Twisted (4 page)

I stumbled downstairs for breakfast around noon. Six fried eggs and a quart of orange juice later, I noticed a vanilla-frosted layer cake, decorated with pink rosebuds, sitting on the counter.

I reached for a knife just as Mom came around the corner. She slapped my hand. “Don’t touch. It’s not for us.”

“Who’s it for?”

“The Milburys.”

“You made them a sucking-up cake?”

“This is not a ‘sucking-up cake.’ This is an apology cake, for Bethany’s accident. The last thing this family needs is to have your father fired. So you’re going to deliver it and apologize.”

“No way. I won’t. I can’t. You don’t understand, Mom—she’s Bethany—she’s
the
Bethany. She thinks I’m the biggest bag of sh—”

“Language!”

“—of
manure
in the whole state. I am not delivering that cake. You can’t force me. Besides, it’ll piss Dad off if I go over there.”

“This was your father’s idea, Tyler. If you don’t walk this over to the Milburys this second, you’ll have to deal with him.”

I came up with a new apology every step of the way.

Bethany, I am an idiot.

Bethany, words fail to convey the depth of my sorrow…

I am really, really, really, really…

Bethany, beautiful Bethany, wherefore art thou…

The cake was beginning to sag in the heat.
Hurry up, moron.

After I passed through the entrance gate to the Hampton Club and Estates, I froze. I lifted the cake above my head and sniffed my pits. I should have put on more deodorant before I left. Or cologne. Did my shorts smell, too? Did the Milburys have dogs? Would they send them out to attack me? The dogs would rip off my clothes and feast on my flesh and the cake would be a sticky stain on the driveway.

I took two steps and stopped again. The visual of having my clothes ripped off in front of Bethany Milbury…

A sprinkler system kicked on.

I sprinted. Only a few drops made it to the cake, but between the heat and the water, the rosebuds were dissolving. Running caused the frosting to lean dangerously, so I slowed to a power-walk, sticking to the shady side of the street, keeping my eyes open for out-of-control sprinklers and other dangers.

I hustled up to the Milburys’ door and rang the bell.

Mrs. Milbury answered. She blinked once when she saw me, but then remembered her lines. “Tyler.”

I held up the cake. “My mother sent this. For Bethany.”

She waited.

“Urn, I sent it, too—am sending it, I mean. I’m the one carrying it. Um, I’m here to, you know, to see how she is. After what happened. You know. I am truly sorry, Mrs. Milbury.”

She took the cake from me. “Nothing to apologize for, Tyler. Those waiters had no experience and should never have worked a party like ours. It’s not your fault they couldn’t hold on to a tray of glasses.”

Okay, I was confused, but she hadn’t killed me and that was all that counted. I could go home and tell Mom “mission accomplished.”

“Why don’t you come in and chat with Bethany?”

“Urn, no, I can’t. I have to be somewhere.”

“On a Sunday afternoon?”

“It’s, ah, Sunday school. Sunday afternoon school. Church stuff.”

Her mouth dropped open in surprise. “Why, Tyler Miller, handsome and spiritual, too. You’re much deeper than you look. But I’m sure the Lord won’t mind if you take a few minutes to make an injured girl feel better.” She narrowed her eyes until they reminded me of the business end of a rifle. “Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.”

She blinked and suddenly she was Mrs. Brice Milbury, society queen, again. “Follow me!”

Their front hall looked like a hotel lobby: white walls, gold-framed mirrors, a table with fake flowers stuck in a vase, and a giant staircase winding its way up to the second floor. Muzak was in the air.

She led me to the basement door and down the steps to the media room. You could have screened a movie for a dozen friends there and still had enough space for a poker tournament. The newest Sony flat screen was mounted on the wall. Actually, it took up the whole wall. The other walls were covered by framed NFL jerseys. Signed.

But I wasn’t there to drool.

I was there to grovel.

Bethany was half-buried in a yellow, overstuffed chair, watching lions sleep under a tree on the TV. She was wearing a Washington Warriors tennis T-shirt and gray sweatpants rolled up to her knees, and the peanut butter–colored cat was in her lap, its tail curled around her wrist like a bracelet. Her left foot, wrapped in bandages, rested on a pillow on the coffee table. Three crutches lay in pieces on the carpet.

“What’s he doing here?” she asked her mother.

“He came to cheer you up,” Mrs. Milbury said. “I’ll just put this in the fridge.”

“I don’t want cheering. Make him go. Leave the cake.”

Mrs. Milbury shook her head. “Don’t want to tempt you, sweetie. Not when you can’t exercise.”

“I said leave it,” Bethany said louder.

I glanced around for an emergency exit.

Mrs. Milbury set the tired cake on the coffee table and put her hands on her hips. “Maybe Tyler would like to sit with you while I run down to Teresa’s and look over their crutches. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

Bethany sighed dramatically.

Her mother wagged her finger back and forth. “Just don’t eat all that cake before I get back.”

I was alone with Bethany Milbury. In her basement. Was this a new pain level in Tophet or a dream? What was I supposed to do? Talk?

A male lion on the TV shook his mane and rolled on his back in the dust. The lionesses stretched and yawned as the sun set over the savanna. “They’re headed out for the hunt,” the voice-over explained.

Saysomethingsaysomethingsaysomethingsaysomething.

Bethany picked at the pale pink polish on her left thumbnail. Her cat sneered at me.

Say anything, you pathetic loser.

I picked up the center post of one of the broken crutches. It had a deep crack running down it and splinters of wood bristling from one side.

“What happened to this?” I asked.

Brilliant opening! Great job!

“Chip.”

“He was making firewood?”

“Fooling around with his stupid friends.”

“Huh?”

Careful. Don’t scare her off by grunting.

The lionesses circled a herd of gazelles at a watering hole. Bethany muted the TV. “Chip and his friends. They have a wrestling club. The crutches were props.”

“Chip’s on the wrestling team?”

“Club, not team. They pretend to be professional wrestlers. It’s ridiculous.” She held out her hand, checking her nails. The cat jumped off her lap and strutted over to me, sniffing my sneakers. “Chip’s an ass,” she said.

The words flew out before I could stop them. “Got that right.”

“He crumpled the hood of Mom’s Jag once,” Bethany said. “Accidentally dropped a twenty-pound weight on it. Told Mom it happened in the grocery-store parking lot. He almost got her to sue them for damages.”

“Some people get away with everything,” I said.

A lioness singled out a weak gazelle. She was on it in two strides, her mouth ripping out the neck, claws dug deep in the gazelle’s flesh.

Bethany watched the screen without reacting to the bloodshed. “He never gets caught.” She set the remote on the arm of the chair. “I saw him push you. I tried to tell Dad, but he didn’t believe me.”

“Oh, man.” The dam burst. “I am so sorry. I wish you knew even one-tenth of one percent of how sorry I am. It doesn’t matter that Chip pushed me. It was my fault. Can I kill myself here, or should I do it outside so the mess on the carpet doesn’t upset your mother?”
Grovel time.
I lay facedown on the floor in front of her chair. “Cafufowifmuh?”

“What did you say?”

I lifted my head and blew a piece of carpet fluff out of my mouth. “I said, can you forgive me? I am a moron, a loser—”

She covered her ears. “Enough! Stop! Apology accepted. The whole thing was stupid. The caterers told us to use plastic glasses, but Mom pitched a fit and insisted on the real thing. She grew up worshipping
Dallas.
Gag.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Get up, Tyler.”

She grabbed a handful of my T-shirt and pulled. I sat up on my knees in front of her chair. When she let go of my shirt, her hand brushed by my cheek. It smelled like soap and ice cream and girl: pure and perfect girl. Her touch set my face on fire. My face and everything else.

“Let’s eat cake,” she said.

The cat twitched its tail and left.

Bethany sucked some frosting off her finger and moaned.

The moan woke up my trouser snake
(Down, boy! Down, I say!)
so I wandered up to the kitchen to get some forks and paper towels and room to breathe. When the snake crawled back under a rock, I went downstairs.

Bethany had switched channels to a black-and-white movie. She kept the sound muted and we took turns making up dialogue for the action on the screen. She slowly worked her way through a hunk of cake.

I couldn’t eat.

This was very confusing.

I could always eat. Even when I had the flu I could eat. I’d puke, brush my teeth, and beg Mom for chips or a sandwich or French toast. But there I was in front of one of my mother’s cakes (my sainted, blessed mother) and a pretty girl, and my stomach had shut down.

I switched the channel to one of the Sunday-afternoon shout-fests with plastic politicians and did play-by-play as if it were a boxing match. Bethany laughed. My stomach relaxed as if that one sound, her laughter, was what I’d been secretly hungry for my whole life.

When a commercial came on, Bethany scootched forward in her seat and tried to stand. As soon as she put pressure on her bandaged foot, she winced and fell back into her chair.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “You’re in pain. That’s bad. Can I help? What do you want me to do?”
Oh, God, shut up right now.
“I won’t fall on you, I swear.”

“Chill, Tyler. I just need to go to the bathroom.”

“Here,” I said, holding out my hand to her. “Let me help you.”

I pulled her to her feet. She teetered a moment and clutched my arms. Her left knee was bent so her foot wouldn’t touch the floor. I was six-three. She was five-six, five-seven maybe. There was no way for her to sling an arm over my shoulders.

“Put your arm around my waist and lean,” I said.

She did, then she tried to hop, but she stumbled. I quickly put both arms around her to keep her from falling.

“We’re not very good at this,” she said.

“Nobody is. That’s why they invented crutches. Try again.”

We gimped together three awkward steps and Bethany stopped. “I’m afraid I’ll have to put weight on it and the stitches will rip open.”

“There’s only one thing to do,” I said. Before she could say another word, I bent over and picked her up. She was a little heavier than I thought, but it was a good weight, warm and soft.

“You’re going to kill yourself!” she squealed.

“I’m Tyler, the Amazing Hulk. Which way, Your Highness?”

She pointed towards the stairs. “Up.”

I got stronger with every step, heart pumping steady. This was better than any fantasy I’d ever had. Her body was muscle-hard, and her skin felt like silk.

“I am your servant, madam,” I said. “I vow to carry you everywhere and feed you cake.”

“Keep feeding me cake and you won’t be able to carry me.”

I paused at the top of the stairs. “I’ll always be able to carry you.”

She blinked.

And then the door to the garage slammed open.

Bethany’s entire body tightened. “Chip! What are you doing home?”

Chip froze in the doorway, trying to make sense of the sight of me a) in his house, and b) carrying his sister, who c) was enjoying a) and b).

“What the hell are you doing?” he snarled.

“He’s helping me,” Bethany said, “which is more than I can say for you. Put me down, Tyler.”

Your wish is my command.
I carefully lowered her to the ground and helped her sit in a kitchen chair.

Chip pulled out a quart of Gatorade from the oversized refrigerator. He took a few gulps and wiped his mouth on his arm. “Mom wants you down to Monaghan’s. She made me come get you.”

“Why?”

The cat came out from under the table and twisted itself around Chip’s ankles. “They have a bunch of crutches. I’m supposed to drive you over there so you can pick. Dipwad here is not invited.”

“I have to go home anyway,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Bethany asked. “You could come with us if you want.”

Chip put the bottle on the counter and walked back to the door. “Don’t be such a slut, Beth. Tyler is leaving.” He smirked and made a sweeping motion with his arm, ushering me outside.

I cross the kitchen in two steps. I put my hand around his throat and lift him off the ground with one arm. I heave him across the room. He slides the length of the counter and lands on the kitchen table. The fruit bowl crashes on his head, and an apple lands in his mouth. Little stars dance in a circle over him and his eyes roll up and…

“Are you okay, Tyler?” Bethany asked.

“Yeah, urn,” I said. “I better go.”

Chip stepped aside as I crossed the threshold.

Bethany said, “See you tomorrow.”

“Huh?” I stopped.

“School’s starting, duh? Maybe you can carry me to class.”

Chip slammed the door in my face.

I walked through the five-car garage, out the open door, past Chip’s Jeep, down the driveway, along the sidewalks of the movie-set neighborhood of the Hampton Club and Estates.

“See you tomorrow,” she said.

The lawn sprinkler of the house on the corner was still flinging water. I stood in the cold spray until I was soaked through to my boxers.