A Midsummer's Nightmare(2)

“So… you don’t want to give me your number?”

“Not really. No.”

He blew air out of his mouth in a rush. “Ouch. That’s kind of harsh.”

Maybe, but he was better off. It wasn’t as if someone like me would have made a good girlfriend anyway. I was just some drunken hookup. That’s all I’d ever been.

“Look, you’re moving, right? I’m sure tons of girls in your new town will totally go for the slouchy pretty-boy thing you’ve got going on. You won’t even remember last night in a week…. I barely remember already.” I shrugged and slung my purse over my shoulder, one hand against the wall to keep me stable. “So, nice party. I had a good time. I, um, won’t see you around.”

“Whitley?” he called after me.

But I was already out of the bedroom and weaving unsteadily down the hall. I needed to get out of there. Fast. Not only was I ready to get away from Mr. Clingy, but I also really had to get home. Mom was waiting for me, and I had a shitload of packing to do before Dad showed up in his SUV the next day.

I reached the end of the hall and found the living room completely trashed. Beer cans and half-empty bags of chips had been tossed all over the floor. A recliner and an end table, the only pieces of furniture (I guess the rest had already been sent to his new place), were overturned. A couple stragglers remained passed out on the floor. I felt a little bad for whatshisname. He had a real mess to clean up. I was so glad not to be him.

That’s what he got for volunteering to host a graduation bash, though.

I tripped over the garbage on my way to the front door, wincing when the light hit my eyes. My head hurt like hell, but at least I wasn’t puking. After four years of going to high school keggers—and crashing the occasional frat party—I’d learned to hold my alcohol pretty well. Better than a lot of girls my age, anyway. Most of the girls I saw at parties were kissing the toilet after a couple bottles of Smirnoff Ice, then had to be carried out by their football player boyfriends. Babies.

With a sigh, I dug my cell phone out of my purse and dialed the number to the cab company. I seriously hoped I wouldn’t get a chatty driver. If he said more than five words to me, I wasn’t going to tip.


Mom was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home, eating frozen waffles in her housecoat and watching Good Morning America. She looked up when I walked through the door, the syrup bottle in her hand.

“Hey, Whitley,” she said. “How was the rest of your night?”

“Good,” I mumbled, going straight for the fridge. My mouth was unbelievably dry. “Sorry I didn’t call.”

“Oh, that’s fine. I figured you were staying over at Nola’s.”

I grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, not bothering to inform my mother that Nola and I hadn’t spoken since ninth grade. For a second, I wondered whether she’d notice if I did a line of coke on the table right in front of her. I doubted it.

“Trace sent you something,” she said as I sat down in the chair beside her, clutching some Saltines for good measure and positioning myself to see the TV, which was on the counter across from us. She doused her waffles in syrup and pushed the bottle to the side. “I put it on your bed.”

“Thanks.”

We sat in silence for a long moment before Mom finally asked, “So, are you excited about graduating?”

She kept staring at the TV, watching as the national weather guy moved on from our part of the country and pointed at Florida, informing us that it was sunny—no shit, Sherlock. I got the feeling Mom didn’t really give a damn about the answer. It was just one of those questions you ask because it makes you a crappy parent if you don’t.

“Not really,” I said, twisting the cap on the Gatorade and taking a big gulp. “Graduating isn’t a big deal. It’ll be nice to start college, though. Dad loved UK. Hopefully he can help me pick a goddamn major.”

“Language, Whitley,” she warned. “And, honey, be careful about taking your father’s advice on this stuff. He can’t even make smart life choices for himself, let alone help you make yours.”

I scowled at her before taking another drink. Six years after the divorce, and she still slammed Dad at every opportunity. You’d think she’d be over it by now.

“I don’t see anything wrong with how Dad lives,” I told her.

“Please.” She laughed bitterly. “In that trashy condo? Jumping from girlfriend to girlfriend? Forty-eight years old and still hasn’t grown up at all. He can’t even make enough time to see his own daughter more than once a year.”

That’s your fault, I thought. I stood up and tossed my Gatorade bottle in the trash, mumbling, “I’m going to lie down. Headache.”

“All right, honey.” Mom speared a bite of waffle with her fork. “I hope you get to feeling better. And don’t forget to pack. Your father will be here to pick you up at noon tomorrow…. But you know how punctual he is.” I didn’t listen closely to the rest of her tirade.

I was halfway inside my bedroom before she finally shut up. When it came to Dad, my mother never knew when to just leave it alone. Everything about him annoyed her now: the way he dressed, the way he drove; she even said that the sound of his laugh made her cringe. She couldn’t see how alike my father and I were, totally oblivious to the fact that some of the traits she loathed in him were part of me, too.