***
Monday morning, I dragged my hungover ass to school.
I still reeked of booze and popped an Altoid or ten for Ms. Watkins’s English lit class. She watched me take my seat with narrowed eyes, but she didn’t call me out. I made it through the hour and thought I was home free until the bell rang and she stopped me at the door.
“Holden? Can I have a word?”
“Cough syrup,” I blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“I have a cold…never mind. What did you want to see me about?”
She rifled through some papers on her desk and singled out mine. “Your essay on Joan Didion’sThe Year of Magical Thinkingwas excellent. Truly moving and emotional for what’s essentially a book report. I’m excited to read more from you. Have you always been a writer?”
“I’ve alwayswritten. Can’t say that makes me a writer.”
“I’d have to disagree. I think this essay is one of the best things I’veread in my fifteen years on the job.”
Christ, between her, Beatriz, and Aunt Mags, I had nice ladies coming out of my eyeballs. I itched to go.
“Have you thought about pursuing a degree, Holden?”
“No.”
“What about your parents? What do they think?”
“They don’t get a say,” I said. “And no offense, but neither do you. Can I go now?”
I hated how my words hit her. Her smile dropped, but the concern never left her eyes.
“You may go. But I’m going to be watching you closely.”
I started to tell her not to bother but nodded instead. Because maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
But any good feeling she’d cultivated died in calculus. River and I sat as far away from each other as humanly possible while still remaining in the same room. He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him. It was as if Saturday never happened. When class ended and he still hadn’t looked my way, it felt like we’d erased not only that night at the pool but every small moment we’d had since the day we’d met.
Now there was nothing left.
Because it was a mistake.
***
After school that day, James drove me to the Cliffs. I stumbled my way to the shack where Miller and Ronan were already there in front of a fire, Miller plucking his guitar, Ronan drinking a beer.
“What’s the story, gentlemen?” I sat down heavily in my chair. The day was overcast and cloudy, but I kept my Bulgari sunglasses on to hide my bleary eyes.
“What’s up with you?” Miller asked. His expression was as heavy and troubled as always. “You okay?”
I got drunk with River Whitmore and sucked his thumb as if it were hiscock. How was your weekend?
I had to keep River’s secret, even if it was suffocating him, but I’d kept him away from Violet. That was something.
“Peachy,” I said. “How was homecoming?”
Ronan snorted and tipped his beer. Miller gave him the finger.
“What’d I miss?” I asked.
