Just Don't Mention It by Estelle Maskame
“New plan,” Tiffani says, and I step curiously into the living room, listening. She is glancing between both Eden and me, and I don’t like it. “Austin’s throwing a last-minute party and we’re going. You too, Eden. It’s Eden, right? You don’t really look the partying type, but Rachael says I have to invite you along. So come.”
“Back up a second,” I blurt. What the hell? Another party? I barely survived last night’s one. The absolute last thing I want to do right now is go to another, where I will have to laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. Where I will have to nod to music I don’t like. Where I will be the one to have to drink the most because everyone thinks I can handle it when I definitely can’t. I just want to relax, to be with Tiffani, to let her distract me. I head over to her, placing my hand on her hip and moving my lips to ear. “I thought we were going to your place. You know . . .”
“Reschedule that,” she murmurs. She moves around me and claps her hands together, moving her attention to Eden, the goddamn stranger who she only met a few hours ago. “Okay, so you’re coming, Eden. And you too, Tyler. You’re coming and you’re not getting wasted for once.”
So I’m not even allowed to get drunk in order to survive the party? “The fuck?” I hate that she always makes decisions for me.
She already has her car keys in her hand, ready to leave. So much for early notice. “Rachael and Megs are already at my place getting ready, so come on, let’s go!”
“Wait,” Eden says, and when I flash my eyes at her, she is getting to her feet. She doesn’t look too enthusiastic about the idea of a party, but she isn’t objecting to it either. If anything, she only looks apprehensive. Like Tiffani, I wouldn’t have taken her for the partying type of girl, but I guess she’s only going to continue surprising me. “I need to get an outfit. Give me five minutes to find something.”
Tiffani laughs out loud, a laugh of pity, but Eden probably can’t even tell the difference as Tiffani reaches for her arm and yanks her forward. “You can borrow something of mine. Now come on! We’re leaving for the party in two hours.” She lets go of her and makes for the front door, car keys jingling in her hand, her chin held high. I follow her, but only because it seems like I don’t really have a choice right now.
“I thought you were grounded,” I hear Eden murmur as I’m leaving.
I stop, turning back around once more to study her. Who even is this girl, really? I figure she must be from Portland, but only because I know Dave is from there. I know she’s only here for the summer. And I know she doesn’t know who I am yet, because she keeps testing me whether she realizes it or not. She keeps watching me, keeps talking back, keeps questioning everything. I know she lies to her dad. And I know her eyes are hazel, because I can see them now, staring back at me without breaking the contact. I smirk at her, impressed. Most people can’t do that. Most people look away after a few seconds. “And I thought you were sick.”
She doesn’t say anything more after that, even when we’re in Tiffani’s car en route back to her place. I’m riding shotgun, and I push my seat as far back as it will go, just to see if Eden will tell me to fuck off or not. She doesn’t, but I wish she would, just so I can hear the way it sounds in her voice. She remains quiet in the backseat instead, staring out of the window, looking slightly more anxious now.
Tiffani, on the other hand, won’t shut up. She is filling me in on the latest petty drama which I honestly could not care less about, so I nod and murmur, “Really?” every once in a while just so she believes I’m listening. I’m not, though, because all I can think about is how much I am dreading this party. They suck. The only reason I bear them is because they distract me. They help me forget, just for a while, so that I’m focused on something else other than how fucking messed up my life is.
When we pull up outside Tiffani’s place, Rachael’s and Meghan’s cars are already on the drive, and I know they’re already inside getting ready. I can picture it all already: I will be subjected to hours of giggling. I will be grilled about my opinion on their outfits. I will be the one to bring them drinks.
“Your mom’s still out, right?” I ask once we’re inside and lingering in the hall, listening to the music that’s already pounding from upstairs. Eden looks way out of her comfort zone as she hangs back behind us, and I quickly glance around. Tiffani’s mom wouldn’t approve of me being here again, and she’s always such a buzz kill.
“Yeah. There’s beer in the kitchen. Kick back down here while we get ready, but take it easy,” Tiffani tells me, and the thunderous look she gives me is all the warning I need. I embarrassed her last night, I know I did. She reaches for Eden’s hand and begins pulling her toward the huge marble staircase that I have stumbled down drunk so many times before, and halfway up, she calls back, “We won’t be long!”
Eden looks terrified as she is dragged away into the hell that is being under Tiffani’s control. Honestly, I feel sorry for the damn girl. She’s been here for—what?—a day? I don’t know what the parties in Portland are like, but I doubt they are anything like ours. She doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into, and I can already tell that she’s going to regret it tomorrow.
I run my hand back through my hair and make my way into the kitchen. There’s a stack of alcohol already there, waiting to be brought to the party, and I grab the first beer I find. I pop the cap and take a swig, but I can’t even enjoy it. I drank enough last night to last me the entire summer.
I force it down nonetheless as I lie sprawled on the couch in Tiffani’s living room, flicking between sports channels on the giant TV in the dark for what feels like forever. I keep the box of Bud Lights next to me, so that I can easily grab another. And another. And another. Take it easy? I wish I could, but Tyler Bruce doesn’t take things easy.
“We shouldn’t be too much longer,” I hear a voice say after a while, and it startles me a little because the beer is making me drowsy when I’m drinking it alone. I prop myself up and crane my neck. Rachael is hovering at the door, a drink in her hand. “You know, you were really, really wasted last night.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the reminder.” I roll my eyes at her, then purposely take a long sip of the beer in my hand just to remind her that I don’t give a shit.
“I’m just saying,” she mumbles, taking a step into the living room. She glances at the TV for a moment, and then back at me, her eyebrows pinching with concern. “You don’t have to drink that much, you know.”
“Says you, Lightweight Lawson,” I retort, turning away from her. I get bored of Rachael so easily. All she ever does is shake her head at me and comment on everything I do. What is up with everyone in my damn life trying to control me?
“That’s different,” she says. She takes several more steps into the room, standing directly in front of me so that I have no option but to look back up at her, even though I’m not interested in what she has to say. “I get drunk because I’m a lightweight. You get drunk because you want to.”
I sigh and keep my expression blank. “Are you done with your lecture?”
“Not really.” Taking a swig of her own drink, she sits down on the arm of the couch next to me and crosses one leg over the other. “I’m just letting you and that ego of yours”—she taps her index finger against my forehead—“know that you won’t be any less cool if you have a limit. It’s okay to turn down a drink.” She drops her gaze to the empty bottles of beer on the floor around us, and she frowns. “I think you’ve had a lot already.”
“Whatever, Rachael.” I nudge her away, pushing her off the couch, and she doesn’t put up much of a fight. I hope she’s happy now that she’s done her good deed for the day. She doesn’t say anything more, only sips at her drink as she turns and walks away. I listen to the sound of her footsteps on the staircase until they disappear, and then I drink from my own beer again.
I wait around for another half hour, texting Dean and Jake to see if they’re at the party yet or not, before I finally crack up and lose my patience. I
I push open the door to Tiffani’s room, and it smells of burned hair and perfume. The music is loud and pumping, and it feels stuffy in here. But, thankfully, the girls are all dressed and with their hair and makeup done. “Alright, can we head over there now?” I ask, stepping into the room and leaning against the doorframe. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Eden as she emerges from the bathroom.
She looks different. She looks like . . . them. Like Tiffani, like Rachael, like Meghan. Like a girl who is trying way too hard to impress. She’s wearing one of Tiffani’s tiny black dresses, and the only reason I know it belongs to Tiffani is because I remember tearing it off her a month ago. It’s tight and it’s short. I try not to look, even though I want to. But that would be weird. Stepsister, I think. It’s still an alien concept to me.
“Dean and Jake are already there,” I add quickly, trying to focus on something else.
“Do I look good?” Tiffani asks, not exactly answering my question. She twirls around in a circle, showing herself off, but she looks exactly the same as she always does. Way too overdressed in too few clothes, on the brink of suffocation, and slightly tacky.
“Baby, you look fine,” I tell her. Again, it’s what she wants to hear. I finish off the beer in my hand and dump it on her dresser, then move closer to her. I’m aware Eden is watching, so I grab Tiffani’s waist. “Real hot.” And then I kiss her, right there and then, because if there’s anything Tiffani loves more than herself, it’s having me kiss her while we have an audience. But I’m not doing it for her. No, I’m doing it to show Eden more of me. More of Tyler Bruce.
I want her to believe that I’m an asshole. A jerk. A moron.
13
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Friday night baseball games have become almost a tradition in our family. We like the Dodgers, and Dad has been taking me to games ever since I was young. And then Jamie came too when he was old enough, and then Chase, and now Mom wraps up early at the office on Fridays, so she comes along too. Every time the Dodgers play a home game on a Friday night, us Graysons are there.
That’s why we’re here now, at Dodger Stadium among the buzz of noise. Because it’s Friday night, and the Dodgers are playing at home against the Diamondbacks. Empty seats around the stadium are slowly filling up as the stragglers roll in, the commentator’s voice echoes out over the field, the evening sun is low. The game has just started.
I’m sitting forward on the edge of my seat, my hands interlocked between my knees. The Diamondbacks are batting, so my focus slips and I glance sideways at Jamie. He’s on the edge of his seat too, his eyes wide as he stares down at the field, invested in the game. I lean forward, looking beyond him to Chase. We’re up in the top deck, and he’s too short to see over the people in the row in front, so he’s on his feet, watching the game on the big screen instead. He’s wearing a Dodgers cap that’s too big for his head, so it keeps falling down over his eyes. I sigh and look past him too, over to Mom and Dad. They’re talking among themselves and Mom is leaning in close against him, her head resting on his shoulder. She’s wearing a cap too. Dad’s arm is around her, and they both laugh, their smiles genuine, their eyes locked on one another. I like it when they’re happy. I like that they make each other happy.
“Oh, Chase!” Mom laughs. She sits up and nudges Dad’s arm off her. Placing her hands on Chase’s shoulders, she gently pulls him closer to her and swipes his cap off, then places it on his head backward instead. “I think your dad should buy you a smaller size on our way out.”
“That’s right, buddy,” Dad says, leaning forward to look at Chase past Mom. He grins wide, and he and Chase bump fists in agreement. His gaze flickers up to meet mine, and his smile widens as he glances between Jamie and me. “Are you guys hungry?”
Jamie tears his attention away from the field and looks at Dad, confused. “But it’s still the first inning,” he states. We usually wait until the third before we get hot dogs—another of our traditions.
“By the time I get to the front of the line, it will be the third inning!” Mom says, getting to her feet. She grabs her purse from the floor. “Hot dogs coming right up!” She squeezes around Dad, but before she leaves, he reaches up for the bill of her cap and pulls her down toward him, kissing her. Then, she shuffles off along the row.
“Tyler,” Dad says. He fixes his gaze on me and nods after her. “Help your mom.”
Quickly, I stand up and push my way past Jamie and Chase, then practically climb over Dad’s long legs. He watches me closely, his mouth still showing a hint of a smile. He’s relaxed tonight. He usually is on a Friday. I awkwardly sidestep my way down our row and then race to catch up with Mom further back inside the stadium. There’s food and merchandise stalls every few hundred yards, and the lines are long and weaving.
“Oh, Tyler,” Mom says as I approach her at the back of one of the food stall lines. She looks down at me, unaware that I’ve been following. “You’re missing the game!”
“It’s okay,” I say with a small shrug. “Dad asked me to help. The Diamondbacks are batting anyway.” I don’t even want to think about the look Dad would have given me if I’d said no to him, if I’d whined and told him I wanted to stay and watch the game. He’s been in a good mood today and he’s been smiling a lot, but I don’t want to test him. Dad never stays in a good mood for too long, at least not with me.
“Hmm,” Mom says teasingly, pursing her lips as she pretends to think. She smiles wide at me, her blue eyes sparkling. Why don’t I look like her? “Who raised you to be such a good kid?”
“You did,” I answer. I smile back up at her, but it’s sort of fake. Dad raised me too, and I’m not allowed to be anything less than good. I am a good kid, but only because I’m too scared not to be. That’s why I always try to remember my manners, always work hard at school, always do my best to stay out of trouble. Sometimes, even that isn’t enough.
Mom laughs and runs her hand through my hair, playfully ruffling it before she rests her arm over my shoulders. We move forward in line. “Ketchup, no mustard, right?”
I nod and she turns her attention to the food stall as we slowly progress toward it. She doesn’t notice that I’m staring at her, watching her calm features and wondering if she would ever believe me. I want her to know the truth. I want her to know that I’m scared, that I don’t know what Dad will do next to hurt me, but I don’t know how to tell her. She loves him. Would she still love him if she knew? Dad would never forgive me if I ruined all of that. And Mom . . . I want her to know so that she can help me, so that maybe she could ask Dad to stop. But I also don’t want to see her sad. I like it when she smiles. I like it when she’s happy. I like it when they both are.
That’s why I’ve never told her. That’s why I never will. I can’t. I’m terrified to, because I don’t know what will happen if I do. Would Mom still love me?
“Hold this for your dad,” Mom says, and she slides a cold cup of beer into my hand. I blink fast, realizing that we’re suddenly at the front of the line and Mom has already ordered our food. Did I zone out again? I need to stop doing that.
I glance down at the beer. Dad likes to have a few at every game since it’s the weekend and all, and this is his second. It’s freezing cold in my hand, so I shift it to my other.
“C’mon, let’s get back,” Mom says as she grabs the tray of hot dogs. She spins around and nods at me to go ahead as she follows.
I begin to carefully weave my way around the thick crowd of people, but there are bodies darting back and forth in different directions, and the beer is too cold in my hand, and my steps are growing faster, and I’m glancing between the beer and my route back to our seats, and I trip. Just like that, s
“Tyler!” Mom gasps, and she rushes to my side, crouching down next to me. “Are you okay? Oh, you’re bleeding! I’ve got band-aids in my purse.” Balancing the tray of hot dogs against her hip, she reaches for my elbow and gently pulls me up to my feet.
People are staring at me. My heart is pounding too fast. Numbly, I glance down and see that I’ve broken the skin of both my knees. There’s a little blood, not much, and it stings, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I look up ahead at the empty cup that’s on its side on the ground. There’s a stream of Dad’s beer running along the concrete. He’s not going to be happy.
My hands tremble, and the panic spreads through my chest until my entire body is shaking. I can’t help it. I’m a quivering mess as I stare at that empty cup. “Dad’s . . . Dad’s beer . . .” I mumble. He was happy tonight. He was smiling. I’ve ruined that again. I always do.
“Hey. Hey!” Mom says, stepping in front of me and crouching down again, looking at me with concern from beneath her eyelashes. “It’s okay, Tyler. I’ll just get him another later!” She’s trying to reassure me, but it isn’t enough to stop me from trembling.
Mom throws the empty cup into a nearby trashcan and then places her hand on my shoulder, guiding me back to our seats. I feel sick, like I’m going to throw up right here and now in front of everyone. I don’t want to go back to our seats. I don’t want Dad to narrow his eyes at me and clench his jaw like he does whenever he’s mad at me.