The Drifter(42)

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “It didn’t sound like it was from a neighbor’s place, but maybe you’re right. My brain hurts.”

“I mean, we could go to the cops. But you’re underage, right? When do you turn twenty-one?”

“In November,” Betsy said, feeling as small as a child.

“And you’re high as shit,” he said. “And your blood alcohol level is likely pretty impressive.” He reached over to touch her forehead.

“How did you get mud on your face?” he asked.

She had almost forgotten about Mack.

“I fell in the woods near Weird Bobby’s,” she said. “With Mack.”

“That guy . . .” Gavin trailed off, gritting his teeth.

“I’ve already forgotten about him. I think the adrenaline took care of that,” she said, feeling dumb and paranoid about being so paranoid.

“You’ve had a rough night, Betsy. Who can blame you for thinking the worst?”

“You’re probably right. I don’t know. I’m just scared. I hate it here right now. The place is crawling with news crews. Class is canceled. I saw Phil fucking Donahue on campus today. I just want to go. I’ve got a little cash. Let’s just go.”

Betsy turned her face away from his and looked out the window. He thinks I’m crazy, she thought, and he’s still sleeping with Channing. On the white stucco wall in front of her was a pay phone.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, and jumped out of the car. Betsy picked up the receiver, took a breath. She was going to call 911.

“Gainesville nine-one-one. What’s the location of your emergency?”

“Um, I’m at a pay phone now,” Betsy’s voice started to tremble. She remembered the humiliation she felt on Fraternity Row. The firemen stood in a line, wearing their giant helmets, arms crossed, staring at her with clear condescension.

“What’s going on down there?”

“Well,” she said, reviewing her story in her head, trying to avoid any scenario in which the police found her drunk, high, and underage. She pictured her mom in bed at home in Venice, fumbling for the phone when the police would inevitably call. What am I supposed to say, she thought, I think I heard something suspicious? The floor creaked? A light was on that shouldn’t be on. And music was playing.

Oh shit.

“Ma’am, are you there?”

Betsy’s story, and her confidence, started to crumble. Her eyes were trained on the wall next to the phone. Someone had scratched “slut” into the paint with a car key.

“Hello?” The operator’s tone was short, obviously tired, and completely over stoned college kids flipping out about a tree branch grazing their bedroom window. She imagined how weary a 911 operator in a college town besieged by the media must be at 3:00 a.m., and suspected that she was one of many panicked students making calls about sinister-looking pizza deliverymen and creepy sounds. Betsy could hear herself breathing in the receiver.

“Sorry. False alarm.”

She hung up. Betsy glanced back at Gavin, who was covering his face with his hands. She remembered the party, Channing and Anna, Mack pouncing on her in the driveway. For a second, she could see herself in the parking lot, the bluish glow of the Steak ’n Shake sign on her face, like she was hovering over the building and peering down. From up there, she looked impossibly small.

“How’d that go?” Gavin said, once she was back in the car.

“Not well. I’d say that wasn’t good at all,” she said.

AFTER SOME CONVINCING, Gavin agreed to leave for forty-eight hours. Once they decided to leave Gainesville, Betsy started breathing again.

They’d settled on their destination, New Orleans, an hour into the drive. It was an unusual approach, sure, but neither of them had been thinking very clearly. They drove back to Gavin’s so he could scavenge enough clothes for a night or two, careful to avoid his raging bull neighbor. Betsy had already packed a bag to stay at Gavin’s. Then they made one stop, at Bagelville, to get an early payday from Tom. They’d pulled up to the store and saw the light in the kitchen was on, steam already clouding the windows, and Betsy pounded on the back door with the palm of her hand. Tom cleared the glass with his sleeve and peered out the window before he opened the door.

“Jesus Christ, Bets, you scared me,” said Tom, talking through the wrought-iron gate covering the door, glancing at his watch while he turned the dead bolt and let her in. “And you’re more than two hours early, which does not make up for the eight times you were fifteen minutes late. Just so we’re clear.”

“Tom, I’m not here for work. I can’t do it today,” she said, looking at his shoes so he wouldn’t see how wasted she was. “I . . . I was just wondering. Can you . . . just . . . pay me now? Is that OK?”

It occurred to her how hard she was trying to act sober, and she felt the judgment behind his concerned expression. “I need to get out of here for a couple of days. And I can’t come in tomorrow. Or I guess it’s today now.”

“You seem a little spooked. You OK?” he asked, stepping outside to look over at Gavin’s car to see who was inside. “If you’re in some kind of situation . . . I . . . I don’t know. Can I help you out in some way?”