Betwixt (13 page)

After a few awkward good-byes and vows to find Morgan,
K.A. drove away, promising to come back the next morning to help clean. Then it was just Ondine and Nix, sitting on the second-floor
landing, their legs hanging through the balcony bars, surveying the wreckage below. A dozen or so passed-out bodies lined
the living room floor. It looked like a crazy Jackson Pollock painting, all squiggles of stains and dots of forties bottles
and entwined bodies.

Ondine hung her head.

“What a mess.”

For a while the boy was quiet, then he turned and faced Ondine, his raspy voice low.

“He told you about it, didn’t he?”

“What?” Ondine pretended not to know what he was talking about.

“The Ring of Fire.”

“The Ring of Fire? That awesome
rave
near the
solstice
? Where all the
cool kids
are gonna be? Jesus. Yeah. He told me about it.” She scoffed, wanting to avoid the entire subject. All she wanted to do was
be angry at Moth, think about how she was going to clean up the mess, and then go to sleep. But she couldn’t. There was someone
next to her who wasn’t seeming to go away — nor did she want him to, which was sort of unbelievable since they were nearly
strangers. But why Nix? Why all of a sudden was it just the two of them? Ondine let out an uncharacteristic sigh.

“Why? Are you going?”

He shrugged.

She grabbed the railing and shook it. “There’s something weird going on. Something — I don’t know what —”

She pointed to two boys in black baseball caps nestled side by side on her mother’s favorite white leather couch.

“I don’t even know those cats.”

Nix laughed. “Hey —”

“No, I —”

Ondine looked at him. He was looking back at her, studying her, almost, though his eyes were kind and calm. She released her
head and stared at the ceiling.

“What the hell am I doing? My parents just left today and already I’m in trouble.”

“You’re not, though.”

She stared. “Right.”

“Anyway, it’s freedom. With freedom comes responsibility.”

“Oh, please. Are you going to tell me to rock the vote now?”

Nix thought about his own conversation earlier that night with K.A. —
You can’t run away from yourself
— and laughed. Karma was a bitch.

“Ondine. I’m your friend.” He’d never said those words to anyone.

“My friend?” She felt her eyebrows rise. “You don’t even know me.”

He stared and she felt sorry she’d said the last words.

“I mean —”

“Call it friends at first sight.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Ondine put her hands over her face and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve always wanted to fuck up. I never
fuck up and I’ve always wanted to.” She pulled her hands away. “I guess I got a good start. God, I hope everyone makes it
home okay. Indra really dropped the ball.”

Nix nodded. “I think this might be your first and last party.”

“Wanna help me clean?”

“I’m all yours. I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

She reached for the boy’s hand and squeezed. “You’re nice.” Opening an eye, she still failed to address what was on both their
minds—the Ring of Fire, the solstice. “James Motherwell’s a prick, you know.”

“Yeah.” Nix cast his eyes down. He seemed to want to say something — both of them did — but without knowing what.

“I mean, I never fuck up.
Never.
”

He laughed. “I do all the time.”

“Then we make a good pair.”

“Yeah.”

Thoughts whirled inside her head. Faces. Words.
Ring of Fire. Exidis. She’ll love you.
Moth had said these things aloud,
she was pretty sure, or had they been there, inside her head? Waiting for her to hear them?

It was too much. She dropped back onto the white plush carpet, her legs still dangling from the side.

“What a mess.” She sighed and closed her eyes.

Nix stared at Ondine’s face.
My god,
he thought,
you are so beautiful.

Which made him again think of Neve. K.A.’s Neve, his friend’s, well, if not girlfriend, then steady crush. Lovely Neve. And
the sweetpea girl, and what he’d felt in the dark, and how he’d run away from her before the light showed up, as it had around
his mother, and Jacob, and all those people in between.

Ondine. Her eyes flickered behind her eyelids; she was asleep. Nix realized how tired he was. Tired of running, tired of being
scared. Tired of being alone. He lay next to her, nestled his arm around her small shoulders. The girl’s body was warm and
cold at the same time, as if two forces were at war inside her. He knew that conflict, had known it all his life. It was peaceful,
lying beside her, and he let himself close his eyes. He thought of the people in his life: Jacob and K.A. and Bleek — and
Neve, the common link between them. He saw Neve’s flushed cheeks when she swayed on Tim Bleeker’s lap and he saw the edge
of her lace underwear when she made out with K.A. on the couch and he saw her pale, pale hair disappearing into the light
that emanated
from her father when Jacob had taken her in his arms, as if the tiniest bit of the light had transferred to her.

No!
He pushed the thought away.

Light stayed. That was the one thing he could count on. He looked down at Ondine again. Somehow he knew the light would never
appear around her.

His hand groped in his pocket for the dust, but before he found it he relaxed. His right hand was in his pocket, inches from
the roll, but his left arm was around Ondine. He was in her house. He knew he was safe there.

He managed to think before he dipped into the darkness that it was the first night in a year he wasn’t afraid to dream.

R
ING OF
F
IRE

M
ORGAN
D’
AMICI WOKE UP
the morning after the best party of the year to the sound of someone banging pots in the kitchen. Or was that her head? Something
smelled good. Bacon, she thought. And pancakes. She heard the familiar sound of her brother’s lumbering shuffle and turned
in her bed to face the window. Pain. Light. Pain. Sunlight grazed her face and she wiggled her toes against the silky smoothness
of four-hundred thread-count sheets. Despite her headache, she registered that K.A. was making breakfast, just like the old
days, and it made her happy. She nestled deeper under the all-white covers. She was warm and safe and —

Her eyes opened and her stomach seized.

Last night. What happened last night?

Her last memory was of dancing with James Motherwell. She asked him to kiss her and he walked away. She yelled at Ondine.
Then she left the party. The road was black. Streetlights. A car passing.

That was it. Everything after that, she realized, was a wash of nothingness. She must have blacked out, or —

No. Moth wouldn’t have done that.

Or would he have? Would she have let him? She put her hand between her thighs. Panties still on. Nothing out of order. The
thought of James Motherwell taking advantage of her while she was drunk made her angry, but the thought of him keeping a trophy
made her
crazy.

How could she have drunk so much? Morgan never drank. She didn’t like how out of control alcohol made her feel, and she certainly
never blacked out. So how did she get home?

She looked out the window at the yellow roses her mother had planted beside her window years ago, just after her father had
left. To brighten your day, Yvonne had said. Normally the flowers cheered her up, but today Morgan could only notice the leaves
that had been eaten; the dead petals; the way the scraggly, thorny canes never managed to disguise the fact that she lived
in a house one step above a trailer. Tracing a finger along a stray lock of hair on her pillow, she felt clogged, fuzzy, scared.
A stick was lodged there. She looked at it then felt the back of her head, finding a speck of dried leaf. She pulled herself
out of bed. Her legs and her feet were mud splattered; tiny red scratches flecked her arm. My god, she thought. Had they done
it in the dirt, like animals?

She’d pretend as if she hadn’t seen anything. It’s a Sunday
like any other, Morgan told herself. I’m home. Kaka’s making breakfast.
Everything is fine.
She went through her normal routine. Walked over to her vanity, yanked on a pair of paisley-print pajama bottoms, dragged
a brush through her tangled hair, ignoring the bits of leaves and sticks that fell from it, then put on her favorite Japanese
blue-and-white
yukata,
tying it neatly at the waist.

Everything is fine. If it isn’t, I will make it so.

She rubbed her eyes, pinched her cheeks to get the color back into them, and walked barefoot into the kitchen, smiling. K.A.,
Sunday-morning casual in a black T-shirt and jeans, looked up from the stove.

“Well, if it isn’t the midnight rambler —”

Morgan panicked until she realized he was joking about the way she’d left the party. She cast her blue eyes down, playing
sheepish. K.A. opened his arms and she leaned into his chest, small and quiet. There was the old comfort there, but other
faces intruded: Moth’s, and Neve’s. The tramp.

Her brother must have felt her tense up, because he squeezed her, then stepped back.

“So what happened to you? Last I heard you were with that Moth dude, then you were gone. I looked around Portland all night.
I kept calling but Mom was at Todd’s. No one answered and your cell was off….”

Morgan stayed quiet. She tried to match her breathing with
K.A.’s. Tried to concentrate on where she was now: in her kitchen, in the morning, where everything was bright and fine.

Her brother cupped her chin with a flour-dusted hand, tilting her face upward. “Hey, Sis. I was worried about you.”

She managed a tight laugh. “Well, I’m here now.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then looked down. She followed his eyes. Her feet weren’t dirty, they were filthy, blackened
by a crust of mud.

“Oh, man.”

She pulled away, wishing she’d showered first.

“That was when I was a kid, K.A.” She opened the fridge and peered into it, not knowing what else to do. “I just took a while
getting home, that’s all.”

“Barefoot?”

He was looking at the silver sling-backs sitting next to the door: Manolos, her one pair. Her eyes followed his. She tried
to keep her voice light. “Anything for the shoes! Now where’s the OJ? I’m starving!”

K.A. gestured to the dining room, though his face was still worried. “Table’s set.” He stopped. “Were you there when Jacob
showed up?”

She shuffled to the table, pulling the cotton robe closer around her. “Clowes? Isn’t he a little old to be crashing high school
parties?”

“I guess someone told him Neve was there.”

Pouring herself some juice, Morgan kept her face impassive, but inwardly she was rejoicing. So Neve hadn’t gotten into K.A.’s
pants after all! Thank god for small favors.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know really. I mean, one minute Neve was with me. And then she got up to hit the can —”

“Charming,” she interjected, but K.A. didn’t smile.

“And she just didn’t come back. The next thing I know she’s sitting on goddamned Tim Bleeker’s lap, and before I could break
his face, Jacob showed up and took her home. It was, I don’t know,
weird.
”

Morgan couldn’t help herself.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“That Jacob was there?”

“That Neve is, you know, into drugs. Dust.”

K.A.’s face clouded, and she knew she’d pushed too far.

“How can you say that? Neve is your friend!”

Morgan tried to wave it away. “It’s just … whatever. I’ve heard some things. Look, you’re the one who saw her on a dealer’s
lap, not me.”

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation —”

She shook her head. “It’s too early for this moment-of-truth crap, Kaka. I need coffee.”

Morgan set about making coffee in the French press she wouldn’t let anyone else in the house use or wash (she had a line
about ruining the oils in the bean, but the truth was, she was afraid it would get chipped or broken, like her grandmother’s
plates). She liked making coffee. She’d have to, working at the Krak. The place was packed seven to eleven and Morgan was
assistant manager. She liked the method of it, the precision of the process. Right now, she liked the fact that it got her
away from K.A., gave her something to do with her hands, which were trembling.

When she came back to the table, he spoke of light things — his time at the party, who was there. He must have known something
was up. Or maybe she’d pissed him off with her insinuations about Neve. What did she care? Neve was an unloyal double-dipper.
A slutty little Penwick ho. How easily the lie about dust had rolled from her lips. Anyway, the bitch had it coming. You don’t
make moves on your best friend’s brother. Not without asking first. And if Neve had asked, the answer would have been a resounding
hell no.

While K.A. prattled on, she ate mouthful after mouthful of his signature blueberry sourdough pancakes soaked in maple syrup,
much more than she’d usually eat. Food wasn’t so interesting to Morgan. She blamed it on working in a restaurant, though she’d
been that way her whole life. Really, she wanted to seem busy so K.A. wouldn’t talk about anything heavy. Still, somewhere
behind the bittersweet pop of blueberries in her mouth and her brother’s plans for his upcoming soccer trip to
California, the events of the night before kept looping through her mind: buying booze at O’Brian’s, getting ready at Ondine’s,
standing in Ondine’s bedroom window showing Moth her —

There again: that slicing in her torso. Pulling her yukata tighter, she took another sip of coffee and tried to concentrate
on what K.A. was saying. She couldn’t. The beginning of the party, the low music. Seeing Moth; dancing with him in the pulsing
shadows; the hot, soft kisses, then—nothing. What had she done? How far had she gone? Come on, Morgan,
remember.
It wasn’t the blacking out that scared her. She was home; she was safe. It wasn’t even Moth that pissed her off, or —
ugh
— Ondine, whom she knew she’d have to apologize to.