Tell Me Three Things(40)

“No, of course not,” I say, but I can’t tell if she believes me.



Me: I’m DRUNKY.

Scarlett: Me too.

Me: Having fun?

Scarlett: A BLAST.

Me: Yeah, me too.



Even through my drunken haze, I realize I’m lying. My hands are shaking. My teeth are chattering. I want to go home. No, home doesn’t really exist anymore. I lower my expectations. I want to go to bed.

—

I see Ethan only once more before we leave the party, on our way out the door. He is lying down on one of the lounge chairs, alone. I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping. Good, I think. He needs it. It takes all of my willpower not to brush the hair from his forehead.





CHAPTER 19




Me: Three Things: (1) I have a headache. (2) The room is spinning. (3) I’m never drinking again.

SN: (1) I intend to waste most of my day playing Xbox, with occasional breaks to eat pizza, preferably with eggplant, which I get a lot of shit for, but whatever. sue me. I don’t like pepperoni. never have, never will. (2) I was up early, so I’ve been listening to Flume all morning. (3) my mom is still sleeping, like she’s the teenager in the house.

Me: You’re American, right?

SN: yeah, why?

Me: PEPPERONI! Not liking pepperoni is like not liking apple pie.

SN: will that analogy be on the PSATs?

Me: So you ARE a junior?

SN: relax, Nancy Drew.

Me: I’m doing homework today. Calc is kicking my ass.

SN: and what a fine one it is.

Me: Shut up.

SN: was that objectifying? sorry.

Me: Have I mentioned lately that you’re a weirdo?

SN: I seem to recall you saying something like that.

Me: Later I have to work. Do you have a job?

SN: nah. my parents won’t let me. rather give me an allowance and have me focus on my schoolwork.

Me: How Wood Valley of them. I’m glad they’re supporting your Xbox habit.

SN: I know we’re all ridiculous to you, and I couldn’t agree more. where do you work?

Me: I’m not sure I want to tell you.

SN: ?

Me: Too stalkerish.

SN: yesterday you were begging to meet me, now telling me where you work is too stalkerish?

Me: I wasn’t begging.

SN: sorry. poor word choice. asking.

Me: Guess.

SN: where you work?

Me: Yeah.

SN: ok, but let me ask a few questions first. (1) do you like it? (2) do you come home dirty?

Me: (1) Actually, yeah, I like it a lot. (2) NO!

SN: coffee shop?

Me: Nope.

SN: The Gap.

Me: Are you making fun of me?

SN: no! why?

Me: Never mind.

SN: I got it. I forgot for a minute that you’re a book nerd. Barnes and Noble. am I right??? I’m totally right.

Me: Close. Book Out Below! Up on Ventura. You should come visit.

SN: so fickle. now you want me to visit?

Me: Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.



? ? ?

Me: So…

Scarlett: If you must know…

Me: I MUST, I MUST.

Scarlett: My hymen is intact.

Me: Surely you could have told me in a less graphic fashion.

Scarlett: I know, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun.

Me: I’m hungover.

Scarlett: Me too. And my face is all chafed from Adam’s beard. I think he must have practiced a lot after smooching you.

Me: What makes you say that?

Scarlett: Dude, THAT BOY CAN KISS.



—

When I come downstairs, my dad is in the kitchen wearing an apron that says CHEF BITCH, which I assume belongs to Rachel but could just as easily belong to Theo. Music is playing in the background, something country, an overly sentimental ode to pickup trucks and short denim shorts. What Scarlett calls WPM: White People Music.

“Pancakes, sweetheart?” my dad asks, full of annoying morning cheer. He looks all wrong in this kitchen. He’s never made pancakes. That was my mom’s job. Syrup and flour congeal on the pristine marble countertops. Does he feel at home here, comfortable enough to man the stove and serve up pancakes barefoot? I feel awkward when I use the microwave. I don’t want to leave crime-scene splatters on its insides, or any other evidence of my existence.

“Umm…” Will I be able to eat breakfast without throwing up? No choice. I’ve never once turned down a carb, and I don’t need my dad getting suspicious about my drinking. “Sure,” I say. What I don’t say: What’s going on? Are we staying? Are you suddenly really happy or is this an act? “You made breakfast? This may be a first.”

“Gloria’s day off.”

“Right.”

“Listen, we need to talk,” he says. My stomach drops out, and vomit pushes its way up. Clearly, this whole kitchen act is a sad departure gift. My dad and Rachel are breaking up, and we are leaving. They are unraveling that which never should have been raveled in the first place. That’s what this faux happy performance is about: a way to butter me up before the news. I put my head down on the cold counter. Screw it. Who cares if he knows I’ve been drinking? He’s guilty of much bigger transgressions. In fact, he’s lucky I’ve never had the energy to seriously rebel. I should win a Trouper of the Year award. Should have been given a little brave golden man statue or some sort of plaque to hang on my wall.