Never Eighteen (9 page)

I nod and she removes her fingers from my mouth. Though totally wasted, I understand. Although I want to, I shouldn't tell her like this, drunk, nearly passed out. The beer would make it so much easier, but it wouldn't be right, the way it should be remembered. She would wonder if I'd really meant it or if the beer were talking.

She offers me a hand, pulls me from the lounge chair, and motions for Kyle to help. Kyle runs over, lifts me up, and throws me over his shoulder. I'm too drunk to be embarrassed.

"Hi, Kyle," I say.

"Hey, little dude. You okay?"

"I'm great." I smile as only an incredibly sloshed virgin drinker can.

He carries me through the house and out the front door, and hauls me down the two blocks to the car, Kaylee following. She unlocks and opens the passenger door and Kyle slides and buckles me in, shutting the door behind me. I can hear Kyle ask Kaylee if I'm going to be okay. Kaylee says nothing. I assume she has nodded or shrugged.

Kaylee comes around the driver's side, gets in, and starts up Candy. I look over at her; I can tell she's pissed. "Kaylee," I say.

She whips her head around like something from
The Exorcist,
glares at me, and interrupts, loudly, "Listen, Austin. I do not want you to say a goddamn thing, okay?"

"But Kaylee," I say.

"Not a thing, Austin. I mean it. You might say something you'll regret later. You're shitfaced, you're tired, and your brain has probably turned to mush. Final warning."

"Kaylee," I continue.

"No, Austin," she says.

"Kaylee, I'm sorry." And then I puke. All over the front of me, all over the dash, all over everything.

"Jesus," she mutters under her breath, rolling down her window to let the stench escape into the night air. Then she says, "Austin, I appreciate what you're trying to do here, really, I do, but I think you're in over your head." She's starting to sound like my mother. I stop listening, lay my head back, and let sleep take over.

I don't remember getting home, into my house, out of my puke-covered clothes, into my bed. All I remember is waking to the feeling of a vise strapped to my head, crushing it slowly until it fractures.

I sleep in later than I want, but it's still early, and I have a lot more to do before the end of the weekend. It hurts to move, but I force myself out of bed. In the bathroom, I gaze into my reflection, wondering if this is how I'll look when I'm dead. I feel like I already am. I'm sure dead people don't have bloodshot eyes. I have bloodshot eyes, and they hurt, but not as bad as my head. I promise myself never to drink again.

I reach into the medicine cabinet, grab a couple of Tylenol, and take the stairs slowly, my head pounding with every step. I enter the kitchen and sit at the table, placing the pills carefully down beside me.

"You got in late," Mom says. She's cooking something that on a normal day probably smells good. This morning it stinks, making me want to barf.

"Did I?" I ask. Big mistake. My mom throws a glare my direction. Here it comes. I feel it.

"You know, Austin—?" Yes, I knew it. "I don't know exactly what you were out doing all day yesterday and last night, but I hope whatever it was was worth it and not too self-destructive."

"Did you put me to bed?" I ask, deciding to ignore her lecture.

She lets out a heavy sigh and answers, "No, I was in bed myself when you got home." Just what I feared: Kaylee stripped my drunk ass out of my puke-covered clothes and put me to bed. I hope I hadn't said or done anything stupid, or pissed her off. I can't remember much after throwing up all over her car.

"You want something to go with those?" my mom says. She gestures to the Tylenol sitting on the table.

"OJ," I answer.

She pours a tall glass and sets it down in front of me. "You hungry?"

"Definitely not," I answer, my stomach churning with nausea.

"You shouldn't go without breakfast."

"A dry piece of toast then," I concede.

I eat the toast and head back up to my room. As I'm leaving Mom asks, "So what's on the schedule for today?"

"Same as yesterday," I answer, not looking in her direction purposely. I'm not in the mood for the cynical expression I know she's giving me. She doesn't stop me, which to me is a sign of resignation. I start to feel guilty. I turn back around. "Love you, Mom."

"Love you too, kiddo," she says, not looking up from the dishes.

I continue up the stairs to my room and lie back on my bed, wondering what I would feel like if I hadn't thrown up. When the Tylenol kicks in, I shower and begin to dress. My mother calls up.

"Austin! I'm going to the store. You need anything?"

"No!" I shout back.

"Oh, and you have company!"

"Be right down!" I answer. Kaylee. I must not have done too much damage to our relationship. I finish dressing: flannel shirt, shorts, wool socks, hiking boots. I double-check myself in the mirror and head downstairs.

Instead of Kaylee, Allie is sitting on my living room couch.

"Allie?"

"Hi, Austin."

I sit down beside her. "What's up?"

She stands, paces, wrings her hands. Nervous. "Well, I was thinking." She takes a deep breath. "I appreciate you coming over yesterday, letting me vent and everything. I thought maybe you would want me to return the favor." "It wasn't a favor, Allie. You don't need to pay me back. I just want to help. I want to know that you're okay."

"I know. I just thought I could do something for you in return," she says, approaching, kneeling, leaning on my thighs.

"What, Allie? What do you want to do for me?"

"What do I want to do for you?" she says, mostly to herself. "Well, it's more like something I want to give you."

"What's that?"

"Me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, you're a virgin, right?" she asks, now starting to caress my legs.

"Allie, no."

"I know you are. So, I just thought maybe you would like to, you know, know what you're doing, just in case you and Kaylee decide..." Her voice drops away.

"No."

"Yes," she says, getting quietly hysterical. "In case it happens for you and Kaylee, then it won't be weird, ya know? You'll know what to do, how to do it. We don't have to do it now. We can meet somewhere, or get a hotel room. Or you could come to my house. My parents are never home anyway."

I stand up, grab her hands, fix my eyes on her black-eyeliner-laden ones. She's tearing up, wounded, offended in some way. I need to be careful with her.

"Allie, listen. You're great, really. I don't want this from you, or for you. I came to see you because I missed you and hoped to help you, not as a favor. Helping you wasn't my only reason for visiting. I was being selfish. I'm searching for meaning, Allie, even if it's just a shred, before it's too late. Sex is the furthest thing from my mind right now, even with Kaylee."

"Really?" She looks at me achingly, but thoughtfully. "Meaning, huh? Maybe it's time I found some meaning too? Before it's too late?"

"I think that's a good idea," I say.

She heads to the front door; I follow. She stops, reaches up, touches my face, then smiles and says, "You know you're cute, right?"

I smile back. "Really?"

"Yes, really. I just thought you should know."

"Thank you." I grab her hand from my face, kiss her palm, and hold her hand as she heads out the door. I watch as she walks down the sidewalk. Suddenly I see something very different about her, something positive, something like confidence. I start to feel better about my visit with her. I think she'll be okay.

I gather my stuff and head out, thinking the fresh air will relieve what's left of my hangover. The sky's a strange shade of gray this morning, almost a gray yellow, as if the sun is there just beyond the clouds, desperately trying to break through. I automatically move in the direction of Kaylee's house. It's where I need to be anyway. I ring the bell, wait. Ring the bell again. Kaylee finally answers, looking really pissed, I might add.

"What are you supposed to be? The Brawny paper towel guy?" she says eyeballing my outfit. "I didn't figure you'd be up yet." Her delivery stings. I flinch.

"You busy?" I ask, hoping she says no. Once again, she's a big part of my plans for the day.

"I'm getting ready for work, duh," she answers, gesturing to her coffee shop black. Her tone cuts to my very core.

"Call in sick," I say.

"No," she says, thrusting the blade deeper.

"Please," I plead. Something in my voice or perhaps my manner causes her to soften. Her attitude changes instantly from anger to compassion, yet she doesn't budge.

"I can't, Austin. I need the money."

"I'll pay your wages today if you call in sick," I offer.

"Austin, I'm not for sale," she says, though I see she's starting to waver. Her eyes move, roll around. She's thinking.

"I'll buy you breakfast." She doesn't budge.

I fold my hands as in prayer, get down on my knees, put on my best puppy-dog face, and repeat, "Please."

She shakes her head. I bow down, as if to a goddess, and say, "I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy." I give her a sideways glance. She tries not to laugh.

She gives me a stern glare behind the smirk. "Fine, but no more keggers."

"Deal," I say, happily relieved.

Kaylee calls in sick. "I'll go change," she says.

"Dress warm. Oh, and you'll need your hiking boots," I tell her.

"Great," she says.

As I wait, Mrs. Davis enters from the kitchen. "Are you corrupting my daughter, Austin? I thought she was just getting ready for work," she says.

"Sorry, Mrs. Davis. I really need her to drive me around again today. You're not mad, are you?"

"How could anyone get mad at you? She said you guys went to Seattle yesterday?" When she says this she gets a sad look on her face.

I mentioned that two bad things happened in sixth grade. The first was when Kaylee's dad died. It was a horrible car crash. I remember Kaylee not showing up for school. In second period, our teacher told us that her dad had died. I tried to call her all afternoon, but no one answered the phone. She called me back the next day, wanted to go for a walk, to get out of the house, to get away from the tears, the pain.

She seemed so fragile—trembling, crying, not sure what to do with herself. I didn't know what to do either. I put an arm around her awkwardly as we walked. I listened, gave her a shoulder. It was hard to see her like that, but man, did I want to kiss her. I was mad at myself for thinking that right then, when she was so sad.

Mrs. Davis was like a rock after the death. I'm sure she did it for her girls. Everyone was amazed that she could be so strong through such a hard time. I knew she was dying inside. I saw it.

I came over one day, unannounced, just before the funeral. My mom had made a chicken and noodle casserole. I brought it over. The front door was open, so I let myself in, as I had so many times before. I headed toward the kitchen. There she sat, alone at the dining room table, head in her hands. She sobbed so deep and so violently, it seemed she couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to do. As quietly as I could, I set the casserole dish down on the coffee table in the living room. Then I snuck back out of the house. She stayed strong for those girls, but there was no one there to be strong for her. I'm sure she felt alone. Anyway, that's the reason I can't call her anything but Mrs. Davis. I don't believe I've earned that right.

When Kaylee comes down the stairs, we quickly pack a backpack with a couple snacks, waters, and first-aid supplies, and we're climbing into the Mustang ten minutes later.

"Do you think Candy's up for the drive?" I ask, patting the car's dash.

"Crap."

"What?"

"She still smells like Puke de Austin."

"Funny," I say. She gives me a dirty look, letting me know she's not exactly joking. The car does smell a little bit funky.

"Plus, her name isn't Candy anymore," Kaylee says.

"Oh, did you change her name to Apple, like I suggested?"

"No, I still think that's a stupid name. Her name is Scarlet now."

"Scarlet? Sounds like a slut," I joke. "You shouldn't say things like that in front of her, Austin. She's still pissed at you for throwing up all over her last night. I was up an extra hour cleaning her out and dousing her with Lysol to get rid of the stench. Take a whiff," she says, sniffing deeply. "She still reeks. That's why I changed the name. A car stinking of beer vomit can't possibly be named Candy, now can it?"

"But a car stinking of beer vomit can be named Scarlet?"

"You're not winning any points here, Austin," Kaylee says.

I pet the dash as if it's a kitten on my lap. "I'm sorry, Scarlet. Believe me, it won't happen again." Then, less mockingly: "I'm sorry to you too, Kaylee."