Life Before (3 page)

When we finally head to Tucker’s house, I’m 80 percent sure I’m going to vomit. Jill’s driving doesn’t help.

_______

Tuck lives on the hill, which means his house is twice the size of mine and his yard goes on forever.

Tuck’s mom keeps us on our toes for three hours—shifting food around, cleaning up the bathrooms, mowing the lawn. It’s our party, so we have to work for it.

She bought the beer, so I can’t complain.

Gretchen arrives at seven, followed closely by Tucker’s girlfriend, Ashley.

Ashley grins at Tucker. “The Booremba twins are coming. I told them I don’t think there will be enough beer.”

Tucker says, “I’ll check the larder.”

Tuck’s larder, or what I would call a pantry if we ever had that much extra food, is in his basement. His mother stockpiles groceries; if World War III broke out at this instant, the five of us could survive in Tuck’s house and repopulate the world.

I’m sure that’s what Ashley is thinking when she volunteers to help Tucker audit the alcohol.

Jill rolls her eyes and redirects. “So, Gretch, did you decide to join my book club?”

I declined a week ago because it’s a terrible idea. Gretchen and Jill are straight-up contemporary fiction, and I am almost exclusively a nonfiction guy. I devour biographies, science, and travelogues in single sittings, but every time I read a novel, I think
now you’re just making up shit.

Genres aside, Gretchen is on my side here. “Book clubs are for old people, Jill.”

“We’ll still share what we’re reading,” I say. “But because it’s brilliant and insightful instead of a forced dissection of some long-dead author’s motives.”

Gretchen says, “And we won’t be limited to books. Last weekend: the merits of reality versus scripted television. And I opened Xander’s eyes to abstract impressionist art.”

True. And while I still think it’s complete bullshit, I’m a better person for understanding. I think.

Jill says, “Just as long as you keep reading, Xander. I don’t want your brain to atrophy over the summer.”

“I feel like you’re my mom today.”

“Yeah, and I have been utterly terrified since we saw Gary’s car this morning, too.”

I can’t believe Jill is bringing this up in front of Gretchen, who believes my family is sort of normal. If I had my way, Jill wouldn’t know about the Gary stuff either, but she witnessed his abuse firsthand.

Jill’s second little brother was born during the hottest summer ever. While her parents were at the hospital, Jill and I unrolled our sleeping bags on my parents’ bedroom floor because only their room had A/C. My father thought we had fallen asleep, but when he tried to get some action, Mom refused. When she refused again, their mattress moved slightly and she yelped.

Six years later, I can still hear Mom’s yelp in my head.

I was mortified, both because it was happening and because Jill was there. In the pitch black, Jill grabbed my hand and held tight until my parents’ bed started creaking in rhythm. I put my hands over Jill’s ears and she covered mine as we laid there, holding onto each other for dear life.

We haven’t talked about that particular night for years, though it repeats in my mind when I’m stuck in a cringe-loop, and now Jill is bringing it up
in front of Gretchen
. If Gretchen
was
asking me on a sort-of lunch date, this definitely is not the time to reveal family secrets.

Gretchen focuses instead on our friends in the basement. “Should I go get Tucker and Ashley, you think?”

“You wouldn’t want to walk in on anything indecent,” Jill says. “Give them another few minutes.”

I guarantee nothing indecent is going on down there. And even if it is, Gretchen has seen it all anyway; she has been dating Jameson for two years.

Jameson!

I’m totally casual. “Is Jameson back from OU yet?”

“OU gets out in mid-May.” Gretchen excuses herself to track down Tucker, leaving Jill and me in the kitchen.

Jill says, “Straight out of left field, Xander.”

“What?”

“We’re talking about the make out artists in the basement, and you blurt out some random question about Jameson. We all know where your mind went between topics.”

“Yeah, well look where your mind went. Talking about my idiot father right in front of Gretchen.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks. And come on, Jill: Infinite Summer! I have to know about Jameson. If Gretchen is genuinely free this summer, imagine what a summer it could be!”

Spectacular
. It would be spectacular. Summer brings lots of co-ed pick-up soccer, which puts Gretchen’s legs on the same field as mine. Our legs could get tangled up together, possibly. When she’s on her game, Gretchen is utterly unlike herself. She is super focused and super aggressive. And that competitiveness is super-sexy.

If Jameson is out of the picture, some of that super-sexy could move to my couch.

Jill doubts it. “Xander, if you could untie your tongue and find the balls to make a move, something great could happen. Otherwise, Gretchen will just be the twelfth in your long line of first dates.”

“She would be number thirteen. And I already know we fit. Familiarity and intelligence put her lightyears ahead of the last three.”

“Ahead of the vapid daisies, yeah, Xander. But you’re the same guy: timid and shy. Grow a set and go after the girl you really want.”

Someone rips through the neighborhood and parks less than two feet from Neapolitan. Jill freaks out until Grant Blakely steps out of the car. Grant Blakely is one of those guys who plays sports year round: football in fall, basketball in winter, soccer in spring. And in summer, for good measure, he competes in the Youngstown Swim League. Girls swoon over him like he’s a movie star; that’s probably why we always call him by his full name.

Five other guys tumble out behind him like it’s a clown car.

Tuck’s mom makes us drag some huge logs out of the woods and arrange them around what will be a campfire. We won’t be breaking any of her lawn chairs tonight.

_______

Our party grows remarkably quiet when Pizza Works delivers. My first slice of sausage and onion doesn’t sit well in my stomach, so I hang back while everyone else devours the pies.

I can’t get Gary out of my head.

If I could fast-forward through the next three days, this Gary episode will be over, and so will the speech. No more nausea, and hello summer!

Smooth sailing. No seasickness.

It’s still choppy waters in my stomach at this juncture. I probably can’t even touch the beer. Nausea plus alcohol is a surefire recipe for barfing in front of—or all over—everyone I know.

Free beer isn’t worth a reputation I can’t possibly live down in the next ten weeks. Damn.

My stomach and brain are on overload. Can Gary even come to graduation? Maybe he got special dispensation from Mom’s Order of Protection for my really special life event.

Or what’s supposed to be special. Instead, I’m nine years old again, scheming about getting out of his way. I used to swear that if my parents’ fighting got any worse, or if I took one more beating, or if Mom wound up in the ER one more time, I would skip town. Jill and I called it the Youngstown Escape Plan, and any time my parents did something annoying, one of us would say, “YEP.”

Jill helped me plot the whole scheme—hell, she practically plotted it singlehandedly—and promised I could hole up at her grandparents’ house in Youngstown, a mere seventeen miles away. (When you’re nine, you don’t think big.) I had just wanted some peace. I hated both of my parents, and I hated my life, and I hated all our family secrets. Having a plan made me feel better—nevermind that Jill’s grandmother would have called Jill’s house the second I showed up on her doorstep.

I never told another soul about that exit strategy. And now I desperately need a new one for graduation. Bonus points if it gets me out of the whole public-speaking thing.

I am in serious danger of barfing, even without the pizza and beer. Maybe I could go the other way: chug several beers and my mind will float away, taking my nausea with it.

Too risky. Damn. Double damn.

F
OUR

Maybe because the world is quieter, or maybe because the truth is easier in dim light, or maybe because the visual landscape shrinks—whatever the reason, intimate things are more apt to happen after dark.

Several couples—mostly the newly dating—have retreated to tents at the far end of the lawn. The socially awkward people are fumbling through conversations and board games in the garage, but most people are hanging out in the yard again.

Jill and I settle around the campfire with a group of her friends and my soccer buddies. The logs are perfect benches for those of us who aren’t drunk. Everyone around my campfire has a red plastic cup. Mine is half-full of Cola. Not Coke. Not Pepsi. Turns out, if you’re feeding a hundred teenagers, you go generic.

Someone plays guitar nearby, because someone is always playing a guitar. Play a measure, stop. Play a measure, stop. I think the musician is going for Modest Mouse. The harder he tries, the harder I cringe.

No one else notices the party melting all around us. People are slurring their speech or losing their thoughts in the allure of open flame. Being the only sober one in a huge group of drunk people is … sobering. I can’t alter the slippery slope; I can only watch as everyone else slides down it.

Unfortunately, Jill has slid right down with everyone else. “In two months, you will disappear for good. I know you will, Xander. You will never come back from New Orleans or your new best friends, Mr. Mardi Gras and Little Miss Beignets. Tucker will go to Ohio State and find ten thousand new friends. I’m just not ready for it to end.”

Managing Jill is my job. God knows she’s done far more for me—letting me stay at her house during the really bad times with my parents and sharing her mom’s amazing breakfasts every Saturday—but it’s still a drag. While Grant Blakely plots his midnight soccer scheme and Tuck pitches a tent of one kind or another with Ashley, I slide from the log to the grass and put my arm around Jill.

“You get to stretch out the end as long as you like,” I promise. “And then you also will make ten thousand new friends, at Oberlin.”

Jill’s heavy head falls onto my shoulder.

We’re all silent for a while, the drunk ones mesmerized by the fire and I by their vacant stares. I have known these people all my life, and soon our paths will diverge into the world.

“Take a walk, Xander?”

Gretchen is standing right behind me. The firelight catches her hair and she is literally luminous. She should have posed for senior portraits right here.

“Xander?” Gretchen often has to address me twice, apparently. “Will you walk with me?”

Grant Blakely kindly—blessedly—puts his arm around Jill. “Go ahead, Xander. I got this.”

Is our whole class aware of my affection for Gretchen? Does it really matter? Grant is totally responsible. Jill is in good hands. I realize I’m making Gretchen wait again.

“Yes, sorry. A walk, yes.” In my attempt to seem blasé, I catch my toe on the huge log and fall into several stargazers.

A million apologies later, I walk into the void of night with Gretchen.

“It took me forever to find you in the dark,” she says as we abandon the drunken civilization of our senior class.

Gretchen and I talk all the time. Every day, almost. But we’ve never talked in the dark. Alone. When her inhibitions might be stifled by a few beers. What would Gretchen say if completely uninhibited? What would she do?

She guides me through a small opening in the trees at the edge of the lawn and reaches for my hand. “I found a path.”

I am completely calm.
Completely. Calm
.

Within minutes, we are lightyears away from everyone else. And, somehow, I’ve left my nausea with them. It’s just us out here.

She leads me deeper into the mini-forest. “Did you bring a tent tonight?”

“Sleeping bag.”

“Me, too. I don’t think anyone is actually going to sleep, though, do you?”

“Probably not.” Just as well. I’ve felt crawly about my sleeping bag since the fateful night with Jill in my parents’ bedroom. Gary would be thrilled to know his actions have so crippled me. Maybe that’s why he’s coming to graduation: to inflict a little more psychological damage.

Freaking Gary! Even when he’s not around, he gets inside my head. Alone in the dark with Gretchen, I can’t even pay attention.

I’ve lost the thread of our conversation. Gretchen is talking about hiking. Something about her family? She’s wearing shorts, and her bare legs show a little blue in the moonlight. This is just how she looks in my dreams, but with a looser T-shirt.

The dream ends abruptly when I walk right into those blue legs.

“Sorry.”

“No, it was me.” Her voice is sweet. “I thought we should stop. This is a better face-to-face kind of thing.”

I can’t quite reconstruct her recent words in my head. Hiking? Taxi lights? Flip-flops?

I give up. “What’s a better face-to-face thing?”

She can’t really look at me. “This is awkward.”

Well, now it is. In this grove of walnut trees, we’re not walking and not talking and not knowing what to do.

I don’t mind much. I mean, the drunks are so far away that I can’t really hear them. And the scenery is excellent: I could stare at Gretchen for the rest of my life and be happy.

It’s not quite as easy to stare at someone for the rest of your life when she is staring back, though. I study Gretchen’s flip-flops.

Finally, after an awkward eternity, she says, “I’m sorry. I just. I don’t know where to start. I had this whole speech planned out, and I … I broke up with Jameson.”

“I’m sorry.” All I can come up with is that complete and utter lie? I guess it’s the truth if I look at the relationship from Jameson’s perspective. I’m sorry for him, truly.

“
I’m
not sorry. I just—argh!” Gretchen walks in circles, shaking out her hands like a crazy person. Or someone who is trying to deny she is in serious physical pain.

Neither alternative is good.