A Season for Fireflies (5 page)

He sighs and it's the kind where I know he has seen the wine too.

“Well, stay out of her way.” He frowns at a metal piece that looks like a chicken nugget coated in silver.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

Dad compares wrenches. He's never talked about what to do if Mom starts drinking the way she did before the rehab. I'm counting bottles again, which is never a good sign.

“What are we gonna do?” I press.

I wait for Dad to commiserate with me, but he focuses on finding the wrench for the chicken nugget thing. I'm not going to push it right now. No use going on about Mom until Dad actually
wants
to deal with it.

I just wish I knew how to save her from herself.

“So is that going to pay my college tuition?” I ask with a sigh.

“We'll see,” he says. He's lost in thought.

He grabs a file and a tool I can't name but it looks like a handsaw. He sits down on the stool at the end of the table.

“Oh!” he says, clearly remembering something, and jumps up again to dig around in one of his many double-sided red toolboxes on a nearby shelf.

“I got nominated for homecoming queen,” I say.

“That's great, Pen!” Dad says absently, still absorbed in whatever he's doing. Another few seconds go by, so I add, “College applications are coming up.” I barely even raise my voice over the clanging from Dad's rummaging. He doesn't reply. “I'll probably go for small liberal arts, mostly. I have the Bates Common App pretty much ready to go. I'll need a—”

“There it is!” Dad cries. He pulls out what looks like a mini polisher.

No matter what it is, I've lost him. Done. Cooked. Even if I talk now, he's in the zone and won't reply unless I push, which could completely derail him. I know he needs this to distract himself from Mom. Maybe we both need to avoid the reality for a little while.

Within a few minutes, I'm back upstairs, my backpack is over my shoulder, and I have a plate filled with potpie.

I walk to the stairs to the sound of a saw buzzing in the basement. It's a purr when I get to the second floor. Mom is in her bedroom tinkering with her jewelry. The shades are drawn.

“Hey,” I say, and place my food on the table outside her room.

Sometimes, when I catch her in a good mood, I can tell her about my life. But I never know when that will be. Even when she's sober, her depression makes it hard to talk to her sometimes.
Mom's delicate hands and the wisps of her black hair look so pretty by the soft light of the dresser lamp.

“Wow. That's pretty,” I say, and pick up a dainty ring with a small blue gem. “Where did you get it?” I imagine myself in the pink dress I already bought for homecoming. I already wear another ring on my thumb. Kylie and I have the same one. It's silver with a blue circular stone. Mom's ring would look—

She snatches it from me. “You can't have it,” she snaps. I back away and bring my hand to my stomach. It's like a hot string is pulled through my belly button. I didn't want the ring. I just wanted to talk.

I say nothing in return and leave her to organize her gold and gems. My mouth tugs downward. I slide my food silently from the table, walk up the stairs to my room, and close the door. I text Kylie.

ME: I'll grab the vodka. You grab the OJ for tonight.

“THIS BAND IS SO GOOD!” KYLIE SAYS AS WE PULL
up toward Tank's house. Rock music vibrates through my radio speakers. “I'm so obsessed!” Kylie cries, turning up the volume even more. Kylie has great taste in music. I have hundreds of songs and albums on my computer that I never would have heard in the first place if I hadn't become friends with Kylie. I instinctively glance at my backseat, where Eve and Lila would be sitting if Kylie wasn't “ghosting” them out of her life at present. They've been texting me instead, asking me what time we're going to the party. “Don't you just love this?” Kylie cries.

She waits for agreement from me, but I keep seeing those two damn wine bottles on the counter.

“What's up with you?” Kylie says. “You're being extra quiet.” She pouts in the passenger mirror and applies lipstick. She lights a cigarette and when she takes a drag, the lipstick leaves a bright crimson ring around the end of her cigarette. I hate that she smokes in my car but I don't tell her to stop. Ky slips her cigarettes and green lighter into the front pouch of my purse.

“So, what did you say to Lila and Eve?” I say as we get out of the car. “So they wouldn't drive with us.”

“That we ate dinner with your parents first.”

I scroll through the texts from them. “They're obsessed with this homecoming nomination.”

We get out of the car and when the music silences, I pretend to grab a microphone and interview Kylie. On cue, she jumps into Beauty Queen character. “Ms. Castelli,” I say, “what will you do with your crown now that you are homecoming queen?”

“Well, first, I would make a point to change the . . .” She tries to search for what her duties as homecoming queen would be. “Shit,” she says. “I don't want to have to do anything to be queen. I just want the pretty crown.”

She smiles and we fall into laughter. I love Kylie's honesty.

“You totally get that interviewing thing from me,” Kylie says, throwing her arm over my shoulder. “I'm your biggest influence. Radio DJ and all.”

“Did you ever tell Mr. Pierce about the internship?” I ask. Kylie unhooks from my shoulder and pulls her hair out from its ponytail, tossing it around.

“I have an interview next month and Mr. Pierce is going insane that”—she makes air quotes—“one of his students will
be working at a real radio station.” She drops her hands. “Also, if I had to hear from you one more time,” she says, and elbows me, “‘If you don't try, Ky, you don't get!' I was going to wring your neck.”

“It's true!” I cry.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says with a smile.

Thick humidity has taken over the beginning of September. Even my rose perfume smells too sweet. Based on the number of cars in the driveway, it's a typical Friday-night party, which means that the usual suspects will be in attendance.

I wipe some sweat from my forehead as we walk up to the house.

“I wish we had a band for homecoming. Real musicians and not some stupid DJ,” Kylie says as we head up to the house.

“Totally agree,” I say. “Or you could DJ!”

“Now you're talking!” Kylie grins and loops her arm tightly in mine. “You're my number one, bitch!”

I squeeze her arm, which I always note is more muscular than May's, who has been small her whole life.

“This house is completely heinous,” I say as we approach the steps.

Kylie cackles and her angled face shines under the moonlight.

No matter how many times I've been here, I still think Tank's house is tacky. Pillars abound. Mom would call it “ostentatious” and “trying too hard.”

“You know Alex is going to ask you to homecoming,” Kylie says. “Are you going to say yes?”

“If he can keep it in his pants,” I reply, which sends her into laughter again.

“Tank hasn't asked me yet,” Kylie groans. With the crystal chandelier hanging over the door, Kylie takes a second to preen in the reflection of the glass.

“He won't get a chance to ask you if we never go in,” I say. “I could use a drink, you know.”

“Miss One and Done?” Kylie says. “You think we don't notice but it's obvious.”

I roll my eyes instead of fighting her on it. “Just because I don't kill the bottle like you do . . .”

It surprises me that Kylie notices that I don't really drink. I thought I hid it pretty well. I usually have one drink and that's it. There's no way I'm killing wine bottles like Mom. Either way, Kylie's been doing this a lot lately; telling me that I'm “holding out on her” or that we're not close when she's exactly like that—or she used to be. I've tried to blow it off, but these days it's making its way into all our conversations. She's told me a lot more about her mom and dad's divorce lately and how she feels whenever Tank is around. I don't want to reciprocate—not yet.

Kylie tosses her hair around in the reflection of the house door before opening it up to the loud noise of the party inside. I notice, even though it wasn't intentional, that our black dresses are nearly identical. Tonight is probably the last time we'll be able to wear these minis until next summer.

“Hot during the day then cold at night. Or then so hot that our faces melt off. This weather is bipolar,” Kylie says.

“I know, I keep thinking it's cute boots weather, but it was what? Eighty today?” I ask.

People love to throw around terms like “bipolar,” “manic,” and “depressed.” They don't know what it's like to live with someone who sleeps in a dark room all day and hardly emerges unless she's drunk. Or what it means when your mother tells you not to touch her
things.

She can have whatever she wants of mine.

The music is booming and Kylie and I fall into the party just as the best hip-hop song bounces through the sound system. I couldn't have timed it better myself. Kylie and I swing our hips to the beat. The hallway to the living room is our catwalk.

“Hello!” I cry out to the crowd when we step into the foyer. I spin in the center of the room with a bottle of vodka in my hands.

“Penny!” People call my name from different corners of the room. I take a deep breath and recite a monologue from the play
Willow Street.
It won an Obie, a Laurence Olivier Award, and a Tony last year. No one here knows that, though. They think I'm just being funny. Kylie's funny sidekick.

“Well, well.” I bring my hand to my chest. I channel the lead of Carrie Isner, the rich Southern girl who loves elegant parties more than life itself. “Look at all these beautiful people. All the gorgeous smiles and happy faces. Did you ice the cake? Chill the drinks? I have just what you asked for. . . .” I lift the bottle into the air and the applause echoes around me. I bow.

“You could be famous!” someone calls out from a group of girls that I occasionally sit with at lunch.

“You're really good,” a girl named Erica says.

“Thanks, Erica,” I say with a smile and a casual wave of my
hand. She stands a little straighter because I know her name—she thinks she knows me. No one really does. I still read plays when they get a good review in the
New York Times
and I watch all the award shows. They think I'm just loud, funny Penny, top ten in the class and the party girl at Kylie's side who never takes anything too seriously.

We move into the kitchen, I place the bottle on the counter, and Kylie throws an arm over my shoulder. “What is Wes doing here?” she says in my ear.

I accidentally knock a cup of limes aside. They fall to the floor and I scramble to pick them up.
Please don't let him come in the kitchen. Just give me a minute.
I need to act normal.

“What the hell is he doing here?” I whisper when I stand back up.

“I think he came with Panda.”

I've seen Panda at parties but haven't hung out with him one-on-one in a while. He's good for weed, so he's always invited. Since I don't smoke, it hasn't led to us talking that much.

When I stand up, I peer through the people dancing and a group of guys playing cards. Tank comes into the house from outside. Wes follows next with Panda but has to hunch a bit because he's too tall for the doorway. Adrenaline shoots through my chest. I turn my back to the living room and start to make a drink. Kylie is reluctantly called away by Lila and Eve and I've just finished making her drink when the scent of salt-and-vinegar potato chips wafts over to me.

“What's up, Panda?” I say, but my voice is wobbly. When I face him, I expect to see Wes too but Panda's alone.

He pulls at the fabric of his T-shirt, right at the stomach area, as he always does. Today's T-shirt has a picture of a wolf howling at the moon.

“The famous Penny Berne screwdriver?” he asks instead, and tips his chin to my drink.

“Shall I make you a beverage?” I ask, gesturing to the orange juice.

“Nah,” Panda says. “Coca-Cola.” He lifts his cup. “My mom is on my ass about alcohol.”

I'm surprised he's so open talking to me about his family since that incident happened back in May. I was coming home from the track and Panda and his dad were stuck at the long red light at the corner of Green and Main. I recognized the blue Mercedes. He was
screaming
at Panda. I stopped in the next lane and could hear Panda's dad through the open sunroof. Panda's chin was to his chest and when the light turned green, his dad sped forward to the parking lot at the bottom of the hill to school. His dad slammed the door and I sat at the light watching Panda get reamed. His cheeks were bright red and old tears stained his face.

Jamie
,
you make my life difficult! Do you ever do anything you say you're going to do? Why do I pay for that school?!

It was so weird to hear Panda called by his real name, Jamie, as I never ever hear it except in theater reviews or in official class documents. He's always just been Panda.

That day, I knew he was due to set up for
Into the Woods
rehearsal. His father yanked at the duffel bag in Panda's hand. He raised his hand high above his head. I swear he was making
a fist. I revved the engine, sped to the parking lot, and screeched on the brakes, slamming the car door behind me as I got out.

“Hey!” I yelled, pointing at Mr. Thomas. He was all out of breath. “You'll hurt him, Mr. Thomas! Don't!” Mr. Thomas opened his mouth, but closed it. I think he did it a couple of times before he got into the car, leaving Panda in the parking lot. That made sense, as I am sure he was driving Panda to rehearsal, but I don't know what could have made him scream at Panda so violently. The Mercedes tires screeched as he sped off. I was all out of breath and flushed when I turned to Panda. He nodded without making eye contact with me. His eyelashes were thick with tears.

“Panda,” I croaked.

“You're a good egg, Berne,” he said. “You're good.”

And he walked up the hill toward school without ever bringing it up again—until now.

Kylie's laughter rises over the music, bringing me back to the kitchen at Tank's house. She says something to Tank and presses her hand against his chest. I would like to ask Panda what part he thinks he wants in
Midsummer—
but I don't. I never did find out what his dad was yelling at him about that day.

“That's a serious shirt for a night such as this,” I say, gesturing to Panda's T-shirt.

“Don't fuck with the wolf,” Panda replies, and sips on his Coke. “I miss you, Berne,” he says.

I want to ask Panda why I haven't seen him at parties since last spring, and why he skipped being in an Ocean State Theater Company play this past summer. I follow the play schedule and
privately scrutinize who is starring in the summer productions. I didn't see his name once and I know he's been in OSTC since he was eight. Just like May and me.

“How come I didn't see you in any of my classes?” I ask. We were in three together last year.

Panda sips on his Coke. “I'm not in senior classes this year.”

That doesn't make sense. “Why not? You were in
both
my AP classes last year.”

He doesn't answer because the bass bumps up a bit and members of the basketball team come into the kitchen. Tank leads the way. We both know that the guys on the basketball team can pick on Panda, but they never let it go too far. He gets the good weed and can fix their computers better than any tech guys at school. He scoots out undetected and I get why he wants out of the room. Kylie comes back by my side at the sight of Tank. I don't know how to be when she needs me to be the one in the spotlight.

“We heard a girl in here makes a really good screw,” Tank says with his familiar booming voice. I cannot understand why guys have to make fun of a girl in order to interact with her.

“Yes, I will make you a drink,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “Hand me your cup.”

Tank hugs me to him with a shoulder squeeze.

I make some drinks for Tank and the guys and pass them out—the vodka bottle is nearly empty. It doesn't matter how many anyone thinks I had, even though I hardly ever drink.

“To Penny!” Tank cries. Seven players on the basketball team stand around me and raise up their red cups.

“To Penny!” they echo.

I curtsy.

“Tank looks so good,” Kylie whispers in my ear. I nudge her with my elbow.

She bites at her nails.

“What if it's just a hookup?” she says.

Beyond Kylie, out in the living room, I see Wes pass by. I miss my friend so much, it nearly physically aches.

I angle my body to lean against the wall for a better view. My heart pounds in my throat. I can't help it—it's like a magnetic pull now that Wes is in the room. Wes pushes his blond hair out of his eyes and readjusts his knit beanie. A thin leather strap wraps tight around his neck. That's new. He finally catches me watching him. My stomach dips. He's in a formfitting gray T-shirt. Sparks erupt in me, deep in the center of my belly—not butterflies, but a fire. I want to touch him, even just to see what his skin feels like now. But I pushed him away, and I can never have him back. That part of my life is over.