Saint Anything(50)

12





“HOW MUCH farther?”

“You always ask that.”

“And I always mean it.” A pause. Then, “Seriously, how much?”

Up ahead, Mac turned around, shining the flashlight back at Layla. “If you’re angling for a ride, you should just ask.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t want to impose . . .”

In response, Irv, who was walking alongside Mac, dropped back so we could catch up with him. “Hop on,” he said, crouching down, and Layla climbed onto his immense shoulders, piggyback-style. Then we continued on into the darkness.

I’d felt so shaken after my talk with Mrs. Chatham that I was grateful, actually, for the chaos that followed. After we had polished off the popcorn and watched one episode of Big Los Angeles (one catfight, two breakdowns, too many gorgeous outfits to count), Mac, Eric, and Ford had come inside to raid the fridge. Then Rosie showed up with a couple of her Mariposa friends, who were in town doing a week of performances at the Lakeview Center. The house already felt packed, even before Mr. Chatham came home and his friends arrived, instruments in hand. After the constant quiet of my own house since Peyton had been gone, I expected the contrast to be overwhelming. Instead, I found that I liked the constant hum and noise, the fullness of many people and much energy in a small space. I could hang back and just watch, yet still feel involved. It was nice.

Dinner was a huge amount of pizza, salads, and garlic knots from Seaside, which we ate in the outbuilding while Layla’s parents and their friends filled the living room and kitchen. It was just starting to get dark when I heard the first strains of music coming from the house through the open back door. It sounded like the jukebox at Seaside, but more real. Alive.

I’d assumed we’d head inside for the music, but everyone else had other plans. After checking in with Mrs. Chatham to see if she needed anything, Mac returned with a duffel bag, which he took into the garage. A moment later, with the bag visibly fuller, he returned and hoisted it over his shoulder. Layla pulled a flashlight from a nearby cabinet, while Irv, who had arrived post-popcorn and pre-dinner, grabbed the backpack he’d brought with him. Eric packed up his guitar, and then they all headed outside in silent consensus. I followed, the only one who had no idea where we were going.

As it turned out, it was into the woods. They all started toward it, as if entering a huge swath of dark forest at night made total sense. I guess to them, it did.

“Hey,” Layla said, looking over at me. “It’s okay. Come on.”

When Peyton and I went into the trees behind our house, it took a few minutes to leave our yard and the neighborhood behind. Here, though, it was different. We’d no sooner stepped in than we were swallowed up, lights from the Chathams’ house dimming, then disappearing altogether. I was grateful for Mac’s white shirt, which seemed to almost glow as he led us deeper and deeper into the trees. We’d been walking almost twenty minutes when Layla first complained. Once she was on Irv’s back, we easily doubled that time.

“I always forget how freaking long this takes,” Eric complained, his guitar case bumping against his leg.

“Do you want Irv to carry you, too?” Layla asked him.

I was somewhat out of breath, both from Mac’s fast pace and the distance. Irv, however, hardly seemed winded, even with an additional hundred-plus pounds on his back. We kept walking.

And then, right when I was sure someone—maybe even me—was about to voice more displeasure, I saw a clearing ahead. The trees thinned, then disappeared altogether, leaving us facing a large metal structure, plopped down in the middle of all that forest like God himself had dropped it there.

“Finally,” Layla said, as if she had walked the whole way. Irv slid her off his back. “Beer me, someone.”

Mac had already put down the bag he’d been carrying and unzipped it. As I watched, he tossed a can to her, which she caught with one hand, then passed one to Eric as he set his guitar down. Then he held one up to me. I looked at Irv, as he was closer and, as far as I was concerned, had seniority. But he shook his head.

“Don’t drink,” he explained. “No point.”

“He can’t get drunk,” Layla told me. “Too big.”

“That’s why we call him HW,” Mac said. “Heavyweight. As opposed to . . .”

“Don’t say it,” Eric warned him, popping the tab on his beer.

“LW,” Layla finished. “Another one of Eric’s many nicknames.”

“I am not a lightweight.” As if to prove it, Eric sucked down a bunch of his beer, then belched, loudly. Then he looked at me. “Want one?”

I was not much of a drinker, especially after Jenn’s pi?a colada disaster. But I wasn’t driving, and we were in the moonlight. So I nodded. Mac went to throw one to me, but Eric took it first, then opened it before bringing it over.

“Thanks,” I said. It was cold in my hand.

“My pleasure.” He held out his can. “To you.”

Layla rolled her eyes but withheld comment, letting her civic duty slide as she walked over to sit down on the edge of the structure I’d seen earlier. I’d thought it was a vehicle, maybe an old truck, parked off what I now could see was a logging road that twisted into the trees. Looking closer, I saw it was something else entirely: an old metal carousel, so corroded it almost blended into the dark. I stood there a minute, taking it in. If I’d had more than one sip of beer, I would have assumed I was imagining it.