Personal Effects (16 page)

“Whoa-ho,” he shouts. “Mail for the pretty boy.”

The sharp edge of an envelope catches me in the chest. It lands faceup on the floor in front of me. Great, another recruiting letter. Don’t even have to open it to know what it says. He has to have signed me up with every branch, in hopes that one will send me a shiny-enough brochure to convince me. Or maybe he just likes getting them himself.

Dad cuffs my shoulder on his way to put the trash can back under the sink. “Nine months.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from correcting him. It’s only been a little over six months since T.J. died: 195 days to be exact. The look on his face is hopeful, happy, confusing. Then I realize he means the months until my eighteenth birthday, in March. My mouth goes dry.

I stand there, shaking under my skin, waiting to be dismissed.

Dad shuffles the bills and the magazines, and then hesitates before picking up the condolence letter. He walks over to the hall closet, just beyond the kitchen. He pauses again, just looking at the letter, runs his finger along the edge, and then lets it fall into the box of similar letters he’s been collecting since November. He never opens them, and he never throws them away. He closes the closet door with the faintest click.

“Anyway, I’m heading to your uncle Mac’s. He needs some help with the truck.” Really? Or does Dad have another date? “You need money for dinner? For a pizza?”

“I’ll make something.” Just leave. Now.

“OK, well, just in case.” Dad tosses a twenty on the table. “And while we’re talking ‘just in case’ . . .”

For the second time in ten minutes he flips something at my head. This time, the small box connects with my chin and lands on the floor. And just like before, I don’t have to pick it up to know what it is. The brand name screams up in big block letters. Side view of a warrior with his mohawk helmet.
Lubricated.
Oh, fuck me.

“I meant what I said.”

His grin is disgusting.

“I’m not telling you not to have a good time.”

I’m gonna puke.

“I’m just saying, you gotta take care of yourself, because you can’t trust her to. You wear one every time. Every single time. You got it?”

Shit. What, they have a two-for-one deal?

“I bought this box. But when they’re gone, you buy your own. If you’re man enough to have sex, you’re man enough to take responsibility for it. You got it?”

God, if he only knew how much of an über-virgin I really am. And to not defend her, to let him talk about her, like —

“Hey. You got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

I totally suck.

“Good.”

His meaty fingers dig into my shoulder, until I look up into his leering joy. It’s so fucked up. The only thing about me that makes Dad proud is complete and utter crap.

Still gripping my shoulder, his face gets serious again. “I called Pendergrast. Told him we’d be by with the first payment first thing Thursday morning.”

“Thursday? But —”

“Yeah, I’ve got to be up near Lewisburg on Friday.”

Thursday.

“What, you’re gonna have it by Thursday, right?”

“Not all of it.” Shit. “I — I don’t get paid again until next Friday and —”

“So, you’ll give him what you have and then deliver the rest the following Monday.”

Thursday.

Dad’s fingers knead a little too hard. His eyes narrow, and he takes a breath like he’s gonna say something else. My heart skips. Maybe . . . but then he just gives one more bruising squeeze and lets go. “See you later.”

I kick the condoms all the way down the stairs, and then into my closet. Not gonna need them anytime soon.

Thursday. Shit. Algebra and Spanish are on Thursday. I might still pass algebra, even with a zero on the final. But not Spanish. I skip the final in Spanish, I fail.

But if I stay, and Dad makes me give Pendergrast the money, I won’t have enough to go. Fuck.

I grab my phone, flop down on my bed, and dial Shauna.

“Did you get ambushed?” she asks.

“Sort of.” I try to wipe my brain clean of Dad’s leering pride and the Trojans in my closet.

“What happen —?”

“Dad’s scheduled a command performance to deliver the money to Pendergrast.”

“Yeah? So, you knew —”

“Thursday morning.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” I bang my head against the wall.

“What are you going to do?”

No choice.

“Leave on Wednesday.”

B
Y
S
ATURDAY
I’
M A MESS
. I’
VE BARELY SLEPT
. I’
M SCREWING
up, acting like a spaz. Enough that Dad’s giving me looks. Leaving Dad at home alone on Saturday night, slouched in the recliner, glaring when I walk by, seriously wigs me out. But I can’t plan the trip at home. Or without Shauna.

Still, staring up the walk at Shauna’s sister’s house, I’m not sure I want to go in. The last time Stacy came home and found me in her house, she acted like she was gonna have to fumigate. And Shauna’s been acting strange — stranger than usual. The last couple of days, Michael’s been circling. Hanging by her locker, sitting near us at lunch, hovering near her car after school. I’m sure they’re texting. Maybe there’ve been some calls, or more, even if Shauna hasn’t let on. She clearly hasn’t green-lighted him yet — or he’d be doing more than staying close. And it’s weird for Shauna to pretend not to notice. Even weirder for her not to let me in on whatever’s going on. ’Course, I usually ask, but right now I can’t deal with knowing one more thing that might make my head explode.

“What are you doing?” Shauna asks from the open front door.

“Nothing,” I say. Too late to turn back now.

“Well, get in here. I ordered already.”

She fidgets, pulling at the bottom of her shirt. Nice shirt, tight across her chest, making her tits seem even bigger than usual. She tugs at it, trying to make it longer. Her jeans are tighter, too. And her hair’s all poofy. She looks like she’s going out, not babysitting.

Each step closer, she looks less like herself — stuff on her eyes, her lips redder, like she had stuff on them, too, but wiped it off. Like after a dance or party — when I see her, in her regular clothes, but there are pieces of dressed-up her still hanging on.

“Oh,” she says, tugging at the shirt again. “Went to the mall. With Kerry and Anna. Got back late.”

Kerry and Anna. Mall. And a shirt that’s gonna test the physics on my jeans? Sure. Bet Michael was at the mall, too. Up close I can see her face in the light, see the makeup, the sparkles. She’s looking anywhere but at me. Is it all official again? Or are we gonna keep playing this game? And what do I care? Might as well be Michael. Whatever.

“You sure Stacy’s OK with me being here?”

“She’s thrilled,” Shauna says.

“Yeah, that was believable.”

“Stacy’s working until tomorrow morning. She’ll never even know.” She’s practically bouncing. Devilish smile, all the more with the makeup and everything. Must have been a fan-fucking-tastic afternoon. Have to ignore it. All of it. I need her help.

“The kids won’t tell her?” I look up the stairs, waiting for the rug rats to peek around the wall.

“Not now that they’re in bed. They both sleep like the dead, and besides, their bedrooms are up in the loft at the back of the house. I even bribed Jess with my iPod; she’ll be too busy blowing out her eardrums to hear us.” She swipes her hair out of her eyes, tucks it behind her ears, and then untucks it. “And if Stacy wants me to keep sitting for her, she’ll deal.”

I kick off my shoes and toss my backpack on the couch.

“Whatcha get me?” I ask.

She bats her eyes like she’s not gonna tell me, and then laughs. The knot in my stomach loosens, but everything else tightens in a little more.

“Pork fried rice, dumplings, and egg drop.” All of my faves.

“No wontons?”

“Of course, but they’re mine. You’ll have to be nice if you want me to share.” She twirls and looks out the window again. “Find us something to watch?”

I turn to find the remote, and stop. Shauna’s set the coffee table with plates and silverware and place mats and everything, and next to the plates are two already-open bottles of beer.

“Beer?” I ask.

“I thought, maybe, well, why not?” Her fingers play with the hair hanging in her face. Makes it hard to see her eyes.

She reaches for her beer and hesitates just a second before taking a sip. She lowers the bottle. I can’t stop watching her swallow. My mouth’s suddenly dry.

“Food should be here soon,” she says, sort of pushing me toward the couch, but weak-like, not like I know she can shove.

She moves back to stare out the window, leaving a whiff of something perfumey in her wake. Spicy. Different from her usual herbally grape smell, but not the perfume she usually wears for Michael. Her reflection in the window watches me, her fingers teasing at the label on the bottle. I can’t stop watching her. Not even when it starts to get to me.

“Here they come,” window-her says, breaking the connection.

I take a gulp of beer and try to clear my head. Hold out Dad’s twenty toward the food.

After paying, Shauna puts the paper bag on the table and takes another long sip of her beer, head tilted back with the effort, but eyes on me. It’s definitely a challenge. My mouth waters with the smell of the food, and the thought of the beer. We’ve drunk beer before. Lots of times. We’ve even been buzzed a few times. No big deal. But this feels thrilling, like the first time when we had one warm beer between us.

The bottle’s slick and sweating under my fingers. The cold liquid coats my tongue and slides down my throat. It should’ve cooled me down, but instead all the heat in the room rushes to my face. I drink long and hard to chase it away, nearly downing the bottle.

“Should I go ahead and grab us another?” she asks.

I close my eyes and nod, finishing it off in loud gulps. When I put the empty down, my hands are shaking. Need to slow down. But it feels nice and cold in my stomach.

The second bottle is ice-cold. Her fingers brush mine before she lets go, and I almost drop it. She’s so close I can smell the beer on her breath, under that perfume. I take another long, cold swig.

Watching Shauna eat is kind of overwhelming, even when she’s acting normal. She makes these approving little sounds when she gets an especially good bite, keeping her plate full by adding more food as soon as she has a clear spot. Tonight she’s so distracting I give up on the food and sip at my beer, watching her.

“What?” she mumbles around a mouthful of my last dumpling.

“Nothing.” Her face is flushed from the beer and the food. Maybe from her mall-date day. Whatever it is, her eyes are bright, kind of glittery. Her cheeks pink. I like it.

She swallows, motioning at me with her fork. “You’re smiling at me weird.”

“Sorry.” I drain the rest of the bottle.

“If you want another beer, help yourself.”

I’m tempted. Very. But I’m feeling the two I’ve already had. Starting to stare when I shouldn’t. Forgetting none of this is for me.

“There’s also soda, but if you want another, it’s OK. I had Nate pick up a six-pack for us. And they have to be gone, one way or another, before Stacy gets home.”

“Your brother-in-law is providing you beer now?” I ask. “For while you babysit his kids?”

“I said it was for this weekend.”

“Still . . .”

“Let’s review,” she says, crumbling a wonton over her rice. “Me. Babysit. For an adults-only anniversary weekend in AC. Nate would have bought me crack if I asked him to.”

“Glad you showed some restraint.” My Shauna’s back, underneath the hair and perfume and shirt and all. My Shauna, but not. Wish she’d put her sweatshirt on. I really want that third beer. “So, another?” I ask, already heading to the kitchen.

“Yeah. I think I’ll take one more.”

I place the bottle next to her and drop back into the corner of the couch. She peeks out from under her hair. The look’s like a pause button. I freeze.

“What?” she squawks.

“Nothing.” But it isn’t nothing. It’s something. Everything’s tense, and how she’s all weird, like maybe she’s waiting to tell me something. And before that look, or the look from the window, maybe I’d have thought it was Michael. Like she was just waiting to spring it on me — make it official. Would make sense. I cheered pretty hard when they broke up last time. And I’ve been making a point of ignoring all the signs, hoping he’d go away. But . . . something’s going on . . . and whatever it is, she has me all wound up, even more than usual.

And the looks. Like now. Up through her hair, waiting. But . . . not like when she’s trying to work up the nerve to say something. She’s not trying; she’s just watching. My brain’s getting stupid. Beer isn’t helping. I push the bottle away and grab a fortune cookie from the pile.

You are the master of every situation.

Great. Now even cookies are mocking me. I crumple the fortune and throw it in the empty rice carton.

Mood gone, Shauna’s totally focused on her food again. She tears apart her egg roll, dumping out the insides and dipping the shell in the mess of duck sauce and mustard. Means she’s almost done. She takes one last bite of egg-roll shell and then pushes her plate to the far side of the table, wiping her greasy hands on the napkins.