Me You Us (13 page)

“Are you guys having a good time?” Adam asks.

Ten times out of ten, Jak will answer that question with, “Meh.”

“Yeah,” Jak says, “it's a great party.”

For some reason this response bothers me. I mean,
whatever. It's an okay party. And we're stuck in the corner. Adam smiles at Jak. She manages a smile in return and then downs the rest of her beer.

The three of us are soon joined by Rebecca. She has a sweater tied around her neck, which isn't a thing I thought people actually did. We exchange pleasantries. Jak ekes out a hello.

“So what's going on over here in the corner?” Rebecca asks.

“Whole lotta nothing,” Adam replies. He and Rebecca clink their keg cups. They run in the same overachiever circles.

“Shane,” Rebecca says, “I meant to tell you—we finally sorted out that senior parking permit issue.”

This was the conversation I had with her at the college fair, in order to wedge her away from Marisol, and then totally forgot about.

“Oh,” I say. “Great.”

“Let me ask you guys something,” Rebecca continues. “What would you think about a
second
extracurricular period after school? That way students who are in multiple clubs can juggle two meetings in one day.”

Jak deadpans: “There's a
first
extracurricular period?”

Even in her hour of weakness, Jak still knows how to land a joke.

Adam, however, lights up at Rebecca's suggestion. “That
would be amazing. I've been requesting that for years. Right, Jak? Wasn't I just telling you how busy I am?”

Jak is pouring another beer from the keg. “Sure. Okay.”

Adam turns to Rebecca. “What can we do to make this happen, and quickly? I would love to help.” The hardest-­working nerd in Kingsview apparently wants to squeeze even more in before graduation.

“That's great,” Rebecca says with a winning smile. “I'll message you next week to discuss. Here's my card just in case.”

“Excellent,” Adam says, taking the card, admiring it, and smiling back.

Jak shifts on her feet. We are at her maximum occupancy for civil behavior, and seeing Rebecca chat up her crush isn't helping. I feel uncomfortable altogether, so I try to lighten the mood by innocently putting my hand on Rebecca's shoulder. “Who would have thought we'd be making school policy at a keg party, huh?” I joke.

Of course, as soon as I do this, Harrison enters our little corner, carrying one black garbage bag and one green garbage bag. “Listen up—”

He stops midsentence when he notices that I have my hand on Rebecca's shoulder. That's the only tell I need to know they are still hooking up. I immediately remove my hand.

“What I was about to say was,” he continues, “trash goes in the black bags. Cans and plastic cups go in the green
bags.”

Adam, who I sense may be emboldened by half a beer, chimes in: “I never pegged you for an environmentalist, Harrison.”

Harrison zeroes in on Adam. “I'm sorry.
Who
are you?”

Adam blanches. “Uh, Adam Foster. We've known each other since elementary school.”

“I'm kidding, dummy. I know who you are.”

This draws an uneasy laugh from the rest of us.

Harrison starts to crack his knuckles.

Jak looks worried, but also a little glassy-eyed.

“Is there something wrong with caring for the environment?” Harrison asks Adam.

“Harrison,” Rebecca says, trying to calm him.

Adam wisely says nothing.

“My moms are activists,” Harrison says. “Do you have a problem with my moms being activists?”

Adam vehemently shakes his head no.

“I didn't think so.”

Everyone in our circle is silent. But then the standoff is interrupted by Jak, of all people. She finishes her beer and throws her plastic cup in the green bag that Harrison is holding.

“Thank you,” Harrison says, quite graciously.

“You're welcome,” Jak says. And then she lets out a small belch. She already has a fresh cup at the ready.

The tension seems to be defused. Adam breathes a sigh of relief. Harrison grows bored with us and turns to leave,
almost running smack-dab into Tristen, who has just entered the party, nearly spilling her beer.

“Excuse me,” Harrison says.

“Sorry!” Tristen says.

Then Harrison does a double take: He looks at her body and then back at her face. I've seen that reaction around ­Tristen a thousand times. Her cleavage is total kryptonite.

“Oh, hey, Tristen,” he says.

“Hi, Harrison.”

I don't even want to know how they know each other.

Harrison exits. A moment later Rebecca pretends to see a friend and shadily sneaks away, though I know she's headed after him.

Tristen and I kiss hello—on the lips. That cherry ­ChapStick gets me every time.

“I'm glad you made it,” I say.

“Me too,” she says. Then: “Hi, Jak!” She hugs Jak, who is clearly not expecting it. Then she turns to Adam: “Have we met? I'm Tristen.” Before Adam can even reply, she turns back to me: “Did I miss anything?”

“Not really,” I say.

I realize it's just me and Tristen and Jak and Adam left in the corner. You would be hard-pressed to find two more unlikely pairs.

Tristen holds my hand. Jak notices this. She holds Adam's hand. Adam is clearly surprised by—and amenable to—this
development. We stand in silence for a minute, drinking our beers with our free hands.

Tristen suddenly remembers something, gives me her beer to hold, digs into her purse, and pulls out a small bottle of vodka. “I almost forgot—I brought this as a gift.”

“That was nice,” I say.

“My mom taught me never to go anywhere empty-handed,” Tristen says.

“Now I feel bad that I didn't bring anything.”

“We can say it's from both of us. My mom also taught me to share.”

“Your mom is very generous.”

“Yeah. Total Sagittarius.”

I don't know what that means. “Um, okay.”

Tristen looks at the bottle of vodka in her hand. “The question is,” she says, “who do we give it to?”

“
Whom
,” me and Jak say simultaneously.

“Huh?” Tristen says.

“It's whom.
Whom
do we give it to,” I say. “Not who.”

Jak smiles.

Tristen looks at me blankly, and then at Jak with just a hint of derision.

“You guys are being weird,” she says.

Tension has returned to our little circle. Jak lets go of Adam's hand. She's sweating a bit. After a few moments, she excuses herself. “I gotta get some air.”

“Should I come with you?” Adam asks. “Also, we're already outside.”

“No. Thanks.” Jak leaves and disappears into the party.

“Now,
that
was weird,” Adam says.

“Nah. That was just Jak,” I say.

“You really do talk about Jak a lot,” Tristen says.

“I don't know. She's my friend.” I look at Adam. I feel bad for him. I feel bad for Tristen. I'm acting weird. I'm having crazy thoughts. I'm a little tipsy.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I say.

I leave Tristen and Adam standing there and bolt.

I navigate my way through the party and into the house through a back door—no easy task, as the backyard has swelled with even more people. The house itself is pretty big and a lot ritzier than mine. It takes me a few minutes of searching before I find the guest bathroom upstairs. I just want to throw some cold water on my face. But I try the door and it's locked. I lean against the wall in the hallway, trying to wrap my head around everything that's happening.

I hear an argument coming from the guest bedroom next to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar. My curiosity gets the best of me, so I peer inside. It's Harrison and Rebecca. They're sitting on the bed, fighting.

“I don't understand why we still have to be a secret,” Rebecca says. “Are you embarrassed by me?”

“Of course not,” Harrison says. “You're amazing. It's just . . . my parents.”

“Why do you care so much about what they think?”

“You know why.”

“I'm sick of sneaking around!”

“Rebecca, please—”

Uh oh. Harrison spots me spying on them through the crack in the door. I've been made. “What the . . . ,” he says.

Harrison stands up and starts making his way toward me while Rebecca shouts at him. I close the door. In a panic, I try the guest bathroom again. This time it's open.

I lunge into the bathroom, slam the door behind me, and lock it, temporarily at least barring Harrison from killing me.

Then I hear groaning.

I'm not alone in the bathroom.

Jak is on her knees in front of the toilet, vomiting.

“Shane is the Mane,” she manages, pumping her fist meekly.

AFTER WAITING A FEW MINUTES
to make sure that ­Harrison has either lost interest or been waylaid by Rebecca and is no longer lurking behind the bathroom door, I manage to scrape Jak off the floor. I put her arm around my neck and very carefully help her stumble out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and out the front door of the house, away from the party and without anyone noticing. At this point she is mumbling incoherently. I've never seen her like this.

Jak's house is closer than mine and her parents are out of town, so I decide that's our best bet. I put my arm around her waist and hold her as tightly as I can. She can't walk on her own, or in a straight line, and she stops to puke every block or so. It should take ten minutes to get to her house. Instead it
takes almost thirty. It barely registers that we left Tristen and Adam just standing there at the party.

It's a tricky maneuver, but I open Jak's gate with one hand while keeping her steady with the other. We head to the front door. Jak didn't bring a purse, so I have to stick my hand into the front pocket of her skinny jeans and fish around for her keys.

“Buy me dinner first,” she mutters.

Luckily, her house is all one level. I help her in the front door and down the main hallway to the bathroom that's adjacent to her bedroom. I flip on the lights and Jak shields her eyes like a vampire. Her bathroom is fairly small, with just a one-person sink attached to the wall below the medicine cabinet, a shower in a claw-foot tub with the curtain already pulled aside, and a toilet squeezed into the little space in between. She's such a low-maintenance girl that I'm surprised by how many bottles of hair stuff and skin stuff and other goo are scattered everywhere. It's like a TSA evidence locker in here.

Jak is covered in puke and in general is a mess. I pull her Chucks off her feet and then help her into the tub, standing up and otherwise fully clothed. I take her phone out of her pocket and her Fitbit off her wrist and put them on the sink. Then I stand off to the side, outside the tub, but always keeping a hand on her to prevent her from tipping over, and turn the shower on. She spits and claws at the water like a baby bear cub getting a bath. The front side of her shirt and jeans
sorta gets cleaned off, but I realize that washing her clothes is futile.

I turn the shower stream away from her and toward the wall and start to strip her down. I help her pull her shirt over her head. We spend a solid ten minutes trying to get her jeans off because they were skintight to begin with and are now soaking wet, but somehow we manage. Now she's only wearing a bra and underwear. I notice she has not even made an attempt to match them.

“Everything is gonna be okay,” I say.

I've seen Jak in a bikini a million times before, so this isn't that big a deal. Yet something is different. Even as recently as last summer she was gangly: all knees and elbows. But since then she's rapidly grown into herself. She looks fantastic—for someone who is simultaneously shivering and dry-heaving—and it feels weird to be seeing her like this.

I turn the showerhead back on her, and raise it up so that I can try to clean her hair. But Jak is too wobbly, and it's getting difficult to keep her standing, plus my hand is getting stuck in her hair, so now that most of the mess is cleaned up, I let her sit down in the tub. I turn off the shower and start to run a bath.

In a few months we're gonna be a thousand miles apart and I'll no longer be able to take care of her like this. She won't be able to take care of me. For the most part we've avoided discussing how we feel about the whole thing. It's
been one big denial party. Right now goodbye doesn't even seem like an option.

Jak is starting to say something, but it's hard to hear her.

“Grin two,” she mumbles.

“What's that?” I say.

“Grintoo.”

“Jak, I can't understand you.”

She musters the strength to speak clearly.

“Get. In. Too.”

“Jak, come on. I'm already soaked.”

She reaches up and tugs at my arm. It's clear she won't be listening to reason or taking no for an answer.

I sigh. “Okay. Hold on a second.”

I start stripping off my clothes, which are wet and covered in Jak's vomit.

“Wooo, take it off,” she murmurs.

I remove my Fitbit and place it next to hers on the sink. I get down to my boxers and shut off the water. Then I step into the tub and sit behind Jak, so that she's in my lap. Jak pulls her knees into her chest. I hug her tightly. A half-naked white guy and a half-naked black girl embracing in a bathtub. We look like a Benetton ad.

It occurs to me that this is the very same spot where our parents took that picture of us in the bathtub almost eighteen years ago. It triggers a flood of happy memories. What are the odds that our friendship would have lasted this long?

It's really quiet in the bathroom. I soothe Jak. Rub her shoulders. Tell her she's doing great. Occasionally she dry-heaves. But the worst is over.