Busted (16 page)

31

D
ad's not exactly thrilled to see me. He pretends to be engrossed in an NBA playoff game when I arrive, and as soon as it ends he channel surfs until he finds another game that's just starting.

“Dad, can we talk?”

He sighs and grabs a beer from the crate beside the sofa. The crate's full, so I guess he just keeps replenishing the supply whenever it dwindles. He cracks open the beer and hands it to me.

“No thanks,” I say. “I don't want any tonight.”

Dad looks hurt. “It was good enough for you last time.”

“I know. I just … need to think straight.”

“I see. So you're saying that because I drink beer, I don't think straight, is that it?”

“No, that's not what I'm saying.”

“Isn't it?”

“No. I just need to keep a clear head. I've had a crappy week, okay?”

“Okay.” Dad finally switches off the TV and turns to face me. “So what's the problem?”

“Remember I said I'd been on a couple of dates?” Dad nods and a trickle of beer oozes out of the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't seem to notice. “Well, I went on a couple more, also with different girls—”

“Hell yeah!” He's suddenly pumped up. “My son the player.” He proffers his fist, inviting me to bash knuckles in a Brandonesque gesture of affection. He doesn't seem to notice my halfhearted response.

“Yeah, but … I mean, the point is I wasn't exactly interested in a relationship. I think I … well, I just wanted to hook up with them because, you know, they're popular and cute.”

“That's great. You're totally following the advice I gave you last time—just hook up with the hot ones and move on.”

He's right about one thing—this is the same stuff he said before, and back then it felt liberating to be able to open up, to feel unjudged and wholly supported. Only now it doesn't, and I don't think it's just because I'm sober.

“No, Dad. I don't think you're getting it.” I sit up straighter, which is hard because the sofa is soft and mushy. “The point is … well, what I'm trying to say is I, you know,
used
those girls.” I take a deep breath. “See, it's all because of the Book of Busts, the thing that I was supposed to compile this year for the Rituals.”

Dad looks confused.

“The Book of Busts is this book where we write down the measurements of all the girls in the senior class.”

Dad resumes his proud-parent-of-an-honor-student expression.

“And, well, the thing is, some of the sexiest girls went out on dates with me just so they could fake their numbers.”

“Uh-huh,” Dad grunts, completely unmoved by my confession.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is, they weren't interested in me—they were just interested in, you know, inflating their bust size. And even though I suppose I kind of knew deep down they didn't exactly, um … like me, I hooked up with them anyway just 'cause they're hot. See? I used them, and they used me.”

“So everybody used everybody else,” summarizes Dad approvingly. “Sounds like you all got what you wanted.”

“B-But that's not the point, is it?”

Dad sighs and stares off into space. He's clearly getting bored. “Then why don't you tell me what the point is, Kevin.”

“The point is … well, the point is that while I was fixated on getting to second base, they were hating me for it. I even messed things up with Abby … the one girl who liked me for who I am, and I had to go check out her bra size like it mattered somehow.”

“Hey, don't underestimate tits, son. Tits are important.”

“What?”

“Just kidding.” Dad snorts and slaps his thigh. “But you really need to stop making such a big deal of all this. No harm, no foul, you know?”

I can't believe we're having this conversation. It's like we've undergone a weird role reversal, with me as responsible middle-aged father and Dad as sex-starved teenage son.

“Have you been listening? What I did was wrong, don't you see that?”

He clearly hasn't seen that.

“Dad, I even went out with one girl who had just stopped dating a guy I know. I mean, it's not exactly like I'm friends with the guy, but I wasn't even sure they
had
stopped dating. And that made me want her even more. You have to admit, that's messed up.”

Dad's smiling broadly, like we're finally discussing a subject on which he can offer real guidance. “You're just analyzing this too much. It's not that complicated. If you want something, and she wants something, then just do it.” He narrows his eyes. “You're eighteen now, Kevin. You're an adult. Consenting adults can do whatever the hell they want. Period. And if other people don't like it, they can go screw themselves.”

I roll my eyes. “Can you just be serious for once?”

He frowns. “I am being serious.”

I wait for him to laugh, but he doesn't. “You're kidding, right?” I wait again. “You have to be kidding.” Okay, so he's not kidding. “I said I was kind of hoping this girl was still involved with the guy—that it would make me want her even more. Are you even listening to me? I'm saying I liked the thought of helping her cheat on him. What does that make me?”

“It makes you human,” he sighs. “It makes you a guy. What else do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say … I don't know what I want you to say! That I'm an asshole or something. I want you to say you have the first clue what I'm talking about … that I was wrong to
go after someone who's already involved in another relationship—”

“You mean, like I did?”

I actually wasn't thinking about him, so I hesitate before answering. “Well, yeah, I guess you did.”

Dad downs the rest of his beer. “So that's what all this is about, huh? That's why you're here. You want me to apologize.”

“No, this isn't about you. It's about me.”

“Is it really, Kevin? Seems as if this is absolutely about me. The way you've come here tonight even though I'm really busy, didn't give me any choice in the matter, all so you can start lecturing me about infidelity.” Dad crushes his empty can in a threateningly masculine way. “Must be nice to see things in black and white, but it's not always that simple.”

I can't believe he's managed to turn this around so it's about him. Suddenly all the thoughts I've concealed for the past eight months come bubbling to the surface, and I don't feel like sparing his feelings anymore.

“I did
not
come here to lecture you. But now that you mention it, I do think infidelity is pretty black and white, actually. I mean, you either decide to make it happen or you decide not to make it happen, right? No one forced you to shack up with Kimberly.”

Dad just shakes his head like I'm too naive to know any better. “Geez, you're just like your mom … always were.”

“Right now, that sounds a whole lot better than the alternative.”

“You have no idea what you're talking about. I was sick of being judged, sick of apologizing for the way I felt. And after twenty-some years I'd had enough of listening to her spout that feminist crap all the time.”

“She was doing that when you met. If you found it so repulsive, why didn't you say something about it then? If you ask me, you're just looking for an excuse to justify the fact that you're an even bigger asshole than me.”

To my surprise, Dad just laughs. “You're losers, both of you.”

“Us?
You think
we're
losers?” I can feel my hands clenching into fists, heart pounding like I'm running for my life. “When did you figure that out, huh? While you were getting hammered? Or while you were watching TV in this shithole of an apartment? No, Dad,
you're
the loser … And you know what? I think you know it too.”

“Don't pretend you're any different—”

“But I
am
different. Thirty years from now I won't be living like this. And I won't be getting my kicks at Hooters, either … dropping fifty bucks to ogle waitresses who are too polite to admit you gross them out.”

I can tell he wants to hit me really badly, but he doesn't. He just gets up off the sofa and walks over to the front door, then opens it so I can leave. Dismissed by both parents in the same evening—what are the chances?

I look at him as I walk through the door, noticing, more than ever before, the deep wrinkles on his forehead and the poorly dyed black hair combed across his bald patch. He's trying to look intimidating, but he's so pudgy around the edges that the impression falls flat. I might be wrong, but his defiance seems desperate … like I've just held up a mirror to the reality of his existence, and he can't bear to face the reflection.

32

I
've got enough money left to take a taxi home, but I need to walk. It takes me over three hours, through parts of town I wouldn't normally cross, but it gives me time to think. And even though it's chilly, I feel fine. As each mile passes, I sense the distance between my dad and me growing. It feels good. It feels cathartic.

I think about Natasha in fifth grade, the way she couldn't look me in the eye when she asked me to teach her the flute. I've never thought about this before, but it was clearly a big deal for her to ask, and I made a joke out of it. I said what Brandon would say, only I'm not Brandon. I've never been Brandon. I never will be Brandon. And that's a good thing.

And then there's Abby. I can still picture her lying beside me on the bed, her head resting against the palm of her hand. She was topless, but there was no hint of embarrassment because she was with me, and she loved me. I remember her smile, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair, and the way she held me like I was the only person in the univ
erse who mattered.

I try to impose a different ending on the evening, but the fact remains—I looked at her bra. I didn't have to. There was no reason to. But I did. Why? I'd never been interested in her bra size before, and I'm fairly certain I wouldn't have added it to the book even if she hadn't caught me. I just did it because … well, because I could. Because I felt entitled to. Something so personal, so emotionally charged, yet I acted like it was my business, my right to see into every aspect of her life, to claim every part of her … whether she wanted me to or not.

She said I treated her like an object. And as I feel the tears running down my face, I hate myself more than ever before, because I know that she was horribly, painfully right.

I was an asshole.

What am I now?

When I finally turn onto our street, I can see a faint glow in the window of Mom's bedroom. I don't want to go in if she's still up. Then I see a light in Abby's bedroom window as well, and without thinking I pull out my cell phone and call her.

“Why are you calling me in the middle of the night?” Abby whispers angrily across the line.

“Because I need to talk.”

“To me?”

“To someone I trust.”

“Then why don't you call Brandon?”

I deserve that, I know I do, but it still hurts.

“Please, Abby. Mom threw me out earlier, so I went to stay with Dad. Then he threw me out. I've got nowhere left to go.”

“Well, you're not coming here.” She pauses. “Where are you?”

“Just outside your house. By the tree.”

She sighs. “Okay, wait there. I'll be down in a minute.”

She hangs up and appears moments later carrying a couple of blankets. In silence she sits beside me, draping one blanket across my shoulders and wrapping the other around herself. I'm grateful for it; now that I'm no longer walking, the air feels suddenly colder.

“So I know why your mom wanted to kick you out,” she says softly. “But what's the story with your dad?”

“We had an argument about everything that's happened.”

“Everything that's happened to you, or everything that's happened to him?”

“Both.”

“Oh. And what did you argue about?”

“I said I've been acting like a jerk, and Dad got all ‘screw everyone' on me. So then I said he's been a jerk too, and he kicked me out. God, it was like talking to a middle-aged version of Brandon, or … ”

Abby looks at me for the first time. “Or what?” she presses.

I look up at the moonlit leaves dancing in the breeze. “Or maybe it felt so weird 'cause it was like looking into the future and seeing what
I
might become.” I take a deep breath and puff out my cheeks, which feels oddly therapeutic. “I didn't believe Mom when she said it would be helpful for me to talk to him, but I guess she was right. I've been such an asshole, Abby. I'm still an asshole.”

Abby shakes her head, hair flying loosely from side to side. “No, you're not. Assholes take pride in their own stupidity, and I don't see you having much fun right now. Yesterday you were an asshole, but today … well, it's up to you. You're not a lost cause, Kevin.”

Is she really forgiving me for the things I've said and done? I meet her gaze, trying to divine an answer, but her face is implacable. I want to tell her how much I need everything to be right again between us, but where to begin? I've held myself together pretty well, but now I can feel a tear escaping again, and another. Abby kindly averts her eyes.

“Kevin, I know you think I don't understand what you've been going through the last few weeks, but you're wrong. Don't you think I've wondered what it would be like to be really popular? What it would be like to be told I'm sexy? But what's the point, right? At the end of the day, I'm still me. And if that's not good enough, then too bad, because, well … personally, I think I'm pretty damn cool.”

She smiles, and I can feel the tension in my chest lessen a bit. I dab my eyes quickly. “You're popular, you know. And for what it's worth, I think you're sexy too.”

She nods. “Ditto.”

A silence descends on us, but it's not entirely comfortable. Abby plucks individual blades of grass and holds them up to the moon, taking in the beauty of the night, but she won't look at me. The healing process may have begun, but we're still a long way from the carefree intimacy we used to share.

“What are you going to do?” she says finally.

“I don't know.”

“Hmmm. Well, just remember that senior year isn't over yet. You still have time to make things right.”

She removes the blanket from her shoulders and hands it to me. I can still feel the warmth from her body in the fibers. She squeezes my arm gently and stands up, and seconds later she's gone and I'm alone, sitting on the grass beneath a tree in the middle of the night, wishing I could just turn back the clock.