Swell (7 page)

I thought it would be great to get us all together, but it became an Us-Versus-Them showdown that started with someone making a remark about seating arrangements and ending with us being thrown out of a restaurant.

I was sitting at the corner of the table, and Jenna wanted to sit next to me. So did Allison. Like two lions fighting over
a
piece of meat, Jenna and Allison went at it.

“Um, I was going to sit there,” huffed Allison, who stood over Jenna with a bowl of salad, a fork stabbed into a cherry tomato on top.

“Too bad. I’m already here,” said Jenna, ignoring the girl holding salad with lots of oily dressing right over her head.

“I don’t think you understand,” said Allison, stirring the salad with the fork. “I
want
to sit there.”

“Oh, I get it, but I’ve been sitting next to Beck since third grade, and I’m not about to stop now for a snotty bitch.”

The bowl of salad was now on Jenna’s head, dripping radishes and green onions down her tendrils and into her shirt. The fork was hanging upside down from her bangs.

Jenna stood up, ripped the bowl off her head and threw it at Allison. She ducked and the bowl hit the wall and broke into a million shards. The other people in the restaurant didn’t know whether to run or watch. The manager escorted us out of the place, with Jenna threatening to slash Allison’s tires if she ever got close to her again. Always bold, always strong, Jenna was especially so with salad dressing and utensils in her hair.

So, when I kept hanging out with Allison, Jenna was all over it.

“She’s using you. I know it. Nobody is honest who looks and acts like that, and thinks she’s
all that
.”

Truth was, Allison was a great drinking partner. Where Jenna would stop short of two beers, Allison went head-to-head in the race to finish a 12-pack. She said her tolerance came from years of keeping up with the boys, and that it just felt good to be buzzed.

There was another advantage to hanging out with Allison — her brother was a beer delivery guy. All she had to do was beg a favor from him and we’d have free beer. My allowance didn’t allow for the pimping of a 12-pack each week, but there was no way I could wait because I needed
something
more than my parents’ wine to get me through the week. Allison’s brother was a dream come true.

With the logistics for getting beer figured out,
there were only a few weeks of summer left before we would return to school. This would be Christian’s senior year, and I cried at the thought of having to endure two years of high school without him. Yes, I was thinking that far ahead and assumed we would be together. But at the rate we were going in the dating department, it might as well be three years. Thoughts of Allison’s warnings and Hillman’s comment about “the threat” also made me feel more anxious about what was to come.

             
Chapter 8
             

I fell to the floor with no sound than
ks to the loopy rug covering
the hardwood. It was like the first time I’d ever pushed up on my tummy as a baby, straining to bring my neck and head high enough off
the ground
. Everything was wavy, like during an earthquake, and covered with a thin film of Vaseline across my eyes. My arms pulled me across the rug
until I was at the wood
.

From there I was able to slide more easily
, my hands using their sweaty
stickiness to pull my frame like a serpent across the room. I made it to the
dark hallway
and just climbed and clawed with every bit of strength toward something, somewhere. I was
almost to an open door, and
planned to slide into whatever room that was and find a hiding place, until a foot slammed down on my leg and stopped me.

≈

“My Dad wants you to do another mural,” said Christian, kicking back on the couch and flipping through television channels. We had spent the afternoon filling up on chardonnay. Gone were the makeout sessions and when we did kiss it was short-lived, stiff
, and impersonal. As Christian went further away in the physical sense, I chased him right back, insisting on the decent courtesy of a goodnight kiss or a little hug.

Whether his son wanted to really be with me or not, the opportunity to paint another mural for Dr. Rusch was too tempting to pass up. I enjoyed doing the first one, and loved calculating how much beer the money would buy.

“Sure. I’d love to. Should I give him a call tonight?”

“No, let me tell him,” he said, landing on a rerun and putting his arm around me. I was ready for the usual nothing of the gesture. After all, what could I expect when my boyfriend no longer wanted me?

Christian’s hand moved off my shoulder and onto my boob. I held my breath, excited about the prospects of the simple grope, but anticipating disappointment. Would he stop there? Would he want to go a step further?

He reached under my blouse and I responded like a dry sponge in a pool of water, soaking up the warmth of his skin next to mine. I brought my hands under his shirt and held on to his muscular flesh.

“Do you want to go to your room?” I hoped he would say yes and we’d escape to the broom closet. Instead, his hand escaped my blouse, and I cursed myself for ruining the moment.

“Not right now,” he said, looking at his watch and then at me. “I need to get you home.”

“But it’s only 3:30!” The sun was up. The sky was blue. We’d had our hands on each other just a moment ago.

“I need to meet someone at the track.”

He was using the exercise excuse again!

“But you trained yesterday. Can’t you spend some time with me?” I tried putting my hands back under his shirt, but he brushed them away and stood up.

“Let’s go,” he said, taking his keys and heading out the door like he always seemed to do. I remained on the couch, stunned. He didn’t so much as come back in to see why I hadn’t come out. After a minute, I threw my hands in the air and followed. He was in the car, flipping through CDs as if it was any other day and he was simply waiting for me.

The ride back to my house was deathly silent. My fingernails dug into my palms as I went over what I did wrong. Then I thought about how I needed just one more beer, and scratched harder into my flesh because I knew there was nothing to drink once I got home.

Christian pulled into the driveway and sat there, hand draped over the steering wheel as I looked ahead, waiting for him to say something… anything.

“I’ll call you later, okay?” I said, breaking the ice.

“Sure, call me later.” He nodded.

When it was obvious that he wasn’t going to kiss me, I got out of the car, and he immediately backed away. I waved to him, but he ignored the gesture and continued looking straight ahead, driving away like a bullet train.

I tore my room apart looking for something. I’d had a few airline nips of whiskey that Allison had given me, but they were empty. I placed them in my pocket and headed to the trashcans, stopping at the fridge on the way to see what I could pilfer from there. Just a little wine, not enough for me to have and not be detected by the parental police. At the trashcans, I sank to the ground and cried.

“Of all days, when I need it most,” I muttered.

Not one to wallow in my slop, I gave Allison a call to see if she wanted to hang out. It wasn’t her I wanted, but her easy access to booze.

“Will’s on vacation, so no brewsky. We can go to the mall or something else instead,” she said without a care. In this way she was like Jenna, not feeling the sense of security I did in knowing a drink was stashed somewhere — my liquid safety net. She couldn’t appreciate the instant calm a tiny swig brought me or the pounding headache its denial caused.

“Aw, that’s okay. Just thought a little partying would be fun. I should probably study instead.” My excuse, though poor, was necessary. I didn’t want to cruise the mall, or hang out with someone I otherwise detested were it not for her beer connection.

My need did not go away, however. I was on a mission, and it was time to pimp.

Tony’s was the closest place that I could walk to. I only had a few dollars, enough to get a tall can of malt liquor. Buzz-wise, it was the equivalent of two beers. With more bang for the buck, it would be my choice.

The first guy I approached was a contractor type, about my dad’s age, hopping out of his muddy stakebed truck. I could smell the day on him.

“I don’t buy for kids,” he said in a gruff voice, walking into the store. The Mexicans snickered at me, the poor white girl who didn’t score.

The next guy was younger. A bit greasy and tall, wearing a black Ramones t-shirt. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. He looked like a tweaker.

“Can you buy me a tall can?” He looked at the dollar bills crumpled in my hand.

“What do I get out of it?” My paltry sum wasn’t enough to convince him to buy one stupid beer for me.

“Look, just one tall can and you can keep the change.”

“No.” He waited. My mind figured that he was probably an okay person, even if he was a bit strange and pale. There were no track marks on his arms, and he could have been a rock star for all I knew.

“Get me a beer and we can drink it together,” I said, shocked at my suggestion. He looked me up and down, considering the proposition for a moment.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“Okay.” He took my money and went into the store. Now the Mexicans looked curious, wondering if I’d really go off with the guy. I thought twice about it, too, but he already had my money and I wanted my beer. When he came out with a big bag, I congratulated myself for the idea of going with him, wherever that was.

We went to the beach, down between the boulders that lined the railroad tracks. Here, you could sit and watch the surf, feel the rumble of the trains and not be seen by anyone. Perfect for drinking.

His name was Steve. He was 22 and worked in a recording studio. Not the music kind, but one where they recorded jingles and radio commercials. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment and didn’t have a girlfriend.

I told him my name was Cherise and that I was getting ready to go to college on a dance scholarship. I said I’d had a crazy-nervous day and wanted a beer, and that Steve looked like a cool guy to hang with. Flattered, Steve grinned big and opened the first beer for me.

I drank and crushed each can before shoving them into the boulders, their silver tops glistening in the sunset. My foot was wedged between two rocks and somehow it ended up between Steve’s legs. Had he moved closer to me? I couldn’t remember because it was all going in velvet slow motion.

Suddenly, Steve was kissing me. His tongue darted in and out of my mouth, and he tasted like beer and cigarettes. My mind, fuzzy and trying to forget the day, decided to pretend that Steve was Christian. I was so good at tricking myself that I wasted no time grabbing Steve behind the head, pulling him deeper into the kiss. He responded by easing me down on the sand and laying on top of me. He rubbed back and forth in a dry hump against my jeans, and it was nice and fun to fantasize — until he reached down to unzip my fly.

“Hey!” I sat up.

Steve fell back, his searing mad face burning back at me.

“Hey what? What’s wrong with you?” he yelled back.

“I’m not doing that. We’re done. This is done.” I stood up to leave, but my head was spinning.

He caught up to me and stood in my path. My eyes were alive with the fear of being alone on the beach with a guy I didn’t know. Looking at Steve again, I saw that his pasty skin was marked with scabs. There was a booger flapping in and out of his left nostril. And he was rail-thin, except for the erection he’d developed from our makeout session.

“So you’re gonna fucking get me to buy you beer, make out with me and then leave? I don’t think so,” he shouted into my face.

“I’m done,” I said, wishing I had my keys with me so I could at least jab them in Steve’s eyes.

“You’re a fucking tease.” He threw his beer into the frothy surf, where it disappeared under a wave.

“Yeah, well I’m only 15, so you better leave me alone, asshole.” I sidestepped him and staggered down the beach, not looking back to see if he was following me.

After the Steve incident, thoughts of what could’ve happened ran through my mind. It wouldn’t stop — pictures of him taking me somewhere in his truck and not letting me out, dragging me into the bushes lining the beach. Taking me back to wherever he lived and locking me in a little box with a single air hole. It all went through my mind. But none of that happened. I’d gotten my beer and then some.

The next time I went off with someone for buying me beer, I was more selective, allowing my gut instinct to lead the way. I wasn’t going to hang with a grandpa in baggy powder blue pants and a yellow polo shirt, or someone sleeved and pierced from head to toe. But I’d be careful to look, feel and listen to what my insides said and then go for it when opportunity knocked.