Lost Cause Page 7

  “Oh,” I say.

  “My dad’s Colorado is practically new,” he says. “But it’s manual.”

  So, they want me to teach him. This isn’t really a proposal. A proposal, at least, I’d be able to reject. It’s only logical, I guess. Noah used to be my best friend, and I’m often dragged in to helping my dad with his charity cases. So I don’t know why accepting this one feels like swallowing razor blades. I should want to do this. I should want to help him.

  “I’ll teach you,” I say, dotting my mouth with a napkin. “You’ll learn it in a snap.”

  I hope.

  #

  I knocked on the door early Saturday morning, the day before Halloween. Noah answered, and for the first time ever, he didn’t look excited to see me. He looked well, downright scared, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  He slid out of the door and onto his front porch, pushing down his hair, which was all over the place. “Hey,” he said, closing the door tightly behind him, as if there was something inside he didn’t want me to see.

  I studied him. The skin around his mouth was all red, like a rash, which reminded me of the rash my mother would get whenever she ate non-organic strawberries. And his shirt was half-tucked in. He noticed me noticing it and started to tuck it in, chewing on his lip. “Were you sleeping?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Uh . . .”

  Well, of course not. I knew Noah’s family moved to the beat of a different drummer. After all, his stepmom still made him drink out of sippy cups so he wouldn’t damage their white carpets with his incessant clumsiness. But I’d hoped she’d given up on mid-day naps by now. “You been eating strawberries from Mexico?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a rash.” I stroked my chin. “They use bad pesticides on imported vegetables, sometimes. Or at least my mom says. She only buys organic.”

  He looked confused. He touched his chin and said, “Uh. Yeah. I guess.”

  I stepped back. Then I remembered my glasses, which were probably ruining the effect, so I swiped them off my nose. “So how stupid do I look?”

  For the first time, he noticed my manner of dress. His face seemed to relax. “Um. Nice.”

  I fluffed the skirt and grimaced. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? I can’t even walk in this friggin’ thing.”

  His face relaxed a little. “No, Ari. You look . . . really nice,” he said genuinely, and I felt an unfamiliar heat in my cheeks, which I blamed on the unseasonably warm weather and this dress of too-many-layers.

  “Okay. Because the girls are going as princesses. Claire wants to go as Jasmine so she can show off her belly button and Jacy has the hair so she’s Rapunzel, and I . . . I don’t hate yellow. So . . . ”

  He nodded. “Well, Belle is the smart, sensible one.”

  “How sensible can she be? She falls in love with a beast.” Damn, this costume was itchy. I scratched at my stomach and said, “I was wondering . . . “

  Just then, someone called Noah’s name. A second later, the door swung open, and there was Annie. She was smiling in her usual hostess way, plus she had her hair done up and a little halter pantsuit and heels on, like she’d been expecting company. She said, “Oh, hello, Ariana.” Then she looked at Noah. “Come back inside and clean your room.”

  She didn’t remark on my dress.

  I stood there, fidgeting, feeling stupid because I would never have one one-thousandth of the poise and femininity Noah’s stepmom had. I’d never pull off a princess costume. In my heart, I still wanted to be the Jedi, but the girls at school were all going as princesses. And I didn’t want to stand out any more than I already did.

  Noah started to follow her in.

  Desperate, I blurted, “Do you think you want to come with me to Jacy’s party tonight?”

  He took a step back, surprised. Then he looked at his stepmom and said, “But I wasn’t invited.”

  “She would’ve invited you,” I lied quickly. “She just didn’t think you’d come, since you’re the smart, studious one. But I just thought . . .”

  His stepmother’s brow wrinkled. “It’s not good to show up at a party you weren’t invited to, Noah. And you have that paper to finish.”

  Noah nodded. “I’m nearly done with that. But yeah, I—“

  “No, she really would’ve invited you!” I insist. I found the lying became easier, the more I did it. “She said she wishes she knew you better.”

  “Oh. I mean but, why me? Why now?” he asked, and for a second I thought he was actually considering it. Because heck, Noah had yet to turn me down for anything. Somehow, I made him brave, I think. I could usually coax him into things he was solidly against, like riding on my handlebars and climbing out onto the rooftop of his house from his bedroom window. I’d even suckered him into this nutty slingshot hammock idea that broke the window in my parents’ bedroom. He’d taken the blame on it and gotten grounded for a week.

  “Just . . . why not?” I shrugged nonchalantly, like he wouldn’t be saving my life. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Um . . .” he looked at his stepmom, who was shaking her head. “Yeah. No. I can’t. My dad’s not home and—“

  “My mom’ll drive us. It’s only two hours.” I looked up at Annie, who now looked angry and annoyed at me. But I didn’t care. After the last party, I needed this. “Please.”

  I’d rarely begged him for anything before, and I could see the moment my influence on him started to work and he began to soften. He looked at Annie. “Ma. It’s only two hours.”

  I waited for her to tell him no, but instead, she huffed out a sigh, almost like a toddler who didn’t get her way. She tossed her mane over his shoulder and slammed the door.

  I jumped up and down. Or tried to, the best I could, in that stupid friggin’ dress. “So you will?”

  He looked back at the door, swallowed, and then smiled. “Yeah.”

  I clapped my hands. “Thank you! Do you have a costume?”

  “No. But I’ll put something together.”

  “Great! We’ll come get you at seven-forty five, okay?” I smiled and as I backed away, forgot the dress and ended up tripping off his stoop. I grabbed onto the post to steady myself and waved at him. He smiled in a way that couldn’t hide the terror bubbling underneath, then disappeared inside.

  As I stumbled through the woods back to my house, I wondered why Annie was so upset. She’d been nice to me before; distant, but nice. Now, she was definitely different. Maybe she wasn’t feeling well, I thought. After all, her chin had been red, too. Maybe she’d also had some of those Mexican strawberries.

  Chapter Seven

  But you didn’t stop.

  No. We made out. I knew it was wrong but it was . . . it felt nice. Terrifying, but nice. I mean, there’s no question she’s an alluring woman. I told her we shouldn’t she just told me that a little kiss never hurt anyone. She made it seem like it was no big deal.

  It didn’t happen just that once?

  No. It didn’t happen often. A few times. It would start with a hug, congratulating me for something, and eventually we’d end up . . .it’d just go too far. I’d tell her we needed to stop, and she would.

  But not for long.

  No. She told me my dad scared her, and that I was the only one who made her feel safe. She started to make me feel guilty for wanting to stop.

  Was she encouraging of you having friends your own age?

  No. I mean, I didn’t have many, anyway. But she was jealous of the ones I did have. She didn’t want them coming over, or me going out with them. She told me I was too good for them. So we spent a lot of time together, which most people would say was unnatural. But we had fun. We played ping-pong in the basement. We watched movies. We had similar tastes in things. And she was easy to talk to.

  What things did you talk about?

  Everything. She got me. She understood. Eventually, though, she started talking to me more and more about things I didn’t understand.

  Like
?

  Sex. At first it was just filling me in on all the slang. She kept saying that with my dad never around, it was her job to educate me, and she’d never forgive herself if I ended up with some STD or a pregnant girlfriend stealing away my future. But after a while it got more graphic and well . . . she’d tell me about ways to get a girl off, in detail.

  And you were twelve?

  Yeah.

  #

  Before the sun rises, I stand on the stoop to Noah’s house, ringing the doorbell and trying to remember the last time I’d been in his house. It was probably just after he left, when my mother enlisted my help in bringing over meals to stock Mr. Templeton’s freezer. The amber mission-style lights are clouded with age, and webs and dried leaves have gathered in the corners of the porch, but other than that, it’s still the same. Smaller than I remember, like Noah had said.

  Noah answers a second later. I’d think he was waiting for me if he wasn’t only wearing his boxer shorts, because he doesn’t look sleepy or surprised to see me. He pushes the door open to let me pass.

  But I don’t want to pass. I don’t want to go into his house, especially with those news crews likely hovering gorilla-style in the bushes nearby, ready to ambush us with their cameras. And there’s also the little thing about him barely wearing any clothes. I do my best to avert my eyes. “Um. I thought we can get an early lesson in? I have things to do later.”

  That’s a lie. Funny, he used to be the only boy I could tell the truth around. And now...

  “Well,” he hangs on the door lazily, looks down at himself. “I’m a little indisposed. Come in while I get changed.”

  I look around. No ambush reporters lurking in the trees, so I quick squeeze between him and the door, coming much too close to his naked body. I wish I had something else to look at—I try to keep my eyes on his face but they’re fighting their way downward. No, no, no, I won’t do it, I mentally challenge myself, but even without looking directly at his chest, I know it is built, not like someone who spends hours at the gym, but like someone whose job is working hard. One can’t have those big arms without acquiring a little something else in the pectoral and abdominal regions.

  Noah. Goofy, scrawny, awkward Noah.

  The place used to smell like cinnamon (air freshener—I can’t recall a time I saw his stepmom cooking), but now it’s musty and has the faint odor of garbage and greasy fast food. It’s dark inside because the sun is just scraping its way through the trees, but everything that had once been homey about the place is gone. There never had been much furniture, but now even the sofa and coffee table and big-screen TV are missing. There’s a gaping space in the kitchen where the stove used to be. A shapeless black trash bag is overflowing with Big Mac containers. The white rugs are covered in muddy footprints.

  He’s rubbing the back of his neck. “Home shit home,” he mumbles.

  It’s not true. The house is beautiful, really. The bones of it are. It’s a spacious log cabin with all the most state-of-the-art amenities circa a decade ago, showing that Mr. Templeton really had known his stuff. But a house can be poisoned by things, and it can suffer, just like the people who live within it. It may have all the things a home needs, but it never became a home. “What happened here?”

  He shrugs. “Vandals, I guess? Looters. They even took the copper plumbing fixtures. It must’ve been a good place for parties. I found used condoms in the hot tub.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .”

  He says, “Relax, Ari. Your family has better things to do than to police your next-door neighbor’s vacant home night after night.”

  His eyes trail over to the huge open staircase, and I can tell from the way he frowns that he’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Sarah.

  He passes into the kitchen. The center island is covered with half a dozen giant baskets with red, floppy bows on them. Welcome home offerings from admirers, I guess. He reaches into one and pulls out an apple.

  “Here. Have breakfast.” He tosses it at me, and I very nearly miss it. Then he pushes off of the wall and heads for the stairs. “Back in a flash.”

  I hold the apple in my hands, feeling too sick to my stomach to eat. I have to force myself to stop watching his posterior as he jogs up the stairs. His calves and hamstrings are well-defined, like a runner’s, and if those boxers weren’t in the way, I’d bet he’d have those sweet little indentations on the sides of his ass cheeks. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I walk around the huge open foyer, taking in the light squares on the log walls that used to hold his family pictures, trying to remember which pictures were where. The place needs cleaning, but I wouldn’t know where to start. It’s a disaster. Uselessly, I pick up a piece of yellowing newsprint and walk to the kitchen, where I lift the edges of the trash bag so I can put it in. Then I realize what’s become of all those family pictures.

  He’s pulled them out of the frames, shredded the photos into small pieces, and thrown them away.

  I don’t realize that he’s standing behind me until he says, “Hey.”

  “Oh, hey,” I say brightly. He comes up close to me. His hair is wet back and he smells like some aftershave. I get a big whiff of it because he’s so close. Why is he so close? Then he lifts his hand like he’s about to touch me, or swipe a stray hair behind my ear, and why would he do that? My heart is in my throat as he reaches behind me and then something jingles near my ear. I whirl around to see the keys, which he’s just plucked off a rack on the wall.

  He takes a pair of sunglasses off the counter and says, “You ready?” Then he must see me recovering from my heart attack. “You okay?”

  I spit out, “Oh, yeah. Let’s go.”

  He leads me outside, to the detached garage, which is also a spacious workshop where his dad used to tinker with woodworking on the rare occasions he was home. It’s a mess, too, except for the beautiful navy blue truck parked in one of the stalls. It looks like it just had a washing. I say, “They took the plumbing fixtures, but they left your dad’s truck like that?”

  “No. My dad left it with a friend. When he found out I was back, he arranged to have it sent to me.”

  “It’s nice,” I say, opening the door and climbing in. It’s also huge, a big difference from my Fiat. I sit in it, trying to orient myself with all the controls. “Um . . .”

  He climbs in next to me and says, “Okay, master Yoda, what do I do?”

  I throw my phone and wallet in the cup holders in the center console and put the key in the ignition. It may be a few years old but it purrs to life like brand new. I struggle to turn and pull the enormous truck out of the garage. Once I get it going, I wave at Mr. Pollock, who’s doing his watering, but this time he doesn’t wave back; in fact, he frowns kind of menacingly.

  “That guy’s a total asshole,” Noah mutters.

  “Oh, no, he’s nice,” I explain. “I babysit for his kids.”

  He’s chewing on his thumbnail because his voice is a mumble. “Well, he hates the hell out of me.”

  I don’t know how to tell him that there’s probably a lot of people who don’t love him. He’s a tabloid headline, and those are always divisive. I’d heard the chatter among the girls in my dorm. Of the people who watched at my school, half of them felt sorry for him, half thought he was a total dick. The only thing they all seemed to agree on was that despite his difficult life, he’d grown up to be quite the dish.

  As we’re ambling down the hill, I say, “We’ll just go to a parking lot to start, okay?”

  “When I left you I was but the learner. Now I am the master,” he says in a Darth Vader voice.

  This is something we always used to do—trade Star Wars lines until we were blue in the face. I know he’s kidding, but I can’t help shivering. I turn down the fan and say, “You are not a Jedi yet.”

  He sighs. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.” My phone dings to life just then. He looks at the illuminated screen before I do. “Gabe the douchebag,” he mutt
ers.

  I take the phone and try to shove it in my pocket, until I realize I’m wearing a tankdress without any pockets. I set it down.

  “Ari, answer me, he says. Let me reply to him,” he says.

  “No way.”

  “Come on. I’ll tell him what a douchebag he is so he leaves you alone forever,” he says. “That was always your problem. You were too nice to them. They treated you like shit and you licked it up.”

  I cringe. “No, they didn’t. I mean, they treated you the same way.”

  “The difference was, I didn’t do any licking.”

  You were too busy licking your stepmom, I think, then shiver. “Well, aren’t you magnificent,” I mutter. “Where should we erect the statue in your honor?”

  “Funny.” He shakes his head. “You really just need to tell someone to fuck off, for once in your life.”

  I pull into the back of the Sav-a-Lot parking lot, which is deserted except for one semi, backed up to the loading dock. “Fuck off,” I say nicely, then smile at him. “Happy?”

  He has his sunglasses on, despite the fact that the sun hasn’t fully come up. I’d think he was cool, sexy even, if I didn’t know this was Noah. Noah, who always manages to step in it, no matter how suave his exterior may be. “Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands. “But what kind of person would I be if I didn’t at least try to stop my best friend from making an epic wrong turn into Douchebag city?”

  “I can take care of myself,” I tell him, throwing open the door and unbuckling the seat belt. “Your turn. Climb in.”

  He does. I jump over the console. He lopes easily into the driver’s seat and then puts his hands up. “What do I do?” He presses the red triangle for the hazard lights. “What does that do?”

  “Why are you pressing buttons if you don’t know what the hell they do?” I mumble, swatting his hand away. I depress the button and sigh.

  “What? None of these is the ejection button, is it?” he says, completely serious.

  “No, I just—“ I shake my head. “You’re a moron. Put your seat belt on.”