On the Night She Died: A Quarry Street Story Page 6

God, that laugh. The Rebecca of these late night phone calls was not the Rebecca from school, the one who never even glanced in his direction. She wasn’t even the one from the party, made brave by vodka punch. This Rebecca laughed with him, and it was genuine and real and every time he heard the happiness in her voice, Tristan could only think about making sure she always sounded like that.

  “Nope. I have a couple loads all ready to go.”

  “It’s almost nine.”

  “Your parents won’t let you out?” He knew the answer to that before she replied.

  “No. I mean, I doubt it. They’d at least want to know where I was going.”

  He shifted on the pillows. “And you can’t tell them.”

  “No.”

  “Too bad.” Tristan lowered his voice. “I really want to see you.”

  The hitch of her breath was very loud even through the phone line and distance. “Oh.”

  “Do you want to see me?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Rebecca,” he whispered. “Answer me.”

  “Yes, Tristan. Yes, I want to see you.”

  “Let me come over, then.” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  “No!”

  “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  Her breathing grew faster and harsher before softening. “You can’t. I mean, I can’t meet you.”

  “Sneak me into your room.”

  “Oh my God.” She laughed. “You’re crazy.”

  “About you,” Tristan said.

  Both of them fell silent again. This game had rules neither of them had defined, and it felt like he’d just broken one. He didn’t want to take back the words, but he did wonder if she was going to hang up on him.

  “Why?” Rebecca’s voice was hesitant.

  She’d said no, but she might change her mind, so Tristan got up from the bed to gather his keys, wallet, some cash. His shoes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  Tristan grabbed his jacket from the back of the closet door. “I like the way your mouth tastes.”

  The strangled noise she made gave him pause. The words had whispered out of him without thought. They’d been too much, he thought. Nobody said things like that to each other. Not kids their age, anyway. He’d just laid himself bare in front of her worse than if he’d actually stripped naked.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered finally.

  “Sorry, that was--”

  “No, don’t be sorry. Oh my God,” she repeated. “Yes. Come over.”

  Chapter 12

  Jenni

  Then

  They’d been making out on the couch in Ilya’s living room for hours. Jenni’s lips felt puffy and sore. There was an ache in her lower belly and between her legs that she never felt with anyone else. It made her crazy, because it seemed like unless she took his hand and put it down her pants, Ilya was never going to move them along from dry humping to something more satisfying for both of them.

  Jenni had lost her virginity a few months ago, and although she would never have admitted that in her fantasies she’d always given it up right here on this couch, with this boy, she also didn’t regret the way it had happened. The first time had been as terrible as she’d always been told it would be, but it got better fast after that. She sure as hell wasn’t holding on to any lingering guilt or anything about it, the way she knew she was supposed to.

  If she shifted beneath him right now, Ilya might at least let her go down on him. They’d done that a couple times. Never talked about it, after. Both pretended it hadn’t happened. He’d never offered to reciprocate, either, but she thought he would if she prompted him to.

  That was the issue, wasn’t it? That no matter how many times they’d ended up here, Jenni always had to be the one initiating. It was hard enough to find a time when the house was empty, without parents or siblings, so you’d think that the moment they had the place to themselves that he’d have her jeans unzipped before she had a chance to even think about it.

  Ilya had muttered something that, too caught up in her sexual frustration, Jenni hadn’t heard. “Huh?”

  “What if you were my girlfriend? Like. Legit.”

  Stunned, she laughed aloud. "Us? Dating? Like a real thing?"

  "You don't have to make it sound like such a bad thing," Ilya answered, sounding irritated. "Yeah, us. A real thing. Dating."

  "Out in public?" She'd snuck in through the back door when everyone else was asleep. This had always been a secret. The idea of taking it public, making it real, shocked her.

  She couldn’t tell Ilya about Steve, and as much as she fantasized about telling Steve about Ilya to make him jealous, she never would. If she and Ilya made this a real thing, not something secret, she’d have to break off what she had going already. That would be complicated.

  Ilya sat back against the couch. "Yeah."

  "Don't you like us being like this?"

  She reached for him. She didn’t want to believe he meant what he’d said, didn’t want to give in to the lift her heart had felt at the suggestion. Being with Ilya would feel like…what? A rescue, yet one without safety, because what could be more dangerous than trusting him with her love?

  He held himself away. "Look, if we're going to keep doing this in secret, but you won't even let me touch you, and you won't touch me, what's the point, Jenni?”

  She got quiet. Her throat closed with tears that also stung her eyes. Is that what he thought? That she wasn’t “letting” him touch her? Because now it was clear that all of this was her fault. Ilya blamed her. She was the one who he expected to be guiding this, once again, and she hated him for making her feel like somehow she’d been the one to mess it up. She was a prude if she didn’t give it up to him and a whore if she made the first move. There was no winning with boys, not when they became men, either. It disgusted her suddenly. The only reason he wanted her to be his girlfriend was so they’d fuck around, and that pissed her off.

  "See, I knew that was all you wanted,” she said.

  "Of course it's what I want," Ilya snapped with a tug at the crotch of his jeans, making a big show of it. "What guy doesn't want to get laid?"

  "But you want me to be your girlfriend?" She shot back, tasting the scorn like scorched toast. "Go on dates? Be a couple?"

  Ilya frowned. "What's so wrong with that?"

  "If all you want is to get laid," Jenni muttered, "why bother with the rest of the bullshit? All that hearts and flowers crap. So, what, you can get your dick sucked on the regular? And after that, what? When you figure out that you're done with me, you can dump me and go get laid by someone else?"

  "What's your problem?" Ilya put an arm's length of distance between them. "What, are you on your period?"

  Her reply came out with a hiss, the words filtering through a sneer so twisted it hurt her face. She should have known better than to think for even one second that Ilya Stern really wanted her to be his girlfriend. To do what? Wear his class ring? Kiss him by the lockers? It was bullshit.

  "Oh, right, because a girl gets mad, that means she's on her period. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I'm just tired of all this shit from guys like you?"

  "Guys like who?”

  "Just...all guys." Jenni flapped her hands at him, shadows upon shadows. "You all want sex and that's it."

  Ilya leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees so he could scrub at his face. "I just told you I wanted to make you my girlfriend, Jenni. Take you out. Make it a real thing, not some kind of secret sex thing. Why do you have to twist it around like that? You're the one making this into that sort of thing. Not me."

  "And what happens when you want to break up with me?"

  His expression was too hard to see in the shadows. "What makes you think I'd want to?"

  Wouldn’t he? It might be great at first, especially if they were fucking. But something would happen and he’d be tired of it, of her, or she’d make him angry and he’d deci
de it wasn’t worth putting up with her, not even for a steady supply of blowjobs. He’d make it all her fault, too. Pull her close, push her away, keep her guessing so she doubted her own worth all the fucking time.

  "It's what happens," she said in a small and broken voice. "And then what?"

  "Jenni..." he reached for her, but she kept herself out of reach, so he stopped reaching.

  "It's what happens," she said again, firmly this time. "So we'd have this thing for a little while, and then you break up with me --"

  "You could break up with me," Ilya retorted.

  Jenni swiped at her tears. "Whatever. Then we hate each other."

  "How could you think I would ever hate you?" Ilya shook his head.

  "Well, it's not like you love me," she spat.

  Love. That was a huge thing to say out loud, and she’d said it. She could never take it back. Relationships might not last, but love was forever.

  Ilya said nothing.

  This was worse than when Steve muttered it in her ear when he was on top of her. She never believed Steve meant it, but at least he said it. She could deal with that lie better than this obvious truth. Ilya Stern did not, would never, love Jenni Harrison. Steve would disappoint her but he’d never break her heart, and that was all Ilya would ever do.

  “I have to go.” Jenni got up. "This is all bullshit, Ilyushka."

  He frowned. "Don't call me that."

  It was what Babulya called him. A term of endearment. Of love. Jenni had thought of him that way for a long time but had never said it aloud. Now she regretted it.

  ”Maybe I just won't call you anything," Jenni whispered, not moving away. She stood in front of him.

  He could have reached for her again. She would have let him touch her, if he had, and if he’d hesitated, she’d have undone the button and zip on her own jeans. Lifted her own shirt. If only he’d reached for her, Jenni would have given herself to Ilya right then and made sure he knew how she felt.

  Ilya did not reach for her. Without another word, Jenni left him there. In the kitchen, a silhouette startled her. Galina’s husband, Barry.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” Jenni hissed at him. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Everything okay?” Glass glinted off the vodka bottle Barry was using to fill his shot glass.

  Jenni frowned. “Peachy.”

  “Sounded like you were having a fight.”

  “None of your business,” she told him.

  “I make your business mine, Jennilynn. Want to make sure you’re all right. Need my best girl at her best.” Barry was slurring. In the dark, his smile flashed.

  Jenni’s skin crawled. Barry had never made a weird move on her or anything like that, but he was still kind of a creep. She knew Ilya didn’t like him. Ilya would fucking hate him if he knew the truth about everything that Barry and Galina were into and what they’d both convinced Jenni to do for them.

  She didn’t bother answering him. He was drunk enough that it wouldn’t matter, anyway. She went out the back door and across the crumbling concrete patio, through the overlong grass and to the street.

  Her parents would wake up if tried to pull the car out of the garage, but the thought of going home made her stomach churn. If Allie woke up when she climbed in the window, little sis would want to know where Jenni had been. Instead, she went to the path leading into the woods.

  In the equipment shed, she dug through the litter in the corner to find the mason jar in which she’d put the mint tin that held the supply of pills she was supposed to sell. Keeping it at home had become too risky. She shook the tin and lifted it to the shaft of moonlight, but decided it didn’t matter which one she took. All of them were going to do something to her that would make her feel better, at least for a little while.

  She dry swallowed one and put the tin back. She made her way through the rest of the path, to the place where they’d hung the rope swing. Now on unsteady feet, the world hazy and swirling around her, she managed to get herself to the rocky outcropping that overlooked the water. She sat there with her legs hanging over the edge. The pill made her just loopy enough that when she found herself swaying forward, almost losing her balance, she wasn’t even scared.

  Jenni looked down into the black water below. How many hours had they spent here, swimming and sunning themselves? Summer seemed so long ago. She wished it were summer right now.

  She wouldn’t be here next summer. She knew that as clearly as she knew her own name. By then, no matter how she had to make it happen, Jenni would be gone from Quarrytown.

  Gone for good.

  Chapter 13

  Rebecca

  Then

  Rebecca’s parents had gone to bed an hour or so before, but the house was not yet quiet. The low hum of the television sometimes wafted toward her. They were still awake.

  Tristan would be here any minute. Thinking of it, her stomach twisted and churned. She’d taken a shower and combed through her wet hair, letting the dark curls air dry. She smoothed her body with scented lotion but didn’t add perfume. It wasn’t like she wanted him to think she was making a huge effort.

  Right?

  She pushed open her window a crack, letting in a gust of frigid air. Bending low, she shielded her eyes to look out to the street, searching for a glimpse of headlights. With the lights on inside her room, the glass was too reflective. Her reflection, a little warped, set her back a step.

  They’d been doing this thing for a few months now. They’d talk on the phone. They’d meet at the movies in the next town over. Park in the dark shadows of parking lots for closed shops. A few weeks ago, he’d asked to come over and they’d been doing that ever since.

  She’d always say yes, but never make the initial invitation. The game, and that’s for sure what it was, a stupid game they both seemed to like to play, had only one real rule. All of this stayed a secret.

  Tristan never asked Rebecca if she was breaking up with Richie. To be honest, in her head, she wasn’t with Richie any more, even if they hadn’t had an outright discussion about it. They hardly ever spoke on the phone. They didn’t sit together at lunch — he stuck with his friends and she with hers. They hadn’t even gone out together for more than three weeks. Richie hadn’t asked her, and Rebecca hadn’t asked him, and even if they hadn’t officially broken up, she told herself, how could he possibly think that they were still together if they never saw each other?

  It was a justification, and she knew it. Still, Rebecca had convinced herself that if the subject did come up, she’d tell Richie the truth. Well, not the whole truth. Nothing about Tristan. But yeah, she’d tell Richie it would be best if they broke up. If he asked her, she’d say so.

  She’d almost given up on Tristan by the time the soft rap sounded at her window. Irritated at being made to wait but more annoyed at how anxious it had made her to think he wasn’t going to make it, Rebecca pushed the window up all the way so he could climb inside. He landed with a thump, too loud, and she shushed him.

  “I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.

  Tristan shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “My next door neighbor was sick. I had to help him out.”

  Now she felt like exactly the sort of bitch she knew some people thought she was. “Is he okay?”

  Tristan shook his head, but said nothing more.

  “I’m sorry,” Rebecca said.

  This was definitely not the normal vibe between them. Tristan normally came in through the window with a grin, flirting right away. Tonight he paced for a minute before stopping in front of her bookcase. The shelves held her collection of music boxes, most of them ballerina themed. She’d stopped collecting years ago, except for every Chanukah when her mother presented her with a new one.

  “Are you a dancer?” Tristan touched one of the tiny ballerinas, urging her to spin out a few disjointed notes.

  “No. My mom always wanted me to take ballet, but I never liked it. She started the collection for me when she was pregnant. She buy
s me a new one every year,” Rebecca added. “I wish she’d stop.”

  Tristan looked over his shoulder, then turned to face her. “Why not just tell her?”

  “It would hurt her feelings.”

  “Maybe it would hurt her feelings more if you never told her how you felt, and she just kept going on and on, doing something she thought you liked, but you don’t.”

  She frowned.

  “Maybe,” Tristan continued when she didn’t say anything, “you should just tell your mom how you really feel instead of letting her feel kind of like an asshole.”

  Rebecca blinked. “I don’t make my mom feel like an asshole!”

  “You sure?”

  “I…” She lifted her chin and crossed her arms. “That’s a shitty thing to say.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. Tristan sighed and rubbed at his eyes, turning from her to look again at the shelf of music boxes. He tapped another one, but it didn’t make a sound.

  “You don’t have any books,” he said.

  Again, she blinked, this time at his tone. “Huh?”

  “You don’t have any books. You don’t read?”

  “I read,” Rebecca said, insulted.

  It was true, though. She didn’t have any books other than the ones she needed for school. It had never occurred to her before this moment that something would be wrong with that. The look on Tristan’s face, a mixture of disappointment and disdain, embarrassed her.

  “Maybe you should just leave,” she told him.

  He looked toward the window. Then her. His shoulders slumped, his expression crestfallen and low. “I’m worried about my neighbor.”

  To her surprise and also her concern, he drew in a hitching breath and sat heavily on her bed. He put his face in his hands. This was not the Tristan she was used to. Uncertain, Rebecca sat beside him and put a tentative arm around his shoulders.

  “He’s lost a lot of weight. I think he’s got something bad, like cancer, only he won’t say.” Tristan’s breath shuddered. He didn’t look at her.