Story 12: Deirdre, in Xeriscape: A Cake of Her Own

Sometimes when I give parties I like to stand on the stairs and watch the people who’ve come to my house. For a moment I feel honored and remind myself to call them or write them thank-you notes the next day, but then, I have to be honest, I eavesdrop a little and see who needs what. For me, a party is a chance to take care of people. Everyone else may be relaxing and catching up with friends, but the hostess is the one who makes that possible. No time to relax for me.

A little bit about my apartment now. When Jodi first told me she wasn’t going to live with me, two years ago this spring, I was devastated. I was so mad I couldn’t go look for my own apartment. And then one summer night at dinner, when I was complaining to my parents, my father pointed out to me that Jodi was my best friend. Actually, he said, “Jodi loves you more than anyone else.” I was startled that he had even noticed, though she has been my friend since before we were in two digits. My mother just stared at her food after he said that. We eat at eight because they’re doctors and they work late at the same hospital. After dinner I went out and sat on my bench in the yard. When I got cold enough, I came inside, said goodnight to my parents, and went upstairs. At midnight, I was still thinking. What if he meant, “Jodi loves you more than anyone else loves you”? The next day, I rented this apartment, even though it was a two-bedroom, and got a roommate by the time school started. Natalie and Debbie could barely conceal their amazement. Once I was moved in, I didn’t mind talking to Jodi anymore. And my roommate is a graduate student in philosophy. That’s so sophisticated.

This is a small party for Natalie’s twenty-first birthday. She’s the oldest of our group. Yes, I am part of this group, and it was my turn to have a party. Debbie is here, of course, sitting on one side of Josh on my roommate’s ratty couch. She wouldn’t let me buy a new one. “I want to contribute,” she told me. On the other side of Josh—Jodi. They’ve been friends since the beginning of freshman year. One time, they were lovers. One time, Josh and I slept together, but I still don’t feel I’ve had love. Jodi gets up and goes to the keg, followed by Josh’s beautiful blue eyes. I wish mine were his color. I come down the stairs and sit beside him, waiting until he stops staring after Jodi and notices me.

“Here we all are, still friends,” he shouts near my ear, over the music.

“Does that surprise you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve seen so many people come and go, but we’re still hangin’.”

It’s true. Things shift among us, but no one has split off yet. Then he stands up and shouts: “A toast!”

Nobody notices ’cause the music is so loud. He shouts “Toast! Toast! Toast!” until everyone hears him. Becky lifts up the needle on the turntable. The Police are still singing somewhere, I suppose, but we can’t hear them.

“Toast,” he says, quietly. All seven of us crowd into the living room, between the couch and the entertainment center and my rocking chair. It’s cozy. “To Natalie, who is the only adult in this group and will have to set an example for all of us.”

We laugh, and then he continues: “I want to tell you how I met her. I was standing in line outside the UMC waiting to buy a poster, and I saw her in front of me in line. All I could see was her profile. She had the unhappiest profile I had ever seen. I said to myself, “‘I’ve got to make that girl smile!’ So I went and said hi.”

“You just wanted to move up in line,” Becky says, and everyone laughs. We all know what an operator Josh is. And he’s shameless. He doesn’t even care.

“That’s how we met. We bought our posters and sat by the fountain and talked. And then Jodi walked by, and I introduced myself to her too. That’s how this group began.”

“Good thing you were there to gather us all in, like a hen herding a flock of chicks,” Jodi says mockingly.

He smiles at her. Then he looks at Debbie. “Your turn.”

Natalie and Debbie laugh their superfriend laugh. “Eighth-grade science class,” Debbie recalls. “Frogs in formaldehyde!”

“Yeah!” Natalie shouts, gesturing with a stirrer as if she wanted to dissect something. They’re both really drunk, and I guess they don’t get Absolut too often because they’re drinking all of mine. My parents let me take whatever liquor I want. I wonder if there’s a shot left for me, but getting it right now would be rude. Now Josh is prompting me.

“I met Natalie in government class,” I tell him, smiling at both of them. If Josh had never seen Jodi at the fountain and introduced her to Natalie, would Jodi and I be roommates now? At least I wouldn’t have lowered her opinion of me by sleeping with him.

“And I met Natalie through you guys. I don’t remember when,” my roommate Robin adds. Thank you, I think. Not everybody has to worship at their shrine.

Becky is last, and as usual she brings us down to a serious level. “Natalie saved me from a racist frat boy at a party,” she says, sounding world-weary. When she says such things I always secretly wonder if I’ve ever thought as that frat boy did. Or acted. I hope not. And then there was the odd way she said the word saved. There is less of a silence than sometimes follows Becky’s pronouncements. Natalie gets some shot glasses and the bottle of Absolut and pours everyone a glass. We down them. Then she asks Robin, “Hey, can you put your stereo out on the porch so we can go out and dance on the lawn? It is just so crowded and hot in here.”

My apartment is the one closest to Goss, so at least we won’t be blasting music past people in my building. After Natalie pours me a couple more shots, I don’t worry about it anymore. We’re dancing to the Talking Heads; some people walking down Goss even joined in for a while, though they were kind of gross. I hate dreadlocks, especially on pasty-faced Boulder hippies. Or Mohawks, for that matter. You should be able to get a comb through your hair, and if your hair is standing straight up, it should be because it grows that way.

So we dance off some of the alcohol, and then Natalie starts her favorite game: truth or dare. I don’t know why she likes it so much. She asks me if I’m in love with Josh, I guess because it was just too interesting to her that I sat down next to him. I am, but I won’t admit it to her. While I say no Jodi stares at me, which just exasperates me further: she doesn’t love Josh, but apparently nobody else can either. Josh stands there staring at his beer bottle. When it’s my turn, I try to embarrass Natalie.

“Have you ever been pregnant?”

She glares at me. I’m pleased that I’ve hit a nerve. The silence grows really uncomfortable, and finally I say, “You have to answer!”

She says, really sarcastically, “Ye-ah!”

“Really? When?”

Jodi looks at me. I say, “I can ask a follow-up question.”

“It’s Josh’s turn,” Debbie says.

We go around and around, Natalie trying to upset me, but nothing she asks gets under my skin. Then my favorite song comes on: “Over My Head” by Fleetwood Mac. Every time that song comes on, I can’t help myself. I have to dance, and I do, away from these people who may or may not be my friends and into the street. The music is really loud. Even when I dance down the street to the corner, I can still hear it. I’m so into it that I don’t stop dancing and open my eyes until the music stops, and then I discover I’m standing in front of a cop car and since I’ve been flipping my skirt around, I’ve probably flashed the cop. Luckily, the officer is female. She gets out of the car and surveys me and my friends. She gestures that we should walk back to the group, so I do.

“We received a noise complaint,” she says. Big surprise. Then she asks for our driver’s licenses, which we have to go back to the house to get. Becky turns off the music. Of course, only Natalie is old enough to drink. The cop stands there in the doorway to the kitchen, surveying the bottles on the counter and the cakes covering the table.

“Do you want some cake?” I ask, pointing. “This one’s mine.”

She stares at me while Natalie and Debbie snicker. Then she pours out my Absolut and the rest of the bottles but doesn’t look any further.

“Keep the music down,” she says as she leaves. “And don’t take open containers outside.”

I pretend I don’t feel stupid. This is my house, after all. I can offer cake to whomever I please. I get myself a piece of cake, made especially for me by Natalie’s aunt, and sit down to listen to the rest of the Fleetwood Mac album. Debbie and Natalie try to smirk it up, but cake wins. Everyone has a piece of their very own cake, and then we sample each other’s. That’s how the party ends, quietly, with everyone eating. Becky told me later that on her way home she saw that cop again, accosting some frat boys. Maybe she was on her way back to check on us and bothered them instead.

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