“Wait up,” Nardo parried. “I’m extremely fond of the current class structure.”
“How shocking,” Blake muttered. “The guy whose grandfather banked Standard Oil wants to keep the status quo.”
“Fuck off.” Nardo tossed a French fry in his direction, but it landed closer to Emily. “What I don’t understand, Clayton, is how this isn’t a cautionary tale. The Weather Underground. The Symbionese Liberation Army. Hell, even Jim Jones and Charles Manson—what became of them and their followers?”
Emily turned her head away, pretending to look out at the empty diner. Clay’s milkshake was bad enough. Add in the catsup-glopped French fry and her stomach turned into a rolling wave. She felt a weird unsteadiness, as close to being seasick as you could get on dry land.
“What you don’t understand, Bernard,” Clay began, “is that Mr. Wexler is right. We’ve got a Goldwater-loving, geriatric B-movie has-been in the White House giving subsidized handjobs to his corporate pals while he slams so-called welfare queens and props up the military industrial complex.”
“That is a lot for one sentence,” Ricky said, instinctively circling around Nardo.
“It’s called understanding the world, sweetheart.”
Ricky caught Emily’s eye again. The revolution very seldom advocated for women’s rights.
“Okay, but—” Blake jumped in with his predictably pedantic tone. “I suppose an argument could be made that we’re still talking about them, right? Or that we know about the Weather Underground and Charles Manson and Jim Jones all these years later, which means that somehow, they’re still relevant.”
“One builds off the other.” Clay held up four splayed fingers. “That’s the salute Bernardine Dohrn used to give to show solidarity with the Manson girls for sticking a fork in Sharon Tate.”
“Oh, God.” Ricky looked genuinely disgusted. “Come on, guys. That’s not cool.”
The boys each offered their own noises to signify apology or longanimity.
Still, Emily saw Blake move to take his sister’s hand under the table. They were twins, but you’d hardly even mistake them for related. Ricky was small and round with a button nose and Blake was almost a foot taller and all elbows and lean muscle. Even their hair was different. Ricky’s was a halo of springy curls. Blake’s straight, shoulder-length hair was several shades lighter.
“Well.” Nardo pushed back his hair again, sticking his already upturned, piggy nose into the air. “Let’s talk about next weekend, shall we kids? Mummy and Daddy are finally taking a few nights in the city, so you know what that means.”
“The Monthly Party!” Ricky raised her glass in cheer.
Emily looked down at the table. She could feel her hands start to tremble.
“Technically,” Blake said. “Next weekend will be more than one month since the last party.”
“Yes, all right, technically it’s The Monthly Party plus one week,” Nardo said. “The point is, old friends, the party is happening.”
“Hurray!” Ricky offered up another toast.
Emily tried to make her lungs take in breath.
“Excellent news, old boy.” Clay reached across the table and slipped one of Nardo’s cigarettes out of the pack. “Who’s coming this time?”
“Yes,” Blake said sarcastically. “Who should we invite?”
Ricky snorted. They never invited anyone. It was always just the five of them, which was exactly how they liked it.
“If I might suggest—” Clay let the lit cigarette dangle between his lips. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we had another session with our dear friend Mr. Timothy Leary?”
Everyone laughed, but the tremor spread from Emily’s hands into her body. Sweat had broken out on the back of her neck. She shot Ricky another quick glance. Their monthly parties had been going on for years. They were less conventional parties and more alcohol and pot-fueled jam sessions where they solved world crises and made each other laugh.
Until last month.
They had tried LSD for the first time, and there were still parts of that night that neither one of them could remember.
“Come on, Emmie-Em.” Clay had picked up on her hesitation. “Don’t spoil the party before it’s even started.”
“You had a great time,” Nardo said. “And I do mean gree-e-e-eat.”
Emily felt sick as she watched his eyebrows wag up and down suggestively.
“He’s right.” Predictably, Ricky rushed to Nardo’s side. “Don’t spoil it for everybody else, Em.”
“Come on, Emmie,” Blake joined in. “You know the deal. The three Musketeers.”
This was Clay’s perversion of all for one and one for all. Either they all got drunk and/or stoned together or none of them did. The fact that Emily was usually the only one who had to be cajoled seemed to be lost to their collective memory.
“Don’t let one bad trip spoil the ride for the rest of us.” Clay pushed her shoulder a little too aggressively. Her one ass cheek started to lose purchase. So of course he pushed her again.
“Clay!” She had to grab onto him so she wouldn’t topple to the floor.
“I’ve got you.” He had his arm around her waist, his face close. She looked down at her hand, which was pressed firmly to his chest. She could feel the hard muscle underneath. The steady beat of his heart. The same primal urge stirred deep inside of her body.
“Jesus, fuck her already,” Nardo said, his tone equal parts disdain and eagerness.
Clay dismissed the suggestion with a snort as he effortlessly helped Emily back to upright. He flicked ash into Nardo’s half-drunk soda.
“Ricky,” Nardo said. “I’ll have another milkshake, old girl.”
Ricky rolled her eyes. “I thought Mr. Wexler said we should all lose a few pounds.”
“I think he meant you in particular, my dear.” Nardo took delight in her embarrassment. “Come now, little cow, fetch me a milkshake.”
“Why don’t you fetch my ass?”
He blew a plume of smoke into her face. “You wish.”
Emily turned away again. The stench of smoke made her stomach squeeze. She put her hands to her face. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. She was still a little breathless from being so close to Clay, and she hated herself and her stupid body for the response. She stood up from the booth so fast that her head swam. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Sympatico.” Ricky bumped her shoulder against Blake so she could slide out of the booth. She told the boys, “Try not to blow yourselves up while we’re gone.”
This last missive was for Nardo, who wagged his eyebrows again in response.
“Jeesh,” Emily muttered when they were out of earshot. “Why don’t you just tell Nardo how you feel?”
“You know why,” Ricky said.
Everyone knew why. Bernard Fontaine was a dick. He had always been a dick. He would always be a dick. Ricky’s fatal flaw was that she knew this, had seen it in action every day for nearly her entire life, yet she still held onto the minuscule hope that he would change.
“Pop-Pop,” she called to her grandfather behind the grill. “Nardo needs another milkshake.”