Jagged Little Pill, page 5
“Isn’t he that guitar kid who is always playing at the coffee shops?” she asks, squinting.
“Yeah.” I nod. “He’s pretty good, plays, like, emo stuff and acoustic pop covers. Anyway, I got invited to a party—”
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea for you to be hanging out with him.” She shakes her head. “He seems like trouble.”
“What?!” I laugh. “Trouble? Why? He plays Ed Sheeran covers and wears seashell necklaces. I’m not sure he could be less threatening.”
“Still.” She glances up toward the door and scratches at the back of her neck. “I heard he doesn’t really study and got in just because he’s good at music. According to Mrs. Niven down the block, his grades are just terrible.”
“I don’t . . .” I shake my head. “Didn’t Mrs. Niven’s kids graduate, like, five years ago? What does she even care?”
I don’t have time for this. This careful unpacking of every single person she sees who stumbles into my orbit, whom I try to be friends with. Why is it bad to not do great in class, but excel somewhere else? The football players at our school sure as hell do it, and most of Mom’s friends are sports parents. Or, like Mrs. Niven, they have kids who graduated ages ago, but for some reason still stay invested in our school or complain about the board of education on Facebook. Maybe I’ll just talk with Shaune at school and online, maybe go on tour with his future band while skipping out on a semester or a year or, hell, all of college. I mean, I won’t, because that sounds terrible, but the point is that I could.
Whew.
Six. Months. Left.
“Fine,” I grumble.
“Did you want to do a movie tonight?” Mom asks, her tone shifting radically again from sour to sweet, like someone flicked a switch in her head. “There’s that new Sarayu Blue movie on Netflix I know you wanted to watch.”
I know how much Mom loves our movie nights. It used to be this wholesome family tradition, with all of us on the couch on Saturdays, that evolved from a bundle of familyfriendly sitcoms to a full movie as Frankie and I got older. But these days, with the growing fissures between her and Dad and her and Frankie, it’s just me keeping that routine alive. And really, that’s been going on for longer than her and Dad’s fights became things we could see, instead of just felt.
I could always tell when our parents were fighting or just had a shouting match, with the way they used to tiptoe around each other, force jokes or hugs. Now it all just happens in the open, with that routine following quickly after, making it feel even more fake.
But . . . there’s Andrew’s house party tonight, and it feels like it might be my last chance this year for a big blowout. And to potentially talk to Bella. Or, hell, any girl for that matter. Which is kind of hard to do when you’re forced to be so laser focused on school, clubs, college, volunteering, being perfect perfect perfect while simultaneously trying to keep your crumbling family together.
Don’t I deserve this? Just . . . a little something?
I hate trying to be perfect. I just want to be me.
“Maybe tomorrow night?” I venture, trying not to wince, bracing myself for her disappointment. “There’s just . . . there’s this party that Andrew is throwing, and it’s sort of the year’s last hurrah, you know?”
“Party?” she asks, tilting her head. “Do his parents know?”
“It’s not that kind of party, Mom.” I laugh a little but feel a swell of anxiety in my chest. Why not just lie completely? I didn’t need to mention it was actually a party. Last thing I need is Mom calling up Andrew’s family and tipping them off or using this as a gossip barb or jab in her group of terrible mother friends. “It’s just a few people, grabbing pizza, playing video games, that sort of stuff.”
I leave out all the talk about having a DJ and Andrew’s claim that the young substitute teacher everyone is crushing on is swinging by with a keg and alcohol. That it’s less about pizza and more about drinking, and the only games people will be playing likely have to do with making out during heated truth-or-dare tournaments where no one ever picks truth.
No one wants truth.
“I don’t know . . .” Mom wrings her hands a little. “I’m not sure you should go.”
“Come on, Mom,” I huff. “I won’t stay too late, and besides, who else is going to keep an eye on everyone?”
Which isn’t a lie. That’s my role at almost every single party I go to, whether it’s a holiday party with extended family and I’m keeping an eye on just how much beer Dad is sneaking on outdoor patios with his brothers, or I’m babysitting everyone at a parentless throwdown at someone’s mansion, holding on to car keys. I don’t necessarily mind it, keeping my friends safe. Being that guy who isn’t drinking.
But I know once I leave this suburb, it’ll be different.
Maybe I’ll make friends who want to watch out for me for once.
I’d like to try at least one Jell-O shot before I die.
“Okay.” Mom softens. “But be home before midnight, and if your sister shows up, keep an eye on her.”
I snort out a laugh, and she looks at me seriously.
“For real?” I scoff. “Mom, there’s no way she’s going to one of Andrew’s get-togethers. The Montefiores are not her kind of people.”
“Well, you never know.” She sighs. “I feel like I overheard her talking about some kind of party with Jo. She’s been lashing out so much lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if I came home and she was here, tangled up in some shocking party with all her friends.”
“Eh, yeah. I don’t know about that,” I say. The idea of Frankie being able to say something like “all her friends” and have it not just mean Jo and, like, I don’t know, any of those kids she writes with sometimes is pretty laughable. She has her small band, I’ve got my big social circle, and God, what I wouldn’t do to trade places there.
When your circle is smaller, people see you.
When it’s wide and all encompassing? You get lost on the edges.
Mom flops down on the couch and lazily reaches for the television remote.
“Just . . . you be careful, okay?” She looks off at the television.
“I will, I will.” I make my way toward the stairs and my room to get myself ready. Maybe a new outfit, some of that cologne I know poor Frankie hates. Tonight’s the night, though. I’ll talk to Bella. We’ll make the most of these last few months. Something, anything.
I bound up the stairs and hear some music coming from Frankie’s room. I edge closer to the door, Paramore booming through her computer speakers. I think about knocking but stop myself. She’s still upset with me. Best to just let her cool—
I hear a loud snore.
I squint, listening, but it’s not coming from Frankie’s room. I walk back to the landing and peer over the banister, and Mom is already passed out, her arm over her head, the television remote dangling from her hand. I walk back down and glance into the kitchen. There’s a half-drained bottle of wine on the counter, an empty, freshly used wineglass on the countertop. Dad will see this and it’ll be a whole thing, so I tiptoe my way in and toss the glass in the dishwasher, cork the bottle, and put it back in the fridge.
I close the big stainless steel refrigerator and press my head against the cold surface. I deserve this one night, just one night to be less than perfect. I can leave for the night, but I don’t know about college. How can I walk away from all this?
Half a bottle of wine and melting down in the living room.
When it’s barely 4:00 P.M.
There’s some spilled wine on the marble countertop, and I grab a rag to wipe it up . . . and spot Mom’s pain medicine sitting on the edge of the sink, open. I suck at my teeth and remember the open, half-downed bottle of wine.
That’s got to be an accident, right? She wouldn’t mix pain meds and liquor, she’s too smart. Too much of a helicopter around me and Frankie. She shouldn’t be mixing her meds with her drinks; it doesn’t matter how much it might make the pain hurt a little bit less. I cap the meds, which are nearly empty, and look at the side of the bottle. It says she was due for a refill nearly several months ago. I guess she doesn’t really need them anymore. Good.
I put the pills on a little shelf by the sink. I make my way back into the living room and grab one of the many throw blankets she’s collected and draped over just about every piece of furniture in the house. I unfurl it and tuck her in on the couch before heading back upstairs to get ready.
She lets out another snore, and unease swirls in my chest as I ascend the staircase.
And I wonder . . .
. . . if the helicopter is about to crash.
Chapter Five
Bella
I hug my leather jacket close to me as I walk toward Andrew’s house, passing by a series of carbon copy homes that would look glamorous if they didn’t all look exactly the same. Everything about his street—and the neighborhood—is that way. Streetlamps all spaced the same distance. Lawns maintained in a similar fashion, looking like they’re all fake grass on the high school football field. Even the oak trees feel off, all still too young, not really ready to be called an “oak” yet.
The Connecticut winter breeze slaps against my cheeks, and my eyes start to water a little. Why am I even going to this? I don’t even particularly like Andrew, I just tolerate him because he’s always around Nick. But Mom and Dad are all about his family, the Montefiores, the only family in town that has a last name that sounds like it belongs on a five-dollar bottle of wine that’s labeled a “full-bodied white” or something.
A convertible zooms down the street, the roof down, people inside screaming along to a pop song I don’t recognize. It’s freezing out, but I suspect they’re still feeling warm inside that car. I pick up my pace, passing lawn after lawn, same driveway after same driveway, until Andrew’s house starts to stick out among the clones. It’s easy to see, considering all the cars parked around it. His driveway is full, there are cars on both sides of the street, bikes strewn about the sidewalks. A few electric scooters are sitting near the steps to the front door, just begging someone to steal them.
It’s all just a big red flag saying “party over here,” and I already know it’s only a matter of time before it gets busted and shut down.
Someone standing on Andrew’s steps waves to me, shouting my name over the muted thumping music that’s clearly got to be booming on the inside. I can’t imagine I’ll hang around for long, but hopefully in the throngs of all these people I can at least get a few good drinks and find some time to chat with Nick.
I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up the dark sidewalk.
Oh. Oh, that heart.
Maybe this is it. Maybe we’ll finally talk about whatever has been bubbling up between the two of us this last . . . God, I don’t even know. Entire year? Sure, he’s off to Harvard, and I’m moving to New York for school, but it’s not like Boston and New York City are some impossible distance from each other. Trains exist, and I’ve always loved those long rides from Hartford up to Providence in the autumn with my family to visit Mom’s side. Watching all the foliage go by from the observation car, the terrible train food, luscious naps as the sun poured in through large glass windows . . .
There was this old punk song Dad used to listen to . . . “Amtrak Is for Lovers.” He’d bring it up whenever we were going to take one of those trips, and Mom would laugh about it, how he’d make the same reference every single time.
I’ve been spinning it a lot lately. We haven’t done one of those family trips in a while, but the two of them keep talking about taking one the summer after graduation, maybe all the way across the country on the rails. That song, though. It’s weirdly about breaking up, so I’m not quite sure why Mom and Dad listen to it or reference it. I think maybe they only like the title.
I do too.
I look around at the bikes and the cars, trying to spot Nick’s ride in the double-parked, half-on-the-curb mayhem.
“Amtrak Is for Lovers.” Hm.
One can dream.
• • •
I swear, the inside of Andrew’s house is so hot it feels like his walls are about to start sweating. Is that a thing? I consider taking my jacket off the second I step inside, but think better of it when I see a large pile of them on what might be a shoe rack, several not-quite-empty cans of White Claw carelessly thrown on top of the coats. There’s a significant amount of hard seltzer all over the top layers, and I just pull my leather jacket closer to me, despite the heat. I’ll take being a little sweaty over being sticky with raspberry seltzer, thanks.
Andrew’s lavish living room is just packed full of people from school and . . . definitely some kids who aren’t quite kids anymore. There’s got to be a bundle of college students here; there are just too many full beards that don’t look like they belong in a high school. It’s like the cast of Riverdale in here, where you just know that background extra is pushing close to thirty.
And drinks are just everywhere. Not only the spilled ones on the jackets, but just open coolers and large metal containers that look like they’re made for indoor plants, overflowing with cans and bottles. There’s a couple making out on the couch, despite everyone standing around them, and I’m pretty sure it’s Jeff and Ramie from band. At least they’re adorable. I’m not sure if our yearbook has a Best Couple category, but if it does, those two will claim that title in a heartbeat.
All these kids and near-adults, but I don’t see Andrew, Lily, or—
A guy stumbles out of the kitchen into the living room, holding Julia Stone’s hand, the two of them giggling. I know her only from a handful of classes we’ve had together, and I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything. He keeps glancing back at her, a smile on his stubbled face, and her bright green eyes are full of coy mischief.
It’s the guy she’s with that gives me pause.
He’s way older, and when I finally get a good look at him, I realize he’s the substitute teacher Andrew said was getting us the beer. He’s been covering for Mr. Garcia, who saved up an ungodly amount of personal days to take a two-week-long cruise and made sure students knew that’s what he was doing. It felt like every class that got closer to his trip, we focused less on Spanish lessons and more on the places he was planning to visit while he was away. Good for him.
But hell no am I letting this happen.
I storm over, nearly colliding with the teacher as he gets close to the stairway that heads up toward the second floor—and the bedrooms.
“Hey, careful,” he mutters, smirking, and tries to nudge by me.
“Come on, Julia.” I reach out, putting myself in between the two of them. She shirks away a little. “Julia,” I press, talking between gritted teeth.
“Get lost, Bella.” She laughs, playfully trying to swat me away. “Mr. Alden is hot.”
“Don’t be a buzzkill,” Mr. Alden says, and up until now, I barely remembered his last name. He was just that substitute teacher I never had but everyone muttered about. Oh, he’s so cool, so funny, so sexy. . .
I can’t help myself. I shove him.
“Hey!” he grumbles, blinking. “What are you—”
“Get out,” I snap. I feel the vibe in the room shift. Some people have stopped talking; there’s an audible sound of feet moving and bodies turning. Someone snorts out a laugh, and I hear the pssst of a beer bottle opening over the music.
“No way, I brought the beer. I’m—” he starts, and I pull out my phone, waving it in my hand.
“Do I need to shoot a video or something? Pictures?” I glance back at everyone in the room, and dozens of heads turn away. A couple of the older college kids look visibly uncomfortable, and I wonder if they know him. “How will that look? In fact, hold on, let me just—” I hold the phone up.
“Okay, damn,” he says, holding an arm up to block his face while simultaneously swinging his other one at my phone. How he didn’t think of this possibility before coming here with beer and plans to get with a student, I don’t know. “I’m out, be cool. Be cool.”
He hustles out of the living room, fumbles for his jacket in the pile of White Claw–soaked coats, and is out the door in seconds. A few of the college kids quickly follow him, mumbling to one another, protecting their faces with their hands, and my suspicions were spot on. Creeps. I shove my phone back in my pocket, and Julia is still there, glaring at me.
“I can’t believe you messed that up for me.” She scowls, crossing her arms and looking back toward the rest of the party. “Like, half the older guys just left. Way to go.”
“I saved you,” I scoff, shaking my head. “He’s a gross old man. You’ll thank me tomorrow when you’re sober.”
“Whatever.” She stomps off back toward the kitchen, and I lean against the staircase’s banister. The party goes back to the previous volume like nothing happened. Like a teacher wasn’t just about to try to sleep with a student and a gaggle of creepy older college kids wasn’t here, likely with the same exact motives. But that’s how it is in this town. Shit happens all the time, but it’s easier to just move on.
I might as well too.
I make my way to the kitchen, following Julia’s path. A few shoulders bump against me, hot breath and hair tickling my neck as I squeeze by. I burst through the last group of partygoers and inch my way into the kitchen, where I finally find Andrew. He throws his hands up in the air in victory over sinking a beer pong ball, and I can’t help but laugh at the pair up against him on the other side, Helen and Chris, two kids in my calculus class with Miss Vicente. They both wince as they chug back whatever is in those red cups.
Andrew high-fives his partner, and when she steps forward, I realize it’s Lily, one of his best friends and maybe girlfriend? I’m never quite sure what the deal is with those two. But I suppose that’s a popular theme when it comes to the people I surround myself with, like with Nick’s sister, Frankie, and her maybe-girlfriend, Jo. They can try to be as sneaky and secretive as they want around school, but I see right through them. I only wish it were easier for them both. I’m not sure how Frankie’s parents would take her being out, and I already know how Jo’s deal with her. We’re not close, but I’ve overheard more than enough since freshman year. It sucks.
