17. Bonifant Road
Anita took a shower after weeding the garden and put on a white tank top and cut-off jean shorts. Her shoulders and arms were muscular; now with her hair cut short she looked like a boy, she thought. It was such a relief to not even try. She felt free, unweighted. Clean. But with her hair gone the small shadows of her collarbone, the little curved hollow between her breasts, the silkiness of her tanned neck and shoulders, were somehow more visible. She put on a pair of silver earrings. In the faded shorts her legs were lean and curved, gleaming. She walked barefoot into the kitchen and took the pitcher of ice water from the refrigerator.
She poured a glass of water. John and Michael Cosentino came in the front door, laughing. High, no doubt. John grabbed a package of Oreos and two cans of warm orange soda from the cabinet and the keys to the Dodge that hung on the hook behind the door. He was feeling charitable, humorous. Hey, we’re going to Dietrich’s, you want to come? Come on. Come with us.
At the end of the summer there was always a keg party at Dietrich’s farm out on Bonifant Road. Who Dietrich was nobody knew. Hundreds of people would go, from four different schools, people who were out of school. There would be a couple of bands.
Michael Cosentino smiled. His eyes no longer threw sparks; his smile was no longer quite like the sun from between clouds. Something else had slipped in. There was a sloppiness, a vagueness. Not crisp, clear, breathtaking like it was when he was a little boy. But still he was beautiful. And the vagueness of his mouth gave it a sensual quality, it gave her a falling feeling, a feeling of drifting off to sleep at the wheel.
You should come, he said.
His dark lashes drifted down and then up again. He wore a rust-colored tank top and faded jeans. A thin gold chain snaked over his collarbone. His arms were brown and curved. She could see the soft hair under them when he reached out to catch the car keys that John tossed to him.
She felt the kitchen counter pressing into the small of her back. She took a sip of cold water.
Yeah, come with us. Live a little, John said.
She went to her room and grabbed her flip-flops and a jean jacket. There wasn’t time to worry about mascara, lip gloss. Fuck it, she thought.
She sat in the back seat, feeling like a child, while they rode in front, laughing at things she couldn’t quite hear, their voices loose, muffled, languid. An old Eric Clapton song was on the radio, and John rocked slightly forward and back in his seat as he drove, You got to know my need, Layyyyla. He thrust his jaw out, wobbling his head at the end of his spine. I’m beggin’ darlin’ please. Michael laughed at him, spraying a fine mist of orange soda over his brown arms. Shit, man. He wiped his arm with his hand and laughed again. You’re making me spit all over myself.
They stopped at Lisa Kennedy’s house and picked up four more people. Lisa was beautiful, with long dark hair, dark eyeliner. There was some shuffling and confusion as everybody squeezed into the car. “It’s okay, I can sit on Michael’s lap,” Lisa said.
Anita wound up perched on the edge of the back seat next to the hairy thigh of Al Lapinski, who had decided to wear a bathing suit and a Hawaiian shirt to the party. He had an artificial lei around his neck and a green plexiglass bong in a paper grocery bag. “Alow-ha!” he proclaimed in a baritone radio DJ voice, his halo of curls bouncing in assent. It was hot. Her legs were sweating where they touched the vinyl seat and Al’s thigh. When she pulled away she could see the imprint of his leg hair, spidery red on her skin.
It was dusk when they got to the farm. Cars were parked way down the road and in part of the field. The night smelled of rank grass, humid leaves, a trickle of water in a weedy ditch, a waft of pot smoke. The trees were alive with cicadas, ragged crescendos revving up the deep blue air. Beyond them you could hear a band tuning up, a sudden barrage of drumbeats, a cymbal. Then an electric guitar ripped through it all like a knife. As they reached the kegs Anita realized she had left her jean jacket in the car. Fuck it, she thought. It was hot.
“Do I know you?” said Al Lapinski loudly as they stood in line for a beer.
“Uh… I was in the car next to you.” She didn’t mention she still had the imprint of his leg hair on her thigh.
“Hah,” he honked, nasally. He winked. “I knew that.”
“That’s Johnny Gray’s little sister,” said someone. “What’s your name? I know your name. I forget what it is, though.” A laugh.
“What’s your name?” said Al.
“Anita.”
“How come I never heard of you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cause you’re a burnout. She’s the smart one. You know, she gets all A’s. You don’t know people like that.”
“No, no, no, I’m the smart one,” John said, coming over with two beers in plastic cups. “I taught her everything she knows. Observe.” He chugged an entire beer, then belched.
“Brilliant.”
“As you know, intelligence is genetic, and I’m older, so she gets it from me.” He handed her a beer. “Here, kill some brain cells, little sissy.”
She took the beer and drank. It was warmish, foamy, bitter. A thrill passed down her spine.
The band was kicking it up now. She strolled across the field, drinking, moving slightly to the beat, enjoying the anonymity. The beer was gone too quickly. But that was okay, it gave her the opportunity to walk back across the field to the keg. Something to do. She tried to look semi-purposeful, like she was headed to meet a friend, but relaxed about it, moving not so fast as to get anywhere too quickly, not so slow as to look lost and alone.
Over to the left of where the band was playing she saw Franny. She was standing with her boyfriend, a guy whose name Anita did not quite know, although it might be Steve. He was tall, good-looking, longish light brown hair, army jacket. Blue-gray circles under his eyes, smoking. Franny’s hair was light blond, roots dark, hanging silky to her waist. She wore a black tank top: thin straps, slender shoulders. Everything about her was perfect. Slender hipbones, flat strip of belly, perfectly faded jeans. In all the ways that Anita was awkward, she was graceful. In all the ways that Anita did not fit into this scene, Franny and her mate fit perfectly. They were made for this moment. The guitarist ripped into a solo. Anita turned quickly away.
She got another beer and looked for a safe place to sit and watch the crowd. Maybe she should have stayed with John and Michael. She had no idea where they were now. At the edge of the field was a low embankment that sloped up into the woods. She hopped over a small drainage ditch and sat down on the damp weeds. Something prickly under her left leg, a thistle. But it was a good spot, so she slid over and settled in to drink her beer.
Watching the whole party laid out in front of her, it struck her how graceful all of these kids were. Some of them were stupid, sure, buffoonish even; they were drunk, they were high, some were tripping. But their movements had a relaxation, a freedom, a weary elegance, that came from truly not giving a shit. They had given it all up. They didn’t care. They were loyal to each other only. Fuck it, they all said. Fuck it. They were free.
They would pay, and pay, some of them for the rest of their lives. But this was their moment.
It was crazy not to take it.
Michael Cosentino is walking across the field toward her. His gait is loose-limbed, rambling but purposeful. When he reaches the edge of the drainage ditch about twenty feet away from her he stops, unzips his fly, and starts pissing into the weeds. He holds his plastic beer cup between his teeth.
In the shadows she can see his penis, soft, between his fingers. The stream of piss arches into the air. He shakes it off, zips back up, and starts to turn away.
Anita coughs, softly.
He looks over. “Oh, hey. Sorry.” He peers at her in the darkness, the band lights behind him. She realizes he can’t see her clearly. “Didn’t mean to piss in your view there.”
“Not a problem.”
He realizes it’s her. “Hey, what you doing over here by yourself?”
“Just watching.”
“All these losers?”
“Mostly you, actually.”
“Ha. King of the losers.”
“No.”
“Hell, yeah. I can’t believe somebody like you even talks to a derelict like me.”
She laughs.“Yeah, right.”
“No, I’m serious.”
He comes over and sits down. He tips his cup up desolately; it’s empty.
“Want a sip of mine?”
“Sure.” He reaches in his pocket. “Hey, I’ve got your brother’s weed. You want to smoke some?”
“Sure.”
He pulls out a substantial bag of marijuana from his jacket pocket, opens it and sniffs. “Nice.”
“How come you have his weed?”
“Your brother is a businessman. He figures the risk I steal some of it is less than the benefit that if the cops come he’s not the one holding it.”
She snorts.“Figures.”
Michael taps his forehead. “Smart guy.”
“Fucking genius.”
“I hear it’s genetic.”
She chuckles. Michael pulls a small pipe from another pocket, fills it and lights it. His cheeks suck in as the flame glows, reflected in his eyes. He inhales the smoke and holds it in. She takes the pipe.
“Are you cold?” He looks at her.
She had shivered as she inhaled deeply, but she shakes her head no, holding in the smoke.
“Here, you want to wear my jacket?”
She exhales.“No, I was stupid, I left mine in the car.”
“It’s okay. Take it.”
He peels off his jacket, a long faded army jacket, perfect, and puts it around her shoulders. She wraps it around her, inhaling its dark mix of musk and smoke. It’s warm from his body.
She smiles. “This reminds me of something.”
“Yeah?”
“You remember when we used to go catch salamanders and things? In the creek?”
“Yeah.” He breaks into a slow smile, loose, vague. His eyes are rimmed with pale red.
“I remember you showing me how to lift the rock up. Straight up, not sideways. So it didn’t stir the mud all up.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you remember that?”
He looks uncertain. “I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah.”
“I thought you were so cool.”
“Ha. Easily impressed.”
“Not really.”
He smiles. The pipe goes out. He re-lights it.
“I like your haircut,” he says.
“You mean my hair was so ugly that it looks better now that it’s all gone.”
“No, it’s cool. It’s cute. I can see your face.”
She laughs.“You sound like my mother.”
“Ha.” He inhales.“My mother hates my hair.”
“She wants you to cut it?”
“She says I look like a girl.”
“Well.” Anita is feeling fearless. “She’s wrong about that.”
He looks at her and smiles. The light of it washes over her. Then they are kissing, his mouth smoky and warm, her muscles loosening as warmth spreads through her limbs. Her fingers brush the nape of his neck, doe-brown skin like silk, scent of brown leaves and woodsmoke. His arms curve around her, wiry and hard, first over then slipping under the coat. Something sudden moves through her, dark and golden, salamander in creekmuck, dark cloud that spirals and sinks.
Music comes across the field in waves, but underneath it she seems to hear the sound of creekwater trickling.
What she remembered later was the feeling of the back of her skull opening up, everything flooding out, skin alive as it had never been alive. A feeling of softness, of darkness falling like water from the top left side of her brain.
A bunch of people have started a large bonfire. Johnny shows up with an armload of blankets and sleeping bags from the car. He sees her with Michael, raises his eyebrows, chuckles, and throws a blanket over them. Michael wraps it around them, folds her in his arms. The sweetness of it goes into her bones. They fall asleep together like puppies, his heart beating under her cheek, firelight flickering through their eyelids.
In the morning she hears voices. Sun slants through the trees, deep green glow of late summer. The chorus of cicadas soars around them. Somebody stirs up the fire, boils water, brews a pot of cowboy coffee. It’s grainy, bitter, delicious. People stir, sigh, go on sleeping, or stretch, yawn, gather round the fire, bare feet padding softly over wet grass, slapping mosquitos. They don’t know her, but she is with Michael and she is accepted. Somebody starts making pancakes. She feels sore, sticky, hung over, mouth sour, heart soaring. Somebody passes around paper plates, plastic forks, maple syrup. It doesn’t matter who does it; it somehow gets done. There is somehow enough for everybody. Somebody starts strumming a guitar. The hungover morning erases all tensions, all differences. They are all alike, children again, together. They sit in the warming sun, eating pancakes, together, sweetness stinging their tongues like honeysuckle.