Cherry Money Baby (20 page)

They made it to Sweet Creek before a private path through the trees enticed them off the road. Twenty minutes later, Cherry was brushing a mud stain from her slacks, and Lucas searched for his shoe in the bushes.

“You have leaves in your hair,” he said.

“I have leaves
everywhere.
” She felt like a wild woods girl, a sprite. She wanted to climb into the nearest oak and fall asleep. She stretched, felt an ache in her jaw, and winced.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, fine. You were . . . vigorous.” She grinned evilly. “Maybe I should let you see me flirting with Euro dudes every day.”

He turned his back and pulled on his shirt. When she saw his face, it wasn’t what she wanted it to be.

“Sorry. I won’t tease.”

“I’m not a jealous guy,” he said. Compared to some, this was true. But he
was
jealous now. Cherry knew the difference between horny kissing and jealous kissing. Horny kissing didn’t make your jaw hurt. Or leave bite marks.

“I know,” she said. “I’m just being a dick.”

“Just . . .” He pulled away, only slightly. “I have to hear you say it. You wouldn’t ever, right?”

“Lucas, I would never,
ever
cheat on you. The thought would not cross my mind.”

He thanked her, but there was still a little air pocket between them. Other people — Vi, for instance — sometimes accused Lucas of being cold, but Cherry never interpreted his silences that way. He was a thinker, a listener. He thought about what he said before he said it. Now, though, she wished he’d say
something.
She’d apologized; she’d promised. Wasn’t it his turn to comfort
her
?

They came to Cherry’s trailer, and she lowered herself off the handlebars. Gravity pulled extra hard today.

“I’ll text you later?” he said.

“Damn right you will.” She put his hand on her ass, earning a smile at least. She went in through the garage and found Pop getting ready to leave, the keys to the tow truck in his fist.

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair,” Pop said.

“How bizarre.” She plucked it out and cleared her throat. “What’s up?”

“I need you to stay in tonight.”

“What? I did my time!”

Pop pulled on his leather jacket, reflexively patting the breast pocket — a habit left over from his smoking days. “I’m going up to Hanover to see about a winch replacement. I’ll be back tomorrow morning. You’ve got to watch your brother.”

“He’s sixteen.”

“He’s grounded.”

“Ooh!” She rubbed her hands together.
“What he do?”

“Caught him smoking behind the shop.” Pop didn’t say
cigarettes,
but Cherry assumed. If it were weed Pop caught him with, Stew wouldn’t be grounded. He’d be dead.

“I’ll be back before you get up.” He kissed her forehead. “How was work?”

“Weird,” said Cherry. “As usual.”

“Well, keep it up. Maybe if you do a good job, she’ll give you another car.”

She felt a twitch of guilt for abandoning the Spider but decided it was all in the service of being a good girlfriend. Though she didn’t quite feel like that, either. She would put extra gusto into being a good big sister, though. That she was always good at.

Stew was on the couch reading a magazine. She came up behind him and dug a knuckle into his shoulder. He screeched and batted her with the December issue of
Front.
She dropped next to him and helped herself to his box of Cheez-Its.

“He gone?” Stew asked.

“Solid gone.”

“Finally!” He turned on the television and leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. (Super Big Sister. Letting the kid watch TV when he wasn’t supposed to.)

“Wanna order a pizza?” Stew asked.

“Sure. Let’s get Giovanni’s,” said Cherry.

“The froofy place? What’s wrong with Domino’s?”

“I’m sick of Domino’s.”

“Whatever,” said Stew. “Nothing fancy, though. No olives or gold leaf or whatever the hell they do over there.”

She went to order online and found the browser open. Stew had been tagging Facebook pictures. In one Stew lay in a grassy field with a curly-haired girl’s head on his stomach. Both squinted up at the camera, Stew flipping the bird.

“That Tori?”

“Who?” Stew said, leaning over her shoulder. “That’s Jessica.”

“What happened to Tori?”

“Don’t hate the player; hate the game.”

“You’re such a man-whore.”

“Just because I’m not Molly Monogamy.”

“Uh, hello. I had boyfriends before Lucas.”

Stew tipped back onto the couch with a
thump.
“Yeah. One. Who you dated for, like, a month.”

“That’s because Deke was a dick,” Cherry said.

“Very true. It’s also because you’re anal.”

“Excuse me?”

Stew sighed dramatically. “I mean like anal-retentive. You’re uptight. It’s from psychology.”

Cherry looked at her stoner brother in his Mario Bros. beanie and unspeakably filthy sneakers. “Since when do you know psychology?”

Stew shrugged. “I’ve been reading this book. On Freud and stuff. It’s interesting.”

“For school?”

He shrugged again.

“Can I see it?”

He reached over his head, pulled a paperback Cherry had never noticed from the clutter on the end table, and tossed it to her. The cover was boring and brown with the words
The Ego and the Id.
It was thick, the pages musty and dog-eared, a plastic slot from the Aubrey Public Library pasted to the back cover.

“What’s it about?”

“You know. The brain.”

“I’m not stupid,” she snapped.

He sat up with mock exasperation and hugged his knees. Cherry had a sudden flashback to Stew as a little kid, sitting on his bed in footie pj’s in the same position, guiltily telling her he’d accidentally thrown out the family photo album.

“Well, you got the id, right? And the id’s like . . . The id’s like what you
want
to do. Like smoke and eat cake and do it. All the fun stuff. The id’s like Michelangelo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Dude just wants to party and eat pizza.”

Cherry laughed. “All right. Michelangelo.”

“But there’s also this part of your brain called the super-ego. That’s the part that knows right and wrong and kinda keeps the id in check.”

“Like Shredder? The bad guy?”

Stew made a so-so gesture. “More like the rat, Splinter. The super-ego’s a good thing. But you need both to stay sane, you know?”

Cherry turned the book over. It was heavy. She flipped through the pages packed with minuscule type.

“Would you wanna be a psycho . . . psycho-anal-yst?”

Stew turned back to the TV. “I don’t know. Maybe. I like trying to figure out why people do what they do.” There was a pause while the show faded out and was replaced by a commercial. “I mean, I’m not gonna work in Pop’s garage until I die, that’s for sure.”

A monotone version of “Superb Ass” jingled in Cherry’s pocket. She went into her room to answer.

“I feel like we’ve been weird,” Vi said straight off. “You and me. Have we been weird?”

Cherry dropped onto her bed, shoving aside magazines and a takeout carton, letting it all slide to the floor. “Yeah, maybe a little.”

“What’s up with that?”

“I don’t know,” Cherry said. “Maybe it’s like you’re sad you’re leaving for school while I’m staying here?”

“I was thinking maybe
you
were like that. Sad about me leaving.”

“I don’t know.” She retrieved the takeout carton from the floor. “Maybe.”

“Well, let’s not be sad,” said Vi. “Let’s be awesome.”

Cherry laughed. “That’s usually my line.”

“Yeah, well, I learned from the best.” Cherry heard the
tsssk!
of a Diet Coke being opened and Vi swallowing. “So, let’s be awesome together tonight. Let’s do something fun.”

“Wanna come over? I’m babysitting.”

“No, you’re not!” Stew called from the living room.

“Um,
no,
” said Vi. “Come out. Stew can take care of himself.”

“And do what?”

“Well, I heard about this place, Technodrome? I guess they do nineties remixes on Friday nights. I know you’re all into Boston lately, so —”

Cherry sat up in bed. A shiver shot through her core, like swallowing a slug of ice. It had been a crazy week for trying crazy things.
Shit.
Was she really doing this?

Why not?

“Actually,” she heard herself say. “Clubbing could be fun. But why don’t we go to Shabooms?”

“Whoa, really? You never want to go to Shabooms!”

“I’m in a dancing mood.”

“Sweet!”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready,” said Cherry.

She went back out and kicked Stew’s shoe. Leaving him was still being a Super Big Sis. He didn’t want to be stuck with her all night. She was being nicer this way, really.

“I’m going out.”

He looked up. “I thought we were getting pizza.”

“I’ll leave you some cash,” she said. “You can get whatever you want.”

He shrugged, turning back to the TV. “Okay.”

“But you have to
promise
to stay home. And no girls over.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“
Seriously,
dickhead. If Pop comes home to find you Greek wrestling, my life is over.” She grabbed a pressure point on his knee and twisted. “And so is yours.”

“Ow! Jesus! Okay!”

Cherry went to change, hesitating over her wardrobe choices. She considered one of the pricey black tops Ardelia approved for interviews. It was modest, but pop a few buttons and it could be . . . fun. She weighed it against her Blow Pop T-shirt and decided on the fancier look, wondering whether it was her id or super-ego that made her do it. She selected the shorter of her two “professional” skirts.

She paused again in front of the bathroom mirror, fluttering her eyelashes, making a pout. She imagined her hair re-ravened. No, it was too weird to even think about. She rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found some Maybelline eye shadow, purchased for last Halloween’s zombie cheerleader costume. After a few false starts, she managed to dust the area around her eyelids. She liked the effect. Her eyes looked smoky and mysterious.

“You look nice,” Stew said when she came back into the living room. He was brazenly packing his pipe on the coffee table, crumbs spilling from a plastic bag. Ironically, this put her at ease. At least stoned he was more likely to sit there and stay out of trouble.

“
Please
behave yourself.”

Stew clicked his lighter. “Hey, I’m not the one who got suspended.”

What partyers there were in Aubrey bottlenecked at Shabooms on Saturday nights. The under-eighteen policy only applied to Thursdays, so the line on this Friday was mostly college kids from Worcester. Cherry scanned the crowd as they drove past. She recognized a few PAs from the set. Some seniors who were either over eighteen or, like Cherry and Vi, hoped to squeeze under the bar waited anxiously near the door, craning to see what kind of mood Bernie the Bouncer was in.

They drove on, looking for parking, and Cherry craned her neck, scanning the crowd again.

“What is the
point
of a fancy car if you just leave it lying around?” Vi was saying. “It would have been sweet to buzz the club in
your
car is all I’m saying. Instead of my piece o’ shit.”

They parked Vi’s Mitsubishi across the street and waited at the crosswalk.

Vi’s cell buzzed. She looked at it and huffed. “Neil.”

Cherry snatched the phone away and hit Ignore.

“I wasn’t going to pick up,” said Vi.

“Good,” said Cherry.

“Girls’ night,” said Vi, taking Cherry’s hand.

“Girls’ night.”

She scanned the crowd a third time.

“Are you looking for somebody?”

“No. Who would I be looking for?”

“I dunno, but if you pivot your head any more, it might fall off. Oh, God . . .” Vi’s tone rose an octave. “Oh, my God, is that who I think it is?”

It was. Maxwell approached the club on the other side of the street, a pair of sparkling girls in his wake. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted Cherry’s name. People looked over. They looked at Maxwell, recognized him, and looked back at her. She clutched at the open collar of her shirt.

This was a mistake.

“This was a mistake,” said Cherry. Vi was catatonic. Cherry tugged her friend’s sleeve. “Let’s just go to Mel’s, okay? I’m serious. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Vi’s paralysis broke, and she whirled on Cherry.

“Are you
insane
? Maxwell Silver is calling your name. He’s calling
your name
! You can’t just ignore him.
Come on.
”

She dragged Cherry forward into oncoming traffic. They crossed against the light, Vi holding the cars at bay with an outstretched hand.

“Evening,” Maxwell said as they came over. “I decided to take your suggestion.” His dates hovered over his shoulder like pilot fish, looking slightly dazed, as if being gorgeous left no energy for speaking or moving.

“Yeah, well.” She tried to marshal herself. She had not come here to see him. She hadn’t. She didn’t want to
be
here at all. “I should have mentioned — they don’t allow foreigners. You should probably just go home.”