Drain You (3 page)

“How’s that going to work?” I said.

“Like butter, dude. It’s cool beans.”

“I’m sure.”

“So you’ll be there?”

“Yeah, I’m there.” Party on.

“What about you, Morgan?” Libby asked.

“I’ve got that shift off,” he said.

“Sweet. It’s, like, hat themed. You have to wear a hat; it’s mandatory. Crucial to your entrance.”

“That’s pretty weak on the theme tip,” I said.

“Last minute. Live with it.” She shrugged. “Just wear that thing you got that one time for my
Last of the Mohicans
party. And Morgan, you’ll figure something out, right?”

“I think I can handle it.”

“Cool beans,” she said again, making it stick. “Well, I totally can’t stay, my mom’s still out there freaking.”

Stella Block looked asleep, her head lolled back on the driver’s-seat neck rest. I walked with Libby to the door and seized her by the elbow. She winced at my grip.

“Way to go. Now Morgan’s going to take me and I’ll have to be his date all night. He’ll be bragging till graduation.”

She tried to jerk her arm away, but I held steady. “Invite Naomi then, chill out.”

I loosened in surprise at the name.

“Invite her brother too, I don’t care.”

I let her go.

“God, Quinn.”

Then I noticed as Libby glared at me and rubbed her forearm that her wrist was covered in a stack of silver bangle bracelets, thirty, maybe forty of them. Underneath the bracelets her skin was blotched and purplish-blue, the hue of a bad bruise. She saw me staring at the jewelry and raised her arm closer.

“Stiles gave them to me. They’re, like, antiques. Stella says they’re Mexican silver or something. Totally eighties, but still…” Libby pulled her hand away as her voice trailed off.

After a pause Libby flipped her hair, smiled weakly, and said, “Well, I better go, you’re at work.” Then she leaned in and kissed my cheek.

I watched her through the glass as she model-walked
away. Then, remembering something, she turned around and mimed a big halo around her head and mouthed the words
Wear a hat
, slowly and deliberately. She threw up a peace sign, jumped in the car, and was gone.

Morgan was crouched over in the game aisle, reorganizing the section. I walked straight past, pretending not to hear him ask, “Need a ride to the party…or what?”

By ten the store was banging. I probably walked past her six times without realizing she was waiting for me to notice her. Finally, by the Disney section, I spotted the sunflower dress and my eyes focused.

“Naomi, hi.”

“Which Hayley Mills movie should I get?
Pollyanna
or
The Parent Trap
?” she asked, without making eye contact. She wore lacy cream-colored socks rolled down over peach ballet slippers, and her thin, dirty-blond hair was swept to one side with a crocheted clip. She clutched a small Coach bag that looked expensive and adult-y.

“You…are…Pollyanna,” I joked.

She looked up at me blankly, then back to the videos.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Look,” she said, “I just want to explain myself for what happened Wednesday night. James and I got in a dumb fight, and he left in the middle of it, so I ran after him and fell on some rocks and scraped my hands up.
That’s it. I was just being an idiot. He felt bad about the whole thing. He didn’t want you to be upset or think he’d pushed me or hurt me or anything.”

“I didn’t think—,” I started to say, but she held up her hand, so I shut my mouth.

“Anyway. He’s visiting for the summer. He’s doing his own thing, he won’t be around, so don’t worry about it.”

I was beginning to worry about it.

“And he’s, like, not into dating or having friends or going out, he just sleeps late and does his own thing.” She paused, fiddled with the Coach bag. “But since my parents are gonna be in Cairo for, like, two months, he’s taking care of the house and watching over me. Not like watching
over
me, just like, watching out for me. You know.” She exhaled and looked at me.

“So,” she began again, “sorry he creeped you out and that I creeped you out. Mystery solved, whatever.”

“Why did he care if I was upset about it?”

“Right…,” Naomi said, squinting.

“It’s not like I’ve even thought about it really. I mean, it was sorta weird, but I don’t know, maybe it wasn’t.” I stopped rambling, said, “It’s fine.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You know, everyone’s wrong, I don’t think you’re plain at all.”

“Who said I was plain?” she said sharply.

“Well, I just…thought that’s why they called you Cotton Sheets.”

She tensed her shoulders and started rummaging through the Coach purse. “They call me Cotton Sheets because they think I’m a prude.” She glanced at the ceiling, irritated, like she’d had to explain this a thousand times. “Frigid,” she said. The word just hung there for a minute. She zipped up the purse and it hung at her side.

“Sorry, Naomi. Seriously. I just thought it was because—”

“Yeah, I know. Stiles Donnelley made it up.”

“Stiles and Sanders and those guys are jerks.”

“Yep,” she said.

She brushed it off, but I could tell there was more to it: a bad date, a bad kiss, worse maybe, but I could only guess. I definitely couldn’t ask. I tried to think of a segue back to James, but we were too far away from him now.

All of a sudden I felt hyperaware of being half-naked in a store full of strangers. I wanted to turn off the lights and hide in the dark. I thought about walking straight past Naomi, through the front door, out into the night, down the street, home. But I didn’t move.

I tried harder to think of something to say, and only one thing came to mind. “Hey, I’m actually going to this party thing tomorrow night, at Libby Block’s house. It’s
on Mulholland. Anyway. You have to wear a lame hat, but I could totally lend you one.”

She looked over at me, mystified. “What?”

“I said if you don’t have a hat, then you can borrow one from me.”

She laughed coldly, actually at me, and said, “Maybe.”

I had about as much chance of getting Naomi Sheets to come to this party as Morgan had of getting me to go as his date.

“Well, it’s totally open. You could even bring James or something if you wanted. We could all go together.”

This only made her laugh more. “Not likely. Zero likeliness.”

“Sure, no prob.”

“If it helps”—she pointed over at Morgan behind the counter, who was staring at us shamelessly—“you can tell him I like girls and I just hit on you.” She smiled, gave a small wave, and left.

During count-out, Morgan didn’t ask for details. He somehow knew I wouldn’t be taking his free ride either. Before we split up in the parking lot, I let him touch the bare skin on my upper back as he said good-bye. And when he left his hand there a little too long, I didn’t even squirrel away from it. I knew leaning in would be wrong, but standing there feeling his rough fingers on my
shoulder wasn’t so bad. I put my cheek on his hand and closed my eyes.

When I couldn’t pretend his hand was someone else’s any longer, I told Morgan I’d find my own way to Libby’s party but that I’d meet him there. He was visibly bummed but not terribly so, because he smiled when he drove past, leaning out his window, and left me with the parting words, “You looked good tonight.”

It never got cold enough for my father’s cardigan. After I’d been walking a few minutes, away from the glow of Video Journey’s fluorescent lights, I heard faint footsteps behind me on the other side of the road. I glanced around and saw it was James but kept walking. We traveled the whole way home like this. When we got to my house, I turned and faced him.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He crossed the street over to my side. “Nice house.”

“You already said that.”

“It’s still nice, though.”

“Okay, seriously,” I said, and tried to look him in the eyes. “What’s your deal? Are you training for a walkathon?”

“I thought girls loved to be walked home.”

“Do you call that walking me home?”

He shrugged.

“You weren’t exactly walking
with
me.”

“I’m with you now.” He stepped a little closer. “See?”

“Are you going to sit down?” I sat on the bottom step and patted the concrete next to me.

James hesitated for a moment, looking up at the second floor of my house. Then he sat, leaving an invisible person’s body between us.

“You smell like chlorine and spearmint,” he said.

“You can’t smell me from over there.” I scooted right over that invisible person so our knees were inches from touching. “Now you can smell me,” I said.

James held his breath. Then he exhaled. The tea lights lit up parts of him: the crease in his elbow, the beds of his nails, half a jawbone, one gray eye. We were silent, and he messed with his hair.

After a while I was bored again, so I asked, “How old are you?”

“How old do I look?”

“Not seventeen.”

“Correct. But I’m not much older.”

“So where have you been hiding?”

“Massachusetts,” he said. “Far, far away.”

“Whatever. I’ve been there. Harvard’s no biggie.” I’d only been to New Hampshire, actually, but what’s the diff? “Where do you hang out?” I asked.

“At your house usually.”

“You know, typically when you’re playing Twenty Questions, at the tenth question you get a hint.”

That made him laugh, and he said, “Fine, you’re right. I don’t really hang out.”

“I know. That’s what Naomi told me. She came into the store tonight.”

“Oh,” he said, and looked away into the yard. “You can’t tell her about this.”

“Because you don’t want any friends?”

“No.”

“No you don’t want any friends, or no you
do
want friends?”

“Right.”

“But this is nice, isn’t it?” It felt nice. “This is hanging out, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s nice,” he said, nodding. Then he glanced over at me, at my knees. “I don’t know if your boyfriend would be happy, but you don’t seem too concerned about that.”

“I’m not concerned because he’s not my boyfriend.” My voice came out sounding harsh, which was awesome. I was annoyed and so I was bold and so I reached out and put my hand right on his knee. I could feel the skin through the hole in his jeans.

“You’re like an ice cube,” he said. “Is it because you’re always half-naked?”

“You just caught me on a particularly half-naked week.”

“I’m into that.”

I pulled at the small white threads coming from the rip in his jeans, wrapping them around my finger.

“I invited your sister to this party tomorrow night.”

“Did she let you down nicely?”

“She laughed in my face,” I said. “Do you want to let me down nicely too?”

“I can’t go to a party.”

“Because we’re lame high school kids?”

“Yes,” he said. Then, “No.”

“Ugh. Whatever.”

James stood up. My hand fell away. I stood up too and brushed myself off. Again it was like he wanted to go, but couldn’t.

“Come inside,” I said. “Just for a little.”

“It’s late. It’s almost one.”

I reached out and held his wrist. “You’re not wearing a watch, you don’t know what time it is.”

“It’s just a guess.”

“Just come tomorrow night, it’ll be stupid. Libby’s parents have expensive champagne, and we can jump on the beds and listen to music. There’ll be good things.”

“Soon,” James said, and tightened the cardigan around my waist, pulling me closer. Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and backed away from the house, still facing me.

“You’re the good things,” were the last words he said. I watched him go and tried to hold on to that “good” again.

Inside, the clock read 1:01, and I felt hot, not cold. I pressed an ice cube to my forehead, hoping to put out the fire before it spread.

There was no
getting around it: I was going to Libby’s party, to meet up with Morgan, without Naomi or James, wearing a giant feather headdress. I dragged my feet all day, hoping James might magically call and offer an alternate plan. But he didn’t have my number and I didn’t have his. The evening heat made me itchy and too annoyed to eat. I fell asleep at six, only to wake and find myself in an empty house at eight. My mother had been so pleased to hear I was planning on leaving my bedroom for something other than work that she left her car keys under a note on my bathroom counter:

Incapacitated. Right. And sleeping at Libby’s would mean I’d have to actually be there longer than an hour, which, given my cranky post-nap state of mind, seemed unlikely. I toyed with the idea of just going to Video Journeys and working a shift anyway on the slight chance that James might meet me there at eleven out of habit. I checked the TV channel guide to see if there was anything totally amazing on tonight, but summer meant all reruns, so that was no help. Morgan didn’t even call to re-offer his chauffeur services, which meant he knew I was contemplating ditching out and didn’t want to jinx it.

I decided to dress down since I knew I’d be topping off the outfit with a crown of giant eagle feathers, turquoise stones, and braided leather strands. Cutoffs and a loose gray tank top with lace-up sandals and a bunch of gold chains would have to do. I certainly looked like I wasn’t trying too hard—which was intentional—but after a few days of bathing in the sun, the bare bronzed skin on my legs, shoulders, and arms glistened in a way that wasn’t entirely uninviting—which was actually unintentional. Screw it. With the ratio of males to females that Libby’s parties usually entailed, I could wear a grease-stained gas station jumpsuit and never be left alone all night.

I shoved a cherry ChapStick in my pocket, faintly
hoping James might somehow miraculously show up after all. But the pocket was a little longer than the frayed hem of my cutoffs, so the tube just hung there in the exposed white fabric at my thigh. Less than cool. I ripped out the third “Sh” page of the phone book, folded it, and stuffed it next to the ChapStick. This made my left front pocket hang even lower than the right, which looked goofy and, considering the contents, desperate. My head was already pulsing under the headdress, so I grabbed two Excedrin and downed them with Diet Coke. Whatever. This thing killed at the
Last of the Mohicans
party. I’d live.

Morgan was waiting for me on the Blocks’ lawn when I pulled the Lexus up. He was wearing dirty Levi’s and a clean striped T-shirt, and he slid on a Raiders football helmet as I walked over. I had to admit, Morgan looked cool. In another reality we could have been a dope couple, but in this one…coworkers.

“Not the least original hat I’ve ever seen,” I said, smiling. “Not really a hat, though, is it?”

“And yours is?” he asked. “That thing looks painful. I doubt I’ll last longer than an hour in this.” He tapped the side of his helmet.

“Me too. I think the headdress is cutting off circulation. Thinking hurts.”

We walked up the driveway toward the Blocks’ house.
Music was blasting. Libby greeted us with a deep curtsy at the door. Though I’d expected nothing less than spectacular, Libby’s attire was still an impressive testament to her dedication. She had on an abnormally tall, fitted top hat, and she’d ringed the brim with a single sparkly silver ribbon and half a dozen silk flowers. Her ivory dress was fancy and floor-length, with tiers that wrapped around her body at diagonal angles. Morgan and I broke into applause. She curtsied again and, after admiring our headdress/helmet combo, gave us a small volley of dainty opera claps for successfully following instructions. We hadn’t let Libby down, and I felt better for it.

It was only then that we turned our attentions to the actual party, which was in full swing, and much less mild than I had hoped. What was I thinking, that I could just sneak in, nod along to some live Germs bootleg, sip a Snapple, snack on some hummus, and peace out? I hesitated in Libby’s long hallway, listening to the bumpy bass of muffled music over voices too indistinct to identify. Libby pushed past, waving us to follow, but when I didn’t move, Morgan grabbed my hand and led the way.

The huge living room was darkly lit with dim purple lights and filled to capacity with dancing teens. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like there’d be drama tonight; everyone had gotten the official “wear a hat” memo, and all heads were covered. Caps, berets, turbans,
beanies: A universe of hats floated above the dance floor, accompanied by random fashions and red plastic cups. The Blocks’ retro concert posters and vintage photographs were being ogled everywhere, while Libby drifted through like a celeb, dropping wild anecdotes and explanations for her eternal coolness. It had been a long time since I’d been freshly impressed by the lifestyle of Libby’s parents—it’s easy to feel blasé after your ninth sit-in at the KROQ studios—but seeing it all in this light, through the eyes of strangers, I couldn’t help but feel that purely L.A. magic again.

And they were strangers. All of them. I recognized some of the faces—I’d been at my high school for three semi-social years—but couldn’t match any of them with names. What was popularity anyway? Being known? Knowing? I could claim neither, but scenes like these made me feel like that Pavement song: an extra in the movie adaptation of the sequel to my life.

“Who are all these people?” I shouted in Libby’s ear over the music, while she tried to dance with me to some Dr. Dre song.

“Frosh, sophs, who knows?” she shouted back.

“And you’re listening to rap now?”

“
We’re
listening to rap now.”

I’d always been listening to rap, and Libby’d always been sighing and making a puke face about it.

“You look pretty,” I said.

“Me? Yuck, whatever,” she said back, actually checking herself out in some reflection behind me. “Now you, you look crucial.”

I loved when Libby said stuff like that to me, and for someone so totally into herself, she said stuff like that all the time.

“This was so us when we were freshmen,” I said, looking around. “Only we were dorks.”

“We were terrified.” She fixed my bangs.

“Yeah, but I’m still terrified.”

“Stop pretending you’re a loser.”

It was true; I did do that. But I wasn’t a loser, I was Libbits Block’s best friend, and when everyone had decided that counted for something, I started to think so too.

“Well, I didn’t come with one of them,” I said, pointing at the giant archway to the kitchen where Stiles and Sanders stood drinking with their posse. “Or two of them.”

I’d meant it as a joke, but Libby didn’t smile.

“Kidding. I know you’re just with Stiles.”

“He’s cool, right?” she asked, and it was hard to tell, but maybe she really did want my opinion.

So I told her, “He’s so cool.”

“He’s kind of intense, though. Sometimes.”

“So what? He’s like post-senior, he’s like grade thirteen. That’s hot. They’re all pretty hot,” I said, my eyes wandering over to them again.

“You don’t want any of them.”

I said, “I know,” but that hadn’t always been the case.

“I’m serious, Quinn.”

“I know, Libby, it’s cool.”

“I think I might, like, love him. Is that weird?”

“It’s not that weird.”

“Not like I love
you
, of course,” Libby said, and made a face, then pushed me.

“I love you too, you know that.” I said it because it was true, or at least it was mainly true, and that was close enough.

“Oh God, we’re being so stupid right now.” She took a drink of her champagne.

“Yeah,” I said, but I felt like this was so much less stupid than how we usually acted. Libby was already distracted, though, and only getting more so. Her eyes kept roving over to peer at the twins.

Beyond them, the kitchen was packed. It was wall-to-wall, all strangers, crowded together in a throng sprawling from the refrigerator all the way to the breakfast table. People were even smoking inside, which was gross and a total Libby rule violation. My empty stomach
was growling, and I saw several bowls of nondescript snacks on the kitchen counter. I looked down in my cup at the small amount of Libby’s secret champagne—I imagined most kids here were drinking some combination of Stella’s Listerine, orange juice, Mountain Dew, and five-dollar Russian vodka—and knew I needed to get to those Doritos before I found myself pressed up against some smoky-smelling freshman feeling barfy.

“Libby, I need food….”

“So go get some.” She winked in Stiles’s direction, wobbling tipsily. Her silver bracelets jangled with the music.

“Fine, I will.”

Libby shrugged and danced away, her off-white layers shimmying in unison.

“Look away,” someone whispered low in my ear. “It’s like staring into the sun.” I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Nathan Visser, Libby’s former part-time boyfriend for years.

“Deal with it, Nathan. She looks like a goddess with a cocktail.”

“She looks…like a vanilla soft serve.”

“You’re not even wearing a hat,” I said disapprovingly. But I felt for him. I knew what it was like to orbit around planet Libby.

My mind was locked on food, though, so I kept
moving. I had to eat if I was going to survive this rager. Even if the twins were guarding the chips.

Stiles was the first to see me coming, and he looked as arrogant as always. He wore his black hair cut short on the sides and long on top so it dripped down his forehead, plastered in place by a yacht captain’s hat. He looked like a carefully styled millionaire, a classic James Spader villain. I never remembered his eyes being so light, like they were glass. Like I could see inside him and there was nothing there. And if his eyes were translucent glass, then his skin was opaque glass, smooth and white. He was an eerie, hollow dude.

Sanders was the same, cocky and uncomfortably handsome. His black hair was parted on the side, and the longest piece reached his chin. Slick, manicured, he was nearly identical to Stiles: the creepy crystal eyes, the immaculate skin and posture, the starched chinos. Sanders held a matching captain’s hat in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. I tried to shove through them, but they stood arm to arm, forming a wall.

“Move, you guys,” I said.

“Already hammered and it’s only ten thirty.” Sanders clicked his tongue. His jaw was angular, harsh, a mirror reflection of his twin’s. He stared me down and up and down again. I tugged on my shorts for something to do.

“Shouldn’t you have a skipper hat, Sanders? You can’t
both be captain, so I’m guessing you’re first mate?” I still had some spit left in me before I puked on his Sperry loafers.

“Libby said you’d be good for a laugh,” Stiles said.

The party spun around me: disorienting fuzzy bass, sweaty shapes throbbing to the beat, strangers surrounding, Spaders encroaching. I struggled to get my headdress off before I collapsed. It was screwed on tight, the rusted lid on an empty jar.

I tried to remember where I’d set the keys to the Lexus. I tried to summon Morgan with whatever witchy will I could muster. I sensed two bodies come up behind me, trapping me against the evil S.S. Donnelley. I turned around.

Dewey Kaplan stood rigid and clean in crisp white jeans and a white button-down, nothing like the slacker he used to be. He too had lost all his sweet round features, the cherubic ones that a couple years ago made him seem friendly. Those were gone, replaced by a frozen mask, by a pod-person void. I remembered how he’d worn a dirty Metallica shirt in his senior yearbook photo, and I’d admitted to Libby that I thought he looked totally sick. I guess I used to sort of be into Dewey back then, when he was a hesher and had hair like Dave Grohl used to have—before he became Stiles’s and Sanders’s clone. I hadn’t really noticed their features all melting together, becoming the same vacant disguise.

Cooper Richards was at Dewey’s side, even more expressionless, even more clone-y. He’d also thrown away his whole high school deal—basketball shorts, Air Jordans, backward Stüssy hat—for pleated pants, a tailored dress shirt, the same numbed-out vibe. How long ago had I stopped paying attention? When had they all become so similar? I barely knew Cooper when he was varsity royalty, but I could tell I didn’t want to know him now.

He licked his lips at me and held up a brown-bagged bottle. “Thirsty? We brought our own.”

Dewey nudged him and grabbed the bottle. “That’s not for her, man.” Then he poured for Stiles and Sanders, the red wine thick and dark in their cups. They drank deeply, gorging on it.

“Gross, what did you spike that with? Corn syrup? It looks like pudding.” I tried to push past them again. “You’re all mental.”

“Whoo…ooops,” Stiles said, spilling wine from his cup onto my tank top. Sanders and Dewey cracked up but Cooper went stiff, twitching slightly, then lunged down and grabbed the hem of my shirt and started licking the stain.

Then I heard, “What’s your problem, Richards?” and there was Morgan, reaching in and pulling me out. His helmet was gone and his breath smelled like stale beer.
“Quinn, are you cool?”

I nodded, shaking. Morgan’s soft, blemished complexion was a guiding light, completely out of place among these chiseled faces. I wanted to wrap my arms around him but couldn’t.

“Yeah, cool as can be,” I said, straightening myself. “It’s just getting a little cult-y around here.”

They opened up the ring and let us leave, then huddled back together, ignoring us. We moved back toward the dance area. There were twice as many people as before, and the music was twice as loud. I looked around for Libby. For Naomi. For James. Hopeless, I grabbed the beer out of Morgan’s hand and chugged.

“Whoa, settle down there, chief,” Morgan said, but I’d already nearly emptied the can. It tasted awful.