Читать книгу Every Little Thing - Pamela Klaffke - Страница 6

Several full glasses of vodka have propelled us across town to The Cecil, which is the same as always: dirty, divey, selling cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon for a dollar. There was a show tonight at the Warfield, the concert hall on a sketchy stretch of nearby Market Street. Some nineties British band I think I know but could very well be confusing with Oasis performed, and now everyone is here, crammed into the tiny bar, drinking gross cheap beer and slouching. In the corner, two girls dance to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” They’re laughing. They think they invented irony. They’re maybe just legal and their skin is perfect. I dance alongside them in my faded black dress and pearls.

I smile at the Irony Girls, letting them know I’m in on the joke. They stare back at me with big eyes and then look at each other. I shuffle around until my back is to them, moving in a slow groove, a nearly finished can of beer in one hand. I down what’s left and look for a place to set the can, but there’s nowhere. I could drop it on the floor, step on it, crush it with the heel of my sensible black pumps and belch the way Seth taught me to do when we were twelve. But I do none of these things and dance the song out with the empty can in my hand.

“Thriller” segues into New Order’s “Blue Monday” and the Irony Girls disappear into the crush around the bar. Now it’s me, dancing alone, wishing I had worn a more supportive bra. I’m careful not to move too fast or sway my upper body too much for fear that any sudden movement may cause my breasts to swing and bounce in ways that give away my age.

Aaron and Edgar are the only ones in the bar not drinking beer. They’re standing together, drinking highballs and looking out of place in their designer suits. Edgar taps a toe of his polished black loafer in time with the music. I cringe for him and spin around. I wave to Seth and Janet and beckon them with my finger. Come dance. Janet shakes her head—she doesn’t dance except if she’s at a wedding or a fancy party and it’s a waltz or a fox-trot and her date is taller than her even when she’s in heels. Seth will dance and as he pushes his way through to me, I catch the Irony Girls staring, pointing, whispering to their friends. They must recognize me; not only did my mother write about me obsessively, she liked to run pictures with her column.

Seth hands me a fresh beer and now I’m dancing double-fisted. I throw the Irony Girls a look that’s more of a smirk than a smile. It’s my yes-it’s-me look. I had perfected it by the time I was ten and now it’s second nature, though I haven’t had to use it in a while. Living in Canmore, the smile/smirk is rarely called for. The locals—the wannabe hippies and summer students and Aussie snowboarders—don’t know about my mother or her column and neither do the rich weekenders from the city.

I pour the second beer into my mouth, swallowing as it fills, and drink until it’s gone. I spot the corner of a low table jutting out between the stalks of hipster legs outfitted in three-hundred-dollar jeans they bought purposefully filthy. I duck and lean, still keeping my rhythm, and reach my left arm out as far as I can. I set one can on the edge of the table and then stretch my arm again, hoping to drop the second empty beside the first. But my balance fails and gravity pulls and I’m on the floor, sticky and tired, close to tears with an aching hip. I bite my lower lip till it bleeds and Seth helps me up. I don’t want to—I shouldn’t, I know—but I look at the Irony Girls. They are sneering. They’re horrified. They start to laugh and I know it’s at me.

My lips are bleeding and chapped, my blond roots are showing and I hate, I hate, I hate these ridiculous black pumps and these stupid, stupid pearls. Seth holds me up and I walk the best I can, lopsided and gimped. As we make our way to Janet, who is talking to Aaron and Edgar, I step out of my shoes. The concrete is wet with liquor and littered with garbage. Scraps stick to my feet and I cringe, but anything is better than those awful pumps I’ll gladly leave behind.

And the pearls—the pearls have to go. I tug at the strand around my neck. They really aren’t that great anyway—the quality isn’t so high. There’s no knotting between the individual pearls and if you look closely under the right light you’ll see they aren’t all the same size or color. I give the necklace another tug and this time Janet notices and so does Seth and he tries to stop me, to grab my hand away, but he doesn’t think and I don’t let go and the pearls fly and scatter. One lands in Aaron’s drink. I notice one of the Irony Girls crouch down, pretending to tie her shoe, but it has no laces and I see her pocket a pearl. Let her have it.

“What the hell, Mason?” Seth says. He and Janet are crawling around, scooping up as many of the pearls as they can find. Even Aaron and Edgar fall to their knees, scrambling for stray pearls.

“Please stand up,” I say. Everyone is looking. I just want to be normal, to blend in, to have friends who respect my right to drink and fall down and abandon my sensible pumps and shoddy pearls. “It’s not worth it—please.” Finally, Seth stands and brushes himself off. Edgar pulls Janet to her feet. I kick Aaron lightly in the thigh and he stands, too. They try to hand me the few pearls they’ve found but I refuse. “I don’t want them.”

Janet collects the ones the men have found and slips them into my handbag. “You might in the morning.”

My laugh comes up as a snort. Someone taps my shoulder. I turn and it’s Aaron, holding out another pearl. He tries to press it into my hand, but I shake my head and shirk away, avoiding his touch. “Keep it,” I say. “Or give it away.”

“Come on, Mason, just take it.”

“No. Really. But thank you.” I turn away from him, but he doesn’t budge.

I move back and step on a pearl in my bare feet. “Ow! Fuck!” I bend over and scrape the pearl off my foot, letting it roll into the crowd.

“Are you okay?” He touches my shoulder but I slap his hand away. I narrow my eyes; I think I growl. I want to slink away, but the only way out is to walk through the bar, and everyone’s looking; my hair is too big to ignore. My mother called it the rat’s nest. My mother. The pearls. She’s dead in fur and big earrings, lying on Ron’s bed. Janet squeezes my hand. Fuck the pearls, the earrings, my mother, Ron—I’ll just get through the rest of this week and then I’ll be back in Canmore, where everyone thinks I’m a witch. I have no boyfriend and no prospects and my job at the bookstore is boring and going nowhere, but anything is better than this.

Aaron hands me a drink I begrudgingly accept. He looks amused.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s just … you are exactly how I remember you.”

“Clumsy? Stupid? Drunk?” I am offended, incredulous, humiliated, a bitch.

“No—funny.” Aaron knows nothing. “And the way you’d get Edgar into trouble—I loved you for that.” Aaron says this and I fight a smile, the sudden flood of memory. There was the time Edgar and I tried to run away from home after being yelled at for something we almost certainly did, though I can’t recall what it was. We packed our bags but didn’t make it as far as the gates—which were at least a mile from the main house—before being rounded up by Edward in his Jeep. There was also the time I mixed wine with apple juice and fed it to Edgar when he was sick. I told him it was medicine. He drank glasses of it and was drunk by noon and threw up on my mother. And then there were all the times we ruined my mother’s expensive makeup and dressed Aaron as a girl.

I take a big sip of beer, trying to calm myself. I keep my lips tight and try not to laugh but the picture in my mind of three-year-old Aaron in bright lipstick, blue eye shadow and cheeks rouged like a clown is too much and the beer I was holding in my mouth sprays out and onto Aaron. This makes me laugh more and soon I can’t stop. My stomach hurts and my head feels like it may explode. I double over and collapse on the disgusting, sticky floor. Everyone is staring. Aaron lifts me up by my underarms. I’m shaking with laughter, my body limp and heavy. I look at his face and see the makeup and hair I curled and feathered. He’s wearing one of my mother’s sequined tops as a dress. She’s angry and I blame it all on Edgar. That was one of the few times she didn’t write about me in her column; I haven’t thought about that in years.