Infatuate Read online

“Basketball?” He rolled his eyes like I was some kind of idiot. “I’ve played a pickup game or two with him in my time and that guy is fast and scrappy.”

  “When have you had time to play basketball?” I stopped eating to look at him. “They’ve been keeping us pretty busy.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, back home.”

  “You know Connor from home?” Now he had my interest.

  “Met him this summer. We worked out at the same place.”

  “You’re from . . .” I tried to remember. “LA?”

  “Seattle.”

  “Oh, I was thinking, you had a Lakers top on the other day.”

  Tom rolled his eyes again, frustrated with me. “First of all, it’s a jersey, not a top. Second, Seattle lost its basketball team a few years ago—it was ugly—so I changed my allegiance. Desperate times.”

  If that qualified as a desperate time in Tom’s life, then clearly we had little in common.

  “Right. But about Connor . . .” I started again, wondering how one guy covered so much ground in a summer. Maybe he was on one of those soul-searching cross-country road trips I heard people were always taking in college. I hoped that someday I would get around to learning how to drive.

  I had already lost Tom’s attention, though. He swiveled his head and became instantly engrossed in some proper guy talk. I spent the rest of the evening flitting in and out of the innocuous getting-to-know-you conversations at the girls’ end of the table.

  “I don’t like the sound of rustic,” Emma said. She was from Nashville, as was Jimmy.

  Drew lit up. “Near where I’m from there’s this amazing resort where you stay in treehouses.”

  “See, that sounds like a nightmare to me.” Emma laughed.

  But for the most part, I found myself too distracted to really pay attention. I needed to talk to Sabine. I looked over, but her epic discussion with Lance wore on. I anxiously tapped my foot, ready for this party to end and for an opportunity to ask all my questions.

  8. That’s Just the Krewe

  It was nearly ten o’clock by the time they cleared away the last of the dishes. We ambled out of Antoine’s en masse, and I found my way to Lance’s side.

  “So are you going to this thing?” he asked.

  Before I could ask what he was talking about, Sabine materialized. “Brody says that Jimmy knows someone who can totally get us into that bar on St. Peter Street with the crazy courtyard, you know?” Her eyes were bright and shining at the prospect.

  After Sabine approached Connor with a chirpy, childlike “Can we get ice cream?” she secured the green light we needed to break off from the group.

  Connor looked the seven of us over and begrudgingly warned, “Curfew’s midnight,” while a scowling Emma shot daggers at us—or, at least, at Jimmy—and turned back in the direction of the house. And so we set off, following Jimmy through streets that were nearly as packed as they’d been New Year’s Eve. I was getting the idea that was just how it was in New Orleans: every night was a party even if there wasn’t anything in particular to celebrate. Everyone we passed had smiles on their faces and many had drinks in their hands. Here in the French Quarter a feeling of liberation swirled around you and swept you up, roughing off your frayed edges and leaving you aglow.

  We could hear the music and the crowd even before we turned the corner onto St. Peter Street. Jimmy whispered a few words to the burly guy at the door and we were magically granted safe passage through a carriageway entrance into the sprawling courtyard. Lance had convinced me it made sense to go, deeming it a fact-finding mission, to get our bearings in this city and have a look around the nightlife scene. This place certainly had its charm. Lantern lights twinkled, wrought-iron tables were surrounded by spirited revelers who looked to be having the time of their lives. I thought I even recognized a few faces from the New Year’s Eve party in the Garden District. Were they counselors? Students? Either way, like us, they looked too young to be allowed in here. Perhaps everyone knew Jimmy’s connection. Jimmy . . . I looked around our group but he had wandered off somewhere. It seemed we were on our own to navigate through the drunken throng. Lance said something into my ear, but I couldn’t really hear it. I could barely make out my own thoughts. He pointed ahead of us. At the center of the patio, water cascaded from a lit fountain, shaped almost like a martini glass with angelic carved figures at the top. In an odd union of elements, a low-burning fire flamed up from the center of the fountain’s pool.

  “Hey, you’ve got your camera, right?” he said, breaking me out of my reverie.

  “Oh, yeah.” I pulled it out of my bag. I planned to snap everything and everyone in sight. It couldn’t hurt. I wished it were quieter here, though, so I could tell Lance about Sabine.

  From several feet away, she called over to us. “Hey! Haven! Will you get us?” She put her arms around Brody and Max on either side of her. I never would have known that this was the same girl who had entrusted me with her deepest secret just hours before. It seemed as if she had simply told herself she wasn’t going to think about any of that right now and she shifted into the old, fun Sabine. I was always trying to lock things away at times when I couldn’t afford to be brought down by them, to compartmentalize my moods, but I never felt I succeeded.

  I trained my camera on them and zoomed in. Dante leaned into Max in a way that almost made me laugh. I snapped, the flash blinding everyone in the general vicinity. Dante shot over to me.

  “You have to e-mail that to me,” he whispered.

  I snapped all around us, capturing as many faces as I could. Our group colonized a cozy, dimly lit area of the patio amid a backdrop of drooping broad-leaved trees. Dante, Max, and Brody were dispatched to round up drinks. Sabine had positioned herself beside Lance again. The music got even louder—a peppy, jaunty style like nothing I’d heard before.

  “Hey!” Sabine and Lance both looked over at me. “Name that tune.” I leaned forward, around Sabine, to try to stump Lance in one of our favorite games. “Classic Cajun music. The entire genre.”

  “Uhh . . .” He put his hands up, not playing along.

  “Zydeco,” I said, shaking my head, feeling shot down.

  “Oh! So that’s what zydeco is,” Sabine said. “You know your stuff, Haven.”

  “Thanks,” I said, trying to conceal my disappointment. She and Lance resumed whatever it was they were talking about while I allowed myself a sip of my fruity hurricane—which was so dangerously good, its alcohol so well camouflaged by sweetness, I knew too many sips could easily get me into plenty of trouble.

  A man in a straw hat strolled out from inside the bar with a washboard strapped to his chest and a spoon in each hand. He strummed against the rippled surface, earning cheers for his scratchy percussion from those patrons, ready to live it up, streaming in.

  A group wandered in amid the newcomers, but stood out from the T-shirts and beer bellies and even the low-cut tops and tight jeans. The girl leading them wore a spaghetti-strap floral minidress hitting at her midthigh, her tanned and taut legs in expertly beat-up brown leather cowboy boots. There was a small pink bloom perched behind her ear, softening the severity of her short-cropped blond hair and accentuating her perfect features. I recognized her in an instant: the girl with the sparklers on New Year’s Eve. With no warning, she grabbed the hand of the man with the washboard and pulled him into a dance, spinning herself under his arm, stepping and prancing to the music.

  The entire outdoor crowd turned its attention to their dancing as though this had been part of the night’s planned entertainment. The sparkler girl’s group was made up of dressed-down jeans-clad guys and girls who seemed like they exerted zero effort to look the way they did—their faces had no makeup and yet appeared flawless; while their outfits generally were unremarkable, it didn’t matter—everyone still looked at them. They clapped and hooted and hollered as the group’s leader whirled around. Before long, the revelers in the courtyard were clapping, and other patrons who trickled out fro
m the bar to see what the fuss was about quickly joined in. Two members of the band from inside—a trumpeter and fiddler—even came out playing, bopping to the music.

  I was so transfixed that I didn’t realize I had actually given voice to my thoughts: “Who is she?”

  A rosy-faced man in a stained T-shirt piped up beside me. “That’s just the Krewe,” he said, his eyes glued to the show playing out before us as he took a swig from his beer.

  “The Krewe?”

  I sorted through my mental files. “I thought krewes only came out during Mardi Gras time—there are a bunch of krewes, right? They put together the floats and march in the parade?” I remembered reading that there were a host of different groups; people paid dues to be part of them and they had all sorts of wild names.

  “Yeah, yeah, those are the real krewes. Rex, Bacchus, whatever. But this Krewe,” he said, gesturing with his beer toward the group, “isn’t really a krewe at all. It’s just a name they’ve sorta been given unofficially since they have this way of riling people up—just look at ’em.” He yelped and whistled, tucking his beer bottle under his arm to clap along.

  Watching the hubbub, I was so engrossed I almost forgot to take pictures. I dug my camera out again and clicked off a bunch of shots of the scene. As the blonde twirled, smiling so brightly, I noticed a mark on the inside of her wrist. I zoomed my camera and managed to snap a photo of the fleur-de-lis, that symbol we’d seen so much of since arriving, branded proudly on her skin. This one had been drawn to look like it was made of flames. I thought I could feel a tattoo needle burning at my back and in that marred space above my heart. My scars were suddenly flaring in a way I couldn’t ignore.

  As the song ended, with a great sawing flourish from the fiddler and a flutter of notes from the trumpeter, the girl embraced the washboard player and gave a bow to the jubilant, applauding crowd. She transformed the whole feel of the party, like some sort of good infection. Everyone was dancing now.

  “She’s amazing,” Sabine said gushing, and leaned over me as we both watched her return to her group and go back inside. “Gorgeous, too. Where do you think she got that dress?”

  “No idea.”

  “It looks kind of vintagey, you know? And the boots. I bet she’s one of those girls who shops in thrift stores and somehow looks better than people who dress head to toe in designer everything even though she spends, like, three dollars. I hate those girls.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s just how some of us roll,” I said as a joke. Sabine nudged her shoulder into me, acknowledging that me as a fashion plate was a humorous idea.

  “That’s it. We’re going to find the nearest thrift shop and hit it together,” she said. Then, just as quickly, she turned back to Lance. They seemed to have so much to talk about tonight. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. I didn’t like this feeling. I had had the sense, since earlier in the year, that he belonged to me, that we belonged to each other in some strange, unspoken way that transcended any typical, ephemeral high school relationship. We had gone through so much together, things that no one else could really, completely understand. I didn’t like the idea that I could be the kind of girl who would become so possessive.

  Sabine’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I’m running to the ladies’, be right back.”

  Lance slouched in his seat, taking a sip from a hurricane. “She seems cool,” he said.

  “I have crazy stuff to tell you,” I blurted out, unable to control myself now that Sabine was out of earshot. His face fell, not in fear but in disappointment, as though reality was trespassing on his good time.

  “Is it life threatening?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment. “No. I guess it’s not.”

  “Then, later. Join me in being totally normal for a few minutes.” He looked around. “All of these people have nothing to worry about,” he said, shaking his head like it was a revelation. “That one”—he pointed in the direction Sabine had gone—“has no worries.” This, of course, couldn’t be further from the truth. But even so, I changed tack.

  “So what do you know about Barthelemy Lafon?” I asked.

  “What do I know about Lafon? What do you know about Lafon?”

  “I know that he was an architect and city planner in New Orleans and that he’s resting much more comfortably tonight in a stunningly painted tomb, thanks to yours truly.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep, I painted his grave the other day.”

  “You don’t have to be too obliging. I mean, what he did with the Garden District and the city’s grid system is awesome, but he ended up becoming a pirate and a smuggler.” With a straw, he speared at the ice left in his glass.

  “Well, in that case, I’ll scuff it up a little tomorrow.”

  “Now, if you get to Benjamin Latrobe, then let me know.”

  “He did the U.S. Capitol, right? He’s on my list.”

  “He’s a rock star in the architecture world.”

  “I’ll take good care of him.”

  The chair between us scraped back and Sabine plunked down in it, guzzling a hurricane. “Whaddid I miss?” she asked both of us, but didn’t wait for an answer. She pointed to her already half-empty glass. “These are amazing, especially when they’re free!”

  “Um, not to be—” I started.

  “Narc!” Dante shouted, suddenly listening in. “Narc! Over here!”

  I glared at him but turned back to Sabine. “I just mean, I think they . . . pack a punch.” I stirred my nearly full drink with my straw.

  “That’s the idea!” she said brightly.

  “So who bought it for you?” Max asked, leaning in.

  “One of the guys who was with that hot blond girl.” She jerked her head in the direction of the interior bar. “His name is Wylie.” Her eyes danced as she said it.

  “Of course it is,” I said.

  “He’s so cute. I mean, did you see him?”

  “He is. I don’t think ugly Wylies exist.” I was torn—I wanted to encourage Sabine, but without feeling like I was feeding her to the wolves. My scars were warning me that there was something off with that group. So I added quietly, “I don’t know about his friends, though.”

  But Sabine was barely paying attention. “And I don’t see what the big deal is with these.” She held up her drink. “It doesn’t taste so strong. It just tastes delicious! What’s in here?”

  “Rum,” Lance answered. “Careful.” That was the Lance I knew.

  “Lots of rum,” I added.

  “Huh.” She studied it, shrugged, and lowered her head to keep drinking. The level of the liquid sank fast. She popped back up. “I think I’m going to need another.”

  Soon after Sabine pounded down her third hurricane, our group quickly reached the consensus that it was time to go. She had slumped back in her chair like a rag doll, on the verge of sleep. With Brody and Lance holding her upright, she stumbled out of the bar. The walk back to the house was just a few blocks, but it took a while, punctuated by some dry heaving that had us worried. We missed curfew. The house lay quiet, and if Connor heard our late arrival, he didn’t bother confronting us about it.

  Brody flopped Sabine into her bed, where she landed flat on her back, limbs sprawled. I nestled a bottle of water into bed beside her, and we all said our good nights. As soon as everyone left our room, she rolled slowly onto her side, moaning as though she was about to be sick.

  “You okay over there?” I asked, pulling my scrubs out of the dresser. I was sorry the night had ended this way. Clearly, we wouldn’t be having any serious talks with her in this state.

  “Yeeeeeah,” she groaned. “I just need to sleep it off.”

  A thought occurred to me: “Hey, you don’t think there was anything in your drink, do you? You took one of those leaves today, right?”

  “Yeahyeahyeah, this morning. I have a few left. Don’t worry. This is all the booze.” She slurred her words. “I know the difference.” This came out sounding
certain, without question. I was impressed. I still wasn’t sure if I would’ve been able to tell the difference between the toxins we’d once fallen prey to and just average, run-of-the-mill alcohol or food poisoning.

  “Good, just making sure.”

  “I’m not a bad person, you know,” she piped up, catching me off-guard.

  “I know.” I laughed. “Of course not. I’m just sorry you’re feeling bad.”

  “I gotta let off steam sometimes, you know?”

  “Sure.” I didn’t know where this was coming from. But she probably wouldn’t remember any of it in the morning, anyway.

  “Don’t you ever have nights like this?” she asked in a whimper.

  The answer, of course, was no, for better or worse. But I pretended to think about it longer than I needed to as I finished getting dressed. “Well, I could argue that it’s a character flaw on my part that I don’t have enough nights like this. Maybe that makes me . . . weird.” I was being honest. Fitting in had never been my strong suit, but I was kind of used to it at this point.

  “Lance thinks you’re insanely perfect.” She said it in such a way that it didn’t seem like a compliment.

  I stopped. And turned around. “Whaddya mean?”

  “He thinks you’re perfect. That’s what he said,” she went on, drowsily. “He thinks you’re too tough for your own good sometimes.”

  Much as I wanted to hear more, I didn’t want Sabine to know how much I cared what Lance thought. “You’re crazy,” I said, trying to smile. “Get some sleep, okay?” I gathered my things to brush my teeth and was almost out the door when she let out a hopeless heavy sigh.

  “Don’t you need a break from it all sometimes?” Her tone had softened. “To just forget about it?” I knew she was talking about us in the grander sense, what we were and this secret we shared. “Isn’t what’s on our shoulders kind of a lot? I don’t know why we got stuck with this.” She sounded defeated. I closed the door and sat down on the floor by her bed.

  “I don’t know either. But I guess I feel like if I let my guard down for one minute, then that’s it for me,” I tried to explain. “I just, like, don’t trust the world anymore, you know? I feel like a target. I can’t afford to be anything less than completely present and ready for anything.” Fun seemed like a luxury I didn’t quite get to have, at least not in any sort of abundance.