Читать книгу Dreamland City - Larina Lavergne - Страница 10

Reagan and I hardly see each other, despite being roommates. Every day the next few weeks I wander about campus until late, and when I come back, she’s either asleep or out. She’s emailed me a bunch of times, left notes on our door, my bed and even on the top of the pile of my dirty clothes, but I ignore them all.

Finally one Friday morning, my roommate corners me as I’m taking a shower.

“Where’ve you been?” The irritation in her voice is palpable. She’s just woken up—her eyes are slightly puffy and her hair bunched up in weird places, but her skin is still fresh and glowing. Naked and dripping, I eye her cagily, but I don’t say anything in return. Finally, to break the standoff, I turn my back on her, but she then reaches out from around me and turns off the shower.

“Are you serious?” I snarl, dripping, the soap pooling in my eyes and beginning to sting.

“Look, we need to get started on our project.”

I fumble with the knob and turn the shower back on, but Psycho Bitch turns it immediately back off.

“Fuck! Stop that!”

“Stop ignoring me,” Reagan responds coldly.

Breathing heavily, I pivot to face her again. “Why don’t you just do it by yourself?”

“How about we not do that? The Professor will know. You’re not being fair.”

I turn the shower on again, and this time she lets it run. I close my eyes and let the water wash the soap off my face. When I open my eyes again, she’s still there, staring at me with an unreadable expression on her face.

“Fine,” I say, more to get rid of her than from any kind of capitulation. “I’ll do it.”

She nods then, a beginning of a satisfied smile twisting her lips upwards. “OK. When should we meet? This weekend before Thanksgiving break? You’re going to be around, right? You live in Raleigh?”

Why is she going to be around?

“Whenever,” I grind out.

“OK. Tomorrow afternoon?”

“Peachy,” I say. I’ve always liked that word, and so rarely get the chance to say it. To use it sarcastically is a real bonus.

“OK we can decide where to go or maybe even work in our room.”

I’m planning on visiting Tommy for break. I’ll leave extra early tomorrow before she wakes up. I nod at Reagan and turn away, closing my eyes again against the needles of water.

It’s silence except for the sound of the shower. I think she’s left, but as I turn the faucet off, I hear her footsteps walking away; her raspy voice echoes in the bathroom as she calls out, “You know, Lily, you have really pretty hair.”

+++

Saturday rolls up after a night of deadened bouts of sleep punctuated by restless dreams. I wake up with a gasp when it’s still barely light. When I look over, I’m reassured that I didn’t wake Reagan up by the even breathing and the slow rise and fall of her chest. I sneak around the room gathering a few T-shirts strewn on the floor into my backpack and then race out of my dorm back to Dreamland. Outside, the air is crisp, but gaining the promise of mugginess to follow. I inhale it deep up my nose like an addict snorting coke.

The walk to my twenty year-old Geo that Tommy salvaged and fixed up for me last year. It is quiet and peaceful except for the odd morning runner. I see the remnants of partying—solo cups and cigarette packets—on the porches of the row of frat houses: Is this where girls like Reagan go to on Friday nights?

+++

The radio’s busted but I don’t mind: It seems almost wrong to ruin the morning with music anyway, and I enjoy the empty roads. After less than an hour, when I pull off into Paradise Road (the main circulatory of the Dreamland compound,) the day has grown stronger, but an otherworldly mist wraps around the shrubs and grass, curling around my feet and making me feel as if I’m walking on clouds.

No sign of my mother’s car, or Beau’s truck.

When I tentatively open the door, it’s empty again. There’s a barely legible note from Beau stuck on the fridge—who knows when he left it? Apparently he’s gotten a part time trucker gig and won’t be back for weeks. My mother’s never left notes.

I’m dangerously close to self-pity, and I shake it off. It’s not as if I came back to see them anyway.

I head over to Skelly’s and hammer on his door, not caring if I wake everyone up. A stone-faced Neil opens the door. He’s in his cop uniform—I guess he must have an early patrol shift. He gives me a once-over and I back away. And then, a bleary-faced Tommy appears behind him.

Tommy’s expression changes immediately. “There’s my girl,” he roars, lifting me up. I bury my face in his chest, even as Neil brushes by us without saying goodbye.

“I just saw you a couple of weeks ago.”

“But I missed ya,” he says, grinning, still holding me off the ground. “Who else around here gonna snark at me all day?”

I hit his arm and he sets me down. I turn my head to see Neil driving off, but not before giving us a hard stare.

“Where’s Skelly?” I ask as Tommy lets me in.

“He went fishing.”

When I hear that, I immediately launch myself back into his arms. He laughs at my frankness but complies, tearing my dress off. We jump into his tiny bed; he’s licking me deliciously all over my body with his rough tongue. It’s not enough, though, so I grab his hair and shove his head down between my legs.

“Fuck, faster, Tommy. Come on.”

There’s a loud, insistent rap on the door; Tommy jumps away.

I almost scream in frustration, but at least I know it’s not Beau this time.

Wiping his lips, Tommy pulls his boxers back on and disappears into the living room.

“It’s for you.”

He’s standing at the doorway, his expression puzzled.

“Fuck. Is it Beau?” It can’t be. They would be punching each other right now and Tommy wouldn’t be standing here with that quizzical look.

“Um…no. It’s some girl.”

“Huh?”

He shrugs, his eyebrows semaphoring I don’t know and holds the door open for me.

Cursing, I pull on my dress, storm out of the bedroom, and then I stop short at the sight that greets me.

Reagan Van Stieg, of possibly the Van Stiegs of New York, in all her immaculate glory, is sitting gingerly on the edge of the sofa in the living room. Her hair is loose, her hands are placed daintily on her lap and she seems to be trying to train her gaze on anything but the many empty bottles, cigarette butts, and me.

I can feel Tommy behind me, and I don’t need to turn to imagine the look on his face.

Reagan gets up. “Hi,” she says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world that she’s here.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

She looks up sharply at my tone, and then flushes slightly as Tommy comes to stand by me, still only wearing his boxers.

“Lily, we were supposed to meet this morning for our project. You woke me up when you snuck out.”

I stare at her. “You followed me?”

She doesn’t flinch. “And?”

I’m at a temporary loss of words. Reagan and I are glaring at each other. When did she even find time to apply her make up?

“Look, Lily, I really need this.”

“Why?”

She begins to say something, then she catches herself. “Nothing.”

“Um, you girls want a beer or something?” Tommy asks.

+++

I instruct Reagan to wait outside for me. She arches one of her perfect eyebrows.

As the door slams behind her, Tommy whistles. “She’s a cool chick,” he says, admiringly. I hit him on the arm as hard as I can.

“Ow!”

“She’s crazy,” I tell him. “She followed me all the way from Durham for a stupid project we’re supposed to be doing. Who the fuck does that?”

He nods in agreement, but I can see in his eyes that he thinks she’s real classy.

“What project you girls supposed to be doin’?” he asks, following me back into the bedroom. I slide the straps of my dress down and reach for my bra. Tommy bounces onto to bed and lies with his hands behind his head watching me as I fasten my bra before sliding the straps back over my shoulders.

“We’re in a lab together and we’re supposed to come up with something that demonstrates working principles of thermodynamics for a project. It’s worth like almost our entire grade or something.” I sweep my hair up in a messy ponytail and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I look exactly how I feel: An angry, frustrated mess.

“Oh. That sounds cool.” He gazes up at the ceiling and stretches his arms above his head.

“I guess I have to go with her and work on it since she’s here.”

“Yeah. Guess so. Maybe.”

He’s sad and pouting.

“Do you…do you wanna hang out with us?”

“Yeah, sure!” Tommy’s eager answer almost cut off my last word. “You girls gonna build some sick shit, huh?” he continues, sitting up. He reaches for his T-shirt.

“We’re building something,” I hedge.

+++

It’s started to rain and Reagan’s waiting in her shiny late-model Mercedes outside, an incongruous picture amongst the trailers and the rusty trucks.

She rolls down the window as Tommy and I approach.

“I live just over that way,” I tell her, pointing to the west. “It’s three minutes away. You don’t need to drive.”

She looks doubtfully at the rain and nods unenthusiastically. The car door swings out and I step back, my heels digging into the wet earth. There is a flash of white as her umbrella opens, but not before the drops of water create little spidery specks on her white blouse. She doesn’t offer to shelter me or Tommy.

“Is it OK to park here?” Reagan asks uncomfortably.

Tommy laughs. “Honey, it’s OK to park dang anywhere here ‘less my bro’s pissed off and decides to give you a ticket.”

She looks closer at him, and I can tell she thinks he’s hot from the way the head bitch attitude bleeds out of her like a dying wild pig with a bullet in it.

“I’m Tommy by the way,” he says, holding out his hand. “Sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier. Lil here tells me you girls are doing some kind of science project?” He’s enunciating his words; he’s trying.

For what?

“Reagan,” she replies, taking his wet hand after the barest hint of hesitation. She doesn’t answer his question.

“Pleased to meet ya, Reagan,” Tommy says. “I sure hope you’re doing fine today.”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” she rejoins gracefully.

I’m looking at them incredulously, half expecting them to bow and curtsey next.

“Come on, let’s go,” I say impatiently.

The rain thickens into a pour. I follow Tommy’s loping strides to my trailer and Reagan pulls up the rear. We tumble into my trailer; Reagan pauses when she’s inside, unsure where to go, while Tommy heads immediately to the kitchen. He tears off a paper towel to dry his face, then opens the fridge to look for beer. Outside, I hear thunder rolling in, and then, I feel my trailer shaking with slight vibrations.

“Can I leave this here?” Reagan asks, leaning her umbrella against the wall by the entrance. Even though she shook it out before coming in, water drips from it, forming a small puddle on the floor.

“Sure,” I say. I go into my bedroom to change out of my ill-fated dress and bring out a towel for Tommy. Reagan’s standing awkwardly where I left her, looking around the living area as if she’s been thrown into a snake pit.

“Anything wrong, Reagan?” I ask belligerently as she continues her inspection. We might not be rich like her, but it’s a decent trailer—doublewide, with two bedrooms and nice dining area and everything. I don’t even know why I’m feeling the prickling of shame. Before she can answer, Tommy comes over to us and holds out three beer bottles.

“Ladies?” he offers.

I accept a bottle from him, but Reagan shakes her head, her eyes going to the clock on the wall. Tommy shrugs and opens both remaining bottles anyway.

“Should we set up here?” she asks, gesturing at the living room. “I managed to grab the folder of some of the ideas I’ve had these past few weeks before I left our room.”

“Works for me,” I shrug.

Reagan sits down on the edge of our ratty couch and crosses her legs, her back very straight. I can’t help but smile at how out of place she looks. She smiles back uncertainly, then takes off her backpack and unzips it in one slow, weirdly erotic motion.

She pulls out seven different-colored folders and lays them out like a Chinese fan on the coffee table.

Tommy’s giving me a look, as if to say, ‘what crack is this bitch smokin’?

I shrug my shoulders. Reagan is our society’s poster child for beauty and future success; Judging from her spread out multi-colored folders, if she’s the future of our country, our nation better be ready for some serious color-coding.

Tommy and I sit cross-legged on the floor while Reagan drones on about combustion and how she learned about it from one of her uncles who flies jets for fun. And then she’s meandering into more wild fantasies about our engineering capabilities, mentioning “bio fuels” and “ethanol” a few times.

It’s time to kill this dream. I cut her off mid-sentence, “None of that is going to work, Reagan.”

She pauses. “Why not?”

“Well, it sounds like you want to take an old engine and put it in a new body and somehow create a new fuel source. Are you going to retrofit the fuel lines? Are we welding now? Are we going to rig up a biofuels chamber?”

Reagan swallows. “Ah…uh….I’m sure we could look online or something…”

Tommy has wriggled forward, and is sifting carefully through one of Reagan’s folders, the fuchsia-colored one, with his perpetually grease-stained fingers. She keeps an eye on him as if she’s afraid he’ll dirty them if he touches them for too long.

“It’s not a terrible idea,” he’s saying slowly as he studies a diagram. “Lil’s right. It won’t work with biofuels, but I could take a look with diesel or something. It’ll still be the same principles. Just not as fancy maybe. But I could help with just building an engine. It really is a good idea.”

I look at him in astonishment. He’s rubbing his chin, and I can imagine how his stubble feels under the pads of his fingertips.

Reagan looks over at him, soaking up his approval. “Right? I think we could do this.” She shifts her gaze to me. It’s not so much challenging as it is smug.

“What kind of engine?” I ask. “A car’s going to be way too complicated.”

“How ’bout a lawn mower?” Tommy pipes up.

“A lawn mower?” I ask skeptically.

Reagan was frowning, but now she speaks up. “I can do a more detailed sketch,” she offers.

I’ll bet she can whip up some lovely sketches, I think sarcastically. That’s probably all she can do.

“And then we’ll build the fuel cylinder and connect it the engine,” she smiles prettily, as if saying it makes it happen.

“Tommy, will you help us if we do this?” I ask before Reagan can protest that it’s not allowed. I don’t give a shit. If we’re doing this, Tommy’s doing it with us. After all, Reagan can probably research the hell out of engine building, but unless she’s a different person than I think she is, we’re not going to know the first thing about building it. Also, I can’t imagine Reagan getting her hands dirty. I mean, seriously, she must sweat pearls.

Tommy’s still looking at the diagram—there’s that spark of interest in his eyes that I love, the spark that comes on when he’s working on stuff, building things and fixing them up. All of a sudden, I remember little Tommy with his airplanes made out of bike parts, eyes shining as he talked about F-16s and the Concord and B-52s, running around carefree and happy. That Tommy went away years ago, and it’s always nice to see him back, if only for a short time.

“Yeah, I’ll help, if you want me,” he says uncomfortably, slowly. His gaze shifts from me to her then back again. Then, uncharacteristically shy, he leans against the counter and stares at the floor. He takes a swig of his beer; I can hear the wet swallowing noise deep in his throat.

I smile at my Tommy, walk over to him, and give him a kiss on that lovely stubbly chin (It’s been years since I could reach higher than his chin without getting on tiptoe.) We don’t just want you, Tommy. We need you.”

He grins.