Bang Plan

XV

I stand on the staircase in a big sweater and pajama pants, observing as the hazy early afternoon light slants into the ballroom. It's a lopsided dream space. The air is thick and it smells like beer and sweat. There's only two people slumped in here, one on the couch, and the other on a chair with an ottoman pulled up to it. They're sprawled out like Renaissance painting angels, lounging on their clouds. If Renaissance painting angels wore pastels and got hammered. The feeling in my gut makes me feel little again, staring at a scene much bigger than me. The dolls have all been dressed and taken to the tea party. Now it's time to put away all the little skirts and shoes and do my chores.

Before I can start in on the expansive mess, I need something in my stomach. It's unsettled for various reasons. I already popped Advil that I must have laid out last night on my bedside table. Once I've stared at the ballroom for long enough, I shuffle into the kitchen to find it sparkling clean. I nearly scream from the shock of it. Bless whichever random, guilty partygoer decided to add a silver lining to my evening from hell. And someone made coffee! I pour some out and butter up a slice of toast, letting the smell of warm bakery bread and coffee revive me from the dead. I sit at the island and ward off all thoughts of last night. It was so awful. I have to think of the positives, though. Everyone except for our friends and one particular lacrosse player named Parker seemed to have a grand old time. At least people might think I'm cooler now, or something like that. It may have been the event of the month, pre-Halloween. I dare to hope that the story of Sandy's outing doesn't spread like wildfire.

"You're up. Were... you crying?" Mike's voice startles me. He's standing there in a ratty Harvard shirt and navy blue pajama pants with little racquets embroidered into them. He looks exhausted, and his hair is a mess. I know my eyes are red and I must look terrible based on his question. I'm about to answer, but then my eyes travel to his arms, which hold a load of cleaning supplies.

"You?!" I gasp.

"I couldn't sleep past nine," he remarks. I watch him as he puts the cleaning stuff back under the sink. He catches me looking at him, puzzled and leaning forward in my seat.

"What?" he asks, going to the coffee maker.

"Thank you," I tell him, my voice thin. "For helping." I tap my fingers against the countertop, feeling that same awkward tension in the air that lingered in Flour the other day. Like "sorry," "thank you" is a phrase that we didn't really throw out there before this week. I can tell he knows I'm not just thanking him for this morning. His staying with me and being there for me over the rest of last night meant that he felt bad for blaming Sandy at first, and that he was really going to follow through with being nicer to her and me. He didn't need to tell me that then, and I don't need to give him a full thank you now. He knows what I mean.

"It's no problem. I only had to shoo a few people who'd just woken up in the living room to clean that," he says, putting on an air of nonchalance.

"My God, Mike. Did you clean the whole place?"

"No, no. Not the big room with the chandelier, I figured I'd show the peaceful sleepers some mercy." He pours his coffee in a mug and sits down next to me.

"How did you sleep? And Sandy?" He asks gently. I'm really still getting used to this new, caring Mike. The idea that he'd care about the answer to this is foreign, and I wouldn't normally give him a full, genuine answer. But he just cleaned my house.

"I slept alright. Sandy was exhausted. I'm a night dweller, with things like these, I toss and turn. I thought everyone was, but not her. She was out like a light once Archie left," I tell him, and he nods. I still don't like the aftertaste that last part leaves in my mouth. Last night, after some waiting, Mike and I headed up to check on them and go to bed. Before we'd climbed three steps, Archie came down the stairs with his overnight bag. "I think I should go," he said grimly, and left with a carload of people. Without another word to either of us.