Dead Letters(81)

I know I shouldn’t, but I order a drink. I acknowledge how nice today was, to not have been swimming through an oppressive hangover. Only it doesn’t seem to matter, not to the other me, the one who wants a drink and doesn’t really care about tomorrow morning. My other twin. Tonight, I hope a bountiful harvest of fizzy liquid will grace our tankards, foaming exuberantly like profuse Jacuzzis. To avoid bringing it up with Wyatt, I just go ahead and order him a beer, a stout that I know he likes. Wyatt doesn’t comment when I hand him his drink. He does take a hefty swallow from the frosty pint glass.

Looking around, I notice a bunch of people from high school, some of my parents’ friends; a teacher (geometry?) is standing in the corner.

“Busy,” I comment to the bartender, who looks vaguely familiar. I wonder if he was working here two years ago, when Zelda and I spent considerable amounts of time with our elbows marinating on the sticky bar. I hope he doesn’t recognize me.

“There’s a band playing tonight.” He points to the heap of instruments on the other side of the room. “They’re on break right now.”

“Who is it?”

“Richie Stearns,” he answers listlessly, wiping down the bar. I nod in recognition; I’ve heard him play my whole life. Banjos and soulful crooning. I look around, hoping to find Kyle Richardson. If he’s here.

At the sound of a raucous whoop from the back deck, Wyatt and I lock eyes, the same expression of exasperation on both our faces. That’ll be where our cohorts are. I shoulder my way outside, Wyatt following, and I take a serious slog from my beer, both to avoid spilling it down the front of my dress and to bolster myself for this interaction.

On the back deck, a gaggle of twenty-five-year-old men are engaged in some committed drinking, surrounded by stalagmites of empty glasses growing up from the rustic picnic tables. It’s almost dark out, and the fireflies blink languorously in the fields below. There’s a big moon hanging low over the lake, orange and strange. I see Kyle, perched on the railing, seeming to hold court over the other men clustered around him, who are staring up at him almost rapturously. His cheeks are flushed a dangerous crimson, and his eyes have the eerie blankness of the sixth or seventh drink. I notice now that he isn’t as thin as he was in high school, that his middle has thickened. Although judging from the beefy firmness of his arms, maybe this isn’t a result of beer so much as picking heavy things up and putting them down. He catches sight of me and nearly knocks his beer over as he leaps down from the rail.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” he slurs aggressively.

Wyatt makes a slight movement to get in front of me, but I weave around him.

“Hi again, Kyle.”

“I don’t want anything to do with your fuckin’ family. You’re all just a bunch of—psychos!” he spits out triumphantly. He is, of course, one hundred percent correct.

“I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your sister,” I say evenly. I notice that his cronies have turned toward us. Their testosterone is showing. They can sense imminent conflict, and combined with a significant amount of alcohol, this produces a blurry sort of electricity.

“Shit, is that Ava Antipova?” one of the guys says, and I turn my head, recognizing Josh Wheeler, a perennial stoner and all-around not-nice guy. Of course he and Kyle have stayed friends.

“Hi, Josh,” Wyatt says, shouldering closer to me. There was a time when he used to count these guys as “sort of” friends. In a high school like ours, with a graduating class of eighty, you become “sort of” friends with pretty much everyone. I smile pleasantly and wave to the rest of the crew.

“So do you bat the same as your faggoty sister?” Josh leers.

“Are you talking to me or to Kyle?” I ask sweetly, and it takes them a second to see what I’m getting at.

“Fuck you, Ava,” Josh says.

“Kyle, you want a cigarette? Talk a second?”

He looks at me very suspiciously but, after a moment, nods blearily. We make our way around the side of the deck to the smoking area, closer to the parking lot.

“Outta beer,” he says, almost whining. I hand him a cigarette and light both his and mine, looking over at Wyatt.

“Why don’t I go get another round?” he suggests, on cue.

“Thanks. The Belgian one for me,” I say lightly. Kyle just holds up his glass mutely, and Wyatt disappears back into the crowd inside.

“Whaddya want, Ava?” Kyle asks, his eyes tiny slits after he inhales a deep lungful of carcinogens. I take a drag on my own stick, feeling deliciously light-headed as tiny pieces of fiberglass shred my lungs, allowing the chemicals to enter my body faster.

“To talk about your sister,” I say. “And mine.” He says nothing. “Listen,” I go on. “I have a better idea of why you were so pissed the other day. I didn’t know about Zelda and Kayla, and I had no idea she was missing.”

“Yeah, well,” Kyle grunts.

“How long has she been gone?”

“Five or six days. She took off with Zelda on Monday, and we haven’t heard from her since.” There’s a note of blame in his voice, as though I’m somehow inculpated in this.

“And they were…together?” I’m reluctant to be too blunt. In high school, he was the sort of guy who called people “faggot” for wearing pink.