The Crew

Untitled Part 19

Chapter Nineteen

I knew why Cannon was avoiding me. But I couldn't figure out Sarah's angle. My heart ached for her like no other. It wasn't about the sex, though I thought about that constantly; it was her soft voice, her confidence, the note she'd given me that night of the show, and her telling me that she was my girlfriend. It was her personality. Her nature. Her kindness. Her intensity. The fact that she was a feminist. The fact that she'd chosen me over Cannonball.

I couldn't get that night after the show out of my head. I kept replaying our sloppy sex scene over and over. The posters in her room. Her telling me to be quiet repeatedly. How I'd failed at getting her bra off, had torn her pink panties.

I realized who I needed to call, the person who would understand my situation. Laura, D.D.'s girl. I needed the feminine perspective. Picking up the land line I dialed her number. She was cool with it, happy I wanted to share my feelings with her. I'd take the bus there. Against my mother's wishes, of course. I was grounded.

I began gathering things I might need—extra socks, sunglasses, a second pair of pants, my hoodie, a few beers I'd secretly stashed. I threw them into my bag and was ready. Most likely, I wouldn't be coming home tonight. The risk was high but I had a different agenda than my mother. Being "good" and middleclass was no longer important to me. Being authentic was top priority.

But I did need to be stealthy.

I was grounded, but if I hadn't been she'd demand any friend's parents' phone number, not that she'd have another mother or father to speak to anyway, in Laura's case. Her folks had been back and forth between Berlin, Germany and Athens, Greece for over a month.

Careful not to awaken my mother's senses, I walked out of my room scoping her out at the far dining room table grading papers, as per usual, like she'd been when she met Cannon, sipping a glass of lemonade, her eyes glued to the work of her eager students, students pumped up like gladiators about to enter the arena, the "real world" of career and industry.

Spying the two brick steps that lowered down to the living room, I thought about all those times my mother had read John Steinbeck or Ernest Hemingway to me as a child, before bed. How I'd loved the sound of the sentences, the words, the characters, the settings. My heart sank when I recalled this memory. Here I was, fighting with her, going against her rules, carving out my own path, and I couldn't stop. Once, she'd been my best friend. Now, we were enemies.

I tapped on the door. Laura promptly answered, hugging me, smiling. Her curly brunette hair was piled above her shoulders. She wore blue jeans and one of D.D.'s old Sex Pistols shirts, black, ripped badly, weathered. It had been through the seasons. It reminded me how new and shiny I was comparatively. I was still learning.

"Take your shoes off, Donnigan."

I followed her into the kitchen.

"This is my parents' supply, which they've been building up since my brother and I were in grade school."

I scanned the liquor arranged on the shelves, separated from me only by the glass face of the wooden cabinet doors. There must have been over a hundred bottles, easy. It was a mind-boggling sight. Every imaginable type of liquor you could think of, and then some; they had plenty from Western and Eastern Europe.

"Like a drink, Dog?" She smiled at me studying the cabinet. "They even have some from Russia and the Ukraine."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, what? What'll it be?" She was enjoying this, standing on the balls of her feet, excited. Her dimples and freckles seemed to sparkle. This was new; she and I had never been alone. It had always been with the gang. Laura was attractive. Not like Sarah, or even like Rachel Rotten. But...pretty. What would it be like to kiss her? Behind D.D.'s back?

"Surprise me; something from the top shelf." I hesitated. "How about something Russian?"

"Hm," she said. She scanned the wall of bottles, eyes working back and forth. She brought a stool over from the kitchen. Reaching up high she brought a clear bottle down, the size of a liter. Laura walked over with the bottle and handed it to me. It was clear liquid with a red cover and the language was in Russian, indecipherable. It looked like Vodka but from the old country.

"What is it?" I asked.

"To be honest I don't really know. Seems like Vodka. They got that years ago on a trip to Moscow."

While Laura filled a six-ounce tumbler, she invited me to sit in the living room and make myself comfortable. "Remember Dog, it's you and me tonight. I told D.D. I wanted to have an alone night; he doesn't even know you're here. None of the boys do. Don't worry. You can relax."

I walked into the living room. There were two fancy-looking brown leather couches and a fireplace with marble finish. A furry rug was under my feet. Art hung on the walls, beautiful art that made me curious. Starry Night faced me, by Van Gogh, the blue and yellow swirls of color and nighttime drama. It seemed to sum up my current emotional state. I sat on one of the leather couches; it crunched loudly under my weight.

Laura appeared in the open area dividing the kitchen from the living room holding two glasses. She smiled slyly, sitting down next to me, close, handing me the glass of Russian whatever-it-was. When I took the drink our fingers brushed. I smelled her scent, her girly perfume. It was sexy; it turned me on. She raised her glass, motioning to clank mine with hers in toast, saying, "To Dog and The Crew. No matter what."

We laughed, diving into our drinks. But it was weird. Why had she toasted me separately from The Crew? Was I becoming my own entity, my own...leader? And the phrase: No matter what. Those words rang through my mind like a freight train out of control that wouldn't stop. What would happen if I chose to leave The Crew? How much choice did I actually have?