Tom Perrotta - Nine Inches

Liz knew they were lying. She figured that they’d slipped out while Craig was sleeping and had hoped to slip back in undetected, but what was she supposed to do? Report them to the authorities? It was their graduation night, and they weren’t hurting anyone. And besides, how could she object to a teenaged tryst when her own daughter was home in bed with her boyfriend? She was a lot of things, but she tried not to be a hypocrite.

“Just get outta here,” she said, waving them in the direction of the cafeteria. “Go enjoy your party.”

A FLOCK of artsy girls descended upon the Chilling Station around one o’clock, packing themselves into the couches and chairs, talking in low, animated voices, as if hatching a conspiracy. They were a strikingly multicultural bunch, at least by Gifford standards — there were two Asians in the mix, a tall black girl who looked like a ballerina, and a round-faced, red-lipped Muslim girl in a headscarf. One member of the group was in a wheelchair; another wore a bandanna to conceal what Liz assumed was chemo-induced hair loss. The smaller of the Asian girls — she had an adorable teardrop face, and a streak of purple in her hair — sat on the lap of a butch white girl in a baseball cap.

Liz didn’t recognize any of them from the soccer field; she figured they were denizens of the art room and the dance studio, editors of the literary magazine, officers of the Gay/Straight Alliance, members of the Performing Arts Club. Some of them were cute, but mostly not in a way that a high school boy would appreciate — not that all of them would be equally interested in eliciting the approval of high school boys — and they seemed collectively resigned to their wallflower status at the All-Night Party. Liz’s heart went out to them; she wanted to hug each and every one, to let them know they’d be happier in college, that the world was about to become much larger and more forgiving, at least for a little while.

After they moved on, a handful of other visitors trickled in and out. A pair of identical-twin boys played a cutthroat game of Yahtzee, insulting each other with language so vile Liz had to ask them to tone it down. A scruffy-bearded troubadour — he looked a little too old for high school — strummed an acoustic guitar, serenading his hippie friends with evergreen songs by Cat Stevens and Neil Young. Four football players held a round-robin arm-wrestling tournament, grunting and grimacing like constipated old men while their girlfriends cheered them on from the sidelines.

By two-thirty it was dead again, but at least Liz had a yearbook to keep her occupied, a copy left behind by someone named Corinne. She leafed through the glossy pages, reading the inscriptions, searching for familiar faces. There was a photo of Dana in the section devoted to Girls’ Soccer, an action shot in which she leapt for a header, her ponytail a golden blur: Striker Dana Mercatto rises to the occasion against Rosedale. Liz flipped ahead to the junior-class pictures, locating her daughter’s face among the rows of black-and-white thumbnails. It was a photo she knew well — a color version of it was framed on her dresser — Dana gazing coolly into the camera, so lovely and self-possessed, utterly at peace with herself. Liz couldn’t help remembering her own senior picture, the too-big smile, the desperation in her eyes, as if she were begging the world not to hate her.

Ugh! she used to say. I can’t stand that picture. It doesn’t even look like me. But that wasn’t really the problem.

She heard footsteps and closed the book. Setting it down on the coffee table, she turned and saw Officer Yanuzzi heading in her direction, his uniformed figure squat and ominous in the murky light, as if he were coming to arrest her. But when his face finally came into view, he just looked amused.

“Party Girl,” he called out in a friendly voice. “I was wondering where you were hiding.”

“Right here in Siberia,” she told him. “Taking one for the team.”

“Could be worse.” He took a sip of coffee from a paper cup, surveying the furniture with what appeared to be sincere interest. “You could be stuck outside all night on a folding chair.”

“Least you’re getting paid.”

“Good one.” He chalked up a point for Liz on an imaginary scoreboard. “Guess I can’t complain.”

“Not to mention that you seem to be inside at the moment.”

“Just making my rounds,” he said, threading his way between the couch and the hammock. He opened one of the fire doors and peered into the vestibule, checking for suspicious activity. “Though I gotta say, it is getting a little chilly out. I shoulda brought a jacket. But it’s June, you know? I’m not really thinking jacket.”

He took a seat on the couch, directly across from Liz, as if she’d invited him to join her. He set his coffee on the table and held out his hand.

“I’m Brian.”

“Liz.”

“Mercatto, huh?” He studied her name tag with a quizzical expression. “Why do I know that name?”

She was tempted to remind him of their unfortunate encounter on Whitetail Way — You were rude and you scared my daughter — but couldn’t see the point of dredging it up at this late date. Besides, it was three in the morning, and she was grateful for the company.

“Mercatto’s my ex-husband’s name. I usually go by Casey.”

“I’m not too good with names,” he said, reaching for his cup. He paused before drinking. “If I’d known you were here, I woulda brought you some.”

“No worries.”

“They got those little one-cup things. K-Cups or whatever.” He extended the cup in her direction. “You want a sip? It’s nice and hot.”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

“You sure? I could take the lid off. That’s where all the germs are.”

“I’m more of a tea drinker anyway.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t offer.”

He kept his eyes on her as he brought the cup to his lips. She got the feeling he was searching his memory, trying to locate a file marked Mercatto. She averted her gaze, found herself staring at the gun in his holster, remembering the way he’d touched it when he yelled at Dana.

“I’m glad I found you,” he said, just as the silence was getting awkward. “I was feeling bad about what I said before.”

“What did you say?”

“You know, about those kids who died. That they were young and stupid.” He shook his head, as if pained by the memory. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay. No big deal.”

“They were my friends,” he said. “We went to school together.”

She studied his face, performing some quick mental calculations. He was probably about thirty, so the math worked out.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry.”

Yanuzzi shrugged. He took off his hat, ran a hand over his gelled buzz cut.

“The driver was a kid named Jimmy Polito. He was my best friend. We were gonna start a landscaping business.” Yanuzzi closed his eyes for a moment. “Anyway, we were all at the party together, playing quarters, getting drunk off our asses, when everybody suddenly decided to drive to the beach. The only reason I didn’t go is that I was trying to hook up with this girl. She was somebody’s cousin. Didn’t even go to our school.” Yanuzzi laughed softly. His face looked young and defenseless. “They got killed and I got laid. That’s the whole story.”

“I’m sorry,” Liz said again.

“Not your fault.”

A few seconds went by. Yanuzzi rubbed his jaw, as if checking the closeness of his shave. “I didn’t even really get laid,” he said. “We were both too wasted to make it across the finish line.”

IT MUST have been close to four in the morning when she set off for the restroom. Officer Yanuzzi kindly agreed to hold down the fort until she returned.