37 Things I Love (In No Particular Order) (7 page)

“God, did I really pass out on the floor of your bathroom?” she groans. She curls tight under the sheets, putting her back to me.

“Good a place as any.”

“Hmm…” And with that she’s breathing softly. I snuggle back down, looking for comfortable, finding nothing that’s even close.

*   *   *

THE ALARM CLOCK
buzzes early, six thirty. I don’t want to go anywhere but back toward sleep. We have to get to Abby’s, though, before her parents think to miss us. And out of here before my mom gets home, which could be any minute now.

Abby brushes my hand off her shoulder. “Sleep, sleep.”

“Come on. Get up.”

She rolls over, moaning. “What’s your problem? It’s sooooo Saturday.”

“We have to get back to your place, ASAP.”

“Oh.” She sits up slowly, cradling her head. “Oh, not good.”

“I’ll get you some Advil. Find something to wear.”

We keep Advil and twenty million other over-the-counter drugs in a basket under the bathroom sink. Something for every occasion. We’re big on pain relief around here.

I return to find Abby staggering out of my bed, clad only in bra and panties. I gasp. “Oh, God.” Her chest is spotted with little purple bruises. “Are those hickies?”

“Oh, God!” Abby echoes, poking herself. “I think so.” She leaps to my wall mirror for a better look.

“What were you guys doing?”

“I don’t know.” She tugs at her flapping bra cups. Then her hands fall to her sides. “Did you take out my … padding when we got back?”

Oh, no. Oh, God.

“No. Abby, you told me … wait, what exactly happened between you and Dennis?”

She shrugs. “We were dancing. Making out. We sat in his car for a while. Whatever.”

“What did you do with him? Exactly.”

She glares at me in the mirror. “I don’t know, Ellis, okay?”

“Are you being generic, or you really can’t remember?”

She says nothing, but comes to sit on the edge of the bed. I sit with her. “Oh, Abby.”

“It’s not a big deal.” She takes the Advil from my hand and swallows it dry.

“Um, but you didn’t…?”

“I don’t remember,” she says sullenly. “I really don’t.”

“Abby.” I reach out my hand to maybe touch her hair, her shoulder, I don’t know, but she pulls away.

“I was wasted, okay? Whatever.” She’s back in front of the mirror. “If he kissed me here, he could have seen the Jell-O.”

She doesn’t know. I have to tell her. “Abby, you told me you ate the Jell-O. With Dennis.”

“Yeah, right.”

My shoes are on and tied, and she’s still in her underwear. “I’m just telling you what you told me. Now, get dressed, we have to go.”

“You’re lying,” she says. “There’s no way I would do that. I was going to sneak them out if we were fooling around. I had a plan.”

“Like I said, I don’t know for sure.”

“Oh. My.
God
.” Abby’s pacing around the room. In a second, she’ll start throwing things. She digs in my dresser, then my closet for something that’ll fit her.

Six colorful T-shirts fly toward me before she decides on the one that says
MAC TONIGHT
.

“Not that,” I snap. She sticks her arms into it anyway.

“I’m just borrowing it.”

“Not that!” It’s the shirt my dad gave my mom when they were dating. She gave it to me after he got hurt.

Abby’s wearing it now. “What? It’s not like it fits you, anyway.”

“Take it off.”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Get over it. You can just bring it home with you after we get back to my place.”

“It’s mine! Don’t be mean, just ’cause you got stupid last night. Don’t take it out on me.” I try to pull it off her, but she fights away my hands.

“
I’m
being mean?” Abby knocks me onto the bed. “It’s your fucking fault I can’t remember!”

“What? It so is not!”

She stares at me accusingly. “Colin doesn’t let me get this wasted.”

“Colin’s a sucker.”

“I’m telling him you said that.”

“No, you won’t. Because he’s not an idiot. He’ll demand to know the context. And I’m sure you’ll agree that’s a story best left untold.”

“Well … well…”

While Abby searches for her comeback, I stomp to the dresser and dig out one of the bold-print wrap skirts that I never wear. When the drawer slams, my picture frames rattle. Dad smiles from one. Another has Abby and Colin and me with our arms around each other. The third is a promo shot of Mom at the station, headset on, leaning into the mike, smiling.

Abby jumps in surprise as the wrap skirt flies into her face.

“Put it on. We’re going.”

12

Riding the Bus

There’s something soothing about motion. It allows me to almost forget.

“THIS IS THE WORST
hangover ever,” Abby groans. We wait for the bus at the end of my street. In the space of that three-minute walk, she seems to have revised her current opinion of me.

I can’t say the same.

“Just shut up, okay?”

“Okay. But my head hurts. And my stomach.” She hugs one of my arms in both of hers and leans her head on my shoulder. I let her.

Five seconds later: “Are you still mad?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking mad, okay?” We’re dealing in truth this morning.

“Don’t be mad,” she says. “You know I’ll give the shirt back. But you have to help me figure out what to do about Dennis.”

“What?”

“This is, like, the worst thing that could possibly happen.”

“I can think of worse things.”

She tugs my arm. “I’m serious. What am I going to do? I mean, what if he
tells
?”

“That you stuff your bra? Big whoop. I think half the sophomore girls do.”

“It’s embarrassing,” she whines.

The bus turns the corner, coming our way. “I don’t think he’ll tell. He probably wants to go out with you again.”

“Really? Did you think he was into me? Like, for more than one party?”

She may be cutting off circulation to my arm. I shake her loose and swipe our fare cards, and we settle into a double seat.

“Was he looking at me different? What did you see, I mean, how was he acting toward me? Tell me everything!”

“I didn’t really notice.”

“Come on, Ellis…”

The city glides by out the window and all I want to do is watch it pass in silence.

“I’m, sorry. Abby, I don’t think I can deal with this right now.” If you can’t be honest with your best friend, who can you be honest with?

Abby studies me with something resembling concern. “Our fight’s not over yet, huh?”

“I just have a lot of stuff on my mind.”

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she says, fingering the hem of my Dad-Mom-me shirt. “I’m sorry. I just—I thought you’d have my back. You know, at the party.”

“Well, don’t count on me, okay? Maybe I’m not that good of a person. Maybe I don’t always know what to do.”

Abby reaches past me to signal for our stop.

“No one’s perfect,” she says.

*   *   *

THE BUS STOP
is just around the corner from Abby’s house. We hurry down the block and come around onto her street, big as life …

And shit if her dad isn’t already out and trimming the hedges.

13

Getting Away with It

It’s fun. No other reason.

WE PRESS OUR BACKS
against the side of Mrs. Rabbins’s house like super-secret spies. Two houses away, Abby’s dad works the electric trimmer along the bushes. The soft whine of the motor buzzes lightly through the air.

“What’s the plan, Stan?” Abby whispers.

“I don’t know, Joe,” I say, feeling the barest hint of a smile, our fight laid aside in this moment of desperation. We must, must, must get into Abby’s house unseen.

“Time check?”

I consult my cell phone. “Seven forty-five.”

“We’re so fine,” Abby says. “They won’t expect us to even be awake for another two hours, let alone to emerge from my room.”

“Yeah, but we still have to get in there. How long does it take your dad to trim the hedges?”

Abby groans. “Not long, really, but he could stay outside for hours. Puttering in the tool shed or mowing the lawn or whatever. He won’t go in till he’s hungry. Something about being cooped up in his office all week long.”

“So we need stealth, yes?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay. Thoughts?”

“We left my window unlocked.”

“So we know our point of entry.”

“Affirmative.”

I can’t help but grin. I feel like we’re little again, playing CIA in the backyard. I guess, in crisis, we revert to the familiar.

“So, let’s get to the other side of the house and then regroup.”

“Yeah, okay.” Abby peels out. Staying low, we scurry toward the hedges at the side of Mrs. Rabbins’s lawn. We hop from yard to yard, skirting widely around Abby’s house so we are sure to stay out of sight of her dad.

Soon enough, we are crawling along the edge of Abby’s next-door neighbors’ garden, partly shielded by a decorative grape arbor. We hide and wait. It must’ve sprinkled overnight. The air is earthy, the ground a bit damp.

“When he’s done, he’ll put the trimmer away in the shed,” Abby says.

I nod. “That may be our best shot.”

Abby lies flat out in the dirt. “Can you keep watch, please? I don’t feel good.”

“Yeah.” I try to ignore the fact that she’s muddying my shirt. But I can’t. “Get up. Don’t get my shirt dirty.”

“I’m sick. It’ll wash.”

There are a thousand things I could say, a thousand things I’m thinking, but there’s no time. The trimmer motor cuts out. Peeking past the arbor, I see Mr. Duncan heading toward the shed at the back of the yard.

“Come on.” I nudge Abby. In ten seconds … nine … eight, he’ll disappear from sight.

“Ready? Go, go!”

We dash across the lawn, holding back our breath and trying not to laugh aloud, lest he hear us and come investigate. Who knows how long we have.

My hands grapple with Abby’s window ledge; I still have one eye on the shed. The open door blocks me from seeing in, which is great because it also blocks Mr. Duncan’s view out.

We get the window open. Abby dives in headfirst. I’m right behind her, landing practically on top of her when I fall inside.

“Shhhh…”

We pause, listening. Then we let ourselves collapse on the floor, and we’re choking back hysterics because we have lived the dream and gotten gloriously away with it.

From above, Abby’s mom says, “Girls, we need to talk.”

14

Getting Caught

It’s always a bit of a relief.

MRS. DUNCAN’S SITTING
on Abby’s bed, cross-legged and cool as a cucumber, browsing a stack of Abby’s magazines.

We are so busted.

Abby sits up. “Mom! This is
my
room. What are you doing? Go away!”

“Abby, this is
my
house. I enter whichever room I wish, at any time that I wish. And I expect the people who are supposed to be in that room to be there when I stop by.”

Mrs. Duncan tosses the magazines onto the floor where she probably found them. She looks at Abby for a long moment. Then me. I swallow hard.

“Living room. Two minutes. Both of you.” She sweeps out the door.

“We’re not coming to the living room,” Abby shouts.

“I’m getting your father. We’ll see you in two.”

*   *   *

ABBY AND I
slump on opposite sides of the living room couch. Mrs. Duncan plants herself between us. Mr. Duncan sits in one of the two armchairs, laying his yard gloves on the coffee table. He strokes his neatly trimmed beard.

Mrs. Duncan looks from me to Abby, but for some reason settles on me.

“Are you all right?” she says, quite warmly.

“Fine.”

She turns to Abby. “And what about you?” Her tone sharpens a little.

Abby makes a face that would wither flowers.

Back to me. “Mrs. Scottie called to tell us where you were.”

I’d been wondering how they found out. We were quiet when we left, sneaky when we came back. They shouldn’t have suspected a thing.

Enter Mrs. Scottie. I sink deeper into the couch. I can’t believe she ratted us out. I’m not surprised that she found out—she probably heard us coming in last night—but why would she go out of her way to call the Duncans? I’m steamed.

Mrs. Duncan’s still talking. Something about what is and isn’t acceptable behavior. We get it, already.

“Ellis, we’ve spoken to your mother.” Mrs. Duncan’s gaze turns sickeningly sympathetic. “We know this must be a very difficult time for you. You’re in a fragile emotional state, so it’s understandable that you might act out—”

“All we did was go to my house,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”

“Let me finish, hon,” Mrs. Duncan says. “I know this must be difficult for you to deal with, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”

I see what’s happening. They’re going to blame all this on me, on my situation and my
fragile emotional state
. I glance at Abby. She stares at her socks.

It’s like she doesn’t care. She doesn’t ask what the IT is that’s supposedly so difficult for me. Or maybe by now she’s guessed. She presses her toes together innocently, and I think that maybe she’s about to let me take the fall.

How far would she let it go? I don’t want to know. I step into the pain.

“I’m sorry,” I say, letting my voice shake. “I just wanted to go home to my own bed. Abby felt bad letting me go alone, when I was upset.”

Mrs. Duncan’s expression softens. She reaches to pat my knee. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“We didn’t want to wake you. We thought we’d just go and be back before you ever missed us.”

“You could’ve left a note,” Mr. Duncan grumbles.

“Yes, but it’s simply not safe for two young girls to be roaming the streets at that time of night,” Mrs. Duncan says.

I wonder what time of night she’s imagining.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Yeah, we weren’t thinking,” Abby pipes in, finally.

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to think on it now, young lady. You’re grounded. No phone. No computer, except for schoolwork.”