Serpentine Walls (8 page)

“There ya go. I’m going to take a shower.”

Pete slumped, watching the room spin for a while, and then grabbed his guitar and started picking out the melody to “Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone.” After hitting a few sour notes, he threw the guitar aside and stared into space, the only sound that of the shower running in Angie’s bathroom. Eventually, the shower stopped. He stared into space some more.

“This sucks,” he muttered and pulled out his phone. No messages. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t remember why not, and….
Fuck it
. He entered Aidan’s name and started texting.

Advise no frat prtis

U dont read this y/y?

U want to play a guy in a bed?

My film. no sex tho. Sad

“What are you doing?” Angie stood in front of him wearing a flannel bathrobe, her hair wrapped in a towel. “You’re not texting Aidan, are you?”

Pete dropped the phone, wishing he could suck the texts back from Aidan’s in-box.

“Oh well,” Angie said. “I’m going to make some ramen. Want some?”

“No, thanks,” he said, feeling queasy at the mention of food, and slouched back against the cushions.

While Angie rattled pans in the kitchen, Pete had another bright idea. He picked up his phone and sent a text to Matthew.

Frat parties suck. So does drunk txtng

Throwing the phone on the table, he lay down, hoping the dizziness would subside, and promptly fell asleep. The chiming of his phone startled him awake, and he picked it up to see a text from Matthew.

Shocking news. I could have told you that. I don’t mind drunk texts when they’re from u. How’s screenplay?

Smiling, he texted back.

Tell u l8tr when sober.

Pete’s smile widened at Matthew’s response.

Looking forward to that. ttyl

Heaving himself up from the couch, he stumbled into his bedroom to sleep it off.

“C
OME
on, a few more….”

Pete pushed the barbell up from his chest, John spotting him from his position behind his head, and then lowered it slowly, his muscles beginning to tremble.

“Come on, come on, one more, let’s do it!” John barked.

“Unh!” Pete grunted, hoisting the bar into John’s waiting hands. He grabbed his towel and mopped the sweat off his face, sagging on the bench for a moment to let his heart rate return to normal.

“So, what’s up?” He heard John’s voice somewhere above him. “Anything new?”

“Not really.” Pete slid out from under the bar and sat up. “I’m going home this weekend to help Mom with her garage sale.”

“Oh, right.” John handed Pete a water bottle. “I can’t believe your dad is really shacking up with that secretary.”

Pete guzzled some water before answering. “Bookkeeper. And yeah.”

“Sucks, man.” They traded places, Pete standing at the head of the bench to spot John. “How’s your mom doing?”

“Missy said not too good. Part of why I’m going home—I want to see for myself.”

John launched into his set of chest presses, counting off the reps under his breath while Pete stood at the ready, spouting encouragement until John powered through the last rep with a loud grunt.

“Have you seen Fabio lately?” John asked once he caught his breath and sat up.

“No. I mean, yeah, in U. Singers and the octet. But not outside of that.”

John eyed him over the rim of his water bottle. “He ever call after all your drunk texts?”

“Nope.” Pete wandered over to a Nautilus fly machine and started adjusting the weight, glad not to see the expression on John’s face.

“So that’s that,” John said. “Guess you’re just another notch on Aidan’s bedpost.”

“I guess.” Pete changed the seat height and sat down. “I knew it was just a hookup. But….” He watched John select some free weights and lie back down on the bench.

“Yeah? But what?”

“Nothing. I’m being lame.” He started his set, determined to forget about Aidan Emery.

“Hey, amigo, it’s not lame to actually like someone and want to have more than just a hookup with ’em. Fourteen… fifteen.” John dropped the dumbbells on the floor and rested. “But Aidan doesn’t seem interested in that.”

“Yeah,” Pete puffed, finishing his set. “Like that book:
He’s Just Not That Into You.
”

“Yep. Or maybe he’s got intimacy issues or something. I mean, it’s kinda weird that he made you leave in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna let it go.” He got off the machine and stretched.

“Good plan, my man.” John fell silent, concentrating on his set, and then let the weights fall to the floor. “Wanna come over? Cleo’s in the photo lab all afternoon.”

“Maybe later. I’m meeting Professor R to talk about my film. Get this—he wants to meet on the steps of the old amphitheater, not in his office.”

“Fancy.”

“Yeah, the guy’s an original, alright. Angie’s got a monster crush on him.”

“Well, she should watch out. I hear Professor R gets around. Maybe it’s just as well you’re meeting with Sir Rodney in a public place.”

Pete threw his towel at John, missing by a wide margin, and walked into the locker room.

“T
ELL
me your thoughts on your film, Peter.”

Professor R lounged on the amphitheater steps next to Pete, his long legs crossed at the ankles. Struck by how handsome Professor R was at close range, Pete started talking about his film, feeling like he was making no sense. Professor R nodded, staring at him intently as he removed the lid from his cup and blew on the hot tea inside, and Pete couldn’t help but notice his full, sensual lips set off by the well-trimmed mustache.

“Mm-hmm, I see. That’s quite interesting.” Professor R seemed to be undressing him with his eyes. It was unnerving, actually. And Pete’s nerves weren’t helped when he saw Aidan walking by with a cute guy latched onto his side.

“Well, hello there,” Aidan said, giving Professor R a pointed stare that Pete couldn’t quite decipher.

“Aidan, good afternoon,” Professor R responded, returning his gaze with one equally undecipherable.

“Hey,” Pete said, feeling awkward.

Aidan broke off his staring contest with Professor R to give Pete a brief but blinding smile. “Hi, Pete. Good to see you.” He sauntered off with his boy toy while Professor R and Pete looked after him.

“You know him?” Professor R asked, still watching Aidan, then turning back to Pete.

“Yeah. I guess everybody does.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” said Professor R, raising one well-manicured eyebrow.

Pete shifted on the steps. He didn’t feel like talking about Aidan.

“But where were we?” Professor R continued, lasering in on Pete again with those big brown eyes. “Your film. You know, I’m finding what you’re saying about this quite fascinating. How about we go get a cup of coffee or a drink and continue our conversation?”

Pete squirmed at what seemed to be a blatant come-on. His film idea wasn’t all
that
spectacular. Professor R confirmed his suspicions when he let his hand fall casually onto Pete’s knee.

“Um. I… that’d be good, but not today, sorry. I’m gonna be late getting back to the apartment as it is. I mean, thanks and all….”

“Ah, of course,” Professor R said, unruffled, squeezing Pete’s knee before releasing it. “Some other time, then?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, some other time.”
What the hell am I even agreeing to?
Pete was fairly certain it wasn’t to another meeting about his film.

P
ETE
stopped his car in front of Bud’s house.

“Hey, bro,” Bud said, “wanna hang out since you made me come back?”

“I didn’t
make
you. And no, I can’t. I gotta be at home tonight.”

Bud glared at him. “Did so make me!”

“I gave you a choice, cuz. You didn’t have to accept my deal.”

“Jeez,” Bud grumbled. “You could’ve brought my extra crap back on your own.”

“No way, not without getting some hard labor out of you. And how hard is setting up for a garage sale? Wuss.”

The door opened, and Aunt Barb came out on the porch. “Hey, Pete! Tell Laura I’ll be over with Bud tomorrow to help out.”

Pete forced a smile. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Bud, honey, come inside. Your supper’s gettin’ cold.”

Bud made a face. “How’d I get roped into this again?”

“All your precious stuff, coming back to Charlottesville with us.”

“Yeah, fine.” He opened the door and got out.

“See you tomorrow, 8:00 a.m. sharp!” Pete called after him in a falsely cheery tone.

Bud flipped him the bird over his shoulder as he went up his steps.

Ten minutes later, Pete pulled into his own driveway. Grabbing his duffel, he jogged up the front steps, opening the door to an empty living room. It was Friday night, so he wasn’t surprised that Missy and Nate weren’t there. Mom should be home, though.

“Hello?” he called, walking down the dark hall toward the flickering light under the master bedroom door. Knocking softly, he opened it. Mom lay asleep on her bed, TV on, a half-full glass of wine on the bedside table.

Pete touched her arm. “Hey, Mom.”

She startled awake. “Pete! When did you get here? Oh Lord, it’s eight o’clock? I was watching a show, waiting for you, and must’ve zonked out.” She got out of bed and gave him a hug, then held him back from her. “You look good.”

“It’s only been three weeks. I haven’t changed that much.”

She laughed. “True. Are you hungry? I made chicken potpie.”

He might not have changed, but Mom wasn’t looking so hot. She seemed thinner and had dark circles under her eyes.

“Mm, chicken potpie. Yeah, I could eat something. Where are Missy and Nate?” he asked as he followed her down the hall to the kitchen.

“Who knows? ‘Out.’ That’s all I get anymore, especially from Nate.”

“I remember those days.”

“They’ll be glad to see you, though.” Turning on the oven, she got a casserole dish out of the refrigerator and placed it inside. “This shouldn’t take long to warm up.”

Pete smiled. “Still boycotting the microwave?”

“Oh, I’ll use it when I have to. But the crust on this potpie is much better warmed up in the oven. You want something to drink?”

“Got any beer?”

“Oh. Maybe?”

Pete looked in the refrigerator and found seltzer water, OJ, and milk. “Nope.”

“Sorry. Your dad’s the beer drinker, not me.”

Pete flinched at the mention of Dad. “So he took it all when he left? Typical.” He bit his lip, regretting the words as soon as he said them. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s okay.” Mom sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I have some Scotch, if you want. Or red wine.”

“I’ll have a glass of wine.” He opened the cupboard, took out a wineglass, and then turned to face her. “Have you—is Dad…?” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“We talk.” Mom filled the glass with wine. “I told him last week that anything of his he doesn’t come get is going in the garage sale.”

“Wow, Mom, that’s hardcore.”

“Believe me,” she said with a grim smile, “he was over here to get his golf clubs the next day.”

Pete snorted out a laugh and, after a moment, Mom did too.

“Tell you what,” she said, still smiling, “let’s take our plates and the wine bottle and camp out in my room. You can pick the movie tonight.”

“Brave woman. Do we have
Cinema Paradiso
?” he asked, suddenly remembering Matthew’s T-shirt.

“I think so. Didn’t we already watch that?”

“Yeah, but that was years ago. I feel like watching it again.”
Then I can talk to Matthew about it.
“Hey! I’m making a movie!”

“Really? How’d that happen?”

As the aroma of chicken, herbs, and pastry began to fill the kitchen, Pete updated her on school and friends, and it felt safe and cozy, as long as he didn’t think about who was missing.

“T
HANKS
,
honey.” Mom gave him a hug after he put the last folding table against the garage wall. “I really appreciate you coming up to help.”

“Yeah, big bro,” Missy said, her flame-red hair tied back with a scarf. “You rock.”

Pete surveyed her for a hint of her usual sarcasm, but all he saw was a grateful expression. “No big deal, guys. What’s the haul, Nate?” he called to his brother, who was counting the proceeds from their garage sale.

“Gimme a minute.” Nate thumbed through a pile of bills, muttering to himself.

“I can’t believe someone wanted that broken-down grill,” Missy said.

“You’d be surprised what people will buy,” Mom responded. “Especially if the price is right. Can you stay for dinner, Pete? I’ll make meatloaf.”

“I’d like to.” Pete thought longingly of his mother’s home cooking. “But I gotta pick up Bud and get on the road. We’re hauling the rest of his stuff back to school with us.”

“It was nice of him to help out this weekend.”

“Yeah,” Missy said, “even if we had to put up with Aunt Barb and her prayers. Lord, give me strength.” She raised her eyes to the heavens in mock supplication.

“Oh well,” Mom said and pressed her lips together as if to keep herself from saying more. “I’m going to go make you and Bud some sandwiches for the road and package up the rest of the potpie so you can take it with you,” she told Pete.

Mom disappeared into the house while Pete raised his eyebrows questioningly at Missy. She sighed, cutting a glance at Nate.

“All right!” Nate crowed, looking up from counting the money, oblivious to any emotional undercurrents. “Three hundred fifty-eight bucks!”

“Not bad for a garage sale,” Pete said. “Go let Mom know, Pee-wee.”

Nate pulled himself up to his full height, which at six foot one was several inches taller than Pete, and came to loom over him, trying for a menacing expression. “Who you calling Pee-wee? I’m not the shrimp around here.”

“No, I am.” Missy got between them and gave Nate a shove. “But you’re the youngest, so we get to call you whatever we want. Go on, take Mom the money. Maybe it’ll cheer her up.”