The Key to the Golden Firebird (11 page)

“I have this wire that's making me crazy…,” she mumbled. “And the front keeps getting stuck on my…Ow. Ow. My rings are…Oh, I think I may be bleeding.”

May struggled for something to say.

“I don't know if he really likes them,” Nell managed as she rummaged around in her bustier.

“Likes what?” May asked as the horrifying image of Pete examining the knocker knockers leapt into her brain.

“Tattoos.”

“Oh.” May sighed. “Right. Tattoos.”

“I'm totally caught here,” Nell said as she pulled a napkin from one of the dispensers and plunged it down into the depths. “I'm seriously stuck.”

Do not expect me to help you,
May thought.
You are on your own.

“This
always
happens.” Nell groaned, rummaging and pulling like crazy now. “But with studs it would even be worse, you know? I…oh. Got it. Thank God.”

She tugged the bustier up and arranged herself. Pete emerged from the bathroom just as Nell's performance was complete.

“You look nice,” May said in her clearest this-is-a-sincere-yet-obligatory-remark voice. But he did actually look nice, even though the sleeves of the jacket were a bit too short. The gravity of the suit really made him seem adult, something she'd never thought possible with Pete.

Pete stared down at the suit, unbuttoned the bottom button, then quickly rebuttoned it. He must have seen the extra space at the ends of his sleeves in the process, because he jammed his hands deep in the jacket pockets.

“I guess we should go,” Nell said. “You're sure you're going to be all right?”

“I think I'll manage.”

“Here are my keys,” Nell said, pulling a Hello Kitty key chain out of her bag. “And don't worry about doing the bank deposits. Someone will do them tomorrow.”

“I never do them anyway….”

“And if you have any problems, you can call Ann on her cell. Mine's going to be off.”

With that, Nell skittered off in the direction of the door. Pete turned to follow, smiling a good-bye at May.

“Have fun,” May said.

“We will,” Nell said, grabbing Pete's arm and pulling him along.

May walked over to the window when they were far enough away and watched Pete's Cutlass disappear through the line of shrubs that separated the shopping center from the road. The parking lot was nearly deserted. A big white moon was just coming into view in a lavender evening sky.

It was only seven thirty. She would be here until eleven,
engulfed in the odor of overroasted coffee and the chill breeze of the air conditioner, guarding her empty tables and doing homework. May pressed her hand against the window and left a soft print that quickly faded away. She rubbed at the spot with the edge of her apron and stared across at SuperDrug. She remembered that whenever she'd go in there with her dad to pick up soap or bleach, he'd always have to buy something by the front counter, like a pack of mini–Snickers bars or some barbecue potato chips. Or they'd stop and get a double-dip cone from the ice cream stand (“they're only open three months a year”). There was always a reason, some little celebration, some splurge. He seemed to see every day as a special event.

May turned away from the window. This night was bad enough without dragging up any of
that
. She went back behind the counter. At the very least, she could use the time to try to search for the label maker and fix her name tag. At least that would be constructive.

 

The ladies' room in the catering hall was divided into two parts—the stall-and-sink room and the bizarre “ladies' parlor” area. This was overstuffed with silk flowers, plush pink carpeting, beaded glass light fixtures, and prints of shy ballerinas waiting to go onstage. There were two marble-topped mirrored makeup tables, a full-length mirror, and several chairs in this antechamber, inviting all users of the rest room to recline and breathe in the overwhelming fragrance of woodland rose potpourri and listen to the cascade of flushing toilets. Brooks and Jamie had taken them up on this generous offer several times this evening.

“Okay,” Jamie said, shuffling through her red silk drawstring bag. “Anyone coming?”

Brooks cracked open the door and peered into the hall. Nothing but the lingering smell of sterno and a staff member pushing an empty coatrack into the lobby.

“No. We're good.”

“We got Jack. We got Jim. Who do you want?”

“Jack,” Brooks said.

“Jack.” Jamie nodded, pulling a tiny bottle of Jack Daniel's from her purse. “Here you go. I'll take Mr. Jim.”

“How did you get all of these?” Brooks asked.

“My dad is a frequent flyer,” Jamie said, breaking the seal on her little bottle. “Ready?”

Brooks unscrewed the cap and nodded. On Jamie's nod they tipped the small bottles back and sucked down the contents. Jamie quickly passed her empty over to Brooks, who had a disposable hand towel ready and waiting. She wrapped up the evidence and shoved it deep into a small pink trash can next to her chair, taking a moment to carefully rearrange some of the other discarded towels and tissues over it.

“Okay,” Jamie said, taking another look in her bag. “So, Jim Beam I can do without a chaser, but I am not drinking straight gin. That's disgusting. Ooo…teeny, tiny Absolut vodka.”

She held up a small bottle, grinned, then plunked it back into the bag.

“I swear to God I had a little Grey Goose in here, but I think Dave swiped it. Oh, well.” Jamie rose unsteadily on her open-backed heels and turned to the mirror to rearrange her tight, Chinese-style red cocktail dress. Brooks watched her for a
moment, then reached for her own evening bag and emptied the contents onto the dressing table.

“Look,” she said.

Jamie looked down at the small pile of makeup, keys, and wallet. Brooks pushed the objects around until she revealed a small square of green plastic. Jamie laughed and picked it up.

“Did you just buy these?” she asked. She held on to one edge and dangled the three condoms from her fingertips.

“Yesterday.”

“Are they for tonight?”

“I don't know,” Brooks said, staring at them. “I was thinking tomorrow night, at the party, when we stay over at Dave's. Here.”

She opened up her bag, and Jamie dropped in the condoms.

“Look at you.” Jamie grinned. “All prepared.”

“I don't know if I can get up,” Brooks said.

Jamie reached over and presented her carefully manicured hand. Brooks accepted the help out of the chair.

Back in the main room, about half the people were on the dance floor. The others were huddled in conference around tables. The inseparable couples were in each other's laps. Brooks looked at one of the tables near the door. Pete was there, deep in the throes of telling some story, obviously. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He was waving his arms wildly at some girl in a tight black dress who was laughing hysterically.

For some reason, Brooks found the sight very amusing.

“Oh my God,” Brooks said, pulling Jamie to a stop. “That's Camper.”

“Who?”

“Camper. Peter Camp. Don't you know him?”

Jamie shook her head.

“He's a friend of ours.”

“Who's he with?” Jamie said, leaning in close to Brooks. “Is that Ani DiFranco? All she needs are the dreds and maybe a little more body hair.”

“I have no idea. I thought he was stalking May. I
have
to say something. Come with me.”

Arm in arm, they approached the couple. Pete stopped his gesticulating.

“Pete!” Brooks screamed. “What's going on?”

Jamie laughed politely into her fist, as if coughing.

“We're sitting,” he said. “What's going on with you, Brooks?”

“Who's this?” Brooks asked.

Nell narrowed her eyes a bit.

“This is Nell,” Pete said.

“Nell. Oh,
Nell.
” This was much too loud. Brooks had lost her sense of volume. “You work with May, right?”

“Yes.” Nell nodded. “You know her?”

“She's my sister.”

“May's your
sister
?” Nell said. She carefully looked over the very tall, very blond, very drunk thing in front of her.

“Pete,” Brooks said, throwing herself down in the empty chair on his other side, “have you seen Dave? We're looking for Dave.”

Brooks dropped her head onto Pete's shoulder and began to laugh a loud, snorting laugh, grabbing the front of his shirt for
support. Her head began to slide down, and she left a long smudge of black mascara across his chest.

“Who's Dave?” he asked.

Brooks picked her head up and smiled.

“You want a tiny Absolut?” she said. “Show him, Jamie. Show him.”

“You're kind of falling out there, honey,” Nell said sweetly, pinching the front of Brooks's dress and tugging it up an inch. “You might want to get off your hem.”

Brooks looked down. Her dress was pinned under the leg of the chair, and it was pulling down the entire front.

“Come on,” Jamie said. “Let's go find them.”

“We have to go,” Brooks explained as she stood up and steadied herself. Then, somewhat mysteriously, she added, “Good luck with everything.”

“That's why I don't drink,” Nell said as Brooks and Jamie stumbled off across the floor. “Nothing. No alcohol, no drugs. Not even taurine. Is that really May's sister?”

Pete nodded, watching as Brooks tried to regain a steady gait.

“That's really her sister,” he confirmed.

The next day Dave's parents left town for a Jimmy Buffet Parrothead convention in Key West to drink tequila and sing “Margaritaville” for four days.

Brooks had spent the day in bed, recovering from the prom and resting up for the evening. She'd worked out a cover story about staying at Jamie's, so everything was ready. In the late afternoon she showered and dressed, then tore through her closet looking for the most feminine outfit she owned. This was tricky, since she mostly wore jeans and T-shirts. Of these, she chose the most flattering. She finally chose a blue baby tee that just hit her waistline and her darkest jeans, which made her legs look even longer than they already were. It wasn't that much of a switch from what she normally wore, but it was a nice combination.

She used some of the makeup she'd purchased for the prom. Brooks never wore makeup, so the sensation of having stuff on her face was a little distracting. She could smell the foundation (it reminded her of glue) as she rubbed it into her skin with her fingers. She applied a bit of the blush, then stood back to check the effect. It wasn't even noticeable. She tried again, streaking the brush along her cheekbones up past her eyes.

She took the condoms from her prom purse and considered them, unsure of where they should go. In the end she put two of them in the front pocket of her backpack. The third one
went in the pocket of her jeans, in case she couldn't get to her things when she needed them.

As she came down the stairs, Palmer glanced over and grinned.

“Hey, Ronald,” she said. “Blush much?”

Brooks ran back up and practically sanded down her cheeks. The force of her rubbing only made them redder, until she couldn't tell what was natural and what was cosmetic. After a minute, though, the redness faded, and Brooks was satisfied with the result. Her eyes stood out more. Her lips were pink and slightly wet looking, which was exactly the effect in the ad that had prompted her to buy this lipstick in the first place.

Brooks stayed in her room until Fred arrived at seven to get her. He was on his way back from a beer run. It was a strange sensation, riding along with Fred, making idle conversation over his stereo, knowing what was about to happen to her tonight. This was it. She would walk in a virgin and out—not so much.

Dave lived in a massive new house in a development by the mall. A dozen or so speakers shook the thin, new walls. The noise echoed down the newly paved street of mostly vacant houses. The ground actually had a pulse. There were cars in every available space along the entire length of the road.

“I guess people are here,” Fred observed.

He parked on the next street and didn't seem to worry about being caught carrying two cases of beer to the house. It was crowded already. Some of the people Brooks recognized; many, she didn't. Fred squeezed through a crowd by the door, hoisting the cases over his head. He continued on through the living
room, straight out to a back porch. Brooks was on her own. There was nothing for her to do but go in and wander around until she found Dave or Jamie.

She'd been to Dave's a few times before, but it was a big enough place that there were many parts of it she hadn't really seen. There was something strangely impersonal about the inside of the house. Brooks felt as though if it were destroyed during the course of the night, Dave could just pick up the Pottery Barn catalog and have it back in order within a day.

Every room had its own wonders. The tarp from the swimming pool was stretched over the living room floor, and a keg sat in the middle. There were flaming Dr. Pepper shots on the enclosed porch. The blender was going in the kitchen. A bit of towel stuck out from under one of the bedroom doors where the potheads had barricaded themselves. There was a girl in a vintage eighties prom dress standing on the back deck and shouted the name Gary into a cell phone.

Brooks wound her way down to the furnished basement. It was very dark, and the music was mellow and guitary. There were a few candles burning. This was a more refined group. People sat in all corners of the room, close together, talking. Jamie was there, sprawled out on a piano bench, sipping from an enormous round glass of blue liquid. She was perched above a group of what looked like college guys in retro-chic nerd gear—sweaters, T-shirts, thick glasses—and they were all talking in very deep and sober tones about some band that Brooks had never heard of.

Jamie had taken the opportunity to pull out all the stops. Her black hair was chiseled sleekly behind her ears, she had
long drags of black eyeliner carefully smudged around her eyes, and she wore tight black pants made of some leather-pleather-vinyl-plastic-wrap amalgam.

Brooks looked down at herself. So tall, so plainly dressed. Her muscles, though still well developed, had melted a bit since she'd given up her daily workouts. She did have some glitter on her T-shirt, and she was wearing makeup…but it wasn't the same. Jamie had a perfect, barely tinted glaze on her lips; Brooks's were a childish pinkish red. And she still had a backpack on her back.

“You look great!” Jamie said. “Sit down! Drink.” She pressed her glass into Brooks's hands. Brooks studied the glass. Jamie didn't even drink unfashionably.

“I found that in a cabinet in the dining room,” Jamie explained.

Brooks nodded, taking a sip of the blue liquid. It was a harsh combination. All raw alcohol.

“I've been here since five. Dave's here somewhere,” Jamie said, waving her hand and indicating the entire house. “He's making the rounds.”

As if on cue, Dave strode in with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red in his hand. He had kept his tuxedo from the night before and was wearing the jacket and shirt with a pair of jeans. He hadn't shaved, so his face had a shadowy cast. Seeing Brooks and Jamie, he gathered them up, one under each arm.

“My ladies!” he said. “Come with me.”

Brooks and Jamie headed off on the parade route with Dave, and it soon became apparent to both of them that he had started early. He leaned on them heavily, and he kept accidentally
knocking the bottle into Brooks, where it made contact with her clavicle with a hollow thump. Jamie was too small to offer any support, so Brooks ended up doing the lion's share of the work.

He dragged them from group to group, all people Brooks had never really met before. He did most of the talking, since these people regarded Brooks and Jamie as bits of human architecture. They exchanged amused glances across his chest and passed the bottle back and forth. They wound up their tour by kicking a few people out of the master bedroom and dropping onto the bed. It was covered in a thick, obviously expensive, and very ugly comforter. Brooks put her backpack down to the side and threw her legs up on the bed somewhat gracelessly. Try as she might, she still moved like a jock. Jamie stretched out as well. Dave reclined between them.

Brooks tried to meet Jamie's eye to signal her to leave. Jamie leaned heavily against Dave and wrapped her arms around his chest. Brooks leaned on his other side and crossed her legs in his lap.

“What do you say?” he asked, drawing them both in to his shoulders. “We're all here….”

“You have to be kidding,” Jamie said with a laugh.

“Worth a try.” He shrugged amiably.

Brooks smiled at both of them but was a bit confused as to what was going on. Jamie was clearly out of it—she had buried her face in Dave's neck and seemed to be going to sleep. Dave rummaged around in his pocket.

“Okay,” he said. “Let's play a game.”

“I like games,” Jamie said, her muffled voice taking on an affected little-girl tone.

“Me too,” Brooks said, surreptitiously grabbing one of Jamie's fingers and tugging on it, trying to get her attention.

Dave held up a quarter.

“Jamie is heads….” He balanced it on his thumb. “Brooks is tails. Here we go….”

He flicked the quarter into the air, then slapped it down on his wrist.

“Heads!” he said.

And with that, he passed the Johnny Walker to Brooks and rolled over on top of Jamie. Within seconds they were fully engaged.

Brooks sat there for a moment, holding the bottle, trying to process what she was seeing. She had just been lost in a quarter toss. She stared at her reflection in the television, took a sip of the Scotch, and then quietly slid off the bed. She watched the two of them for just a moment before leaving, waiting to see if this was some kind of joke or if they would try to stop her. But they were both too busy.

She set the bottle down on one of the dressers and left the room. Outside, everything still pulsed. Brooks walked back downstairs. A large guy with a goatee was sitting on the sofa with a bug sprayer at his feet. He regarded it proudly, like it was his pet. As Brooks passed, he held up the nozzle invitingly.

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” he said.

Brooks eyed the sprayer doubtfully.

“It's okay,” said a girl who was now suddenly standing beside Brooks. “I did it. It's good.”

The girl seemed like a bit of a Gap victim, a walking, talking display of khakis and white cotton shirt. But she seemed
somewhat sober and certainly sincere. It was enough of an endorsement for Brooks. She leaned down and closed her eyes, and a fast shot of grain and juice washed down her throat.

“Good?” he asked.

She nodded. He looked pleased.

“More?”

She nodded again and received another spray. Thanking him in a thick voice, Brooks continued across the room and out the French doors onto the patio. She pulled a beer from the outside cooler and sat down at the empty wrought-iron umbrella table to collect her thoughts. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she knew that she was devastated by what she'd just seen. It should have torn her apart that he was lying on top of Jamie right now, and that Jamie had been so willing, and that this had all happened
right in front of her.

But she was just drunk enough to momentarily accept this as part of the reality of the party. Instinct told her that if she drank more, it would become less and less of a problem.

Brooks drained her beer and began peeling off the label.

Suddenly the girl in the prom dress who had earlier been making her repetitive appeal to Gary threw herself down in the chair next to Brooks, put her head down into her hands, and started sobbing uncontrollably. She looked up for a moment and saw Brooks staring at her.

“I hate him!” she screamed. “He said he would call!”

Presumably this was Gary she was talking about. Not that Brooks really cared. Her brain was too busy making mental movies of what was going on in the bedroom.

“I waited,” the girl continued, dribbling rivulets of eye
makeup soup all over her dress. “But he didn't call, and he wasn't picking up, and he was on the phone with her the whole time, and—”

“Shut up,” came an annoyed male voice from somewhere on the opposite side of the patio.

“You want me to shut up?” the girl asked.

A chorus of affirmative noises. The girl threw a knowing glance at Brooks. Brooks held up her hands to the group, indicating that she had no connection to the matter.

“Okay.” The girl sniffed angrily. “Okay. I'll shut up. I won't say another word. I'll just…”

With that, she started slamming her cell phone into the wrought-iron table. Everyone else on the patio backed away from their corner.

“Fountainhead's doing it again,” Brooks heard one guy mumble as he retreated behind the grill.

The girl made a low, animal-like grumble. She started banging other bits of the table to try to make more noise. She beat the phone on the chairs and on the hollow umbrella pole. Then she started a little chant to her own rhythm.

“This…is…me…shutting…up…this…is…me…shutting…up….”

“I have to go,” Brooks explained to her, quickly getting up. The girl was too absorbed now to care whether Brooks was there or not, and she said nothing as Brooks headed for the patio doors.

Sprayer Guy was happy to have a repeat customer.

“It's good, huh?” he said as Brooks took another hit of the punch. She nodded, swallowing hard. The alcohol burned her throat this time.

“Tell your friends!” he called to her as she walked away.

Brooks made her way through the people on the basement floor, the people on the stairs, the people in the upstairs hall waiting for the bathroom, down to the bedroom door. She had made a decision. She would see what was going on.

The bedroom door was closed. She put her hand on the knob and leaned her head against it, trying to hear what was going on inside. Everyone else in the hall was being too loud—laughing too much. She couldn't hear anything. She gently tried the knob.

It was locked.

She was surprised to feel her eyes filling with warm tears.

Brooks backed up and leaned against the opposite wall. She looked down at herself again—the jeans, the stupid T-shirt. Her hair smelled like smoke and her lipstick had eroded. She suddenly wanted out of this place, to get away from all of these people.

“Hey…” A girl had grabbed Brooks by the arm and was pointing to the bathroom. “Where's the puking sink?”

“What?”

“The
puking…sink
?”

The girl kept falling forward, almost hitting her head against the wall.

“It's in there,” Brooks said, pointing at the bedroom door and walking away. “Just keep knocking.”

 

While this was going on, May was at the wheel of Pete's precious Cutlass Ciera, headed right for the center of Philadelphia, which loomed on the horizon, like Oz. She wasn't happy about this, nor did she mean to be here.

It had probably been a mistake to leave her house in the first place, as she was intently studying for her finals. She had taken over the kitchen completely over the course of the last week, writing papers, making flash cards, shifting from subject to subject. But she did have a lesson scheduled with Pete for that night, and she felt like she needed a short study break. He'd shown up and made the observation that highway driving was easier than driving on little roads—that the lines of traffic were neat and well divided and all you had to do was go straight. That had sounded good to May, so she'd agreed to turn onto I-95 and try to go a few minutes up the road.