The Stepping Off Place Read online

  Once in the family room, we played a cutthroat round of pool with a couple of the football guys. While I’m no match for Hattie, I can get surprisingly competitive in these situations. Nonetheless, my focus remained on assessing our opponents’ virginity-taking worthiness. Mostly, my intentions were uncomplicated, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a small part of me wanted Hattie to lose it so I wasn’t alone. Maybe it would make it easier for me to confess the truth.

  I scanned her prospects. Shunsuke, poor guy, unknowingly squandered his chance and left the room. Sean Wolcott was cute, in a Neanderthal kind of way. We were each other’s designated spin the bottle kiss at Max’s bar mitzvah in seventh grade. I looked at his beefy hands on the pool cue. He just wasn’t right for Hattie, even for this sort of thing. Especially for this sort of thing?

  I was halfway through my third beer (my limit before I’d slide into the Sabrina zone). Hattie’d had nearly five. Before I could process how out of character that was for her, Captain Dickhead strolled through the family room door. Panic flitted through my chest. We hadn’t been this close since the prom.

  “I play winner,” he announced, assuming full command of the room while still managing to ignore me.

  Oh, how I loathe you, Jay Fucking Seavers.

  Hattie sidled next to me and gave me a nudge. She cast a side glance at him and then back at me. A slurry smile spread across her face. “Whoop, there it is,” she whispered.

  God no.

  “You don’t like him,” I said, almost too quickly, pulse popping in my wrists, sober as the eight ball. She shrugged. Her eyes weren’t quite connecting with mine. “Crap,” I muttered. “You’re drunk.”

  Her laugh was throaty. “He’s such a man whore he’s probably not bad,” she said, adding, “I stole a condom from my brother’s room.”

  I shuddered at the invading memory of his hands everywhere at once and spun toward the wall, pretending to fiddle with one of those blue chalky cubes used on pool cues. I couldn’t bear it if he slept with her and me. It was gross. He was gross. And not gross. There were so many objections colliding in my head, I couldn’t make sense of a single one.

  “Look at you, Reid, with the Master chalk,” Neanderthal Sean said, perhaps remembering the smooch we’d shared in a broom closet those many moons ago. I could not care and smiled tightly at him.

  Jay brushed past me to close the space between Hattie and himself, resting his hands on the pool table and leaning in to appraise her best shot. His tiny, muscular ass presented itself like a trophy. I thought about spitting on it. He was posing, but straightened up in time for plausible deniability.

  “Six ball in the left corner pocket,” he said to Hattie with a saucy gaze. Right in front of me. “That’s your shot.”

  I set my jaw and glared at him. She knows her shot. And could kick your ass. How ’bout we shoot your balls in the fucking corner pocket, Dickhead?

  It didn’t matter. I was invisible to him in Hattie’s glow. This was the heartbreaking truth of the sidekick: in the big moments, it’s all about the superhero. I wanted to scream. Instead, I yanked her arm.

  “Wait!” I pretended to point out another shot but hissed in her ear. “Real friends don’t let friends sleep with dickheads.”

  She broke a smile and nodded. “Riiiiiiight,” she whispered, all sly. “Here.” She tossed Jay her cue with perfect accuracy. “You give it a go.” He smiled, but blinked like he’d been stung by a bee.

  I swept Hattie outside.

  “You’re right,” Hattie said. “He’s a wanker. I lost my focus.”

  “You would have regretted that,” I said over the music. “He doesn’t deserve you.” My thoughts swam from the beer and the close call. I couldn’t even figure out where I fit into the scenario. If I’d told her the truth from the beginning, she wouldn’t have entertained the idea at all, drunk or not.

  On the patio, it was the point in the party when kids danced, and a compact mob throbbed.

  I spied Matt Stedman, band geek turned hipster and drummer for Vanilla Yeti, a rock band composed of high schoolers. Stedman and I had been in the same Spanish class for three years. “I’ve got it! Stedman!” I said. I counted his virtues on my fingers. “Not needy. Cute. Leaving for college. . . .” I struggled. “That might be enough.”

  She narrowed her eyes, spotting him. “Ooh, very good.”

  “Plus, he has rhythm.” I was talking to myself at that point. Hammy had appeared from nowhere and dragged Hattie to dance. Of course he had. I glanced at my phone. Ten forty-two. I supposedly had an eleven thirty curfew.

  “Hey, Reid,” Emma Rose said, touching my arm. “Love your skirt. Abercrombie?”

  I found myself next to the Bobbleheads. Why is it so easy to dislike perfect-looking rich girls? Have we been brainwashed by movies? Exhibit A: Emma Rose Burnham. Long, straightened blond hair. Large, liquid brown eyes. Size two. Dressed like a Polo ad. Greta and Mimi, royal attendants, each imitated Emma Rose in her own way. The hairstyle. Touching people while talking to them. The shallow compliments that flowed like water in a brainless, babbling brook. Maybe it was the other way around: girls like Emma Rose were brainwashed to think this was how you act if you’re born pretty and rich.

  “Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to wade into the shopping chatter while scouting, so I said, “No dancing?”

  “Meh,” she said. “In a beer or two. These jeans are pretty low-cut. Don’t want to get caught flashing my bum.”

  “And if you wait two beers?” I asked.

  “I won’t mind flashing it.”

  Okay, she could be funny, occasionally. I nodded.

  “If I had that butt, I’d be flashing it all over the damn place,” Mimi said.

  I did my best to sigh silently. God, summer was going to suck.

  “Where’s Hattie?” Emma Rose asked.

  “With the Sandwich,” I said, nodding toward them.

  “Oh yeah,” she said.

  The song changed. Hattie danced with Matt Stedman now. I smiled.

  Emma Rose’s eyes narrowed. “Look at Priya dancing with that Braeburn hockey player.” We turned simultaneously. Please, God, don’t let me become a Bobble.

  “That’s not even the one she dumped Gib for,” Greta said. “Sabrina said that guy’s a Rockefeller cousin. Total trust funder.” The guy, clean-cut and tan, was grinding with a hand on each of Priya’s hips.

  “Ew,” I said.

  “God, Priya’s a bitch. Gib has got to move on,” Emma Rose said, like she had been counseling him through the breakup. Like she didn’t want to jump him herself. “Who could blame him if he did beat the crap out of that guy. Or the other hockey player.”

  “Right?” chimed Greta.

  “Come on, that’s a rumor,” I said. After Priya dumped him, it got around that Gib broke into the Braeburn kid’s car at the ice rink, hid in the back seat, then jumped him and supposedly busted his nose. It was so violent and cowardly and un-Gib that Hattie and I never believed it. Hammy said it was bullshit, too, and he would know. Listening to the goddesses of gossip here take it as truth annoyed me. I mumbled, “Bye,” and stepped into the shadows of the lawn.

  The grass felt dewy and cool, so I took off my sandals, carrying them in one hand while I ran my free hand along the groomed hedges ringing the house. Accidentally, sort of, I looked in each window I passed. In a den, Eve and her college friends laughed, lounging on leather furniture. In the living room, Charlie and Alesha made out on the couch. I blushed and looked away. Why was I always the observer and never the observed?

  “Reid.”

  I jumped—a reflex, I guess, since I recognized Hammy’s voice. I squinted toward his lanky figure under a tree. He was like Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz when all his straw is missing.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, then noticed the orange glow of his joint. “Ah. Hammy the Stoner tonight, eh?”

  “Reid the Peeping Tom tonight, eh?” he said.

  “I didn’t me
an to peep,” I said, walking to him. “But yay, Charlie!”

  “His persistence paid off at last.” He sucked the joint and held his breath, offering me a hit.

  I shook my head. “Makes me stupid.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  “You and Hattie had the moves like Jagger on the dance floor,” I said. His eyebrows folded in on his eyes. So fun to tease, the Sandwich. “You know I know you love her, right?”

  He looked like he might deny it at first, but broke into a smile.

  “I knew it!” I said. “Don’t worry, it’s not obvious to everyone. Just me. I have a sixth sense for who likes Hattie.”

  “Okay, but, is not obvious a good thing?” He leaned against the tree.

  I considered telling him she was on a mission to sleep with someone tonight. My role was scout, after all, and they’d make a great couple. But I couldn’t bear to think of him rejected. I patted his sinewy shoulder and leaned against the wide tree trunk beside him. “Tomorrow she goes.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” We studied the patterns the leaves made against the night sky for a while.

  “You’re not the only person it sucks for,” I said. “I’ve got eight weeks of zero fun girls to hang with. There’s a disturbingly real possibility I will morph into a Bobblehead.”

  He abruptly turned toward the tree and banged his fists against it. “She’s so perfect!” he wailed. “Life is not fair, Reid.” He slumped to the ground, sitting crisscross applesauce, like in third grade.

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I said, sitting beside him. “At least you have friends.”

  He popped to his knees, grabbing my shoulders. “I’ve got it!” he said. For a second, I thought he’d go all desperate romantic guy and kiss me, but he didn’t and then I felt stupid for even suspecting it. “Let’s make a pact,” he said. “It will be the Summer of Reid and Sam.”

  I chuckled, both at his idea and at him calling himself by his actual name. He was so Hammy, anything else seemed ridiculous.

  “I’m serious!” he went on. “We’ll force each other to go out so we don’t become hermits.”

  “Ummm. I think you’re toasted. A toasted Hammy Sandwich.” It was an awkward joke, but he rallied.

  “Yes, I am. But that’s irrelevant. I’m tired of this scene. Hattie’s the only thing that makes these stupid-ass parties worthwhile.”

  “Your flattery is stunning.” In truth, I was terrified to come to one of these stupid-ass parties without her. “You know you’ll go out anyway, Hammy. You’re at every party.”

  “Not anymore. I’m sick of it. And what then? Are we just going to sit home and play Xbox all summer? We’re seventeen, for chrissakes.”

  “I don’t have an Xbox.”

  “Come on. You know what I mean! We’re supposed to be living the dream. Groping people on a daily basis.”

  “Right,” I said. We watched a couple of fireflies blink over the lawn. “I was planning to work a lot and bank some serious college money.”

  Hammy threw his hands up, like he was fending off a smelly dog. “Don’t! You’re killing me. My idea is so much better. The Summer of Sam and Reid.”

  “You don’t need me, Hammy.”

  “But I do.” He stuck out his hand for a shake.

  I forced a laugh. “What are we going to do? Hunt for buried treasure? Build a tree fort?”

  “Anything but stay home alone,” he said. He grinned his goofy crooked grin. Why was I stalling? His attention, and the promise of it all summer, was a game changer for me. It was also terrifying. Do you want to play it safe or have an actual social life of your own?

  “Can we get a groovy van and solve mysteries with Scooby?” I said.

  “Abso-fucking-lutely. I’ll be Fred.”

  He was a bit more Shaggy, but I couldn’t say that. I mean, obviously I was Velma.

  He wagged his hand for the shake. I took it. “You’re on, Stoner Boy. I’ll get you a red cravat like Fred’s.”

  “Righteous!” he said. I admit it felt like he’d pulled me into a lifeboat from the Titanic. “I’ll call you tomorrow after work,” he said, getting up and walking backward toward the pulsing crowd on the patio.

  “Excellent,” I called. And I smiled for much longer than the Art of Cool dictates.

  I made my way back inside through the garage, where beer pong wreckage lay scattered and forlorn. In the kitchen, I slid into my sandals and searched the fridge for something nonalcoholic. Here’s the weird thing about Scofield parties: I barely knew Sabrina Bradley, and yet I somehow felt perfectly comfortable pushing aside a carton of almond milk and a container of wilted greens in her refrigerator to snag a can of sparkling water. I swung the door shut to find myself face-to-face with Hattie.

  “Where’d you come from?” I said.

  “We were playing pool.” She smiled.

  “We?” I peered over her shoulder. When I saw Gib, I actually had to grab the counter. Wasn’t she just dancing with Stedman? How long had I been with Hammy?

  I tried to sound composed. “Who won?”

  “Me,” Gib said, patting his chest, all self-satisfied.

  “He cheats,” she said. Her eyes twinkled.

  “How do you cheat at pool?” he said, flinging his arms wide. Flirting. He was flirting with Hattie. Gib flipping Soule. I scanned the patio for Priya and spotted her with Rockefeller by the keg. He’s moving on!

  “I don’t know, you tell me,” Hattie said. She held her Solo cup under the ice maker in the freezer door.

  “Hattie, I have to get home. . . .” I said.

  “I’ll drop her off,” Gib said. “It’s on my way,” he added, as if we didn’t all three know the subtext here.

  My eyes snapped to Hattie’s. We had an instant silent conversation.

  Me (eyebrows up): Holy shit, are you kidding me?

  Hattie: No! I am not! Put down your eyebrows and go!

  It took all I had. “Uh, yeah, okay.”

  She flicked her eyes to the door. I backed toward it. “Be quiet when you come in. My mom’s, like, CIA.” What was I saying? This wasn’t true. My mom reserved all parental energy for her war on autism.

  Hattie gave me a funny look. “Right.”

  I waved in an embarrassing toodle-oo action and slipped out the front door, rushing onto the soft grass. “Oh my God,” I whisper-screamed to the stars. Unable to stop smiling, I crossed the soft grass, murmuring a few awestruck swears, and plunked into the Fiesta.

  I looked at her empty seat and sighed.

  August 27

  I stood on our patio, searching the sky until the clouds darkened to the color of the flagstone beneath my bare feet. My mother was behind me, her hands on my shoulders. “Reid,” she repeated my name over and over again, like a quiet, mournful birdcall. At some point my dad arrived, wrapping his arms around me. I pressed my face into his collar and inhaled his city smell, a smell of the world beyond Scofield. He led me to the living room sofa. We never used the living room.

  The two of them sat across from me, mouths moving.

  All-night search.

  Pulpit Head.

  Rocks.

  Their words floated above us. I pictured the individual letters somersaulting through the ceiling and the second floor, through the attic and out the roof, into the evening sky, kite tails on her clouds.

  Heavy fog.

  Riptides.

  My eye caught a gnat spiraling around the table lamp, bouncing between the shade and the bulb. I let myself stare at the light until my vision grew fuzzy. I couldn’t make myself blink.

  “Reid,” my mother said, shaking my knees gently. I only saw her silhouette until my eyes readjusted. She and my father looked at each other.

  “This is hard, baby,” my dad said, holding my hand. The skin under his eyes looked papery and gray, riddled with crosshatchings in pen and ink. I wanted to reach out and smooth it with my thumb.

  “Reid,” Mom said. “Do you understand?” Her chin quivered with dimples,
like pebbles splashing in a puddle. Who was this woman who cried?

  “It’s a mistake,” I said, staring at the floor now. Hattie would come home and we’d start our senior year next week.

  “The police think it’s . . .” my dad said. He rubbed his neck, inhaled deeply. “Not an accident. Hattie’s uncle Baxter said they’re still investigating. But the Coast Guard found her. For now, she drowned while night swimming. But,” he said, his gaze direct. Hot. “It’s not a mistake.”

  I glared, staring into an eclipse. “Yes, it is.”

  The sob that came from my mother was so alien I put my hands to my ears. The numbness protecting me erupted into a roar, rolling up my throat. I bolted for the bathroom.

  I closed the door and curled onto the floor, but it was not solid. It was cold and shifting like water.

  “Reid?” my mom said with a knock.

  “Do you need help, baby?” Dad said.

  “I can’t,” I wanted to tell them. Closing my eyes, I let the words in my head take shape silently. My scalp tingled and the plea escaped into the room, an SOS drifting through the small window, out into the sky.

  Please cut the shit, Hattie. I can’t. Please.

  Over and over the words cartwheeled, waves spinning, fish swimming. A school of fish.

  “Look, Reid, a school of fish.”

  Please. I’m serious, I told Hattie. I’m so serious. Tears were hot on my face.

  “Reid!”

  My eyes popped open. I stood on Pulpit Head, the rocky cliff on The Thimble that looked out to sea. I recognized the Maine sky and water, bound together and stretching out forever, sparkling and endless in a way that was both awesome and terrifying. A rolling swell lifted her up before sloshing into the rocks, speckling my skin with spray. When the wave receded, there she was, a grinning seal. Hattie. I blinked at my bathing suit, the one with the big white flowers. I’d outgrown it years ago. I remembered this day, when she first got me to jump. The summer of seventh grade.