“Not in Pine Ridge—I think Bayview.”
“We could drive him.”
“But then we’d be stuck there with no way to get back.”
“Shoot. Okay, so we just get him and the truck away from your house, and leave them somewhere nearby.”
“Let’s just worry about getting him up.”
Emma zips out to get a cup of water from the bathroom just in case we need it, then we get to work, finally having to roll Kyle right off the bed before there’s any response from him. He lands on the floor with the duvet, groaning and cursing.
“Kyle!” I say. “You have to go.”
“I’m sleeping,” he mumbles, making a baby face.
“Cute faces aren’t going to cut it, dude,” Emma says, and then starts flicking water at him.
He squeezes his eyes shut and stays put.
“Here,” I say, then I reach for the cup and (unaware this is soon to become a theme) dump it on his head.
“What the hell . . . ?” Kyle roars to life and we leap back.
“You have to leave,” I say.
“Fine.” Kyle gets up, keeping the duvet wrapped around him, and heads out of my room. We catch up with him in the foyer, where he’s shoving bare feet into his sneakers.
“Wait!” I sputter. “You can’t just . . . Your clothes!”
“Give ’em here,” he growls.
I shove the bundle toward him and prepare to turn my back while he dresses. But he just pulls the clothing to his chest, opens the front door, and marches out onto the driveway. Then he opens the door of the truck, which he must have left unlocked, and stuffs himself, duvet and all, into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s my keys?” he says, dopey and petulant. “Who stole my keys?”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Emma tucking them behind her back.
“We need to know if you’re sober enough to drive,” I tell him.
“Is this how you treat all your lovers?” Kyle says, looking both wounded and peeved.
“Only the ones who won’t leave when asked,” I say, and avoid looking at Emma.
“Look, we can drive you,” Emma offers, and then we exchange a glance, during which we decide via best friend telepathy not to tell him our plan to leave him somewhere nearby to sober up. “I’m sure you don’t want your ‘lover’ to be grounded for life because someone sees you, or God forbid her parents come home early and find you here in the driveway . . .”
“Sure, sure, but I’m fine,” he says, and then launches himself back out of the truck onto the driveway, still wearing the duvet. “Watch.”
He lines himself up along the edge of the driveway and marches forward with excess deliberation. Then, clearly pleased with his performance, he closes his eyes and lifts his arms for a higher degree of difficulty . . . which of course causes the duvet to land on the pavement, which means that instead of being gone quickly and inconspicuously, Kyle is now naked in my driveway.
“Enough!” I hiss, scooping the duvet up and throwing it over him.
“No driving for you, mister,” Emma says, and helps me propel him to the passenger side of the truck and then push him inside, where he immediately starts snoring.
“Is he asleep?” Emma asks me.
“Yep,” Kyle says, “he is.”
We drive to the gas station with the separate coffee kiosk inside (officially the cheapest date location in Pine Ridge) and park around back.
“Kyle,” Emma says.
He doesn’t respond.
“You think he’s faking?” she asks me.
“Who knows?”
We get Kyle coffee and a doughnut and leave him a note on the dashboard. Then we give the keys to Emma’s cousin Jimmy, who works in the kiosk, instructing him not to give them to Kyle unless he’s sober.
“And dressed,” I say under my breath.
Jimmy winks at Emma, and we decline his offer of more coffee and leave.
“You trust Jimmy?” I ask her as we start walking.
“I kept it secret when he was growing pot in his parents’ attic a couple of years ago, so . . . yeah, mostly. You okay?”
“I—sure,” I fumble. “But . . . can we forget this ever happened?”
She gazes at me, a million unasked questions in her eyes, then says, “I can if you can.”
7
TEA
Forgetting about Kyle is easy.
My attraction to him has conveniently vanished, and been (inconveniently) replaced by distaste bordering on revulsion. I’ve been checking the weekly schedule Dev posts and swapping and/or giving away shifts where we’re both scheduled, and it’s not that hard to ignore his texts. Though he does keep sending them. Whenever I do have to work with him I’m perfectly friendly, but not friendly like someone who’s ever so much as kissed him.
And as for the sex, I just don’t let myself think about it.
Admittedly, if I do accidentally think about it, I start to feel queasy. And if his arm brushes mine at work, or he gets close enough for me to smell him, it’s an effort not to flinch or wrinkle my nose. Not that he smells bad, but it reminds me, and then I feel like an idiot for having such a weird reaction. I mean, I had sex with him, and I regret it, but life goes on. No big deal.
And then comes a day that messes up everything.
It’s a warm Friday in April, and “social issues” week at school, which means daily assemblies, each highlighting a different issue.
Boris, tall, thin, and weed-like, with his big eyes and a wild shock of gelled-up, light brown hair, is hovering alongside Emma and me. We’re being bumped and jostled toward the gym, having just come from class together. Then I spot Yaz and Noah trying to push through—Yaz’s long, bright red hair and glowing pale skin visible from afar, and Noah easy to spot because of his height and because my eyes can always find him. They reach us just as Boris opens a chocolate bar and Emma swipes it and takes a bite.
“Hey, give that back,” Boris says.
“You want it back, you’ll have to come and get it,” Emma says, then sticks her tongue out with the partially masticated hunk of chocolate on it, and Boris moves toward her like he’s going to take it from her with his mouth.
“Eww, you guys,” I say before I can stop myself, “spare me!”
They practically jump away from one another, Boris flushing and Emma looking at me with stricken eyes.