Now the tree—being a magnolia with low branches—isn’t hard to hoist myself into, but climbing to the tippy-top with a big plastic 7UP cup clenched in my teeth is another matter. It’s tough. And then I have to creep out on this anorexic branch and let my weight bend it over to the rooftop. For a second there, I think I might just flop belly-first straight down onto the outdoor grill.
Even when I make it safely to the roof, I’m still not home free. Her roof tilts up at an outrageous angle. I’d give the degree of it, but I didn’t do so well in geometry. I do have rubber soles on my shoes, so I spider-walk to the window without anything catastrophic going down. But sometimes I just can’t seem to leave well enough alone. I always have to go for a little bit more.
I remove the cup from my teeth to take a good big victory drink, and wouldn’t you know, I drop it and there it goes trundling along the gray shingles, whisky and 7UP splashing all over the place.
Of course, my natural reaction is to make a grab for it, which in turn causes me to lose my grip on the windowsill. Next thing I know I’m sliding down the roof face-first, trying to grab on to something, but there’s nothing to grab on to. The only thing that stops me from following the big 7UP over the edge is the gutter. I’d feel relieved, but apparently the gutter isn’t in real great shape. No sooner do I catch my breath, than it starts to groan. And groan. Until the groan turns into a shriek and the gutter pulls away from its mooring, and there’s nothing left to keep me from nosediving over the edge.
Doom is imminent. My coffin flashes before my eyes. I wouldn’t mind a red one. Or plaid. Maybe one with a crushed-velvet interior. But then at the last moment, the miraculous happens—I’m able to latch on to the gutter with my hands and sort of swing down onto the patio. Still, my butt-first landing rattles my tailbone good and hard and causes me to bite my tongue on top of that. When I look up, there’s Cassidy, staring out the patio door, her eyes and mouth popped open in horror.
She’s not horrified on my behalf, though. The sliding door shoots open and she’s standing over me, hands on her hips, that familiar “you-are-such-an-idiot” scowl on her face, and I’m like, “Hey, it was an accident.”
“Are you crazy?” she shrieks. “That is not cute, Sutter. I can’t believe you. Look at that gutter.”
“Aren’t you the least bit worried about whether I fractured my spine or something?”
“I wish.” She surveys the roof. “What am I supposed to tell my parents?”
“Tell them what you always do—that you don’t know what happened. They can’t bust you during the cross-examination that way.”
“You always have an answer, don’t you? What are you doing now?”
“I’m picking up the gutter. What does it look like?”
“Just leave it. Maybe my parents will think it blew off.”
I drop the gutter and pick up my empty cup.
“Don’t tell me,” she says. “That was full of whisky.”
“And a little 7UP.”
“I should’ve known,” she said, eyeing the whisky bottle on the patio table. “But really, isn’t 10:30 a little early to be drunk again, even for you?”
“Hey, I’m not drunk. I’m just a little fortified. Besides, I didn’t drink at all last night, so really, it’s like I’m getting a late start. Did you ever think of that?”
“You know you made me miss my hair appointment.” She starts back into the house.
I grab the bottle and chase after her. “I don’t know why you want to get your hair cut anyway. Your hair’s too beautiful to cut off. I like how it sways across your back when you walk. I like the way it hangs down on me when you’re on top.”
“Not everything’s about you, Sutter. I want a change. I don’t need your approval.” She sits on a stool at the bar that separates the kitchen from the living room. Her arms are crossed and she won’t look at me. “They don’t like it when you miss your appointments, you know. It costs them money. But I’m sure you don’t care about that. You don’t think about anybody but yourself.”
There it is—my cue to tell the story of Walter. By the time I’m done, I have drinks fixed for the both of us and her arms are uncrossed. She’s softening but she’s not ready to completely forgive me yet, so I set her drink on the bar instead of handing it to her. I don’t want to give her the chance to reject me.
“Okay,” she says. “I guess you did a nice thing there for once. But you still could’ve called me to let me know you’d be late.”
“Hey, I would have, but I lost my cell phone.”
“Again? That’s the third one in a year.”
“They’re hard to hang on to. And besides, don’t you think it’s a little 1984 to go walking around with a device in your pocket that lets people locate you at all times? We should rebel against the cell phone. You can be Trotsky and I’ll be Che.”
“That’s so you,” she says. “Always trying to joke your way out of things. Have you ever sat down and really thought about what it means to be in a relationship? Do you understand anything about establishing trust and commitment?”
Here we go. Lecture time. And I’m sure what she’s saying is right. It’s well thought out and insightful and all those things that make for a good grade on a five-paragraph essay in English, but I just can’t keep my mind focused on it when she’s sitting there right next to me looking like she does.