37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) (6 page)

“I’ve been here,” I say. I hold her waist to steady her, but I’m uncomfortable with her on top of me. She might want to just blow past everything that happened earlier, but I’m not going along with it.

“Dennis is soooo hot,” she groans, swaying against me. “We totally made out.”

“Good for you.”

Suddenly Abby is looking past me.

“Oh, God,” she says. “What are
you
doing here?”

Cara taps her chin. “Having a wonderful time. Wish you would leave,” she chirps.

Abby’s eyes narrow. “You don’t belong here.
You
should leave.”

I stand abruptly, dumping Abby on her ass in the gravel. She sits there stupidly, gazing up at me. Cara fights back laughter, covering it with a little cough.

“Ellis?” Abby’s voice is puzzled. She reaches her arms toward me.

“Dennis is coming,” I say, nodding toward his approaching shadow. “I’m sure he’ll be
glad
to help you up.”

10

Cara

For being everything Abby is not.

I STALK ACROSS
the grass in a wide circle, veering far from the cars and the people into the deeper shadows along the grove of trees. Cara follows my hurried steps.

“I don’t need you to defend me to her,” she says out of nowhere.

I stop walking. “I wasn’t.”

“Sure seemed like it.”

“No. I’m mad at her about something from earlier.” About this whole damn night, really. If only I could erase it all and go back home. I’d tell Abby no when she asked me to sleep over. I’d lie in lonely agony on the living room couch while Mrs. Scottie knit beside me.

“I heard what she said to you, you know.”

I scoff. “Yeah, and I’m sure no one else did. She’s so soft-spoken.” The sarcasm tastes good.

“Friends don’t treat each other like that.”

“Shut up, Cara. It’s a fight. People fight. Friends fight.”

“I’m just saying—”

“You don’t know what she’s like.”

“I know exactly what she’s like,” Cara snaps. “Better than you. Don’t tell me I don’t.”

I’m shocked by Cara’s venom toward Abby. And curious now about the bitter history. But my head is swimming with fury. I can’t bring myself to ask.

“You don’t know!” I blurt out. “You don’t know anything about it.”

“So tell me!” she says.

But I can’t. I can’t say any more about it. I waste the days trying to talk but not saying anything. I spend the nights trying to forget but not forgetting.

“It’s none of your business,” I whisper. Every trace of the fight has gone out of me. I turn back toward the party. The pulse of the music is steady. Familiar. I’ll go dance along with everyone else and paint a smile on my face. Let the headlights blind me to everything but the hopping bodies all around.

She grabs my wrist. “What’s going on? Is it Abby? I don’t think it’s Abby.”

“I want to go back to the party.” I tug my hand free, leaving Cara behind.

Her voice, so quiet—almost far away—follows me. “Ellis. How’s your dad?”

It occurs to me then, with blinding clarity, that I have never been asked. No one asks about my dad. Everyone knows, but no one ever asks. Have they all forgotten? Do they just not care?

“He’s dying,” I whisper to the vacuum of the air. “And there’s nothing I can do.”

*   *   *

CARA’S HUG IS LONG
and warm, so different from anything I have ever felt. I can’t even cry. We sit in the grass again, facing each other. Almost knee-to-knee.

“I’ve missed you,” she says.

“Me too.” It’s truer than I’ve realized.

I gaze across the dark grass toward the party in its circle of light. If coming to Grover’s always meant easy, quiet, hanging with Cara, I’d come a lot more often.

We sit without speaking, which is a huge relief from everything. She threads her fingers through the grass, letting the blades slide between them gently. I copy her motions, not as graceful, of course, but the silky cool whisper of grass against my skin is soothing. From time to time, our fingers brush.

“Did you mean it?” she says. “About us hanging out?”

“Yeah.”

She reaches for the Purse and extracts our cell phones, mine and Abby’s. “Which is yours?”

“That one.” I point.

She slides the screen up and taps along the keypad for a while.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” She smiles and closes the phone. Slides it and Abby’s back into the Purse. “Well,” she says. “This was fun, but I have to go home now.”

“This was fun?” I echo wryly. The sting behind my eyes has come and gone, but still.

Her laugh is sweet. “Well, you know what I mean.”

The party’s breaking up. The twelve-thirty curfews are starting to pull out.

I search across the lawn for Abby, and I can see that something has changed from the usual. She’s draped across the hood of Dennis’s car. He’s leaning over her, working to replace her clothing, which has partly been removed.

I’ve left her alone too long. I can see that she has taken herself beyond caring, and I don’t like the stabbing I feel in my chest knowing that I’m partly to blame for hurting her. It’s past time to go.

“I’d love to see you leave her here,” Cara says wistfully, and again I’m sorely tempted.

“I want to.”

“But you won’t,” Cara says, and after a moment adds reluctantly, “You shouldn’t.”

What goes unsaid is that I would never. Not in a million years.

“Come on,” Cara says. “I’ll drive you home.”

*   *   *

ABBY TURNS HER HEAD
away from me in the car. Whatever. She can slight me all she wants.

We’re squished into the front seat of Evan’s Jeep Cherokee. Cara’s driving. I’m straddling the gearshift, and Abby is spread over Evan’s and my laps. Her body is loose and malleable, and she can’t seem to keep her limbs reined in.

This is by far the quickest my ass has ever fallen asleep.

The four guys piled in the back seat are being loud, drunk, and annoying. They spew off-color comments and apparently find each other hilarious. One of them haphazardly offers to take Abby off my hands. Somehow, she finds the wherewithal to flip him off over my shoulder. The others howl.

Evan reaches between us, ostensibly to adjust Abby, but he sure enough gets a handful of my boob.

“Oh, sorry.” He smiles apologetically, but doesn’t move his hand. “Stuck,” he says. Abby’s shoulder is pressing on his arm. A likely excuse. I can’t push his hand away; my own arms are trapped. I roll my eyes, biting back the retort that pops into my head. At the moment, I’m willing to overlook his piggishness because the alternative is me dragging Abby down the road under my own power.

How much longer?
I focus on the passing street signs.
CLINTON BLVD. GRAYSKILL AVE
. Uh-oh. “Hey, you missed the turn. Abby lives back off of Edgewood.”

Cara’s attention is on the road, but she makes no move to correct. “I said I’d drive
you
home,” she says.

“But I’m staying at Abby’s.”

“Sorry, I don’t have time to swing out to her place,” she says. “Yours is on the way.”

This is bad. Bad, bad, bad bad bad. Bad. We can sleep at my place, no problem, but what will Abby’s parents do when they find out we snuck out and then stayed out all night? This is not how it was supposed to go down. Abby’s going to be furious when she realizes what’s going on.

Cara pulls into my driveway.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” I say. I mean, I really am grateful.

“Anytime.” She smiles. “Talk soon?” Her voice is quietly hopeful.

“I’d like that.”

Evan gets out and pulls Abby after him. When he tries to stand her up, it doesn’t go so well. The guys in the back seat guffaw at her unsteadiness. I throw the Purse over my shoulder and scramble out to catch her, but Evan’s already there.

“I’ll help you to the porch,” he says, leading Abby that way. His arm is locked around her waist, keeping her upright. All the while, he’s looking straight at me.

“You look nice tonight, Ellis.”

“Huh?” I blame the beer glow in his eyes. And my slightly slipping tube top.

Evan leans forward and kisses my cheek. Out of the freaking blue.

“Good night.”

“Um … good night. Thanks.”

“See you.” He strides back toward the car.

The Purse vibrates under my arm. Abby leans on the door frame while I dig for my keys, and for whichever of our phones is ringing.

It’s mine. The little screen glows
CARA
.

im so sorry. stupid drunk boys.

After everything, my quick, deep smile is unexpected. So that’s what she was doing before—getting my number and programming hers into my phone. I text back quickly:

its ok. not ur fault.

I wave to her through the windshield, but it’s Evan who waves back.

I vow never to wear this kind of shirt again.

11

My Own Bed

Even when I can’t sleep, I’m glad to be in a place I feel comfortable.

WE MAKE IT
as far as the living room before Abby says, “Uh-oh.”

I dump her on the couch, grasping for something … anything … the big bowl of potpourri petals so dried now it’s hard to imagine they are giving off any scent at all. I thrust it under Abby’s chin.

Nothing happens.

Maybe it was a false alarm—nope. Here it comes.

She pukes hard into the bowl.

“Okay, come on.” I help her up, half leading, half dragging her to the bathroom. She sits on the floor. I get a wet towel, some dry towels, just lots of towels, really, to cover the cold tile.

I’m not ready when the second wave hits. Abby misses the toilet entirely, and it lands on her leg, her skirt, and one of my fresh-laid towels. I simply ball the towel up and stuff it in the trash. There’s no way I’m cleaning that. I’ll sneak it out in the morning.

I tie back her hair and push her closer to the toilet. She rests her cheek on the seat.

“How do you feel now?” I ask. I’ve been to parties, but I’ve never seen anyone this drunk before. I doubt Abby has ever been this drunk before. It was annoying in the car, but now that we’re alone, it’s a little scary.

“Hmmm?” Her eyes are closed.

I lean closer. “Abby? How do you feel?”

“Why did we have to leave? I was having fun.”

“I know.”

“You don’t like it when I have fun.”

I clear her bangs out of her eyes. “That’s not true.”

She laughs, and it echoes off the porcelain. “Yes, it is.”

“We have fun together, though, right?” But even as I say it, I’m racking my brain to remember the last time we did.

“You don’t even like me,” she says.

I stare at her. “Abby, we’re best friends.”

A little tear slips out from under her eyelid. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know.” I start undoing her clothes, which smell like vomit. We get her out of her skirt and shirt, so she’s sitting there in panties and a too-big bra. Something’s wrong with this picture.

“Umm, Abby, what happened to your Jell-O?”

She looks at me blankly for a few seconds. Then she starts laughing. “Oh, I got hungry.”

I cough. “Excuse me? What?”

She laughs, falling onto the floor. “I got hungry, so I took them out.”

“Are you telling me you
ate
your fake boobs?”

She nods.

I’m horrified. “Not in front of Dennis, I hope.”

“Dennis,” she sighs. “Yeah, we ate them.”

I start laughing, too. I can’t help it. “Oh, my God. You are deeply disturbed.”

“I feel better,” she says suddenly, sitting up straight. “Oh, but it’s spinning.” She lays her head on my lap. “Ellis.”

I stroke her hair. “It’s okay, Abby.”

“I want to go to sleep.”

“Let’s just stay here a little longer,” I say, not totally convinced.

“Um-hmm.”

I fluff the towels into a little mound for her to rest her head on. “Here.”

“No, no, don’t go.” She pulls at me, practically climbing me. “Just hold me so it doesn’t spin,” she says.

I ignore the abject irony that brings the night full circle. After all, she’s my best friend and she needs me.

*   *   *

I WAKE UP
because I have to pee really bad. My head’s buried in a mound of towels. Abby’s lying all but on top of me. I squint into the bright overhead bathroom light, groaning in sudden discomfort.

“Abby.”

No response.

“Abby.” I poke her in the side. “Abby, you gotta get off me.”

She’s breathing into the side of my neck. I try to move, but end up wedged between the bathtub and Abby.

“C’mon.” I nudge harder. “I’m gonna pee on us.”

“What?” Abby mumbles. She shifts her legs just enough that I can slip out from under. She lands face first in the towels, murmuring, “Hey.”

“Sorry, go back to sleep.”

“Hmmm.” She curls up into a ball and drifts off.

The sound of the toilet flushing doesn’t even stir her. I snap off the bathroom light and pad down the hall to my bedroom.

*   *   *

OF COURSE,
once I’m in my bed, sleep doesn’t come so easy.

There’s a whole catch-22 playing out in the back of my mind. I can almost feel it tug-of-warring. I don’t want to lie awake, but sleep is the danger zone. I don’t want to think, but more than that, I don’t want to dream.

I wish hard for the dawn, try not to look at the clock. Mom’s voice on the radio tonight just reminds me that I’ve screwed up and there’s trouble coming along with the light.

Still, the covers soften around me, draw me into their cocoon.

“Just let go,” Mom says to the caller on line three. “It’s time to just let go.”

*   *   *

THE TOILET FLUSHES.

Thud.

“Oww.”

I sit up in bed. Abby appears as a looming shape in the doorway, rubbing her elbow.

“How’s come we’re at your house?” she muses, climbing into bed with me.

“Don’t ask.”

Her presence jolts me wide awake. I was actually asleep just now, I’m pretty sure.

“Are you still feeling sick?” If she pukes in my bed, I might seriously kill her.