Part 4 (1/2)

”Allergy drugs and antibiotics,” I said.

”That doesn't make much sense,” Jack said. ”What if some housewife forgets to refill her Valium prescription and your dad's sitting at home having dinner?”

Kevin shook his head. ”There's another pharmacist who comes in at night. I don't have anything to do with the scrips, except handing them across the counter sometimes. Seriously, he'd kill me if he caught me messing with the drugs. The government makes him count everything.”

”Well, I wouldn't want to get you in trouble or anything.” Jack sounded genial enough, but there was an edge underneath the friendliness, like a knife blade wrapped in velvet.

”I think it would be more ha.s.sle than it's worth,” Kevin said. ”I mean, you guys don't seem to have any trouble getting pot. If you want something else, can't you get it from whoever you go to?”

”Who do you go to for pot, Jack?” I asked.

”My sources are somewhat limited in that area,” Jack said, ignoring me. ”Highly unsatisfactory. Look, just think about it. That's all I'm saying.”

”I'll think about it,” Kevin said, ”but things are what they are, man.”

Jack nodded as if he'd already stopped caring. A few minutes later he asked me to come into the kitchen with him, to help him look for the other lighter. When we were alone, he opened a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a shot. He didn't look at me.

”Get him to change his mind,” he said in a low voice.

”You heard what he said. Things are what they are.”

Jack turned on me. ”What the f.u.c.k are you, some sort of Greek chorus? Make things change.”

He grabbed the bottle and went upstairs. Leaving me alone.

For a moment I stood there, waiting until I felt that I could muster a pleasant expression. Then I went back out onto the porch. Kevin was still sitting on the porch swing; as I sat down next to him, I heard Jack's window slide open high above us, and music started to play, faintly.

Kevin was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ”That isn't jazz.”

”What?”

”The music. I thought Jack was a jazz fan.”

I listened. It was Wagner. Jack liked Wagner.

”Just because a person likes one kind of music,” I said, ”that doesn't mean they don't like another.”

Kevin shrugged. ”I guess so. My G.o.d, you're beautiful in moonlight,” he said.

”You mean in the dark?”

”You know what I mean,” Kevin said and kissed me. When he kissed me, I felt like I was letting a thirsty man drink me. He told me that he'd been dating a girl named Kathy before he met me. He hadn't seen her since the first night he'd come to the Hill. So he had options, even; but he still wanted me.

He made me feel like an active partic.i.p.ant in the life lived by the rest of the world, and I liked kissing him. All the same, there were s.n.a.t.c.hes of music from Jack's room drifting through the cooling night air and I couldn't help but picture him sitting alone on his bed, smoking and taking long pulls from his bottle with his eyes closed and the music thrumming and soaring around him, while downstairs Kevin slid an awkward hand underneath my clothes to touch my breast.

”Stop,” I said, pulling away. I crossed my arms.

Kevin looked confused and terribly young. His hair was beginning to clump with sweat and his collar was askew. ”What's the matter?”

”I can't do this.”

His face grew cautious. ”Why not?”

”I just can't.”

We sat in silence for an impossibly long time.

Finally Kevin said, ”Josie, I really like you.”

”I said no.”

”Jesus, Josie. I said I liked you, that's all.”

”Sure it is.”

He let out a long, controlled breath. ”Give me a break, Josie. I said I liked you and that was what I meant. That was all that I meant.”

”You don't like me,” I said. ”You don't know me. You only met me two weeks ago.”

”So what? How long does it take to know you like someone?”

”I'm not even sure you do like me. You might like the package, but you don't like me.”

Kevin shook his head wearily. ”I'm sorry, Josie, but I don't have any idea what you're talking about.”

”You like us,” I said, gesturing around me. ”You like the way we live. But you don't have to actually live the way we live, do you? You drop in and have some fun and leave, and we're the ones who have to clean up afterward.” I pushed my hair-it was as sweaty as Kevin's-back out of my face. ”It doesn't have anything to do with us.”

Kevin stared out into the trees. His face was blank and unhappy. His father's station wagon was parked out there. I wondered if he was thinking that he should get in it and drive away.

”I'm right,” I said. ”I know I am.”

”Yes and no,” he said.

”Yes and no.” I heard the chill in my own voice and stood up to leave. Forget the drugs, I thought. Jack will get over it.

But Kevin grabbed my hands and pulled me back down onto the porch swing.

”Josie. Yes,” he said, ”you're right. I didn't grow up here. I don't have to live here all the time. But I wish I did.” There was envy in his voice. ”You have no idea the bulls.h.i.+t you don't have to put up with here. Yeah, maybe your old man's a son of a b.i.t.c.h. But so is mine. So are a lot of people's. You only get yours three days a week and the rest of the time you can do whatever you want. It's like Pippi Longstocking or something.”

I stared blankly at him.

”The kids' book,” he said.

”When I was a kid I read Euclid. In Greek.”

”There you go.” He sounded angry. ”You think my parents would sit down and talk to me long enough to teach me Greek? h.e.l.l, no. I don't know anyone who has parents who would do that, except you.”

The summer that Raeburn decided that I needed to read Euclid in the original, I spent eight hours a day, seven days a week, at the kitchen table, doing nothing but Greek: Greek sentences, Greek flash cards, Greek grammar. I didn't go outside. I didn't take naps. I took ten minutes for lunch and two bathroom breaks. That was how I learned Greek. I was six at the time.

”You have no idea what you're talking about,” I told Kevin.