Grace!
Mom’s plea bounces around inside my head, and I’m lost in the memory, my feet crunching on the peanut-shell-dusted wood floors, the stench of sweat and beer stinging my nostrils, the bodies pressing too close.
Gracie!
Right off the cape, in a little town called Sugar Lake, there’s this dive bar Mom loves to frequent. Ruby’s, it’s called, like it’s this dainty little jewel in the rough. It’s not. It used to be a semi-classy dance club back in the eighties, but now it’s a total dump. Mom gets lonely or breaks up with her latest boyfriend or we get kicked out of an apartment because we didn’t have the rent, and Mom usually ends up there, plastered and making out with some creep in a dark corner. One time this past winter, I went with her. She was particularly unnerved by her breakup with some guy whose name I can’t even remember. I sat at the bar, sipping ginger ale, while she danced and drank. At least this way, I’d make sure she got home. But it got later and later, she got drunker and drunker, dudes got handsier and handsier. Close to two a.m., I went to the bathroom. Five minutes later, I couldn’t find her. She was covered in a wall of men, the music moving their bodies closer.
At first I wasn’t even sure she was in there, but then I heard my name, a tiny high-pitched plea rising out of that huge mass of stupid. I elbowed my way in, enduring a few ass grabs along the way, and pulled her out.
She was laughing and then she was crying, and I’ve never been so terrified. She hasn’t been back in few months—?at least, not that I know of.
After that, I decided not to go to college. No way in hell. Mom would never bodily survive without me, and there’s a community college in Sugar Lake. Good enough.
Luca strongly disagreed.
A shout from the crowd pulls me back to the bonfire.
Teeth gritted, I push through the crowd, elbows flying, curse words trailing behind me. When I reach the table, I hop up and shove even more until I find Eva in the middle. She’s trying to play the whole thing off, shuffling her feet and gently pushing guys’ hands away. Luckily Jay has both of his paws to himself or I’d castrate him right here, right now. Still, Eva looks totally freaked out. I grab her arm, yanking until she nearly tumbles off the table. She lands on her feet, and I push her in front of me.
“Hey, Grace!” Jay calls from behind me, totally oblivious. “Come back and dance!”
I ignore him, keeping my hand on Eva’s back as I steer her through the gaping crowd. Some laugh. Some leer. Some don’t even notice us, but I keep moving until we break through the edge of the group.
When we pass a cooler, I grab two water bottles, but then I keep walking toward the ocean. Adrenaline buzzes in my ears, in my chest, and my fingertips fizz like I’ve been sucking in too much oxygen.
“God, that was wild,” Eva says, still breathing hard.
I uncap one of the waters and gulp some down, the cold a shock to my sand-scratched throat. I don’t stop walking.
“Hey. Grace, wait.”
A hand on my arm whirls me around. Her eyes are bleary, mascara smudged, hair disheveled. It’s too familiar. Too easy for me to try to fix. Too hard for me to walk away from.
I turn my back on her again.
“Grace, come on.”
But there’s nothing to really say, because if she’s into that kind of partying, the kind that’s basically a show for jerks and a balm to soothe some unseen wound, more power to her, but I’m out. Because that’s the bitch about having a mom like mine. Lines get blurred. Half the time, my attempts to help Maggie with anything relating to one of her boyfriends result in a tongue-lashing followed by tears, capped off with another round of It’s none of your business, Gracie!
So yeah, this is all just too damn familiar.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
“Grace, wait. Please.”
Right now the only thing I want is to go home—?whatever home that is at the moment—?and curl up in my mother’s bed. Maybe talk to her more about Pete and Jay and get her to understand, because I always, always hope that one day she’ll understand.
But she’s not there.
She’s in Portland, buying a bunch of shit for . . . well, a girl who’s not me. The thought causes me to stop and turn around to look at her, this girl who’s not me.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you mad at me or something?”
Am I?
It’s not her fault a bunch of assholes decided to try to dance with her. It’s not her fault she lost her mother. It’s not her fault I can sense my own mother latching on to her, pulling her in as her new pet tragedy.
