Learning Not to Drown (4 page)

One last step before I leave my room. A note on my pillow:
Mom and Dad, I couldn't sleep, so I went for a walk. Be back by 3:00 a.m.
Getting caught sneaking out would be bad, but having the police called because my parents suspected a kidnapping would be worse. A lot worse.

The front door is the farthest from my parents' room, so that's the exit door I aim for. I'm dodging creaks like they are bombs, being watchful of every step, every breath. Slipping out silently into the full-mooned night.

Carefully I press the door shut. Freedom! Drea's headlights shine at the end of the block. But I still need to be quiet. My parents' bedroom window is wide open, and my neighbors are practically spies for my mom and dad.

I cross the street immediately, wanting to avoid Mrs. Brachett's eyes. She's one of those weird nocturnal old
ladies. Good thing I do; she's sitting next to her open window reading a book.

I recross two doors down—don't want to run into Rambo, who barks at anything that moves. Almost there.

“Let's go!” I tell Drea as I jump into her car. Sneak-out successful. I can relax until it's time to sneak back in.

We drive out of town, up the winding roads to the campgrounds.

I glance over at Drea's curls and makeup. “You look great.”

“Well, I should. I've been taming this hair for the last hour and a half.”

Drea's got one of those moms who would rather know her kid's going to a party, even if there might be beer there. Her only rule is she insists on knowing where we are and that we call her if we're not sober enough to drive home. I wish Ms. P were my mom.

“Who do you think will be there?” I ask.

“EVERYONE. Omar, Chase, Skye, Ryan.” She stops to grin at me. There's no one at school that I really have a crush on, except maybe Ryan Delgado. Although he's dating Mandy—and that's enough to make me wonder what's wrong with him—he still interests me. It doesn't hurt that he's gorgeous, even with his crooked nose that on anyone else's face might look ugly. On him it's perfect. Just a reminder of how athletic he is.

We weave past Lookout Ridge.

“Whoa. Check out all the cars at Lookout tonight.” Drea slows down. “Anyone we know?”

I glance at the couples parked along the road, cars facing the view of stars above and city lights below.

“Don't think so. Oh. Wait. Lala's Love Mobile,” I say, twisting around to catch another glimpse.

“That's a big surprise.” Drea rolls her eyes, then changes the subject. “Off topic.” Her voice raises with excitement. “My mom's getting the schedule for our trip all figured out; four colleges I like, and the two she thinks you and I should ‘give a chance.' And she needs to know which colleges you'd want to add. Tonight would be cool, but you can let me know tomorrow.”

My heart sinks. It's not “our” summer trip anymore. It doesn't matter which colleges I want to see. And now I have to disappoint Drea.

When I don't say anything, Drea asks, “So . . . what do you think? You can pick out some schools you know I can't get into. It'd still be fun for me to visit them.”

“It doesn't matter what I think, okay?” I say in a burst, realizing too late that I sound angry at Drea. “I mean, I told my mom, and she's completely against it. She even shut down asking my dad.” I pause, thinking about telling Drea how Mom might have been considering it . . . before my brother called. But that could bring Skeleton into the car. I say instead, “I got the typical lecture: Why would I waste good money moving out when I could go to a perfectly fine community college?”

“That college is a hole. You're not really considering it, are you?”

“No,” I say. “My bestest friend, Drea, is going to scope out a good school for me.”

“Are you sure you trust me?” Drea gives me a devilish grin as she pulls over behind a long line of parked cars.

“Of course. At least I trust your report of campus life,” I reply.

Hiking up the dirt road, counting the cars on the way—thirty-seven so far—we head toward the red-hot ash that flies beyond the treetops. Drea's dark skin looks almost blue in the full moon's pale glow as she walks beside me. The knobby pines and gnarled oak trees have shed their usual sinister look for a fairy-tale forest. We pass the last car. Fifty-three. Between those and the ones parked down at Lookout, I doubt anyone between the ages of fourteen and eighteen is home tonight.

I take a deep breath in—it feels so good to be out of the house.

The road turns right, but we turn left to where a crowd huddles near the blazing bonfire. More people line the edge of the clearing, leaning against the trees, smoke rising from the red tips of cigarettes waving in their hands. And then, beyond the line of trees, there are the silhouettes of classmates looking for more privacy in the woods.

I look back toward the bonfire, my eyes landing immediately on Peter, less than two steps away, guarding a massive ice chest. Really? Of all the people here,
my brother
has to be one of the first I see?

“Peter! What a surprise. Never thought we'd see you here!” Drea greets him, flashing a sympathetic grin at some blond girl who's practically licking him. “Remind me. How long ago did you graduate? Four years?”

“Three, Drea. And I'm guessing that you might graduate next year. If you try really hard.” Peter takes a chug from the Coors in his hand. Turning to me, he says, “The real surprise is seeing my little baby sister here. It's past bedtime. Mommy and Daddy would be very upset to know you were out at a party.”

“And I'm sure they'd think it's fine that their sweet boy Peter is the bartender,” I say. Peter loves showing off that he's old enough to buy beer, and he doesn't mind the profit he makes by doing it either.

“That's me. I try to contribute to the kids in any way I can.” He glances down to his blonde, who's now looking bored.

Drea hands Peter five dollars. He slips it into his pocket, then dips his arms into the ice chest and holds out two beers. “You're welcome.”

Drea and I grab the cans and look past Peter. On the far side of the fire, we spot our friends. Omar gives a nod, and the two-headed love monster, Chase and Skye, wave us over. It's getting worse. Even their hands are synchronized.

Making our way to them, we say hi to a few kids we know. A cluster of Cranberry Hill girls are eyeing us, following our movements. Once they realize it's just Drea and me, they go back to chattering in a close circle.

It becomes quickly clear that the party's been going on for a while, by the amount of glazed eyes and slurred hellos we encounter. But when we join our own circle of friends, Skye informs us we haven't missed much, and our typical banter begins. Summer plans, Lala's absence from the party,
and a friendly argument between Omar and Chase about who will end up as valedictorian dominates most of our conversation until our attention is drawn to the right of us, where a sophomore stumbles to remain standing, a constant flow shooting from his zipper.

“At least he's aimed for the trees. Kind of.” The fire warms my left side, leaving the other exposed to the cool night air. I pull my hoodie on.

Drea crinkles her nose. “He must be really wasted to piss in front of everyone.”

“Not as wasted as she is.” One of the girls from ASB sits on the ground, laughing each time she fails to stand up.

“Classy,” Omar comments, his thumbs pointing to the girl. “What a mess.”

“I'll tell you what's a mess.” Peeing Sophomore staggers over, his words thick. “There's a dead squirrel. Over there.” He points toward the sky, then the bonfire, then the ground. “It's gross.”

“What did it die from?” Drea asks. “Your piss?”

I pinch my nose and swallow hard. His damp left pant leg is dangerously close to me.

“I'm gonna get another beer,” he says, heading first toward, then away from the leaping flames.

“Better call your dad, Clare,” Omar teases.

“How high is a dead squirrel on his priority list? If we call it in tonight, what time of day will he come to pick it up tomorrow?” asks Chase, his blue eyes lit up. I smile. Here we go. The jokes about Dad never get old—not to my friends, not even to me.

“I smell a wager!” Omar raises his eyebrows. “Who's in? Five bucks says the pickup happens by noon tomorrow.”

“Noon? No way.” Skye shakes her head. “When we found a dead cat in our backyard at ten o'clock one night, he came right away to do it.”

“You got the friends-and-family treatment,” I reply wryly.

“Did he bring the giant spatula?” Chase scoops his fist in the air, pantomiming tossing a pancake and catching it.

“Catula!” Omar cracks up at his own joke. “Your mom doesn't use the Catula in the kitchen, does she?”

“Only when you come over,” I manage to say through my laugh.

“Let's call it in.” Skye pulls her cell phone from her jeans pocket; her almond-shaped eyes disappear as she smiles mischievously.

“Don't.” I give her a look. “My dad might come right now to get it.”

“And then he'll start hanging out all buddy-buddy with us,” Drea adds.

“And share his corpse-cleanup stories,” Omar says, reverently lowering his ball cap to his heart.

“To my dad,” I say, raising my beer can, “keeping Sovereign Forest clean, one dead animal at a time!”

“Hear, hear!” Chase and Omar shout.

Skye puts away her phone. “Okay. I won't call now. But I promise, I'm calling when I leave.”

“Five bucks says the pickup happens between ten and
eleven a.m.,” Chase says, pulling his wallet from his Manchester United sweatshirt.

“I'll put five in for three p.m.”

I turn my head, although I already know the voice belongs to Ryan. His usually messy hair is mostly hidden by a beanie tonight, making his hazel eyes stand out even more. Surprisingly, Mandy isn't hanging on him, boa constrictor style. I look around, expecting to see her close behind, but she's nowhere to be seen. It makes me relax a little. When Mandy and I cross paths, she usually does her best to make Skeleton appear.

“Nice, Ryan!” Chase takes the cash as Omar adds Ryan's name to the list of bets he's typing into his cell phone. “Who else wants in?”

As Chase and Omar collect money from our friends, I shake my head and take another sip. Beer's almost done, but I keep the can anyway, like a security blanket. It's the perfect way to avoid being asked “Where's your drink?” which almost always leads to another full beer landing in my hand. I don't want to be the stupid one, like the girl who couldn't stand up—now puking in the bushes—or the sophomore socializing with a pee-soaked pant leg. Besides, it's almost impossible to sneak back in intoxicated. I learned that from Peter. One morning my freshman year, when I was leaving for school, I found him sleeping with his back pressed against the house. He told me he couldn't find the keyhole because it kept moving. So he'd slept outside. His hands were like ice blocks. I dragged him inside, insisting that he take a shower before Mom woke up and wondered if we
had opened our own brewery. I got the water running hot before I left.

Mom caught him right before he made it into the bathroom. She didn't care that he'd been out all night, but she was furious he was drunk. He was stuck painting the house every weekend for a whole month.

That was two years ago. I look over toward Peter. He's making out with the blonde, one hand up her shirt. I think I might throw up, no beer necessary.

“Need a refill?” Ryan asks, suddenly standing right next to me.

“Nope. I'm good.” I hold up my can. He smiles and leans against the nearest tree trunk. Settling in. Getting comfortable. Looking at me. I'm suddenly hyperaware of my appearance. Is anything stuck in my teeth? Did my ridiculously long and random eyebrow hair grow since I trimmed it two nights ago? Why didn't I think of these things when I was getting ready?

“Having fun?” he asks. It's not like it's the first time he's talked to me. Ryan floats from one group of friends to the next, unaware or uncaring of the invisible but present hierarchy of popularity. But this is the first conversation that I've ever had with Ryan alone.

“Yep.” Ugh. Can't I think of anything to say other than “nope” and “yep”?

“Tonight's pretty chill, but tomorrow night's going to be crazy. You gonna be there?”

“Yep.” Shit. There I go again. Quick. Make conversation. “So. Big plans for the summer?”

“Yeah. I'm going down to Baja to surf Seven Sisters
with some buddies of mine from Venice. I can't wait. I hate living away from the ocean.”

“That's sounds really amazing. Have a good time.” Have a good time?
Have a good time?
Of course he's going to have a good time. Why did I say that? Why can't I think of something more original? Think. Normal conversation. “I love the ocean. I love swimming.” I sound like a stupid robot: “I love. I love.” Say something that doesn't start that way. “One day I'll want to go scuba diving. I'm even thinking of majoring in marine biology.”

“Do you surf?” He puts his drink down and stretches his hands toward the fire. It's a little too far away to really feel the heat. He steps forward, and I follow.

“No. I mean, I'm pretty bad in sports. But I snowboard. Kind of. I'm not great, but I can link turns and get down the mountain.” Good job, Clare. You almost said a sentence in there.

“We should ride together next winter. Do you ever go backcountry?”

I laugh. “No. And I don't think I want to. You're on a crazy different level from me.”

“So, what are you doing this summer?” he says, letting himself slip to the ground to sit down. I lower myself to the dirt patch next to him, fidgeting with the tab on my beer can. I wish I had something as interesting as a surf trip to Mexico to talk about.