Gluttony Page 20

  Whenever Beth was asked to sign a yearbook—and it didn’t happen often—she scanned the other entries, comparing them to the ones in her own. They referenced wild nights and inside jokes, testified to years of friendship, and bemoaned the end of an era. But Beth didn’t get any of that. No, she just got Have a great summer!

  There was only one section whose pages were filled with cramped handwriting and messages of enthusiastic sincerity. But that was more of an embarrassment than a triumph. Lucky for Beth, no one ever bothered to search through her yearbook, counting up her signatures, so there was no one to notice that after four years of high school, her only true friends were her teachers.

  “I’m really going to miss you,” Ms. Polansky said, signing her entry with a flourish.

  “I’ll miss you, too,” Beth told her junior year English teacher, wishing she could slip back in time. Things had been easy when she was a junior; life had been easy.

  “Oh, I doubt it,” the teacher said, laughing. The rare smile made her look several years younger. Although Beth knew that Ms. Polansky had been intimidating Haven High students ever since her parents were in school, she sometimes had trouble believing that the lithe, impeccably tailored woman in front of her was well into her sixties. Maybe all that snapping and eraser-throwing kept a person young; it certainly kept her students alert. “Once you get to Berkeley, you’ll forget all about us—you’ll get a chance to see what real teaching is like.”

  Beth flushed and dipped her head, letting her blond hair fall over her eyes. “I, urn, didn’t get into Berkeley,” she admitted to the woman who’d written her a rave recommendation for her dream school.

  Ms. Polansky pursed her lips, then gave a sharp nod. “No matter, no matter,” she said briskly. “Plenty of good schools, and students like you can excel anywhere. If I remember, your second choice was … UCLA?”

  Beth rubbed her hand against the back of her neck and made a small noise of agreement. She glanced over her shoulder at the door, wishing there was some graceful way she could cut short the conversation and flee. Anything not to have to admit the truth and see the look on her favorite teacher’s face. Telling her parents had been difficult enough. This would be unbearable.

  “And you were accepted, I presume?”

  Beth made another noncommittal noise.

  “What’s that?” Ms. Polansky asked sharply.

  “Yes,” Beth said, sighing heavily. “I got in.”

  “Buck up,” the teacher told her. “I spent some time in L. A. as a young woman—many, many years ago, as you can imagine—and it’s really quite the exotic locale. I’m sure someone like you will have no trouble—”

  “I’m not going,” Beth admitted, ripping it off fast, like a Band-Aid. But it still hurt.

  “What’s that?”

  Beth settled into one of the chairs in the front row of the empty classroom, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, as if any minute Ms. Polansky would start lecturing about MacBeth’s motivations in the third act while Beth struggled not to think about whether Adam would like her dress for the junior prom.

  “Some stuff happened this year, and, uh, I turned down my acceptance,” Beth said. She didn’t say the part about how she’d thought there was no point to planning a future when she couldn’t imagine living through the next day, or the next. Nor did she mention that she had expected to spend next year lying on a couch with her stoner boyfriend, choking on a cloud of pot that would help her forget everything she was passing up.

  “Why would you do a stupid thing like that?” Ms. Polansky snapped.

  Beth winced. She had always loved the teacher’s bluntness and her high expectations—but that was back when she could meet them. “I’m just stupid, I guess.”

  “You’re the farthest thing from that.” Ms. Polansky settled down at the desk next to her. Her voice softened. “What happened?”

  Beth shrugged. “I made a mistake.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “No.” Not that she hadn’t tried. Her father had tried. Her guidance counselor had tried. But it was permanent; it was over. “I missed the deadline. They’d still be willing to let me in, but … I lost my scholarship. And without it …” Beth shrugged again. Without the money, there was no way. She’d always known that. It was the reason she’d worked so hard every day, every year, knowing that her only shot for the future was in being perfect. And she’d actually managed it, right up until the very end, when she’d thrown it all away. “I’m thinking about taking some night classes … community college or something….”

  Ms. Polansky handed the yearbook back to her and stood up. “Well then. That’s settled. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Beth said.

  “For what?”

  “For … letting you down.”

  “Nonsense,” the teacher said. “You’re only letting yourself down.”

  Beth realized it was true. And that was even worse.

  “For old time’s sake?” Miranda had begged, launching into a long guilt trip about how they didn’t spend enough time together anymore, and how everything was about to change, and all she was asking was this one tiny thing….

  Eventually Harper had agreed, just to shut her up.

  She stuffed a limp, greasy fry in her mouth, washing it down with a swig of flat Diet Coke. “Exactly which part of this are you going to miss?” she asked Miranda, who was gazing at the tacky fluorescent décor like it was the Sistine Chapel.

  Miranda squeezed closer to Kane, who was stroking her arm with one hand and stealing fries off her untouched plate with the other. “This,” Miranda insisted. “Us.”

  “I see you every day, Rand,” Harper pointed out. “And next year, when we get the hell out of here and get our own apartment, I’ll see you even more. And as for your boyfriend, here,” she jerked her head at Kane, “I could do with seeing him a little less.”

  “You know you’ll miss me next year,” Kane said, flashing her a smug grin. “What would you do without me?”

  “Ce-le-brate good times,” Harper sang tunelessly.

  “Your life would be dull and colorless without me,” Kane argued.

  “Oh, Geary, I know how much you love to be right, so why don’t you prove it? You leave and never come back, and I’ll e-mail you to let you know how it all turns out.”

  Kane grabbed a straw from the table, tore off one end of the wrapper, then brought the straw to his lips and blew the wrapper into Harper’s face. “Patience, Grace. All good things come to those who wait.”

  Harper grinned—then spotted the hint of a quiver in Miranda’s lower lip. Stupid, she told herself. Miranda had been dreaming about Kane for years, and now that she finally had him, he was headed east to college in less than three months. And Harper just had to dredge it up and turn it into a joke.

  “I’ll be waiting a long time,” she said quickly. “Fall feels like forever away. Graduation feels like forever away.”

  “It’s only two weeks,” Miranda pointed out, picking at her salad. “And I just thought coming back here at least once before it’s all over—it would be like the old days.”

  The Nifty Fifties diner, with its peeling movie posters and Buddy Holly tunes blasting out of the ancient jukebox, was the perfect spot for nostalgia. Especially since they’d been coming here several nights a week since ninth grade. The fab four: Harper, Kane, Miranda—and Adam.

  Now Kane and Miranda were nuzzling each other and sharing a shake, while Harper sat on her side of the booth, alone. And Adam was … somewhere else.

  “You’re such a sap,” Harper told her best friend.

  “That’s what you told me the first time we came here,” Miranda said, beaming. “When I said I wished people still wore poodle skirts and went to drive-in movies and danced the Jitterbug.”

  Harper rolled her eyes. “You’re also a freak—how do you remember everything that’s ever happened?”

  “I think it’s cute,” Kane said,
giving her a peck on the cheek. Miranda blushed, and her smile grew wider. “Freakish, but cute.”

  “As long as you two are already in mockery mode,” Miranda said, “now would probably be a good time for …” She pulled out her digital camera.

  “No!” Harper said, waving her hands in front of her face. Miranda had been documenting everything that had happened for the last: couple weeks, and enough was enough.

  “No way,” Kane said, trying to grab the camera out of Miranda’s hands. She squirmed away. “No need to document another lame night in the world’s lamest diner.”

  “Come on,” Miranda begged. “For me?”

  Kane looked at Harper. Harper rolled her eyes. “The things we do for love,” she said, spreading her arms in defeat. She waved Kane over to her side of the booth. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  Kane squeezed in next to her and they pressed their heads together. Miranda held up the camera. “Kane,” she said reproachfully. “Don’t do that.”

  “Is he holding up bunny ears behind my head?” Harper asked, jabbing him in the side.

  “Not exactly….”

  Harper whirled around, but Kane was sitting calmly by her side, hands in his lap, angelic smile on his face, the picture of innocence. “Can we just take the picture?” he asked. “What’s the holdup?”

  Harper glared at him and turned back to the camera.

  “Think happy thoughts,” Miranda said cheerfully.

  Harper thought about the first time they had come here together: Kane complaining about the decorations, Miranda ordering two sundaes in a row, Adam whining about how his new girlfriend snorted when she laughed, and Harper breathing it all in, savoring the brief vacation from posing, performing, impressing, all the effort she put into maintaining her social position every second of every day. For a couple hours, she could just be with her friends, no worries, no fears, just overcooked burgers and soggy fries.

  “Smile,” Miranda said.

  But as the camera flashed, Harper’s mouth dropped open and her eyebrows knit together in alarm, turning her face into a fright mask of shock and horror. Because just before the camera flash had blinded her, she’d glanced toward the door. The perfect couple—blond, bronzed, beautiful—had just walked in. They weren’t holding hands, but they were a couple nonetheless. Anyone could see it. Harper just didn’t want to.

  They were heading right for her.

  “What’s he doing here?” Harper spat.

  Miranda turned around, then looked back at Harper, her eyes wide. “I don’t know, I didn’t—” She suddenly looked at Kane. “Did you?”

  Kane tapped his fingers on the table. “I probably should have mentioned it sooner, but …”

  “What were you thinking?” Miranda hissed.

  “I was thinking she wasn’t coming,” he whispered, jerking his head toward Harper. “Like you told me.”

  “Then I told you she was coming.”

  “Well by then it was too late, wasn’t it?”

  “You could have said something,” Miranda complained.

  “I just did.”

  “Forget it,” Harper snapped. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I’m out of here.” She stood up, just as Adam and Beth reached the table. Beth was wearing a pale green polka-dotted sundress with a white sash around the waist that looked like it belonged at a post-golf garden party—but, fashion don’t or not, it still showed off her long limbs and deep tan. Lawn Party Barbie, Harper thought in disgust. And she’s finally reclaimed her Ken.

  “Harper,” Adam said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

  “I’m not,” Harper said. “This is just an optical illusion. It’ll be over in a second.”

  “You don’t have to go just because—”

  “Yes.” She glared at Beth, who at least had the decency to look away. “I do.”

  Beth closed the car door and settled back into the passenger seat with a loud sigh of relief. “Well, that was …”

  “Awkward.” Adam stuck the key into the ignition, trying not to replay the night in his mind. It had been a mistake to bring Beth; it had been a mistake to come in the first place. It had, mostly, been a mistake to think that he could make things normal again just by wishing it.

  “Awkward with a capital A,” Beth agreed.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. You warned me that Kane was going to be there, and …”

  “I didn’t know about Harper or—” Adam pulled out of the lot, reminded of all the nights he’d come to the diner to pick Beth up after her shift. Back when she still worked there; back when they were still in love.

  “Please don’t apologize,” she said. “They’re your friends. You should get to hang out with them. And I … I should have been smart enough to stay home where I belong.”

  “No.” He reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “You’re my friend, too. And if they can’t handle that …” No one had said so out loud, of course. Beth and Kane had snipped at each other, Miranda, loyal to the bitter end, had glared silently down at the table, unwilling to engage the enemy—Harper’s enemy. And Adam had tried to keep up a nonstop stream of meaningless conversation without calling attention to the fact that everyone around him was miserable. It would have been hard enough under normal circumstances, but tonight, still shaken from his encounter with the UC Riverside coach, Adam wasn’t quite at his best. He hadn’t told anyone about the offer; he still wasn’t sure he believed it. And he didn’t know what it would do to Beth if he left.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

  “Please stop thanking me. I’m not doing you a favor by hanging out with you. I care about you.”

  He laid his hand over hers, and she squeezed it. “It means a lot that you’re always there for me.”

  Not always, he thought, self-hatred rising like bile. Not when you needed me.

  An old Simon and Garfunkel song came on the radio, and Adam turned it up.

  “I love this song,” Beth said, smiling faintly.

  “I remember.”

  “Reed always used to make fun of me for liking this kind of stuff but … sorry.”

  He glanced over at her, then back at the road. “What?”

  “I shouldn’t talk about him, with you. I mean, it’s kind of weird, right?”

  Adam shrugged. “A lot of stuff is weird right now,” he pointed out. “You should talk about him. If you want.”

  “I don’t.”

  They listened to the music. Beth sang along under her breath. Her voice was a little thin, but sweet and on-key, just as he remembered.

  “Okay,” he said eventually, pulling the car up to the curb in front of her house. “Door-to-door service, as requested.”

  “Thanks for—you know … thanks,” she muttered, fumbling with her seatbelt and scooping her bag off the floor.

  Adam turned the car off. “Beth, wait.” Before, when they were together, she had always pushed him to think about the future. She had wanted better for him than the life he’d planned for himself. And she had always given him the best advice. “Something kind of weird happened this morning, and uh … can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Adam had always loved it when she wore it down like this, cascading over her shoulders. He liked to run his hands through it and breathe in its fruity scent.

  “I got called down to the guidance office,” he began hesitantly, “and there was this guy there, with the coach …”

  She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

  But he couldn’t. She was depending on him. He could see it in her face. She needed him. If he was going to leave, he would have to tell her in the right way, at the right time, and this wasn’t it. He couldn’t say anything, not until he’d made his decision. Then he could figure out how to go, without hurting her.

  “Never mind,” he said.

  “What? You can tell me.”

  “No,
it’s just some stupid basketball thing. It’s no big deal. So, I guess, have a good night, okay?”

  “Ad, I know you don’t want me to thank you any more, but—” Beth leaned across the seat and gave him a tight hug. He rested his chin on her shoulder and listened to her breathing. “I owe you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

  She let go, but he held on, pulling away only enough to see her face. It was mostly hidden in shadow. There was a tear clinging to the corner of her left eye. She gave him a half smile. “Déjà vu, right?”

  He knew that she was thinking of all the nights he’d dropped her off at home, lingering in the car for one last kiss, before the living room lights flicked on, her mother’s signal that it was time to go inside.

  “A lot’s changed,” he said softly. “But …”

  “It still feels kind of …”

  “Yeah.”

  You couldn’t put it into words, the feeling between them, that comfort of knowing the other person, of having been through the pain and the lies and the guilt and coming out the other side.

  Beth’s face was a portrait of sorrow. He could almost see the old woman she would become someday, the worry lines and creases, the sagging of time weighing her down. She wasn’t the same girl he’d been in love with. If he’d even been in love. She was watching him, like she was waiting for something.

  So he kissed her.

  It was light, it was hesitant, and then, almost as quickly, it was over.

  She pulled away from him, but not in anger. Just surprise. “What was—?”

  “I don’t know,” Adam said quickly. “I just thought …”

  “You mean you want to …?”

  “I don’t know.” Adam looked down at his hands. One of them was resting next to hers, and he inched it over until their pinkies were interlocked, just like he always used to. “Do you?”

  About the Author

  Robin Wasserman enjoys writing about high school—but wakes up every day grateful that she doesn’t have to relive it. She recently abandoned the beaches and boulevards of Los Angeles for the chilly embrace of the East Coast, as all that sun and fun gave her too little to complain about. She now lives and writes in New York City, which she claims to love for its vibrant culture and intellectual life. In reality, she doesn’t make it to museums nearly enough, and actually just loves the city for its pizza, its shopping, and the fact that at 3 a.m. you can always get anything you need—and you can get it delivered.