Like It Never Happened (18 page)

“He's not even gay!” I shouted.

My cheeks flushed with immediate regret. I watched the truth occur to Charlie. His eyes narrowed before they went wide. He pointed at me. “You have a thing for him.”

“Fuck you.” I had left my boots by the front door. The house had a no-shoes rule, even though it was such a mess. Charlie's family was poor. Or mine was rich and his was normal. Whatever it meant that my mother paid someone to vacuum our floors and Charlie's mother didn't even have time to do it herself.

Charlie followed and silently watched me tie my laces. I was ditching him with the tequila. A bottle half depleted was more conspicuous than a bottle missing. Everyone knew that.

I pulled on my coat and patted the pockets, counting my belongings. I had shoes, and a coat, and a cell phone, and a wallet, and a problem. Such a massive problem.

“I don't have a thing for Mr. McFadden.”

I made this statement for the record. We couldn't break up, that was the problem. We practically hated each other, but we couldn't break up.

“I know.” He cooperated. “I'm sorry.”

We had to keep pretending. Losing each other was one thing, but we could not lose the play. I had put so much of myself into Blanche DuBois. I was closer to her now than ever: drunk at noon, clinging desperately to what I still had, flapping my paper-thin wings against hot glass.

And theater was the passion Charlie couldn't hide. He needed the applause as much as I did. Maybe more.

“Can we act like this never happened?” he asked.

I leaned forward and, without touching him anywhere else, brushed my lips against his.

“Sure.” I pushed open the door and a blast of cold air slapped our faces. “I'm good at acting.”

C
harlie
'
s house had never felt so far away
.
I could have taken the bus, but I thought maybe I should walk off the drunkenness. Fortunately my feet knew the way home. My mouth was dry and if there had been anything to laugh at, I would have laughed hard. There happened not to be.

I tried to stop thinking about Charlie. On paper he was still my boyfriend, which was all he had ever really been: a signature on a dotted line. I understood our contract now. He had offered himself in exchange for the stage. As Charlie's devoted girlfriend, I was supposed to step aside, to ensure his status as Bickford Park's most talented thespian. It was
almost
the only thing he had ever wanted from me.

Waiting to cross Division Street, I shut my eyes against the morning. I tried to focus on getting home, on the box beneath my bed growing more consequential by the second.

I wanted to read Nadine's letter one more time. And then I had to show it to my sister.

By the time I made it home, I was more cold than drunk. Mary and my mother were still out, but my father's parka hung by the door. I shouted a greeting and he answered from his office. I didn't want him to see my face, which I was sure contained a history of the last few hours.

Safe inside my room, I sank to the carpet and pulled the box into my lap. Carefully, I set aside the tiny covered wagon, the books, the CDs, the matches, the ticket stub, and the ring. I unfolded the letter and examined every word, blood surging in my ears.

When I finished, I lay back against the floor, feeling the throbs of my very first hangover. I could still hear Charlie spitting out the word
faggot
with such dense, angry pride.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the details of the night Mary left home. Still, all I could see was my sister and father screaming in the living room—my father lifting his hand and my mother seizing his wrist. I couldn't remember anyone naming Nadine as the reason, but it was so obvious now. My sister had left home because she loved a girl.

My parents had allowed me to grow up without a sister. And when she finally did come home to announce her engagement, my parents looked at each other so warily, unwilling to pour a drop of champagne until she clarified: he, him, his. Jeffrey Cline.

I listened to my father climb the stairs and shut himself inside the bathroom. He blew his nose in the most elephantine way possible. Suddenly, I hated him for things that had never particularly bothered me. I hated him for the hours he spent in front of the evening news, and for the giant khaki pants he always wore. I hated him for wrinkling his nose at Tess's
I
MY VAGINA
T-shirt, even though I also hated that shirt, which forced me to remember certain things about Tess every time she wore it.

Maybe everything my father had ever done was in support of his palm against Mary's cheekbone. Maybe he was no better than Charlie.

The tequila had a strange way of clarifying things I normally ignored.

I heard the car in the driveway, doors slamming, my sister barreling through the house hollering my name. I practically broke a sweat trying to re-pack the box and shove it under the bed.

Mary burst into the room, all giddy and breathless. She seemed to have forgotten that I was supposed to be at Charlie's, draining a bottle of stolen tequila.

“Oh my lord, Rebecca, if you ever get married, do not go wedding dress shopping with our mother and your future mother-in-law! Too many matriarchs! Go with your fiancé. Go alone. Go with me! I have excellent taste.”

Mary had two garment bags draped over her arm.

“Seriously, once I'd made up my mind, Darlene asked me ‘Are you sure?' so gravely I could tell she was already revising her last will and testament, prepared to leave everything to the gardener. Or maybe the cook. She hates the gardener.”

“You have two,” I said.

She blinked.

“Two dresses.”

“Aha!” Mary's eyes lit up. She unloaded one dress onto the bed and dramatically presented the other. “This one”—she lowered the zipper on the bag—“is for you.”

Mary—formerly of the homemade dreadlocks and unwashed Joy Division shirt—did have good taste, after all. She had picked a simple black dress with a boat neckline, worthy of Audrey Hepburn in her prime. And because I was the most perverted girl alive, my first thought was that I wanted Mr. McFadden to see me in it. Badly.

“Do you like it?” Mary asked, even though I clearly did. “It's a little too big but that's on purpose. We'll go back to the shop to have it fitted.”

“Yes,” I said, fingering the fabric. “It's perfect.”

“Are you ready to see mine?” Mary's eyes were bug-wide, like a little kid after too many Skittles.

She surprised me by stripping down to her underwear, then turning away to step into her dress. It's not that I was such a prude I couldn't handle watching her change. The problem was that Mary, naked, looked a lot like me naked—down to her slightly heavy calves and freckled shoulders. Did she know?

And if she knew what I looked like naked, what else did she know?

Mary's gown was sleeveless with a V-neckline that met in the center of her chest. The dress narrowed at her waist, barely grazed her hips, and fell straight to the floor. She could have gotten married like that—with her topknot falling apart, her makeup several hours old, and her feet bare. There was no way Darlene Cline would give the family fortune to the gardener. Mary was beautiful.

“It's perfect,” I said again.

Mary grinned. She grabbed my hands. “It feels real now,” she whispered. “I'm getting married.”

My head ached. I opened my mouth. I meant to produce Nadine's package. I meant to claim I had opened it by mistake—that I hadn't read a word but had shoved it beneath my bed in a moment of guilt-stricken panic, just seconds ago.

Mary was blinking back tears. She grabbed my arms and forced me to do a celebratory dance. I moved jerkily, like a hungover puppet.

And then I laughed, because insanity is contagious. Or maybe hereditary.

“You're getting married,” I echoed.

B
efore rehearsal on Monday
,
I entered the bathroom to find Liane and Tess sitting on the counter with their feet in the sinks. I had never caught them alone together and my stomach twisted, I guess at the idea of them forming some kind of alliance.

Trying to appear unfazed, I waved hello and locked myself inside a stall. Tess resumed telling a story.

“So as you know, my grade in history is less than perfect—”

“You can't be in the play if you're put on academic probation,” interrupted Liane.

“Exactly. So Mr. McFadden somehow heard, and called me in to discuss. He said I'm invaluable to the
Streetcar
effort, and that he wants to help me however he can. He kept being like, ‘I want to help you! Tell me how to help you!'”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, emerging from the stall.

Liane pulled her feet out of the sink so I could wash my hands. “Mr. McFadden might have hit on Tess,” she said.

“Oh he definitely did,” said Tess.

I looked at Liane. On the wall above her head, somebody had written
Cross my heart and hope to diet
. She reeked of cigarettes and cinnamon gum.

“That's ridiculous,” I said.

“Why is that so ridiculous?” Liane crossed her arms. She and Tess blinked their freshly outlined eyes, actually expecting an answer.

“Because he's probably gay?” I suggested.

Tess shrugged. “Well, maybe he's bi. I'm pretty sure he was hitting on me.”

“He would never do that!” I could feel my cheeks getting hot.

Liane cleared her throat. “He would never hit on a student?” She was playing with the metal hoop in her nostril. “Or he would never hit on Tess?”

I
stared
at
her
in
disbelief,
but
her
gaze
was
impenetrable. At that moment, I did not feel remotely bad about stealing the boy she liked. I would have stolen him a hundred times.

“Mr. McFadden would never hit on any of us,” I asserted slowly.

Liane kind of snorted and smirked at her shoes. Something had broken our silent truce and now, instead of ignoring me, she was just being mean. Liane was too good at being mean. Shaking my hands dry, I rushed out of the bathroom. In addition to being absurd and offensive, my friends had made me late for rehearsal.

Tess followed, calling my name. We were alone in a deserted hallway between the main corridor and the auditorium. Her voice sounded amplified.

“Are you okay?” Tess looked very earnest, cupping a hand over my shoulder. I wondered if we had been alone together since the beach trip. I tried to remember what I had liked about her when we were fifteen. I could only think of her
Grey Gardens
impression. She did a perfect Big Edie.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“You know I don't
actually
think Mr. McFadden was hitting on me.”

“Obviously.”

“You'll always be his leading lady,” she teased.

I didn't respond.

Tess half closed one eye, like she was looking at me under a microscope. Now that Tess identified as a fourth-wave feminist, she presumably had new theories about virginity and how to dispose of it. I wondered if she still cried about the way she had lost hers. I felt kind of ruthless toward her, right then.

“Is everything okay with you?” She used her best guidance counselor voice. “Because if there's anything you want to talk about, I'm always here.”

My instinct was to flip her two middle fingers, but I refrained. I could already imagine the wounded face she would pull. Like it wasn't her, but some other girl who had advised a drunk, shirtless boy to enter my bedroom and have sex with me.

Just once, a long time ago.

As the week dragged on, an idea got stuck in my head and wouldn't leave. It started with a dream that I kissed him.

The situation was all weird, not really romantic at all. I was at a school assembly in honor of a kid who had died. Our principal, Mr. Gladstone, was relaying the tragedy into a microphone—something about pills and Internet bullies. For some reason I was sitting next to Mr. McFadden—which would obviously never happen in real life—and I was crying. Maybe the dead kid was a friend of mine. Maybe it was Tim. I fell across my director's lap and cried into his knee, the same way I used to cry into my mother's knee. He was wearing his favorite pair of pin-striped slacks.

I rolled over and looked up at his chin, faintly stubbled. He looked down at me. My eyelashes were attractively matted—you can see this kind of thing in dreams—and suddenly we were kissing.

Forget about the kid who died. Forget that the entire school could see. The kiss was actually stupefying. I woke up feeling kind of desperate and raw, like it was a great tragedy to be alone in my bed. And also like if I moved my leg in any direction, something inside of me would erupt.

It was a Tuesday morning. I got dressed and ate the toast my mother made me, feeling fairly criminal. As I walked to school, everything looked dry and blanched: the pavement, the tree trunks, the blank billboard looming over Hawthorne Boulevard.

What I wanted to know was, why couldn't I kiss him? Of course there were a lot of things that couldn't happen—at least not until I graduated. And probably he didn't think about me the way I thought about him. But men usually wanted to kiss girls, didn't they? And if we kissed once with no audience and never breathed another word about it, nobody would have any proof.

So what started as a strangely colored dream turned into a full-blown obsession. All through math and science and history I sat with two fingers pressed against my lips. At lunch I let Charlie drape his arm around me, because that was what our boyfriend-girlfriend act required. But I wasn't really part of the scene in the cafeteria. I ignored the smell of boiled hot dogs, and Tim's performance of a rap he had written about the quadratic formula, and the way Tess angled her wallet so we could all see the condom she kept tucked behind her money. None of it really mattered anymore.

We could kiss once in his car.

We could kiss once backstage after everybody had left.

We could kiss once in that convenience store where we had met by chance at the end of the summer. Just once, and then I would give up. I would go back to being his favorite student, his leading lady, sustained by a single memory.

There was one night that week when I couldn't sleep. Probably because my obsession with Mr. McFadden's lips had seeped into my bloodstream like too much caffeine. So I crept downstairs and slid out the back door, thinking I might get to witness the year's first snowfall.

I smelled the smoke before I registered Mary leaning against the plum tree, wrapped in an old winter coat of our mother's. She smiled when she saw me.

“I thought you were in Lake Oswego.” I joined her beneath the bare branches.

“I was, but for some reason I really wanted to be here instead. Now I can't remember why. I'm so restless. I can't wait to go home.”

“Home?”

“California.”

“Oh.” I had kind of forgotten that Mary and Jeffrey had a house in Santa Cruz. She never talked about her life there.

“Do you want a cigarette?” She held out the pack, looking amused with herself, like someone offering salad to a dog. I accepted anyway. Props were always helpful.

“Man,” said Mary, thrusting out her jaw and exhaling skyward. “I used to hate this house when I was a kid. I fantasized about trampling Mom's tulips and breaking the stained-glass window and throwing the crystal champagne flutes against the Spanish tile. Do you ever do that?”

“Do I ever throw the champagne flutes?”

“Or fantasize about it?”

“No.” Lately I only fantasized about one thing, ever. “I think I'm going to kiss my director, though.” I presented this as a natural train of thought.

Mary's jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Just once.” I shrugged. “On the lips.” I wanted her to think it was a cool idea, like something she would have done in high school.

“You can't,” she insisted.

“One time,” I said.

“Nope. Rebecca, listen to me. Your director is an adult.”

“He's your age.”

“I'm an adult.”

I shrugged. I knew that she was, but it was easier to believe some days than others. Looking into her eyes for as long as I could stand, I felt like I was begging her to shed her adulthood like a snakeskin.

“You can't kiss your director,” she said slowly.

“One time?” Like the terms were negotiable.

“Rebecca,” Mary admonished me. “It's not funny. He might have kids, or a wife—he at least has a job. Those are the things at stake when you're an adult. Don't you get that?”

He didn't have kids or a wife, did he? The question didn't seem to matter. I had absolutely no desire to sabotage Mr. McFadden's life; I just wanted to feel his lips on mine.

“Do you think I could get him to kiss me if I tried? Hypothetically?”

“
Hypothetically,
I think you could get a lot of people to kiss you. I don't know who your director is. I would advise you to stick with people who can kiss you legally.”

“You do know him, actually.”

Mary took a shallow puff on her cigarette. She frowned, like it was bad news already.

“He went to high school with you,” I added.

She frowned even deeper. “
Who?”

“Stephen McFadden.”

“Oh.”

I studied her face. For some reason, I badly wanted to know what she had thought of him back then. “Were you friends?”

“We were aware of each other,” she said carefully. “I think we once went to a concert with a bunch of other kids.”

“At the Meow Meow?”

Mary looked startled. “How do you know about the Meow Meow? I thought they shut that place down.”