Days That End in Y (17 page)

Megan holds her own cooler up. “Cheers to that,” she says. We clink bottles, then drink some more.

The song has ended, and the Gaslighters are cheering and hugging and giving each other high-fives. Charity changes the music but keeps the volume up.

I am almost done my cooler when Benji shows up. He’s dressed up again: black jeans, a new skinny t-shirt and —
oh my god
 — is that
product
in his hair? It feels like I haven’t seen him in ages, and all I want to do is give him a big hug. When was the last time we hugged? Hugging is great! I forget that I am angry with him and run forward to greet him with open arms. “BENJI!”

We collide, my teeth knocking the side of his ear somehow.

“Whoops, sorry!” My body is starting to feel like it belongs to someone else. It’s getting harder to control it.

“What are you doing here? Are you drinking?”

“Why so many questions?” I say. “Aren’t you glad to see
me?”

“Your mom is going to kill you.”

“Unlikely, she has some ecks … some ess … some … ’splaining to do of her own.” I’ve never realized how tricky it is to pronounce the word explaining before. Benji is trying not to smile, I can tell.

What a good friend, always worried about not hurting people’s feelings and doing the right thing. I hug him again, and this time nothing is bumped. “I’m so happy to see you. I miss you.”

Behind me, Charity laughs. “She’s only had one, can you believe it?”

I feel Benji’s shoulders stiffen. “You shouldn’t have given her one at all,” he says. “We’re underage.”

Charity waves this off, and then she puts one arm around each of us, walking us into the party. “Don’t worry, nothing will happen. It’s better to experiment in a safe environment with responsible adults.”

“Yeah, Benji. I’m fine,” I say, patting his shoulder.

“What adults?” Benji asks. Then he looks at my hand. “Clarissa, are you petting me?”

Charity gasps, mock-hurt. “Um, me? Megan? Bennet?”

“You’re not exactly adults,” Benji points out. Why is he being such a downer?

“I’m not a downer—” Benji says.

Uh-oh, did I say that aloud? I really am losing control of my body.

“Relax. Dean will be here soon, and he’s
definitely
a man.” Charity smiles seductively, and behind her someone giggles.

“I can’t believe you’re drinking,” Benji whispers.

“What do you care? You didn’t even tell me about the
party. I had to pretend I knew all about it when Charity asked. She seemed to think you had invited me.”

“I was going to.”

“But you didn’t. And you abandoned me yesterday to go to the mall with Dean.”

“I didn’t abandon you.”

“You said you had stuff to do for the show and then got sundaes.”

Benji has nothing more to say.

“What is going on? You’ve been acting weird!” I try to lower my voice, but it’s harder than I remember. Isn’t whispering a natural instinct, like breathing? Why is it suddenly so difficult? “I needed you! There is some serious stuff going on, and you’re never there. Why are you never there?”

Benji grabs my arm and leads me to a corner away from everyone else. He does it very gently, even though I can tell by the tension in his jaw that he is really, really angry. If this were a cartoon, smoke would be coming out of his ears, and maybe his nose. And maybe his eyes would be bugging out a little, and his face would be all red. Imagine if we
were
cartoons? Charity would be all hair and smiles, and Dean would have an enormous head with shiny teeth. I can totally see them both in my head, and I hold back my laughter because Benji is so mad.

“What’s so funny?”

I guess I was giggling out loud.

“Cartoons,” I giggle. “Dean has such a big head.”

Benji looks around. “What are you talking about? Dean’s not even here.”

“Yet,” I say, holding onto some of Charity’s enthusiasm. “Dean’s not here
yet
.”

“Clarissa, is everything okay? Did something happen with,” Benji lowers his voice, “Bill?”

“Stupid Bill. Stupid Annie, stupid Bill, stupid Clarissa. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

Benji takes the empty bottle from me and holds on to my elbow. To be fair, I was flailing a bit. “What’s stupid? What happened?”

I really do want to tell him, but where to start? In my head, I wade through all the surprising and painful and angry conversations I’ve had since last night, and I am overwhelmed. The giggles are gone; all my words are gone.

“Clarissa? Are you okay?”

I am trapped in my own head. I’m not sure I could get my mouth to work if I wanted to. The music is too loud, and the air in the room feels too close. It’s hard to breathe it in. Actually I can’t remember the last time I took a breath at all. What if I’m suffocating? How do you make your lungs work?

“Are you going to be sick?”

I’m too busy remembering how to breathe to answer.

“Let’s go outside.”

***

It isn’t much cooler outside, but at least the air feels like it’s moving a bit. After the hot, noisy room, it’s a relief to be swallowed up by the dark night. I can feel my heart and my lungs calming down.

“Better?”

Benji’s voice sounds a million times louder out here. I wince and cover my ears.

“Stop yelling.”

“I’m not yelling. You’re drunk.”

“I am not drunk!”

Am I drunk? Mostly I feel giddy and a bit silly. Most people wouldn’t call me a silly person, but I’ve had silly moments before. It doesn’t mean I’m drunk. Plus, my sense of hearing feels heightened. I can hear all of the night noises around me clear as day. Cricket, crunch of gravel, TV show in the distance. I bet if I concentrated hard enough, I could decipher exactly what TV show it is, like a superhero. If I’m so drunk, then why do I have superhero hearing? Benji is wrong.

“I am not drunk,” I repeat. “I have, like, supersonic hearing right now. If only you could hear what I hear, you would know I am not drunk.”

“Clarissa, you ran across a room to hug me.”

“What, so I can’t hug people now? Hugging is a sign of drunkenness?”

“You
never
hug people.”

“You never wear hair gel.”

Immediately Benji’s hand flies up to his hair.

“Or that t-shirt. I’ve never even seen that t-shirt. Since when do you have clothes I don’t see?”

“Dean picked it out—”

“Oh,
Dean
, of course.”

“—when we were at the mall.”

“Right, the mall, when you ditched me.”

“I didn’t ditch you! I told you I had stuff to do!”

Benji’s voice is getting higher and higher, which means he’s mad. Good. I’m mad, too.

“So shopping with Dean is more important than helping me track down my father? Or deal with my mother’s shotgun wedding?”

Benji looks away and says quietly, “Stuff is going on with
me, too, you know.”

If it wasn’t for my super-hearing, I probably would have missed it.

“
What
stuff? Why won’t you tell me? It’s like you’ve been avoiding me all summer! And I happen to know you’ve been avoiding Charity, too.”

I must have hit the nail on the head, because Benji stands up to go. “I’m not talking to you like this; you’re drunk.”

“I had one cooler,” I say.

“Did you have dinner?”

“I can’t remember.” When was the last time I ate anything other than some chips? It feels like I’ve been at this party for hours. My mouth is dry and sticky at the same time. How is that possible?

“You should get some water.”

I can hear the disappointment in Benji’s voice, which smothers any flicker of giddiness, alcohol-induced or not, I have left. His mother was killed by a drunk driver when he was four years old. This was before I knew him. I don’t remember how I found out. My mom must have told me, or maybe it was one of those things you just know by living in a place and absorbing things. We never talk about it, although he has made a vow never to drink, and I know his mother is the reason why.

“Well, excuse me for wanting to lighten up and have a good time like a normal person.” Now I’m the one standing and walking away. I trip on the leg of a lounge chair and fumble a few times with the latch on the screen door. The alcohol may have given me supersonic hearing, but it has made my fingers feel fat and clumsy.

Inside, more people have arrived. They’re everywhere, standing, dancing a little or just talking. The music is
louder, and Charity has turned off the overhead light and switched on a few lamps for atmosphere. This feels more like the parties in the movies, although I doubt this crowd will break expensive dishes or play complicated drinking games involving ping-pong tables.

I worm through the bodies, apologizing every three seconds as I seem to bump into everyone. No one seems to care. One guy even says, “Hey, no worries! I’ve been trying to get cute girls to bump into me all night!”

That is the lamest thing I have ever heard, but I hear myself laugh anyway, so I guess the alcohol must still be working.

I look for someone I know: Charity, the Couch Girls, my new friend Megan. Somehow, despite all the people, I feel lonelier now than I did when it was just a handful of us. I don’t want to be a mysterious stranger anymore. I want someone to be excited to see me, someone who knows who I am and can tell I’ve had a bad day — scratch that, bad week — just by looking at me. I wish I had invited Michael.

Maybe I can call him, tell him to come over. Charity’s house is not that far, he could walk. He’d probably be thrilled that I was the one inviting him somewhere for a change. I could introduce him to the Couch Girls. Now if only I could find the phone. Since Charity is nowhere to be found, I’m going to have to hunt for it. I look in all the usual places — end tables, the fireplace mantle, kitchen counter — but all I find is the empty cradle tucked beside a coffee maker in the kitchen. Someone’s taken the phone someplace else.

Charity didn’t bother giving me a full tour, so I wander around, peeking into rooms. Bathroom, office, mudroom. No phone. I head upstairs, noticing how nice and soft the
carpet feels under my grubby summer toes. Hmmm. It’s also very white. Maybe we aren’t supposed to go up here? Oh well. No one is yelling at me to come back down. Plus, what if there is an emergency? There really should be a phone on the main level. If anything, Charity should thank me for looking out for the safety of her guests.

It’s quiet and dark upstairs. I can’t find the light switch for the hallway, so I walk very slowly along the wall, feeling my way through the darkness, peering into shadowy rooms.

Suddenly the hallway is flooded with light so bright, it’s painful. I close my eyes then open them slowly, so I can adjust to the brightness. Benji is at one end of the hall, frowning at me.

“Clarissa? You shouldn’t be up here — Charity?”

Whatever Benji was going to say, is cut off by the sight of Charity and Dean on the window seat at the other end of the hall. Charity is sitting on Dean’s lap, blinking at us. He has one hand on her thigh and the other is lost in the wild tumble of her hair. They both look dishevelled and flushed, but not all that embarrassed. Not nearly as embarrassed as I am.

Charity recovers first, adjusting the neckline of her shirt, which has been twisted over one shoulder. “Hey, guys? Do you mind heading back downstairs? This floor is off limits.”

“Sorry, I was just looking for the phone, but I don’t need it. Sorry!”

I can’t get out of there quickly enough, but Benji is two steps ahead of me. He’s already booked it out of there and is nowhere to be seen. I hit the light switch, and Charity and Dean disappear, hidden once more from prying eyes. Tiny spots of light pulse in my eyes, and I pray that my clumsy, half-drunk feet won’t trip me up as I rush down the stairs in
the dark. As much as I wish I hadn’t actually seen them in action, I’m impressed with Charity’s conquest. She wanted Dean, and it looks like she got him.

Downstairs, I search for Benji, but he’s impossible to find. My supersonic hearing has been replaced with a ringing in my ears, and exhaustion slams into me like a wall. Home feels very far away, and the thought of walking makes me want to find a bed or a couch, or even a nice bit of floor somewhere, and sleep until morning.

What I need is a ride. But who do I call?

Mom is obviously out of the question. Doug is a possibility, but then he might get in trouble for letting me out of his sight. There is no way I can call on Mrs. Greenblat again, especially after I showed up in her tree house late last night. Plus, she’ll probably smell the alcohol on my breath and, no matter how many times I tell her I just had one watermelon cooler, she will see me as a bad influence. Michael will never be allowed to see me again. There’s only one person left.

Someone has left their phone on the coffee table. I’m sure they won’t mind if I borrow it for one call.

The price of calling Denise for a ride is listening to her rub it in my face.

“I have to say, I’m flattered you called. I mean, I’m mad as hell at you for taking off without leaving a note, and choosing tonight of all nights to start drinking. But calling me was the right thing to do.”

“I’m not starting anything. I just had one cooler.”

“Smart girl. One cooler, once in a while, is not such a bad thing. It’s when you have two or three or four that the trouble starts. But don’t tell your mother I said that. Because you really shouldn’t be drinking at all. There is a reason there’s a drinking age, you know.”

“And I bet both of you never had a sip until your nineteenth birthdays,” I say. “Like perfect little angels.”

Denise doesn’t answer. After a moment, she says, “I take it you’re pretty mad at her.”

“Yep. Are you going to tell me it’s not her fault, and I can’t possibly understand?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You’ve got a right to be mad.”

“Thank you.” My head is spinning a little. I lean it against the car window, but then it smacks against the pane each time we hit a bump in the road, so I sit up.

“But I will say this: your mother didn’t mean you any harm. She did what she did because she thought it was best for you. Now maybe you disagree with her, but she meant
well, all right?”