When We Were Bright and Beautiful(31)

At the register, Powell is behind me, so close he steps on my heels. I point to Marlboros and pull out a fifty. “Two packs, actually,” I tell the guy.

Powell’s face twists. “You’re smoking? That’s so gross.” This from a guy who I’ve seen caked in mud, gulping grain alcohol out of a cleat. “Hey, Ave! Where are you? Look who it is!”

As I watch Avery approach, the store takes on a movie-set quality, realistic but artificial. My head is spinning; and I view the next scene through a scrim. I’m rooted in place, but my mind detaches while the self that remains is anesthetized. At the same time, my other senses sharpen; sounds are richer, smells more pungent. I have the sensation of falling off my own feet.

“Cassandra,” she says, sounding like she’s speaking through a long, hollow tube. She looks very stoned too. “I’m a blonde now.”

“You are very blond,” I agree.

Our eyes lock. Years of memories flash between us. I feel my chest ache.

I haven’t seen Avery in a long time. We grew up together. As little kids, we rode horses and had sleepovers; as tweens, we got manicures; as teenagers, we learned how to drive. In high school, Nate threw parties when our parents were out of town. Avery and I drank, smoked, and flirted with older boys. It was fun and decadent—though for me, short-lived. Eventually, Marcus got in the way, and Avery and I stopped being best friends, or friends at all. Both of us acted badly, but I acted worse.

Outside, the night air is cool. I return to myself. I’m ready to talk, but Avery murmurs a quick goodbye, and walks away.

“Avery! Wait up!” Powell calls out. “Great seeing you, Cass.” He leans in to dust my cheek with his lips. “Elmo will be fine,” he whispers. “Trust me.”

Trust him? I roll my eyes. When I step toward my car, I see a ticket on my windshield, a gift from the cops. Bent fuckers, all of them.





17


APRIL 17 TAKES FOREVER TO COME, BUT WHEN IT DOES, IT’S too soon.

We drive to Billy’s arraignment in thunderous silence. We’re all furious—at Diana Holly, at the press, at the New Jersey courts, at each other. In the back, wedged between Nate and me, Billy is wearing enormous white headphones. With his eyes closed and head bobbing, he looks like an astronaut receiving orders from Mission Control. His doctor prescribed Effexor to help lift his mood, and Ativan to help him sleep. It’s hard to know if they’re working since Billy hasn’t uttered a full sentence in days. Mostly, they make his movements slow and sluggish. Before we left, I dry-swallowed an Ativan, just to dull the edges. Nate swallowed two, so the Three Musketeers are three blind mice, three zombies, three junkies.

Lawrence speeds out of the tunnel so fast he almost loses control of the car. Do it, I think. Hit a wall, plow into traffic, immolate us all. But he’s not telepathic, and we reach the courthouse in record time. When he turns off the ignition, instead of offering optimistic platitudes, he tightens his scarf and barks, “Let’s go.”

As we exit the parking lot, I put my hand on Lawrence’s back, trying to comfort him. “Billy will be okay.”

“Cassie, for God’s sake,” he scoffs. “Do you see what’s going on here?”

Throngs of reporters are gathered on the street, surrounded by news vans and camera crews. As we approach the courthouse, we’re besieged by questions that sound like accusations. Mr. Quinn, will your son plead guilty? Mr. Quinn, is it true the DA has new evidence? Billy, look over here. Billy, this way. Billy, do you watch porn? Mr. Quinn, is your son a rapist?

“No comment,” Lawrence snaps, herding us up the steps and into the lobby.

“Porn?” Nate says, just as I ask, “What kind of new evidence?”

“Ignore them,” he tells us. “Keep walking. Do not turn around.”

A half-hour later the courtroom is filled to capacity. We arrived early, so we’re in the first row of spectators. The rest of the gallery is overcrowded, so people line up along the walls. From the corner of my eye, I spot a family that could be Diana Holly’s. I’ve never met them, but I’d guess it’s her mother, father, younger sister, and grandparents. Diana isn’t among them, which isn’t a surprise. DeFiore told us she can watch the proceedings on closed-circuit TV in another part of the building. If she is, I wonder if seeing her family so stricken makes her feel as though she’s viewing her own funeral. That’s what it’s like for us, like this is the end of everything, and we’re gathered here to mourn my brother.

Ahead of us, Billy sits next to DeFiore at the defense table. Today, my brother is wearing a navy suit instead of prison coveralls, so he looks less guilty than he did the last time we were here. But he seems stoned, and I wonder if, somewhere between the car and the courthouse, he took more Ativan. His eyes are lifeless, and his head lolls forward, as if too heavy for his neck.

“What’s wrong with him?” Nate’s jaw tightens. “Why is he drooling like a mental patient?”

“Keep your voice down,” Lawrence whispers. He keeps shifting in his seat until Eleanor grabs him. “Lawrence, please. Sit still.”

A side door opens. The same judge, Charles McKay, enters the courtroom. We rise. Sit. Wait. Wait. Wait some more. Soon, the movie begins, and there’s action, dialogue, and atmospheric texture, but I’m too anxious to listen, too strung out to hear. I’ve already seen this show; it ends with our hero falling off a cliff.