VII: Jeannie Needs a Shooter
"Damn. We only have grape. You can't use grape in these, man. Grape sucks."
"Grape's all right."
"Not with alcohol. It tastes like Dimetapp."
"Well, you've got to have more Jell-O. I mean, you have a house." It was Mark's turn to look confused now, and James tried his best to explain further: "I mean, hell, it ain't like you grew up in some sort of damn children's home. Your folks have to have Jell-O sitting somewhere in the cabinets."
Their preparation for the party was not going well, James knew. It was supposed to start in a few hours and they had barely started on preparing the drinks. They should have just tried to sneak into the bar and get drunk. It would have been a hell of a lot easier, and Mark, being a Boswell, had money enough to cover the both of them and bribe the bartender into letting them drink underage.
Mark had wanted to host a party, though, and he had the spacious rec room and minibar in his basement with which to do it. This was the start of their last spring break. In a few months, they would be out of high school and on with the rest of their lives, so the boys had figured was probably the last chance they'd have to hold a hell of a party for a while. A lot of the others from class of '87 were going off to college, too, most to Tennessee State, but a few to other, better places. Everyone except me, and I'd do better than half of these idiots, James thought, and then felt bad for thinking it. Not bad enough to feel apologetic, though. It was the truth.
Off for a search of the basement storage cabinets, which revealed nothing but more grape and something even more questionable: 'Buzzin' Blueberry,' the legend on the box said. James stared at it for a moment, taking in the panoply of garish neon decoration, before shaking his head and tossing the box back into the cabinet. "Even worse."
The box didn't land quite right, clipping an open Triscuit box and sending it spilling. Crackers poured out all over the cabinet, and the teenagers burst out laughing, hilarity fueled by the buzz of marijuana. "If your mom knew we were doin' this…" James warned, taking a drag off the last of his roach.
"She won't."
"Well, what are we going to do? We can't have a party without Jell-O shooters."
"Or dope," Mark pointed out. "Stop smokin' all that."
"Make me."
Mark squared his shoulders, looked at James with his best paternal expression. It didn't work. "You are using up the last of the marijuana. I order you to stop."
James made a show of savoring the little bit of weed that he still had, rolling the homemade joint around in his fingers, exhaling a puff of smoke directly in Mark's face, grinning as haughtily as he could. "Jell-O, man. Find it."
From upstairs, James could hear Mark's parents milling around. He leaned against the cabinet, listening, as Mark went in search of better flavors for their drinks. Mark's parents didn't care what was going on. Hell, he figured, they probably do more drugs than we'd ever dream of doing. Cocaine, probably. He wouldn't have put it past the Boswells to do that. Mark's dad was a politician, and his mother – James didn't know what Mark's mother did, but he was sure that it was nothing important and everything social.
"Eureka! Orange."
"Congratulations, Mark. Have a toke. You deserve it." James' voice held the promise of a grand reward for a fellow high school stoner, and he passed the roach over. He avoided telling Mark it was almost gone.
–––
"So where are the shooters?"
God, she was gorgeous. Probably a few years older, redheaded, a great pair of legs. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. James squinted at her drunkenly, tried his best to focus. "Huh?" Eloquence was not his strong point tonight, but at least he knew enough to wince when he said it. "I mean, what – I – you want the Jell-O shooters? Right over there. Orange and lemon." He waved his hand to the orange- and yellow-filled paper cups, arrayed in order on the counter of the minibar.
Licensed to Ill beat a thudding rhythm in his head, and he fought hard against it, feeling like he had to swim up-current in his head to process what she said. He rubbed a hand on his head, wiping away matted, sticky hair. The Beastie Boys needed to shut up so he could hear the girl talking.
"So you're Mark's friend. Jimmy."
He winced inwardly at that, the name hitting him as in as tinny and unpleasant a fashion as it always did. A phony grin spread across his face. "Yeah, Jimmy. You?"
"Gina. My friends call me Jeannie." The girl smiled at him, and he knew that smile. He had seen it on many other girls, but most of them weren't as hot as this one was. A total fox, he thought, but he did his level best to pay attention to what she was saying. "I'm Deborah's friend."
Deborah was Mark's sister, in college over at Duke. Whoa. So he was talking to a college girl. Even better. He was suddenly aware of how young he was, though, and felt cripplingly self-conscious. Maybe this girl was even old enough to drink legally.
He decided he didn't care whether or not she was a legal alcoholic. "I bet you can't do a dozen of them in a row," he dared her, motioning towards the paper cups. Many of them still sat there, although they were going fast.
Jeannie's friendly grin tightened into a smirk, more mischievous, and her eyelids lowered to a flirtatious, sly look. He knew the signals. As they moved for the Jell-O shooters, he watched her walk turn into a sashay. She was into him. That was cool. Her voice dropped to a lower tone than it had been, all giggling gone. "What do I get if I win?"
All of a sudden, he knew exactly what to say. He drew breath to reply. He prayed that his voice wouldn't crack on the words.
–––
It was raining outside when they pulled in to the state park. Small dots of rain drizzled down onto him through the open side-window, lancing his arms and face with a barrage of light stings. James didn't know how they had gotten away from the party, but they had, somehow, and here he was driving the college girl to remote nowhere. Mark was back at the Boswell house, partying in the basement to Slippery When Wet, but the hell with him. On the grand list of high school accomplishments, making out with a college girl was far more important than hanging with friends at a party.
Jeannie had done ten of the shooters before she'd given up, and he was impressed by that. There weren't many girls that could hold their drinks. Maybe you learn that at college. In any case, this one was a keeper. He held a hand lightly around her waist for a moment before he got out, went around to the back of the hatchback to let down the seats. She climbed in back from the passenger seat and waited. He slammed the trunk shut, the bang of it making the compact car tremble only slightly.
By now the rain was swelling, lapping at the tires. James shielded his gaze from the rain with a hand and glanced down towards the surface of the creek, peering between willows and magnolias to study the runoff. It would overflow its banks soon and flood. Already he could see the sluices begin to form in the ground beneath his feet, small rivulets of water that plinked constantly with the raindrops.
Jeannie reached towards him to rap on the back windshield, and he flinched back to reality, smiling at her. "Yeah," he mouthed towards the rapidly fogging glass, a hand tracing lazily on its surface to clear a line as he went around to the driver's side door, pulled the seat up towards the steering wheel, and climbed in back with the girl.
She had her hands wrapped around herself, spaghetti-strapped shoulders hunched tightly and her palms rubbing at opposite arms to keep warm. "I've never been out here this late. It's pretty. State land?"
"Yeah." He wished he had the right tape to play. He didn't know what girls like Jeannie listened to. He sprawled out on the seat that he had let down, beckoned her to join him. The rain beat on the windows of the car, and it sounded louder than he had ever remembered hearing rainfall before. "You can't tell anyone about it."
Her mouth curved into an appreciative smile. She knew the importance of keeping this place a secret, and that was enough for him. Falling for her was a was a strange feeling, an uncomfortable new emotion, and not entirely pleasant. He fought hard to hold himself back, tried to stop himself from saying what he wanted to say.
Jeannie only smiled wider. "I know you do," she said, and leaned in towards him, pulling him close for a kiss.
Outside, the rain poured down, and the bank of the creek started to overflow. The woods were alive, and he and Jeannie were awake and drunk and probably stoned and he might even have been in love, if he had let himself.
–––
"You should go to college," she said after a while as she pulled on her jeans, propping herself up sleepily on an arm to stare at him. He yawned hugely, shaking his head, and lifted a hand to scrape his hair from his face. "If you went to college," she continued, ignoring his sign in the negative, "we could date. We could be together."
The words were out before he could take them back: "I don't want to be together."
She jumped back as if bitten by a snake, letting out a panicked little shriek. Her eyes grew large and luminous, and he saw tears well up in them. Her body was taut and tight, and he could feel the charge in the air shift from kinetic and electric to heavy, hanging, leaden. He shut his eyes, fought the wave of nausea that swept over him.
Her voice was harsh, rasping. "You little prick." She was right, and he felt the judgment hit. It was unpleasant, but he was used to it by now.
James knew explanation wouldn't do any good. He had to try. "It's not you, Jeannie. I just – I'm not good. With anyone. You've got nothing to do with it." He reached out a hand for her fingers, caught them, laced his own around them, tried to pull her down next to him.
She fought back, putting a good amount of strength into resisting, and jerked her hand free. "You bastard."
"Orphan," he corrected her. "Both parents. Not just one."
She kicked at him, hit a glancing blow in his ribs. He doubled over a little, gasping, but did his best not to show it. Why did it always end this way? It wasn't the screwing that was the problem. It was what happened afterwards. The girls never took it kindly, but he had thought Jeannie just might understand. He had been wrong, he realized, and the grief of that overtook him. Why do I have to mess everything up?
"I'm going. You can drown here for all I care. Go to hell." And she slammed the car door, leaving him lying there, alone in the back seat. He heard her feet, sloshing through the water, and saw a flash of red hair as she rounded the car to head out.
Wait. "Wait!" he repeated aloud, propping himself up. He banged on the window, realized that would do no good, and climbed out of the car after her. He felt the rain trail down around him, and realized only belatedly he was standing there in a pair of plaid boxers. The hell with it. He had to explain things to her. Just once, he had to make it right. "Jeannie, wait."
She turned back towards him, and he saw the pain on her face. He wanted nothing more than to hold her, to wipe away that look, but he could do nothing for her. She stared at him, prompted him to go on, and he couldn't find the words.
Finality was in her words. "That's what I thought."
"You need a ride home?" he asked lamely. All he needed was that drive, and he could explain himself. He knew he could. All he wanted was just those few minutes, that chance to make himself clear. He could tell her why he could never make a good boyfriend, why he could never go to college, all those things that she wanted, and maybe, hopefully, she could understand. "I'll give you a ride home," he repeated, trying to keep as much of the pleading sound from his voice as he could.
"I'll hitchhike." And with that, Jeannie was gone. He could hear the jake brake of a sixteen-wheeler screech and sputter as it pulled over to the side of the road to let the girl on. He hoped that she would be all right.
He got dressed and sat there in the car for a long while, his hands on the wheel, feeling the car rock with the flood. Maybe he could sail off in the car down the creek, borne adrift like a ship, cast to some far shore on the other side of Knoxville or on the other side of the world. Somewhere where they knew nothing about Jell-O shooters, college girls, and the way both together always went wrong for him. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as the car rocked, and he let his head drop to the circular surface of the wheel, pressing against it so hard he knew it would leave a mark.
The rain kept falling, merciless in its course, careless and ceaseless. He was jealous of its freedom. The bank of the river started to defocus, little bits of water trailing out of it and starting towards the car. Time to push the car out of harm's way before it got caught in the flood. He opened the door, feeling his Doc Martens splash down into a few solid inches of water. He set his hands to the hood of the car, felt his muscles tighten in preparation for the exertion. He closed his eyes and gave the hood of the car a shove, his hands starting to slip, wet.