Saving Zoë

Twenty-three

By the time I get to Teresa’s, I know I’m too late. And it’s not like it took me all that long to shower and dress, it was more the pacing, the hand wringing, and the pro-and-con-list making that ate up all my free time.

There’s an old beat-up motorcycle leaning precariously on its kickstand, and one of those jacked-up, overaccessorized, overcompensating, fully loaded trucks parked right beside it. But no blue Camaro. And since neither of those vehicles looks remotely like anything Teresa or her parents would be willing to drive, I’m feeling more than a little anxious.

I hesitate at the door, thinking I should just forget about knocking, cut my losses, and head home. And just as I turn to do exactly that, the front door swings open as Teresa smiles and says, “I saw you from the living room window.” Then she wiggles her fingers, motioning me inside.

She leads me past the formal dining room, which looks no worse for the wear, and through the ultramodern kitchen that’s shiny, clean, and pristine. And even though the house is showing absolutely no sings of a wild night of out-of-control teenage debauchery, Teresa’s tight ripped jeans and tiny black tube top are giving off a whole other vibe.

So by the time we get to the den and I see those two overage delinquents sprawled across the couch, let’s just say I’m not the least bit surprised.

“You remember Tom and Jason?” she says, nodding at the losers I’d met that day in the park.

I just look at them, wondering why she lured me here, but determined not to show any fear.

“Beer?” she asks, raising a sweaty bottle in offering. Martha Stewart, look out.

But I just shake my head and drop onto an overstuffed chair, doing my best to ignore asshole Tom who, once again, seems dead set on staring at me.

“So, did you go to her little high school soiree?17 Tom asks, tilting his head back as he guzzles his beer, his eyes still fixed on mine.

But before I can answer Teresa smiles and goes, “She stopped by, but she didn’t stay long.”

“Hot date?” he asks, lighting up a cigarette that Jason immediately grabs and breaks in half.

“No smoking in the palace, asshole,” Jason says, taking the broken pieces and shoving them into his beer before chucking Tom hard on the back of his head.

I watch as Tom makes a face but still cowers away, and I feel like I’m in one of those weird art-school films. The kind filled with rain, symbolism, and dream sequences that you can’t understand. I mean, on the surface, Teresa’s probably one of the luckiest people I know. It’s like she’s living the teenage dream. She’s got two parents who are still together, she lives in a beautiful, huge home, she has a walk in-closet that’s jammed full of super-cute, designer-label clothes, she’s pretty, she’s popular, she gets good grades, and she’s had the same boyfriend since the end of eighth grade who everyone unanimously agrees is totally hot. Heck, she even has real-deal Hollywood credentials, having starred in a baby-food commercial back when she was two, followed by some small, mostly nonspeaking roles over the last few years. Which also makes her one of the few people who can actually list on her Web page “model, singer, actress,” and only the singer part is a lie.

So I don’t get it. I mean, why would someone who has all of that want to hang out with a cheesy, creepy drug dealer and his mentally challenged sidekick? It just doesn’t make any sense.

When I look up, Tom is still staring at me, which totally gives me the creeps, so I pretend I have to go to the bathroom, since it’s the only place where I can be alone, clear my head, and hopefully figure out what to do next.

I’m standing in front of the sink, watching the water run down the drain, when Teresa barges in without even knocking. “He just got here,” she says, standing in the doorway, looking at me. “I just let him in; I thought you should know. You know, so you don’t stay in here all day, wasting water.” She smiles, but it’s not at all normal. In fact, it’s not even kind.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Why’d you invite me here?”

“From what I saw in the park, it seems like you and Marc are really hitting it off,” she says, looking right at me. “So I thought you might want to hang in a more private place, with people you can trust.”

I just stand there, not saying a word. I mean, I can’t exactly deny what she saw. But still, I know better than to trust her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says, nodding her head. “But you’ve got it all wrong. I’m actually a much better friend than you think. Like last night? After you left? Parker got all hammered and started hitting on someone’s girlfriend. They almost got in a fight. But I just calmed everyone down, then I took him aside for a little chat. And you know what he asked? He wanted to know if you were into someone else. He said whenever you guys were alone together, it was like you were never really there.”

I look at her, holding my breath.

“But I just told him to go home, sober up, and sleep it off.” She shrugs. “So you see, we’re not so different, you and me. We both look one way on the outside, but inside, we’re something else. We’ve got secrets.” She smiles.

“Why me?” I ask. “I mean, out of all the people you know, why do you share this stuff with me?”

“Because you’re smart, and you’re different, and you’re one of the few people who get how nothing’s ever what it seems.”

We just stand there, looking at each other, and I wonder if it’s really that simple, if even part of that is true. Then she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. “Let’s go,” she says. “Marc doesn’t even know you’re here.”

I follow her out of the bathroom and into the den, where Marc is sitting on a chair, clutching a beer and looking uneasy.

“Look who’s here,” Teresa says, motioning to me like a game-show model presenting a shiny, new, energy-efficient appliance.

I slip onto a chair and try to act casual, like I hang out with drug dealers and dropouts all the time.

Marc glances at me then over at Jason. Then he sets down his beer and goes, “Listen, can we make this quick? I need to get out of here.”

But Jason’s taking it easy and refuses to be rushed. “Relax,” he says. “Just chill and finish your drink.”

I glance at Marc’s bottle, seeing how it’s still completely full, and remember how he rarely drinks, probably because of his mom’s bad habit. “Sorry bro, but I really need to split,” he says, like he’s speaking a foreign language now, Jason’s language.

But Jason just glares, his eyes becoming angry, narrow slits. “Apparently you didn’t hear me. I’m. Finishing. My. Beer,” he says, his voice firm and controlled, punctuating each separate word.

So we all just sit there. Avoiding each other’s gaze while listening to Jason slurp and sip, until he finally finishes it off with one long, loud, disgusting belch. Then he sets his bottle hard on the table and says, “Me and my boy will be right back.” He points at all of us, his index finger outstretched, his thumb arched up high, like a gun about to go off. When he pulls the trigger he laughs, as he ushers Marc out of the room.

It feels like forever. Seriously, from the time they leave ’til the moment they come back, it feels like my whole, entire life has passed.

And when Marc finally comes back into the den, he takes one look at me and goes, “Need a ride?” And I grab my purse and head for the door, without once looking back.