The Absolute Value of -1, page 5
I held the hit a few seconds and let it come slowly out my nose—more blood vessels that way, according to Simon. The three senior girls were watching us. I made eye contact with the tallest one. After a second, they were walking over to us.
“Can we join you?” the tall one asked. “Let’s go over there, though,” she added quickly, gesturing to the corner of the yard, behind some old playset, “so we don’t, you know, attract attention.”
“Whoa, come on,” Noah said. The girls just sort of cooed at him. His shoulders slumped, but he couldn’t say no. So we split this joint between the five of us, standing in the deeper shadows at the corner of the yard.
“Lily,” Claire said. That was the tall one, with the earrings. She was much taller than me. Her hair was blacker than mine, too. “You need another beer.”
I think we must have been at the party for a couple of hours at this point. These girls were having a goddamn blast playing Get the Sophomore Wasted with me, but I didn’t mind. If Simon wasn’t going to show, I might as well make the most of it and get completely plastered— that’s how I saw it.
Claire and I traipsed back to the keg. The tap was gone, and a crushed cup sat on top of it.
“Oh, no way!” Claire shouted, at pretty much the top of her lungs. “Aaronson! The keg is kicked.”
Kyle—or someone who decided to act as proxy— called back from somewhere in the yard. I barely caught it through the din: “I know. There’s a run ongoing, chill out.”
Claire didn’t seem in any mood to chill out, however. Instead, she crushed the cup in her hand and threw it down. “This is an outrage!” she said, thrusting a finger in the air. “I paid my five dollars!” Then she stomped toward the voice. I think. And she thought, I imagine. I doubt she was seeing or hearing any clearer than I was, really.
As she reached the steps off the deck, though, she slipped, and fell onto the lawn. Her two friends laughed their heads off, and I did too, and Claire rolled around on the lawn. As she got to her feet, she vomited.
“Oh, gross,” Noah said. He had been standing next to me. I didn’t know for how long. “Listen, we should go.”
“Fuck you, Noah,” I said. “You go. We’re having fun.”
“You’re gonna stay here with these three?” Noah asked, shocked.
“So what if I do?” I said. My heart suddenly jumped, like I’d been having some ongoing hypothetical argument, one I knew for sure I’d lose in the real world. Quickly I reminded myself the matrix had shut down for the night, and I felt better again.
Before Noah could reply, we heard sirens. An instant later, there were red and blue lights flashing from over the house, in the front yard.
“Shit,” Noah whispered. “Look, I have to go, right now. You can do whatever you want.”
So I went with him. He started toward the front yard, and I grabbed his wrist. “Moron,” I said. “You want to walk right into them? Come through the back.”
I pulled Noah with me right into the shrubs at the back of the yard. Behind Kyle’s house was the water tower, and on the far side of that was another cul de sac, which led down to Centre Drive. From there getting to my place would be a short walk.
As we walked under the water tower, I was still holding Noah’s wrist. I stumbled on something, and he caught my hand as my butt hit the cement.
“Ow.”
I looked up at him. He was staring down at me. I don’t think he was drunk at all. I didn’t look Noah in the face very often. But he looked pretty cute to me right then.
“Are you okay?” he asked. I was still holding his hand, and he held out his other to help me up.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. I found that if I squinted a little, his nose shrunk, and he looked a little—enough maybe—like Simon. “I—” And I realized I was crying.
“Get up,” Noah said. I took his hand and he helped me up. We walked the rest of the way to my house in near silence, with me leaning on Noah quite a lot. I was still crying, but also laughing. I never would have guessed I would be the one who would need help getting home from a party. Especially with Noah.
“Did you sell all your weed?” I asked. It was pretty out of the blue.
“No,” Noah replied. He didn’t say anything more until we reached my house. My mother’s light was on upstairs, but the proctologist’s car wasn’t there. That was nice.
“He’s not here,” I said.
“Who?” Noah asked.
“Never mind. I’m home. Thank God. I feel awful.”
We stood in front of the door as I dug around in my pocket for my house key. It took a little while to get it into the keyhole, but I managed, even with Noah pawing at my hands and saying, “I’ll do it, drunky.” He was smiling at me. He thought I was a fool.
“I’m fine!” I exclaimed as I pushed the door open and fell inside. “Just go home, okay?”
Noah took my wrist and I spun to face him. “What?” I snapped.
And then he tried to kiss me. I swear, it caught me completely off guard, and for an instant his lips were on mine. It wasn’t a kiss, though—not really. My upper lip pressed against my teeth, which hurt, and I was trying to say “What the fuck” the whole time. Finally I just pushed his shoulder and he backed off of me.
“Noah, are you kidding me?” I said. “What the fuck was that?”
“A kiss, Lily!” Noah snapped back. “A fucking kiss. Or it was supposed to be. Sorry it wasn’t up to your goddamn majesty’s standards.”
“‘Standards’?” I shouted at him. Clearly, any chance of getting to bed without waking Mother was pretty well shot. “That wasn’t even a kiss. It was more like assault with a disgusting mouth!”
“Fuck you, Lily, okay?” Noah replied, which I guess I had coming. “I’m sorry I’m not Simon, is that what you need to hear?”
“Shut up, Noah,” I said. Suddenly I was meek. “You’re a moron.”
“Really?” Noah said. “I’m a moron? Who’s the moron here, Lily? Because as far as I can see you’ve been lusting after Fisher since you were like twelve or something, and he barely even looks you in the fucking face when he graces you by saying ‘hey’!”
I went and sat on the bottom step and put my face in my hand. The tears tasted like salty beer. My mother called down, “Lily? What is going on down there?”
Noah wasn’t finished, though. “Let me tell you something about Simon, okay?” he said. “Because I know about guys like Simon. He doesn’t feel about you like you feel about him, and if you hang around long enough to get him to think he loves you, you’ll regret it later.”
Now he was done. He walked through the still-open front door, and I jumped up and slammed it behind him.
“Lily? Answer me this minute. What is going on down there?”
“Nothing!” I shrieked up the steps. “Just go back to bed. God!”
Mom was standing on the landing watching me then, in her robe. She looked like hell. It was two in the morning. “We’re going to have a long talk tomorrow, Lily,” she said very calmly. “I’m not happy with the way you’ve been acting lately.”
“Fine!” I said, and I stormed into the first-floor bathroom and slammed the door and flicked on the fan to drown Mom out. Then I threw up.
| chapter 8 |
For three years, I’d been trying to hold on to Simon and pull him up against me. He was a bar of soap in the shower, though: slippery as hell, and one false move—squeeze a little too tight—and he’s gone. And picking up a wet bar of soap in the shower is pretty difficult.
It was November, and I was at Noah’s house, in the bathroom off the kitchen, brushing my teeth. I was beginning to see a little more clearly, having just puked my guts out, and with them about four cans of beer and most of my bong buzz. Those Mary Janes of mine seemed farther and farther away. I mean, it was a Thursday; I don’t know what I was thinking. But the hypothetical argument creation matrix can make me do anything, some nights.
Noah’s bathroom floor, by the way, is tiled in huge sage and cream squares and hexagons, respectively. There are thirty-eight complete tiles, plus eleven cut tiles. There’s a small crack on the huge mirror over the sink, in the corner. Right in the front of the crack is a soap dish. Most people probably wouldn’t notice it. But Lily Feinstein, having locked herself in the bathroom after being sent off by a wounded Simon Fisher, wondering how long to stay locked in, will amuse herself.
This wasn’t much of a party, which was fine—it’s not like I wanted to go to another open-house kegger in this lifetime. Especially not with Noah. But Noah had apologized like crazy for that night after Kyle’s party, and I forgave him; what choice did I have? Then, when he asked me to come over, even with Goody and Hilly there already, I went. The hypothetical matrix was in full effect, and this time I was sure Simon would be around. He took forever to show up, though, so I had a lot of time with nothing to say, and with people I didn’t want to be around, with which to smoke and drink myself sick.
And now I was dying of alcohol poisoning and Simon was lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of his own blood.
I’m being dramatic. But he was on the kitchen floor, and he was bleeding. Goody finally attacked him, for real. That guy had been a dick to Simon forever, but I guess they couldn’t take both being at Noah’s house at the same time. It was either they fought, or the universe exploded. I don’t even really know what sparked it. Like I said, I was pretty fucked up.
When I’d been on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet, I heard Noah’s front door slam, and Simon shout “Fuck you,” so I was pretty sure he hadn’t moved from the kitchen floor. I had no idea whose toothbrush I’d picked up, but I’d cleaned it in some very hot water before using it. I’m sure it was fine.
I flushed the toilet and stood at the door waiting for the whooshing and refilling to finish. Then I opened the door and walked down the hall and down the steps to the basement TV room. No one was around, so I just dropped onto the floor and flipped through the channels on the TV. The water was running in the kitchen, and after a few minutes it was quiet. A moment later, Simon came in. He was holding a dish towel against his nose. It was pretty well stained with blood.
“You okay?” I asked.
Simon shrugged. “What about you?” he asked. “Do you feel better? I heard you retching in there.”
“I’m fine.”
He sat down next to me and put the towel on the floor. “Your nose is still bleeding,” I said, and I reached up and touched the blood on his upper lip. My finger exposed his big freckle, the fake bloody lip I noticed three years before. It was lighter now.
“I don’t feel a thing,” he replied, and then we were kissing.
I was still drunk, and still a little high. His lips didn’t feel close enough, somehow—not right away. My hand found its way to the back of his neck and I tried to pull him in tighter. I could taste his blood, and it was delicious. I know that makes me sound like a psycho or a perv or something, but it really was.
Simon’s legs were out in front of him, and his back was against the couch, so I pivoted and straddled him and we kept kissing like that. His hands moved between my ass and my rib cage on my back. I couldn’t help myself; I was completely pushing myself against him, and it was amazing. Then Noah walked in.
I jumped off Simon immediately. I must have been about as red as a baboon’s butt just then.
“Hey, don’t let me interrupt,” Noah said. And he walked off. I couldn’t tell if he thought it was hilarious or tragic or if he was about to go kill himself or what. But I slid against the couch and let my hand play on Simon’s neck. He kept his hand on my waist. Suddenly he seemed nervous.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Why do you always ask me that?” Simon said. He sighed.
I tried to backtrack. “Should I leave you alone?” I asked. The bar of soap was slipping.
Simon shook his head and pulled me to him, and we kissed again. I felt a wave of relief wash over me, and threw my arms around him.
“I’m really tired, Lil,” he finally said. He was drifting off right in my arms. “I’m going to sleep in the guest room.”
I slid back to let him get up. “It’s Thursday, though,” I said. “You’re sleeping over on a Thursday night?”
He shrugged. “My parents won’t care,” he said. “Good night.” And he walked off toward the old maid’s room.
Simon and I met in seventh grade, like I’ve said, about a hundred times, I guess. But none of that mattered, not until one day that December. It must have been one of our last practices for winter track, or maybe even one of the first for the spring team. Who can tell the difference?
Jake and Hank and I were pretty much thick as thieves by this point. The three of us were clustered together by the infield fence, laughing like hyenas, when Simon strolled into the infield, into the milers’ stretching territory. It was cold, and his sweatshirt hood was up over his baseball cap. All our hoods were on; from afar we would have all looked the same.
Melanie jogged to meet him at the gate from the track.
“Hey, Simon,” she chirped.
Jake and Hank and I watched the two of them. We three weren’t smiling. It felt cool. I almost wanted to light up right there, just for the effect, but I didn’t have the guts. So we just glared, and I was satisfied with the coldweather vapor I pushed from my lips.
They talked a minute or two. With my hood on, and with the wind picking up, I couldn’t make any of it out, and I couldn’t clearly see Simon’s face. Jake took my hand and I squeezed his, kind of for luck, I guess.
I guess Robin got tired of standing alone and stretching while Melanie flirted with Simon. He walked over to them. I saw a nice huff of steam shoot from his hood as he stomped over. Simon’s head dropped as Robin and Melanie talked for a second. Melanie was angry, maybe at Robin. I don’t know.
Simon stretched on the fence and Robin walked over to us three freaks.
“Simon Fisher is running with us today,” he said. He puffed out his chest a little bit and looked anywhere but right at us: the trees on the far side of the football field, the tennis courts, back at Simon and Melanie, just not us. “On the street course. He says he’s not much of a long-distance runner, so he’ll probably be toward the back. Help him not get lost out there, okay?”
We three nodded, and Robin jogged off to start the run. Melanie joined him after a quick word to Simon, which I also didn’t catch.
“Shall we?” Jake said to me. He still had my hand, so I followed him and Hank.
Simon jogged after us. “Hey, wait up.”
Hank turned to face Simon, but walked on with us, backwards. “Don’t bother following us, Si,” he said. It made Simon sound like an old man or something. “We’re not running the course.”
“I know,” Simon replied. He caught up to us and started walking next to me. “I’m not here to run the stupid street course, man.”
The four of us just walked on like that, toward the daycare center. Jake and Hank exchanged looks about a hundred times, and at some point Jake let go of my hand. When we stepped onto the grass near the swings, Jake gave me a cigarette. I pulled out my own lighter—it had been Hank’s, but I liked it and he let me keep it—and lit it.
Jake and Hank went over to the seesaw and sat together on one end, and I settled into a swing.
“Can I have one?” Simon asked. He was just standing there.
Jake and Hank—another glance. Then Jake took out a cigarette and lit it and passed it to Simon. He had no idea what he was doing with it.
“You don’t smoke,” I said quietly. Simon sat on the swing next to me. Both our hoods were still on, but I could see his face now. He looked so pale, and his eyes were red where they should have been white, and under his eyes it was puffy and dark, like he’d been in a fight. “Are you okay?”
Simon didn’t say anything. He didn’t even really look at me. He just swung a little and puffed on the cigarette. The smoke coming out was white/blue, though, so I knew he wasn’t inhaling anything.
“First pull it into your mouth—just a little,” I said. “Like this.” I took a little drag.
“Then, take a deep breath.” I took the smoke all the way in and then let it come out my nose.
Simon coughed till he was red in the face. The cigarette fell from his fingers into the dry, worn patch under the swing.
“Your boyfriend is wasting my cigarettes, Tiger Lily,” Jake called from the seesaw, singsongy.
“Fuck you, Jake!” I singsonged back.
Tears ran slowly down Simon’s cheeks, and it took all my will not to jump from the swing and take his chin in my hands and kiss him all over his face. I wanted to taste his tears.
“I’ll go,” he said. He got up.
“No!” I got up too. “We’ll share mine. It’s no big deal. Jake is just kidding.”
“Right!” Jake called over. He and Hank were on opposite sides of the seesaw now, using it like you’re supposed to. “I’m a big kidder.”
I walked to Simon and stood about an inch from him. In the cold, I could feel his breath and the heat coming off his face. “Here.”
I held out my cigarette carefully, so he could take it without burning his fingers.
“There’s lipstick all over it,” Simon pointed out.
I looked down and laughed. A ring of crimson circled the filtered end.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. He took it awkwardly and put it to his lips. After a small puff, and a small inhale, he let out a tiny cloud of smoke. “How was that?”
I laughed again. “I think you got it,” I said, but I was looking at his lips, where a tiny trace of my lipstick had managed to grab on. I sat there for a while, on the floor of Noah’s TV room. I could still taste Simon’s blood.
There was some happiness in my chest, but not much— not enough. I expected to be over the moon, or something, but I wasn’t. I was definitely scared, and confused, and feeling a little bit of a rush when I recalled the kiss—when I thought about sitting on his lap, straddling him and pushing myself against him; I had to catch my breath. But it wasn’t . . . finished. It was like half-cooked chicken: made me sick.
