“Recovering, I get it,” Hugh says, hands me his jersey. “Grandma says the first few minutes after are pretty rough.”
That’s right, I remember now. Hugh lives with his grandmother. His parents got divorced in fifth grade. It was . . . messy—that’s how Mom had put it. Must have been, for both his parents to leave Amontillado behind and him to decide he’d rather live with an old lady who has seizures.
I wet a towel, wipe off the front of my shirt as best I can. There’s an angry banging on the door, three raps in a row, insistent.
“Get off already, Broward,” somebody shouts.
I scrub more furiously, only driving the stain deeper into my shirt and ruining Gretchen’s towel. Dismissing it as futile, I pull Hugh’s jersey on over it, yanking my hair free from the back.
“How’d you know?” I ask, leaning forward to check my teeth. “How’d you know I was going to seize?”
He shrugs, his massive shoulders moving up and down in the T-shirt, like a white cloud. “You just had that look about you, the way Grandma gets. I figured you wouldn’t want to go down in front of everybody.”
“No,” I say, rinsing and spitting. “No, I didn’t.”
The banging comes again, harder.
“You ready to go back into it?” Hugh asks, hand on the doorknob.
I check my reflection, adjust my hair. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I think so.”
He twists the knob, but I stop him.
“Hey, Hugh? Why are you being so nice to me?”
He smiles, his teeth bright as his shirt. “Maybe I’m not being nice, Felicity,” he says. “Maybe I actually am nice.”
I watch carefully, weighing what I know of him against what I’ve heard. “I thought you were just some big, dumb bruiser.”
He nods, like he’s heard that, too. “Football, beer, and pussy.”
“Yeah,” I say. “So why do you let people think that?”
His hand falls from the doorknob, his eyes boring into mine. “What’s your last name, Felicity?” he asks.
“Turnado,” I say.
“And what’s that mean in Amontillado?”
“Money,” I say automatically. It’s one half of the power equation, the secret everyone knows about you but doesn’t resent as long as you keep it quiet, too.
“And what’s my last name?” he asks.
“Broward,” I answer.
“And what’s that mean?”
“I . . .” I search, all the other answers came easily, but this one eludes me.
“Nothing,” he says. “Not a name that matters, no money behind it. What’s my first name?”
“Hugh,” I say, and he cocks his head at me. “But people call you Huge.”
“Yep, and there might be a football scholarship at OSU with my name on it, if I play my cards right,” he says. “Get the fuck out of here.”
I think of the jewel tones of shampoo and conditioner lined up under my sink, one of them for colored hair. I recently went with the silver look because that’s what Gretchen did and everyone else followed suit.
“So you’re just doing what you’re expected to do,” I say. “Being the thing you’re supposed to be.”
He shrugs. “It’s easier than proving I’m any different.”
I nod, because I get it. He opens the door, and we go back out into it, together. He’s pulled away from me in a second, guys asking for the details about my . . . Oh, that’s nice. Assholes. Brynn’s at my elbow immediately.
“Twenty-three minutes,” she says, her mouth a firm line.
“What?”
“You told me to time you. It took twenty-three minutes for you to take a piss, and”—she spins me around—“apparently swap clothes with—” The humor in her voice falls flat when she sees the name on the back of the jersey I’m wearing.
“Hugh Broward, huh?” She spins me back around, the smile on her face a little forced. “Didn’t know he was on the buffet.”
“He’s not,” I say. “I mean, we were just—”
“Taking each other’s clothes off, yeah,” Brynn says. But her eyes aren’t on mine anymore. She’s scanning the crowd. “Oh God, seriously?”
I follow her gaze to where Ribbit is letting a freshman superglue the cut on his lip. She’s cute, but I know that guy pretty well—it wouldn’t matter if she were a two. He’s had a couple of beers, and she’s in front of him. He wants her to be happy. So he’s letting her superglue his face.
Twenty minutes later the tube has been passed around the room and Ribbit’s eyelids are glued open, constant watering tears running down his face as he smiles at everyone who asks for a selfie. Or at least . . . he tries to smile.
A guy from Prospero glued his lips shut.
I’m at the park. I’m a beautiful girl, and it’s a beautiful fall day, and I’m with a beautiful boy, and beautiful families are walking past us, smiling at the beautiful couple.
All I can think about is how I felt last night—beautiful. Inside and out.
“Oxy,” Patrick had explained over the phone. “You like?”
I do like. And if Patrick is the package it comes with, that’s okay, too. He hadn’t seemed surprised at all when I texted him, even if he was a little taken aback that I insisted we meet today. He’d come over and felt me up within the first ten minutes of us lying on the couch, supposedly watching Netflix. I let him, then asked if he had another pill.
“Not on me,” he’d said, pulling at the crotch of his jeans. “But I can get more.”
“Yes,” I’d said, pressing against him. “You can.”
Because I wouldn’t care if this guy was ugly as sin or skinny as Ribbit Usher or mean as that guy from Prospero who glued Ribbit’s lips shut. That pill made me not think about things, and not thinking about things has been the goal for a very long time.
So we ended up here, after straightening our clothes. Patrick says the park is one of the places where things go down, but that he has to wait. Apparently, his dealer sets up shop on one of the lesser-used trails, one that’s a loop, that way the people coming in don’t see the people going out. They also send out texts to whoever is buying today, letting them know when it’s their turn, further lessening the chances of users knowing who else is using.
“Smart dealer,” I say. I’m not exactly proud to be here, myself.
“So . . .” Patrick reaches out, his hand encircling my knee. It’s a nice hand, masculine, a scar across the back. But it’s not as big as Hugh’s, and he doesn’t have as light of a touch.
“You and Broward?” Patrick asks.
“Huh?” I look up, blushing, aware that I’d gone into a reverie about one boy while another one had his hand on my leg.
“You and Huge,” Patrick repeats. “That a thing? You came out of the bathroom with his jersey on, so I figured, you know . . .”
I think of Hugh, how kind he is, how nobody knows that—and how I doubt he’d be willing to buy Oxy for me. “Not a thing,” I say.
“Cool. I wouldn’t want to cross him.” Patrick’s hand tightens on my knee, and his phone goes off. “We’re up.”