Smashed (23 page)

“Now, Martini,” he said innocently to my back. “Why would I want to do that?”

Only a few dry leaves hung on the trees outside my window now, curled into fragile brown fists. Many trees were stripped entirely bare, their branches reaching into the sky like bony fingers on a slender silver hand. The days were short, the sun sinking in the sky by three thirty. Soon it would be winter solstice—the darkest night of the year.

It didn’t matter. Every day felt dark to me. After hockey season ended and the excitement of winning had slipped away, there was nothing left holding me together. And it was as if Alec knew it. He haunted me like a spiteful ghost: I never knew when he’d appear, when he might pull something again that would knock the wind right out of me.

I wasn’t going out now, even though I could. Why go to a party? It would be like putting a
HARASS ME
sign on my back for him and his friends. It wasn’t worth it. At home, I had my own little parties, a glass of wine in one hand, the DVD remote in the other. My house had never felt so empty.

Will pestered me until I helped him string up Christmas lights on the porch. I didn’t feel an ounce of Christmas cheer, but he wouldn’t let up on me. He still got excited about Christmas, still hoped it would be magical, like on TV. I held one end of the lights while he climbed a stepladder with the other and secured them behind a hook, chattering about how he hoped to find a new snowboard under the tree Christmas Day. That was more than our mom could afford, but maybe I could chip in and the two of us could buy him one together.

Matt and his dad helped us pick out a Christmas tree at the Lion’s Club sale and brought it home in their pickup truck, and Mom decorated it with us on her night off. When we hung ornaments up, one by one, she told us how old we were when we made this or that one, how she remembered one of us bringing it home from first or second or third grade.

Will persuaded me to bake some of his favorite Christmas cookies—the kind you make with cookie cutters and decorate with icing tinted with food coloring. He poked a hole in the top of each one before we baked them so we could push a slender string through after they’d cooled and hang them on the tree.

“I’ll do the Santas!” he said as we pulled a tray out of the oven.

I smiled and handed him a bowl of red icing we’d prepared. How could I be grumpy when his face lit up like that?

*     *     *

Coach Hollyhock called every week to touch base, to see how I was doing. She promised she’d send the contract for me to sign on the first Wednesday in February, the first day rules permitted
it. She’d offered me enough money that, after financial aid kicked in, my mom and I wouldn’t have to pay a thing. That was a relief, a thrill—the best Christmas present I could ever have hoped for. In February, I’d have my paid ticket out of here—out of Westland, out of Deerfield High School, and away from Alec. Sometimes I didn’t think I could wait that long. Other times I couldn’t believe it would ever happen at all.

Alec had told me over the summer that he was applying to schools down south: Tulane, North Carolina, Emory.

“I plan to get as far away from this place as I can,” he’d said.

It was a distance I was counting on.

*     *     *

Before Christmas a letter arrived at Cassie’s house with the news—no surprise to me—that she’d gotten into Brown, early decision. Friday night, after school closed for winter break, her family threw their annual Christmas party, but with a twist. Though Cassie didn’t know it, it was also a celebration of her good news.

The McPhersons’ house glowed in the twilight. A single, perfect white light shone in each window. Fresh evergreen wreaths hung on the doors, decorated with deep red velvet bows. Matt and I left our boots at the door and stepped inside the warm house, which was already full of people. The wood floors gleamed, reflecting the fire that roared in the hearth. In the corner of the living room, a Christmas tree decorated with tiny white lights and more red bows towered over the guests. From the ceiling draped a banner:
CONGRATULATIONS, CASSIE! BROWN, HERE SHE COMES!

Cassie moved around the room, glowing, accepting congratulations, talking about how excited she was about Brown. Her cheeks were on fire. All the attention embarrassed her, but she couldn’t hide how happy she was. I watched her talk to one grown-up after another, so at ease with everyone, and I wished I could feel like that. Cassie always seemed to know how to act in any situation.

“I never know what to say to people,” I said, gazing across the room. “Cassie’s so good at that.”

“Just ask people questions,” Matt said. “That’s what I do. Everybody likes to talk about themselves.”

“I’d rather sit in the corner and eat cookies.”

Matt smiled. “Who wouldn’t?”

“Want anything else?” I asked him.

“Cookies,” he said, and I walked back toward the food table.

Across the room, Cassie’s father stood beside her now, his arm draped over her shoulders. He squeezed her and she looked up at him, beaming. They weren’t just a normal family, the McPhersons, they were a
supernormal
family—like an ancient TV sitcom except her mother was the doctor in the family. Did they ever fight? Ever screw up? They’d welcomed me into their home, always, but I felt like an alien here. Cassie and I were from two different worlds.

At the buffet, my eyes scanned the food but lingered on the tall bottles of wine at the end of the table, one a dark burgundy, the other a pale white gold. Some wine—any color wine, it didn’t matter—that’s what I wanted, what I craved. For a moment I
could taste it—the warmth of the red; the cool, sharp white. I could feel the wine flowing through my veins, the heat spreading through my limbs and reaching every part of me, soothing my mind.
Then
I would think of something to say to people.
Then
I would feel halfway normal. But how could I get any of that here?

“Can’t decide?” an older man asked me cheerfully.

“What?” My face colored. He’d meant the food, of course. “Oh, it all looks so good,” I said, and tried to smile. Reaching out for some cookies, I moved quickly back to where Matt was sitting.

Before we left, Cassie pulled me aside and handed me a tiny wrapped box. Inside was a necklace with a little charm—two crossed sterling silver field hockey sticks on a delicate silver chain.

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Thank you.” And it was: perfect, just like Cassie.

We put on our jackets and boots while Cassie chattered about England. Her whole family was leaving the next day, going to visit the aunt Cassie had stayed with over the summer. They’d be gone for the whole winter break plus an extra week. Cassie glowed; she couldn’t wait to see Simon.

“When’s he coming over here so we can meet him, Cass?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Approval is still pending.”

“He’s not kidding, you know,” I said.

Cassie gave Matt a hug at the door. “Merry Christmas,” she said. “Keep an eye on our girl while I’m gone.” She glanced at me.

“I don’t need anybody keeping tabs on me,” I said sharply,
and all three of us, even me, were surprised at what had just flown out of my mouth.

“I know,” Cassie said, but her eyes were hurt. “I was just kidding.”

Matt pursed his lips and looked away.

Cassie looked at me, waiting, but something inside me had snapped, like a dead branch in the forest.

“Have a great trip” was all I said, and I was out the door.

*     *     *

My mother took three days in a row off at Christmas. Away more than ever now between shifts, she practically lived at her boyfriend’s place in Portland. They’d been together five or six months, the longest I could remember her ever being with one guy.
Maybe it is serious
, I thought.

As we sat in front of the warm woodstove opening gifts on Christmas Day, I let myself hope for a fleeting moment that we could be a family again. Maybe if things worked out with this guy Ken, he’d come live with us here. Maybe my mother would take a job closer to home and she’d be here every night when we got home from school, maybe Will would stop spending four or five nights a week at Ben’s house, maybe . . .

“When are we going to meet Ken, Mom?” Will asked.

She looked away and passed Will a wrapped box. “Soon,” she said. “I promise.”

“That’s what you said last time I asked,” Will said quietly. “And the time before that . . .”

A rush of anger swept through me. It was okay for me to
be disappointed; I could handle it. But not Will. He was barely twelve—and still so
little
.

“Why aren’t you bringing him home, Mom?” I asked her later, when we were alone in the kitchen. “Can’t you see Will’s disappointed? It’s not fair to him.”

She opened a cupboard, hiding her face from view. “I’ll bring him home when I’m ready,” she said, and took out a coffee mug. “Now mind your business.”

“I think it is my business when he’s the reason you’re never here anymore.”

She looked at me sharply. “I’m not here because I’m making a living for this family.”

“You’re not here because you’ve moved in with your boyfriend, Mom—or you might as well have. Why can’t you just admit it?” I strode out of the kitchen.

I walked past Will, who was on the floor, fiddling with a new gadget, a handheld game of some kind that he’d gotten from Ben’s family. The snowboard my mother and I had bought for him leaned against a wall nearby. Did she really think she was fooling us with all her excuses about being too tired to drive home from work? She’d rather be with Ken than with us. That was the truth.

“Merry Christmas,” I called out to the empty hallway, and headed for my room.

Later she came up and rapped on my bedroom door. She poked her head in when I didn’t respond, waiting for me to look at her. Tucked under the covers in my pajamas, headphones on,
I kept my eyes on the book in my lap, but she didn’t leave. She just stood there.

I sighed and pulled off the headphones. “What?” I said.

“I haven’t brought Ken home to meet you because he wants to wait until his divorce is final,” she said, like this explained everything. “It’s important to him,” she added.

“Whatever,” I said, and picked up my headphones.
What about what’s important to
us
?
I thought.
What about your own kids?

“You know, Katie, I think you’re old enough to understand this now. Ken is important to me. I wish you could be happy for me.”

She waited for me to say something.

“You know,” she said again, her voice rising now, “I think I deserve a little
happiness
.”

I put my book down on my bedside table and put on my headphones.

“Sure, Mom. Whatever you say.”

Music blaring in my ears, I reached over and shut off the light.

*     *     *

Winter break dragged along. Cassie was in England. Matt and I took Will and Ben snowboarding at the local ski area. Some days I’d spend the whole day in bed rereading
Twilight
or a fat Stephen King novel I’d borrowed from Matt.

Near the end of the week, New Year’s Eve loomed. Like his first party of the year in September, Stan’s New Year’s Eve bash was a tradition. Cassie and I should have been going together like in other years. But Cassie wasn’t here. I knew I could stay in
with Matt, watch the ball drop in Times Square, but no matter how much I loved Matt, staying in on New Year’s was a depressing thought.

Megan had called a couple times, trying to persuade me to go with her and Cheryl. Hockey was over; why not go out? she wanted to know. But she wasn’t someone I could talk to about Alec, about not wanting to see him. Nobody was.

A couple of days after Christmas, Stan himself called.

“You’re not going to blow off my party, are you, sweetheart?” he said. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“I bet you’re calling all the girls saying that, Stan,” I said.

“Only my
best
girls . . .”

“You sure know how to make us
all
feel special, Stan.”

He chuckled. “It’s a date, then? I’ll see you Friday?”

I paused.

“I’m not hanging up till you promise you’ll be here.”

Oh hell
, I thought. Maybe it would be fun. It had to be better than watching the ball drop on TV.

“Okay, Stan, I’ll see you then.”

It started to snow around nine o’clock, and by the time Megan pulled out of my driveway it was coming down fast. She’d offered me a ride to Stan’s, and I was grateful. I still avoided driving, especially at night, especially by myself. And there was no way I was showing up at this party alone.

Once we were on our way, though, I knew I’d made a mistake. Megan’s headlights sliced through the dark, while thousands of tiny white snowflakes raced at us like stars in outer space, rapidly hitting the windshield and making me dizzy. It was like being on the Starship Enterprise—except there were things to crash into on either side of us that we couldn’t see. It didn’t appear to bother Megan that the road was covered and the lines marking both the middle and the edge of the road had disappeared under a slippery thin sheet of snow. She sipped the beer she held between her knees and drove fast.

Seat belt on, shoulders tense, I gripped the handle of the door with one hand, the seat with the other. I wanted out of this
car. My heart banged in my chest, panic rising. I’d never told anyone how I felt in cars since the accident. No. Instead, for almost five months now, I’d done everything I could to hide it, to act like my old self, to pretend that nothing had changed. It was as if admitting the accident had hurt me would be admitting that it had happened. And that meant admitting it had hurt someone else, too.

But Megan was at the wheel now. I had no control over anything.

Cheryl lit up a bone in the backseat and passed it to me. I inhaled deeply and held. It would calm my nerves. It had to. I took another long hit and handed it back to her, but she passed it up to Megan. How drunk, how high would Megan be after midnight, when she was driving us home? I reached down and tugged at my seat belt, checking that it was there, holding fast. Then I reached for a beer, closed my eyes, and chugged it.