3. Saturday, September 2, 2023
Quinn
Quinn walks behind his parents, in step with Polly, the whole time imagining what he’d do to his mother if he had his Fortnite weapons in real life.
She’s forcing him to go to some stupid neighborhood Labor Day barbecue.
“There’ll be fireworks,” she’d said, as if he were still eight years old and gave two shits about fireworks.
“It’s a chance to meet some kids before you start school on Tuesday,” she’d said, as though it were ever that easy.
He asked why she wasn’t forcing Nana to go, and she said because Nana didn’t do backyard barbecues and she would probably embarrass them anyway.
None of them know a single person who’s going to be there.
They’re just going because they got a flyer in the mailbox.
He’s pretty sure they’ll end up standing around like a bunch of losers.
That’s probably what his mother wants though.
As far as Quinn’s concerned, she likes seeing them suffer.
Making them move to some new house just because she wanted a change.
Not caring about Quinn having to leave all his friends in the middle of high school, that their dog Buttons was buried in the backyard of their old house, or that it was the last place that they were all together with Lucy.
Polly bumps him with her hip. “Hey, little man, why so glum?”
Quinn resists the urge to punch her. “Don’t call me that.” It was Lucy’s nickname for him. Coming from Polly it just sounds patronizing. She has no idea either. None of them do, except maybe his dad.
Polly will show up at the barbecue and immediately be surrounded by girls and especially boys her age.
Like flies to shit, Quinn thinks. No matter where they go, Polly acquires a posse right off the bat—vacations, family reunions, random people’s barbecues.
Lucy was more like him: smart, introverted, didn’t like big crowds, had only a close group of friends.
He hates himself for it, he really does, but some days he wishes Polly had died instead.
“Fine,” Polly says, sounding kind of hurt, which surprises Quinn. “I won’t call you that. ‘Loser’ suits you better anyway.” That’s more like it, he thinks.
She prances a few feet ahead so that she’s in line with their parents just as they arrive at the party. Leaving Quinn trailing behind, looking like his own family can’t stand him.
For a split second, Quinn is distracted by the massive, fenced-in backyard with a pool and a waterfall, and one of those expensive-looking outdoor kitchen things where a bunch of people in white uniforms are grilling, sautéing, and tossing food.
His new house isn’t as swanky as this one, but Quinn’s still not sure how they were able to afford to live in a place with a pool, two extra cabins, and a fucking forest. They’re not poor or anything, but this whole scene seems out of their league, especially with his dad not working.
“Welcome, new neighbors,” a woman calls, greeting them from halfway across the yard.
She’s wearing all white, just like the servers, but she’s clearly the host of the party.
Her hair’s all perfect-looking, the way his mom tries to get hers to look but never does, and she’s got lots of gold jewelry on with gold shoes to match. “So glad you all decided to come.”
“Oh, well, thank you so much for the invite,” his mom gushes right back. “We wouldn’t have missed a chance to meet our new neighbors.”
His mom introduces the rest of them and then the three adults start in on the small talk.
Quinn tunes out to scan the yard. He notices a group of kids who look his age standing over in the far corner of the yard.
Quinn silently prays that he is not made, at any point, to go talk to them.
He knows their type even from afar—athletic, popular, lacking any self-consciousness whatsoever.
Life comes easily to them; the words that come out of their mouths make people laugh and move closer.
When he talks, others cringe and move away.
As if right on cue, three girls, who look like plainer versions of his sister, suddenly appear in front of Polly to introduce themselves and invite her over to the bar area while the adults turn a blind eye to the underage drinking.
Even if Quinn were allowed to drink at the party, he wouldn’t.
He’s vowed never to drink again. The one and only time he ever did was the night Lucy died.
He’d been at his best friend’s house for a sleepover.
When Dustin’s parents went out to dinner, he’d suggested they do shots of tequila from his parents’ liquor cabinet.
Quinn agreed, got so drunk he puked all over the couch in the TV room, then passed out.
Good old Dustin, who had somehow not puked and who had mostly sobered up by the time his parents got home, told them the tequila had been Quinn’s idea.
Dustin’s mom made him clean up his own puke, told him he wasn’t welcome to sleep over again, and made him call his mom to pick him up.
He called his mom to ask for a ride and told her he just didn’t feel like staying over anymore.
But she’d had a few glasses of wine, so sent Lucy to pick him up instead.
Hearing Lucy was going out, Polly had tagged along at the last minute to get a ride to some party.
They were going to pick him up first, then drop Polly off.
Quinn didn’t want to stay inside with that snitch Dustin and his angry mom, so he sat outside on the front step waiting for his sisters to come get him.
He felt like shit too; had a horrible headache and thought he might throw up again at any moment.
He counted down the minutes, tracking his sister on an app as she drove there.
He saw her get to an intersection only three minutes from the house—and then never moved past it.
He tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail.
He tried calling Polly, too, but her phone did the same.
A feeling of dread crept up his torso, into his chest, and spread out through his entire body like branches, unfurling over his brain.
His hangover disappeared. He sat there frozen in place, staring at his phone, waiting for Lucy’s location to reload.
He’s not sure for how long. It was only when the front porch was plunged into darkness that he looked up from his phone.
Dustin’s dad had turned off the inside and outside lights.
He got to his feet and started walking toward the intersection.
It took him twenty-four minutes. He arrived in time to see his mother’s car on its side in the middle of the road, a twisted, charred, and smoking mess of metal.
One of his sisters was being zipped into a body bag; he presumed his other sister was in the ambulance, speeding away from the scene.
It wasn’t until much later at the hospital that he learned that Lucy had died.
From that night on he hated three things: tequila, his best friend, and his mother for not being the one to pick him up that night. Buried under all of that, in a dark place that he tries not to ever go to, he hates himself the most.
The woman in white lifts a hand and waves toward the group of kids who Quinn wants to avoid. One of the boys slowly extricates himself from his crowd and lopes across the yard, looking less than thrilled.
“This is my middle boy, Max,” she says as soon as he arrives. “He’s a hockey player.” Quinn finds the declaration strange, as though that’s his most defining feature. If it is, then he definitely doesn’t want to be friends with him.
Then she gestures in Quinn’s direction. “Max, this is Quinn. He’s starting grade ten at Merrymont High on Tuesday with you and your friends.
” The boy nods in Quinn’s direction, not quite friendly, but not quite rude either.
“Why don’t you take him over and introduce him to some of the other kids?
” She makes it sound like a suggestion, but Quinn knows how these things work.
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” Max says with a shrug.
“That’s so nice of you, Max,” his mom says. Then she turns to Quinn and mouths, I told you, which makes him wish for his Fortnite weapons again. His dad gives him a pat on the back as he leaves.
“What’s your name again?” Max asks, right before they get to the group.
“Quinn.” It comes out sounding like a croak.
“Everyone, this is Quinn. He just moved into the murder house.” A collective ooh goes up, followed by laughter and furtive glances that Quinn doesn’t understand, and then they all say their names at once so that he’ll never remember them.
“What? What did you mean by murder house?” Quinn asks. The whole group starts howling with laughter. He smiles like he’s in on the joke, waiting for someone to explain.
“Is that your sister?” one of the guys asks, pointing in Polly’s direction, ignoring Quinn’s question entirely. “She’s hot, hey?”
“Yeah,” Quinn says flatly. “Since she’s my sister, I’d rather not comment on her level of hotness, because that’s pretty gross.
Incest-wise.” No one says anything in response, they just stare at him blankly and the guy who asked shrugs, and they all start talking to each other again.
He stands awkwardly on the periphery of the group listening to them talk about people he doesn’t know, things that happened over the summer that he wasn’t there for, and teachers at the high school he has yet to meet.
That’s a record, he thinks. Less than two minutes to become a social outcast.
“I’m going to get a drink,” he mumbles, to no response.
Breaking away from the group, he heads not for the big metal tub full of ice and cold drinks but for the exit.
Glancing in his parents’ direction, he’s happy to see that they’re fully immersed in a fake conversation with their shitty neighbors.