Authors: Debra Garfinkle
“Earth calling Ty Ty.” Debbie M. pats my cheek.
It stings from Shay’s slap. I try not to wince.
“Are you there, Ty Ty?”
“I’m there. Here. Like, whatever.” Gawd, I really am talking like Shay. “Sorry. I, uh . . .” I free myself from Debbie M.’s grip. “I have to go to class.”
24
The doorbell rings.
I’m bent over the kitchen counter, arranging the celery and carrots around my homemade blue cheese dip in a pinwheel pattern like I saw Mrs. Gray do before she gave up that sort of thing. My party d oesn’t start for fifteen more minutes and I’m still in the gingham apron Mrs. Gray made for me. But I get the door anyway.
It’s Rick, bearing gifts. “Hey, sweetie.”
Sweetie. Nice.
“ You’re early, actually.” Actually? Actually, I’m talking like Tyler.
“I thought you might want a hand getting ready,” Rick says. “Hey, I like tonight’s apron better than the one for Krasno’s Diner.”
“Can you untie it?”
“Sure.” He sets down the gifts and comes around behind me. “Not only are you good in the kitchen, but, man, you have a great ass.”
“Thanks.” I’m wearing my fashionably, murderously tight Calvin Kleins, which I had to lie on my bed and inhale just to zip up.
“Happy eighteenth birthday.” Rick hands me one of the presents, sloppily wrapped in smiley face paper. Inside is a Led Zeppelin cassette tape. “It’s got ‘Stairway to Heaven’ on it,” he says. I thank him and hope the next gift’s better.
It is. It’s a dainty gold bracelet with great charms on it: a chef’s hat, probably because I work in a diner and they d on’t make sponge charms; a heart; the number
18
; the letter
S
; and a book.
I go to kiss him, but he hands me the last present, a bottle of champagne. He puts his arms around me. “Later do you want to get in the bath with me again?”
“Hi, Shay. Hey, Rick,” Tyler says like it’s no big deal that I’m being propositioned in his house. He looks good tonight in the surfer shirt and 501s I picked out for him at the mall.
“The Tyster,” Rick says.
“Can you set up the keg?” Tyler points to the backyard and Rick heads outside.
“You look great,” I tell Tyler.
“Thanks.” His voice is flat. “I rigged up a fan to go at an extreme velocity and in reverse.” He stares at a spot on the wall to my right. “It would just take me a few minutes to d uct- tape it to the bathroom ceiling. I can do it anytime. If you d on’t want to leave The Di—Rick, bring him in the bathtub with you.”
“But—”lay
“Whatever will get you home.”
“I feel like I am home.”
“Well, y ou’re not.”
Heather comes into the kitchen wearing the outfit I helped her choose, a new red minidress, a white cardigan purposefully shrunk in the dryer, and hot red high heel shoes.
“You look bitchin’,” I tell her.
“Thanks. So do you.”
Mariel arrives next. She looks bitchin’ too. She’s in the clothes we bought last week—a black skirt from the thrift shop, which s he’s hemmed four inches, and a shimmering violet blouse from Mervyn’s. I did an awesome job on her makeup this afternoon.
“Happy birthday.” She hands me a gift. “Is book Spanish poems.”
“Awesome.” I actually mean it. “Thanks. Come on in. Have some crudités. That means carrots and celery. I just learned that word myself a few weeks ago.”
We walk to the kitchen. “You are no happy,” Mariel says. “Tyler wants me to leave.” I return my apron to its drawer.
“For real?” She pats my back, which is a reach for her, being such a shrimp.
“He d oesn’t see me reading and studying physics and working with you at Krasno’s. He d oesn’t know how much I ’ve changed.”
“You tell him,” she says.
I shake my head. “Do you know what Einstein said? That mystery is the most beautiful thing. I found that in one of Tyler’s books. He’s a big Einstein nut. But I don’t think Tyler finds the mystery surrounding me beautiful at all.”
“¿Qué?”
I sigh. “He has the right to be pissed off. He thinks I destroyed his parents’ marriage. I was just trying to help.”
“You help me. You help me much.”
“Just keep going to school, okay?”
“Okay. School is okay.” She smiles. “Is your birthday. Try be happy.”
I nod, take a deep breath, which is difficult in my tight Calvins, and yell, “Let’s get this party started!”
“Music?” Heather calls back. “What album should I play?”
“It’s my birthday, so please d on’t play Neil Diamond, Barry Manilow, or anything disco.”
She puts on “Stairway to Heaven.”
A half hour later, kids are crowding into the house. It seems like half the school is here—the popular crowd, Heather’s student government friends, a lot of guys now crushing on her, and Tyler’s old honor club friends, who huddle around my vegetable platter.
I lose track of Rick and Mariel and Heather, so I wander outside. The backyard is hopping with my school lunch group: Lori, Debby with a y, and Debbie P., all in tight designer jeans like me; one of the Lisas, making out on the glider with an older, bearded guy; Jeff in brown corduroy pants, smoking a cigarette; and Jim and John, sharing a joint. Heather’s by the lamppost, surrounded by three boys about her age. She’s holding an empty plastic cup and she’s wobbly either from her high heels or the beer or both.
One of the boys switches out Heather’s empty cup for one filled with beer. “Try again. See if you can down it in ten seconds.”
“Ten. Nine. Eight,” the boys chant.
“Wait!” I shout.
Heather stops drinking and the boys stop counting.
“ Don’t do that to yourself,” I tell her.
“Everything’s more fun when you drink. You said that.”
“Go for it,” one of the guys calls out.
Heather pours more beer down her throat.
“Seven. Six. Five.”
“Heather, no!” I grab thehalf-f ull cup from her and make the boys leave. “ You’re too young to chug beer like that,” I tell her. “Actually, you s houldn’t drink at all.”
Actually.
“You should talk,” she says.
“There you are, Shay.” John slinks in between us. “And Heather, man, you look foxy tonight.” He puts his arm around her, stares at her cleavage. “I dig that sweater. It shows off your . . . your . . . uh, eyes.You’re really, uh, growing up.”
»
She laughs. Her laugh has changed. It’s the giggle of a girl acting dumb. Holy crap, she’s flirting with John!
I shake my head. “You two can barely hold yourselves up. And, John, do you realize Heather’s only fifteen?”
“Almost sixteen,” Heather says.
“Let’s go find a couch,” John takes Heather’s hand. “Put our feet up and get cozy.”
“No. Leave my sister alone.” Tyler gets between them.
“Dude, mellow out.”
“I can take care of myself,” Heather says.
Tyler gets in John’s face. “ Don’t make me mad.”
“Okay, okay.” He flashes a peace sign. “Make love not war, man.”
Tyler glares at me. “I hope y ou’re proud of yourself now.”
Debbie M. throws her arms around his waist from behind. “Ty Ty, I ’ve been looking for you. Deb Deb’s wonewee.”
“What?” He d oesn’t seem exactly thrilled, but he d oesn’t move away either.
“She’s wonewee.” I roll my eyes. “That’s baby talk for
lonely
.”
“I think y ou’ve had too much beer,” he says, but d oesn’t stop her from groping him.
What have I done?
What have I done?
Debbie M. is leaning against my back, attempting to undo my Levi’s. Thank God I’m wearing button-up 501s and she’s had too much to drink.
Wait a minute. What am I thinking? I’m upset because a pretty girl is trying to get into my pants? I’ve been dreaming of something like this happening ever since my voice started changing. And while Debbie M. plays with my pants, I’m throwing a cool party with the most popular kids in school. This is what I longed for all those Saturday nights when Evie and I played backgammon or watched
Star Wars
with our other dweeb friends.
I wonder if Evie ever saw
Star Wars
that night she called. Who would she have gone with? Maybe some of the guys she’s been sitting with at lunch. I wonder what Evie’s doing tonight.
My chest aches again. It’s probably heartburn from that awful beer I swallowed before spitting into the grass. Shay said I just needed to get used to the taste, but there’s no way I’m trying it again.
Oh, crud, Debbie M.’s actually got my pants button undone.
You mean
“
Oh, good,”
I lecture myself.
She whispers, “Does Ty Ty have a bedroom we could use?”
Ty Ty? Bedroom? No! Not with Debbie M.
Tyler,
I remind myself,
this is what you wanted
.
I guess I changed my mind. I turn around and put my hands over Debbie M.’s. “Stop.”
“Debbie M. is pretty, popular, and pickled,” a voice behind me says. “You should be ecstatic, Tyler.”
I turn around again and see Evie. My chest thumps. I didn’t think she would actually come to the party. She looks different tonight. It’s hard to tell by the muted light of the lamppost, but something’s strange about her face. “What are you doing here?” I ask. “You look kind of weird.”
“Who’s she?” Debbie M. says from behind me.
“I’m nobody, really. At least in your little world,” Evie says. “Tyler invited me. If it’s a problem, I’ll leave right now.”
“It’s a problem,” Debbie M. says.
“Mind your own business, Deb Deb.” I button up my Levi’s and step toward Evie. “You’re totally welcome here, Evie. Don’t you know that?”
“You have a strange way of showing it.” For some reason, her lips are orange and puffy. Are they sneering or trembling? “You asked me what I’m doing here. You told me I . . .” The bottom one is definitely trembling, like an earthquake.
“Evie, what the heck is wrong with you tonight?”
“You told me I look weird.”
“No. I said ‘
kind of
weird.’ I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” My chest is killing me. I may be highly allergic to beer.
“She does look weird,” Debbie M. says. “It’s like she put on five coats of makeup in the dark.”
“Makeup? My God, Evie! You’re wearing makeup.”
“Badly,” Debbie M. says.
“You . . .” Evie sniffs. “You didn’t . . .” She sounds like she’s choking.
“What’s gotten into you?” I ask her.
“You didn’t even appreciate it.” Then she does something even weirder than wearing makeup. She starts crying, just like a girl. Black mascara and brown and green eye shadow, or whatever is in the vicinity of her eyes, run down her face. She wipes the mess with her hand, which mixes the eye stuff with the red gunk on her cheeks.
I stand in front of her, clutching my chest, which feels like it’s about to explode. I hate when girls cry. I hate even more that Evie’s crying.
“Are you okay?” Shay’s voice comes from behind Debbie M., who’s still behind me.
Evie nods, but she’s still crying.
“Gawd, Tyler, at least give her a hug,” Shay says.
I take a clumsy step forward with my arms out.
Evie takes a step back. “Where’s that twenty dollars you owe me?”
“I would have repaid you,” I tell her. “But Shay stole my money.”
“I have to barf,” Debbie M. says.
I point to the trash can and say, “Bye.” She lurches away.
Shay reaches into the pocket of her jeans. Her pants are so tight she has to wriggle her hand in and suck in her little stomach to get anything out. She comes up with a twenty-dollar bill. “I wish I could give you the rest now. Here’s a start.”
She hands me the money and I give it to Evie. “Just don’t ask Shay where she got it. She’ll slap you.”
“You can be such an ass, Tyler,” Shay says.
Someone claps my back, hard, so I turn around. It’s The Dick. “Tyster. Are you upsetting my girlfriend?”
I shake my head because it’s hard to talk while a huge guy with his hand on your back is accusing you of upsetting his girlfriend. Not to mention after you just saw your best friend in heavy makeup and heavier tears, suddenly realized your best friend has girl qualities, were just called an ass, and are suffering possible heart attack symptoms at age eighteen.
“We need to talk. Come out to my car with me,” The Dick says.
Yikes. For issues of personal safety, I’d rather remain at the party, within shouting range of potential witnesses. “I wish I could sit in your souped-up Mustang,” I lie. “But—”
“Let’s boogie.” He pushes me forward.
Don’t they usually take people for a ride just before killing them, like in the
Godfather
movies? On the other hand, I’m more terrified to turn him down. I think The Dick just made me an offer I can’t refuse. “Okay, I’ll come out to your car with you,” I say loudly, hoping plenty of witnesses will hear me and testify in the assault trial later.
“Here, Shay.” Evie holds
out the t wenty dollar bill. “I d idn’t mean to pressure you about the money. If you need it, I can wait.”
I keep my hands at my sides. “Hang on to it. I really appreciate you convincing Mrs. Gray to take me in. I want to pay Tyler back the rest of his money too.”
“Well, thanks.” She frowns. “I bet my stupid crying jag messed up my makeup. Tonight’s the first time I ’ve worn it.”
No kidding. “Let’s go wash your face.”
There’s a huge line for the downstairs bathroom, so we head upstairs and stand behind five other people. “What made you put makeup on?” I ask Evie.
“Oh.” She looks away. “A scientific experiment?”
“It was for Tyler, right?”
“What?” If her cheekshadn’t had a ton of rouge on them already, I think I would have seen her blushing.
“I’m not a genius,” I tell Evie. “But I’m pretty sure y ou’re in love with your best friend.”