Bottom Feeder (14 page)

So with a final “See ya!” from Laney,
I leave. Just like that. Just like I always do.

Back home after a shower, nap and
changing into fresh jeans and t-shirt, I find myself calling
Maddy.

“
Hey,” I say after her
greeting. “You busy?”

“
Oh, uh, hey Jackson,” she
replies over the background noise. “I’m at the theatre. What’s
up?”

Why
did
I call? I want to ask if I can
see her later. Wait.
Why
do I want to see her later?

“
Do you need Laney’s
number?” she asks.

I raise an incredulous eyebrow at the
phone. “Why would I need her number?” I quickly add damage control.
“I just wanted to talk to you.”

From the fading background noise,
Maddy seems to be moving away from the crowd. “Do you know you left
your wallet?”

I pat the back pocket of my jeans then
search the discarded pair in the hamper. I shrug and lean on my
desk. The cheap laminate shivers to the left when I prop against
the edge.

“
I’ll come by your house
to get it. What time will you be home?”

Silence. Sigh. “It’s not at my house.”
Her soft voice echoes a tired, almost defeated, tone.

The sound of Laney’s distinctive voice
shrieking in the background is unsettling.

“
When is a good time to
get it from you?”

Silence. Sigh. “Laney has
it.”

I say, “Oh.” It comes out sounding
like a strangled cat.

Maddy knows why I left her house this
afternoon. She probably knew all along. I don’t want to see Laney
again and . . . oh, shit.

Cordell is going to hear about this
for sure.

Ever hear the phrase
“between a rock and a hard place”? Well, that would be my current
location. It’s hell. I
do not
recommend it.

“
I take that as an
indication you would rather not?” Maddy inquires, her tone smooth
and indifferent.

“
Er, ah . . . um, er . .
.”

“
I’ll get it.” Any other
girl would screech and claw and toss my wallet into the marsh.
Something tells me Maddy doesn’t have agendas like that.

“
Thank you,” I choke out
in relief.

“
Violet’s coming to the
show, I’ll give it to her. I’ll tell her you dropped it at my
house.”

I offer to retrieve it when she is
home. “I’d like to see you,” I say, adding more damage
control.

“
Jackson,” she sighs. “I’m
not going to tell him. What you do is not my business. Nor his. Go
out. Have a good time while you’re home, okay? Since the drive to
North Carolina is so short we can leave whenever you’d like next
Sunday. Just send a text to let me know the time.”

For a few minutes after the call ends,
I remain perched on the edge of my ancient desk until it groans in
agony. Without further warning it folds and crashes to the floor,
taking me down with it. All the contents bang around me, on
me.

Just as I wonder if this is bad karma,
an aftershock causes my trophy shelf to fall. I manage to get out
of the way before it gets my head.

I don’t bother to clean up the mess. I
stretch out on the bed, my nerves on edge. It’s not that I don’t
believe Maddy when she says Cordell will not find out. My problem
is I want my damn wallet back. My other problem is an issue that is
completely foreign to me.

I feel remorse for being with Laney.
It’s a deep, penetrating guilt. Weird.

My phone rings.

“
Hi,” the caller says.
“I’m calling from Savannah Sperm Bank, where you spank it and we
bank it. My name is Tom Smith and I’m calling to tell you, Mr.
Monroe, that you have seventeen baby mamas.”

“
Did anyone ever tell you
this is why you don’t have any friends?”

Lamont Washington, my best friend
since birth, laughs his ass off. “I’m picking you up. We’ve got
seafood to eat and parties to attend.”

Mama is beside herself with excitement
when he pulls in the driveway at six o’clock. She runs her fingers
across his head, looking quizzically at his Marine-issued
haircut.

“
Well, darlin’, at least
you don’t have those god-awful dreadlocks anymore.” The woman is
nothing if not blunt.

Lamont laughs and squeezes her in a
hug. He and I have kept in touch, mainly through email, since he
joined the Marines. His parents worked long, odd hours so he
practically lived with us up until the day he left for boot
camp.

Lamont and I climb into his Galant and
drive to the Seafood Shack on Wilmington Island. The conversation
consists of mostly military stuff, including our deployments; his
to some place he can’t talk about, mine to Afghanistan. He is
already on his second deployment.

“
You talking to the docs?”
he asks.

“
They’re making me,” I
answer. “You?”

“
They don’t have enough
psychs in the whole United States military to get my head clear,
JB.”

I nod in agreement. Then again, my
head is perfectly clear. I think.

“
Word is,” Lamont says,
sitting down at one of the Shack’s wooden picnic tables. “You took
Cordell Carrington’s daughter out last night.”

Suddenly my crab po’ boy isn’t looking
so appetizing. “Yeah?” I question. “Who said the word?”

Over a mouthful of bread and catfish
he replies, “My cousin saw y’all outside Hettie’s. I think he likes
your girl.”

“
She’s not my girl.”
Lamont eyes me suspiciously. “What makes you think
that?”

“
Because,” he says taking
a gulp of tea, “Chris wants to kick your cornbread-eatin’ ass all
the way back to Bragg.”

I raise my eyebrows and laugh. “The
last time I saw Chris he was five-five and a buck fifty, soaking
wet. He’s not kicking anybody’s ass.”

Lamont shakes his head. “He had a
growth spurt a couple years ago. I think he could take
you.”

“
Kiss my cornbread-eatin'
ass, ‘Mont.” So that was the guy on the beach sending me death
glares. I guess Little Chris isn’t so little anymore.

He laughs and snatches my uneaten
sandwich. “According to Chris’s description, it seems your taste in
the ladies has changed. You used to like ‘em
stick-skinny.”

I shake my head. “I don’t
stray.”

“
Ass is ass,
JB.”

“
That’s deep, ‘Mont,” I
note matter-of-factly. “Is that Plato you’re quoting? Maybe Anselm?
Tupac?”

“
Whatever, you sarcastic
bastard. I’m saying go for it if you like her, you know?” Changing
the subject, he says, “Ahmad is back for the summer. His little
brother just graduated. They have a kick ass party going on
tonight. A lot of people we know are going to be there, mostly
Ahmad’s friends since Emil never really had any other than those
Trekkie dudes.”

Ahmad has been known for his parties
since freshman year. His parents moved into a larger home on Tybee
Island and their small two-story house on the outskirts of Savannah
was meant to be used for the family law firm. When Mr. Miller found
a space in one of Cordell’s larger office buildings in Savannah,
the unused house became party central.

It is considered a sin to miss an
Ahmad Miller bash.

Lamont pulls behind a long line of
cars in Ahmad’s dirt driveway, a half-mile from the house. A red
cup filled with beer is thrust into my hand when I walk through the
door. Lamont aims for the kitchen while I get comfy on a couch and
finish the first beer.

I spot Chris in the middle of the
floor, dancing with Maddy. By the look in his eyes, he is
definitely into her.

Maddy is wearing a black form-fitting
shirt with “These Four Walls”—the name of my favorite band—written
across the chest in cracked white letters. Her sun-kissed legs show
beautifully in a pair of dark washed cut-offs that are long enough
to be classy and short enough to be sexy.

Shit. Did I really just refer to her
as sexy?

Chris’s arms snake around
Maddy. He pulls her close as they dance in unison to the
thumpthumpthump
of the
music. Her face flinches, like his touch is hurting her. I stand to
intervene when Maddy swings her head around and smiles.

Someone hands me another beer. My eyes
circle the room a few times, always landing on Maddy. That is,
until Lamont calls for Chris and he disappears into the crowd. She
continues dancing like no one is watching her move.

I make my way around the house,
talking to anyone who talks to me. Then, as if a switch is turned
on, the feeling of entrapment secures itself inside my brain. Fight
or flight panic, mixed with a weird sense of calm, rises inside me.
Blood pounds behind my ears in rhythm with my erratic
breathing.

Air. I need air.

I trail my way around the large crowd
at a snail’s pace until I am swirled into an embrace with a girl I
kind of recognize. Five-seven. Tan. White-blonde hair with pink
streaks. Familiar brown eyes.

“
Heyyyyyyyyy, Jackson,”
Blonde Girl slurs. The voice triggers a memory. A bad memory. She
wraps her arms around me and nuzzles into the hollow of my
neck.

Well okay. I’ll play along.

“
Really, Libby?” another
familiar voice calls out. My eyes shoot open to see Maddy glaring
like I just committed a crime. Or is it Libby’s back she’s searing
a hole into?

Oh. My. God. Libby? Libby! I am
hugging a no-longer dark haired and pale Libby Jarrett. My hands
fall limp. I picture a knife raised to my back.

I silently plead for help.

Grabbing Libby gently by the waist,
Maddy peels her away. “Libby, honey,” she soothes, “Derek is out
back waiting for you.”

“
Derek?” Libby sits
haphazardly on a barstool. “What about Jackson?”

Maddy smiles and swings the stool away
from me. She tucks a stray hair behind Libby’s ear. “Jackson’s not
here, sweetie. Let’s go out back and look for your fiancé,
okay?”

I sit down on the stool and bang my
head against the counter.

Maddy

I like to think of myself as a
professional at hiding emotions. However, all traces of being
tactful flew out the window when my phone lit up with Jackson’s
number a few hours ago.

Why would he spend the day with Laney
then call me? I’m not jealous. I don’t like games.

Do I sound bitter? Dern skippy, I’m
bitter. On the bright side I’m worth a pretty expensive car. On the
crap side is, well, everything else. Optimism is obviously my
strong point.

Which is exactly why I’m at this party
trying not to look the way I feel: tired and defeated.

This infatuation with him needs to
end. Yes, he’s gorgeous. Yes, I saw a glimpse of the real Jackson
last night as he talked about the army and Violet. I didn’t miss
the inflection of pain in his voice when the conversation somehow
drifted to his father. There was nothing arrogant about him at
all.

But I am only a job for him, a task to
complete.

“
I luff you, Maddy,” Libby
slurs. “You’re sushagoodperson.”

With all of Libby’s weight shifted on
me, it takes fifteen minutes to plant her next to Derek by the
pool. My ribs and back scream with pain. I danced with Chris
earlier and when his hands grazed across fresh bruises, I almost
fell to my knees. I feel like a corset is being pulled too tightly
around my midsection.

I pass Dixon and Matt talking in the
living room, laughing and smiling like they’re having the time of
their lives. I hope they are.

“
Maddy!” Chris calls
across the room. “Wait up!”

Chris Washington is—was—one of the
most popular guys in school. He is the guy people gravitate to. The
guy who acknowledges everyone, regardless of social status. Chris
was also our valedictorian and has a full academic scholarship to
the University of Georgia.

He leads me to the middle of the
floor. Someone else calls for him. Again. The woes of being
popular, I guess.

“
It’s my cousin,” he says,
“I’ll be back in a minute. We’re not done yet.” He flashes his
perfect, bright white smile then fades into the crowd.

I straighten my slumped shoulders and
plop on an empty sofa. I close my eyes.

All right, Carrington,
pull your big girl panties on and stop pouting. Suck it up. Move
on. When you open your eyes you will stop being emo.

For now my eyes remain
closed.

The seat concaves next to me. “You can
sleep through this?”

Without opening my eyes I reply, “Hey,
Jackson.”

“
I thought you were
supposed to teach
me
how to dance, not Chris.” He tries to make his voice sound
hurt. I’m not in the mood to humor his ego. My father and his
security cameras are nowhere around.