Dedication (12 page)

I hear insistent scratching at the screen door. “Craig, I think your cat wants to be let back in.” I elicit no response. “Craig?” I pivot my head from where it rests on his shoulder and realize Craig is out cold, his head flopped against the back of the den couch, his mouth open, white crusts at the corners as if he were in a coma.

I get up to open their door. What if Craig was in a coma? Playing through various scenarios, I press the metal handle and wonder how I’d feel…stunned? Bereft? Relieved? Would I be allowed to marry someone else? Or would his parents expect me to remain faithful to his prone, atrophying body?

Boxer brushes past my ankles and I reshut the screen just as the music swells and Mel Gibson and Michelle Pfeiffer give in to their sensual passion in the wine cellar. I look back at zonked-out Craig, then down at the dark spot his sweaty palm left on my jeans. Sigh.

A burst of gunfire from the speaker above the couch rattles him awake, his eyes opening and rolling back before focusing in on me. “Sorry.” He sheepishly wipes the spit lolling from his mouth on his cuff. “Hey, come here.”

I sit back down beside him on the leather sectional, but lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees. “It’s fine.”

He glances at the green numbers glowing from the VCR. “Your mom’s going to be here soon.” He reaches up and clasps his fingers, before dropping the weight of his arms around my waist and leaning in to kiss my forehead. I don’t punch my way out of his clunky confinement. I don’t move. “Are you still mad I picked the wrong movie?”

“No. Sorry, I just wanted something funny tonight, that’s all.”

“I heard they’re gonna have a bunch of movies at the Lock-In next weekend—we’ll only go to the funny ones, okay?” He lifts me onto his lap and I become deadweight at the idea of spending the tenth-grade Lock-In locked in this exact same position. “Think the teachers will be chaperoning everywhere or there’ll be a room we can hide out in and…” He slides his hand into my jeans, darting it under the waistband of my underwear. I grab his wrist.
“What?”
He throws his hands up in irritation. “Why are you so mad all the time lately?”

I push myself off him to stand. “I’m not. It’s just…I’m sure school’s locking us in, or whatever, till ten with activities so that we’ll…” I shift my weight from hip to hip between his long legs in the
L
corner of the couch, unable to see his face as I block the television glare. He must not be able to see mine, either. “You know, hang out, be social, not…”

“Hook up.” He slumps back, his chest caving in. “So we’re back to this. Look, Katie, if you don’t want to do it, fine, but we should at least be able to—”

“I don’t want to go out anymore.”

His dark silhouette is suddenly perfectly still. The air leaves the room.

I said it to hurt him, to embarrass him for how blah this has become, to slap him back for how sick of him I am, how disappointed I feel that this is not what First Love is supposed to be about—constant zipper negotiation.

But I’m instantly sorry. A burst of shooting breaks out again, sending Craig digging into the cushion crevices for the remote. He leans around me to point it and, in the light of the TV, I see his stunned expression as he locates the
STOP
button. He blinks down at the remote, his eyes filling.

“Craig.” I sit beside him and reach for his hand. He lifts it away from me. He sniffs. “Craig, I’m sorry. But we’ve been dating for over a year and I just don’t feel like…”

He clears his throat. “You don’t love me anymore.” Hurt vibrates through me. I don’t. I really don’t.

“I do. But I think…you know, more like a friend.” He inhales sharply. “I’m sorry.” I grab his hands again, always warm and moist, now cold and dry. “I’m sorry, I’m not doing this very well—”

“Breaking up with me? You’re doing it fine. I mean, you’re good at everything, right? Your parents would be proud.” He pulls away, crossing his arms, and it is unbearably quiet. The snow on the screen sends out a whitening glare, flattening everything in the room.

“I really thought you were going to be the first, Katie.”

“I know.” I nod, my eyes prickling. “But it’s just not like at the beginning. I feel like an old married couple and I’m only fifteen.” Tears break on my cheeks as the disappointment that had hardened beneath my annoyance finally surfaces, mixing with the terror of feeling like I might be screwing up my fate and ripping Craig’s heart out in the process.

Standing, he clicks off the TV, tossing the remote across the smooth surface of the cushion. I wipe my nose on the edge of my sleeve as he walks to the door. “Are you going to tell everyone you dumped me?” he asks, his broad back to me.

“No!” I jump up and run over to him.

“Well, then, what?” He doesn’t turn.

“Anything, Craig. I’ll say whatever you want.”

“Fine.” His arms hang at his sides. “We’ll tell people it was mutual.”

“Okay. Sure.” I nod.

“And you can go wait at the end of the driveway for your mother.” He walks out of the room.

“Claire!” Dad urges Mom to join us in their bedroom, where my closet pilfering has unfortunately woken him from his Saturday predinner nap.

“You rang?” In the dresser mirror reflection I see her appear in the doorway, white plastic laundry basket balanced on her hip.

“Claire, would you please tell your daughter she cannot keep wearing my suit jackets?”

I turn from where I’ve been experimenting with various blazer/wide-belt combinations. “Simon, would you please tell your wife to take me to the Salvation Army, as requested, so I can get something big enough?”

We have a face-off while they take in my fabulous outfit. Dad sits up to clean his glasses on his shirttail while Mom strains for a poker face. “You look ridiculous,” she finally pronounces.

“Utterly,” Dad adds, stretching to stand.

A cracker popping in my chest, I swipe the
Sassy
magazine I’ve been consulting from the dresser top and remind myself that she’s the one in the smock-top. At least I’d know to belt it with some leggings. “As educators I would think you’d both appreciate the importance of fitting in with your peer group.” There’s some glaring. “Fine.” Blowing out a breath that sends my bangs aflutter, I take off the blue tweed.

“No.”

“Mom,” I begin, but, now directly drawn into the debate by her black cashmere sweater I’d been using as a base layer, she shakes her head and sits on the coverlet, resting the basket on the pillow beside her.

“Our clothes are our clothes, Kathryn. Yours are yours. You have a whole closetful of your own clothing and, I believe, half of Laura’s. Where did you even find that?”

“At the bottom of your sweaters. I need a base layer and all I have are turtlenecks. It’s too hot for those.” Through their open window the May breeze lifts the linen curtains. “This is perfect. It’s really thin.”

“It’s really cashmere. Go up to the attic and get your summer clothes down.”

“Don’t have time.” I check the clock radio on Dad’s nightstand. “School’s closing in, like, thirty minutes for the Lock-In and I still have to dry my hair.”

“Like
thirty minutes? Or thirty minutes?”

“Mom.” I sit on the edge of the bedspread and face-plant into her hand. “Please. Please, I’m beg-ging you. I will be so careful. It fits me perfectly. I am
begging.”
I turn to look up at her, my cheek fitting her warm palm that smells faintly of fabric softener.

“It
is
nice to see you in something that doesn’t make you look like Charlie Chaplin.” Dad rehangs his jacket in the closet and pointedly closes it before stepping into the bathroom, calling through the shut door, “How late are your teachers expected to baby-sit tonight?”

“Ten. And I believe the term was
supervise,”
Mom shouts back. “So they don’t run in the mean streets of Croton Falls. Start gangs.”

“Hijack the video store. Burn the Seven-Eleven,” I add.

“I bought that with my first paycheck.” She nods at the sweater before pushing herself up and lifting the basket. “I guess it should get another moment in the sun.”

I throw my arms around her. “Thank you!”

“But back in my closet first thing. And if we catch you shopping in there again we’re really going to be furious. Permission first,” she says into my hair.

“Gotcha.” I release her to salute.

She lifts an eyebrow. “And I want my Laura Ashley blouse hanging back in my closet before you leave tonight.”

“Absolutely!”

“And my suede skirt. We’ll start with that.”

I wait for her to leave and then sneak into the back of Dad’s clothes to pull out his old university blazer, carefully tucking it behind me as I pass her unloading the hamper into the washing machine.

“That’s a ballsy choice, black.” Laura eyes my outfit as I jog toward her, up the high school’s main steps. “No worries it’ll fuel the rumors of tragedy?”

“There is no tragedy. That’s the message.” I slip Laura’s dangly beaded earrings into my lobes, feeling their weight as they graze my shoulder.

“Necklace?” she asks. I reach in my pocket and pull out the string of turquoise beads, which match her aqua tube skirt. She drops them over her head, lifting her ponytail out and touching my sandal with hers. “Ready for an evening of good-old-fashioned, fun-filled entertainment?”

“With a side helping of incarceration?” I rejoinder as she pulls open the front door and we slide in among the other tenth-graders clustering around the foldout table, where the adults have set up camp. As we become aware of a not-so-subtle amount of whispering and finger-pointing in my general direction, we shimmy through the waiting crowd to Mrs. Beazley.

“Hello, girls. Now, here’s your sheet of activities, a list of rules, a schedule of events, a map of approved areas, and, of course, your contract. Sign here.” She flips our sherbet-colored handout packet to a sheet that outlines our promise to stay inside the Lock-In until 10
P
.
M
. and abide by school codes.

“So then I should leave my pot with you?” Laura asks.

“Yes.” Mrs. Beazley nods reflexively before her coral mouth puckers. “Oh, no. No, then you shouldn’t come in. No, there is to be no drug use on school property. Are you using drugs, Laura?”

“I was only joking, Mrs. Beazley. We came for the…” Laura scans the mint-green sheet. “Marshmallow Eating Contest. Where’s that?”

“Now let’s see.” She pulls up her glasses and studies the map. “The eating contests are in the cafeteria. That’s down the hall, and then take a left—”

“Yes, we know. Thanks for your help. Come on, Katie, we don’t want to miss it!” Laura grabs my arm and we scamper away.

“That one doesn’t joke,” I reprimand as we walk down the hall of classrooms, checking out the kids sitting on floors watching movies, playing games, and generally hanging out while supervised by pairs of bored-looking teachers gripping coffee mugs.

“This is weird,” Laura says as we pass by the glass wall that looks out on the now-dark courtyard. “Feels like we should be getting ready for a choir concert or something.”

I cross my arms. “So, what are we doing?”

She drops into a squat, laying the sherbet sheets on the floor for perusal. “I don’t know. The marshmallow thing should be good for a laugh.”

“Or a vomit.” I tap my fingertips on the top of her head. “You go ahead. I’m going to check out what else is going on.”

“The middle school pool’s open for the Lock-In. Maggie and Michelle said they’d be down there.”

“Okay, I’ll head in that direction and work my way back.”

She straightens up. “But, Katie, are you going to be okay on your own? You’re not going to kill yourself, are you? Remember, he’s not worth it.” She crumples her face in soap opera sympathy.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“I’ll probably watch a movie.” We give each other the thumbsup and split paths. I wander farther down the hall, glancing at the paper map.

“Katie—hi.”

Ca-rap. I reluctantly double back to the door I just passed, where Craig and his friends are setting up an air hockey game, supervised by Jeanine, Craig’s rebound girlfriend, and her twerp sidekick, Leslie.

“Hey!” I say, sending bouncy cheerfulness out of every pore. “You guys having fun?” Jeanine averts her eyes to the white leather sleeves of her Hysteric et Vous collegiate jacket.

“So, how are you?” he asks, radiating concern for my well-being. His friends look from the side of their eyes as they fiddle with the table.

“I’m good, Craig! I’m really great!” And if I’d known I was going to be turned into the Anne Boleyn of Croton Falls I would have dumped you at high noon in the cafeteria.

“Well, it’s good to see you.” He withdraws his hand from his khaki pocket to shake mine, like I’m his dowager grandmother lying on her deathbed.

“You saw me eighth period, Craig.” I restrain myself from wiping my palm after he drops it.

“Right. Well, I hope you can have fun tonight.” He pats my shoulder.

“I am having fun. I hope you have fun. Hi, Jeanine! Leslie! Hope you guys are having fun, too!” I wave. Jeanine scowls.

“As long as you’re not upset.”