So I say it. I finally say it.
And after I say it, I glance down at the rocky bank of the Rio Grande, but the river itself isn’t fast moving. It’s shallow, I know, because I’ve been tubing in it before and I scraped my ankle across the bottom. I want to jump into it. Because now I’ve said it out loud. Now that I’ve told my mother, where will I go? Back to her tiny peach house that’s falling apart? Back to the hammock?
I want to throw up.
My face in my hands. Her arm snakes around me. Her thigh next to mine. The heat. Too much heat. She hands me a cup of cold water. “Please, honey. I’m begging you. Drink.”
“I want to run away,” I say. “I want to run away and never come back.”
“I know about running away, honey,” she says. Her voice quavering. “It doesn’t work. I promise you it doesn’t.” She whimpers an awful sound of defeat. Whispering over and over. “I’m so sorry, Ali. I love you so much, Ali. You’re going to be okay, Ali. You’re so strong, Ali. I’m so proud of you, Ali. We’re going to get through this, Ali.”
And I feel like she’s talking to someone else. Someone who’s not me anymore.
* * *
* * *
Down the street. I can barely walk, but I trudge through the gravel road. My bike holding me up. The sun behind us. The dust in front. Walking through it like it’s nothing, like it’s part of us. All that unforgiving sunshine. Not one cloud. Just the glaring sun and the blue forever. We go slow, and I tell her what happened. How it happened. About Sean Nessel. About Blythe. About the article I wrote in the Underground.
Back in her house, I don’t know how long later. She’s a good listener. She tells me she’s been working on that. Listening. She rubs my temples with lavender. She strokes my hair. She kisses my tears. We sit there tangled for a while, saying nothing. She’s soft. My mother is so soft.
Sometimes when I’m watching her, I’m watching myself. Her eyes. Her chin. The shape of her jaw. I have so many of my dad’s mannerisms. But I’m all her.
49
BLYTHE
Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving. All the college freshmen are coming home to rule the town. Everyone will meet up at the Sweep, the dive bar that doesn’t card. The dive bar where people make out inside the antique phone booth. The place where the forty-year-old alcoholics line the barstools, in their Danzig and Megadeth T-shirts thinking it’s 1996 or whenever they were seniors. When the pores on their faces were smaller. When their cheeks were less reddened. The women are worse. They glare at us with such hate. I’m surprised they don’t call the cops. Most of us are underage.
I don’t see Dev anywhere. Maybe he’s with Sean; though the last time I spoke to Dev, it sounded like he hated both of us. I know we broke up, but I didn’t expect him to cut me off completely. He won’t even answer my phone calls. I find myself wanting to talk to him every day, the only rational person in my life, and now he’s just gone. It’s brutal. And it’s all my doing.
Cate and I walk in. Donnie and Suki are catching up later.
Past the bartender, in the corner of the room, I see Amanda Shire.
A friend of hers, Satya Ferris, her Cate, her henchman or henchwoman, whatever, sits next to her. Obviously Satya never lost her freshman fifteen because she doesn’t look like the anorexic girl I knew when I was a freshman. The girl who echoed Amanda Shire’s sentiments. The girl who told me to listen up. The girl who said I should smile.
Most people see Amanda as a mythical creature. When she comes home it’s like they bring out the parade floats. Amanda Shire. Sitting and flipping her hair at a dive bar full of underage kids. Maybe it was just me who saw her as a mythical creature. The weird things I noticed. Her hairless skin. Her soft blond eyelashes. How she had no trace of anything out of place ever. Even when she sat cross-legged in a bikini at Bry Jacobson’s pool party. Her skin, under there, near the outline of her bikini bottom, near perfect. No shade or stubble. No red dots like I have. No ingrown hairs.
“Amanda Shire.”
Her face lights up. She jumps too quickly.
“Lil sis.” Air-kiss.
“What are you doing here?” I say, air-kiss back.
“I guess I just want to see who will show up. But I don’t even know anyone anymore.”
“That’s because you’ve aged out of the Sweep,” I say.
She side-eyes me. “You’ve gotten ambitious, Blythe.”
I’ve become you, I want to say.
“Remember all those times riding for pizza instead of going to the gym at the end of school in Billy Casten’s car? Remember Bry’s pool parties? Remember Kramer? You were the cute little mascot. So eager to please. Such a beautiful girl so early on.” She sips her drink. She orders a round of shots and passes them to me and Cate. I drink it, the alcohol burning the back of my throat like it always does. But I want to keep up with her. I want her to know that I’m not really behind her the way she thinks I am. I’m way ahead.
She passes me another shot. It goes down easier this time. My mind fills with more rage. Something easy-going and moody plays on the jukebox—the whole music collection is from the 1980s. That jukebox is like a treasure chest. It’s on automatic. The owner doesn’t want anyone touching it. It’s the nicest thing in this place.
The words beat out like soft rockets.
My body fuzzy from the shots. I stare at her. She doesn’t even look at me. Just through me. Over me. Looking for anyone. Opportunist. She’s just waiting for someone to arrive. My neck stiffens. My hands squirm. All of it right here in my throat.
“I’m not leading the Initiation this year.”
“What did you say?”
“I’m not leading the Initiation,” I say, repeating myself, but louder this time.
“Oh, no?” Her face pinches. Her forehead stuck in irritated lines. “Then who is?”
“Hopefully no one,” I say. “Hopefully not a freaking soul.”
She hops off her barstool and slides in close to me. I can feel Cate next to me, her body moving in too. Her arm to my arm.
“You don’t even know what goes on in half these schools in the country, do you? And I’m not talking about sexual predators who you read about in the news. I’m talking about guys you know who just ignore all the signals and pretend like everything they’ve ever learned means nothing. And then they feel bad the next day. They feel oh. So. Bad.” She and Satya make these little pouty faces.
“You’re still in high school,” Satya says. “You don’t even know.”