The One That I Want (13 page)
Read The One That I Want Online
Authors: Allison Winn Scotch
“Everyone knows.” Dante shrugs. “Pretty awesome. Coaching for UW.”
“Word travels fast,” I say, my vision reverberating: the U-Haul, the packing, the boxes, the damp, depressing beat of the steady rain.
What can I do to rewind that? What can I do to make that record skip, throw it off course?
“You know this town.” He shrugs. I nod because I do. There are no secrets here. “Anyway, still pretty awesome. And I don’t even care about stuff like that. I hope it works out for you guys.” He strides toward the street. “Anyway, thanks. See you Wednesday.”
His skinny frame lopes down the block, fading smaller, then smaller still, until I see his doll-sized figure exit on a side street. Though of course, I remind myself, it’s not an exit at all. Not out of here, anyway.
We’re all stuck
. For once, maybe Darcy is right.
O
n Saturday, I wake up to my underwear sagging—clinging and uncomfortable—and as I mope to the bathroom, I know this can mean only one thing. I tug down my underwear and yes, there it is, a quarter-sized stain, ruby red and nearly a perfect circle, reminding me, irrationally, of cranberry sauce. Because, I suppose, as I splash cool water over my cheeks and stare at myself for a beat too long in the mirror—my puffy, exhausted eyes, my sallow cheeks—a Thanksgiving side dish is much easier to stomach, figuratively, of course.
The house is muted, though I can hear a faint echo of a newscast humming from the guest room. My father has taken to waking early, and on the days when he’s not needed at the store, he more or less parks in the den with CNN as his only company. I know he’s attempted to woo Adrianna back—I overheard him pleading his case two nights ago when I shuffled into the kitchen on a quest for a one a.m. Nutter Butter pig-out—and I also know that she has rebuffed him, so mostly, he sits there, quiet, not asking for too much, minding his sobriety like it is something that requires constant vigilance—a science project, a soufflé.
It is already about a million degrees outside, though barely past 7:30
A.M
., and the leather on the seat of the SUV sets my shoulder blades on fire. I crouch over, leaning on the steering wheel as I drive, the town mostly still asleep, or if not asleep, mostly still stirring behind closed blinds, deserted front yards littered with baseballs, drooping petunias, the occasional smashed shards of an old beer bottle.
My dad’s house is much like I left it a few days back. The mildewy stink is now so offensive, it’s nearly visible, the humidity intensifying it like gasoline to fire. I inhale, hold my breath, and scamper through. I’d meant to come over and clean, of course, but in light of everything, it doesn’t seem to matter. In light of the fact that I might suddenly be able to see the future and not at all relish what it is that I am seeing, well, his mounds of dank socks and his molding pizzas in the fridge can wait.
The basement, though, offers reprieve. No smell, other than that pungent, stale, basement-y smell. No heat—it’s been trapped outside the cellar door. I’m not quite sure why I’m back here, what I’m looking for, only that when I woke up this morning, with the cranberry sauce in my underwear and the dread
(dread!)
of my husband returning home later this evening, I jiggered my brain into thinking that maybe I could find an answer here, start to uncover what it is that Ashley Simmons has done to me and how, maybe, I can change it back. Or how—and this may be what I want even more—how I can change what it is that I’m seeing.
The box, that old one my mother had packed up before either of us knew that she’d be gone so quickly, is right where I left it, just before I blacked out. The Tyler picture, of all of us down at the lake during that last gasp of summer, has fluttered to the floor, landing perfectly upright against a jug of old paint.
I grab it and yank it toward me, peering closer for clues. But it
looks exactly as it did before: a portrait of ruby-cheeked teenagers, inhaling the sunshine of that unmarred summer day, no consideration for the future that had yet to unfold. I toss the yellowed newspaper out of the box, digging in deeper, looking for answers. I unearth my old camera, my old 35 mm, manipulating it, examining it, an archaeologist filtering through the past to reason with the future.
I mull over my premonition of my father, of the night before he drove into that tree, before Timmy Hernandez called with the news.
Where was I?
In bed. No, no. At my bureau. Looking at old pictures.
Looking at old pictures!
I throw my hands inside the box, faster now, furiously, searching for another one, another photo that can confirm whatever just clicked inside of me. Frantically, my fingers latch onto something, and I pull out an old black-and-white shot of Luanne. The image is too close on her face, mostly nostrils and eyelashes, so she’s virtually unrecognizable. But I remember it, I remember that shot, remember handing the camera to Darcy on an early June afternoon, when the three of us were entertaining each other in the backyard, bored, making our own fun. Back before everything, back when I was still Silly Tilly. A lifetime ago. Luanne had splayed herself on a towel and fallen asleep sunbathing, and Darcy flitted over, pressing—
click
—right up into her face, just before I ran over and showered her with frigid hose water. We laughed and laughed, and Luanne pretended to be mad, but she never had it in her to stay mad for long, so pretty soon she joined us, and then we went inside for Cokes.
I stare at the picture, willing something to take me over, something other than this memory of an easier, freer life, but nothing comes.
Darcy took this one
, I think.
Darcy took this shot. Not me
.
And then I remember the Polaroid, the one of Susanna that’s at the bottom of my purse. I spin toward the stairs, taking them double, checking my watch. I have exactly eighty-seven minutes
before I have to meet Luanne for breakfast. She called last night looking for a solid, sound, hopeful voice, and I knew she didn’t trust her body to maintain this pregnancy, not when she’d miscarried three months ago, so we agreed to meet for pancakes once Charlie went down for his nap.
As if pancakes—and babies—are the answer to everything
.
Eighty-seven minutes
. I have no idea how long I was out the other two times, but maybe not that long. Or maybe longer. But I have to test it, I have to see. I find my bag nudged under the leg of the front hall console table and snap it open, fishing my fingers to the bottom, where I pull out the Polaroid in triumph.
I dash to the couch and sit and stare at the image of my best friend, depleted that day on my purple love seat, depleted, really, over the course of so many days. I stare and I sit and I stare, and I wait for it to come. I feel it then. The cramp. The pain. The jolt of the fever spreading through me, through my limbs, through my guts, through my core. And then, I lay back, and I let it happen, hoping desperately that what I see won’t ruin me; hoping desperately that I haven’t gotten myself in too deep.
The auditorium is dark, whispers smattering across the crowd, programs rumpling, younger siblings stirring in their seats. Darcy
(Darcy!)
glances toward the stage and, with a quick nod, begins the intro to
Grease;
I’d know the melody anywhere. The dilapidated garnet curtain pulls back, then gets stuck halfway, and then gets tugged all the way back, to reveal the motley Westlake cast. Wally Lambert, the senior class theater nerd, is sporting a cheap-looking leather jacket that the costume department has had on hand for decades, too-tight jeans rolled at the hem that do his hourglass figure no favors, slicked-back hair that’s been infused
with way too much hairspray, and blindingly white Nikes, which, I suppose from my perch just offstage, his mother bought for the new school year and he’s wearing now because costuming forgot to budget for his shoes. CJ is behind him, center stage, in a waist-hugging poodle skirt and pink cardigan, tapping her feet from side to side, making faux-googly eyes at him—her Sandy to his Danny
.
Backstage, Susanna is next to me, and because I do not yet understand what I am capable of and equally as important, what I am
not
capable of in these time warps, I reach out to touch her shoulder. I tap her, and then I pat her, and then I nearly shove her, but she doesn’t respond
. It’s as if I’m not even here,
I think. Yes, I realize, I am mashed in an incomprehensible space between mind and matter, memory and perception, now and then
.
Wally is snapping his fingers and grooving his body—the best that he can, because while he was born with a killer tenor, his sense of rhythm is always slightly off—and then he jumps into a stance, pointing his finger and furiously whirling himself into the big moment
. “Go greased lightning, you’re burning up the quarter mile!”
CJ and the rest of the Pink Ladies pop up:
“Greased lightning, go greased lightning!”
The crowd starts clapping along, and Wally, with his zest for the overdramatic, runs with it, his finger flaring out now, taking on a life of its own, the Pink Ladies, most of whom are just trying to keep a straight face, cooing behind him
.
The audience is getting into it, and I hear Wally’s mom let out a “Whoop!” so I peek out just beyond the curtain toward them. Darcy is furiously pounding out the chords, as if her mettle as an artist is actually being measured in any way by this production, while three band members, freshmen whom I vaguely recognize but can’t yet name, struggle to keep up
,
struggle to stay in tune. The saxophonist hits a particularly rancid note in that final
Greased lightning!
chorus, but Wally is singing so loudly that I might be the only one—well, and Darcy, yes, her with her perfect pitch—who notices
.
I scan the crowd before the lights dim for the next scene and spot my father toward the back, looking slimmer, less drawn, content. I see Eli Matthews crouching near the middle aisle, snapping a camera up toward the stage. I search for Tyler, but either he is not there or he simply can’t be seen from my angle. Then I find Luanne, looking plump, not too uncomfortable, just a tiny burst of a stomach giving the first public hint of her pregnancy. And I feel myself relax, knowing her fears are unfounded, that the tiny embryo that has latched on inside of her won’t give way
.
I am slipping back; I can sense that I am running out of time and falling backward into reality, when I turn again toward Susanna, though it takes a moment to find her in the darkness. There she is, back near the scrim, the light from the stage bouncing off her flushed skin, her flourishing cheekbones. Her hands are knotted around a man’s waist; his back is to me, but already, because I have known him for so many years, I know that this isn’t Austin. This man is more wiry, his posture more upright, thicker, wilder tufts of hair on his head
.
I want to yell out to her, to say
, What the hell are you doing?
but it’s too late for that, and I’m in tune enough by now to know that there’s no point anyway. The sands in the hourglass have whittled down to nothing, and as the last grains fall through this void of time, they take me with them, and just like that, I am gone
.
I insist that Luanne get her pancakes to go. She is less than pleased, disgruntled even, but because I’m so adamant, jiggling my knee at the checkout, barking at old Marian Heckly, who has punched the cash register here since we were teenagers and whose hair has gone from brunette to faded brunette to midnight blue to steel-wool blue, to hurry the heck up with our change, Luanne acquiesces.
“You’re going to be fine,” I say to her as the car overruns the curb outside Susanna’s house. “Trust me, you’re going to be fine.”
She chases me down the walkway, my spare keys to Susie’s poking out like a joist from my fingers.
“How can you be so sure?” she says—with good reason, I suppose, though it annoys me all the same. Because since when does Luanne start questioning me, and since when is she the one to worry about anything?
