Dream Things True (19 page)

Alma glanced down toward her dress, suggesting the obvious.

“She doesn't exactly have a place to put it. I mean, the dress is, uh…”

“
Damn
, man. I don't want to hear that,” Ra
ú
l said. “Just let me talk to her.”

Bantering with Ra
ú
l made Evan wish they had found a way to get him to the party. They had become good friends over the months, especially since Evan spent so much time at Alma's house. Ra
ú
l even trained with Evan to get him ready for the season. You learn a lot about a person when you train with him every day. But tonight Ra
ú
l had to cover for Alma. Alma's dad didn't know she was here. He might have let her come, but her curfew was ten, no matter what. Evan's parents were going to Lake Rabun to recuperate after the party. Evan was taking advantage of the empty house and hosting an after-party and he wanted Alma to be there, so they had come up with a lie.

Hearing the stress in Ra
ú
l's voice, he was beginning to feel sorry they'd done it.

“How's it going?” Alma asked.

With Alma pressed close in to his chest, Evan heard his reply.

“I'm on my way to Uncle Alvaro's now. Dad's already there. He thinks you and Magda are in Atlanta at the band concert.”

“It's not a band, idiot. It's an orchestra. Her cousin's in the Atlanta Symphony Youth Orchestra,” Alma teased.

“Not important,” Ra
ú
l quipped.

“So he thinks we're staying with Magda's cousins tonight?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure he bought it.”

“Thanks, Ra
ú
l,” she replied. “I owe you.”

“No big deal,” Ra
ú
l said, “though I gotta say I never thought I'd be lying for my straight-ass little sister!”

“Funny,” Alma said, deadpan.

“I just wish I could be there to keep an eye on
him
,” Ra
ú
l replied.

Alma looked up at Evan and smiled. “Who, Evan?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Feeling Alma's body pressed against his, Evan didn't blame the guy.

“Just lie to me and tell me you're staying at M.C.'s house, OK?”

“I
am
, Ra
ú
l. No lie. Are you jealous?” Alma laughed.

Evan struggled to stay quiet, hoping that Ra
ú
l wouldn't know he could hear the entire conversation.

“Whatever, Alma.
Cu
í
date
, OK? Just take care of yourself.”

“Stop worrying. I'll be fine. Have fun with
los t
í
os borrachos
, but don't drink much, Ra
ú
l.
T
í
o
Alvaro's is a long drive from home.”

“Yeah, I won't,” Ra
ú
l said, “and
please
keep your cell phone on you. If Dad goes all suspicious on me, I'm gonna call you back.”

“Yeah, OK. I owe you big.”

“
No te preocupes, hermanita.
Pay me back by finding a way to get
me
into Mary Catherine's bed someday. And tell your boyfriend to keep it in his pants.”

Evan couldn't contain his laughter.

“You're such a pig,” she said before hanging up.

Alma handed Evan the phone. “How's that for a double standard?”

“Aw, Alma,” Evan said, taking her back into his arms. “He's just being a big brother.”

“And a
machista
prick.”

“You wanna tell me what a
machista
prick is?” he asked, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “I probably should know in case you ever call me one.”

“Never mind,” Alma replied, twisting out of his grip. “Let's get out of here.”

 

 

When they left the party, Alma's first act of celebration was to remove the silver torture devices from her feet. Then, keeping her promise to Ra
ú
l, Alma took the phone from her purse and tucked it into her bra.

She propped her mangled feet onto the dashboard of Evan's car.

“Good Lord, Alma!” Evan exclaimed, glancing over at her blistered toes. “What the hell happened to your feet?”

“A pair of three-hundred-dollar shoes happened to my feet,” Alma said. “Aren't they great?”

“That's just plain stupid,” replied Evan. “When we get home, we're gonna find you a tube of Neosporin and some flip-flops.”

“Do you really care about my feet,” Alma asked, “or are you looking for an excuse to get me alone inside?”

“Uh, both?” Evan said.

Even though she had no trouble imagining making love to Evan, she couldn't shake the image of waddling around pregnant, or pushing a spit-up-covered baby through Walmart, stroller laden with diapers and bottles. As much as she hated to admit it, Mrs. King was right. There was no room for dreams and ambitions in that picture. Alma hadn't worked so hard, against so many odds, to put her future aside for a baby. She reminded herself that Evan understood how she felt, and he wanted to be sure it was right. But on nights like tonight, she sometimes wished she could forget about consequences, that she could just live in the moment.

Evan's car eased down the driveway toward his darkened house. Alma saw a crowd of people gathered around a dark figure sprawled across the front lawn. Whoever it was did not appear to have any interest in moving.

Evan stopped the car and lunged out.

“What the hell, y'all? Can't you even make it to the backyard before somebody passes out?” Evan's voice had an edge that Alma didn't recognize.

Peavey looked up from where he was standing with Conway and Caroline. “It's Whit again,” he replied offhandedly. He turned back toward the other two and said something that made them all burst into laughter.

Whit hoisted his body onto one arm. He was beyond wasted. “Evan, darling! I've brought you a birthday present!”

He fumbled in the pocket of his tuxedo pants and drew out a bottle of prescription medicine. Lucy was nowhere to be seen, but his other sister, Annabeth, stepped forward and thrust her hand toward him.

“Give me the bottle, Whit.” She spoke with calm authority, but anger came through in the slight tremor of her voice.

“Y'all go on back to the guest house before the neighbors call the cops,” Evan said to the spectators. “And
no one
goes in the main house. My mom will kill me if we trash her house.”

The crowd dispersed. Evan and Annabeth stood above Whit and scrutinized the writing on the prescription bottle. Alma sat in the car with the door wide open, unsure of whether she should try to help them, or whether this was something only Whit's family should be a part of.

Mary Catherine arrived at the car door and tugged on Alma.

“Don't worry, Alma. This happens all the time with Whit,” she said, interlacing her arm with Alma's. “Evan and Annabeth will drag him inside and make him puke, and he'll be good as new … or as new as Whit's wrecked body can be.”

Alma grabbed the torture devices in her free hand and started off, barefoot, toward Evan's guest house.

She saw Lucy then, skipping toward the guest house, her arm gripping the stiff arm of her boyfriend, whose name Alma had not yet been able to glean. Everyone just called him the Inman boy. As Whit had explained, the name signaled his position in the Atlanta Coca-Cola dynasty. It reminded Lucy and everyone else that this handsome, dull boy would make an extremely desirable match. Each time heard him referred to as “the Inman boy,” Alma felt like she'd been transported into
Amor Real
, a bad telenovela about the Mexican aristocracy, set in the nineteenth century. Her
t
í
a
Pera had been obsessed with that show—she loved all of the Victorian costumes and romantic plot twists. When it was released to DVD with English subtitles, her aunt found the perfect excuse to watch it obsessively—she said she was working on her English. Because phrases like “remove your corset” are really important to know these days.

But when she walked into the guest house with Mary Catherine, she knew this was not a scene from
Amor Real
. Alma had seen her share of drunken people over the years, almost always men, but this was different. The dozen people inside already had razor-sharp focus on one and only one pursuit, an almost magnetic draw toward the sources of their release. Alma couldn't begin to imagine what it was they were all so desperate to escape. Their lives seemed pretty darn easy to her.

Mary Catherine led her in the direction of the kitchen table, around which were splayed her least favorite of Evan's friends: Peavey, Conway, and a skinny kid named Paul.

“Pull up a chair, ladies,” Peavey called out, with much more volume than was necessary. “You're just in time to get acquainted with my good buddy Seen-yor
Pay
-tron,”

He lifted a full bottle of tequila to the table. With his free hand, he patted the seat of an empty chair at his side, urging Mary Catherine to take it. Logan and Caroline came to join them with a sleek stainless steel saltshaker and thick slices of lime arrayed haphazardly on a cutting board.

“Aowwll-lma,” Peavey exclaimed, gesturing toward her, “you ready for one of these?”

Alma shook her head in silence, wondering whether Peavey still didn't know how to say her name, or whether he exaggerated the Southern drawl to be funny.

“I don't really drink,” Alma replied.

“Come on, Aowwwllma,” Conway jumped in. “We're celebratin'.”

“Just give her a beer,” Logan said, gesturing toward a cooler by Conway's feet.

“Take the beer and nurse it,” Caroline whispered in her ear. “He'll leave you alone.”

Alma shrugged. “Sure, Conway. I'll have a beer.”

“Ahh,” he exclaimed as he lifted a dark beer out of the cooler and gazed at the gold label. “Negra Modelo. It's even named for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Conway?” Logan asked.

“You know, man. She's not quite as black as a nee-gra,” Conway said, shrugging, “but she's hot like a model.”

Nausea overtook Alma. Hot bile rose from her stomach at stung the back of her throat.

Caroline stared hard at Mary Catherine, as if they were having some sort of conversation without words. Then she yanked the beer from Conway's hand and pulled Alma to her feet. As Caroline handed her the beer and led her away from the table, Alma heard Mary Catherine speak.

“Shut up and pour me a shot, Conway.”

Caroline plopped down on the couch and motioned for Alma to sit next to her.

“He's just one of those guys,” she said to Alma. “You know?”

No, Alma didn't know.

“I mean, if he decides you're the one, he'll follow you around all night and try to get you drunk.”

“The one?” Alma asked, darting her eyes toward Conway.

“Listen, Alma,” Caroline said. “Just keep your distance and keep a drink in your hand. We'll make sure he leaves you alone until Evan gets back.”

Alma wrapped her arms around her chest and slouched over. She felt vulnerable, and she hated it.

“Relax, Alma,” Caroline said. “We're here to have fun, remember?”

Evan needed to come back. Now.

 

 

Annabeth's cool control was gone. Evan watched, dying of frustration, as Whit's older sister pleaded with him.

Evan stepped in. “For God's sake, Whit. Just make yourself puke so I can get back to my party.”

“If you don't,” Annabeth said, “I'll take you to the hospital and you
know
what will happen.” She shoved Whit in front of the bathroom mirror. “Do you want to end up on the cover of some supermarket tabloid looking like
this
?”

Whit fluttered his eyes open and took a long look, his vanity more powerful than his stubbornness. He leaned over the toilet and stuck his finger down his throat.

He missed the toilet entirely. Evan volunteered to help Annabeth sop it up with a towel, and then he wrangled Whit out of his vomit-covered tuxedo and took everything downstairs to the washer. Struggling to discern the meaning of the dozens of buttons surrounding the washer's electrical display, it crossed Evan's mind that a tuxedo should be dry-cleaned, but what dry cleaner in town would be open? And would a dry cleaner take a puke-covered tuxedo? Even if they could find a place, the risk of it becoming a newsworthy event—“Sexton Prentiss's partying son goes overboard … again”—was not worth taking. These were the sorts of things Evan always had to think about when he was with his mom's brother and family. They lived their lives under an intense public watch. Every mundane decision and private event had the potential to become public property.

When he had mashed enough buttons to make the washer start, Evan was free to go back to his own party.

“I'm heading back to the party,” he called out. “Are you coming?”

“Evan,” Annabeth replied, anxiety coursing through her voice, “I think you need to come up here.”

 

 

Conway stared Alma down. It felt like he was standing in front of her in full camouflage, like she was a deer that he chased in the predawn hours. Maybe he didn't chase at all. Maybe he waited, silent and still, crouched in high grass until the unsuspecting creature wandered into firing range.

Alma stepped out of the bathroom and tried to squeeze past him. He was standing alone in the doorway, holding a small paper cup. He wouldn't let her by. He casually blocked the passage with his outstretched arm.

“I saved you a Jell-O shot,” he said, smiling.

“No, thanks,” Alma replied. She hoped he couldn't tell that her voice was shaking.