning back on his arms. “That's some grudge she has.”

“I know. I want to know what happened. It's annoying that she won't tell me
anything.
”

“Yeah. You'd think she'd have some sympathy.”

“Apparently not. I want to respond, but she doesn't seem keen on hearing from me again.”

“I think you should respond. The worst she could do is not answer. And the best is you can learn some more, even if it is all bad news.” He adds, “You don't believe her, do you?”

“That my mother ruined friendships and made someone hate her for my entire lifespan?” I ask.

“Yeah. Do you think your mom . . . mom? Mother?”

“Mother. Birth mother,” I explain. “My mom is the person who raised me. I like to differentiate between the two.”

“Noted,” he says. “Anyway, do you think your mother was the kind of person who left people with scars, like Bee insinuated?”

“No, not really. I mean, I don't know. I guess she could have been. . . .”

“But you're not like that,” he points out.

“Thanks.” I smile. “But I wasn't raised by her, remember?”

“True,” he says. “And I'm sure that affects things.”

“You think?” I ask. “You don't think certain traits run in the blood? Like, will a bully have a baby bully?” It's exactly what I've been wondering, especially since starting this quest. And I know Bennett won't have the answers, but his mom might have seen progress, his mom might have witnessed changes. And it feels good to kind of discuss this out loud. Am I who I am because of my mom? Would I be different if I was raised by my mother? It makes me wonder who I'm
supposed
to be, and if I went astray somewhere along the way.

“Well,” he starts, “what if the baby bully is brought up in a loving, bully-free home?”

“Like me?” I ask.

“Like you.” He nods. “I think we're getting into a nature versus nurture philosophical conversation.”

“So you think it's nurture, then. That no matter what genes I have, I can change. Everything can affect who I am, including my mom and, I guess, my own decisions?”

“I guess,” he answers, massaging the back of his neck. “I haven't thought much about it. But I'd like to think that we could change. Like prodigies—are they good at, like, piano because their parents are professional musicians and it's in
their blood? Or are they good because they practiced a lot? Or, look at me. I love animation, but my parents aren't artistic at all. Not that I'm great, but you know.”

It's true; I don't know what my mother liked, but my parents are bringing me up to like everything, to try everything and see what works out. Which is how I found photography. I wonder what my mother liked.

I look at him, and he leans forward, touching my arm. “I think it's up to you, to be who you want.”

“Thanks,” I say, because it's the most honest thing I've heard in a while. I look down, hiding my blush, and when I look up again, he's staring at me.

“So what should we do now?” I ask, going back to the task at hand. Realizing it's easier talking about that than my personality.

“Respond to her. And then, I don't know, wait?”

I nod and look back at the message. I shake my head, steady my shoulders, and right myself for the problem at hand.

Bee, thanks for your message, and I'm sorry for the pain it seems to have brought up. I never knew my mother, like I said, so I don't know what happened between the two of you. I would love to, though. Any information would be extremely helpful. But I understand if you'd rather not talk. Thanks, Maude.

I reread it a few times, and then look back at Bennett. He leans forward to read it, then nods his head. With a deep breath, I press Send. I sit back and impatiently wait for a response, refreshing the page repeatedly.

“She'll get back to you,” he says reassuringly. “She can't be heartless.”

“I'm not so sure. . . .” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Hey, this may be obvious, but is your father's name on your birth certificate?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I've asked my mom before, and she didn't know anything either.”

“What do you think about that?” he asks gently, and I wonder . . . what
do
I think about that? I've always speculated on why he wasn't listed. Did he just split when he found out about me? Or did she honestly not know who my father was? Both options are bad in their own ways, but I still can't help but wonder what he would have thought about me.

I look over at Bennett and then think of another situation—what if I wasn't just an accident? What if I was a product of something worse? I shake my head, not wanting to think about that. Not wanting to feel my own skin.

“I don't know,” I finally answer. “I guess she had her reasons. I mean, I want to know, but . . .”

“But maybe you don't?”

“Yeah, maybe I don't,” I answer, somewhat uncomfortably. I look down and realize I'm still in yesterday's clothes. This is a good excuse to split before I start confessing and unearthing deep dark secrets that I haven't even had time
to realize. Also, I haven't heard back from Tree and, despite everything, I worry. “Hey, I think I'm going to get ready for the day.”

“Yeah, I should, too. I smell, don't I? Be honest.”

“You don't smell,” I say.

“I smell. You're just nice. Anyway. What are we doing today?”

My heart lifts at this question—he's inviting himself along again. I like that he wants to spend time with me, despite my oddly philosophical questions and, more than likely, morning breath.

“I don't know—I guess I'm just waiting to hear from everyone. Maybe I'll go to the school area again? I guess my mother lived over there, so maybe we could check the area out? See where she grew up?”

“Sounds good,” he says. “I have classes from one to six, so I'm all yours this morning.” He smiles, and I smile back. “So, yeah, get ready. Then, breakfast.”

“Deal,” I say, getting up. It's odd, being this comfortable around him, when I'm not like that with any guys at my school, guys I've known for years. What is it about Bennett? Maybe today, as we continue my quest, I'll find out.