The Chaos of Standing Still Page 20

  Troy and I both get it at once, and we let out a simultaneous “Eeeww!”

  Siri hoots with laughter. “You should see the look on his face!” she says to me.

  “I can see the look on his face,” I remind her.

  Her intoxicated brain catches up. “Oh, right. Well, you should see the look on your face!”

  “This is a friend of yours?” Troy asks me accusingly.

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  “Hey!” Siri says, scowling again. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and go hook up with someone.”

  For a moment I think she’s talking to me, and I’m about to open my mouth to argue, but then I see her gaze is pinned on Troy.

  “I don’t have time for members of the opposite sex. I’m writing a dissertation on—”

  “On how to be a virgin forever?” Siri guesses.

  “He’s only fourteen,” I step in. “Let up a little.”

  Siri rolls her eyes and scans the crowd through her mask. “So where is that hot boy toy of yours?”

  Now I know she’s talking to me.

  “He’s not a boy toy and he’s not mine.”

  “But he could be.” She taps her head.

  “I don’t know where he is,” I admit. And it’s true. I still haven’t caught sight of Xander since he left to get a drink.

  “There he is!” Siri spots him for me, her face all lit up under the mask. I follow her gaze until I see him by the bathroom, talking to the barista who Siri recruited from the French café. I suddenly feel like someone just punched me in the gut.

  He’s met someone.

  Of course he has.

  If Lottie were still talking to me, she would tell me that this was all my fault. That cute boys will only show interest for so long. That the game of hard to get is a delicate one. You have to give them just enough to keep them hanging on, otherwise, they’ll give up and try their luck elsewhere.

  But it’s not like I care. It’s not like I was even interested. I’m barely emotionally stable enough for a relationship with my imaginary dead best friend. What would I do with a real, live boyfriend?.

  “Oh no,” Siri laments dreadfully.

  “What?” I turn my attention back to her. She’s still watching Xander.

  “He’s talking to Mylee. That’s not good. She just got dumped. And whenever she’s emotionally vulnerable, she’s trouble.”

  I feel panic rising up in my throat. I want to ask what kind of trouble she’s talking about. Trouble as in she’s a serial killer who murders cute boys in Muppet shirts? Or trouble as in she—

  “Right now she’ll probably sleep with anything that walks.”

  A thousand-pound stone rolls onto my chest.

  “How old is she?” I ask, cringing at the obvious strain in my voice.

  “Twenty. But she has a thing for younger guys.”

  My grip on the cup tightens. This is ridiculous. Why should I care whom Xander hooks up with? It’s none of my business. The only thing that should matter to me is getting through this night, surviving 10:05 a.m., and getting home.

  That’s it.

  “You should really do something about that,” Siri tells me.

  “Do something about what?” I play dumb, sipping the dregs of my soda.

  Siri pulls the mask from her face and drops it onto the table. “That!” she says way too loudly, pointing to Xander and Mylee.

  “Shhh!” I hiss, grabbing her arm and pulling it back down. Although I’m not sure why I’m worried about her volume. You can’t hear anything in this room.

  “But you’re going to lose him!”

  “I never had him!” This comes out way more forcefully than I intended.

  “That’s not what I saw,” Siri insists.

  I want so desperately to ask her what she did see, but it doesn’t matter. It’s too late. I can’t be here anymore. I’ve reached my party threshold.

  “I need to go.” I pick up my backpack from the corner where I dropped it earlier and dart for the door, smacking right into someone walking in.

  When I finally overcome the dizziness of the collision, I’m able to focus on her face. That’s when all the air gets sucked right out of the room.

  It’s the redheaded flight attendant. She’s changed into different clothes—dark jeans and a low-cut top—and she’s let down her hair. It tumbles around her shoulders in long, fiery waves.

  She looks more like Lottie than ever.

  And following right behind her is the married man.

  The Great Popsicle Polarization

  It didn’t take long for Lottie to figure out that I was lying about what happened at Poker Guy’s party. I’m a terrible liar, and after she grilled me in the car on the way home, I eventually caved and told her I had made the whole thing up in order to get her out of there.

  She was pissed. She accused me of using her trust to get what I wanted. She accused me of taking advantage of our friendship. She accused me of trying to be her mother.

  And I suppose I was guilty of all of that.

  But I didn’t feel bad. I knew I had done the right thing.

  Because what if I hadn’t stopped it? She probably would have had sex with him. And what if she had gotten pregnant? And what if he decided he wanted nothing to do with the baby? And what if she decided to raise it all on her own because Lottie got it into her head that she could reinvent herself as a teen mom?

  Regardless of the catastrophe I prevented, Lottie refused to talk to me for a week. She ignored me at school and wouldn’t answer any of my texts or calls. She initiated a full-on Ryn Embargo.

  Until one night, seemingly out of the blue, the embargo was lifted.

  It was after midnight. I was already in bed, pajamas on, teeth brushed, reading a book for English class when my phone vibrated.

  I knew it was Lottie before I even looked at the screen. She was the only one who texted me this late. She was pretty much the only one who texted me, period.

  Lottie: Ryn Ryn . . . u awake?

  Suddenly, I understood. The nickname gave it away. Lottie was drunk. But whether or not she was good drunk or bad drunk, I had yet to determine. Good drunk meant she wanted to sob on my shoulder and apologize for everything and make us both promise we’d never fight again. Bad drunk meant she wanted to ream me even more for my blatant assault on our friendship.

  I debated even responding. I debated giving her time to sober up before having this conversation (whichever version it was.) But then I considered the fallout of that plan. What if this was my only chance to talk to her? What if tomorrow she refused to acknowledge me again?

  I texted back.

  Ryn: Yes. What’s up?

  I saw the little bubble appear, indicating she was formulating a response. She seemed to be writing forever, which meant that she was either typing a novel length diatribe or she was having trouble finding the right letters in her inebriated state. The brevity of her response answered my question.

  Lottie: Can you please come over? I need you.

  Definitely good drunk.

  But I still debated whether or not I should go. For a moment, I felt a flash of annoyance. She ignored me for a whole week and then suddenly she needed me?

  What if I just didn’t go? What if I texted back and told her I was tired? What if I just didn’t text back?

  What would Lottie do if she got a taste of her own medicine?

  But then a bigger, scarier question plowed into my mind: What would happen if Lottie really did need me and I didn’t show up?

  I pushed the covers off and stood up. All I was wearing was an oversize sleep shirt. I covered it up with a pair of ratty sweatpants and a hoodie and slipped on my old Converse. I had to tiptoe to the front door to avoid waking my mother and having to answer questions. I didn’t think that “Drunk Lottie needs me” would pass for an acceptable explanation.

  Despite being only three blocks away, Lottie’s neighborhood was decidedly more posh than mine. The houses all had secur
ity gates and privacy walls, as if the residents were doing illicit things behind their ornate, hand carved front doors. I knew the code to Lottie’s gate and let myself in. As soon as I made it up the driveway, I saw the light was on in the tree house. I crept into the backyard and climbed up the rickety ladder.

  I’m not sure anything could have prepared me for the chaotic state that awaited me inside. I froze in the child-size doorway.

  Lottie lay on a sleeping bag in the center of the tree house, a shapeless heap of limbs and fabric. Spread out around her, like discarded thoughts, were numerous tiny liquor bottles. Every variety of alcohol was represented. Vodka, rum, whiskey, gin, bourbon. She had drunk them all. The whole stash.

  I clambered through the hole and rushed to her side. I thought she was dead. She looked dead. But as soon as I called out her name, she stirred.

  “Ryn Ryn?”

  “Lottie!” I exclaimed, my body singing in relief. “What happened? What did you do?”

  “It’s his fault. He did this.” Her words were slurred and malformed.

  I knew immediately who she was talking about. Poker Guy. She had seen him again. She had gone back over there. Maybe she had even finished what she started.

  I knelt beside her and she curled into me, burying her head in my knees and sobbing quietly.

  “What happened?” I asked again.

  “I saw them together. He’s a cheating asshole. He ruined everything!”

  “Shh,” I cooed. “It’s going to be all right.” Even as I said the words, anger simmered inside me. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to shove dirty poker chips down his throat until he choked. I knew he was bad news.

  I tried to run fingers through her hair but it was tangled and knotted. So I just resorted to petting her head like a dog. She cried harder.

  “I knew it all along,” she whimpered. “I tried to ignore the signs. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. But I was stupid. We both were. So stupid, Ryn!”

  “No,” I told her. “You’re not stupid.”

  Lottie shivered. It was then I felt the debilitating December chill. And Lottie was dressed in a skimpy peach-colored dress that barely covered anything. I crawled over to the chest in the corner, lifted the lid, and pulled out the thick red-checkered blanket she kept inside. I draped it over her, tucking the corners under her knees and elbows.

  “I hate him, Ryn. I hate him so much! I hate him!”

  “I hate him too.”

  She didn’t seem to be absorbing anything I was saying. “It was her. It was her all along! She gave him these. I stole them, but she stole him first.”

  She was talking nonsense now. The alcohol was inhibiting her words. So I just murmured, “I know. It’s okay.”

  “No, Ryn Ryn. You don’t know. Not the whole story. Because I never told you. I should have told you. But I never did. I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Ryn Ryn. You have to forgive me.”

  I bent forward and kissed her wet cheek. “I forgive you, Lottie. I forgive you.”

  We sat in silence for a long time, Lottie crying into my kneecaps, me stroking her matted hair.

  The last thing she said to me before neither of us spoke of this moment ever again was, “Men are stupid. They’re selfish, stupid assholes. Don’t ever fall in love, Ryn Ryn. It never ends well. Ever.”

  I knew she wouldn’t remember those words tomorrow. I knew it wouldn’t be long until she moved on to the next obsession. The next crush. The next Lottie.

  She loved giving out advice, but she wasn’t exactly one to practice what she preached.

  Nonetheless, she never mentioned Poker Guy after that night.

  Then again, she was dead two weeks later.

  I’m on a carousel and it’s spinning too fast. Spinning out of control. Everyone in the room whizzes by me like blurred drawings. Still lifes in motion. Xander laughs at something Mylee says. Siri pours herself another drink. The redheaded flight attendant dances with the man in the suit.

  Tiny bottles scattered everywhere. Tiny bottles filling the room. Tiny bottles spread out around Lottie.

  “I hate him, Ryn. I hate him so much! I hate him!”

  That night in her tree house. It wasn’t about Poker Guy at all. It was about her dad. It was about the flight attendant.

  “A flight attendant’s life is so glamorous! Think of all the exotic places you get to go. And the people you meet. You could have a boy in every port!”

  I glare at the dancing flight attendant.

  But suddenly, I don’t see a stranger. I see only Lottie.

  Lottie all grown up.

  Lottie how she’ll never be.

  Lottie living out her last big dream.

  The dream that magically manifested two days after the night I found her nearly passed out drunk in her tree house.

  Lottie! I scream inside my head. Talk to me! Please! Tell me what happened that night. Tell me what you saw! Don’t leave me like this! Don’t leave me without any of the answers!

  No answer.

  Wanna hear something crazy? I try again. But not even her signature catchphrase will bring Dead Lottie back to life.

  She’s given up on me. She’s left me alone again. Even though she’s nothing more than a construct in my head now. I can’t even get Imaginary Lottie to talk to me. That’s how pathetic I am.

  The music thumps in my ears. It’s so loud. So loud. When is someone going to call the cops and shut this stupid party down? The airport police will arrest me for riding round and round on a train, but they won’t bust a raging party that so obviously violates fire code?

  I focus on the flight attendant who is also Lottie who is also a stranger.

  She turns her back to the man in the suit and begins grinding her ass up and down on his crotch. His large hand clamps around her stomach, pulling her closer to him, and all I can see is that bright gold wedding band. It’s like there’s a spotlight pointed directly on it.

  She does a provocative forward bend, flipping her dark red hair on the way back up. Her wild locks fall messily over her face, shrouding her features, distorting her eyes, until she’s no longer a stranger.

  Until she’s all Lottie.

  Then something inside me snaps. Irrational Ryn breaks free from her poorly constructed cage with the shoddy broken lock.

  How long have you known? I scream into the void in my mind. Why didn’t you tell me that you knew? I could have been there for you! I could have helped you! Is this why you wanted to be a flight attendant? Is this your sick, perverted way of trying to rise above what your father did? Stop lying to me, Lottie! Stop using me in your stupid games! Stop reinventing yourself! Just . . .

  “Stop!” I don’t even realize I’m speaking until I’m screaming. I don’t even realize I’m collapsing until my hands are covering my ears and my knees are weakening. “Stop! Stop! Stop!”

  The music stops, but it’s far from quiet. There’s a roar in my ears that sounds like I’m trapped outside in the storm. Everyone is staring. Everyone is whispering. The room is spinning again.

  I want to hide myself. I want to vanish. I want to evaporate. I want to dissolve into smoke. I want to be anywhere else but here.

  I feel an arm wrap around my waist, lifting me up. I don’t care whose it is, I’m just grateful to not have to stand on my own anymore. I melt into it. It holds me tighter and keeps me upright.

  Then it’s leading me away. Out of this room. Into the hallway. Where all is calm and all is bright. I look over at the person half carrying me, half dragging me.

  It’s Xander.

  There are question marks where his eyes should be. There are lines on his forehead that I don’t remember seeing before.

  We stagger over to the elevator. He jabs at the buttons and jostles me inside. We ride down, down, down. The doors yawn open and we’re in the lobby. It’s quiet and white and empty.

  Xander helps me into one of the chairs and collapses across from me. It’s only now I can hear my own breathing. It sounds like I�
�m wearing Siri’s stolen snorkel mask. I try to steady the ragged rise and fall of my chest.

  Xander watches me like a wildlife researcher watching a flock of fledgling birds, waiting to see if they’ll fly or plummet to their death.

  Because apparently those are the only two options in this world.

  “Well,” he says, finally shattering the silence as he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. “That was fun.”

  Lottie and I met on a sticky summer day in late August. We were eight years old. Her family had just moved to the neighborhood and she went trolling for friends on her bike. I would soon learn this was a very Lottie thing to do: proactively comb the streets for would-be accomplices.

  As luck would have it, I was outside, drawing on the sidewalk with chalk.

  I always wonder how my life would have turned out if I had chosen to play inside that day. If my mother had run out of chalk. If it had been raining. If Lottie had turned right out of her driveway instead of left.

  Would she have met someone else?

  Would she have forced some other shy, introverted girl out of her hermit shell?

  And what would have become of me?

  I never would have been sucked into her web of intrigue. I never would have seen the kind of things I’ve seen. Met the kind of people I’ve met. Played poker with strangers. Spent countless nights in a tree house. Changed my name to Ryn. Almost robbed a drugstore. Become best friends with a girl who would forever alter me.

  I probably would have known Lottie the way everyone knew Lottie. As the fierce gust of wind that blew through the hallways at school. As the daughter of rich, absentee parents who didn’t care that she threw wild parties (that I probably never would have attended). As the girl with a hundred faces and even more pairs of jeans.

  I would have heard about her death from someone at school, and I would have felt a stirring of sadness for the collapse of such a brilliant star. A sun.

  But it wouldn’t have been my sun.

  It wouldn’t have been my light that extinguished forever.

  It would have been the star of some far-off, distant solar system. The kind you read about in books. A red giant that ancient people told legends about. A pinprick of light in the sky that had twinkled its last twinkle. There one minute and gone the next.