Sex & Violence (27 page)

The party house was even bigger than Jordan’s, and the door was answered by this chick with a big mess of brown hair and boobs sticking way out of her shirt who was completely drunk (“JORDAN! You’re HEREEEEEEEE!”). There were a bunch of people, not at mob levels, but every room had a different activity. Beer pong in the kitchen. Weed in the living room.

Tequila shots on the back patio, which led to an empty inground pool full of dead leaves. I worried that Jordan would leave me, not knowing a soul, but she stuck by me like she was worried I’d nab the silverware. She got us some beer, which for some reason, tasted delicious with the Starburst, and then we went in the basement and played pool with this guy who wore giant black glasses and whom she knew and I recognized from my English class. I wasn’t sure if Glasses Guy was her boyfriend—he treated Jordan the same way I did: polite, respectful distance. But I felt okay about it because he was scrawnier than me, the kind of guy who talked obsessively about music and philosophy.

Jordan beat me at pool, because I let her. Girls like being badass at shit, sometimes, and it was funny to see her happy when usually she was so serious, even in dumb Foods. Glasses Guy asked me where I was from, and I could see Jordan listening while she drank her beer. She did a weird thing whenever she took a sip, made this little “yuck” face as she swallowed, which sort of cracked me up, her bitten fingernails clenching the cup like someone invisible was forcing her to drink.

“My family’s from Minnesota,” I said. “But I didn’t grow up here.”

I ran through my list of places, and Glasses Guy stopped me at Washington, because he’d been to Mount Rainier once.

So we talked about that for a while—he seemed like the kind of guy who’d get all into extreme shit, especially nature, because he couldn’t do regular sports and had to make physical activity all deep and wise. I didn’t mention that the few life lessons I’d managed to pick up in Tacoma weren’t on a mountain but in a cupcake shop in the middle of the city.

Jordan kept getting me beer, and I wasn’t drunk, but she was. She didn’t act crazy, but bounced around more than normal, in a way that made her look like a little kid. She said we should go out back, and we sat on the lip of the empty pool, drinking and talking. About all the places I’d lived and how she’d never been to any of them. About Halloween costumes we’d had as kids and our favorite kinds of candy. Whether Starburst would taste good with different kinds of alcohol. Whether the pregnant chick in Foods class would feed her baby cap-puccinos in a bottle.

Then she dipped her head under my neck. Which was a little surprising, but she smelled good. Not like anything drastic or specific. Just vaguely nice, some unknown girl product. So I put my arm around her very slowly, like she would vaporize if I pressed too hard, and she looked up and kissed me. She tasted like beer and orange Starburst.

This is good
, I told myself, as her cold hands slipped under the neck of my hoodie.
My heart can speed up. That’s normal when
you kiss someone. Fucking relax already.

But after a while, I couldn’t sit there anymore, our backs to the house, where anyone could see us. I asked her if she wanted to get warm, and she nodded. But didn’t lead me inside. We went into this little shed on the other side of a pool. We peeked in the window and saw it was full of lawn chairs and pool chemicals and deflated floaty toys. Good enough.

Inside, we sat on a lounge chair and Jordan pulled me on top of her and then there we were—making out. She had on this huge sweater—she always wore huge sweaters—with a giant rollover neck that threatened to swallow her head, and I couldn’t feel much of her, but it was okay. Because I wasn’t as drunk as she was, I went slow. As if I wasn’t making out but defusing some kind of bomb.

But then her cold hands slipped under my shirt and pushed it and my hoodie over my head. Which was a little weird, and then I was freezing cold but whatever.

Her hand stopped over my scar, and I froze, because I knew what would come next.

“What happened,” she said. Like she knew there was something wrong about me and wasn’t surprised to find it, either.

So I told her, “I had my spleen removed. Two guys beat the shit out of me in the dorm shower at this fucking redneck boarding school in North Carolina.”

I expected her to shove me off her and ask more questions.

But she just kept kissing me, and slowly we continued to make out at the pace of ancient sea turtles. It was nice, but it felt like hours were passing and I thought about other random shit. The crickets chirping around us. Why Jordan had changed schools.

If anyone knew where the hell we were.

If Jordan had any boobs under that massive sweater.

Maybe Jordan was like Lana, expecting me to lead her through things, too embarrassed to make her own moves. So I put my hands on her stomach, where she was so warm and soft, her belly button so small compared to mine.

“That tickles,” she said.

“Sorry.”

She laughed and I took that as a sign. Reached up to her bra and touched her boobs. Her bra was really smooth, but I couldn’t feel anything. It was like she was all bra, no boobs. I couldn’t help it, then—I thought of Baker Trieste’s boobs in her striped bikini and a second later Jordan said, “Stop.” Like she could tell I was thinking about another chick.

“I can’t have sex, Evan.”

I apologized. Jordan sat up. I put my clothes back on because I was freezing and felt like a prick who’d gone too fast.

But I felt a little annoyed too. What, did she think we had to fuck because I touched her bra? Even if she
was
a virgin, Christ—how clueless could you be in these modern times?

“I mean, I’ve had sex,” she said. “It’s just … I can’t right now. With you. With anyone. I’m in therapy. Something happened to me, I guess. So I’m … you’re the first guy I’ve even kissed since it happened.”

I didn’t want to ask, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

“Since what happened?”

I thought she might be shy about telling me. But she didn’t stop or stutter or run away. Just told me the whole story.

You don’t have to rape a girl to fuck her up, it turns out. You can force her to give you head, though. Then seeing the asshole guy who did it makes her run to the bathroom in a panic and skip classes until one day someone hears her crying in the stall and the whole school finds out about it and the school calls her mother. Who then forces this almost-rape story out of her and sends her to therapy.

Jordan and I leaned back on the creaking lounge chair, our breath frosting out white …

“My therapist’s Dr. Penny. She’s a lady. A woman, I mean.

Do you know her?”

“No, mine’s a boy. A man, I mean. Dr. Richter. God, I shouldn’t have drank so much. I can’t really stand alcohol. God.

I can’t believe I told you all this.”

“It’s okay.”

“So, what’s your DX?”

“Huh?”

“DX, diagnosis. My mom’s a doctor.”

“Oh,” I said. “I don’t know. Dr. Penny never said. What’s yours?”

“Anxiety. And post-traumatic stress. Though I think that’s a little much. I mean, PTSD—it’s not like I’ve been in a war or anything.”

I curled my arm around her, and she nudged up to me.

“Yeah, well. It pretty much still sucks. I couldn’t take a fucking shower in a bathroom for months.”

She sniffed toward me, laughed. “You smell okay now.”

“Pearl Lake was my bathtub all summer,” I said. “A freezing bathtub.”

“Did I just ruin everything?” she asked. “I wanted to have fun, I guess, and you’re so nice. Thoughtful. The opposite of Jake.”

“Jake?” I was trying to remember if that was someone I’d just met at the party.

“The guy who, you know …”

“Yeah. Oh.” I stood and helped her up. “Let’s get you home,” I said.

We avoided the party and snuck around hedges like cat burglars, holding hands and laughing. Jordan was somewhat stumbly but never let go of me. But when I got her to her front door, she panicked, though.

“How will you get home? I didn’t think, Evan. Are you okay to drive?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You should give me your number.”

“You don’t have to call me,” she said. “If this is too weird.

We can just pretend it didn’t happen. Except we’re in Foods, God! Evan, you don’t have to …”

“I’ll call you,” I said, just to make her shut up, as it was making me feel like a dick. Which I was, technically, but it kind of killed me to hear her assume it. She gave me the number and I kissed her one more time and then she went inside.

I walked around Jordan’s neighborhood awhile to sober up. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been since the second Jordan talked to me in Cub Foods. How much work it was pretending to be a normal guy who went to parties and ate candy and played pool and listened to harrowing almost-rape stories. A good, attentive person who thought about others’ feelings.

Finally, I circled back to my car and drove home, thinking about my options.

Quit talking to Jordan? Transfer schools myself? Tell her I have
herpes? That I was bisexual? Drop Foods?

Or just pretend I could handle a girl who’d been hurt like her. Be a guy who didn’t mind if he couldn’t get laid anytime soon. Be
good.

***

When I got home, my dad was standing in the kitchen, holding his cell phone.

“Evan,” he said.

“Dad,” I said, weaving around him to go upstairs.

“Hey,” he said, stopping me on the shoulder. “Have you been drinking?”

I considered denying it. But what was he going to do?

Ground me?

“Yeah, a little,” I said.

“Where’ve you been?”

“At a party. Some people from school.”

“I’m not pleased that you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. Just a few beers.”

“Still, you drove,” he said. “Are we going to have the same problems like this summer?”

You mean, I’m going to fuck some girl whose ex-boyfriend is a
psycho?
I thought.
Or get cock-blocked by you and your split personality?

“I don’t think so, Dad,” I said.

“You shouldn’t drink with your medication,” he said.

“Why, is there some side effect?”

“I don’t know, but …”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It was just a fluke.”

“You’re not in trouble again?”

“Jesus!” I yelled. “You’re acting like I got someone pregnant. I just had some beer.”

He looked stern, like he wanted to yell back.

“Were you drinking because of some … other reason?”

Now I was mad. Not drunk mad. Well, maybe a little. But Jesus Fucking Christ. Why the hell did I have to take crazy pills and go to therapy and write letters about my feelings and learn to
express myself
and
inhabit the fear
and
accept responsibility
but not blame
and all the other famous Dr. Penny catchphrases while he could be the same clueless, closed-down bastard?

“Well, I’m at my seventh goddamn school. No friends.”

“But you said you knew the people at the party …”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” I said. “Just forget it. Just turn on your laptop and tune out. It’s fine.” I started upstairs.

“Evan, goddamnit!” he yelled after me.

“I’m fine!” I yelled back, slamming my door.

The next morning when I woke up, the first thing I thought about was slamming my door like a goddamn drama queen.

The second thing was Jordan and her phone number.

I laid in bed, remembering all the dickish options I’d considered. I thought about Jordan’s yuck face when she was drinking. Her boy haircut, her cold hands. How easy it’d been to tell her about myself—she even took crazy pills too, she told me as I walked her home, though hers were a different brand.

I tried not to think about it too much while I showered and dressed. Sitting on my bed, I could hear my father downstairs, and the idea of having to face him after I’d acted like a brat was awful. So though it was barely noon, I dialed Jordan and asked her if she’d want to hang out. Then I went downstairs and found the first piece of mail I could remember receiving since we started this whole moving bullshit.

Dear Evan,

Hey, how are you?

My mom said you ended up staying in Minnesota. How’s gross
old Marchant Falls High School? Are you enjoying the big pep rallies?

I can just see you sitting there hating that. Our cheerleaders are always ugly for some reason. The girls you want play volleyball or soccer.

Not that they’re slutty girls. You will have to figure that out yourself.

I have faith in you.

College life is very cool. My roommate is nice. Her name is Van-essa and she’s from Alaska. She’s very smart, and we dork out and
listen to music together on Sunday mornings. She taught me to knit.

Can you believe that? I’m not good at it yet, so no sweaters with your
initials on them for Christmas a la Molly Weasley in your future,
don’t worry.

Here’s an interesting fact. In my English class, we’re reading
A Clockwork Orange
! You’d think I’d stage a protest, but actually it’s very good. The whole book has its own language. And it ends
completely different than the movie. Alex grows a conscience—kind
of—and settles down. Not the ending Taber and Jim would want.

Well, maybe Taber. Jim likes everything all outrageous. It’s his man
thing, him wanting to be all badass when he’s really just a nice guy.

I’m like, you’re a quarterback, dumbass, everyone knows you’re in
it not for violence but sex. He thinks he’s so sneaky. I’m sure he’s got
some new chick there in Wisconsin. He won’t admit it to me, still,
like he thinks I’ll break down if I know about him being with someone
else. I mean, I don’t know. I still like him and we talk on the phone
sometimes, but it’s just different. Everything’s different. It matters,
but it doesn’t. You know?

I want to apologize for something. For not saying good-bye to you.