into the air. I tucked my knees and had the pleasure of watching Jake’s eyes fly open as I hurtled toward him.
I landed on his chest, and we both went under. The cheer of the drunken crowd was muffled by the blue water. We grappled, hands sliding over each other. And when we surfaced together, we were both laughing.
“You’re a hell of a girl, Marley Cicero,” Jake said, hooking his hand around the back of my neck. The kiss was wet and cool and one of the most joyful experiences my lips had ever had. It ranked up there with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream on a hot summer night.
“Everybody in the pool!”
We were drowned in the splashes of drunk bodies hitting the water.
61
Marley
I sloshed into Amie Jo’s house and decided I might as well sneak next door to my parents’ to grab dry clothes. Jake, a science teacher, and the minister from the Culpepper Methodist Church were competing for a diving competition title. Winner takes the terra-cotta yard gnome. The judges were lined up in lawn chairs with hand-drawn scorecards.
My hair hung in clumps around my face, and I was half frozen.
“Here’s a warm-up for you,” Vicky said, shoving a glass into my hand.
I drained it and shuddered. “What the hell was that?” I gasped.
“Brandy? Whiskey? Maple syrup?” Vicky guessed. She was staring at me with one eye closed. This was Drunk Vicky. My very favorite person on Earth.
“Drunk Vicky!” I slapped her on the back a little harder than I intended. My hand-eye coordination and depth perception were a little iffy. “How the hell are you?”
“Fucking fantastic,” she said enthusiastically.
“Ladies.”
“Uh-oh,” Vicky stage-whispered.
Amie Jo stood in the doorway, arms crossed. She tapped her disco ball nails in a staccato rhythm on her biceps.
“Sorry about the dripping,” I said, looking down at my bare feet and wondering where the hell my shoes had gotten to.
“A word, Marley?” she said.
“Sure.”
“You’re in trouble,” Vicky sang as I followed Amie Jo to the back staircase.
“Upstairs, please,” Amie Jo said without looking back to see if I was following her.
“Don’t let her murder you and roll you up in a rug,” Vicky called after us.
I trudged up the carpeted stairs, trying not to rain pool water over everything. I wondered if Amie Jo was leading me up here to lock me in a wrapping paper closet/dungeon. Wait. Scratch that. She probably had a wrapping paper room, and with Christmas just around the corner, she wouldn’t want to have to clean up the blood spatter.
Amie Jo paused in front of French doors and opened them with a flourish. I followed her inside and found myself in the mastery-est master suite in the history of the designation. The white carpet was so thick I sank in up to my ankles. The walls were wallpapered silver with delicate threads of gold woven into the silky texture. There was a sitting area with snow-white armchairs and a modern glass side table. The bed…
Holy mother of God. The bed.
It was NBA-player-orgy sized.
White upholstered headboard. Silver duvet. Approximately three hundred throw pillows in silvers, grays, and golds. I wanted to jump on it and see how many times I could roll before I got from one side to the other. I guessed at least nine.
“Wow.”
I must have said it out loud because Amie Jo popped her head out of the door on the far side of the room.
“Here,” she said, holding out a plastic bag to me and crossing the fifty yards of polar bear carpet.
I accepted the bag. My first guess was rattlesnake. My second guess was vibrator. I wasn’t sure why Amie Jo would give me a used vibrator in a plastic bag. But I was a little drunk, so I wasn’t too hard on myself.
Peeking inside, I discovered I was wrong on both counts. “My clothes,” I said, pulling out the yoga pants and sweatshirt I’d lent her after the Donkey Shit Incident.
“Thank you for letting me borrow them. I had them dry-cleaned for you,” she said, interlacing her fingers in front of her. She looked uncomfortable, like being nice to me was so foreign she didn’t know how to do it.
I wondered if old, over-washed clothes like these yoga pants could disintegrate from dry cleaning.
“Thank you.”
“You can change in here so you don’t destroy my house with pool water,” Amie Jo sniffed. We had officially moved past the polite part of the evening.