Party (3 page)

So I shut up and folded my arms and pretended to listen.

This is hopeless.

He’s been going on for about ten minutes now. It takes me about two of those ten to realize it’s between games.

He’s held it all in until the game ended
. At least that’s what it seems like.

The game comes back on, and the
asshole
doesn’t even bother to trail off or fade to black. The moment, the very
instant
he hears an announcer’s voice, he cuts himself off in the middle of a word. The word is
attitude
, but ends up being only
atti
. As in,
Morrigan, I’ve had it with your crappy atti
.

I decide I will spread this new word among my peer group. Yay!

Mom doesn’t say anything, but I can see she agrees with Dad. Typical. She always rolls over for him. I’ve even confronted her about it in the past, asking her why it’s always Dad’s way or the highway, a phrase she’s actually said to me. (Lame.) Mom only laughed and said I didn’t know him the way she did. Is he like abusive or something? No, Mom said, still laughing, he’s just who he is. Gotta love him, she said.

Maybe I have to, but I don’t at the moment.

I can’t believe this. I did absolutely nothing wrong, and now I’m out my car and a sweet night of partying with my best friend.

Once Dad’s done, I go to my room and call Ashley. She knows right away something’s up.

“What’s the go?” she asks. It’s this thing we say.

I tell her the entire story, and because she is my best friend in the entire world, she’s ready to kneecap both of them.

“This
sucks!
God, Morrigan … what about the party?”

“I dunno. They said I had to stay home.”

“Morry, no, absolutely not,” Ashley says, like she has some sort of authority over the situation. “It’s like the biggest party ever. We have to be there, celebrate with Antho and stuff!”

“I know, Ash.” I sit on my bed and fall to the mattress, totally deflated. I stare at my black messenger bag, which is stuffed with everything I had planned to bring to her house—my change of clothes, a pint o’ JD stolen from Dad’s personal collection, gum, my driver’s license (ahem!), Mom’s twenty-spot;
everything
.

“You know what?” I say. “Screw it. Just come pick me up.”

“Are you sure?” Ash doesn’t sound like she thinks it’s a good idea.

“Of course I’m sure, Ash! Call me when you’re at the corner of the street. I’ll be on the sidewalk by the time you pull up, and then I’m going to get in, and no matter what, you just
drive
, okay?”

My rage is turning to excitement. This is going to be fun. A total jailbreak. And there’s a good chance my parents won’t even notice. Once during a 49ers game, I told my dad I was pregnant just to see what would happen. The truth is, I’ve never had sex, because my stupid-ass ex-boyfriend got it into his wee stupid head that it would be wrong for some reason—like that’s what God says or something. (Don’t
even
get me started.) Anyway, Dad didn’t respond until the next commercial, when he said, “Did you say you were having a baby?” And I said, “No, I said I have
rabies
.” And he kind of smiled uncertainly and turned back to the TV.

So I’m pretty sure I can bust out of here without attracting their attention.

Which, if you think about it, kinda sucks. What if some psycho broke into my room and kidnapped me? They
wouldn’t know until they got one of those ransom notes made from cutout magazine letters.

Maybe I should make one, just for laughs. But I remember a girl last year who called in an Amber Alert on herself, like she’d been kidnapped, so she could spend the night with her boyfriend. No way was I going to do something
that
stupid.

Ashley is a lot more cautious than I am. Which is probably a good thing. Her parents do pay attention to where she’s going to be, who she’s hanging with, that kind of thing. I’d never admit it, but it was kind of cool. Of course, we never did anything so bad that they’d bust her, even if she didn’t tell them the truth.

Ashley’s parents rock. I totally love them. And they totally love me. I spend as much time at her house as I can without being a pest. Her mom, Dianne, is a great cook, and even takes requests. (I love her baked pasta dinners.) My mom, on the other hand, orders in. Ashley’s dad, Bob, always compliments our clothes. Ashley models new stuff for him whenever her mom takes her shopping. My dad? He frowns absently if I show off my belly, but doesn’t comment. And they all hug each other, all the time. Even her older brother James hugs them. They don’t exactly smother her or anything, but they, you know …
give a shit
.

Anyway—Ashley’s caution comes through over the phone. She sighs and goes, “You know we were going to hang out all summer.”

“I know. What’s your point?”

“My point is, when you get home tonight—”

“Tomorrow,” I interrupt, and laugh, because as this plan takes shape, I realize I’m going to have to milk it to be worth it. May as well stay out till dawn!

“When you do get home,” Ashley goes on, “you are going to be grounded for like ten frickin’ years, and then our summer is going to suck. You think about that?”

I shrug. Of course I haven’t thought about it; I’m making this up as I go! And I tell her that, since she can’t see the shrug.

Ashley sighs again. “All right, I’ll do it if you want. But if you get grounded until school starts again, I’m beating you insensate with your own boots.”

I grin. My best friend totally rocks. She’s like my sister. If I had one. She was the first person I met when we moved to Santa Barbara two years ago, and we’ve been best friends ever since.

“Just call once when you’re at the corner,” I say, and hang up.

My heart is racing. I’m generally a
good girl
, in my opinion, but this whole car thing is
absurd
and unfair and it’s not gonna keep me from this party. Plus, I’m kinda curious to see how long it’s going to take them to figure out I’m gone. And now that I think about it … do I really want to know? I mean, what would happen if I came home at like six in the morning, and they had no idea? I think I’d be so pissed that I’d admit the whole thing just to see what they’d do.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, and check it one more time to make sure it’s got everything I need. I feel like I’m about to break out of a juvie prison or something.

I listen through the closed door. The game is on, I can hear that much. Chances are good my mom is still sitting next to Dad, doing her stupid-ass crossword puzzle. To get to the front door and out to the street, I’ll have to walk—or run—right past them. Their backs’ll be to me, but the floor is hardwood and squeaks, so sneaking past isn’t possible.

I swear, it’s like they installed it specifically to thwart me.

Will
they try to stop me? Will Dad jump up and run after me and tackle me? No. He can’t tear himself away from the TV.
He works so hard all week, Morrigan
, my mom says every weekend. Like that’s some kind of excuse. I work hard too, more or less, at least during the school year, and you don’t see me
potatoed
on the couch all damn weekend. Anyway, with any luck, Ash will pull up while the game is on and not during a commercial. During a commercial, he might be off the couch. If only there was some way to—

I turn. I smile.

I go over to my window, crank it open, and take off the screen. It’s not a huge opening, but I’m kinda small, and I think I can squeeze through. I’ve never actually snuck out before; I never really had to, not even when me and Josh were going out. But this’ll buy me some time. And spare me getting tackled, just in case.

My phone rings once. I look at the screen.

Ashley.

I turn on my radio, not too loud or too quiet. A couple more seconds and I’m out the window, running like our friend Anthony, star receiver for SBHS, headed for a touchdown.
(
You like the analogy, Dad?
) I race through the backyard and out the gate near our driveway. My dad’s polished blue Civic gives me a little cover from the living room windows. I hit the sidewalk as Ashley pulls up in her dad’s beige car.

I fling the door open and leap in.

“Go, go, go!” I squeal, caught up in the moment.

Ashley doesn’t peel out, though. She checks behind her for traffic, and slowly pulls back into the street. Such a drag.

“What’s up?” I ask, a little breathless. I look back at the house, expecting my mom or dad to be racing after me. No such luck.

“Morrigan …,” Ash says, a little whiny, like she still thinks it’s a bad idea.

I slap her thigh. “Forget it! We’re free!”

“Where are we going? The party hasn’t started probably.”

“Not your place,” I say. “As soon as they know I’m gone, that’s the first place they’ll call. Or look. We need to go somewhere else.”

“Super Cuca’s?”

“Oh, hell yeah!” I laugh. And finally, Ashley grins a little, too. Super Cuca’s makes The. Best. Burritos. Ever.

“Your dad is going to freak out as soon as he finds out you’re gone,” Ashley says, turning onto Micheltorena.

“You know what? Screw him!” I say, and I surprise myself at how angry I sound. I guess I had more on my mind than just this junk with the car. “He won’t notice, because he never notices anything! God, it might be tomorrow after
noon
before he notices.”

Ashley chews on her lower lip for a sec. It’s enough to tell me what I already know: that I’m right. Ashley’s seen how my parents are. When she comes over and says hi to my dad, she usually gets a brief wave, or maybe a “Hey.” They like her and all, I guess—or maybe they don’t care who my best friend is. They acted the same way back in Rochester, before we moved to S.B. for “a better job opportunity” for my dad. (Clearly, this better opportunity consists of him muttering a lot and being absolutely useless on the weekends.)

“But they probably will figure it out sooner or later,” Ashley says reasonably. “And then you’re
done.”

“Ashley, can we seriously forget it? We’re going to a
party
, you know? Can you not be a bummer, please?”

She pulls into the parking lot of Super Cuca’s. We’re lucky to find a space. Super Cuca’s is a little shop with room for maybe four people at the counter, with a few tables outside on a patio. The parking lot is really tiny.

Ashley shuts off the engine and turns toward me.

“I’m sorry he’s a jerk, Morry,” she says. Her big blue eyes are sad and angry all at once, the way only your best friend’s can be when she’s defending you.

I squish down in the seat and fold my arms. “Not a jerk,” I say, pouting a little. “Just … not there. He only notices stuff like, I got a D in English or yelled at Mom or something. Whatev.”

“He ever notice the good stuff?”

I snort. I can do that in front of Ashley, it’s okay. “Are you analyzing me now?”

“Just asking,” Ashley says. “I mean … it’s been two years and I’ve never seen him, like, hug you.”

The last time my dad hugged me was when we put our cocker spaniel to sleep. I was twelve. Mom does it more often, these quick little squeezes in the morning if she hasn’t gone to work when I get up for school, but usually she’s already left for her office.

I remember one Christmas I had asked for this specific Barbie, and to be honest, I don’t even remember which one anymore. But I know that I got it. And I was so happy. I ran over to my dad (sitting on that same damn couch, which we actually
brought with us
from New York) and jumped in his lap and hugged him around the neck and tried to kiss him. He moved his head. I tried again, and he moved again. I could feel one of his hands kind of tugging at the collar of my footie pajamas. Pulling me away from him.

I got the message. I climbed off him and said, “Thank you, Daddy,” and he smiled and changed the channel with the remote. My mom smiled too, but kinda sad-like.

That sort of thing stays with you, you know? That must’ve been like ten years ago. A decade. It suddenly occurs to me I’m old enough to say
That was ten years ago
. Think about it.

But I don’t tell Ash any of that. I don’t tell her the only reason I think they’re still together is me. Like they think they’re doing me a favor by not getting a divorce. Sometimes I wonder. It’s not like they hate each other, or fight a lot. They just …
aren’t there
. At least if I got punished—grounded, or my mom slaps me, or my dad sells the car—they’ll have seen me.

“On the other hand,” Ashley says, interrupting my mental bitchfest, “maybe he doesn’t know how.”

“Huh?” I say, and think of my mom and cavemen.

“Maybe he doesn’t know how to, like … tell you he loves you. Guys are like that.”

Except he has told me that. A couple times, anyway. But I don’t tell Ashley
that
, either. And yeah, maybe guys don’t know how to tell girls they love them; Josh
said
it all the time but would never
show
it, and I mean—

You know, who cares. The biggest party of the year is starting! Sitting in this parking lot bitching about my parents isn’t how I want to spend what is probably going to be my last weekend out for a long time once they find out I’ve taken off.

If
they find out.

“Hey,” I say, and sit up in the seat. “Let’s
eat
! We shouldn’t get drunk on an empty stomach!”

“Oh yeah?” Ash says, and smirks. “Where’d you hear that, alky?”

“Uh, your brother-the-cop,” I sass back. Ashley’s brother James is a Santa Barbara cop, which is kind of funny because he was the one who first got us drunk, got us our first joint, and knocked a guy out once who grabbed Ashley’s ass on the bus. That was all before he became one of S.B.’s finest, though. He used to play football for our school too, with Anthony’s older brother Mike. He was cool; so was Mike, and so is Anthony for that matter. I don’t hate sports and I don’t hate jocks—I just hate them on TV when I’m trying to, you know,
speak to my father
.

Ash cracks a smile. I can tell she’s happy my mood’s getting better.