Leftovers Page 9

  “No, I know you’re not,” he says, all signs of laughter gone. He shifts and rests his wide, steady hands on his gun belt. “Look, let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t put yourself out on the streets at night. If you want to wander around town, do it in the daytime, and don’t ever do it drunk. One wrong choice, one time, and it’s too late.” He smoothes his mustache and watches you both with serious eyes. “You’re good kids, and I really don’t want to be the one to find your bodies lying in the weeds on the side of the road, okay? So relax, will you? Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”

  “We won’t,” you say, peeking up at him from beneath your hair.

  “Are you mad at us?”

  “No.” He clears his throat. “Let’s just say I’ve gotten used to seeing your smiling mugs and I want to keep it that way.” He holds out his hand. “So are we square?”

  Happiness blooms and you seize his hand. “Square.”

  “You guys need me, you call. I’ll be watching out for you.” He shakes Ardith’s hand, too, and trains his spotlight on your front door until you wave an “all clear.”

  The night goes flat. New Year’s Eve. Big deal. You wander back to the mess in the family room, toss the joints on the bar, and plunk down on the couch.

  “He always shows up when we’re being stupid,” Ardith says, curling up on the opposite end of the couch. “Maybe he’s like our guardian angel or something.”

  “Maybe.” You’d like to believe, but it’s hard when your thighs are covered in fading, finger-shaped bruises and Ardith’s wearing a black eye.

  You surf until you find a televised New Year’s Eve celebration, but it’s so boring you both fall asleep before the clock strikes midnight.

  When you wake up, you have your feet jammed against Ardith’s butt for warmth and your mother is standing over you, fresh from the cold and looking mad as hell.

  Before Ardith takes over, I want to make sure my parents’ choices are clearly credited and defined, not rewritten or whitewashed with lawyerspeak.

  Oh, do I sound bitter? Funny. What would I have to be bitter about?

  No, I don’t want any more water. Thanks. I just want to get this over with.

  So I woke up on New Year’s Day with horrible cramps and before I could even pull the room into focus, I saw my mother looming over me, her furious face perched on top of a fat, hairy dog’s body.

  She pointed a human hand and snapped, “What is this?”

  The bar was littered with open liquor bottles, an empty orange juice container, a silver cocktail shaker, brimming ashtray, and two joints.

  My mother yanked off her new coyote coat and tossed it over the armchair.

  The fur was thick and gleaming. Tipped with beige and gold.

  I couldn’t stop staring at it.

  “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.” She glanced at Ardith, who was awake but pretending not to be, then back at me. “Where did you get those slutty clothes?”

  I tugged at the sparkly, black tube top and matching tube skirt. Nudged the satin platforms farther under the couch. Ardith was wearing the same outfit, only in red. “I bought them.” My voice was hoarse from sleep.

  “I see.” She picked up a joint, examined it, and looked at me.

  “So you had a party last night. Brilliant. Make me liable for every minor in town. Who else was here?”

  “Nobody.” I was shivering. Cramping.

  She laughed without humor. “Right. Let me remind you of what I do for a living, Blair. I represent the defendant. The one accused of screwing up. To successfully do that, I have to out-think everyone; my client, the prosecution, the jury, everyone. I’ve made men cry on the stand and veteran cops turn on each other.” She perched on the edge of the coffee table. “I’m not the one you want to lie to, little girl.”

  I couldn’t look away.

  “Nobody else was here, Mrs. Brost,” Ardith said, sitting up and smoothing her outfit. Her voice was strained. “It was just us.”

  My mother ignored her. “Why would you do this, Blair?” she said, pulling one of my platforms out from under the couch. Her eyebrows rose at the sight of the scuffed, worn sole. “Especially now, when you know how important it is for us to remain above reproach.” She tossed the shoe on the floor and stood up. “Well?”

  I glanced at Ardith.

  My mother swooped down, gripped my chin between her fingers, and turned my face to hers. “Don’t look over there. Look over here. Why did you do this?”

  I twisted away. My heart was pounding and my abdomen cramping. “I’m sorry, okay? It was no big deal. Nothing happened.”

  “Wrong.” My mother was as lethal as lightning. “Something has happened, and it’s not going to happen again.” She glared at Ardith. “Are you local?”

  “Um…yes,” Ardith said, drawing back into the couch and staring up at her.

  “Good,” my mother said. “Get your things and go home. My daughter does not need your negative influence and you won’t be welcome here again.”

  “Mom, no.” My period was punishing me. “Don’t blame her.”

  “I’m not going to pursue this matter any further,” my mother continued, displaying the joints. “But if I find out you’ve been around here—and rest assured, I will find out—then I’m going to initiate legal action.”

  “It’s not her fault,” I ground out, doubled over with cramps.

  “Do you understand what I mean by ‘legal action’?” she said, never taking her eyes off Ardith’s pasty face. “Do you understand that I can tie your family up in court for years? Do you know how expensive that will be?”

  “Don’t,” I yodeled as she escorted an unresisting Ardith out through the front door and closed it firmly behind her.

  Chapter 10

  Ardith

  Blair’s mother caused some really bad heartache and while I’d like to say it’s over now and I don’t hold a grudge, I’d be lying. Mrs. Brost can rot in hell for all I care. Now I understand why Blair was so hung up on the “intent” aspect of Wendy’s death.

  Because her mother screwed me, too.

  Just like she intended.

  Chapter 11

  Ardith’s Story

  The frigid air slaps you awake. You stand on the front steps and look blankly around the cul-de-sac. Nothing stirs. Is it early? Probably. Who knows? The only absolute is that your bladder is full and clamoring for release.

  You press your legs together, wanting to hold yourself like a little kid. You’ll never even make it to the end of the block.

  But you can’t go back in there. You can’t. Oh God, you have to.

  You knock. Mrs. Brost answers and you mumble your request.

  She hesitates and you inch forward, knowing the only way you’re going to make it now is with a running start.

  “No,” Mrs. Brost says and closes the door in your face.

  “But I have to go,” you say stupidly to the closed door and then, as if to reinforce your statement, pee seeps into your panty hose.

  Shock flings you down the steps, around the side of the house and behind a dwarf, spike-leafed holly bush. You yank at your clothes, squat and hide your face as steam rises around you.

  Few people see you trudging the length of Main Street in splattered, red satin platforms and a creased, glittering mini. Of those who do, several honk and shout offers. You wrap your arms around your waist, making yourself a smaller target.

  Clop. Clop. Clop. Your thighs are chapped and raw, your face burning and your head throbbing. Happy New Year. One minute you’re sleeping, lost in dreams, and the next Blair’s mother is staring down at you like you’re dog crap stinking up her lawn.

  You’re a bad influence. Stay away from my daughter.

  You punch a mailbox as you pass and wince as the tremors penetrate your benumbed knuckles. Stupid move. No point in getting excited. Mrs. Brost will bitch today and be gone again by tomorrow. She has no reason to stick around.

  Nothing’s going to change.r />
  You creep into your house. Nobody’s awake yet so you shower, change into sweats, brush your teeth, and make coffee. Have a cigarette right at the table, blowing smoke rings to the rhythm of the ratcheting snores echoing in from the bodies cluttering the TV room.

  You think about calling Blair, but don’t. Why give her mother another chance to humiliate you? This is worse than being condemned because of your last name. This is personal and the force of the injustice makes you boil.

  You’re not bad. You would never hurt Blair. And Officer Dave likes you, even though he knows about your family. Mrs. Brost doesn’t even know your name.

  You haul the ham out of the fridge, jab it full of cloves, and put it in the oven to bake. Whip up a big batch of blueberry pancakes and set the bowl aside until you feel like ending your solitude and luring in the masses. Set out plates, silverware, butter, syrup, and powdered sugar.

  There. You’ve done everything right.

  You kick back with another cigarette and when Phone Dent wanders in from the TV room, scratching his stomach and yawning, you even manage a civil greeting. “Morning. Coffee’s on, if you want some.”

  “Good deal,” he says, giving you an odd look before pouring a cup. His hair is whorled, his jeans sag on his skinny hips, and a carpet pattern mottles his cheek. “You missed one helluva party,” he says, rubbing his bleary eyes and sipping his coffee. His face lights up and he lifts the cup in tribute. “Good stuff. Better ’n Connie’s.”

  “Thanks,” you say, because it’s not often a compliment heads your way. “There are blueberry pancakes for breakfast later, too.” You stop, wondering why you’re telling him this. Why you’re talking to him at all. He’s a jerk, a pig, and a user, just like the rest of them. Just like what you’re never going to be.

  “Oh yeah,” he says, and his mouth creaks into a sleepy grin.

  “I’m there. Call me when they’re ready.” He winks and slouches back into the TV room.

  You watch him go, bitter heat spreading through your veins. You jab out your cigarette, drain your mug, and spoon batter into the frying pan. Cook three whopper pancakes and slap them onto a plate. You’re in the midst of drowning the butter-smeared tops in syrup when Phone Dent wanders back in.

  “Smells good,” he says, leaning against the counter next to you.

  “Tastes better,” you say, stuffing a forkful into your mouth and chewing. “Yum. Have at it.” You pick up your plate and mug.

  “What? Hey, I thought you were making them,” he says, frowning.

  “Nope.” You point to the batter bowl. “All the pancakes in the world are right there waiting for you. Enjoy.” You stroll to your room, a deafening silence in your wake and a small triumph under your belt. You finish your breakfast while reading a podiatry book and thinking about what will happen come tomorrow. Mrs. Brost should be gone again by then. You’ll see Blair at school and laugh at how stupid people are to think they can keep you apart.

  Only when you get to school her mother’s black Mercedes is hogging two spaces in the courtyard parking lot and Blair gazes out at you from behind the tinted glass. Her mother lowers her sunglasses and gives you a steady look over the rims.

  You stumble and keep walking, past the car, up the steps, and into the vestibule. Down the hall to an empty classroom, where you watch the bustling courtyard from the corner of the window until the bell rings and Blair stalks through the crowd into the school.

  You run to meet her, scanning the surge of oncoming traffic, but can’t find her. Some clod steps on your flopping shoelace and nearly gives you whiplash. You crouch, disappearing into a sea of scissoring legs to retie your shoe.

  Gary, the BK Romeo, stops in front of you and, grinning, says, “Hey Ardith, while you’re down there…”

  “Go to hell,” you say, brushing him off.

  “Save me a seat between you and your lezzie girlfriend,” he says, smirking.

  You shoot up from the floor. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Like you don’t know,” he drawls, facing you as he ambles away.

  “Sounds more like you don’t know,” you say, holding on to your shaky, lirgas attitude with everything you’ve got. Of all the people who could’ve repeated ninth grade, why did it have to be him?

  “New Year’s Eve?” he says in a loud, taunting voice that earns more than a few curious glances. “You and your girlfriend down on Main Street, getting picked up by the cops?” He cocks his head and grins. “I saw you guys hanging all over each other.” He squeezes his mouth into a kissy face. “Look familiar?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, but it sounds lame even to you.

  “Hey, I saw what I saw,” he says, shrugging and burying his hands in his pants pockets. “If you don’t believe me, ask Marvin. He was there, too.”

  “Where?” you ask, knowing you shouldn’t.

  “The pool hall right across the street,” he says. “What, do you think you and your girlfriend are the only people out on New Year’s Eve?”

  Your brain is scrambling to deflect this ambush, but it’s crippled by the unexpected shock. Of all the people who had to see you with your arm around Blair…. You struggle for a worthy defense but the bell rings.

  Gary turns and, whistling, fades into the crowd.

  You smooth the tension from your face and bolt into homeroom. Slide into your seat. Notice the odd bubble of silence surrounding you and the whispers threading along the fringes of the room. You look up and around. Stares slip away before you can catch them like a dozen biting horseflies.

  Gary’s gossip couldn’t have gotten this far already.

  So you double-check, but your bra straps aren’t showing and your pants are zipped. You look up and immediately connect with Kimmer Ashton, Jeremy’s girlfriend, who’s perched on the windowsill, swinging her legs and watching you. She holds your gaze for a heartbeat, then blinks, slow and deliberate, and looks away.

  You do, too, but it’s too late to pretend you don’t see her mocking smile. It tells you plenty, like she knows it will, but it doesn’t tell you why, and she knows that, too.

  So you stifle your fear, shrug like you don’t care, and get busy writing your name in your notebook. Homeroom ends in seven minutes and if you drag it out, you can make your preoccupation with penmanship last just about that long. You stare at the page. Your name is a lone bottle floating on an ocean of blue-lined paper. You frown and erase the small, cramped letters. The words disappear but the impression remains and there’s nothing you can do about that.

  The bell finally rings and you bolt down to Blair’s locker. This’ll be your first time late to class all year and you’d rather not ruin a perfect record, but you need to know what happened yesterday and what will happen from now on. And you need to tell her about Gary and Kimmer.

  You meet her halfway.

  “Walk me to class, Ardith, I can’t be late,” she says grimly.

  “So what happened?” you ask, hustling to keep up with her angry strides. She’s cutting a swath down the center of the crowd with all the finesse of a logger’s chain saw.

  “I’m not allowed to hang around with you anymore,” she says, arriving at her classroom and swinging around to look at you. “If I do, my parents are either going to send me to live with my grandmother—and that’s three hours away—or to boarding school.” She tosses her head, but her hair is trapped in an elastic and the ponytail has no attitude; it only flops once and lays still. “Isn’t that great?”

  “What? But they don’t even know me,” you say, panicking.

  “Not even my name!”

  “They don’t care. It has nothing to do with you and everything to do with them,” she says, glancing into the room. “I have to go. For real.” She snorts and gestures to her red sweater and black khakis. “Like my lame outfit? My mother is now supervising my wardrobe because I wasn’t living up to my pristine Brost image. Right.”

  You watch as she reaches into the neck
of her sweater and pulls out a silver locket on a chain. You don’t have to lean close to read the inscription because you were the one who told the jeweler what to write, waiting calmly as the line of impatient Christmas shoppers grew long and cranky behind you.

  The front says, Wendy D 4ever, and on the back, 2 B luv A.

  It’s the first time you’ve seen her wear it.

  A cold hand closes around your heart.

  “First Wendy, now you,” she says, and walks into class without a backward look.

  “You’re going to be late to class, Ardith,” says a passing teacher.

  No you’re not, because you need your perfect record now more than ever, so you take off with the echo of “No running in the hallway!” pounding in your ears. You make it to honors English before the teacher arrives and take your seat, middle row, last desk.

  Gary’s friend Marvin’s in front of you, Kimmer smack in the center of the room.

  You whip open your notebook and find the page where you’d written your name. The impression remains. You still exist.

  “Hey Ardith, I hear you had a hot time on New Year’s Eve,” Kimmer sings out, giving you an arch look. She’s perched on her desk with her feet on the chair, an Abercrombie vulture with perfect teeth and a sixth grade nose job.

  An icicle screws into your stomach. Kimmer doesn’t talk to you and you don’t talk to her. Ever. But she doesn’t talk to Gary or Marvin, either—you all inhabit low rungs on the loser ladder—so this time she must have made an exception.

  The air thins as the class sucks in a collective, anticipatory breath.

  “Kind of a lez-be-friends thing, right?” She smiles and her incisors are pointy.

  “You’re a fucking asshole,” you say and your voice wobbles at the end, right as the teacher walks in. Luckily he’s calling for order and misses your words and the gasps of horrified delight. You turn away, tamp down your rising panic, but the room is too hot and the teacher blurs into the chalkboard.

  You’ve done it now, publicly told off Kimmer, a superior power, which means she has to destroy you. The New Year’s Eve rumor will be all over school soon and Gary will claim he knew you guys were gay ever since he saw you in the dark field after the swim club dance. And it won’t matter that everyone always thought Gary was a jerk because the gossip is juicy enough to make up for it.