Swell (4 page)

My parents had always told me not to drink and drive, or get in a car with someone who had been drinking, but I did and it seemed fine. Maybe it was cause I had been drinking too, and even the shaky curves and swerving over the lines in the road seemed straight. When we got to my house, I popped an Altoid and kept my fingers crossed that I could walk straight. Christian stared straight ahead, and I questioned whether he would kiss me or not.

“See you tomorrow?” I asked, wondering if he would pick me up in the morning, like he’d been doing for the past week. There was nothing better for breakfast than sitting next to Christian as he drove us to school.

He turned to face me, flashing a grin that said he’d thought about whatever was in his head and decided things were okay. I leaned over to give him a quick peck, which tasted and smelled like the heavenly elixir we’d been drinking.

“Tomorrow morning,” he promised, bringing his hand to my face with a light brush and then back to the steering wheel. I watched him drive the behemoth vehicle away, not quite on the right side of the road. He was such a beautiful boy, like a craving I’d always longed for but didn’t know I wanted. Sort of like the urge I was getting as I wandered into the empty house in search of Chablis.

Chapter
4

To think that not long ago, Hillman had been my boyfriend’s best friend. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine ending up at his house, drunk and on my way to being the weekend’s sexual sacrifice. Not me. Never me.

The lawn mower screeched to a halt, idled for a
minute and
stopped. Gone was t
he constant chugging that echoed between my
ears. Now there were only voices, harsh and tough, contemplating the next move.

“Do you think she can walk?” The Squeezer poked me in the arm, which I could barely move. It felt like my sh
irt was up over my stomach, my skirt also riding up past my thighs from being played with l
ike a blow-up doll
.

≈

“Beth, is it me or have you been drinking more wine?” asked my dad, holding the bottle in the air. My mom sat across from him in the kitchen, r
eading the paper and eating celery — her latest diet food for hips that, like mountains, would never move.

“No. Why?”

“It’s about half gone.” I looked at the bottle without it seeming obvious. There was wine still in it, but my dad had apparently noticed something I hadn’t anticipated.

“And there’s cork bits floating in the wine,” he said after pouring a glass.

I had struggled putting the cork back in, and a chunk fell in.

“I don’t think I can drink this.”

I hoped he would put the semi-full bottle in the trash so that I could grab it later, after they went to bed.

Nobody even considered I had something to do with the cork incident. Rebecca would never drink the wine. Not me. Never me. I’d had wine at a friend’s Passover seder once, and thought it was yuck-o. Too sweet, burning the innards of my mouth and throat. Until I’d started dating Christian, drinking never entered my mind.

I could handle it, this new hobby of mine. For sure, it was only fun that I was having, not a problem like the people at A.A. For God sakes, it was only wine. Not like I was hanging out with Jim Beam.

My dad opened a new bottle, poured a glass and left it on the counter. A merlot, something I had yet to try. But, I was thinking more about the wasted corky wine in the trash. It would be surprised when the taker was me, when I wrapped my hands around its lovely neck and pulled it from the dim dank of the trash can. While leaning against the backside of our garage, I would, with great adoration, wrap my mouth around the opening and chug the liquid.

#

Parties were the thing that kids in Christian’s world lived for. Not just any kegger, but wild ones with people jumping off the roof of his house into the pool. All rooms occupied. Smoke in the air. Good times, good parties. That was what we were up to. Even when there wasn’t a big party, we’d make our own. And all too often, Hillman was part of them.

Hillman had gone to school with Christian since kindergarten, and their moms were best friends at the tennis club. He’d hung out with Christian before I came along, and he wasn’t about to budge because of me. Most guys with red hair bugged me. They were pasty and freckled. Even if they were built, there was something odd about a redhead’s body, all spotty, white and muscular. Hillman, however, was good looking in terms of what many girls wanted. Unlike most redheads I’d known, he had brown eyes and was able to get a tan.

We were all sitting by Christian’s pool, drinking beer and shooting the breeze. I had just gone into the water for a swim. There is something to be said about drinking and diving. It’s fun, but your breath is out of alignment and if you’re like me, you breathe in a little pool water no matter how hard you hold your breath.

Hillman was laying on the chaise next to us, wearing swim trunks and nothing else, his skin glistening in the sun. No redness except for his hair. He was stroking his stomach, a rippled pack of muscles that less athletic men always put on their New Year’s resolution list. I stared at him while he was doing this, and he caught me.

“See something you like, Beck?” His hand stopped above his waistband, taunting me to look again. I turned my face away, horrified that my eyes had lingered at his stomach. Christian laughed.

“I was just zoning out,” I said, putting my empty beer under my chair. That made four beers in two hours.

Christian moved his hand to my thigh, rubbing it back and forth. It was now Hillman’s turn to watch. His eyes narrowed as he followed Christian’s hand up my leg, to my waist, and then to my face as he pulled my chin to his and gave me a kiss. Even when the kiss became heated, Hillman still watched, his eyes focused and his face looking as if in a trance.

Not only was it uncomfortable, I thought he was weird to sit there, unashamed of his rudeness. And then there was Christian, who thought nothing of it.

When we stopped kissing, I looked over at Hillman.

“See something you like, Hillman?” I said, thinking I was so brazen and strong, giving him a taste of his own medicine, until he leaned forward and looked at me like Christian wasn’t even there.

“I do,” he said with a smirk. I looked at Christian, who shrugged and stood up to remove his shirt before diving into the pool. Hillman didn’t look at me again that afternoon.

Chapter 5

I felt hands under my arms, and then I was sliding out of the car and onto someone’s shoulder
s
, my feet dragging on the ground. L
ittle rocks got stuck in my shoes
, jamming between my toes. The sensation was strong, and I thought that maybe I was starting to come around, that there would be a chance for me to not have to go through this. My mind repeated over and over, “I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to do this.” What choice did I have? I couldn’t even move my arms or talk.

Forever, forever it took… to go inside the house, which I assum
ed was Hillman’s. Bright
lights shone down from the ceiling, and my
eyes flew open from
the glare as I looked around, sti
ll slumped over
one of the guys. Paintings in black, orange and yellow lined the walls in glossy black frames. Each
was a blur because of my haze and my carrier’s steady pace toward w
hat appeared to be a dark red
couch where he threw me down and disappeared, following
the
other male voices.

≈

It wasn’t enough to take nips off the family wine anymore. Just as soon as I
caught the beginning of a pleasant buzz it would wear off. More was needed.

“Tony’s Market is where everyone pimps,” said Jenna, peeling the wrapper off a Dum-Dum pop and sticking the small sphere in her mouth. She always had to have something orally, be it gum, a lollipop, or a pencil. Anything but food to keep her figure fit and trim. I identified with her need, except that my oral fixation needed an alcohol percentage.

Tony’s Market was the scene for my Saturday night. Christian was at band practice, pounding away at the keys and probably the beer, too. I sat idly waiting for Jenna to come around so we could walk to Tony’s and try our luck at pimping. A 20-spot was crumpled in my jeans pocket, and I was prepared to give my pimper, should I find one, the entire thing for just a six-pack. Wine was more expensive at the liquor store than the supermarket, so beer made more sense. Jenna was pleased that we were going to try our hand at this local teen pastime, if only to see whether we could pull it off.

“Charm the pants off some old crotch for a bottle of scotch,” she sang.

Jenna didn’t want to drink like I did. It had become a part of my day, and like clockwork I needed to take a drink after dinner. On weekends, I drank with Christian.
Dr. Rusch and his wife were rarely around, so there was no fear of getting caught.

“Going for a walk to the park and then back to Jenna’s,” I hollered over the dishwashing. My dad waved at me. He had no clue what I was going to do.

“Be back by 10,” said mom, peeling off her yellow gloves and rubbing her hands on her hips.

My parents usually took advantage of their moments without me, as in doing it all that they could. I came home early one time and from the front porch I could hear my mom moaning, her throat on fire with “Rob, Rob. Rub me, Rob.” Picturing my dad rubbing my mother, in that way, kept me out on the street for a half hour longer than I’d planned. When I finally did walk into the house, they were sitting on the couch, my dad spoon-feeding mom their post-sex ice cream from the carton.

While my parents were probably hurrying to undress and do the deed, I was walking with Jenna to Tony’s Market, feeling the money in my pocket every few steps, and planning my pitch.

“Let me try this out on you.” I stopped Jenna mid-step and softened my stance to appear casual.

“Are you going in?” I continued, with Jenna now taking the pimp role.

“Yeah. Want something?”

“A twelver.” I handed her the money.

“That was too easy, Beck. Try again. This time I’ll be difficult.”

Bracing myself, I started again.
“Are you going in?”

“If you think I’m gonna buy you beer, well, you’re wrong. Go away!” She bowed twice before I did a roundhouse kick to her butt.

“I hope we don’t meet
that
guy tonight,” I grumbled and held out my palm to reclaim my money.

We rounded the corner where Tony’s sat, a small, pink liquor store that sold sandwiches as well as sauce, chips, and every kind of alcohol you could ever dream of. Tonight, all I wanted was beer or wine, but maybe someday a nice bottle of tequila would be good.

There were several cars in the lot, most of them old clunkers and work trucks. A few Mexicans stood out front, their hands shoved into pockets, waiting for someone. While they looked old enough to score us some booze, I was hesitant to approach them. Maybe they didn’t speak English, or wouldn’t want to give me the time of day, just like the cholas in school. That’s why I jumped at the chance to approach Mr. Marine, who had just slipped out of his truck. His blond buzz lit-up like fiber optics under the fluorescent outdoor lights.

“Excuse me,” I said, approaching him from the dark where Jenna stayed, making me look like I was alone. The Marine stopped and waited for me to pitch him. Hopefully he had done this before.

“Could you buy me some beer?” I tried to make puppy eyes, and hopefully look much more cute than I felt. He exhaled when I held out the money and nodded.

“Sure. Whaddya want?” Yay! I was going to score some beer.

“A 12-pack of Coors. Keep the change.”

“Wait over there.” He pointed to the shadows, which I entered with glee. Yes, I was getting some beer.

I could see the man behind the counter, an Indian in a shiny green shirt that was drenched around the armpits, craning his neck. He was probably looking for me, the teenager pimping beer, but I hid in the dark with Jenna while we waited for the beer delivery.

Waited was an understatement. It was more like waiting, waiting, waiting for the beer. How long did it take to purchase it? Was the Marine shopping for Doritos, an over-cooked burger and a lottery ticket? I hopped from one foot to the other until I saw the fiber optics emerge from the store with a big paper bag. My beer.

“Here. Be smart about it.” He handed me the bag before he turned and walked away. Jenna clapped and peeked inside the sack to view the silver bullets nestled behind shiny cardboard and cold enough to numb my fingers.

“My hands are freezing. Let’s go,” I said, hugging my beer.

“Wait!” she squealed, taking off her sweatshirt and covering the bag. Good thinking. Two teenaged girls walking down the street with a package shaped like a twelver would be obvious.

“Thanks. I wasn’t thinking about anything except how easy that was.”