Close Your Eyes

6

Somebody’s parents had a house in the suburbs, on the beach. The parents were away, and there was going to be a massive party. Someone filled a 7UP bottle with vodka, and they started drinking in Grand Central Station. First Sylvia felt nothing, then jubilant, then a combination of wary and wanting more. She was seventeen.

Victoria had taken something else, some pills. Every time Sylvia was wild, Victoria was wilder. She wore a dress the color of blood. She leaned her head against the train window. She put on big sunglasses, her hair blew around her face. She wore no makeup; none of them wore makeup. Makeup was for nouveau riche, for bridge-and-tunnels.

By the time they got off the train, they were wasted. It was afternoon in the suburbs. Rich men were walking Labrador retrievers and buying ice cream. The dogs had collars printed with sand crabs and starfish. The men wore loafers without socks. Victoria was already too far along, her pupils wide and frightening.

They took a taxi to the address Victoria had written on her hand, the address of the house where the party would be. First they stopped at the Getty Mart for cigarettes, then drove along a road that turned into sand. The house had shingles that were bleached-out gray. Everything in this town had been in the sun too long.

Victoria and Sylvia put their bags in a guest room on the third floor. “This bed is so small,” Sylvia said. She was learning to complain—to expect more, always.

“We’ll snuggle up, then,” said Victoria. She was sitting at an antique dressing table, staring at her beautiful face in the mirror. Sylvia took up a silver hairbrush and ran it through her best friend’s tangled hair. Victoria leaned back against Sylvia. She smelled like Camel Lights. Then Victoria pushed Sylvia away and stood up to rummage in Sylvia’s bag. “Did you bring them?”

“Yes,” said Sylvia. Victoria had gone through Pauline’s drawers and found the jade earrings, the ones from her blood father. Victoria wanted them, wanted to wear them, and that was one small favor Sylvia had to give.

The party had already started. There were seniors in lounge chairs around the pool, juniors by the barbecue grill, sophomores making fruity drinks in the kitchen. When Victoria started dancing, Pauline’s earrings caught the light.

Sylvia started talking to a boy, a senior, Matthew Cohen. (Robert had dumped her the year before.) She could tell Victoria didn’t like it. Victoria kept walking by them, waving. Finally, she took Sylvia’s hand and dragged her outside. “What is it?” said Sylvia. “Vee, I like him.”

“I got some car keys,” said Victoria.

“What?”

“Let’s go,” said Victoria. “Let’s go to your dad’s house.”

“My dad’s house?”

Victoria’s face was animated, brilliant. She was looking for a fight. “We can talk to him, tell him that you need him,” she said. “Your father! He lives a few streets over. Ocean Avenue, I can find the house. He’ll listen to me. Trust me.”

“What are you talking about? No!” said Sylvia. She dropped her cigarette on the lawn and turned to walk away.

“Don’t leave,” yelled Victoria. “I can help you, Sylvie! I can make him see you!”

Sylvia hissed, “You’re being crazy.”

“I’ll fix it for you,” said Victoria.

With a boozy clarity, Sylvia realized she was sick of Victoria and her dramatic pronouncements. Victoria didn’t want Sylvia to be with Matthew or anyone.

Sylvia shook her head. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s just go back to the party.” As she walked across the lawn, leaving Victoria seething, unsaid words echoed in Sylvia’s mind: This isn’t a Nancy Drew book, Victoria. This is my life.

It was easy, so easy, to forget about Victoria. Time swung forward, and Sylvia was sitting in Matthew’s lap. He kissed her neck, and she picked up handfuls of sand and watched it run through her fingers. She felt a small flickering of desire, eclipsed fully by a flame of wanting more to drink. Matthew brought her a glass of something; maybe it was gin. There was no more tonic, he said. By this time she was lying on the beach, looking up at the sky.

Sylvia thought Victoria would find her when it was time for sleep. At some point, with Matthew passed out next to her, Sylvia realized it was time for her to say her good nights and go to sleep. There was a row of houses along the beach; Sylvia almost went into the wrong one but heard music from the right one, Blues Traveler’s “Alone.” A few people were still awake, either drinking or having sex, but most were passed out. There was a circle of people around a bong in the living room, but Victoria wasn’t there.

Sylvia found their room. It was empty. She got into the bed and entered a black passage of sleep.

By the time they found the dead woman on her bedroom floor, Sylvia and Victoria were back in the city. The owner of the house where the party had been held made his son give the police a list of everyone who had been to the party, and everyone on the list was interviewed.

As she had promised Mae, Sylvia told the police that Victoria was sleeping with her in the attic bedroom. Sylvia told them she had drunk two wine coolers.

The truth was that Victoria didn’t come back until dawn, and when she did, she woke Sylvia by flinging open the bedroom door.

Victoria’s dress was wet. She took it off and climbed into the bed, putting her face close to Sylvia’s. Her limbs were cold, and she was shivering. Her hair, too, was drenched. When Sylvia asked what had happened, Victoria said, “Please be quiet.” When Sylvia asked why she was wet, Victoria said, “Promise me you will never ask me that question again.” She said, “I love you so much, Sylvia, and I’m the only one who loves you, and you know that. You asked me to do this, and I did it. I did this for you.” Sylvia lay awake then, afraid to say another word.

In the morning Victoria handed Sylvia one of the jade earrings. She had gone for a midnight swim, said Victoria, shrugging without apology. The other earring, she said, must have fallen off in the waves.