The Princesses of Iowa (32 page)

Chris lived a few blocks from the high school and I managed to convince Jake it would be easier to leave the truck in the school parking lot, so we joined the stream of people wandering away from the bonfire and winding up the little street that led to Chris’s cul-de-sac. The street was lined with cars all down the block, and Jake muttered something about how we should have driven after all.

The windows of Chris’s basement were flashing with strobe lights, and people spilled out onto the brick patio in the backyard. We went in through the garage, the quickest way to the extensive wet bar in the basement. Jake went down the stairs first, and the room erupted into cheers. “Austin! What’s up? Austin’s here!” He had already been swallowed up by the time I got to the bottom of the steps.

It was the parking lot before the bonfire all over again, but louder. Lacey had arrived, but looked straight through me, and Nikki rushed off to talk to someone else. Geneva and the juniors watched me like wolves appraising the weakest member of the herd. I took a deep breath and tried to stand straight. They wouldn’t take me down tonight.

Tyler Adams was bartending. “’Sup, Paige?” he asked. “You look like you could use a drink.”

I grinned. “Is it that obvious?” The boys still liked me, at least. I would hang with them tonight. They were easier, anyway. If they were mad, they punched someone and got over it. If they were sad, they punched someone and got over it. Easy. I stood in a circle of dudes and sparkled, cracking jokes and making them laugh. Tyler was all too happy to pour shots of tequila for me. Last spring should have taught me that it’s never a good idea to drink when with every shot you’re whispering,
Make it go away,
but tonight I didn’t care. I didn’t care. The guys gathered around me, egging me on or matching me shot for shot. Randy, Brian, Chris, and I threw the shots back and chomped on limes, grinning at one another.

At some point I left them and headed back toward Tyler for another drink. Lacey appeared out of nowhere and grabbed my arm. “You dumb slut. You got Jake benched for the next three games.” Her breath smelled sweet like rum, and she had to put her mouth right up to my ear to be heard over the music from the next room. The air was stale and heavy with smoke. Nikki was there, too, I realized dimly.

“No I didn’t,” I said. “Mr. Tremont wouldn’t —”

“Mr. Tremont! What the fuck is wrong with you? Mr. Tremont’s the one who did it.”

I was having some trouble focusing, I noticed. Maybe it was my contacts.

Some of the boys doing shots noticed I was gone. “Where’d Paige go?”

Nikki waved helpfully. “She’s over here!”

Chris pulled me away from Lacey, back into the fray. “She’s with us,” he told Lacey. I hung on to him, leaning against his shoulder.

“That’s interesting,” Lacey said smugly, “because apparently Paige goes for older guys.”

I shook my head, blinking hard, willing the room back into focus. Oh God, was this it? Was she finally going to tell everyone about Prescott?

“What older guy?” Geneva asked, as if on cue.

Lacey smiled sweetly. “Paige thinks she’s in love with Mr. Tremont.”

A junior girl cried, “Oooooohh, Paige loves Mr. Tremont.”

“No, I don’t,” I protested.

“And did Paige happen to mention that it was her darling Mr. Tremont who got Jake benched?” Lacey asked the crowd. “From the homecoming game?”

“That asshole kicked us out of class!” Randy yelled.

“I wonder if Paige actually asked Mr. Tremont to get Jake benched,” Lacey said thoughtfully. “So Jake would be out of the way?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked her. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Lacey pursed her lips and shrugged.

“What’s wrong with you, Paige?” someone yelled.

Chris pushed me away and I stumbled toward the bar.

Someone else yelled out, “Slut!”

“Whore!”

“Cradle robber!”

“He’s older than her, retard.”

“I meant him. . . .”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Craftmatic Adjustable robber!”

The crowd laughed, closing in.

“No,” I said, looking around desperately for something to hang on to. Suddenly, I was having a very difficult time standing up. “I’m not . . .”

Lacey’s junior class doppelgänger cocked an eyebrow wickedly. “I saw Paige standing next to Mr. Tremont at the bonfire. They were probably planning the whole thing!”

Jake materialized from out of nowhere, pushing through the crowd to stand beside Randy. “What’s going on, dude?”

Geneva pointed at me. “Paige was just telling us about her secret love affair with Mr. Tremont.”

I held up my hands weakly. “I wasn’t — I’m not —”

“She said you’re not enough man for her!” Geneva interrupted. Through the fog of alcohol, Geneva took on the appearance of one of those Puritan girls from
The Crucible,
proclaiming me a witch.

Jake kept his cool, laughing it off. He grabbed me around the waist, pulling me to him tightly. “I highly doubt that, Geneva,” he said. I leaned against the warmth of his arm, grateful for the extra support. I didn’t know how many shots I’d done, but it was unquestionably more than I’d drunk in months and months. “Maybe the problem is that I’m too much man, if you know what I mean. . . .” His friends laughed appreciatively.

“Anyway,” Jake said, “Mr. Tremont’s a fag, so I seriously doubt he’s man enough for anyone.”

The crowd went crazy. Voices jumped out at me from the swirl, gossiping and eager and too loud and drunk.

“He’s gay? But he’s so hot!”

“They always are. It’s the shoes.”

“Dude, he was climbing all over Jake tonight, did you see?”

“He was protecting that faggy freshman kid. Jake was about to throw down.”

“Oh man, that’s probably why he kicked you out of class, Randy. ’Cause he totes had the hots for you!”

“Sick, dude!”

“Mr. Tremont’s gay?”

“I
told
you that, Nikki!”

I felt sick. The rumor would be all over school by Monday. It didn’t matter that he’d come to the bonfire with a girl; no one would believe that he was straight now, even if he married Padma tomorrow.

“No worries,” Jake said. “I let him down easy tonight.” The crowd moved closer to hear Jake’s voice over the music and chatter. “Yeah,” Jake continued. “Dude was all, ‘Jake, I wish I could get a dude as hot as you,’ and I was all, ‘Whoa, man, no offense, but you’re not my type.’” Everyone screamed with laughter.

“Hell no!”

“You did not!”

“You’re crazy!”

Randy held up a double shot, toasting Jake, and others followed suit. Chris handed me another shot — my fifth? Sixth? As usual, Jake had rescued me. He could always turn a bad scene good, like the time my sister broke her arm and he drove us to the hospital, calling my mom on the way. He was so nice. I snuggled into the crook of his arm while his friends tossed insults across the room like footballs.
You are. Shut up, dude, you totally are.
The music was loud but pretty, and I thought again of the guy with dreadlocks at Lacey’s party, the one who made me listen to the Cure. Listen to that guitar.
They’re like, so magical.
Jake held me against his side, because he was nice. He made problems go away. Another glass in my hand, full. And then empty. The room was getting strangely dark around the edges, but the music was so pretty. Jake’s arm around me was good — it was good to help stand. Standing up was good, but I would like to lie down. Sleeping is good, too. The music is so pretty, and I would like to sleep sleep sleep because standing is so hard when you’re tired and everyone is so fuzzy and saying such funny fuzzy wuzzy woozy thingy thing things talky talky. Sleepy drunky. Beddy bed, sleepy sleep. Pretty music, pretty drunky, sleepy woozy. Giggly laughy, funny sleepy. So sleepy, so dark.

“Not enough man for you? Who’s a fag now? I’ll show you. I’m not a faggot. I’m not a fucking faggot.” I opened my eyes slowly. Through the parted, woven threads of my eyelashes, I could see Jake’s face inches from mine, red and twisted like it got on the football field when he needed all his concentration to dominate the game. “Who’s a fag now?” His voice was pinched, hard, and he was talking so fast, so fast. My thoughts were coming so slowly, drifting across my mind like poky little clouds. I wrapped my arms around him; I held on to him. My mouth found his and stopped his words, and his kisses were hard and he was hard and my face was wet and his face was wet and my hands pushed at his cheeks to dry them. “You’re not,” I whispered desperately. “I love you.” His face was hard and wet and it was dark under the trees in the black night in the wind in the grim moonlight and he was so sad — he was dark and familiar and sad and I held on to him, and his voice was broken it was raw it crumbled in the wind.
Why don’t you love me?
asked his broken voice, and there was rain on his face it was raining.
Why don’t you love me?
and he was reaching for me his hands sliding up my skirt ripping tearing pulling at his belt fumbling with the buckle pressing me against the tree we fall the sidewalk so hard so dark the wind and the clouds and the hard ground.
Ow Jake, that hurts, Jake, no please not here.

“What’s going on?” Strong arms wrap around Jake and pull him away in the rain. “Paige?” Jake struggles and it’s all happening again. Mr. Tremont pulls him away and I’m scrambling backward, pulling at my skirt and my hair in the rain.

“Paige, are you okay? Was he trying —” And Jake pulls free and spins around, his arms swinging, his fist in Mr. Tremont’s lovely face and Mr. Tremont bending over yelling, “Shit!” and Jake screaming, “Fuck you, man, you fucking faggot!” sprinting off through the dark thunder sky and Mr. Tremont holding his face and I should help him and I should help Jake he hit Mr. Tremont he was trying to hurt me and everything is broken and I’m running stumbling falling running running running.

My head was pounding; every muscle in my body ached. My eyes were open and I was sitting, sitting and shivering and awake, and how long had I been sitting there? My arms were around my knees, wrapped around my knees, and I was sitting on the curb. On the curb. Where was I? My head was pounding. Oh, I hurt. Did I pass out? I was awake. Did I black out? Did I fall on the ground? Maybe I had a concussion. Everything was so fuzzy.

Gingerly, I tried to push myself into a standing position, wobbling in the street. My body cried out in protest, every muscle felt bruised. My hands did a slow inventory of my body, my arms, my forehead, my chest. My dress was ripped, but I was in one piece.

I stood up, wobbling in the street. Oh, I hurt. I hurt.

Where was Jake? What happened to Jake? We were outside, we were by the school, and then we were running. I lost him. I let him go. I had to find him. I stumbled toward the parking lot. Where was Jake?

I passed his truck in the parking lot and it was still there. Was the party still going? It started to rain and I tried to run but I was still drunk, too drunk, and I fell, gagging and choking, throwing up in the bushes until there was nothing left, nothing at all.

Up again and drunk and running, running blindly down the street through the pounding, freezing rain. I ran until my feet bled and my hair clung to my face and shoulders in heavy dripping ropes and sometimes I stopped to throw up again and I wasn’t very drunk anymore but I was crying and I was aching and I was so cold and I had to find Jake and I couldn’t think about what happened — where was he and why did I hurt and I was crying and I had to think about something else,
Think about something else, what time is it and when does Cinderella lose her coach, when do her footmen turn back into rats and when do her fancy glass slippers turn into running shoes and how long did she have to run and what if someone was chasing her, what if there was a car coming there’s a car coming there’s a car coming what if it’s the police, they’ll find me, they’ll call my parents, they’ll send me away again, they’ll send me away, it’s the police.

Panicking, I threw myself over the embankment, rolling to a stop at the base of a weeping willow, where I curled up into the smallest, tiniest ball I could become and held myself still like a little mouse.
Maybe they won’t find me maybe I’ll be safe.