Crescendo (Hush, Hush #2)

Crescendo (Hush, Hush #2) Page 31

“Who all ’s going?” Vee asked.

“Scott and a few other people from school.” No need to mention Marcie and get an instant veto. I had a feeling I could use Vee’s support tonight.

“Think I’ll curl up with Rixon and watch a movie instead. I can ask if he’s got any other friends he can hook you up with. We could do a double-date thing. Eat popcorn, tell jokes, make out.”

“Pass.” I didn’t want someone else. I wanted Patch.

By the time Vee rolled into Delphic Beach’s parking lot, the sky was tar black. High-power lights that reminded me of those on CHS’s football field beamed down on the whitewashed wood structures housing the carousel, arcade, and mini golf, causing a halo to hover over the spot. There was no electricity farther down the beach, or in the surrounding fields, making it the one bright spot on the coast for miles. By this time of night I didn’t expect to find anyone buying hamburgers or playing air hockey, and I signaled for Vee to pull over near the path of railroad ties cutting down to the water.

I swung out of the car and mouthed a good-bye. Vee waved in response, her cell pressed to her ear as she and Rixon worked out the details of where they’d meet up.

The air still held the earlier heat of the sun and was filled with the sounds of everything from the distant music carrying down from Delphic Seaport Amusement Park high on the cliffs, to surf drumming the sand. I parted the ridge of sea grass that ran paral ell to the coast like a fence, jogged down the slope, and walked the thin ribbon of dry sand that was just out of reach of high tide.

I passed small groups of people still playing in the water, jumping waves and hurling driftwood into the darkness of the ocean, even though the lifeguards were long gone. I kept my eyes out for Patch, Scott, Marcie, or anyone else I recognized.

Up ahead, the orange flames of a bonfire winked and flitted in the darkness. I pulled out my cell and dialed Scott.

“Yo.”

“I made it,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Just south of the bonfire. You?”

“Just north of it.”

“I’ll find you.”

Two minutes later, Scott plopped down in the sand beside me. “You going to hang out on the fringe all night?” he asked me. His breath held the tang of alcohol.

“I’m not a big fan of ninety percent of the people at this party.” He nodded, understanding, and held out a steel thermos. “I don’t have germs, scout’s honor. Have as much as you like.” I leaned over just far enough to smell the contents of the thermos. Immediately I drew back, feeling fumes burn down the back of my throat. “What is it?” I choked. “Motor oil?”

“My secret recipe. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“No need. I’m pretty sure taking a drink would get the same result.”

Scott eased back, elbows in the sand. He’d changed into a Metal ica T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, khaki shorts, and flip-flops. I was wearing my work uniform, minus the newsboy cap, vest, and pintuck shirt. Luckily, I’d slipped a camisole on before heading out to work, but I had nothing to replace the tweed slacks.

“So tell me, Grey. What are you doing here? I gotta tell you, I thought you’d turn me down for next week’s homework.” I leaned back in the sand beside him and slanted a look in his direction. “The jerk act is starting to get old. So I’m lame. So what?”

He grinned. “I like lame. Lame is going to help me pass my junior year. Particularly English.”

Oh boy. “If that was a question, the answer is no, I will not write your English papers.”

“That’s what you think. I haven’t started working the Scott Charm yet.”

I snorted laughter, and his grin deepened. He said, “What?

Don’t believe me?”

“I don’t believe you and the word ‘charm’ belong in the same sentence.”

“No girl can resist the Charm. I’m telling you, they go wild for it. Here are the basics: I’m drunk twenty-four/seven, I can’t hold a job, can’t pass basic math, and I spend my days playing video games and passing out.”

I flung my head back, feeling my shoulders shake as I laughed. I was beginning to think I liked the drunk version of Scott better than the sober one. Who would have figured Scott for self-deprecating?

“Quit drooling,” Scott said, playfully tipping my chip up. “It’s going to go to my head.”

I gave him a relaxed smile. “You drive a Mustang. That should give you ten points at least.”

“Awesome. Ten points. All I need is another two hundred to get out of the red zone.”

“Why don’t you quit drinking?” I suggested.

“Quit? You kidding? My life sucks when I’m only half-aware of it. If I quit drinking and saw what it’s really like, I’d probably jump off a bridge.”

We were quiet a moment.

“When I’m wasted, I can almost forget who I am,” he said, his smile fading slightly. “I know I’m still there, but only barely. It’s a good place to be.” He tipped back the thermos, eyes on the dark sea straight ahead.

“Yeah, well, my life isn’t so great either.”

“Your dad?” he guessed, wiping his upper lip with the back of his hand. “That wasn’t your fault.”

“Which almost makes it worse.”

“How so?”

“If it were my fault, that would imply I messed up. I’d blame myself for a long time, but maybe eventually I could move on.

Right now I’m stuck, facing down the same question: Why my dad?”

“Fair enough,” Scott said.

A soft rain started to fall. Summer rain, with big warm drops splattering everywhere.

“What the hell?” I heard Marcie demand from farther down the beach, near the bonfire. I studied the outlines of bodies as people began shuffling to their feet. Patch wasn’t among them.

“My apartment, everyone!” Scott holl ered out, jumping to his feet with a flourish. He staggered sideways, barely hanging on to his balance. “Seventy-two Deacon Road, apartment thirty-two. Doors are unlocked. Plenty of beer in the fridge. Oh, and did I mention my mom’s at Bunco all night?” A cheer went up, and everyone grabbed their shoes and other discarded clothing items and hiked up the sand toward the parking lot.

Scott nudged my thigh with his flip-flop. “Need a ride?

C’mon, I’ll even let you drive.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think I’m done.” Patch wasn’t here.

He was the sole reason I’d come, and suddenly the night felt not only like a letdown, but a waste as well. I should have been relieved at not having to see Patch and Marcie together, but I mostly felt disappointed, lonely, and full of regret. And exhausted. The only thing on my mind was crawling into bed and putting an end to this day as soon as possible.

“Friends don’t let friends drive drunk,” Scott coaxed.

“Are you trying to appeal to my conscience?” He dangled the keys in front of me. “How can you turn down a once-in-a-lifetime chance to drive the ’Stang?” I got to my feet and brushed sand off the seat of my pants.

“How about you sell me the ’Stang for thirty dollars? I can even pay cash.”

He laughed, slinging his arm around my shoulders. “Drunk, but not that drunk, Grey.”

CHAPTER 14

ONCE BACK INSIDE COLDWATER’S CITY LIMITS, I drove the Mustang across town and took Beech to Deacon. The rain continued to patter down in a somber drizzle. The road was narrow and winding, evergreen trees crowding right up to the edge of the pavement. Around the next bend, Scott pointed to a complex of Cape Cod–style apartments with tiny balconies and gray shingles. There was a run-down tennis court on the small lawn out front. The whole place looked like it could use a fresh coat of paint.

I angled the Mustang into a parking space.

“Thanks for the ride,” Scott said, draping his arm on the back of my seat. His eyes were glassy, his smile hitched up lazily on one side.

“Can you make it inside?” I asked.

“I don’t want to go inside,” he slurred. “The carpet smells like dog urine and the bathroom ceiling has mold. I want to stay out here, with you.”

Because you’re drunk. “I have to get home. It’s late, and I still haven’t called my mom today. She’s going to freak out if I don’t check in soon.” I reached across him and pushed open the passenger door.

As I did, he coiled a lock of my hair around his finger. “Pretty.” I unwound the curl. “This isn’t going to happen. You’re drunk.” He grinned. “Just a little.”

“You’re not going to remember this tomorrow.”

“I thought we had a bonding moment back at the beach.”

“We did. And that’s as far as our bond is going. I’m serious.

I’m kicking you out. Go inside.”

“What about my car?”

“I’ll take it home tonight, then bring it by tomorrow afternoon.” Scott exhaled contentedly and relaxed deeper into his seat. “I want to go inside and chil solo with Jimi Hendrix. Would you tell everyone the party’s over?”

I rolled my eyes. “You just invited sixty people over. I’m not going to go in and tell them it’s called off.” Scott bent sideways out the door and threw up.

Ugh.

I grabbed the back of his shirt, lugged him inside the car, and gave the Mustang enough gas to roll it forward two feet. Then I engaged the foot brake and swung out. I walked around to Scott’s side and dragged him out of the car by his arms, being careful to avoid planting my foot in the contents of his emptied stomach. He flung his arm over my shoulder, and it was all I could do to keep from coll apsing under his weight. “Which apartment?” I asked.

“Thirty-two. Top right.”

The top floor. Of course. Why should I expect to catch a break now?

I dragged Scott up both flights of stairs, panting hard, and I dragged Scott up both flights of stairs, panting hard, and staggered through the open door of his apartment, which was alive with the chaos of bodies pulsing and grinding to rap turned up so loud I could feel pieces of my brain shaking loose.

“Bedroom’s at the back,” Scott murmured in my ear.

I pushed him forward through the crowd, opened the door at the end of the hall, and dumped Scott on the bottom mattress of the bunk bed in the corner. There was a small desk in the adjacent corner, a coll apsible cloth hamper, a guitar stand, and a few free weights. The walls were aged white and sparsely decorated with a movie poster for The Godfather Part III and a New England Patriots pennant.

“My room,” Scott said, catching me taking in the surroundings. He patted the mattress beside him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Good night, Scott.”

I started to pull the door shut when he said, “Can you get me a drink? Water. I got to wash this taste out of my mouth.” I was antsy to get out of the place but couldn’t help feeling an aggravating tug of sympathy for Scott. If I left now, he’d probably wake tomorrow in a pool of his own vomit. I might as well clean him up and get him some ibuprofen.