[30]

Stoned, 1989

Buckley sat on Mia’s floor, taking bong hits with Mia and her friend Paulo. His back against the sofa, he felt like he was melting into it. “I don’t like this,” he said.

Paulo said, “You don’t like what?”

“Feeling weird.”

“But you are weird. We’re all weird.” Paulo was twenty-nine, Buckley’s age. “If you want to feel something different, get up and drink a soda or have a beer or turn on the TV. If you want to stop feeling stoned, go to sleep.”

“Clementine,” Buckley said, “did a lot of drugs, but I don’t think she smoked marijuana.”

Mia said, “What kind of drugs?”

“She liked pills,” Buckley said, remembering her legs, how they looked scrubbed clean the day she died. He glanced at Mia’s legs. Her calves and knees were exposed between her plaid skirt and black boots.

Paulo said, “Buckley’s checking you out.”

Buckley averted his eyes.

Mia straightened her legs. “Stop it, Paulo. You’re such a fucking pervert. Buckley and I are good friends.”

Buckley got up. “Maybe I’ll have a beer.”

Mia said, “Then you better split.”

“How come?” Buckley opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a twelve-pack of Black Label beer, two sticks of butter, and a plastic pitcher of tap water.

“Sheila’s coming over when she gets off work. She wants to play Clementine with you.”

Buckley felt sick to his stomach. “Clementine isn’t a joke.”

“I know that, and you know that, but Sheila is seriously psycho—like, she’s been diagnosed with every kind of mental disorder currently known to the psychiatric community.”

Buckley popped the beer open. “What should I do?”

Mia said, “I’ll take care of it. Just go home.”

Paulo said, “What are you going to do?”

“I have a plan.”

Buckley took his beer and went across the hall to his apartment. He locked the door. He wanted to watch television, but afraid Sheila might hear, he sat reading The Catcher in the Rye, a gift from Mia.

He heard Sheila banging on Mia’s door, asking “Where’s Buckley?” The apartment walls were paper thin. He heard Mia say, “Come on in,” and he heard Mia’s door shut.

Inside Mia’s apartment, the bong water had been dumped, the bong had been stashed under the sofa, and Paulo sat in Mia’s kitchen bathtub, pretending to read Newsweek.

Sheila said, “Where’s Buckley? When I called, I thought I heard his voice.”

Mia said, “He hasn’t been here. Not since last night.”

“What are you guys doing?”

Paulo said, “We’re getting ready to take a bath.”

“We’re going to take off for Central Park. Get some fresh air.”

Paulo dropped the Newsweek on the kitchen floor. “Do you have a hat I can borrow? The sun is terrible for my complexion.”

“I’ll find something.”

“Well, let’s get Buckley.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Mia said.

“Why not?”

“I hate to tell you this, Sheila, but last night Buckley and I had sex.”

“What about Luke?”

Mia said, “Please don’t tell him.”

Sheila said, “You and Buckley?”

“Yeah. He’s madly in love with me—like, obsessed with me. You show some guys a little kindness and they go overboard.”

“You’re kidding.”

Mia shook her head that she was not.

“But what about Luke?”

“I don’t know. I might break up with him. I just don’t know.”

“Goddamn it, Mia. You knew I liked Buckley.”

“But I might like him,” Mia countered, “and I always get what I want.”

“You can be such a bitch.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Paulo, climbing out of the bathtub, said, “She really can be a major bitch. It’s a fact.”

“I want to talk to Buckley.” Sheila was petite, with thin lips and blue eyes. She repeated, “Let’s talk to Buckley.”

Mia said, “It’ll be awkward.”

Mia kicked Buckley’s door. Even though she could’ve knocked and he would’ve opened up, she never did. “It’s me,” she said.

Buckley assumed that she’d gotten rid of Sheila. He opened his door to see Mia, Sheila, and Paulo standing in the hallway. He was still stoned and lacking words. Fortunately, he didn’t have to say anything. Mia pressed her chest against his, draping her white hand with black fingernails over his head, and kissed him, tongue and everything. Feeling her hip against his, Buckley tingled. It was a long kiss. Buckley was melting into black-clad Mia.

Mia said, “I told Sheila that you belong to me now.”

Buckley had black lipstick on his face. He nodded.

Sheila said, “Fuck both of you,” and ran down the hall.

Mia and Paulo laughed. Buckley smiled. He was grateful for the ruse. He was grateful for the kiss.