Summer on the Short Bus Page 6

  “My friends,” I say cautiously. “Why?”

  “You mean you don’t go with your boyfriend?”

  “Uh, no.” I pretend not to notice that Quinn’s gaze has shifted from me to the faux wood grain of the tabletop. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Fantine smacks the table dramatically. “How could you not have a boyfriend? With all that blonde hair and a tan the Coppertone girls would kill for, that’s just a shame. Wouldn’t you agree, Quinn?”

  My cheeks are ready to spontaneously combust. I’m not sure what sounds more appealing, hearing Quinn’s answer or leaping across the table and pounding Fantine’s head with my fists. Thank God Colin shows up.

  “So what did I miss?” he asks, setting an ice-filled bucket of beers on the table. I waste no time grabbing one and taking a long pull. “Whoa, pace yourself, girl,” he says. “You only get one.”

  What? How am I supposed to get drunk on one freaking beer?

  “We were just prying into Cricket’s life,” Fantine says, answering Colin.

  “Oh, then my timing’s perfect.” His eyes widen with curiosity as he takes a pull off his bottle. “I’ve been wondering about your name, Cricket.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” My brain is too busy reeling from this disappointing new development to properly keep up.

  “Well, I’m guessing Cricket isn’t your birth name?”

  “Oh right. No, it’s not. Cricket’s been my nickname since I was a kid. My full name is Constance.”

  “You don’t hear that one every day,” Quinn says.

  Nodding in agreement, I down another mouthful of beer as I try to come up with a solution to my limited beer supply while still staying engaged in the conversation. “Nobody ever calls me that anymore,” I say. “Except when I’m in trouble.”

  “I hear that,” Fantine adds. “I thought once I left for college my mom would relax a little, but she’s even worse now. I can be upstairs in my room studying and she’ll still be like, ‘Carmen Fantena Galindo Marquez, you better not be doing what I think you’re doing!’ I swear, she just likes hearing the sound of her own voice.” The whole table breaks into laughter, including me.

  “Exactly,” I say. “My dad practically rattles the windows when he yells at me with ‘Constance Elaine Montgomery!’” I pause to take another drink, expecting to hear everyone laugh. Instead, there’s just the distant sound of balls crashing into wooden pins. “What?” I say, as I look from one astonished face to another.

  “Did you say your name was Constance Elaine Montgomery?” Colin asks.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Montgomery?” Fantine adds.

  “Yeah, what’s the big deal?”

  “Your dad is Lambert Montgomery?” Quinn takes a turn. “The real estate developer?”

  “God, yes! What is wrong with you guys?”

  They all exchange a hard glance before Colin falls back against the plastic seat. “I had no idea we were in the company of such greatness.”

  I feel my forehead crinkle the way it does when I’m working out a calculus problem. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your dad signs our paychecks.”

  “What?” I laugh, though I’m not sure it’s funny.

  “It’s true,” Fantine says. “Your dad, or Montgomery Enterprises, has been keeping Camp I Can alive for the last thirteen years. Rainbow said they were about to go bankrupt, but a generous benefactor stepped in and saved it.”

  A seed of anxiety begins to take root in my gut. Dad knows about this place? He . . . saved it? Why would he do that? “And what makes you think this benefactor is my dad?”

  “Besides the whole name on the bottom of our check thing, there’s the plaque hanging in the office that says a substantial charitable contribution was made to the camp in memory of Constance Elaine Taft Montgomery,” Fantine says and leans back, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Your dad didn’t tell you about it?” Quinn asks.

  I shake my head.

  “He didn’t say anything?”

  Quinn’s sympathetic tone is bad enough, but I can’t help but feel a twinge of that same defensiveness I felt yesterday with Rainbow. Until I got here, I’ve never had to justify the inner-workings of mine and Dad’s relationship to anyone. The people in my world just know how it works. Or they’re smart enough not to ask.

  “No, he didn’t,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He donates to charities in my mom’s honor all the time. It’s good for taxes. And when you make as much money as he does, the IRS is always up your butt looking for ways to nail you on something.”

  I suck back the rest of my beer, wishing I had another to replace it with. Handicapped hell is one thing, but unloading the details of my jacked-up family is something entirely different.

  “What happened to your mom, Cricket?” Fantine asks in a tone that’s meant to be gentle but instead comes across as nosy.

  “She died.”

  “Well, obviously. Was there an accident? Or was she sick or something?”

  My chest tightens beneath her barrage of personal questions. Again, people in my world don’t ask me these things because they already know the answers. They know how she died. They know my dad can’t get over it. And they know we don’t talk about her—ever.

  I’m about to tell her to mind her own damn business, when I see one of the parking lot mullet brothers stagger through the front door and an idea pops into my head. “Yes, she was sick,” I answer quickly. “She had breast cancer and died when I was four. Is that all you want to know, ’cause I really need to go to the bathroom.”

  Looking confused by the sudden turn in conversation, she says, “Yeah, that’s all I wanted to know.”

  Quinn barely has enough time to exit the table before I’m crawling across the torn plastic seat and heading toward the bathroom.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Fantine calls after me.

  “No,” I say, not bothering to turn around. “I’m good.”

  Aware that they’re probably watching me, I make a hard left at the hallway marked with a CRAPPER THIS WAY sign, but freeze as soon I round the corner and am out of sight. I do a quick ten count before looking back around the corner. As hoped, my tablemates have resumed their conversation and are fixated on each other rather than me.

  Here goes nothing.

  With my head down, I quickly cut back through the main entry area and out the front doors. The night air is thick and makes my lungs feel heavy. Already I long to be back inside where it’s cooler, but turning around now isn’t an option. Not when there’s Jack Daniel’s out here and I have to get drunk in order to earn a get-out-of-handicapped-jail free card.

  Thanks to the fluorescent streetlamp mounted in the corner of the parking lot, I have more than enough light to see where I’m going. Not that I’d need directions to Red Neck Avenue. I sprint toward the entrance of the lot, more than surprising the mullet guy who is still camped out in the back of his truck.

  “Hi. Um, I need . . . some of your Jack,” I say, feeling like the world’s biggest loser.

  He stares at me with his mouth gaping. Leaning forward in his lawn chair, he says, “You what now?”

  “I need a few shots of your Jack.” I point to the bottle at his feet. “Please? I’m sort of . . . desperate.”

  I have no doubt he wasn’t prepared for what I was going to say, but it’s almost as if I’m speaking a foreign language. This dude is either too drunk to follow what I’m saying or he graduated from Camp I Can last year and just doesn’t get it. “Look,” I say, fishing a ten-dollar bill out of my pocket. “I’m going to take a couple of drinks from your bottle and then I’m going to give you this money, okay?” I extend my hand, offering him the cash.

  His impaired gaze drifts from me to my hand and back to me again.

  “Okay?” I repeat.

  His response isn’t immediate, and only comes after he hocks a chunk of tobacco over the side of hi
s truck. “Help yerself,” he says, nudging the bottle toward me with his foot. “And keep your cash.”

  NINE

  “You arrre really pretty. Have you ever cosiddered modeling?”

  Through blurry eyes I see two identical versions of Fantine.

  All four of her eyes are rolling at me.

  “Girl, you are messed up.”

  I snort. “Isn’t it awesome!” I have no idea how much of that Jack I drank, but damn. I’m so rocked right now.

  “How is it even possible that one beer can do that to someone?” Quinn asks.

  “You got me,” Fantine says.

  “She’s probably still dehydrated from yesterday,” Colin says. “But it doesn’t matter. This is going to be a huge problem for us.”

  “Whad’r you guys talkin’ about?” I slap my hand against the table and do my best to stare them straight in their eyes. Which is proving to be a challenge. “I’m not a prob”—hiccup—“broblem. Yoooo on the other hand are a biiig problem, Mister!”

  I look down to see that my hand has found its way to Quinn’s chest, and my left leg is draped over his right thigh. Ooopsy! When did that happen?

  “We gotta sober her up,” Quinn says, easing my leg off of his. “If Rainbow catches her like this, we’ll all get fired.”

  I start laughing. It’s just so ridiculous that I’m at this piece of crap bowling alley with Zac Efron. “Canihave”—hiccup—“your augotraph . . . aaauutograph, Mister Efffffron?”

  “Shut up, Cricket,” he says. “We’re trying to figure something out.”

  I get serious, and prop my elbows up on the table. “So whadar we disss”—hiccup—“cussing?”

  “Your drunk ass,” Fantine says all bitchy.

  “My ass?” I lean to the side and give my butt a smack. “It doesnint look drunk ta me. But it looks damn goooood in these jeans.”

  “I just might kill her,” Fantine says.

  “Whoa! Whoawhoawhoawhoa, whoa.” I stare at her. Them. “Now you lisssen here. I . . . oh, God . . .”

  “What’s wrong with you?” she says.

  “I don’t . . . feel so good.”

  “Oh hell. Are you gonna puke?”

  Both Fantines are blurry now, and there’s a bad taste welling up in my throat. This is bad. “I . . . oh God. I think so. Yeah”—hiccup—“I need thuh bathroom. Now.”

  “That sucks about her dad.”

  “Sounds like a jerk.”

  “Maybe that’s why she’s such a bitch. Daddy issues . . .”

  As much as I try, I can only make out bits and pieces of the conversation going on around me. Everything is jumbled, like my brain is in a blender. My skin feels cold and clammy and my throat burns every time I swallow. “Coldplay blows,” I mumble hoarsely. At least I think that’s me.

  “What’d she say?” comes a voice from the front seat.

  “I thought she was asleep,” says another voice.

  “She’s out of it, but I think it had something to do with Fantine’s sucky DJ skills.”

  “Up yours, pretty boy.”

  The radio clicks off, and for a moment everything seems okay. I try to open my eyes, but the world starts spinning again. “What happened . . .”

  “Ssshh.” A warm hand touches my cheek, before settling into a divine rhythm of stroking my hair behind my ear. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “But . . .”

  “It’s okay. Just go to sleep, Cricket.”

  My eyes flutter open and for a moment I see the most beautiful pools of blue staring down at me. If I weren’t so out of it, I’d totally jump in. “Okay,” I say. And my eyes close.

  TEN

  “Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.”

  I try to open my eyes, but I’m pretty sure someone has glued them shut. “What do you want?” I grumble. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s time for lunch. You gotta get up.”

  “Why are you yelling at me?”

  I hear Fantine chuckle under her breath as the foot of my bed sags beneath her weight. “Cricket, do you remember anything about last night?”

  Last night. Last night . . . Hillbillies, mullets, whiskey . . . “Oh God.” I slowly pry my eyes open, and am greeted by a blurry Fantine and a pain in my head like nothing I’ve ever felt. “Last night was bad,” I say, wincing at the ache in my throat.

  “Yes, it was. It was kind of funny, too. But probably not for you.”

  I try to glare at her but that makes my face hurt, so I just close my eyes again and say, “Screw you.”

  “You wish. Now sit up, I brought you some Motrin.”

  “I don’t think I can,” I say. My tongue feels like sandpaper as it scrapes against the roof of my mouth. “I don’t think I can ever sit up again. I’m going to die right here.”

  “Well, you don’t have much choice. Haven’t you ever had a hangover?”

  “Not like this. I feel like crap.”

  “Which is pretty much how you look.”

  “I hate you so much right now,” I say, doing my best to glare at her.

  I hear her snort. “Likewise.”

  I sip from the plastic cup she’s now holding in front of me and take the pills she drops in my hand. It’s the best water I’ve ever tasted. “Give me more,” I say, when the pills are safely down my throat. “Please, I’m so thirsty.”

  “Just chill. You’ll start puking again if you drink too much right away.”

  “Again?”

  “Uh, yeah. You threw up last night. Don’t you remember?”

  “Vaguely,” I say, flopping my head back against the pillow.

  “What’d you eat, anyway? I’ve never seen hot pink puke before. It was all over the bathroom.”

  I shake my head slowly, regretting last night’s brilliant decision to cover up the whiskey smell with a handful of peppermints.

  “I know it sucks,” she says, “but it’s actually a good thing you threw up. It saved our asses.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Rainbow. We told her you must’ve had a bad reaction to the shrimp like Robyn did and that’s why you were so out of it when we got home last night. Had she known you were trashed, we’d all have gotten busted and you’d be back in Chicago by now.”

  Chicago. Home.

  Oh God . . . No!

  I try and sit up, as if sudden movements will rewind time and I can have a do-over on my attempted escape, but the world is spinning way too fast for me to keep up. Instead, I collapse back against my pillow, ready to cry.

  “Ah shit,” she says, her voice taking on a slightly softer tone. “I was hoping you weren’t still upset about it.”

  “About what exactly?”

  She holds my gaze for a moment before heaving a deep breath. “I know why you took off for the bathroom last night.”

  “You do?” I ask nervously.

  “It’s all my fault. I never should have nagged you about your mom. You obviously didn’t want to talk about it and . . . well, I’m sorry.”

  If my face wasn’t already drained of its color, it would be now. “Uh . . . it’s okay,” I say, trying to quickly piece together a response. “I know you were just . . . curious because of my dad and the camp and everything. But it’s fine. Really, I’m good now.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  “Well, good,” she says. And by the sudden upturn in her voice I can tell that her relief is genuine. She stands up and looks down at me. “I know you don’t wanna hear this right now, but Robyn recovered from her food poisoning in a matter of hours, which means your excuse has officially expired. You’ve got about twenty minutes until lunch, so I suggest you get yourself cleaned up and down to the mess hall before Rainbow starts getting suspicious.”

  I may hate the idea of this newly hatched plan, but I’m not about to throw Fantine and the boys under the bus because I can’t hold my liquor.

  “Okay,” I
say. “I’ll get it together.”

  With a nod of approval, she disappears through the tiny doorway and I’m left alone to wallow in the steaming turd pile that has become my life.

  “Idiot!” I scream into the safety of my faux down pillow.

  All I had to do was drink enough to get kicked out, but instead I went completely Charlie Sheen and blew my one opportunity to get fired.

  I pity-party for a solid five minutes before I determine that lying around smelling like a Porta-Potty isn’t going to improve my situation. What I need is a new escape plan. And a shower.

  Somehow I manage to make it to the bathroom. I’m not sure how much time passes, but when I emerge my hair smells more of mangos than peppermint-laced puke. And thanks to a hearty tooth brushing, it no longer feels like a cat slept in my mouth. The one downside to cleaning up is that I have to change out of the T-shirt I woke up in. Which, if my fuzzy memory serves, was the same T-shirt Quinn wore when we went out last night. Swapping out my puked-on top for his clean one wasn’t exactly how I envisioned our first clothes-free activity to go down, but at least chivalry isn’t completely dead.

  As I make my way through the camp grounds and toward the mess hall, my Cavalli lenses are about as effective as a piece of Saran wrap against the midday sun. How on earth am I going to get through an entire lunch without heaving? I pause at the bottom of the steps to catch my breath, when from the top of the stairs I hear, “How are you feeling today, Cricket?”

  Squinting against the blinding sun, I look up to find Rainbow looking down at me. “Uh, okay I guess.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. I was worried. I had no idea you were allergic to shellfish.”

  I have an overwhelming urge to scream, I’m not allergic to shellfish and why the hell would you know if I was?—but I resist. Screaming feels like a whole lot of work right now.

  “I guess we’ll ask Sam to skip the lobster bisque he had planned for next week, huh? I don’t want to run the risk of you and Robyn getting sick again.” She laughs like she thinks she is funny, but I fail to see the humor. “We’re having bean and cheese burritos today,” she adds, her smile showing a hint of concern. “But I can ask Sam to make you something a little lighter. Maybe some toast or soup?”