You Know Me Well(9)

Johnny No Shirt has somehow gotten his hand on my back, and it’s putting my body into a little bit of a trance. But I’m still looking at the dance floor, still watching how Ryan isn’t watching. And then there’s Katie, who looks much less amused than anyone else except maybe me.

“I’m coming with you,” I say. I turn to my chesty suitor and tell him sorry again. This time, he relents.

“Some other time,” he says. “I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

As he’s walking away, I take a long look at his perfectly sculpted back. My whole body sighs.

“Are you sure you want to leave?” Katie asks.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m sure.”

“But why? I mean, you own this place right now.”

I look her in the eye. “Because we’re friends. Duh.”

That’s enough for her. And it’s enough for me, too.

We start to go, but I still feel the foolish pull of obligation, this strange sense that I’m abandoning Ryan. We were in this night together, and even if he’s dancing with someone else, I can’t leave without saying goodbye. But I can’t go over there, either.

I send him a text. Tell him I’m helping Katie out with something and that he should text me when he wants to head back. I’ll come meet him.

I hit send. I imagine the phone pressing against his thigh, signaling. But it can’t compete with the music, can’t compete with the dance or the boy that Ryan is now smiling at, leaning into.

“I have to go,” I tell Katie. “Like, right now. I have to go.”

*

The street is almost as crowded as the club. Pride Week is just starting, but nobody’s holding back anything for Monday or Tuesday or any day after.

“So where were you supposed to meet her?” I ask. “I mean, that’s where we should start.”

Katie stops walking. “I know … but what if she’s there?”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“It is. But…”

“But what?”

“I don’t want to just run into her. I need to be prepared.”

“Do you know what she looks like?”

From the scalding look she gives me, it’s clear she’s memorized what Violet looks like.

“Okay. So we’ll play this carefully. Keep our eyes open. If you see her, we take a time-out. Gather your thoughts. Go from there.”

“But what if she isn’t there at all?”

“Then we’ll follow the trail, my dear Watson.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

But she doesn’t move.

“You need to lead the way,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah,” she says.

She still doesn’t move.

I don’t say anything. I wait. She closes her eyes for a second, says something to herself. Then we’re off. We’re back in the throng again.

*

I’m expecting to be dragged to a club with a feline name, where short-haired women lean laconically into each other with Brooklyn poses as they talk about love and compare their vining tattoos. All the lesbians I know are in some way smarter than me, or at least seem to know the world a little more. They also tend to read a lot of books.

But this party isn’t at a club, it’s in a house that looks like Stockbroker Sally could live in it. The people gathered outside are as drunk as anyone else—I wonder why I don’t imagine lesbians as ever being drunk, as if they’re just too smart or cool for that. There’s a guy leaning out a window, yelling, “I love you! I love you all!” He is not looking at me or Katie when he says this.

“Friend of yours?” I ask.

“No,” Katie says. “But they are.” She points to two girls sitting on the curb. One of them is smoking, the other breathing it in.

We walk over. As soon as they see her, they jump up and let out a shared barrage of sentences.

“Where have you—”

“been?”

“Lehna’s been looking—”

“all over for—”

“you. She, like—”

“so mad.”

“Why did you—”

“Where did you—”

“go?”

They stop for a second and finally notice me standing there.

“Mark,” Katie says, “this is June and Uma. June and Uma, this is Mark. He goes to our school.”

“This doesn’t look good,” June says.

“No, this doesn’t look good at all,” Uma agrees.

Katie turns bright red. “Noooooooooooooooo. I didn’t leave to see Mark. I just met Mark along the way.”

“Well, you missed her,” Uma says.

“You really, really missed her,” June adds.

“But where did she go?” I ask.

“What’s it to you?” June asks me.

“What’s it to him?” Uma asks Katie.

I feel my phone vibrate once in my pocket. A text.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I say.

I’m hoping it’s from Ryan. I’m expecting it’s from Ryan.

But instead it’s my mom.