THE pot luck was a sickening display.
The well-to-do people of the neighborhood brought round fancy plates of perfectly sliced food, and there had been many hours of dusting, wiping down surfaces and fretting from Arabella beforehand. We girls helped with the housework, as Arabella would be scandalized if a nosy neighbor happen to spy even a speck of dirt on her lovely furniture.
Her insufferable mother, Irene, had come down for the Haverbrook Harvest. It was one of the most popular times of the year, where farmers put their produce on display and children ran around with candy corn. The church also orchestrated a local auction, which was as dreary as one might expect.
"It's been over a year since that animal was in this house, but the fur still sticks so stubbornly," Arabella said sharply, her chest heaving from the anxiety of it all. She had rubber gloves up to her elbows and was armed with every nozzle she could unearth from the kitchen cupboards.
I swept the leaves away, and together Violet and I bleached the bathroom.
Back in the old days, I would've been groaning in my head, and Violet would loudly voice her displeasure to anyone who might hear it. But that morning, we were both grateful for the distraction.
Violet scrubbed rhythmically, her eyes glazed over like a member of the walking dead.
My knees hurt from the hard surface of the floor. Irene was reading a novel downstairs, and grumpily I thought it was rude of her not to even offer us a cup of tea in exchange for our hard labor. The strong sting of chemicals caused my eyes to water. A few strands of my hair escaped into my face, which had gone beet-red from effort.
It wasn't long until the afternoon truly died, and the sky outside became a thick and inky black.
I didn't know any of the guests. Well, I had telephoned my friends to slip in with the crowd, but now that Marcus and Joyce were invited, it seemed like a catastrophe waiting to happen.
Arabella played the hostess. She looked as magnificent as the day we met her - pearls at her throat and a smile twisted on her lips, she graciously shook hands and accepted thanks.
There is something so impersonal about a full house. You're restricted from the freedom of your daily routine, and the sound of pleasant voices constantly in the backdrop creates a sense of surrealism. I didn't like my privacy being invaded, but it wasn't even like the guests were expecting a grand tour of my bedroom or anything.
Every glass the family owned had been filled with pricey wines brimming with bubbles, and set out on little trays. Food, provided with neat napkins, varied from cold meats to elaborate salads, as well as platter garnished with carrots and cheese which I'd prepared myself.
People wore their poshest clothes, all trying to outdo each other's anecdotes. It was ridiculous, really.
My mother's last dinner had looked a lot like this. Where she'd employed a charm that seemed to be reserved for woman abandoned by their husbands, and a man had swooped in faster than you could say Crow. I wondered if he wept after her death. He probably wouldn't have given a damn about us. I was starting to believe most men thought offspring as a curse.
"Dear Granny just ordered me to take out the trash," Violet muttered to me as she marched into the kitchen. Her Victorian white lace was no failed garment - she looked like the virgin daughter than Edgar desperately wished she would pretend to be.
"Image is everything." Arabella straightened my shoulders from my preferred slouching position. I had no clue she had come gliding up behind me, her hawk eyes inspecting the atmosphere in each room. "Your little friends are here. Go and greet them. And it's best to keep my mother away, she's not in a very accommodating mood."
Before my stepmother even turned her back, I helped myself to the wine.
"I brought dips and celery!"
Joyce hugged me again. She was carrying a wobbling plate with flourish. A least she knew the customs of a suburban gathering, but then again she was too stupid to notice how unassertive I was acting.
"Where's your stepbrother?"
Would it kill her to keep her voice down? "I don't really know. Where's yours?"
Although he didn't deserve my concern, there was no indication of Marcus's swagger among the well-dressed strangers. Just Joyce, in a neon pink cocktail dress.
"Oh, he's come down with tonsillitis. He's sorry he couldn't make it."
No less than he deserved! There was a great giddy feeling whoosh inside of me, so strong that it was a miracle I didn't drop to the floor. If I could dodge Marcus tomorrow during the Harvest, there would be no reason to see him again! I could handle Joyce - even though her personality was annoying, she wasn't a malicious creature.
In lighter spirits now, I was reminded how innocent we used to be together. Before I learned about sex and cigarettes, there was only Joyce. In appearance, I was the same girl with the same vanilla clothing and big brown eyes, but now there was a sourness inside me.
I saw Violet struggling to fit the new trash bag over the bin. That was the cherry on top - we had to escape the boring pastel setting, even though my stomach rumbled with hunger.
Whether Marcus really had tonsillitis or not, it didn't matter anymore.
Under no obligation to hang around the socialites, we grabbed a handful of hummus-covered celery and went to find the rest of my friends. The clock read eight o'clock, and the pot luck was now buzzing.
Suddenly, the urge to brag overcame me. It was the first instance Joyce and I were able to enjoy a private chat, and by observing the awkward way she bopped her head to the music, it would've been rude not to forewarn her.
Nick, Betsy and Samuel were perched on the outside step, passing a joint between them between two fingers. The unmistakable stink of cannabis lingered in the air, so I made a point to open the front windows. The curtains billowed out in clouds, the white satin engulfing the freshness of the twilight.
One trait about Joyce - she was someone who was easily impressed. And I saw my gang through my eyes in that moment.
"How modern of you to be friends with a Negro," she breathed, because she knew they weren't in earshot yet. "He's not one of the revolutionary types, is he?"
"Betsy's the political one," I said. The way she said it made me feel a flash of anger. "And Betsy's the political one. But it's not political. He's my friend."
I was living for the roundness of Joyce's eyes. She really was still living in her cotton candy world where nothing mattered but the nuclear family and holding hands before marriage declared you a whore.
Sam cupped his hands around the lighter, and a puff of smoke floated above their heads. He was dressed like he was a guest to the monsters behind masks; namely, the punishment-inflicting man of the cloth, and the perfect hostess catering to every whim. I didn't like the light sweater he was wearing, but he really did fit the image of the college student he wanted to be.
Betsy was wrapped in a leopard-print coat, whereas Nick, to my relief, was dressed no more unusually than normal. When I saw him, I experienced a feeling I couldn't describe, but I knew very badly I wanted to kiss him again.
"You didn't tell me you have a boyfriend," gushed Joyce, struggling not to raise her voice.
There was no bothering asking how she knew. We were the epitome of unspoken connection.
So then I had to go through the rigmarole of introductions. There was a few warm hellos mixed with slight confusion; where did this random girl from Seattle suddenly spring from? On the telephone yesterday, I had only just had enough time to explain our plan in a series of paranoid whispers.
They looked close and shadowy, mosquitoes dancing above. It made me remember how badly I wanted to be in their little bubble - Joyce cleared her throat, and rocked on her heels.
"How have you been holding up?" I asked Nick.
"It's been... difficult." He shrugged, dropping his gaze. "Mom's been finding it tough to keep the house together, so Jamie and I spent three hours doing laundry the other night. There's a big scorch mark on Joseph's work shirt, but he didn't give us shit, which was refreshing. I don't know, really. We've just been keeping occupied. But it's hard, pretending."
Meanwhile, Joyce was pretending very hard not to notice that Betsy was observing her. She had the joint between her teeth, taking a generous drag.
We sat down in the bad lighting. No one cared where we slipped away, but Arabella was probably relieved I'd steered Joyce out of her circle of party-goers.
Maybe she could even fit in here now she was more conventionally attractive.
"You know that thing tomorrow," Sam announced, giving me the side-eye. "I couldn't get the car. I'm sorry, but there's no way I can borrow it. My uncle wanted to use it to transport wheat for the Haverbrook Harvest."
He couldn't reveal the secret in front of present company, but I had asked to loan his family car to drive to the motel Rudy had booked. We had been tenacious with out plans, and I wanted Sherri far away as possible from town. He had been our last hope of having a vehicle.
Joyce had been half-listening.
"What do you need a car for? Can't you just borrow your stepmother's?"
"None of them have a license, there's no way," Betsy coughed. She was super stoned. "Don't you think you're being dramatic? Just tell the cops about the -"
Sam interrupted very abruptly. "Whatever, this is a waste of time to talk about. We can discuss it later. It's going to be a full moon tomorrow night, did you know? Think about how bright the streets are going to be. Perfect weather for the perfect time of year."
"Perfect," I echoed.
Nick had been inching his hand closer to mine in the dark. The warm contact of it was rough, but I liked the feel of his hand on mine.
With the famous moon nearly in its final house, the glow of it was waxy and white against the clear sky. That was the loveliest thing about living in the countryside. The milky way was not fogged by the pollution of city smoke, and the stars twinkled through as clear constellations. I tried to bring this up to reel my friend into the conversation, but it just started Betsy off on a rant about compatible horoscopes.
Nick had noticed our new acquaintance had been speaking very little. It was one of his most attractive qualities. If only everyone knew how to talk to anyone.
He turned to face her. "So what about you? You went to school together, right?"
"Yes," Joyce flustered. "That was, until Lydia left me in the lurch!"
"Well, I'm sure it was very sudden for you too," Nick said, trying to steer away the topic. He didn't want me to be upset talking about my mother, and he had picked up her blindness for discomfort. "So what's been happening since?"
Joyce had finally found her audience. She was still nervous around male company, and when she nervous she had the worst case of verbal diarrhea.
"Oh, I found myself all alone and it was dreadfully dull, and the boys in the class were always so mean to us... but for some reason it got better when Lydia left. I always thought you were the pretty one - and you know what people say, if they tease you, they probably like you. My Grandmama bought we a purity ring for my fifteenth and then our whole family got into this massive argument about how I'm not somebody's property. My mother can be very liberal - my daddy calls her a troublemaker. So that's probably why they sent us away for a bit."
"That was a useless school," I snorted.
"You wouldn't believe how everyone had a field days with the rumors. It was a conspiracy! Maurice Pulvey kept cornering me in the shower block and asking if you'd contracted some terminal illness. She reckoned you got polio! And I couldn't even say yes or no, and I did write and ask. Then there was a crazy one - shame me for even saying it - that you got raped or something -" she gave a ridiculous laugh.
I stopped listening.
It was happening again. That tight, crushing feeling in my chest.
While I excused myself to get another glass of wine, I thought it was now a good thing that I couldn't drive.
Because if Marcus walked in front of the car, I wasn't sure if I would hit the brake.