Higher Ground (17 page)

“New Orleans is beautiful in October.”

He smiles, drops one hand from the steering wheel, and wraps his fingers in mine. “This October.”

“This October,” I echo for emphasis. “I can tell my mother what we want, and she’ll have it organized and unbelievably perfect.”

“What do we want?” he asks.

“Outdoors, lots of candles, maybe an arch with flowers in front of the fountain…”

“A night wedding?”

“Maybe sunset.”

“I like suits better than tuxes,” he says.

“I like that idea. Black or navy would be nice.”

“Black.”

“I hope your parents like my parents,” I say. “They’re not as nice as yours, but they aren’t horrible.” Wine’s better than truth serum in some ways. It loosens the tongue without any twisting. “My siblings are cool, though, and I have the best grandma.”

“Your parents are nice,” he says. “Not even close to horrible.”

“Do you want to go on a cruise?” I ask. Patricia was right about the convenience of a port in New Orleans. We could steal away quietly on a ship to some faraway beach.

“Do you?”

“I’m not opposed to the idea, but it would have to be a short one. We could even wait until the next summer and do something else entirely.”

“Shit,” he says, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Blue lights flash behind us, making my pulse race and teeth clench. Both fists ball on my thighs, and I try not to panic.

It’s a traffic stop. Nothing more.

Wade pulls into the emergency lane, slows and stops the car, and leaves the engine running. I jump when he leans across the console to open the glove compartment in front of me.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling out his registration.

Before I can answer, a state trooper knocks on his window. Wade lowers it and apologizes immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“Do you know why I stopped you?” The trooper leans down to peer into the car.

I swallow and lick my lips.

“Speeding?”

Nodding, the officer watches Wade search for his license and insurance card. He finds both, passes them through the window with the registration, and glances at me.

“Stay right here.” The trooper turns on his heel and leaves us to return to his car.

Wade shifts in his seat and uses his hand to break the death grip I have on my thigh. His palm presses against mine, and he entwines our fingers. “You’re shaking,” he says. “It’s a speeding ticket, Violet. That’s all.”

“I know.”

“Are you sick? Did you drink too much?”

I shake my head in a partial lie. I’m not drunk anymore, maybe mildly buzzed, but I feel sick.

He reaches for the small cooler in the back seat. “Mom packed a couple of bottled waters with the leftovers.”

Cool water helps with the dry mouth, but my grip on the bottle between swallows is shaky. The cop comes back with Wade’s belongings and a ticket for twelve miles over the speed limit. He tips his hat at us after saying goodnight.

Wade signals, gathers speed, and merges onto the highway to continue the trek home.

“Have you ever been arrested?” I ask, eyes focused past the sunroof, trained on the stars in the sky above us.

“No.”

“I have.”

Then

The rest of Christmas break was spent with my family. Ronnie came home wearing maternity clothes, and knowing there was a tiny person inside her bump was the most bizarre thing. She smiled and showed us pictures of her first ultrasound, of my nephew.

I dropped my fork when she broke down crying at Christmas dinner. My brother-in-law comforted her first and then told us he was being sent to Iraq. He wouldn’t be home for the baby’s birth. Van and I sat quietly while the adults talked around us, throwing out ideas and developing a plan.

Ronnie wanted to come home to New Orleans and stay. She didn’t want to have a baby alone in a strange city. None of us wanted that.

We waved to her on New Year’s Day when they got into their car to drive back to Texas. She said goodbye instead of sneaking off without one, and knowing she would be back soon made it easier on all of us.

The rumors about Oliver, Chloe Sinclair, and ecstasy started during our first week back to school in January. People stared at me in the halls more than they ever had before, and the whispering between classes was pronounced.

Oliver never corrected anyone or denied anything, but he never admitted anything, either, not even when I asked him point blank.

“Did you have sex with Chloe?”

We were on his bed, alone for the first time in weeks. His father had packed and shipped his things to some address in Mississippi, and his mother was taking advantage of her newfound freedom by burning the midnight oil somewhere.

“Give me some credit,” Oliver said. He placed a Marlboro between his lips and pushed down the ball of the lighter in his hand. After a quick pull, he continued. “Chloe’s not my type.”

He set the cigarette in the ashtray on his night table and pulled out a vial of coke. When he held a small pile on the pad of his thumb, I inhaled. All the questions melted away when the euphoria hit. Oliver kneeled between my legs and tugged at the button of my jeans. His hand was hot on my thigh as he pulled them and my underwear off my body.

I was too high to help much, but he was functioning well enough for both of us. He lined his cock up at my entrance and then shoved in without hesitation. He pinched and pulled, payback for calling him out, and when I didn’t come, he turned me over and yanked my hips into the air so he could fuck me harder. His fist twisted in my hair when his orgasm hit.

It was the first time he’d failed to take care of me.

“Fuck,” he said, shoving me away by my ass cheeks.

His cigarette had burned into a snake of ash in the tray, so he lit another on his way to his bathroom. I was already regretting what had happened, so I dressed quickly while he was gone and sent Troya a text. I asked for a burrito or some kind of snack, but what I really wanted was her and a few of our friends.

I wanted to yell and scream at Oliver. I wanted to accuse him of lying and fucking, to tell him what an asshole he was, but I had to remind myself repeatedly that Oliver wasn’t my boyfriend, that he kept coming back to me.

Chloe was forgotten a couple of weeks later when new rumors started flying about Oliver and Britney Thomas. He ignored that one, too, but every time she passed me in the hall, she winked and puckered her lips in an air kiss.

Troya, Sonny, Van, and the others became buffers. I still let Oliver take me up to his room after school, but I made sure we were surrounded by classmates and friends afterward. The temptation to ask questions or scream demands was always there, and witnesses meant I’d never act on it.

Our friends ignored what was going on the same way we always did: we hung out and got high. Troya, Penn, and I even studied most days.

My first acceptance letter arrived the first week of February.

Vanderbilt.

Nashville.

Tennessee.

More than five hundred miles away from New Orleans.

Penn, Celeste, and Troya were happy for me, while Oliver didn’t speak to me for three days. I spent those afternoons wondering who he was getting high with, who he was fucking. When he got over it and decided he wanted me again, I followed him home after school and let him punish me with his body instead of his silence.

Avoidance was our new normal. We fucked, got high, and never talked.

I gave up Friday night parties with my friends. Oliver had started spending more time at Mitchell’s with college kids who acted like assholes every time the rest of us showed up. It was a slow unravel none of us knew how to stop.

On the day of the Oshun & Pygmalion parade, Troya knocked on the front door at noon. Since George was in town for Mardi Gras and Van was going with him, I’d planned to skip the festivities. It didn’t take long for Troya to convince me to join her, though.

Miss Verity fed us cucumber sandwiches and homemade pasta salad for lunch. “Be mindful of others tonight,” she said. “The city’s packed. Stay together, and don’t take drinks from strangers, not even bottled water.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She was quiet while we ate, but she hovered, wiping the same counter twice to keep busy. On our way out, she stopped me with a gentle hand on my bicep. “I wish you’d stay home, Violet.”

“We’ll be fine, Miss Verity. I promise. I’ll call Van to see if he wants to meet up.”

“Please be careful.”

“I will.”

She hesitated a moment and then released my arm. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I practically ran down the steps after Troya, desperate to get away before my grandmother changed her mind.

“What was that about?” Troya asked.

“Who knows?”

St. Charles was more crowded than it had been since the summer months, but it wasn’t as bad as I knew it would be later in the day. We walked to Penn’s to meet up with Sonny and Celeste. I tried calling Van along the way, but he didn’t answer.

Penn’s driveway was predictably full, but his house wasn’t. The crowd was out back, drinking beer and knocking back yellow, purple, and green Mardi Gras-themed JELL-O shots. Troya found Sonny sitting by the pool with his jeans rolled up and his feet in the water. His eyes were bloodshot, and a lazy, stoned grin was his greeting. Before I could sit, someone dropped several strands of beads over my head. When I turned, Penn was smiling.

“Hey,” he said. “Ready to party?”

“Sure.” I followed him inside, up the stairs, and down the hall to his room. “Is Oliver coming?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not really sure. I told him to meet us here, but you know how he is. Something always comes up on the weekends…” He opened his bathroom door and flipped on the fan before he lit a rounded joint.

We smoked half the blunt, and then he hid the rest in a metal BAND-AID tin. Scented candles were already lit, camouflaging the skunk with a light sandalwood aroma. The sun was sinking, and orange firelight flittered behind the shades. When he dropped the container into the top drawer of his nightstand, it landed next to an unopened box of condoms.

I tried to think of a time I’d seen Penn get close to a girl. Next, I tried to think of any guys he’d seemed interested in. Penn liked to party and laugh. Maybe sex wasn’t his thing.

He shoved the drawer shut with his knee and coughed a fake laugh. His embarrassment was confusing… until his eyes focused on my lips and he leaned closer. My heart stopped beating for a second, and when it restarted, it was pounding away at double-time.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No.

I swallowed and tensed, looked down, and took a deep breath. Penn took a step back and moved toward the door. “You should try the lemon shots,” he said. “You’ll like them.” Once we rejoined the others in the yard, he stayed as far away from me as possible and didn’t even glance at me again.

With his hands buried in his pockets and a lit Marlboro between his lips, Oliver wandered up the driveway an hour later. He looked around, caught sight of me, and walked over. “Hey.”

I reached for a plastic cup to follow Penn’s advice. The yellow shot slid down my throat, and I pretended not to care that Oliver hadn’t told me he was going to the party or asked me to go with him.

“Hey,” I answered.

“I’ve got some good shit,” he said, freeing a hand to rest it on my ass.

“I smoked with Penn a little while ago. I’m good.”

His fingers curled, squeezing flesh through denim. With his other hand, he put out his cigarette. “Better than weed.”

I let him lead me inside, expecting him to take me to Penn’s room to bump, but we ended up in the kitchen instead. He took two cans of Coke from the fridge and handed me a little blue pill with a butterfly carved into it.

“What is it?” I asked.

“X.”

I should’ve told him to fuck off. I wanted to. He would’ve walked out of that kitchen, strolled through the yard, and given it to Celeste. Or he could’ve kept it and taken it with him to Chloe or Britney’s house the next day.

I washed it down with soda and tried not to panic.

Oliver smiled and swallowed his before shoving his tongue into my mouth. I kissed him back and let him pin me against the cool, stainless steel refrigerator.

“Fuck, Oliver.” The back door slammed shut behind Penn as he walked into the kitchen. “I told you to knock that shit off in my house.”

“We’ll go,” Oliver said to me. His hand closed over mine, and I followed him, mouthing a “sorry” to Penn.

The streets were lined with parked cars on both sides. When we reached St. Charles, Oliver made a left and kept going. The crowd was so thick that we locked hands and lifted them above us in the air to avoid being separated. He stopped on the corner of Washington.

Without the distraction of being dragged by a determined Oliver, stillness brought a warmth to my knees. Anger and frustration melted away as happiness settled in their place. The minutes passed, and the high slipped in, quietly offering a contentment I’d never known.

Marching bands, dance squads, flying beads…

Oliver’s hands on my waist, his breath in my ear, his lips against my neck…

He wanted me. I could feel it every time his dick rubbed against my jean-covered ass. Somewhere in the very smallest corner of my mind, I knew I shouldn’t want him. I did, though.

I let his fingers drift up and under my shirt. There were people everywhere, closing in on us from every direction, but none of them mattered. He pulled a flask from his pocket and held it out to me. Whiskey soothed the dry mouth, but it burned all the way down.

Oliver kept one hand on the skin below my navel and the other in the air. Each time he caught a strand of beads, he would lower them over my head. For hours, he teased me, grinding his dick against my ass while he touched, rubbed, and flicked various parts of my body. When the parade ended, I let him steer me down Washington. We passed the main gate of Lafayette Cemetery and then made a sharp right. The concrete was broken and crumbling at the hinge of one of the side gates. Oliver put a foot on the fence and hefted himself over the wrought iron. With a small grunt, he landed on his feet on the other side.

There were voices coming from both directions, and I knew the streets would be packed with people looking for their cars. Still, I followed him over the cold metal and let him steady me after my drop to the ground.

The cemetery had been closed for hours, and the only light coming in was from streetlamps. Oliver was smart to keep his hands on me as we walked to our corner. There was no one around, no need to hide.

I wasn’t sure if it was the place, the timing, or the ecstasy that heightened every feeling and every touch. Maybe it was the combination. It took longer—definitely the ecstasy—and my favorite jeans were ripped in the process, but he made up for the last time he’d left me wanting.

We waited to leave until the crowd had died down and headlights had stopped flooding the gates every few seconds. Prytania Street was dark, and I didn’t see the cop on the corner until it was too late and we were back on the legal side of the fence. He barely seemed interested in us at first glance, but something caused him to do a double take and raise his hand to point.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Another cop, taller and scarier than the first, turned the corner to join him. “Have you been drinking tonight?” he asked.

Underage drinking was the most minor of our infractions. For some reason, I thought honesty was the best option.

“Yes,” I said. “We were at the parade.”

“Is that where you ripped your jacket and got all those leaves in your hair?” the other cop asked.

“Fuck you,” Oliver said. He reached for my hand and tried to walk away.

“Stop right there.”

I wasn’t sure which of them had spoken, but there was no arguing with the tone. My feet stopped moving, and my tongue felt two sizes too big. Oliver rolled his eyes.

“Do you have any weapons?” The tall one stepped forward with one hand on the cuffs at his waist.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Any drugs?”

I shook my head again, hoping like hell Oliver could say the same.

“No,” he said from behind me.

Being frisked was humiliating. There was no doubt in my mind that both of those officers knew what we’d been doing. I was foolish enough to think, just for a moment, we might get off with some kind of warning. It was Mardi Gras. There had to be bigger fish to fry.

My hopes were dashed when one of them pulled Oliver’s pack of Marlboros from
my
jacket pocket. As altered as I was, I could still smell the weed the moment he flipped open the pack.

“Well, looky here,” he said. “What else do you have?”

A coin purse stuffed with cash, lipstick, my driver’s license, and Felicia McGee’s license was next.

“That’s not mine,” I said.

“Obviously,” the older one replied. “Please put your hands behind your back.”

“Oh, God.” I somehow managed to not throw up. Cold steel locked my hands in place, and a police car showed up out of nowhere with its blue lights spinning. It hit me then that I was going to jail instead of going to college. “Oliver,” I said. “Tell them.”

“Those aren’t her cigarettes. She doesn’t even smoke.”