Bleed (21 page)

I nod and it finally clicks; they’re planning Kelly’s welcome-home party.

As if I could feel any crappier.

Maria rolls her eyes at me, like she’s annoyed that I’m even here. Part of me feels bad for the girl. She’s had more scores made on her than the touchdown post at our school’s football field, but that still doesn’t stop her from playing wide receiver.

“What? What are you staring at?” she snaps at me—just out of nowhere.

“Nothing,” I snap back.

“Maria’s been a
huge
help,” Nicole says, intercepting. “She has some really cool ideas.”

“Paper streamers and Hawaiian leis don’t exactly equal up to
cool
ideas,” Maria squawks.

“Whatever,” Nicole says. “You forgot to mention the other three thousand brilliant ideas you came up with. The girl should seriously be a party planner.”

Maria looks away and yanks down the sleeves of her sweatshirt, like she can’t stand to be complimented.

“Wait. I almost forgot,” Nicole says, jumping up from the table. “Don’t go yet.”

Maria lets out this big-ass sigh. “I told you, I have to leave.”

Nicole ignores her, running back into the house, emerging from the sliders a few seconds later, gift bag in hand. It’s the first time I notice that she’s wearing this short peach sundress with the straps of her bathing suit sticking out. When did she get so cute? And why didn’t I see it until just this afternoon?

“What’s that?” Maria asks.

“I got you a little something,” Nicole says, totally beaming at her. “It’s nothing, really. Just something I’ve been holding on to.”

“You don’t have to buy me stuff,” Maria says with another eye-roll. “I told you already. I’m not mad about earlier. I wouldn’t even have kept calling you if it wasn’t for Kelly’s party. The girl’s going to be totally pissed if we don’t do it up big.”

“No, no—I got this
before
I messed up our plans.”

Maria opens the bag, pulling out a black nylon backpack with metallic silver stitching, the letters
CS
written in graffitilike scribbles across the front.

“Cryptic Slaughter,” Nicole explains, pointing at the letters. “I ordered it off their Web site.”

“Are you serious?” Her bottom lip quivers just a bit, like maybe she’s not used to people doing nice things for her.

“To start off the new school year.… Like it?”

Maria runs her fabric-covered fingers over the surface, her sleeves pulled down over her hands even though it’s ninety frickin’ degrees out. A crystal pendant hangs around her neck. Nicole touches it. “Is this new?” she asks.

Maria shrugs. “A friend gave it to me.”

“It’s pretty on you.”

“Thanks,” Maria says, her voice barely even audible. She peeks up at Nicole finally, her face all red like she can’t say anything else. It’s like the words are stuck in her throat—like she’s all choked up.

Nicole gives Maria a hug and tells her that she’ll pick her up first thing in the morning for breakfast and more party-planning at Red’s.

Maria nods me good-bye, her eyes all red and focused toward the ground. And then she leaves.

And then Nicole and I are alone.

Nicole lights the citronella candle in the center of the table and slumps down in her chair, her body angled off toward the yard, her thick rubber-soled sandals only half pulled onto her feet.

“That was really cool of you,” I say.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the backpack. The way you were with her.”

She shrugs like it was nothing, like it’s just a part of who she is.

“So, we should talk about earlier,” I say, grabbing a pretzel from the bowl on the table. “What do you think we should do about it?”

“What do you mean?” She’s picking at her fingernails now.

“I mean, Kelly’s your best friend.”

“And?” She can barely even look at me.

“You didn’t talk to her today, did you?”

“No.”

“Did you tell Maria?”

She shakes her head, and I’m more than relieved. I let out a breath but then feel like a dick.

“We don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” she says, as though reading my mind.

“I know.” I shrug. “It’s just … I don’t know. I don’t want you to think I’m some jerk or anything.”

“So, what
do
you want?”

More shrugging.

“You know what this reminds me of?” she says. “That time in the fourth grade when you told Gina Bailey you’d be her valentine, but instead you gave all your sweetheart candies to Marley Maihos. Gina ended up bawling during recess.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

“I remember a lot,” she says, looking away—her voice barely above a whisper.

“That was a rough year for me,” I say in my own defense.

She nods and looks back at me. “I know. I was
there
, remember?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head like she doesn’t get it. “There was just some personal stuff that happened—family drama stuff.”

“You mean with your parents?”

I feel my face screw up. “How do you know about that?”

Nicole shrugs, telling me how she remembers the essay I wrote in English class—“What I Did During Christmas Vacation”—which sort of turned into “Why My Christmas Sucked Because My Parents Are Going to Get a Divorce.” Our ass of a teacher made me read the entire thing aloud in class.

Nicole sits there, detailing the essay like she wrote it herself-—like all of this just happened yesterday. She remembers how my dad’s work wanted him to transfer to Ohio, how that caused my mother to freak out since her family is here, and how I was scared out of my mind that they’d end up divorced—since they never really got along anyway.

“I can’t believe you remember all that.”

“It’s why you started working at such a young age, right?”

“Did I tell you that?”

She nods. “In art class. You told me that you wanted to get a job as soon as you could because your father lost his job. I figured it was because he didn’t move to Ohio. Didn’t you start working at, like, twelve or something?”

I nod, completely blown away by her—by all that she remembers, by how well she seems to know me.

“I really admired that about you,” she continues. “That you wanted to help out your family, that you wanted to pitch in and earn a few bucks. I think about it when I’m being really lazy.”

“Wow,” I say, leaning back in my chair, amazed that someone like her could ever be inspired by someone like me. I mean, nobody thinks of me like that—not even Kelly.

When Kelly said yes to going out with me eight months ago, I was psyched. She’s one of those girls you just never think you can get—super hot, kick-ass bod, likes to laugh. The type of girl you imagine hanging on the arm of some jacked-up quarterback with a Porsche 911. Not that I’m bad. I mean, I consider myself pretty good looking. I work out at least three times a week for hockey and I’m saving up to buy a Jeep. It’s just that, I don’t know, I always thought Kelly was in a different league. And when we started dating, I felt like people looked at me like I was in that league, too.

I wonder if that girl I met today at Dunkin’is right, and Kelly really did go to California to be with someone else. Would she really cheat on me like that?

Do I even care?

“What happened to your hand?” She’s looking at the gash across the palm. From today, when my garden shears slipped, because I wasn’t paying attention. Just after we … did it. I ended up stopping the bleeding with a rag and I thought I was all set, but then, on my way home, my car blew a tire, and the gash completely opened up while I was trying to put on the spare.

“Landscaping accident,” I say, forgoing the lengthy explanation.

“Why don’t you have a bandage on it?”

“I did. I had this scarf-thing on it earlier, but it just kept coming undone so I ended up taking it off.”

Nicole shakes her head and gets up, goes back inside the house, and a few seconds later, comes out with a first-aid kit. She rolls my palm open, plunks a peroxide-sopping wad of cotton in the center, and swipes downward. The sting burns so bad I almost piss myself.
Major pain!

“It’s gonna sting a little,” she says, halfway through the process.

“Just a little,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek.

She tosses the cotton to the side, grabs this long white tube, and squeezes a couple wormlike squirts across the wound. “I’m fine,” I say. “It’s stopped bleeding.”

“Yeah, but if you don’t want an infection, you need to take care of it.” She tops the whole procedure off by covering my hand with gauze and enough medical tape to wrap the gifts of everybody on my Christmas list for the next five years.

“Thanks,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you make house calls?”

“I’ve retired that service,” she says.

“That’s too bad.”

She smiles and then bites her bottom lip like she’s trying to hold it in, but the smile is too big and so she just lets it out. “What?” she asks, her face turning red like I’ve totally embarrassed her.

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

It’s just so weird. In my car, on the way over here, I knew exactly what I wanted to do about this afternoon. I had the words practically memorized—
Nicole, what happened between us was great and I’ll always remember it, but for some reason I think we got carried away. It was nobody’s fault; it just happened, but I think it was probably a mistake. I’m still with Kelly. She’s your best friend. I think it’s best for all of us if we don’t say anything.
But now, face-to-face, talking with her like this, watching the shadow of the candle flame flicker against her bottom lip, I don’t think I can say any of that.

I don’t think I want to, either.

So we end up hanging out for a while, just shooting the shit. Nicole tells me how she wants to take some calligraphy class this fall. And I tell her how I want to try playing goalie this year. We talk about how neither of us has started our summer reading yet and how, if my plan works out, I should have enough money saved up for a semi-new Jeep by Thanksgiving. And it’s cool—how the conversation just flows; how she asks me lots of questions and looks into my eyes when I answer, like she’s really interested in what I’m saying; not just fake interested the way Kelly is a lot of the time. And so I can’t help but ask her, “How come you like me so much?”

She looks off in the direction of the pool, like the question doesn’t surprise her one bit—like maybe she’s been asked that question a lot. “I don’t know,” she says finally “I just do … you know?”

I nod, beginning to understand maybe—finally—how truly cool she is. I look over at the flower bed. Mrs. Bouchard’s got a spotlight sticking up out of the ground to highlight the garden. But the place is a complete mess. The mulch is everywhere, the lilies are broken, those tall grass-blade things look all mangled. The sight of it makes me laugh. I try to hold it in, but I can’t help but laugh like a freaking idiot.

“What?” She’s laughing, too.

“Can I ask you a totally random question?”

She nods.

“Who’s your papergirl?”

“My
papergirl?'’

“It’s stupid, really. It’s just, this girl I met today—some freshman I think—told me that your papergirl saw us … you know … earlier … in the garden.”

“What?”

“I think she was lying.”

“How does she know, then?”

“I don’t know. She might’ve just been bluffing, you know, trying to get me going. She just said her papergirl saw me and some girl; she didn’t get all specific about it.”

“So it might not even have been me. I don’t even
have
a
papergirl.
Frankie Johannesen delivers our newspapers. It must have been some other girl you were with.” She looks away again.

“There isn’t any other girl,” I say.

“Just Kelly,” she says.

“Yeah.” Kelly. I look away, too.

It’s weird though, because half the time I don’t even feel like Kelly gives a shit about me. She blows me off, refuses to hang with me at lunch, and sometimes says stuff about me in front of other people that totally pisses me off. Like, she’ll make fun of my car or my landscaping job, or that my nose is crooked from when it got busted last year in hockey. I laugh it off like it’s no big deal. Even though it is. Even though I’ve told her a million times that I hate it.

Right before she left for her dad’s, I could sense her pushing me away. I took her out to dinner at this four-star place, bought her the Scallops del Mar—the most expensive thing on the menu—but all she kept saying throughout the whole entire meal was stuff like, “We’re going to change so much this summer” and “There’s a whole world out there just waiting for us.”

All I was trying to tell her was that I’d miss her.

But then other times, it’s like she’s all into me. Telling me all her problems, telling me how lucky she is to be with a guy like me, jumping into my lap and macking on me like she couldn’t be happier about us. It’s totally screwed up.

Nicole and I sit in awkward silence for several seconds. I notice the silhouette of Mrs. Bouchard pass by the sliders a couple times, checking up on us. I guess it’s getting late, but I don’t want to leave, and so I ask her the one question that’s been weighing on my mind for a couple months now: “I don’t expect you to answer this and I can’t even believe I’m asking it, but do you know if Kelly is cheating on me?”

What surprises me most is that her expression doesn’t change one bit, doesn’t show shock or even a speck of emotion. “Honestly,” she says, “I don’t know. I don’t think so.

“You don’t
think
so?”

She shakes her head, and we’re quiet for a few seconds. I want to tell her how that girl from Dunkin’ told me that Kelly was dating some guy from jail. But maybe I’ve said enough about Kelly for one night. Maybe this isn’t really about Kelly at all. Maybe this is about me and Nicole.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” she asks.

“What did I say?”

“You know, just before … before we went into the garden?”

“We said a lot of things.”

She nods and takes a sip of her iced tea, not willing to budge. And so I budge for her, “Do you mean when I said that I may have thought about us, you know, being together?”