“Why not?”
“Too much pressure. What if something happened to you after you drank the beer I bought you? I don’t need that on my conscience.”
“Okay, Dad.” I snort. But then I think of Mila and how this should be a legit concern for anyone who buys her alcohol.
“Also? I don’t drink.”
“Ever?” I ask, surprised.
“Anymore.”
“Why?”
“Reasons.”
I try to shift my weight to ease up on where my shoulder is digging into the ground, but there isn’t enough room. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“Not one I want to share.”
“You were advocating for truth-telling five seconds ago. Who am I going to tell anyway?”
“It’s not that. I just don’t like thinking about it. Fine with me if I’m a hypocrite.”
Silence.
“So do I get your college-dropout story instead?”
He sighs. “Maybe later. I’m tired.” At first I think he means he’s tired of this conversation but then he yawns.
It’s too early for him to be tired. I’m scared for him to fall asleep. I’m scared of the silence. I’m scared of being alone. I’m scared he won’t wake up.
“Why are you tired? Is it because you’re hurt?”
“Been up since six. For work. At the gym.”
“You work at a gym?” I probably shouldn’t conjure up his buff biceps, but I do. “I thought maybe you painted houses.”
“What? Why?”
Is this the part where I tell him how I was watching his every move before the earthquake? “Because you had blue paint on your hands. And your chin. Before. When I saw you.”
“Hm. Observant. I do paint. But not houses.”
“That’s cool. I’m not artistic.”
“Not sure I am, either.”
“So you don’t paint houses but you do work at a gym.”
“Yep. I quit Stanford to get a job at a gym. How’s that for aiming high?”
“I’m not commenting on a story you haven’t even told me. And by the way, I get up before six every day and I’m not tired.”
“Are you a farmer?”
“No. I have workouts before school. For water polo.”
“That’s the sport where they swim up and down in Speedos with the ball, right?”
“It’s slightly more complicated than that, but sure.”
“We only had tennis at Harbor. Stanford has a water polo team, though. I’ve never seen an actual game, but some of those guys lived in my dorm.” He laughs. “Cocky bastards. I guess that’s what happens when you walk around ninety percent naked all day. But it’s a real sport?”
“Are you kidding? It’s one of the most demanding sports you can possibly play. It’s like basketball. In the water. You have to be in really good shape.”
“Okay, but how hard can it be if you can touch the bottom of the pool?”
“You can’t touch the bottom. The water’s too deep. That’s kind of the whole point.”
“Sorry—you tread water and throw a ball around. Doesn’t sound that rigorous.”
“You aren’t treading water. You have to move your legs like those attachments on an electric mixer. It’s called eggbeater.”
“And you think that’s hard?”
I feel like I’m meeting one of my mom’s new boyfriends all over again, and trying to explain what water polo is. I guess that’s one advantage to her dating Coach Sanchez.
“Treading water isn’t hard,” Charlie says.
“It’s not treading water.” I clench my fists. “When you tread water it’s because you’re tired, right? You need to rest and catch your breath. You don’t eggbeater to rest. It takes a lot of energy, and you do it to stabilize your body so you can throw the ball and wrestle people off you. Try scoring a goal while getting pulled, beaten, and dunked. Try throwing passes and stealing balls without ever resting. Try that for an hour and see what you think.”
“Okay, okay. You’ve convinced me.”
“Stanford has one of the best programs in the nation, by the way.”
“There are a lot of ‘one of the best programs in the nation’ at Stanford. Ask my parents. They wanted me to major in all of them.”
“Ha.”
“So tell me this: If water polo is so hard, why would you want to do it on purpose?”
“Because I can.”
MILA
Mila thought she could do anything.
Even when she was drunk.
Especially when she was drunk.
And ever since her mom and dad’s divorce, Mila was drunk more than she should have been.
On New Year’s Eve, she decided we all needed beer because there was a party and moonlight and a night full of possibilities. She knew how to get it as soon as she spotted a guy all sideways-leaning against the wall of the laundromat. The guy wore jeans and a tight black shirt with an unzipped jacket, and he had a buzz cut clipped so close you couldn’t even tell what color his hair was.
“Ding ding ding,” Mila said, like we’d won the grand prize on a game show.
“That guy?” I said. “He’s so—”
“Gullible?”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s mean.”
Mila ran her tongue over her lip-glossed lips, looking like her sister, Lily, who’d finished high school before we’d gotten there. Lily was the one who usually provided Mila with an endless supply of alcohol, but I guess she was unavailable for once.
“Oh, Ruby. We’ll probably make this guy’s night,” Mila said.
“I don’t want to make this guy’s night,” Juliette said. “He looks old.”
“Older,” Mila corrected her. “Not old.”
“Fine,” Thea said. “What’s the plan?”
“Leo just gives them five dollars to do it,” I pointed out. “Like a tip.”
Mila rolled her eyes. “That’s how it works if you’re a guy.”
“So what do we do?” Thea asked.
“Take your hair down,” Mila told her. “Juliette, smile. Iris, hike up your skirt like mine.”
“Ew,” Iris said. “No.”
Mila ignored her and looked at me. “You be your tall, gorgeous self with your ridiculous legs.”
I instantly slumped. “Tall?”
“Um, hello. I also said gorgeous.”
“And ridiculous,” Thea said.
“Oh, please. Just be you. You’re fine.” Mila raked her fingers through her hair in a quick comb-through that left it looking all wavy like a mermaid’s.
Mila led. We walked behind her like a row of ducklings following Mama Duck into oncoming traffic. The guy kept leaning as we got closer to the liquor store, but his eyes tracked us, watching where we went and how we moved. Once we were standing in front of him, he pushed off the wall and stood up straight.
“Girls,” he said.
“Ladies,” Mila said, reapplying her lip gloss.
He ran his hand across the top of his buzz cut, then smiled a big white row of teeth. “Need something?” he said.