My Best Everything Page 8

  “My aunt has a silver Impala,” Seth said, looking at me more closely. “You know Mason, huh?”

  I shrugged. But he must have caught me looking your way. “Her name is Jessie.”

  “Who?”

  “That girl. With my dumb-ass cousin.” He took a long sip of his drink. “He always leaves with her.” Then he raised his eyebrows and said, “Want me to bring him over here?”

  All I said was “What?” but he threw his arm around me, grinning all the while.

  It worked. By the time I’d slipped out from under his arm, you’d moved off your spot on the wall and headed toward us. With Jessie following you. The way her hips moved as she walked made me feel young and naive.

  “Hey, Cuz,” Seth greeted you, still standing too close to me. “Nice day for a ride.”

  You shook your head, unsmiling. Jessie’s eyes about scraped me as she looked me up and down. I tossed my hair in some kind of primal reaction.

  “How ya doing, Jessie?” As Seth leaned in for a hug, I met your eyes behind their backs, but I couldn’t read the look on your face.

  Then Bucky gave you a sloppy slap on the back, sloshing his drink on my feet. As he and Buttercup talked to Jessie, Seth, and Peanut about the band and whatnot, there was a minute when you and I were the only ones not talking. I turned to you and blurted out, “Thanks for getting Aunt Jezebel ready.” Problem was, the band stopped playing right then and my voice rang out too loud.

  You frowned, and everyone else looked at me funny. Then Buttercup laughed and said, “What did you say? Aunt who?”

  Bucky laughed and said, “Lulu better take it easy on the funny juice.”

  I wanted to evaporate on the spot. I felt stupid. Young and awkward, loud and clueless. Nothing like sexy, skinny Jessie.

  “I say give her more.” Laughing, Seth leaned into me, made me stumble.

  As I tried to regain my balance, you said, “Be careful with this one, Seth. She’s jailbait.”

  Then, before I got over my shock, you left with Jessie. Just the way Seth said you would.

  Jailbait?

  Maybe I could have understood if you’d warned Seth about me puking. But calling me jailbait? You obviously thought I was young and immature. Apparently you also thought I was loose and easy. Like I’d do something with Seth. I was insulted to my very core. No one thought of me like that. I’d always been the good girl. The ice princess.

  Seth winked at me and said, “Told you. I know my cousin.” Then he and Peanut moved on. I let Buttercup pour me an icy-cold drink with a burn, which was unfortunately delicious in the hot sun.

  At some point an unsteady Bucky plopped down beside me. I said, “Mason called me jailbait.”

  He laughed.

  “It’s not funny. I’m mad. I’m not talking to him.”

  “Good. ’Cause he’s not here. Have another drink.”

  After the band put away their instruments and most of the fans left, Roni finally joined us where we sat, sloshed and stupid, in the grass. “Y’all should come meet everyone.”

  “There’s my girl,” Bucky yelled. “Star of the show.”

  Roni squinted at him. “Are you drunk?”

  I said, “Mason left with a skank, Roni. She had a tattoo on her wazoo.” I was sure you were wrapping your whole self in her long hair and kissing all her hidden tattoos.

  “You’re sloppy too?” She glared at both of us. Then said, “Stay here and be quiet while I get my stuff.” Roni’s worlds had collided.

  “What does she mean stay? Doesn’t she know I’m not no dog?” Bucky yelled after her, “I’m not no dog!”

  “Shhh,” I said, and giggled.

  As we stumbled to Bucky’s truck, Roni scolded us. “I can’t believe you two. Why’d you have to get so trashed? Lulu, you’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

  “You said I’m more fun when I drink.”

  “Bucky, were you keeping an eye on Lulu? You know how she gets.”

  “What does that mean?” I complained.

  “Babysitting is women’s work,” said Bucky. “I am definitely not a woman. I’m not a dog and I’m not a woman.” It’s good that Bucky rarely drinks.

  At his truck he made a halfhearted fuss about driving, but it didn’t last.

  “Sorry if we embarrassed you,” I said from the back.

  “It’s all right. Everyone else drinks there too. I just feel like I have to be on my best behavior. I’m afraid they’ll kick me out.”

  “But you’re better than any of them.”

  “Damn straight,” Bucky agreed. “You don’t need them.”

  “Yes, I do, Bucky. I do need them.” Roni reached out and brushed hair from his eyes. She looked back at me and said, “For the first time ever, I have something I’m good at.”

  Roni was my best part of living in Dale, the only thing that had made high school bearable. She was my best everything, most all my life. I see now that I wasn’t the best for her. She always compared herself to me, and the things I thought she should be better at. That wasn’t good for her soul. At least heartache inspires songs.

  After I got out of the truck at my house, she handed me a piece of gum through the window. “Chew this and get straight to bed. I don’t want you getting grounded.”

  I tiptoed inside, chomping on Roni’s gum. I heard voices, an unfamiliar giggle. At first I thought Paul had come home for a surprise visit and brought a girl with him. But then I realized it was Mom giggling. I peeked in the living room. I stood in the doorway absorbing the scene. Mom had her feet curled beneath her on the couch; two wineglasses sat on the coffee table between her and Sal, who sat across the room in Daddy’s recliner.

  “Hey there, Lulu, darling.”

  “Hey,” I said, sticking to my spot.

  “Hello, Luisa,” said my junkyard boss with no shoes on. His hairy bare feet looked obscene and embarrassing.

  My buzz made me bold as I said, “When does Daddy get back in town?”

  Mom said smoothly to Sal, “Lulu is still a daddy’s girl.”

  “Well, she sure looks more like him than you,” said Sal.

  It’s true, of course. Mom is so tiny she makes my average look Amazon. Where she’s thin, I curve. Her short blond hair is fine and the straightest kind of hair there is, while my dark brown curls go everywhere. But when six-year-old me had a crisis of identity and wanted to look like her, I remember Mom saying she’d ordered me this way to show how much she loved Daddy. She said I’ve got my daddy marked all over me. But she didn’t say that to Sal.

  12

  The next day, sober but fighting a hangover, I still couldn’t believe you’d called me jailbait. You had some nerve, especially since you apparently had a girlfriend. Or at least, someone who you always left with. On top of what had happened with you, whatever I’d walked in on with Mom and Sal sure made me restless too.

  I didn’t want to be mad. I wanted to get over the burning irritation I couldn’t seem to shake. It didn’t matter that you had a girlfriend. One who was pretty but edgy and lean, nothing like me. It made things simpler. Cut down on things to wonder about.

  The only thing that mattered was that I start working with Aunt Jezebel. I still needed you to tell me where I could get yeast.

  I went for a walk. I kept off Main Street, making my way along the edge of town, following the back roads lined with the alternating patchwork of fences made of wood and stone and barbed wire. It was hot enough that dogs stayed in the shade rather than bothering with me as I marched by, the flapping of my flip-flops adding rhythm to the cicadas’ screechy song. I figured the sweat streaming along my sides and running down my neck was a purification process, purging my body of alcohol.

  I decided to purge my soul as well. I arrived at Saint Jude’s, sweaty and dusty. I headed straight for the restroom, where I cleaned up with paper towels. I know Father Mick isn’t supposed to be concerned with worldly details, but that confessional is a cozy space. Personal hygiene was the least I could do
.

  I stepped into the hallway and collided, hard, with you. I stepped back, blinking and readjusting my space. It wasn’t fair how impossibly happy you looked to see me, because—even then, breathing in the warm and spicy smell of your skin with the feel of your arm under my hand for balance, and no matter what my head said I logically had the right to feel—the fact was, I was mad at you.

  “I was just thinking about you, Lulu.”

  “Oh yeah?” I narrowed my eyes. “Well, stop.”

  “Stop what?” You cocked your head at me. “Stop thinking?”

  “I know what you think of me,” I said, glaring. “And I don’t like it.” I spun around and charged outside.

  You followed me out to the graveyard. “Are you mad at me?”

  “Of course I’m mad,” I said, my voice more shrill than I liked. “You called me a slut.”

  You blinked. Stepped backward. Rubbed your ugly hair. Then finally said, “I did?” You were someone who’d done too many things he didn’t remember.

  “You called me jailbait.”

  “You’re saying that’s the same as calling you a…” You shook your head. “Why would you think that’s what I meant?”

  “You thought I was actually going to go somewhere and do something with Seth? You had to warn him about me? Really? That’s how you see me?”

  You stared at me. It was hard to breathe in the heat after having had a brief respite in the dim, cool church. The air was thick and muggy, and I was choking on my frustration.

  “Lulu, you don’t have a clue how I see you.”

  You stopped me with that.

  Father Mick opened the door then and said, “Luisa, did you need me?” As I crossed the stone path back to the church, he called to you, “Thanks for the good work today, Mason.”

  I’m not going to tell you what I said to Father Mick in reconciliation that day. I’m not sure I know. There was a lot of incoherent babbling about Mom and Sal and going to school and stealing versus borrowing and crossing lines. Father Mick talked about forgiveness and patience. Trust. At one point he said, “If you need help, remember to ask,” which made me impatient all over again. But he wouldn’t let me leave until I calmed down. I was in there long enough you had plenty of time to run away, but you didn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” you said the second I stepped outside.

  “Me too.” I handed you one of the mints Father Mick had given me on my way out the door. We sat on the stone bench and sucked our candies together.

  “I didn’t mean what you thought, Lulu. I was ragging on Seth. Not you. Of course not you. He knew it.” The muscles along your jaw pulsed. “I know you want to make money, but don’t get mixed up with him.”

  “I’m not,” I said. I hadn’t asked Seth to get your attention by hanging on me, but I didn’t want to tell you that was what he’d been doing either. You leaving with Jessie made it clear that had been an embarrassing waste of time.

  You rubbed your hair, looking down at the ground. “Seth is a slightly better version of who I used to be.” Then you looked me in the eye when you finished what you had to say. “I’m an alcoholic.”

  I couldn’t wrap my head around your words. Alcoholics are old. Smelly and messy. They aren’t cute boys with irresistible, crooked smiles.

  “I’m in recovery. I’ve been sober for two years, four months, thirteen days.” You went on. “I used to be trashed all the time. But if I have a drink—even one little drink—I can’t stop. If I can’t stop, I’ll die. It’s pretty simple. Most of the time, I remember that. But some places, some people, are triggers, setting me off. Make me act like the jerk I used to be.”

  I wondered about Jessie, who you’d left with. If she was part of who you used to be, or who you were now. Either way, I had some ideas as to how she might have helped distract you. Since I didn’t have the right to ask, I said, “I wasn’t drinking.” Then added, “Well, I did later. But not with Seth. I never used to drink.”

  “I did. A lot.” You gave me half a smile. “I’m not telling you not to drink, Lulu. I just wanted you to know. Since we keep running into each other.”

  You made it sound like pure coincidence. Like I hadn’t worked to find you at Lullaby Breaker’s practice. Like I hadn’t had any ulterior motives that day I asked you to take me driving. Like you had no idea how impatient I was to start making moonshine.

  But then you said, “How’s Aunt Jezebel?”

  I shrugged rather than answer.

  “Got everything you need?”

  You looked so eager, like you actually wanted to know.

  “We can’t find yeast,” I said. “It’s expensive and hard to order. Do you know somewhere around here?”

  You were quick to offer. “I can get you yeast.”

  You probably felt guilty. Wanting to atone for your words. Maybe I should have said no. I could have saved you a lot of heartache if I’d turned and walked away. Forgotten my wild idea. But of course I said yes. At least I added “please.”

  You say it was meant to be that we ran into each other that day, and that you’d borrowed Bucky’s truck to bring wood to Saint Jude’s. It was all so we could make that trip to see Jake.

  You started the engine, then sat, thinking. “I’m going to need some liquor.”

  “I thought you don’t drink,” I said.

  “Jake does,” you said, as if that meant anything.

  I reached under my seat, pulled out the flask I remembered from the night we took Aunt Jezebel. I opened it, and the smell made my eyes water. Yours too.

  Easy makes a good sell for meant-to-be.

  The river runs rough and rugged north of the Queens’ Tube Trailer Spot. All along the riverbank, peeking out from behind trees and bushes, little shacks and lean-tos pop up like mushrooms. Made of mismatched boards and tin and old tires, most are built to last through deer season, or to serve as summertime fishing spots. Some, like the shack you parked beside, seem to have always been there, ever since the river started flowing. They’re part of the mud and rocks along the shore.

  I climbed out after you, looking at the precarious tilt of the shack. The propane tank peeking out from behind looked like it had taken a wrong turn—it seemed far too new and too big to be there. “Ready?” you asked.

  I don’t think anything could have made me ready for Jake.

  You knocked on the lopsided door and called, “Jake? It’s Mason.”

  I heard a shuffling noise from within, and then the door creaked open. A figure—a man, I mean, but it was hard to be certain at first—stood wobbling in the doorway. His face was a smear of scars. Different shades of skin creased and overlapped in a dizzying crisscross of old hurts.

  When he said, “What are you doing here?” I saw his mouth had no teeth. No bottom lip either. Then his bloodshot eyes focused on me. He said, “Hello, Beauty.”

  “This is Lulu, Jake. Can we come in?”

  I followed you into that small, dark room, keeping my breaths shallow, trying to avoid the murky something in the air. Ahead of us, Jake dragged his useless left leg over the wooden pallet floor. I eyed the ceiling, where the metal sheet fastened with wire had newspaper and straw stuffed into the corners and gaps.

  Sunlight streamed in through the slatted walls and the one window that overlooked the river. I stood there, looking out, with my arms crossed in front of me, keeping my hands close and clean. Behind me Jake said, “Only the river knows where it wanders,” making me think of Sal’s wisdoms.

  “Have you been eating, Jake?” You peered around the stacks and piles of things.

  He said, “Soup?” His overstuffed chair creaked as he set himself into it.

  You picked up an open can from the floor by his chair. “Is this it?” You sniffed it and made a face. “Ugh. That’s not soup, Jake.” You opened the front door and dumped whatever it was in the dirt. Then you searched among the piles. “Let me make you something.”

  “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m thirsty.”

&
nbsp; “You gotta eat something.” You peeked in his one cabinet. “Peanut butter on crackers sound good?”

  “Give it to Beauty.”

  “All right. I’ll make sure Lulu eats some too.”

  You placed a couple of crackers smeared with peanut butter on a plate next to him. True to your word, you handed me a cracker too, and kept one for yourself. “C’mon, Jake, let’s eat.”

  I forced myself to take a bite even though my stomach was turning flips. You met my eyes over the crackers, raised your eyebrows, and smiled.

  He said, “I told you. I’m thirsty.”

  You sighed. Then handed him Bucky’s flask. He pressed it close to his chest with one shaking hand as the other unscrewed the top. I could smell the alcohol, even over all the mildew and earthy dirt smells, some of which had to be Jake himself.

  He lifted it and sipped. Closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  You reached out and took the flask back. He clawed at it, made a guttural retching noise. “Goddamnit, boy, hand that over.”

  “I will.” Knowing Jake was fresh out of patience you hurried on. “But first I need a bit of the baby.”

  I felt queasy by then. It was the smell of that place, but also the uncertainty. Jake and his shack were so unlike anything I’d ever seen, I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if you’d gone and lopped off some bit of a real live baby.

  He growled, “I thought you didn’t have use for Baby no more. Thought you turned your back on her.”

  “I know, Jake. But I’ll take care of her.”

  “You gonna feed her right?” Jake wheezed around each word.

  “Yep. I’m even gonna bring her out to the woods.”

  “That’d be nice. Real nice.” He rubbed his scarred hands together. “She likes the woods.”

  “I sure know it.”

  He turned to me. “Beauty, will you love Baby too?”

  I said yes, hoping I had the right answer. I must have because Jake got up and shuffled across the room. I looked to you, but you were watching him. I couldn’t see what was hidden behind the dingy bit of fabric he’d pulled aside, so I took a few steps to the right. Jake turned around—faster than I would have guessed he could—and said, “You stay right there. We don’t like a crowd.”