“Okay,” Sarah said into her walkie. “Here we come.” She tapped her access key on a panel and hit the number ten. The doors closed, and she inhaled, watching the silver doors kiss. Keith and Corey were standing on either side of her, and the whole tiny box smelled like sweat and too much cologne and one of Scotty’s farts.
Keith leaned forward so that his head was almost touching the elevator doors and looked across Sarah’s body at Corey.
“You better fucking watch it, man,” Keith said.
“Keith,” Sarah said, and put up a hand.
Corey threw his head back and laughed. “What’s this, bro? What do you want me to watch? I already get thePoor Keith Showevery night. Front row seat! VIP!”
“What is happening?” Scotty said, his voice high and amused.
“Chill, Keith, god,” Shawn said, and that was all Keith needed to hear.
Keith lunged at Corey just when the doors opened, and the two spilled out onto the carpet. Sarah watched as Keith straddled Corey and pulled back a fist. Shawn pushed her out of the way and dove to his knees, trying to pull his brother off. All around them, Talkers held their phones in front of their faces and held their breath, held each other’s arms, held their open mouths.
41
Sunday, 9:29 p.m.
Deck 10
Maira had a plan again. Annie was going to miss Maira’s plans. They would walk back and forth through the elevator bank, from one side of the lido deck to the other, because that was the best place to catch the guys before anyone else saw them. It was Prom Night, and Maira was wearing a tuxedo-printed T-shirt and denim shorts. All around them, women were in taffeta dresses Annie recognized from the pages of ancientYMmagazines, dresses that had been hauled out of thrift stores and cold storage units across the country, resurrected for the night’s festivities. There were long dresses, short poufy dresses, off-the-shoulder dresses, and sequins for days. Annie had put on the nicest dress she’d packed, which had nothing to do with the concept of prom, but it was black and fit her well, and it was either that or wearing Party Girl again.
“This works nine times out of ten,” Maira said, and Annie believed her. She’d abandoned her notion of being sober for the day. It was only one more night. What could it hurt? They’d already had three Sexy Sunrises each, and the sweet slushiness was somehow keeping different parts of Annie’s body hot and cold at the same time. It seemedimpossible that it was only two days ago that three drinks had felt like a lot of drinks. Maybe she’d always been too uptight. Maybe the key to life was to maintain a low-level buzz at all times. She’d read all the new studies on alcohol and the female brain—it wasn’t a long-term plan. Annie was enjoying, for the first time in her life, living in the present. She wanted to see Keith again, up close. Thinking about him walking through the door any second made her pulse speed up—the same rush of a high school crush but without all the anxiety and the mean girls and the jock friends. Annie really did feel like she was in high school, but better—she felt like Olivia Newton-John in the last scene ofGrease. Maybe Maira was a mean girl, a bad girl, the kind of girl who got her friends called into the principal’s office for smoking weed behind school. So what! Those were the best girls, at least for someone like Annie, who had been so afraid of making a wrong decision her entire life! Maira wasn’t afraid of what people thought about her. She was in her favorite place, doing her favorite thing, and she wasn’t going to let other people’s opinions get in her way. In a thousand years, Annie couldn’t imagine living that way, free of what people might do or think or say. There were only a few more hours on the cruise, and she was surprised to feel bereft. She wanted to see Keith, and to see him see her, because this was probably the last chance. It felt dramatic to say it was the last chance ever, but it probably was, wasn’t it? That was part of getting older too, looking death in the face and realizing there were certain experiences that weren’t going to happen again. Every person on the ship felt like they were connecting with one or maybe all of the members of the group. That wasn’t what was happening with her—Annie knew it, deep in her heart, several layers below what she would ever admit aloud. Maybe it was delusional, but so what? Even that felt like a positive change, seeing her own fantasy and gripping it tight.
The security guards nodded hello as Maira and Annie walked in circles, their arms linked at the elbows, their skin tacky with sweat andanticipation. The guards didn’t seem to mind as long as everyone kept moving. Annie and Maira walked from the sweaty deck into the air-conditioned hallway and elevator bank, their arms goose-pimpling every time they came inside. Other Talkers had the same idea and were pretending to retie sneakers at the top of the stairs. The guards were politely trying to encourage people to move along, but then the elevator doors opened, and Corey and Keith fell out, and the guards weren’t focused on the Talkers anymore.
It was hard, at first, to understand what was happening—Annie’s brain couldn’t quite do the math. She thought about all the posters on their bedroom walls, the guys stacked on each other’s backs like a cheerleading troupe. They had always been on top of each other’s bodies. She began to laugh, seeing them so close-up—they were only ten feet away from her! It was the closest she’d been since Photo Day, when they’d all been still as statues. Shawn was the closest to her, and his mouth was a thin, tight line. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him without a smile before, and for the first time the entire cruise, he looked his age. Annie followed Shawn’s sight line and watched as Keith sat on top of Corey’s body, pulled his arm back, and drove his fist into Corey’s face.
“Oh god!” Annie said. She clutched Maira’s arm with both hands, but Maira shook her off, taking out her phone and beginning to film. “No,” Annie said. “Don’t.” But no one could hear her because everyone was shouting. In their tuxedos, the guys looked like a bowl of M&M’s in a washing machine, all the colors on top of each other. Corey was squirming around on the ground, with Keith’s knees pinning his body down, but his arms were free and grabbing at Keith’s face. Annie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen an actual fistfight. In high school, maybe, or on the hockey rinks, but at least those guys were wearing helmets and padding. There was a barroom brawl in Puccini’sLa fanciulla del West.A Puccini Western! Boy Talk hadplayed high schoolers in a movie—she and Katherine had gone to see it in the theater with their parents. They were terrible actors, all of them but Corey, but Annie and Katherine hadn’t cared. The fictional versions of them had never fought, though. It hadn’t been that kind of movie.
“Dude!” Scotty said, leaping up and down beside his bandmates like a deranged leprechaun. He narrowly avoided stepping on Corey’s arm, and Keith pushed him away. Terrence and Kelsey scooted out of the elevator, avoiding the melee as quickly as one could do in high heels. Shawn leaned over, his neck muscles flared out like the Incredible Hulk’s, and tried to pull Keith off Corey’s torso. Keith smacked him away, and Shawn fell back a few feet, rocking on his heels.
“Shut up, Scotty!” Shawn shouted. “Keith, get a fucking grip!”
Terrence backed his wife up against a wall and shielded her with his body, his skinny legs on either side of her skinny legs. Together they looked like a giant, highly poisonous bug.
Bobby held out his arms as if to block the Talkers from joining in on the chaos, but the women stayed put, like they were all on the ride at the state fair where the centrifugal force holds you against the wall. “Guys!” he said, his voice low. “Let’s get it together. Let’s get it together, please.” A white guy with a beard—whowasthat guy?—put his hands in prayer position and nodded his head, clearly affected but unwilling to actually put his body in the line of harm.
On the ground, Corey had managed to get Keith onto his side, and they were swinging at each other like babies who couldn’t roll over yet. Corey was stronger, anyone could see that, but Keith was fueled by something more powerful than time at the gym, and he wasn’t giving up.
Shawn and the redheaded security guard—sweet Lars, finally pressed into serious service!—hoisted Corey and Keith off the ground and away from each other. There was a thin line of blood running from Corey’s nose onto his upper lip. Keith’s arms and legs flailed around like a cartoon.
Maira was filming, all the Talkers were filming, everyone was filming. Annie wanted to swat down all their phones, but she also couldn’t move.
Keith was bouncing on his toes, shaking his fist.
“What the fuck, man?” Shawn said. He shoved his brother on the shoulder.
“What the fuck to you!” Keith said. “And what the fuck to him too! You ever fucking come near me again, and I swear to god, I will kill you,” he said, pointing his finger at Corey.
“Oh, sure,” Corey said. He crossed his arms over his chest. The blood on his face looked like stage makeup. How could anyone look that handsome while bleeding from the face? Keith lunged for him again, but Shawn held him back.
“Seriously, bro, what the hell?” Shawn said.
“You always defend him, huh?” Keith said, shoving him back. “No matter what he does, it’s okay?”
Shawn shrugged. “Grow up,” he said. “You’re just jealous. Corey’s just self-actualized, Keith. He’s working harder than you are. He always has.”
