Boy Toy (31 page)

I feel a surge of anger at Zik for doing this to me, for putting me in the spotlight like this when he knows that all I've ever wanted is to be invisible.

But then Rachel adjusts herself slightly against me. She's smiling. We're slow-dancing to some hip-hop song, a bubble of quiet in a sea of thrashing bodies. I look down at my prom princess and let the anger melt away.

The suite Michelle reserved is smaller than I thought it would be, but pleasant enough. Michelle and Rachel go into the bedroom and change into sweats. Zik and I just strip off our tux jackets and ties.

We order junk from room service before they shut down for the night: hot wings, potato skins with artery-clogging cheese and bacon, fried mozzarella sticks with marinara, and thick slices of cheesecake with fruit sauces drizzled on top.

We stuff ourselves with the lights out, the Tv playing a goofy romantic comedy on pay-per-view, and as we all get more and more tired and giggly, the room devolves into stupid jokes, laughter, endless snickering at half-remembered silliness from our shared childhood. I feel like my gut's going to explode from the laughing and the enormous quantity of calories I'm inhaling, but I don't care. I'm with my friends and it feels good.

"...the Spermling looked like he was gonna tackle you," Rachel says to Michelle.

"Oh! My! God!" Michelle squeals. "I
know!
It was
so
.
Creepy.
I think he
sweated
on me before Maggie got in the way."

"If he'll change my grade in sociology," Zik says, "I'd
let
him sweat on you."

"Oh, thanks for standing up for me,
sweetheart.
"

"Let him sweat on
you,
" I tell Zik.

"The Spermling's not
gay,
" Rache says. "He's
married
"

"The Spermling goes both ways, all ways..." I crack up before I can finish.

"He was like..." Zik starts, "'Let me help you with that sash...'" and mimes pawing between Michelle's breasts. Michelle squeals and bats his hands away.

"Yeah, he didn't come after
me,
you'll notice," Rachel says. "How could he resist
these?
" And she looks down her sweatshirt. "They're here
somewhere
..."

By four in the morning, I'm so tired that I'm laughing at things even when no one's saying anything. I'm such a sleep pussy. Rachel and Michelle are still going strong, and Zik's antsy but awake. The Tv is still going, playing some HBO special on sex, so there's a constant parade of naked fat people on the screen.

Finally, Rachel and Michelle traipse off to the bedroom to change. Zik and I strip down. I sleep in boxer shorts, but I throw on a T-shirt since I'll be with Rachel. We shove the detritus of our party into the trash can, filling it to overflowing, then stack what remains next to the can. It's a precarious tower of plates, cups, bottles, and food carnage.

By the light of the TV, we unfold the couch and I put sheets on it as Zik moves some more trash around.

"Hope you didn't mind being prom prince," Zik says after a little bit. "I thought you deserved it, though. It was a nice little fuck-you to the people who've been assholes to you, you know?"

"Yeah. It's cool, Zik."

"I know you hate being the center of attention," he goes on. "But it's not like she was at the prom."

"What do you mean?" But I know what he means.

Zik punches my shoulder. "Dude, don't play games with me. I hang with you, remember? You're always looking around. I figure you're looking for, y'know, Mrs. Sherman."

"I didn't—"

"She wasn't at prom, though, OK? So you can chill."

"I'm not—"

"Dude. J. She's been out of jail for a month. If she was gonna come after you, she would have by now."

Zik has a way of cutting straight to the core of something. I don't know if Rachel told Michelle any of the stuff I told her that night at SAMMPark. If she did, then Michelle
definitely
told Zik, because Michelle tells Zik
everything.
But I don't think Rachel talked. I just think Zik's figured that it's time to tell me what he figured out a thousand years ago and has been sitting on since then.

"Maybe she would," I allow. "Maybe not."

He considers this for a moment, glancing toward the bedroom door like he's about to reveal a state secret and wants to make sure we won't be interrupted.

"If you're really worried about it," he says slowly, "you should, y'know, go all football on her."

"Huh?"

"You know—best defense is a good offense. Take the fight to her. Find her before she finds you."

"I don't get it. What do you mean?" Find Eve? Go
find
her?

"Dude, she's a registered sex offender. All you have to do is go online. You can find out where she lives and everything."

I feel like a complete moron. Of course. He's right. Eve isn't in a shadow somewhere or a hiding behind a tree. She's right where I can find her—at home. And if I go online and nothing comes up, well ... That tells me that she's not in the state anymore, right?

God! All along! All along, the answer was
literally
at my fingertips.

I can't help it—I hug Zik. "Thanks, man."

"Dude! Homo alert! Homo alert!"

I skeeve him out a bit more by planting a big wet kiss on his cheek.

"You're so gay!" he complains.

"I'm comfortable with my masculinity."

"That's fine—just don't be so comfortable with
my
masculinity, y'know?"

Just then, the bedroom door opens. I don't know what I expected, but it's just Rachel standing there in what look like pretty boring pajamas—buttoned-down top, long sleeves, long pants with frills at the cuffs, all in a soft blue. Standard girl-issue.

"She's ready for you," Rachel says, and Zik hops up, darts into the bedroom, and slams the door.

"Man, he never moves
that
fast!" I'm joking with Rachel because now this is
it.
We're getting into this bed—sofa—together. We're getting under the covers. We're turning out the light. Unless I decide to try sleeping in the car or the bathtub, this is it.

And no way in hell am I ready for it.

"If you saw how she was dressed, you would have moved that fast, too."

"Oh? Why's she all dolled up?"

She leans against the archway that leads into the bath room. She doesn't seem to be in a hurry to come over here. "She's going to rock his world. Sorry that I'm just wearing this." She indicates her boring PJs.

"That's OK."

"It's just that, well, they're spicing up their sex life. And we don't
have
a sex life."

That does it—I freeze up. I stare at the floor.

She sits next to me on the bed and takes my hand in both of hers. "It's all right. We're gonna take this slow, OK?"

Kennedy was right; I should have talked to her. I should have been talking to her all along. But I didn't know how to bring it up without making Rachel feel like it's her fault. It's not that I don't want to be with her. It's that I'm not sure how to be with anyone other than...

"Turn off the TV, Josh."

I hit the remote and the room goes dark, except for an after-image of the TV screen that floats, ghostly, in naked space before fading behind my eyes.

"Rache..."

"Shh..." Leaning against me, her breath warm against my cheek. "It'll be OK."

But my heart's jackhammering and I close my eyes because it's too dark. She moves in the darkness next to me and then we're lying down next to each other, her fingers skipping over my chest, lightly. My entire body's on fire, with cool traces where she touches me.

And then her lips on mine. Her body so close, one knee coming up, sliding against my leg, God, the rustle of fabric, the weight of her leg thrown across my thighs.

Her breath quickens as we kiss, her hands touching my chest, stomach, shoulders. She's everywhere at once. It's too familiar for me, in some ways. It's like being back in the closet with Rachel, with Zik and Michelle just a few yards away, through a door. Only now I'm not thirteen. And neither is Rachel. Now I know more. And, somehow, less.

Her hand slips under my T-shirt and I hear myself groan deep in my chest. She licks my ear and says, "Josh. Josh, unbutton my top."

I can't.

"Josh, please. Please."

I'm flickering. I'm back in the closet and in the
closet
I'm flickering, a flicker within a flicker, an infinite loop, I'm in the closet and I'm back with Eve. I'm twelve years old and I don't understand but I don't care if I understand because Eve's touching me, she's telling me what to do, how to do it, how to make it better and best.

My body jerks back into the present. Rachel's lying on top of me. Her top is unbuttoned somehow. Did I do that? In the darkness, she's an outline over me, thinly seen in the murk. My hands move of their own accord, exploring, peeling the opened top down her shoulders; her breath hisses and I flicker to Eve's bedroom, her leg cocked as she sleeps, back to the present, my hands tensed and tightened, ready to grab Eve—no—Rachel, grab and—

Stop it!

"Josh, please. God, Josh, don't you know I want you? Please?"

I push Rachel off me, my hands burning where I touch her skin. I'm cheating. I'm not supposed to do this. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm flickering in and out, of the closet, of Eve's apartment. I'm being unfaithful, cheating on Eve with Rachel, cheating on Rachel with Eve. I roll over onto my side and clench my teeth. My gut is on fire. Tears flare at the corners of my eyes.

Oh, God, I've ruined it. I've ruined it, like I always do.

Rachel lies behind me, not moving. Her weight's a tug on the sheets, on the mattress, like gravity, pulling me. I resist, curled up on my side like a baby.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. I say it so quietly that I'm not even sure she can hear me.

And it's not enough. It can never be enough. I've apologized too many times; it starts to lose its meaning after a while.

I should tell her that it's not her. That it's not her fault, that she's beautiful and warm and sexy and that any man with a brain and a working cock would be an idiot not to yearn for her, not to worship every last inch of her. That I'm damaged, broken, a bizarre temporal conjoined twin—half of me stuck here, the other half still living five years ago, connected by flickers like electric sparks in old horror movie laboratories.

"I swear to God, Rache. I swear it has nothing to do with you."

"It's
her,
isn't it?" Her voice low and sad in the dark.

"No. Not her." My voice catches. "Me. It's just what I am."

"That's bullshit, Josh. You don't have to be anything you don't want to be. You can't keep acting like five years haven't gone by.
Something
has to have changed in five years."

I don't know what to say to that. I owe her something. I owe her an explanation. A boyfriend who's not a time-traveler. More than I am, no more than she deserves.

"Rachel, you can't unswing at a pitch. Once your wrist breaks, that's it—it's a strike. You can't take it back."

"Will you at least
look
at me?"

I roll over onto my back. My eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that I can just barely make her out, faintly luminous next to me. As I watch, she shrugs her top back on, leaving it unbuttoned, completely unselfconscious. "I think I'm in love with you, Josh. No, don't say anything. Just let me talk.

"I'm not going to pretend that I know everything or even that I know exactly how I feel. Everything in my mind tells me to run like hell away from you. But everything in my body can't stay away from you. And I've learned to trust that. You can't think through every pitch, every at bat, every line drive. You go on instinct. You go by feel and taste and smell and sound. Sometimes those things just bypass your brain and go deeper. That's how it is with you, Josh. I can't stay away from you, even though that would probably be the best for me. And I don't know if that's love or not, but it seems like it to me."

"Rache..."

"Shh." She covers my mouth with her hand. "Don't. If you say it back to me, it means nothing right now. And if you say you don't—I don't know. I don't know what that will do. So just don't say anything, OK?"

I nod. She releases my mouth.

She curls up next to me. "Can you put your arms around me? Is that OK? Or is that too much?"

I fold my arms around her, her body a long, firm warmth. "Yeah. This is OK." I kiss the top of her head and even as I do it, I realize that Mom and Eve both used to do that to me all the time.

We lie like that for a while. I think I drift in and out of sleep, or it might be flickers. I don't know. Pressed against me, Rachel becomes almost a part of me, our body temperatures matching, mingling, fusing as we breathe in syncopation. And then she says: "Josh?" her voice rising up from a welter of half memories and half dreams, so soft and quiet that at first I think it
is
a dream.