“We’ve got work to do,” you announce, pulling on shorts and a tank top. It is early, too early. But right away, I can tell you’re on a mission. And there’s no stopping you when you’re on a mission.
“What about breakfast?” I say.
“We’ll grab it on our way.”
“On our way where?”
“To get tools.”
You are normally not an early riser. But here, maybe you will be someone else.
When we get to the courtyard we find that everyone is already out in the fields working. The only people left are Maria and another woman on child-care duty for the day, one man tidying up in the kitchen, plus the half-dozen children of the farm, who are busy drawing at the picnic tables. Both women are breastfeeding, Maria with Bean attached to her chest, the other with a much older child. I know I met the woman yesterday, but it’s all a blur and I can’t for the life of me remember her name.
“I don’t think that’s her kid she’s feeding,” you whisper. The woman is white, and the child at her breast is many shades darker.
“Maybe the father’s black,” I offer.
“I don’t think so,” you say. “Did you see any black guys here?”
“Maybe he’s not here,” I say. “Maybe they broke up.”
You look at me skeptically. “How old is that kid, anyway? He can definitely talk. Do you think he just goes Hey, Mom, give me your boob when he’s hungry?”
I shrug. You shudder. “It’s so gross,” you say. “To breastfeed a kid that old.” According to whom? I want to say. What makes you such an expert? I’m not sure where this spurt of anger comes from. Maybe I’m grumpy from being woken up so early.
Maria grins big when she sees us and motions us to come over. I start moving in her direction, but you grab my arm. “No time, Max,” you say so only I can hear. A couple of the kids look up at us curiously, then return their attention to their drawings.
“Later,” I shout over to her. “We’re in a hurry. We have a lot to do today.” You smile a big fake smile as you pull me away. You’re the one who decides we can’t talk, but I’m the one who has to worry about being rude.
“Okay,” Maria says back. “Let me know if you need any help. The kids can help too. Right, kids?”
They all look up and nod yes. A little boy around four or five demands in a squeaky voice, “Do you know why the Lorax is sad?”
“Oh,” I say. “Um. I forget. Why?”
“Because corporations keep cutting down trees to make freeways,” he lectures. “And genetic engineerings and the bad guy named Monsanto makes fish with three eyeballs.”
You guffaw behind me. I can’t help but smile. “I don’t remember that part of the Lorax,” I say.
Maria laughs. “I think River might have gotten a few things mixed up.”
“But he’s basically on the right track,” the other woman says. “Dr. Seuss was a revolutionary, you know. Seriously subversive.” Maria nods like this is common knowledge.
“Come on,” you hiss, and I let you drag me away.
You instruct me to make peanut butter sandwiches. You find apples, carrots. We throw our peasant meal into a canvas bag you discover shoved in a corner. The clock on the wall still reads 10:47.
“What about coffee?” I ask.
“No time for coffee.”
You’re the foreman of our operation, and I am the worker you picked up on the side of the road by Home Depot. You give me instructions, and I obey, nodding yes and saying little. Carry this WeedWacker, grab that plastic chair, those milk crates, that board, this pink flamingo, that flower pot, this little broken figurine of an owl. We raid the garage for anything useful we can find.
I chop the waist-high grass around the trailer with the WeedWacker, and you follow with the mower. Seeds and grass fly through the air and stick to the glue that is our sweat, get tangled in the Velcro that is our hair. We become one with the heat and the stickiness and the itch. When we are half done, we take a water-and-peanut-butter-sandwich break.
“This is our initiation,” you say, picking something that looks like wheat out of your hair. Your skin is already bronzing. You are already becoming part of the sun.
“Initiation into what?”
“Our summer of hard labor.”
The sun is almost directly above us in the sky. Sometime somewhere, I learned that this means noon. We get back to work.
We tame our new home. We soften all signs of neglect. We mow the grass until it’s flat and uniform, and we build a table out of milk crates and abandoned wood. The plastic chairs wobble, but they’re not too bad. As we sit eating the last of our food, surveying our day of work, you’ve got a satisfied look on your face. I can hear you crunching an apple, and the sound comforts me. The birds accompany you with their music. The leaves rustle harmonies.
“Did you see that woman’s armpit hair?” you say.
“What woman?”
“The one breastfeeding that toddler. It was as long as the hair on my head.”
“But not pink, I hope.”
“No, not pink,” you say. “That would be unnatural. That would, like, offend the Earth Mother Goddess or some shit.” You laugh at your own joke. I look across the lake, at the other side so eerily empty.
“Max,” you say seriously. You look at me, raise your eyebrows, stop chewing. I already know what you’re thinking. “That guy. At dinner last night. Sitting in the corner.”
“I know.”
“He was beautiful.”
“How old do you think he is?”
“I don’t know. Maybe twenty? Twenty-two? Skyler says he’s too old for us.”
“She said he’s too old for you.”
“But I’m older than you.”
“Only by seven days.”
“Whatever,” I say.
“Time to swim,” you say. “Let’s get our suits on.”
So we do, our motions matched and fluid. From far away, I imagine someone might think we’re twins. Since we were little, teachers have always said Those two are attached at the hip, and I’ve taken it as a source of pride.
We have always understood that our relationship comes first. There have been a fair share of romantic sides, most of them yours, but none ever lasts too long. You always stay true, rarely even sleeping with the same boy twice. Most would think of this as problematic; they do not know you’re being faithful to me. For you, there is a difference between sex and love. And what we have is love. The rest is simply entertainment.
Perhaps it is harder for me, my attractions being more ambiguous. You can safely say boys on one side, Max on the other. The line is straight and sharp. But mine curves all around; everything is gray instead of black and white.
I thought I was in love once. I never told you this. I knew it would break your heart. I let you think the relationship was something less, something like all of yours. By then, I had only a few kisses, a couple make-out sessions, and one awkward virginity loss with Hans, that German exchange student sophomore year. But then I met Elka, and at first I tried to pretend it was just a fling. I reported our trysts to you, doing my best to imitate your carelessness. You’d laugh and call me a slut, and I knew you were proud of me. But then I found there were things I didn’t want to share, things I wanted to be just mine. Like the way Elka would cup my chin in her hand when she thought I said something cute, the way she’d always rest her head on my shoulder when we watched movies, the way we’d breathe in each others’ breath when we kissed.
I don’t blame you for our breakup. I know it wasn’t meant to last. Elka was on her way somewhere dark and I didn’t want to go along for the ride. Not like with you. Your darkness is familiar. Your darkness I’m good at handling. But I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I stayed with her. What if the drugs were just a phase she would snap out of soon, and I’d have her back the way I wanted? Sometimes I wonder if things weren’t as bad as you eventually convinced me they were, if maybe your jealousy was more at play than concern for me. But this thought never lasts for long. I know you love me more than anyone in the world, more than Elka ever would have, even if she could stay sober. I must remember this. Above all else, this is what’s important. Girlfriends and boyfriends will come and go, but you will always be my constant.
We float. I practice stillness. I feel the breeze’s gentle nudges toward the shore. When I get too close, I flap my hands like lazy fins, and I move back toward the center of the lake. I try not to imagine what might be under me, what dark and hiding things are slithering where I can’t see them. You don’t seem afraid. The water is an extension of you. I think I hear your voice in the song it makes. You are floating in the corner of my eye, your face tilted toward the sun and a gentle smile on your face, and I think there must be nothing in your head but this water, this single place in time. This is your gift, this miraculous ability to just be wherever you are. You are weightless in more ways than one. The best I can do is float on this water while all the thoughts in my head threaten to drown me.
You float, serene, while I am the one burdened with memories. I have the job of holding on to your history, our history. I’m the one who remembers why we are here. I’m the one who has to be scared. You do not question the logic of paying a homeless guy to buy you whiskey. You do not question the idea of two teenage girls wandering around Seattle at night with the bottle in a paper bag, you taking five gulps for every one of my sips. I always know you’re getting drunk when your arms start waving in the air when you talk, the way you make yourself bigger the less sense you make. It’s when I’m ready to stop that you’re just getting started.
Men are drawn to drunk girls. They have a sixth sense that alerts them when a girl somewhere reaches the point where she’s incapable of making conscious decisions, when she has no one to protect her but a wimpy best friend. When you stumbled and fell slow-motion to the pavement, three chunky frat boys miraculously appeared to catch you. You laughed as they helped you back on the sidewalk. You thanked them even though I knew you couldn’t see them, even though your eyes couldn’t focus. You didn’t notice when one of the boys’ hands squeezed your breast unnecessarily, or when the other two shared a knowing smirk.
“Sadie, let’s go,” I said.
“Where are you girls going?” one said.
“We’re going home.”
“Oh, Max,” you slurred. You giggled as you leaned against one of the boys, as his big fat hand snuck its way under your shirt.
“Sadie, let’s go,” I said, pulling on your arm. They were not butterflies in my stomach, but bees, wasps, hornets, fierce and stinging.
“We’ll give you a ride,” one said. They all looked the same. “Our car is right around the corner.” He pulled keys out of his pocket, jangled them like a cat toy, and you grabbed at them, purring.
“Let me drive!” You laughed, and the boys laughed. The one with the keys mumbled to another that he was going to get the car. Something sharp tore through my whiskey haze, something barbed and hot and terrifying.
“Sadie, we have to go,” I said. “We have to go right now.”
“We’re getting a ride,” you said. “We don’t have to take the bus, Max!” You announced this so proudly, like you had found us a great deal. The boy propping you up had his hand fully under your shirt now. I could see it moving around, like some kind of alien disease. He was grinning at me with droopy eyes.
A car pulled up. The boy leaned out the window. “Get in,” he said. Something loud and ugly was blaring from the stereo, the kind of music frat boys listen to so they can pretend they have something to be angry about.
I said, “No.” You said nothing. You got in the car, and it drove away before you even had a chance to close the door.
I stood there on the curb as the music faded away. “Oh my God,” I remember saying aloud, to no one. The street was empty. No one saw. You were gone. You were drunk, and you were in a car with three strangers. And it was my fault. It is my job to keep you safe, and I let them take you.
My hand was shaking as I called everyone I could think of. I called your dad, but he didn’t answer. I called my house. I even called Elka, even though we had broken up two months earlier and weren’t speaking. I didn’t leave any messages; I couldn’t commit any words to being saved for later, couldn’t take on the responsibility of defining what was happening. Anything could have been happening to you, but I was still worried about getting you in trouble.
I had drunk a fair share of that whiskey bottle, but I had never felt more sober in my life. I felt the crisp night air taking bites out of my skin, saw every city light burning, cruel and menacing. It was the end of the world. I was not breathing. I did not deserve to breathe. I had lost you.
I thought I was dreaming when I heard music again in the distance. The screech of tires as the car turned the corner is what finally convinced me it was real; this was really the car driving toward me, this was really me running toward it and yanking the back door open; this was really you falling out and onto the curb, your mascara smeared down your face and the neck of your shirt ripped; this was me screaming something into the night air, not English, not even language; this was me scooping you into my arms; this was some asshole muttering “crazy bitch” as the car drove away, taking the angry music along with it, along with the boys who have absolutely nothing in this world to be angry about.
“What happened?” I screamed as you wept. You shook your head no. I searched your body for signs, for answers. “What did they do?”
“Nothing,” you whimpered.
“Sadie, what did they do?”
“Nothing!” You broke free of my arms and stood up on your wobbly legs. You started walking.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to find a bathroom.”
“We have to go home, Sadie.”
You kept walking.
“I’ll call a cab,” I said. But I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t even take out my phone. I just followed you across the street and around the corner. I followed you as you walked toward the dirty neon sign of a windowless bar. “Sadie,” I said. “You can’t go in there.”
Old men sat on bar stools watching a dingy TV in the corner. It looked like they had been there for years. All heads turned when we burst through the door. The bartender said, “Hey, I need to see some ID,” but you veered toward the bathroom sign. “Hey,” the bartender said again.
“She just has to use the bathroom,” I said, and followed you in.
You climbed onto the counter, lodged yourself in the corner against the wall, and puked in the sink. The already rancid bathroom filled with smells of whiskey and sadness and half-digested dinner. I tried running the faucet but it wouldn’t go down.
“Fuck, Sadie!” I said.
“Fuck Sadie, fuck Sadie, fuck Sadie,” you cried in response. Your arms hugged your knees against your chest as you rocked back and forth. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.” You threw up again.
The bartender pounded on the door. “What are you girls doing in there?”
“My friend’s sick,” I said.
“You get out of there or I’m going to call the cops.”
“Come on, Sadie,” I said. You shook your head. Your eyes were closed, and they would not be opening for a long time.
“Come on!”
“I’m calling the cops right now,” the bartender said.
“No, wait,” I said, but he was already gone. I tried pulling you off the counter, but you wouldn’t budge. I tried explaining what was happening so you would understand, but all you did was shake your head. I tried asking you what you were thinking, but you were gone. All I could do was hold your hair and wait for whatever was going to happen.
There was a strange kind of stillness in those moments before the cops arrived. I think it’s possible to be filled with so much worry that fear takes a person full circle to where they reach this saturation point where nothing matters any more. I was worried about what happened to you in the car, worried about the cops, worried about our parents, so worried about everything that I was just numb. The world was so big and heavy around me that it couldn’t even start to fit in my head. There was only this bathroom and the buzz of fluorescent lights. There was the feeling of your hair in my hands, the smell of your insides. There was only this moment, and I was nowhere else. It was the closest to Zen I think I have ever felt.
But then the paramedics arrived with their stethoscopes and questions, their efficient kindness. A female medic told everyone but me to get out, so it was just the three of us in the dirty bathroom. She shined a tiny flashlight in your eyes and asked you how you were doing. “I’m okay,” you said in a little girl voice. “Are you going to take me home?”
“What’s she on?” the woman asked.
“Just whiskey,” I said.
“I need you to tell me everything she took tonight.”
“Just whiskey, I swear.” But maybe not. Maybe you took something else. Maybe the boys gave you something in the car.
“This is Max,” you said, your eyes still closed. “She’s my best friend. She saved me.” Your shoulders shook with sobs and tears seeped out from under your closed lids.
“Well, that was nice of her,” the paramedic said, unmoved.
Someone knocked on the door.
“This is Officer Myers,” a man’s voice said. “Can I come in?”
“Give us a second,” the paramedic said, then I swear she mumbled “fucking cops” under her breath. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” she said gently, holding your face up. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.
“Sadie,” I answered for you.
“Sadie, you don’t want to do this kind of thing anymore, do you?”
“What thing?” you said as your head dropped back down.
“Getting in trouble like this,” the paramedic said. “This isn’t the kind of girl you want to be, is it?”
You shook your head no. Tears splashed around you.
“I’m going to talk to the officer outside for a second while your friend gets you cleaned up, okay?”
“Okay.”
“You’re too young for this shit.”
“Okay.”
“Say it,” the paramedic said. “Say ‘I’m too young for this shit.’ ”
You mumbled something that sounded reasonably similar. The paramedic looked at me sternly before she left to talk to the officer, one more person agreeing that this was somehow my fault.
“Are you okay?” I asked. You nodded. “Are you ready to go home?”
“We’re in trouble,” you said, suddenly coherent.
“Yes, we are.”
“I’m sorry,” you said. I could tell you were trying to open your eyes.
“I know.”
“I love you, Max,” you said.
“I know, Sadie.”
“You love me too.”
“Yes.”
“Say it. Say you love me too.”
“I love you, Sadie. I love you more that anything in the world.”
The paramedic returned. “I convinced Officer Myers not to write you up this time,” she said. “You girls are really fucking lucky.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“He is going to drive you home, though,” she continued. “And he’s going to talk to your parents, young lady,” she said, putting her hand on your arm. I remember a sudden and blinding jealousy. I wanted her hand on my arm; I wanted a kind stranger to comfort me for once. And then an instant shame like a slap in the face. My best friend was about to be taken home by the cops, and I was worried about what I wanted.
The back of the police car was dark and smelled like disinfectant. The molded plastic seat was hard and cold. Officer Myers lectured us the whole way home through the clear window that separated the good guys in the front from the bad guys in the back. You were passed out, so I was the one who had to listen to his cautionary tales of all the bad things that can happen to drunk girls in the city. It was nothing I hadn’t heard before. Every story he told starred you in my mind, running blind, flailing around and knocking things over, and I was always scrambling behind you trying to pick up the broken pieces.
I got dropped off first. I gave the officer your address. He didn’t bother walking me to the door or talking to my parents, like he had already decided I wasn’t worth the trouble. I was supposed to spend the night at your place, so no one was expecting me home. No lights were on. I let myself in with no one noticing. I watched the cop car drive away with you sleeping soundly in the back seat like you had no idea anything was wrong. I slept well that night, not only because I was exhausted, but because I knew you were at least safe for the night and I didn’t have to take care of you.
You texted me the next day: My dad’s sending me to live in Nebraska for the summer!
Nebraska?! I responded.
It’s good news! you wrote. I’m going to live with my mom!
You had been trying to convince Lark to take you for years. You finally got your wish. All it took was drinking yourself stupid, getting kidnapped by three assholes, puking in a bar sink, and almost getting arrested.
She said you can come too!! So many exclamation points for someone who spent so much of last night puking. Ask your parents!
So I did. And they said yes. And that was that. Two teenage girls shipped off to Nebraska the summer before senior year to work on an organic farm in the middle of nowhere. This is our punishment for that night—lazing away a beautiful summer day, floating on a lake with the sun warming our faces, our own little house and yard and what I am beginning to suspect will be minimal adult supervision. I thought my parents would at least put up something of a fight when I asked, but they gave in easily, as eager to get rid of me as your dad and wicked stepmother were to get rid of you. So here we are, but I am realizing that I am the only one who is punished. I am the only one who actually sees you and the trouble that follows wherever you go. I don’t have the luxury of passing you off to a different parent and buying you a plane ticket to another state. I’m the only one who knows. I’m the only one who ever knows. I’m the one who has to carry all of your secrets.
“Holy shit!” you say, and I feel you splash upright. “Look who lives right across from us.”
I lift my head, and my feet brush against something suspicious in the water. I look across the lake and there he is—Dylan, sitting on the porch of the last cabin, directly across from our trailer. He has a book in one hand and a beer in the other. A shadow hides his eyes, but I can tell he is looking right at us.
“We need binoculars,” you say.
I feel the lake boil.