Jackson Marcus was already drunk when we showed up, even though it was only nine pm and his party had only allegedly started half an hour before. We had to park down the street, but even there you could hear – and feel – the thump-thump-thump of the bass. We walked by two different people puking into his plants and a couple aggressively making out before we even reached the front porch.
"You're here!" he spluttered as soon as we walked up to the front door, and I automatically blushed, even though it was obvious he was talking to Martha.
"Duh!" Her voice was unnaturally high. "Wouldn't miss it."
I was expecting her to say more, in typical Martha fashion, but she just beamed at him.
He reached out, snaking an arm around her waist, and pulled her close enough for his mouth to get lost in her wild mass of hair. It was only then that he seemed to notice that I was there, standing awkwardly to one side, pretending like my cheeks weren't an uncomfortable shade of pink.
He stepped away from Martha, but kept one hand resting on her hip. "Hey, I know you. January."
"Yeah," I said, "I work with your sister."
For a second, it looked like he didn't understand. But pretty soon his face lit up with recognition, and he gestured with his free hand towards the open doorway. "Come on in, party's just getting started."
I glanced at Martha, hoping she would give me some kind of cue. But she wasn't even looking at me, her lips extremely close to Jackson's ear, her hip still clenched in his hand.
So I went inside.
I didn't want to be at the party. If it were up to me, I would be at home, watching Wild Roses reruns and eating my way through the pan of tamales Rosa's mom had brought over. I wasn't even going as a favor to Martha, who made me her wingwoman without even asking – I was going for Rosa, who was Carter's self-proclaimed babysitter for the night.
"I don't need a babysitter. Babysitters are for babies. That's why they're called that," Carter had protested the day before, when Rosa had stopped in at the end of our shift for a couple pints of mocha ice cream.
"They're also for eighteen year old boys who cannot be trusted to get themselves home after parties," she had retorted.
"Bullshit. I can get home just fine."
Rosa gave him a doubtful look, before saying, "Fine. Consider it an over-glorified designated driver."
I was secretly glad Rosa was there, somewhere, as soon as I stepped inside. Seeing his living room – packed wall-to-wall with sloppy drunks – just made me glad that there was someone else who was sober.
Me (9:09): Where r you?
Some guy jostled my shoulder, and my phone almost slipped from my hands. I was busy watching his retreating back when it buzzed.
Rosa Jimenez (9:11): kitchen
Rosa Jimenez (9:11): trying to convince carter that shots are a BAD idea
Rosa Jimenez (9:13): and failing
I read her message, then looked back up into the crowd, wondering why Jackson's house didn't come with signs, or a map. I had walked through two rooms to get where I was now, and already I was borderline lost. I hadn't even attempted to find the kitchen yet.
I stuck my phone into my back pocket, then tapped the shoulder of the guy standing next to me, who was bobbing his head to the music.
He looked over, surprised.
"Kitchen?" I asked.
He stepped a little closer to me. "Huh?"
"Kitchen?" I repeated, louder.
He still looked confused, but pointed a vague finger towards the hallway on our right. I smiled gratefully, then walked in the direction he had pointed.
After pushing my way through several clumps of people, I realized that it was pointless. There were only two rooms, neither of which were a kitchen. The first one I found was a bathroom, which already had two or three smashed beer cans on the floor. The second one was Abby's room.
I didn't notice that's what it was until I was halfway inside, assuming it would at least be a break from mind-numbing techo pop beat that was currently blasting. It was almost empty, with one bed pushed against the wall, a desk, and an angry teenage girl sitting in the desk chair.
"What are you doing here?" Abby asked. She was pressing on the keys of her laptop forcefully, not even looking in my direction.
"Hi."
Now she looked up. "What do you want?"
I smiled at her. She didn't smile back. "Seriously. What the hell do you want?"
"Why aren't you at the party?"
Abby scowled, turning back to her computer. I took a seat on the edge of her bed, running one hand along her comforter. White, with tiny pink polka dots. "I wasn't invited," she said.
"But –"
"Whatever. I don't want to go to Jackson's stupid party anyway."
"Neither do I."
"Then," she hit the space bar angrily, "why are you in my house?"
"I came with my friend," I explained, "She has a thing for your brother."
Abby snorted. "Her and, like, every other girl he's ever met."
"What?" I cringed at how flustered I sounded. "What do you mean?"
She rolled her eyes, swiveling her desk chair in a half-circle, so she was facing me. "Are you, like, super dumb?"
"I hope not?"
"Well, that was a super dumb question." She propped her head on her hands, and I noticed that she had finally removed her black nail polish. Maybe she had been listening to me way back on her first day, even though she had claimed I was so boring that she 'might as well just die.' "My brother is the ultimate chick magnet. It's so gross. I hate listening to his gross sex noises in the middle of the night."
"Abby," now I was blushing and cringing, "to much information."
She gave me a flat, angry stare. "Please tell me you aren't making that pitiful face because you want to make gross sex noises with my brother."
"Abby –"
"Ugh! You do! Excuse me while I puke everywhere," she moaned. "And, later, I have to throw my eyeballs into a fire to erase that mental image."
"It's never going to happen."
"Yeah, right, 'cause your friend is already busy getting it on with him, not because you don't want to."
I stood up and walked over to her desk, hoping to steer the conversation away from me and Jackson, and, by default, Jackson and Martha. Just the thought of them, right now, tangled in some passionate lip-lock, made my stomach twist. "Wuthering Heights, huh?"
Abby followed my eyes to the book sitting by her laptop. "It's for school," she grunted.
"Do you like it?"
"No."
I picked it up, skipping to her bookmark. "I mean, Heathcliff is a jerk, but other than that, the story's pretty interesting."
"I hate all the characters," Abby said, "Cathy is just a bimbo. Nelly's whiny. And why do they name all their kids after each other? It's annoying as fuck."
"You're almost done."
"Yeah, well, it's a stupid book."
From my pocket, my phone buzzed. When I pulled it out, and unlocked it, I had another text.
Rosa Jimenez (9:38): did you suddenly gain the ability to disapparate? If so I am very jealous
Rosa Jimenez (9:39): or are you just very lost
When I looked up, Abby had already lost interest in me, focusing again on her computer screen with her teeth gritted. "Where's the kitchen?"
"What?"
"How do I get to the kitchen from here?"
"It's next to the dining room."
I bit my lip. "Okay, how do I get to the dining room?"
She rolled her eyes, tucking a clump of red hair behind her ear. "You walk into the living room. Then you walk into the dining room. Then you walk into the kitchen."
Even though this wasn't helpful, I just said, "thanks. I'll find it."
When I made it to the doorway, I turned back around, watching as Abby picked up the book I had left on her desk. "Hey," I said quietly.
She didn't respond.
"If you like Wuthering Heights –"
"I don't."
"Well, I'm just saying, if you did, then you might also like Jane Eyre."
Abby just shrugged, so I left, shutting the door behind me. I stood there for a second, just thinking - or, as close to thinking as I could get with "Anaconda" blaring at a ridiculous volume. I was still standing there when her light went off, and that was when I finally walked away.
***
I was starting to think that Wyatt liked being ominous. Even though he said and did (almost) everything with a completely straight face, there had to be some part of him that enjoyed the mysterious aura he created by sending people texts that could possibly be from some kind of dealer.
Wyatt Gulati (7:15): Franny's parking lot after our shift. First lesson.
I was curious as to why he was awake at seven am, and even more curious as to why he had to make it sound like I was on some kind of hit list, but instead of voicing these concerns, I just texted back "see you then!" and waited outside Franny's for him long after we had finished our work for the morning.
At 4:14, he finally stepped outside. "Hey."
"Hi."
"You ready?"
Even though I was definitely not ready, I nodded, and followed Wyatt as he crossed the parking lot to his car. We both went for the passenger side, and, when I realized this, I stopped. I didn't think driving lessons would mean driving, at least not right away. I thought it would mean demonstrations, then instructions, then, eventually, getting behind the wheel.
Wyatt didn't seem to notice me hesitate. He pulled open the door and stepped inside, already going to buckle his seatbelt. I made my way to the driver's side door, took a shaky breath, and opened it. Wyatt watched me as I sat down, reaching for the seatbelt, the resting both hands on the steering wheel.
He kept watching me, and finally, I turned to face him, hoping I wasn't visibly shaking. "What?" I asked.
"Do you, uh, want me to hold that?"
When I looked at him blankly, he nodded down towards my lap, where my pint of ice cream was sitting, stuck between my legs. It was all that was left from the Flavor of the Day, and I had scrounged up enough of so my dad could have some. When I explained it to him – dutch chocolate ice cream with dutch chocolate chunks – he had practically salivated just from the description, and I knew if I didn't snag some from work, I would have to make another batch, just for him.
"I got it," I told him, even though my knees were starting to get cold.
"You're going to drive like that?"
"Um," I hadn't thought about that, about driving, at all really, "no. I'll just put it in the backseat."
Wyatt nodded, so I unbuckled myself just so I could place the pint on the seat behind me. That's when I realized how messy the car was. It had managed to escape my notice just because the front half of the car was relatively clean – a little dusty, sure, but that's usually to be expected. In comparison, the back half was a disaster, with newspapers as a second layer of carpeting, and stacks upon stacks of CDs creating a mini metropolis.
I put my ice cream down hesitantly, afraid the clutter might swallow it whole. "Wyatt?" I asked. "Have you, like, ever cleaned your car?"
"Oh," he turned too, "no, not really."
"You probably should."
"Yeah. Right. That."
He had already lost interest in examining his clutter, but I took one last look. When I finally faced forward, Wyatt was digging around in the pocket of his shorts, groping around for his keys. When he found them, he handed them over. I tried not to panic.
"Thanks," I told him. My voice came out squeaky, so I repeated it, "thank you."
I willed my arm to move, to shove the keys into the ignition, to not think about driving and cars and what happens to people who drive cars. But my arm just stayed in my lap, and it was a few minutes before Wyatt finally cleared his throat.
"January?"
"Mhm?"
"Have you, uh, ever driven a car before?"
I bit my lip and, just barely, I shook my head.
Wyatt sighed. I half expected him to get out, to abandon me in the Franny's parking lot, send me the bill for the three dollars and seventy five cents I now owed him. Instead, he said "Well, this is going to be a lot harder than I thought."