Текст книги "Since You've Been Gone"

Автор книги: Morgan Matson

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

The Orchard looked, from my parking spot, about the same as it had the last time I’d been there. It was a huge open space, covered with grass that was always flattened by cars driving and people walking over it. People tended to park haphazardly and then congregate by the picnic tables that ringed the space, left over from the Orchard’s previous incarnation. There were still some ladders to be found leaning up against the trees, but most of them had at least a rung or two broken, and only the bravest—or drunkest—people ventured up them. More than once, I’d seen someone go crashing to the ground when a rung had collapsed under their feet. Sometimes people were organized enough to get a keg, but mostly they brought their own beverages with them, and there was usually some enterprising person selling not-quite-cold cans of beer, for a heavy markup, from a cooler in the back of their car.

It looked like I was still on the early side—you knew a night was really getting going when there wasn’t any room to park on the grass and people ended up parking on the road that led to the turnoff. Orchard etiquette dictated you parked, at minimum, half a mile up the road so as not to attract cops’ attention.

An open convertible, stuffed with people, screeched into the spot next to me and parked at an angle. I didn’t recognize anyone, but before I could look away, a few of them glanced at me as they got out of the car. I turned away quickly, and in that moment, I suddenly realized what I had done. I had been so focused on following Sloane’s list that it was just now hitting me that I had shown up to the town party spot, all by myself. The only people I’d ever seen alone at the Orchard were creepy guys from Stanwich College, trying to pick up high school girls.

The Volvo’s engine started to whine and I reached forward to turn it off, then sat back against my seat. Reading the list and making the plan for tonight, it had seemed like Sloane was here with me. But this was the reality. I was alone at the Orchard, and had no idea what I was supposed to do next. I could hear, across the clearing, the low bass of music thumping and occasional shouts or laughter. I couldn’t make out anyone clearly, but I could see that there were a lot of people there, groups of friends in clusters. Was I supposed to just walk in there by myself?

A car swung in to park on the other side of me, and I picked up my phone, pretending to be absorbed in it, until I realized that nobody had left the car—and, in fact, the couple inside had started furiously making out in the front seat.

It was enough to get me out of the car, slamming my door and locking it shut. I looked ahead of me, to the Orchard. For just a second, I tried to rationalize that maybe I could just go home now—after all, I’d shown up here, and Sloane hadn’t provided any other instructions. But even as I was thinking it, I knew that wasn’t what she meant. And if I was going to do this, I needed to do it right. I took a big breath and made myself put one foot in front of the other as I walked to the clearing, wondering what it was that I normally did with my hands.

I was just not used to having to do things like this on my own. It had been me and Sloane, joined at the hip for the last two years, and she was so good at this kind of stuff—utterly fearless about walking into places she hadn’t been before, or talking to people she didn’t know—that any skill I might once have had in that department had withered away, since I knew Sloane would lead the way. And before she had moved to town, I had been part of a group of other freshman girls, and we had basically navigated the first year of high school by going everywhere in a pack.

I realized, with my heart sinking as I got closer to the clearing, that I had to deal with the fact that I had nowhere to go. There were about forty people here, and I recognized about a third of them—mostly people from Stanwich High, but a couple of Stanwich Academy people who were familiar from parties I’d been to with Gideon, when we’d gone with Sloane and Sam. Different groups had staked out the picnic tables, with people sitting on the tables and the benches, everyone talking and laughing and clearly here with their friends. Nobody else was wandering around alone.

I could see, a little farther into the rows of trees, various couples either making out or arguing, and beyond them, a small group smoking. There was a guy at the edge of the picnic tables with a keg and a stack of red Solo cups, an open cooler at his feet, and a steady drift of people walking in his direction. I thought about going over there, just to have something to do, but then what would I do afterward? I was sure everyone was looking at me; I could practically feel it. Everyone noticing that I was standing alone, out of place and friendless. Half the people there probably thought I was a narc.

I could tell that I was only a few minutes away from crying—or panicking—and to stave off this reaction, I stuffed my hands into my back pockets and tried to look around with a purpose, like maybe I was just trying to locate the friend that I was meeting, the people who were waiting for me. As I looked around, I saw Collins, leaning on a ladder in what I’m sure he thought was a suave pose, talking to Callie Dwyer, who was one of the most gorgeous and popular girls in school—someone who couldn’t be further out of his league. Callie looked bored and a little discomfited, and it didn’t seem like Collins had noticed yet that she was slowly edging away from him.

At the picnic table closest to him was Frank Porter, sitting with a group that I recognized he spent time with at school, but none of whom I knew particularly well—they were the super-focused high achievers. I looked away quickly, before either of them saw me staring, suddenly worried that they’d think I’d come here to tag along with them because I’d overheard their plans at IndoorXtreme.

I looked down at my feet, at my chipped polish, like it was somehow fascinating, wondering how long I had to stay here before I could consider this one done and go back home again.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped, startled, then turned around to see Gideon standing in front of me.

“Oh,” I said, surprised to see him—especially since I’d been thinking about him earlier. I suddenly hoped that this wasn’t clear in my expression. I realized after a second that this had not been the most polite reaction, and quickly added, “I mean, hi. How are you?”

“Okay,” Gideon said, giving me a half smile. He looked at me for a long moment before he spoke again. “It’s good to see you, Emily.”

“You too,” I said automatically, then wondered a second later if it really was. While I was happy to have someone to talk to and I was no longer the most pathetic person at the Orchard, I didn’t particularly want to talk to Gideon, especially after the way we’d left things.

Gideon looked the same as he had the last time I’d seen him, the night in May when everything had crashed and burned. I’d gotten used to his tallness when we were hanging out—or whatever it was we’d been doing—every weekend, but it had been long enough since I’d seen him that it struck me again. His blue eyes were still inscrutable, and his dark hair looked freshly cut. I was surprised and a little impressed he’d come over to me. I knew that if I’d seen him here, I wouldn’t have done the same thing. But maybe that’s how pitiful I’d looked standing here on my own—he’d felt he needed to come and rescue me. “So,” I said, after a long pause when it became clear Gideon wasn’t going to say anything. “How have you been?”

“Well,” he said, then took another pause. Gideon had always skipped the small talk with me, always thought about his answers and always wanted real answers in return. He had never given the flip, easy responses like everyone else. I thought now that we were no longer the something we’d once been, he’d stop this and go back to the superficial. But apparently not. “I’m all right,” he finally said. He turned his head slightly to the right, and nodded behind him. “Sam wanted to come out tonight, so . . .”

I lost whatever else Gideon was saying as I followed his nod and saw Sam. Just the sight of him was enough to make my stomach drop. He was leaning against a picnic table, and there was a girl sitting on top of it, talking to him, smiling wide and gesturing big, telling him some story while Sam nodded occasionally, one eyebrow raised. Why hadn’t I put this together as soon as I’d seen Gideon? He and Sam went places together, especially places like the Orchard. Before I could look away, Sam’s gaze drifted from the girl and landed on me. We just stared at each other for a moment, my heart thudding, before I looked away, down at the ground.

I could still sense his eyes on me, and I felt myself get closer to panic, wondering if he was going to come over, if I was going to have to talk to him. But when I glanced back, I saw that he was looking away, clearly barely listening to the girl at his side. And I could feel myself relax a little. Of course he wasn’t going to come over here. He had always been a coward.

“Emily?” I made myself focus back up at Gideon, who was looking at me with his eyebrows raised, waiting for an answer to a question I hadn’t heard him ask.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Gideon said, with a smile that disappeared immediately. He took a breath, and I realized he looked nervous, that he was swallowing hard. “Emily. I—”

“Sorry,” I said, quickly, needing to cut off whatever he was about to say. I wasn’t even sure what it was, only that he would probably want some explanation for what had happened, and I much preferred to keep that can of worms closed. “I just . . . I have to go,” I said, starting to edge away from him. “I actually—there’s someone I need to talk to.”

Gideon just looked at me in silence, and I could feel a long-dormant frustration bubbling up to the surface. Half my conversations with Gideon seemed to consist of these long, charged pauses, and after a while I’d just found it exhausting—like being a character inside a Pinter play. Like there were all these meanings that I was supposed to understand in his silences, but never quite did. “Okay,” he said slowly.

“Bye,” I said, then I turned and walked away, toward the guy with the keg, simply because I couldn’t think of any other options. I realized only after it was going to be too late to change direction—without it being super obvious—that I was going to pass Sam. I tried to keep my eyes fixed in front of me, but couldn’t help glancing in his direction just as I passed. The girl next to him was still talking, her gestures bigger than ever, while he just looked on, impassive. It was something that had always really bothered me about him: he rarely laughed at anything, making you feel like you were somehow obligated to entertain him. And even though I didn’t want it to, when you did get him to laugh, it somehow felt like an achievement. I pointedly looked away before our eyes could meet again, keeping my head down until I got to the keg.

The guy selling the beer was perched on one of the more rickety-looking picnic tables with a girl next to him, sitting close. I didn’t recognize either of them—I was pretty sure they went to Hartfield.

I waited for a moment, until it became clear that he was not paying attention, then cleared my throat and said, “Um, beer? Please?”

“Five bucks,” the guy said, not looking away from the girl, even when I pulled a crumpled bill out of my pocket and handed it to him. He pointed to the remaining red cups, and then toward the keg.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a cup and walking toward the keg while the girl burst out laughing. Even though I knew it wasn’t about me, I still felt my heart pound as I pressed the spigot. The keg was nearly tapped, and I’d never been great at working them to begin with, so I mostly got a cup of foam. It didn’t really matter to me, though, since I was basically just using it as a prop. I took a tiny sip, wincing at the warm, metallic taste, wondering how much longer I had to stay.

An hour later, I had solved the problem of looking like a total loser hanging out alone by removing myself from public view. I had found a spot in the rows of trees, the ones away from the picnic tables that nobody would be climbing as a dare, and had sat down, my back against one of them, trying not to cry. I had known, of course, that Sloane wasn’t here anymore. But I hadn’t quite understood what that meant until tonight. As I’d walked across the Orchard with my beer, I’d seen people I knew from school, and occasionally they would give me half a nod, but some people’s eyes slid right over me, as though without Sloane by my side, I’d become invisible. I’d pretended like I had somewhere to go, biting my lip hard as I walked into the trees and then sat down.

The reality of life without Sloane was, it turned out, much worse than I’d imagined. The reality was me, sitting by a tree with a prop cup of beer, totally alone, while other people laughed with their friends. I poured the beer out onto the tree’s roots and pushed myself to my feet. I was going home. I had surely spent enough time at the Orchard to satisfy Sloane’s list, though I had no idea what it might have accomplished beyond making me feel the loss of her even more sharply.

I stepped out of the trees and back onto the grass, and noticed a moment too late that I had basically fallen into step with two people also heading the same direction.  After a second, I saw that they were Frank and Collins, and I felt my heart sink.

“Hey!” Collins said, smiling big at me. He was wearing a rose-colored polo shirt that fit him a little too tightly and long khaki cargo shorts. “Where’d you come from, Emma?”

“Lee,” Frank corrected.

“ Lee?” Collins asked, squinting at me, tilting his head to the side. “No, I don’t think that’s right.”

“Emily,” Frank explained, his voice patient. “We went through this like four hours ago at work.” He looked over at me and gave me a half smile. “Hi, by the way.”

“Hey,” I murmured. I figured they were probably heading to the keg, and I looked longingly toward the cars—I was so close to just being alone, and not having to have any of these strained conversations any longer. “See you guys,” I said, turning off toward the parking lot, counting down the seconds until this would be over.

“We’re, um, actually,” Frank said, nodding ahead, and I realized they were heading to their cars as well, in the same direction as me—and I had just made this more uncomfortable than it needed to be.

“Oh, right,” I said quickly.  “Right. Cool.” There really didn’t seem to be much to say to that, and we walked along silently, all in a row, like we were a gang in a movie musical. “See you guys,” I said, as soon as my car came into view, and then realized a second later that I’d just repeated myself. But I didn’t really care, at this point. I just wanted to go home.

“Laters, Emma– lee,” Collins said, emphasizing the last syllable of my name. He stopped in front of a maroon minivan and pointed his clicker at it. A moment later, the side door slid open with a jerking movement, finally jolting to a stop. He glanced proudly at the open door and gave me a faux-modest smile. “Not bad, huh?”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that—or even why he’d opened that door, not the driver’s door—but before I had to think of something, Collins held out his hand to Frank for a fist-bump, gave me a wink, climbed in through the side door, and maneuvered his way into the front seat. Then he peeled out of the Orchard, fast, his door sliding shut as he pulled away.

I walked to the Volvo and unlocked it as I realized Frank was getting into a blue pickup truck a few cars down from me. He gave me a nod, and I gave him a half smile before I ducked into my car and started the engine. I turned on my lights, starting to breathe a little easier now that this whole strange, stressful evening was coming to a close. I didn’t even wait for Frank to leave first, but stepped on the gas, just wanting to get home. I had almost made it to the top of the road, by the sign, when my car started to slow down. I pressed harder on the gas, but the car didn’t speed up, instead just rolling a few more feet and then sputtering to a stop. I shifted the car into park and cut the engine, then waited a few seconds and tried to start the car again. But the car didn’t start—the engine revved once, then died. Was it the battery? I looked in a panic at the dashboard, like this might tell me something, and my eyes landed on the gas gauge, still right at a half tank, and I realized what had happened. I was out of gas.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, as though maybe I would wake up to find this had all been a terrible dream. But no. I opened them, saw headlights approaching behind me, and realized that things were only going to get worse.

It was Frank’s truck. I tried to start the car once again, like maybe there was a special secret reserve tank that would be activated, but of course, nothing happened. I could hear Frank’s engine rumbling behind me, and I cranked down my window and stuck my hand out, motioning for him to go around. It was narrow here at the top of the road, but there was enough room to get out if you drove on the grass. And he was in a truck, so it wasn’t like it would be a problem for him or anything. When Frank didn’t move, I motioned him around again, wishing he would just leave so I could figure out what to do here. But a second later, his hazards switched on, flashing red every few seconds, and Frank got out of the driver’s side and headed toward my car.

I looked away and bit my lip hard, feeling like I was about five seconds from bursting into tears. All I wanted to do was to go home. Why was that so impossible? And why was Frank Porter insisting on witnessing my humiliation? Suddenly, I was mad—furious—at Sloane. I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be dealing with any of this. I was only here because she’d told me to go here. And if she’d hadn’t left, if she’d been where she was supposed to be, none of this would be happening.

“Hey.” I looked over and saw that Frank was leaning down to speak to me through my open window, his face closer to mine than I’d been expecting. I drew back slightly, clutching my keys in a hand that I realized was shaking. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I said, trying to make myself smile at him, wishing more than anything that he would just leave me alone. Frank looked at me for a moment, and I wondered if I had insulted him by trying to pretend that things were fine when they so clearly were not. I couldn’t help but wish that it had been anyone else behind me. Of course Frank Porter was going to come over and make sure I was okay, while I knew most people would have just gone around me without a second thought. “I mean,” I added after a moment in which Frank hadn’t moved, “I’m out of gas. But it’s okay. I can handle it.”

“Really?” A car behind Frank’s honked its horn, loud, and Frank made the same go aroundmotion that I’d given to him. The car screeched around us, followed by two others, and I felt myself start to get panicky, as I realized that I was completely blocking people’s way out. Frank turned back to me. “Why don’t I drive you to get some gas?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I said automatically. “I’ll be fine.” A second later, though, I realized I hadn’t thought through what I was going to do here. Call my parents, wake them up, and tell them to come get me because I was stranded at a party they didn’t know I had gone to? It was not a good option. I had a feeling they’d be more upset about being woken up—and having a subpar workday tomorrow—than about the party itself. Could I call a tow truck? But I didn’t know how much that would be, or if there was enough money in the conch to cover it.

Two more cars zoomed around us, one driver yelling something as he went that was lost in the roar of his engine. One of them veered close to the car, and Frank took a step closer to the window. “Come on,” he said, and our heads were almost level now as he rested his hand on the open window frame. “There’s a place not too far up the road. It’ll take no time.”

I looked ahead to the dashboard, to the useless gauge, and considered my options. Going with Frank Porter to get gas was, unbelievably, the best of the lot. Another car zoomed around us, the driver leaning on his horn as he went. “Emily?” Frank prompted.

“Yes,” I said quickly, realizing that Frank was being incredibly nice in offering this, and probably didn’t have all night to stand around while I dithered. I took a long breath and then let it out. “Let’s go.”

We drove in silence up the road together. Frank and I had pushed the Volvo to the side of the drive, almost right up against the sign with the cherries. Then he’d opened the passenger side door for me, and I’d gotten in, not remembering to say thank you until he’d closed it and was walking around to the driver’s side. As I sat in the truck, buckling my seat belt as the lights dimmed, I realized I was in a boy’scar. Not that I’d ever spent much time picturing the inside of Frank Porter’s vehicle, but it wasn’t what I’d expected. It wasn’t spotlessly clean, maybe with some SAT prep books neatly stacked in the backseat. There was stuffeverywhere. On the floor in front of me there was a digital camera, a thick biography on John Lennon, and a baseball cap with a robot where the team name normally was. In the backseat, I could see a pair of sneakers and an iPod and a bag from the art supply store on Stanwich Avenue. In the front cupholder, there was a fountain soda cup, the straw bent, and in the back one, a tiny origami frog. I was trying to process all of this, but it pretty much came down to a revelation that hit me like a punch to the stomach—Frank Porter was an actual personand, despite his ubiquitous presence on campus, one I knew nothing about. And that made the fact that we were going to do this all that much stranger.

Frank pulled open the driver’s door and got in, turned off the hazards, and started the engine. The stereo came to life, but not playing music, just the sound of people laughing and clapping before Frank reached over, fast, and hit the button to turn it off. He didn’t comment on this, and so I didn’t either as we pulled out onto the dark, quiet road. Frank turned right, the opposite direction of going back to town. I actually had no idea where we were heading now, and was very grateful that he seemed to know where the nearest gas station was.

Being so far out from the lights of town—and with no houses around—it was pitch-black, the truck’s headlights bright against the darkness and the stars above taking over the sky, seemingly twice as many of them as I saw at home. I glanced at his profile, lit up by the dashboard lights, then out the window again, trying to get my head around what was happening. I was alone with Frank Porter, in the dark, in a confined space.

The truth was, I really just wasn’t used to being by myself with guys. Even with Gideon, when we were alone together, it was usually at a larger party, or with Sam and Sloane. I couldn’t remember when—if ever—it had just been me and a guy, alone in a car, on a dark road.

“So did you have fun tonight?” Frank asked, looking over at me after we’d been driving in silence for several minutes, me pulling my feet up to avoid stepping on John Lennon. I didn’t respond right away, and he added, “Until the car troubles, I mean?”

“Oh,” I said. I looked down and saw that the truck was a stick shift, and that Frank was driving it with ease, moving between the gears without even looking down. “Um, it was okay,” I said, feeling like the last thing Frank Porter needed was a recap of how terrible my night had been. He nodded and looked out at the road, and I realized after a moment too long that it was now my turn to ask him a question. If it had been Sloane in the car and not me, she and Frank would have been talking and laughing like old friends, and would have established their own inside jokes by the time they’d reached the gas station. And if it had been the three of us, I would have been able to sit quietly, happily, joining in with the laughter, feeling part of it, comfortable enough to jump in with a comment or an aside, but knowing the weight of the interaction wasn’t on me. “Did you?” I finally asked. “Have fun, I mean? Tonight?” Managing to mangle this simple question, I looked out the window, rolling my eyes at myself.

There was a small pause, and Frank cleared his throat before responding. “Yeah, sure. I mean, it was fine.” I nodded, and looked back out the window, thinking this was the end of our attempt at a conversation. But a second later, he added, “I don’t usually go there. It’s not really our scene. Mine and Lissa’s,” he clarified after a tiny pause, as though I didn’t know what wehe was a part of. I nodded again, and realized that, in fact, I’d never seen him at the Orchard before. “But Collins asked me to come along as his wingman, so . . .” He shrugged.

“How, um,” I said after another too-long pause, “how did that go?” I had a feeling I knew, since the girl Collins had been hitting on hadn’t seemed too thrilled about it.

“The same way it always does,” Frank said, shaking his head.

I turned to look out the window again, feeling relieved, like we had made enough small talk, and now Frank Porter wouldn’t feel obligated to try and carry on a conversation with me. He switched on his brights, and the outside world was much clearer, showing us things that had been hidden in the shadows before—including a possum that was dashing across the road, right into the path of the truck.

Frank slammed on the brakes. I was jolted forward into my seat belt, and felt something slide out from under my seat and hit me on the ankle. Thankfully, the possum didn’t freak out and play dead in the middle of the road, but just kept running, disappearing a second later into the trees on the other side. “Sorry about that,” he said, glancing over at me as he downshifted and started to drive again, more slowly this time. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said. I reached down and picked up what had slid out from under the seat. It was a CD case, the cover showing a mournful-looking guy on a curb in the rain, holding a microphone. Something about the picture made me think it was a few years old. Curtis at the Commodore, it read in stylized cursive. Frank looked over at me, and I quickly set the CD down on the seat next to me, hoping he didn’t think I was pawing through his stuff.  “Sorry,” I said quickly.  “This was just under the seat, and when you stopped—”

“Right,” Frank said, reaching over for it and dropping it behind his own seat. “Thanks.” He looked straight out at the road, and I wondered if I’d looked at something I shouldn’t have. But since I had no idea how to apologize for that, I didn’t even try. Before the silence could get uncomfortable, I saw the bright neon lights of the gas station up ahead. Route 1 Fuel, the sign read. It probably would have stood out in the daylight as well, since there was nothing around it, like it had popped up from the ground. Especially after the darkness of a road without streetlights, it seemed to appear almost like a mirage. But it was a mirage I was very happy to see at the moment. It was small, just four pumps and a mini-mart that looked very mini indeed. I could see a yawning employee behind the counter, and a flickering neon sign in the window that read Snacks Drinks Candy.

“I’m really—,” I started, then stopped and tried again. “I mean, I’m just glad that you knew about this place. All the way out here.”

Frank nodded as he swung up to one of the fuel pumps, pointing at the trees behind the very mini mini-mart. “See those?” he asked. “That’s the habitat of the gray tree frog. There were plans last year to expand the convenience store, add a car wash. Lissa and I spearheaded the petition that shut it down.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding. This was impressive, and while I was happy for the gray tree frog, I also couldn’t help but wish that we had gone to a gas station where someone wouldn’t have a grudge against Frank—and by association, me. “Well, I’ll just be a second,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt and opening the door.

“I’ll come in,” Frank said, unbuckling his own seat belt, apparently not worried that management would kick us out before we could get gas. I didn’t feel like I could say no, though, so I just headed up to the mini-mart, Frank pulling open the door and holding it for me before I could even reach for it. “Thanks,” I muttered. I walked up to the counter, hoping that in a place this small, they would sell something I could put gas in. “Um, hi,” I said, and the guy behind the counter straightened up from where he’d been leaning over a folded section of the paper, a pencil in his hand. It looked like he’d been doing the word search, a few words already circled.

“Hey,” he said, as Frank came to stand next to me. Frank leaned forward, turning his head to the side, and I realized he was trying to look at the word search. “What do you need?”

“Do you have something I can put gas in?” I asked, looking around the store, but only seeing the normal mini-mart stuff—bags of chips, sodas in refrigerated glass cases, candy and magazines.

He nodded and pointed toward the back of the store. “Against the wall.”

“Thanks,” I said, hurrying back there, not wanting to take up any more of Frank Porter’s time than I already had. But I wasn’t really sure Frank minded all that much, because I saw him lean forward, looking at the newspaper.

“You doing the word search?” I heard Frank ask as I reached the back of the store. I found the very small section that seemed to deal with car maintenance stuff—motor oil and funnels and tire pressure readers. I found a giant plastic container with a nozzle attached, but I really didn’t think I’d need that much, plus I wasn’t sure I could afford it, especially considering I’d also have to buy the gas to put inside it. After I’d overpaid for beer I hadn’t drunk, I only had twenty dollars on me. I had an emergency credit card, but it was linked to my parents’ card, and I really didn’t think I wanted them to see that I’d been buying gas in the middle of nowhere at one a.m.