I turn to my cousin. “Is she—”
I don’t get out another word before Audrey snaps, “She’s fine. It’s fine. Let’s play.”
Oh. Audrey doesn’t snap at me. She’s even-keeled in general, always with a soft spot where I’m concerned. But a deep groove rests between her eyebrows, and her lips are pursed tight enough to crack, and she doesn’t even give me an apologetic smile.
Audrey and I win the quarter toss; I motion for her to go first. Gillian screams, “Go, babe, go!,” loudly enough to be heard down the block, and I think maybe her unbridled enthusiasm will make Audrey smile, but Audrey ignores her as she rolls the small white ball across the grass.
We get through the first round without incident, if you don’t count Pierre shushing his sister every two seconds. Gillian talks loudly, incessantly. I glance at Audrey. She’s not even trying to hide her annoyance, crossing her arms and pointedly looking straight ahead. I toss a red ball too hard and it rolls to the back of the yard, bouncing off the fence.
“Dead ball,” Pierre says in a smug voice.
I glare at him. He’s probably just glad the attention is off his sister, for once.
It’s her turn, but she’s wandered away. Gillian stumbles through the cluster of green and red bocce balls, displacing a few in the process and cackling as she effectively ruins our game. She’s a firecracker let loose too many days after the Fourth of July, a jack-in-the-box that’s broken free from its prison, a toddler who has discovered her legs. Gillian is officially wasted.
Audrey sighs. “Well, I guess we’re done here.”
“She’s done for the night,” Pierre concludes.
Gillian leaps toward the back of the lawn and spins underneath the empty clothesline, singing a song that’s so off-key and slurred it’s unintelligible. Her braids fly wild around her face, swinging across her sweaty forehead as she moves to the chorus of crickets in the air. Is this what Audrey will have to put up with when they get to San Francisco? Is this new? Or maybe Gillian has never been able to hold her liquor and I’m only finding out now.
“We need to get her out of here,” Audrey says. “I could take her back to my apartment, but everyone will notice if I leave.”
“I’d drive us home, but I don’t have a license.” Pierre sticks his hands into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. “I guess we could take a cab, but—”
Audrey shakes her head. “You’re not taking a cab back to the suburbs. It’ll be, like, a million dollars, and I’m pretty sure none of us have that kind of cash right now.” She pauses for a moment, then nods toward me. “Rashida, what if you drive the three of you back to my place?”
My mouth drops open. “Why do all of us need to go?”
“Because she’s hammered,” Audrey says in a matter-of-fact way that makes me wish I’d kept my mouth shut. “It’ll take more than one person to get her back there and into bed.”
“What are you going to tell our family … and her friends?” Pierre asks, clearly as worried as I am about taking on this challenge together. He gestures to the house, where the sounds of the party have started to float onto the porch. “Should I go in and say something?”
Audrey bites her lip as she glances toward the back door, the outlines of guests in the kitchen visible through the screen. “I’ll tell them she got food poisoning from lunch.”
“But what if she doesn’t want to crash at your place?” I ask. Pierre and I are doing our best to think of every excuse possible to make this not happen, but Gillian doesn’t look ready to leave, anyway. She looks as if she’d be content to frolic around for quite a while.
“Oh, she’s about ten minutes from passing out.” My cousin puts her hands on her slender hips. “You won’t get much of an argument.”
Just like Audrey knew she wouldn’t get much of an argument from us, because Audrey is the sort of person people listen to. I’ve seen her take charge in a crowd of protestors hundreds deep.
The three of us manage to hustle Gillian from the backyard to the side of the house just as the first guests venture out onto the deck. Pierre and Audrey hold Gillian’s arms on either side. She’s distracted by everything in her line of sight—a glittery red, white, and blue party hat smashed against the curb, cream-colored petals floating from the tree that hangs over the sidewalk, a stray cat wandering down the path ahead of us.
“Kitty!” she cries out, lunging after the scrawny tabby.
The cat escapes, wide-eyed and lithe, and we herd Gillian to the car. Audrey was right. Her eyes are closing, her words slurring more as her lips find it harder to move.
Pierre opens the door, and Gillian immediately falls inside, sprawling across both seats. Her legs are completely slack, loose as cooked spaghetti. Pierre lets them dangle over the edge of the car for a moment, then says, “I should probably ride in back with her.”
I shrug, trying to make it clear that I don’t have an opinion about any of this. I’m here only because I have to be.
Audrey watches them get settled in the back, leaning down to peer in the window at Gillian before turning to me. Her shoulders slump with fatigue but her eyes are appreciative. “Good luck. See you soon.” She drops Gillian’s car keys into my palm and briefly closes her hand around mine. “And thanks.”
Once I’m inside the car, I put on my seat belt. Gillian is no longer awake. Pierre has shifted his sister so that her head is resting on the edge of his thigh. I’m reluctant to speak to him, but I have to ask: “Seat belt?”
“Yup,” he replies, just as brusquely. He pauses for a moment. “How far are we going?”
“Andersonville.”
“Is that far?”
Oh, right. Gillian’s family is from the west suburbs, out in Oak Park. I wonder how often he comes into the city—if he’s familiar with other parts and if it’s just this area that he doesn’t know. And then I’m mad at myself for wondering. I know everything about Gillian and her family that I need to know.
“We can probably make it there in ten minutes,” I say, checking my seat belt again.
I see him nod in the rearview mirror as I adjust it. Then I turn on the headlights. And still I don’t touch the ignition.
“What’s up?” Pierre asks.
“I … It’s been a while since I’ve driven. Especially at night.” Dad has a car that I can drive whenever he’s not using it, but we live in Bucktown, right near the Blue Line and buses, and there’s never a shortage of cabs if I’m really desperate. Lately he’s been complaining that the area is too busy, that we’d be happier someplace more quiet. But it’s the house we lived in with my mother, dead garden and all, and I think he recognizes that our fragile relationship will hold up longer if we stay there until I leave for school.
“There’s no rush,” Pierre says. “And you said it’s not far.”
“Right,” I say. It’s not far.
I turn the key and classical music fills the car as the engine rumbles to life. I’m surprised, because I don’t know anyone who listens to classical besides people my dad’s age. Gillian seems as if she’d be more into pop or hip-hop or electronic—something with a good beat that fits her boundless energy. But I’m grateful for the strains of string instruments floating through the car. It’s soothing.
I keep my hands at ten and two and drive a few miles under the speed limit; some people pass me, but no one looks mad. Just as I’m getting comfortable, Gillian whimpers in her sleep, a noise that becomes increasingly louder by the second. I glance at them in the rearview mirror when I stop at a red light, thinking maybe I should pull over, but Pierre seems to have it under control. In the dim streetlights filtering through the car, I see him rub her shoulder, whispering a barely audible, “It’s okay, Gilly. We’re almost there.”