Lost Cause Page 6

  He shrugs. “Maybe. Who was?”

  “Gabe Hill.”

  “Oh, yeah. Whatever happened to that douchebag?” he asks, flipping more pages.

  “He’s going to Princeton. And he wasn’t that much of a douchebag,” I mumble, looking around the room uncomfortably.

  He snorts. “You had the biggest crush on him.”

  My jaw drops. “No, I didn’t. I . . . “ Okay, why is my voice an octave higher? “I . . . totally didn’t.”

  He nods slowly, as my temperature starts to rise. I’d never . . . and what does he know about it, anyway? They travelled in non-overlapping social circles, really. If you could call Noah social; he was more like a lone puppy (because “wolf” sounds too sleek, sly and rebellious for Noah). I mean, except for sharing honors classes and ending up at the same parties every once in a while, Gabe and Noah were pretty much from different worlds.

  Then he shuts the book, and I cringe as his eyes travel to two prom pictures tucked under the criss-crossing ribbons on my memory board, along with various mementos from over the years – movie tickets, photos, concert programs. The photos of me and Gabe are nearly identical. Sure my dress had been different, but the same gaudy sashes and crowns we’d worn as king and queen are laughably ridiculous. It went with the territory of being the famous Gabe Hill’s girl.

  Noah studies them, and never raising his voice, says, “Okay. Not only did you go to both proms with the douchebag, you were Prom Queen?”

  I gnaw on my lip.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Was . . . wait. Arianna Baker. Was Gabe Douchebag Hill your boyfriend?”

  He studies me, a sly smile spreading on his face. I’m glad he finds my life so amusing. I swallow and look away.

  He drums his fingers on the desk, thinking. “Hell, wait . . . Are you still going out with him?”

  “No!” I blurt, then quieter: “We broke up a few weeks ago.”

  I sound weak. I sound pathetic. If I really did believe it was over, why haven’t I ripped those pictures into a thousand little pieces by now? Why haven’t I thrown away his jacket and his baseball cap and the stupid Princeton t-shirt he bought me last year?

  And it’s obvious from the look on Noah’s face that he’s wondering the same thing.

  “All right . . . But that means you went out with him for like what? Four years? So you put up with his douchebagginess for nearly half a decade?” He backs away and sits on the edge of my bed, shaking his head. “How did you manage that?”

  “Because he’s not that big a . . . I mean, he has moments where . . .“ I sigh. “Forget it.”

  “No. What were you going to say?”

  “I was going to say . . . “ Oh, hell no. Noah and I have shared a lot of stuff, had a lot of good times, but I never talked to him about my love life. Or lack thereof. Ever. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does,” he coaxes. “Tell me. What were you going to—”

  “He was sleeping with Claire Keenan,” I mumble, leaning against the desk, hoping he’s happy for opening the wound. “Remember her? They both go to Princeton together. I went there to pay a surprise visit and found them fucking in the common area of their dorm. It turns out I’m a massive sucker. So apparently you’re an excellent judge of character because you knew in two minutes what it took me years to figure out. ”

  He just stares at me. The pity is coming soon, I can feel it.

  But it doesn’t. I exhale, pushing away from the desk and nudging aside the folds of the gauzy curtain in hopes the coast is clear. The group has dispersed but I can see the tires of a news van at the end of the driveway. I throw the curtain closed and say, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I’m over it. ”

  He nods slowly again, doubtfully. Oh, hell. I can’t lie to him. Why should I even try?

  #

  “Hey, Chica!” Claire Keenan drawled from the foyer of her grand home. I held the present out to her, excited for her reaction when she opened it—it was a board game called Monster Panic. I’d played over the summer with Noah, and we’d gotten kind of obsessed with it. She took it without much enthusiasm and slid it onto an enormous dining room table that was heaped with colorfully-wrapped presents. Then she said, “Come on, everyone’s downstairs.”

  “Uh, happy birthday,” I remembered too late as I followed her down to where I could hear the beat of some wild dance music. I’d been relieved that this was a home-party. Recently, all the girls had been having spa parties at fancy salons that must’ve cost a fortune, making my cake-and-ice-cream-in-the-backyard eleventh birthday look really lame. But Claire was totally popular, and if she was okay with having a party in her dank basement, then I didn’t have anything to worry about. Right?

  Until I saw her basement. It was the size of some small towns, filled with cool furniture and decorated to look like a 60’s hippie thing, with tie-dye and peace signs everywhere. My insides felt tight as I looked around for my girlfriends and saw . . .

  Gabe Hill.

  Famous Gabe Hill. There was never a more perfect specimen of a boy. He was sitting on one of the couches, drinking punch, legs spread open wide, like he and his crotch owned the place. The rest of his jock crew was there, too—and all of them looked like this was just normal.

  I stared at Claire. These were boys. The boys we’d declared the enemy, only three short years before. What had she been thinking? Had she let Gabe’s dimples infiltrate our fortress?

  She tried to yank me off the last step, but my knees buckled. I felt like I was about to walk into a snake pit. Mari and the rest of the girls waved at me, like all was good, so I stiffly made my way toward the snack table and started to gnaw on a Dorito.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Jacy said to me, making me cringe.

  Lately, my friends and I had evolved into a pattern, in which they were constantly schooling me on what I was doing wrong. But this was a Dorito. What was wrong with a harmless Dorito? “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to play spin-the-bottle later and you don’t want to have Cool Ranch breath,” she explained.

  I stared at her. Of course I knew what spin-the-bottle was, but I never thought any friends of mine would care to play it. Especially at a birthday party, where you’re supposed to be having fun. “Why do we have to play that?” I grimaced.

  “You don’t have to. What, you don’t want to?” she asked, looking at me like I had three heads. Then she snorted. “Grow up, Ari,” she said, and walked away.

  I spent the rest of the time nursing a Pepsi, simultaneously hoping my breath didn’t stink and telling myself it didn’t matter because I’d never play that stupid game in a million years. The rest of my classmates mingled and laughed and had a grand old time, while I sat there, stomach rumbling, afraid of making a wrong move.

  They played spin-the-bottle. I didn’t. I sat there, watching my friends kissing boys. Just quick, almost grandmotherly pecks . . . but still. Everyone whooped loudly when Claire turned her head at the last second and kissed Gabe Hill right on the mouth. After that, several people would swear there was tongue.

  I wanted Noah there. If he was, the two of us could’ve been on the outs together. This whole party would’ve been appalling to him. I knew he would’ve turned just as red-faced as I had at the thought of kissing another classmate.

  But the thing was, he knew his place. He knew this was not his scene. Me?

  “Hey. Cary, right?”

  I looked up. It was Gabe. The blockhead. I’d only been going to school with him since kindergarten. But he didn’t have to know people’s names, because all he had to do was flash those dimples and big eyes and he’d get a free pass. I should’ve been angry at him, but right then those eyes did their hypnotizing action, rendering me speechless. “Umm . . .”

  Why was he talking to me? Oh my God, he was talking to me!

  “You’re collecting moss over here, Cary girl,” he said.

  I looked down. What did that mean? Oh, God, I wanted to know what he meant. Gabe could ta
lk about the weather and make it sound exciting; I wanted to reply with brilliance. But instead I was struck stupid in my giddiness, something I thought only happened to girls in movies. I never thought I’d be one of them. So I did what I’d never done, in all my life. I giggled.

  He motioned to the dance floor. “Don’t you want to dance? This is the best song.”

  Then he pulled me up and yanked me into a mess of bodies, all jumping and grooving to some sixties song I’d never heard of. My heart was doing honest-to-god flutters—like it’d take off at any moment—Gabe Hill had asked me to dance! But as I moved side-to-side, putting my hands up over my head in effort to dance more like Claire, who had the best moves, he turned away and started dancing with her.

  Suddenly, the fierce rhythm dissolved into the soft piano music of a ballad. As if choreographed for years, everyone broke into neat couples. Jacy with Austin. Mari went with Jess., Claire with Gabe. I was left standing there.

  I wasn’t jealous, really. I didn’t even want to slow dance with a boy, I realized, and I sure as hell didn’t want to play Spin the Bottle. I just wanted to be where I belonged.

  And this wasn’t it.

  I grabbed my jacket and ran up the stairs, then walked the whole way home—nearly two miles, on dark, narrow streets.

  My parents weren’t happy.

  When I climbed up to my bedroom, I saw the light burning across the way, in Noah’s room. I could see him in there, on his bed, reading. I waved, and picked up the walkie-talkie, twisting the knob to turn it on. A second later, it crackled with static. “Grossest ice-cream topping? Over.” I said.

  “Broccoli bits. Over.”

  I kneeled in front of the window and rested my elbows on the sill, and he did the same. “Dead insects, roasted and extra crunchy. Over.”

  “Ear-wax. Over.”

  “Mucus.” I thought some more. “Yellow-green mucus from someone with a raging sinus infection. Over.”

  There was a pause. “You’re sick.”

  But I knew he liked it. Though I could barely see his smile from this distance, I could sense the appreciation in his voice.

  We talked a little more, until I felt better about the party. After I said good night, I told myself over and over again that it was okay if I didn’t fit in. I had a friend. I had Noah.

  But somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.

  Chapter Six

  When did you realize that she no longer saw you as her stepson?

  Well, as time went on she’d become more affectionate with me, rubbing my back and hugging me all the time. I thought that was just normal mom stuff, and I liked it. But . . . one day . . . it was a weekend . . . I’d been sitting at the dining room table working on a paper for history. My father wasn’t home, but they’d gotten in a big fight the night before. She started to read the paper over my shoulder and uh, she was whispering in my ear how smart I was and how good my ideas were, and as she did, she put her hands through my hair, playing with it. Then she massaged my shoulders and said how tense I was. Then she started to nip at my ears a little bit, and when I turned around to ask her what she was doing, she kissed me.

  Did you tell her to stop?

  Yes.

  But she didn’t.

  No.

  You’d never kissed a girl before that?

  No. And I didn’t really want to start, honestly. Especially not with her. God, not with her.

  #

  Noah waves a hand at the prom pictures on my wall. “Well, you got over it, I guess.”

  “What?”

  “Your hatred of dresses.” He grins. “Remember Belle?”

  I nod, crossing my arms over my chest, then look down at my flip-flops. I may have lost the river-mud-crusted feet and the grass-stained knees, but I still have my share of over-scratched mosquito bites. On cue, one of them starts to itch, so I clumsily reach down and scratch it. “Seventh grade. Halloween.”

  “My first party,” he announces. “You suckered me pretty good into that one, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t give me that. You had fun.”

  “Right,” he says.

  The conversation melts into awkward silence. Usually, I hate it when my parents barge into my room, but I’d left the door open, welcoming interruptions. So I’m glad when my dad calls from downstairs. “Is that Mr. Templeton I hear!” my father says, as loud and bright as ever.

  We walk out to the staircase. My father is waiting at the bottom of the steps, craning his neck in his wheelchair to get a better look at us. Noah jogs down to greet him. My dad grabs Noah’s hand and shakes it vigorously. “So good to see you, Noah. So. Good.”

  Noah says politely, “Thank you sir,” and digs his hands far into the pockets of his shorts. “Uh. Do you think I could maybe . . . speak with you?” He looks at me shyly, and I get a little tinge of the old Noah, the one who was never quite comfortable in his skin. “In private?”

  My dad is giddy at the prospect—the guy adores helping people. I’m already exhaling with relief as my dad points the way to his office and starts to wheel over there.

  I dash back upstairs, close the door and reach for my bathrobe, then wander to the bathroom for a shower. I step into the claw-foot tub and absently wash the bacon grease from my skin. I’d like to say seeing Noah again was like going home, but it was more like going to one of Claire’s parties—exhausting. I feel like I could nap forever.

  When I get back to my room, I check my phone. I have another text from Gabe. I haven’t technically been ignoring him—I read his texts first—but I haven’t been responding. At first I wanted to rip his head off, but now I don’t, which scares me. I don’t want to soften toward him. I want to be able to tell him to go screw himself, if I ever see him again. But he’s always had those lethal dimples. And he knows it. Which is probably why he’s been asking to see me. Every day, it’s been the same. Can I see you? Please, let me talk to you. Come on, Ari, just let me come over.

  He knows I’ll be a goner the second I see him. Damn dimples.

  But this time, his message is different. Saw you on the news a second ago. So ARE you with him?

  Great, they’d broadcasted that? Me, deer-in-headlights, as that lady in the suit pummeled me with questions? What a great and penetrating bit of news. What had I said? Oh, God, I’d sputtered. My television debut and I’d probably spit all over the camera. I grab my phone and punch in: No. Not that it’s any of your business.

  Then I erase it. I think of Claire, straddling him with those big boobs of hers, bouncing up and down on his dick as he sunk into one of those deep, square-cushioned chairs. She was in the midst of an orgasm, but he looked kind of bored as he steadied her with one hand and took a swig from his beer with the other. As usual, he was letting her do all the work. He let me do all the work, too, so I’m surprised he’s actually making the effort to try to get back with me. Whatever. I am not answering him.

  Yes, I am with him, you asshole. We fuck like wild animals and he’s a million times better than you’ll ever be.

  Oh, God. Just what I need. To think about that . . . with Noah. We’d never . . . we couldn’t . . . it’s not possible. Period.

  I think of Noah in his tight Buzz Lightyear pajamas, just to cleanse away the image that’s fluttering around in my mind. That does the trick.

  I throw the phone down, climb into my jean shorts and comb my fingers through my wet hair, and by then, my mother is calling me down to dinner. When I get there, the three of them are already sitting down, Noah claiming the empty seat at the table across from me. I suck in a breath because he might as well be a stranger, a handsome one. He’s broad-chested and lean and strong—it’s the kind of physique most guys dream of.

  He rises when I get there—he was always all about manners—and accidentally bangs his head on the overhead light.

  Ah, there’s the Noah I know and love.

  Smoke rises from a way-too-big bowl of spaghetti in the center of the table. What the hell? Does she think she’s
feeding an army? We wouldn’t have half this much food, if it was just the three of us. She’s also brought out the good china and silverware, which we always do for special guests. I slink into my seat as she serves him a heaping helping. “Say when,” she says, but continues to heap it on, even after he’s said it.

  “Evelyn, he’s only human,” my dad quips, and my mother titters and apologizes.

  She fills the rest of our plates with smaller servings. I haven’t eaten anything all day except for that small piece of bacon I’d swiped from under Tom’s nose at the restaurant, but I don’t have much appetite.

  “So,” my father says. I think he’s about to ask Noah a question, but then I realize he’s looking at me. “We have a proposal for you.”

  They’re all looking at me. I hadn’t really taken interest in the fact that Noah had gone off with my dad. My dad’s a deacon, after all. People normally want to pour out their hearts and troubles to him, and I’m sure Noah has enough fodder to give my dad’s old psychology degree a workout. I chew my spaghetti slowly, then swallow it in one, hard lump. “What?”

  “Noah needs to get his license,” my father says. “So that he can start going on job interviews.”

  I nod slowly. “Okay. I can drive you to the DMV.”

  Noah says, very soft, “I don’t know how to drive.”

  I stare at him. All the kids in my school were simply dying to get their licenses. They’d gotten behind friends’ wheels, just to try it out. So, he’s telling me that he never just, swiped his stepmom’s car keys? Went for a little joyride, whenever the responsible adults were away?

  Oh, right. There were no responsible adults with him. He was the responsible one.