And so, as Dash sleeps in my arms, I tell myself the only thing I can to ease the pain. When Dash is gone, I will grow up. I’ll be pretty, stronger, smarter when he comes back home. He might not want me while I’m still so young, but one day, we’ll be older. I’ll be Dash’s equal.
He’s an artist. I’m a writer. I know it might sound silly, but I really am. Writing is the only thing I do well. I’ll write books like my mom did, and Dash will paint.
I sit there, quiet and still until he wakes up—and it’s close to four. We climb inside his window. When our feet touch down on Dash’s carpet, he pulls me into a long, tight hug.
“I love you, Ammy Dove. Please take care, and be safe. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t like. You promise?”
“Yeah. I won’t.”
“Good.” His eyes are strange, as if there’s something burning bright behind them, but it’s so quick, just there and gone, and then Lexie has heard us, and she’s up. We’re all talking, hauling Dash’s last few things out to his truck and taking dark-blurred pictures by his U-Haul, with its Tennessee plates and image of Elvis on the side.
Alexia is hugging her big brother, crying, still half-drunk, and I’m pressing my lips together, blinking too much, waiting for the time when he gives me a last hug, too. He does, of course, and it’s perfection.
Perfect things don’t last, and so he goes.
Three
Amelia
August 2011
“Blow doesn’t work on me. No effect whatever. I have ADHD, so coke calms me down. If I wanna have a good time, I gotta roll or pop an Oxy. That or pot. You ever smoked?”
I shake my head.
My date’s eyebrows arch. “Never?”
“Never.”
“But you’re Alexia’s friend.”
“We’re not as close as we used to be. I’m too boring for her.”
Michael Kisner, a junior who just moved here from New Jersey, drops his jaw, shaking his head slowly, like I just told him I kill kittens for fun.
I offer a small shrug, choosing to give him the most honest answer rather than blaming my weak, preemie lungs. “I just…don’t really like altered reality that much.”
“Altered reality!” His wide eyes widen further in outrage. “We’re talking about mary-jo-ana here. What you’re saying sounds like… like a video game or something!”
“Video games. I do like those…”
“No.” He shakes his buzz-cut head. “Amelia, that won’t do.”
“No video games?”
Michael and I are sitting on a leather couch inside a massive sunroom on the back side of a massive lake house. The room is crowded with so many potted plants, it feels a little like a jungle. In between the giant plants are gorgeous, stained-glass windows depicting nature scenes. Over our heads, palm frond ceiling fans twirl slowly, dangling from exposed wood beams.
The home is owned by the McVays, one of the wealthiest families in Atlanta. The only reason I’m here at their lakeside palace with Michael, enduring my very first—and, heaven help me, possibly also last—real date is because The Gin Rangers are playing a private concert.
Yes, as in the Grammy-winning Gin Rangers.
The McVay family has some connection to the band. Alexia is semi-dating Lambert McVay, a senior at our school. And since tonight is Lambert’s eighteenth birthday bash, our whole posse is here at midnight, living it up.
How I got stuck with Michael, I’m not really sure. He’s gotten friendly with Lamb, and Lexie vouched for him, describing him as “really cool.” Michael called me yesterday, acting really nice and offering to pick me up.
I had no idea he’d be quite so…intense.
I cast a longing glance out several sets of glass and mahogany doors on the back of the sunroom, looking past the torch-lined pool to see the Gin Rangers rock it on the lawn between the pool and lake.
Toward the back of the pack, I see Lexie’s metallic gold dress glint in the moonlight. I can’t see Lambert, only Lexie and her glowing dress, moving easy to the music. Probably because she’s high. Which, come to think of it, is probably why she told me Michael I-Can’t-Do-Cocaine Kisner is “really cool.” He’s obviously a druggie.
Why did I listen to Lex? Why did I take Michael’s suggestion to go inside for beer and a breather?
“I can’t believe it,” he’s saying now. “I smoked my first joint when I was like, seven years old.”
I’m stifling a laugh when he leans closer. “Woman, you’ve gotta try it.”
I shake my head, inhaling deeply. Since Michael is wearing nine gallons of cologne and is also bathed in vodka, the inhalation makes my eyes sting.
“Probably never, but definitely not tonight,” I tell him. “I just want to hear the Gin Rangers.”
“Abso-fucking-lutely tonight! You can’t put this off, Amelia. Can I call you Lia? So damn hot. See, it sounds like Leia. Tell me you’ve at least seen Star Wars.”
“I find your lack of faith disturbing,” I quote. (Vader).
Michael’s eyebrows rumple. He tilts his head a little, like a puzzled puppy.
“Darth Vader.” I give him what I hope is a patient smile, causing him to look doubly confused.
“You calling me Vader?” he asks, looking offended.
“No.” I laugh. “Just—never mind.”
“So, back to the MJ!”
I sink into the couch, running my hands over the flowy, semi-sheer green dress I’m wearing over my bikini and listening to the Gin Rangers as Michael rattles off the many benefits of marijuana. I’ve got nothing against pot, I’m just not a risk-taker. If I ever did decide to toke up, I’d rather be at my own house.
I nod repeatedly, re-gloss my lips, and adjust my glasses as Michael talks about decreasing brain inflammation and lowering bad cholesterol. When I can break eye contact, I flick my gaze around the room, praying I’ll spot one of my friends. Any excuse to escape.
Since I don’t see anybody, I let my mind wander. It goes where it often does: to Dash. Now there’s something to think about while Michael yammers. Except I’m not sure I want to think about Dash. Not sure thinking about him would do me any good, even though most of the time, I can’t seem to stop myself.
I wish I knew where he is and how he’s doing.
Since summer started, I heard he’s texted his mom a few times and Alexia once, telling them only that he’s traveling. “Cheaper than college,” he texted Lex, as if money matters at all to the Frasiers. Mr. and Mrs. Frasier work all the time, both as producers in the music industry.
I press my lips together, holding in a sigh, and continue nodding while Michael extols the virtues of marijuana. I want to kick myself for agreeing to a date with someone I didn’t know. With someone Lexie recommended. I hate it that it’s true, but I’m trusting her less and less.
When the marijuana talk winds down, Michael leans against the back of the couch, surprising me by taking my hand. He looks me in the eyes and then looks down at our joined hands.
“Look how much darker my hand is than yours,” he says, rubbing my knuckles. “And all those freckles on your fingers.” He squeezes my fingers with his own. “I’ve got a redhead fetish. Always have. We had a nanny when I was a kid, and she had red hair.”