t w e l v e
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart.
I am, I am, I am.”
—Sylvia Plath
When I finally show up to the Silver Lake Lounge, I see Antonia sitting with her girl and an older girl who I assume must be Mika, hunkered at a round table far from the stage.
Though she and Heather are sitting close to each other, her date seems apprehensive about the whole thing. The multicolored lights revolve around the room, bathing her in color as she keeps looking over her shoulder for anyone she might know to walk in and find her on a date with Antonia.
I don’t want to be here after the disaster that was our family dinner. I thought about canceling. Then I thought about how I’d hate to have a friend who was always such a flake. I try to remind myself to have fun. It’s just like any other night of hanging out with Antonia. This is about Antonia, I tell myself, and making her girlfriend feel comfortable. You talk to people you don’t know all the time. No reason to be nervous.
Antonia sees me and jumps up from the table. “Hey, girl!” she says, grabbing my hands. “This is Heather. It feels like I’ve been talking you up to her for months.”
Heather has the most amazing red hair that she wears in natural afro-tight curls. Her eyes are honey brown and her arms and legs are lean and muscular like a runner’s. I can see why Antonia is attracted to her. They look like they would make a great couple.
I shake Heather’s hand, imagining Antonia holding hers. Any girl would be lucky to go on a date with Antonia. I really hope this works out for them.
“Hey, Liv,” Heather says softly. “Antonia talks about you all the time.”
My nervousness begins to melt away. This isn’t going to be so bad.
“What does she say? That I’m a total head case?”
Heather laughs. “Not at all. She says you’re loyal, the best girl to have in your corner. And she’s always talking about your art. I’d love to see it sometime.”
Antonia turns to the girl with them. “This is my cousin. Mika.”
“I’m Olivia,” I say, holding out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I pull out my politician’s daughter tricks. Smile nicely. Speak as little as possible. It’s easy to give a good impression when you let the other person do all the talking.
Older than us by probably a couple of years, Mika seems more confident than Heather. She has black hair with dark pastel lowlights and is wearing skintight black leather pants and a white blouse that shows a lacy black bralette underneath. Fashionable. Intense.
Through her circular, John Lennon–esque glasses, Mika gives me the up-and-down, cracks a smirk, brushes the hair hanging in front of her right eye and shakes my hand. “Antonia says you’re an artist?” She pulls out a chair for me. “Are you a serious artist, or is it a side thing?”
I’m not sure how to answer the question. In my heart, I know that creating is the only thing that makes me feel halfway decent about myself, but I’m so blocked that saying I’m an artist makes me feel like a fraud. I’m only sixteen. How can I actually call myself an artist? I haven’t really achieved anything yet.
“I’m working on putting together a show,” I say, hoping that telling people will inspire me to work on my paintings more.
“I’ve always found painters to be sexy,” Mika says.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling awkward. I don’t think she’s hitting on me, but I’m not sure of her intention. Does she just say that kind of thing? “Me too, I guess.”
She’s focused on me, scrutinizing everything from my eyebrows to the stack of rings on my fingers, staring at me so intently with her intense dark brown eyes that she makes me nervous to sit across from her. I glance at Antonia. She turns to Heather and they start talking. This is good, I think. Heather’s comfortable for now. Mission accomplished. I can’t just leave though, or do what I really want, which is to find something to drink. With the music playing and the people talking and the chatter going on in my brain, my nerve endings feel raw and frayed. I could use an anesthetic.
“The show’s not until the summer,” I say to Mika, not wanting to explain the whole process. “But I’m behind on my work with school and everything.”
“You want to know what I do?” she says, not really asking me.
“Should I guess?”
Mika leans in closer. “Yeah. Guess.”
I don’t want to play guessing games. I’m glad I could be here for Antonia, but my stomach still feels sour after fighting with Dad at home. I’d rather be at home in bed.
“Do you work somewhere?” I ask.
“I write poetry,” she says.
“Oh, a poet,” I say, stumbling for words. “What kind?”
It’s a dumb question, but I don’t know what to ask.
“The kind that splices life,” she says. “That’s what a poet does, you know.”
“Oh?”
“I splice from one part of my life into another, overlapping emotions and circumstances to give them greater meaning. I extract bits of soul. I write them in my journals. I read them to whoever will listen. I perform. I love. I wither. I grow.”
I may be an artist, but Mika is beyond my realm of understanding. She leans back. Her eyes meet mine. She’s doing that staring thing again.
“Antonia said that you’re from out of town,” I say. “Where are you from?”
“I’m not from anywhere per se. Poets must be nomads. Getting attached to one place is bad for the soul.” Mika twists a ring around her finger. “I’ve been camping near a vortex in Sedona, Arizona. It’s sort of near the Grand Canyon.”
“A vortex?” I ask. Antonia did say that Mika was into these sorts of things. I figure I should be nice and ask her about her interests. “What’s that?”
“It’s a natural site where spiritual energy converges into a giant vortex,” Mika says. She makes a sweeping motion with her hand like it’s a tornado. Antonia gives her a sideways glance, then goes back to talking to Heather. “They’re magical places where trees exhibit this swirling and twisting of the trunks. The energy moves in a big spiral that helps with spiritual transformation. I’ve been working through some issues there. Wanna see some pictures?”
“Sure,” I say. I mean, why not? I might as well learn all I can about whatever Mika’s talking about right now.
“Stupid WiFi,” she says. “I only have one bar.” She keeps trying to refresh her app, but when that doesn’t work she starts talking to me again. “Antonia didn’t tell me you had such a powerful aura.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re over twenty-one. Right?”
Mika nods.
“Could you get me a drink?” I ask. “I’ll pay.”
Antonia hasn’t said one word to me since I first arrived. I’m not trying to be critical of her spiritual beliefs, but Mika is pretty intense. If I have to deal with her all night, I figure I might as well get drunk.
“Yeah,” Mika says. “Sure. What do you want?”
Score.
“A double Jack and Coke,” I say. If anyone’s snooping on us, I can tell Dad that the drinks were just soda. “Actually. Would you mind bringing two doubles? That way you don’t have to go to the bar again for me. Do you mind?”
I dig my wallet out of my purse and give her some cash.
“Intense,” Mika says. “Let’s do this.”
Across the table, Antonia and Heather are deep in conversation. Antonia’s reaching over and lightly pulling at one of Heather’s curls. It’s really cute, but then I start getting paranoid about whether someone will recognize us. We may be at an all-ages venue—and I sort of have an excuse about the drinking—but Dad’s not going to like me being seen with Antonia about to practically make out with a girl from our school.
That’s his problem. Not mine.
Mika returns with the drinks and sets them on the table. “I took a couple shots at the bar already,” she says. “Hope you don’t mind!”
I grab one of the doubles and start slurping down the liquid. It burns in my belly, then warms my whole body.
“So...” I figure I better talk to Mika. “How do you find inspiration for your poetry? Like when you’re blocked?” Maybe she’ll have some answers.
“Oh there’s a lot that you can do. I really like to inhabit my body when I feel a creative blockage.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It’s like having a sickness. You have to diagnose where the blockage is coming from. So I meditate, you know, get really quiet so my body can talk to me.”
Her words are unexpected, but there actually seems to be some wisdom in what Mika’s saying. I polish off the first double fast, then start on my second. It feels good to finally loosen up a little.
“What I would say usually happens,” Mika says, taking off her round glasses, “is that your Svadhisthana is somehow blocked. That creative energy can’t flow through.”
“My svadhistanawhat?” I blurt.
“It’s your second chakra. It’s between your pubic bone and your navel. It’s the main site on your body for creativity and sexuality. Those two aspects of your life are very much linked together,” Mika says, leaning into my personal space.
“Oh.” I take another gulp of my Jack and Coke. “I see.”
“It’s part of our nature to create. We’re also sexual beings. I have to be in a relaxed mental state to create, like with sex. You don’t want to be all anxious, otherwise nothing will work.”
“I’m anxious all the time,” I say awkwardly. The drinks are loosening me up. I can’t believe I’m talking to a random weirdo about my problems, but what she’s saying makes sense.
“Here. I want to show you something.” Mika stands up from the table. “Come on. Stand up. Yeah. Seriously.” I slam down the rest of my second drink. I need to be way more buzzed to deal with all this chakra talk, but I stand next to Mika anyway.
“So I want you to use your hand to close your right nostril. Then I want you to inhale and exhale through the left nostril for about eight to ten breaths.”
I look around. People at the other tables are totally staring at me, but I go along with Mika’s suggestion. Maybe whatever she’s talking about will actually help me to unlock my creativity. Why not?
“Good,” Mika says. “Now I want you to do this.”
She inhales, pushes her knees together, puts her hands on her hips and starts making these huge circles with her pelvis while exhaling.
Is she crazy? That’s where I draw the line.
I may be drunk, but I’m not doing that in public.
I look over at Antonia for help. She’s running her hand along Heather’s neck. Their legs are hooked around each other’s under the table. Heather looks pretty comfortable to me.
“I’m going to run to the ladies’ room,” I say.
I lean over and whisper in Antonia’s ear to meet me at the bathroom in a couple of minutes, then I’m up and hurrying away from the table, trying to regain some control of my senses. My head is spinning from the drinks and I’m nearly tripping over my feet as I walk to the bathroom. Now I have to act happy about hanging out when I’m not.
When I get to the bathroom, I check myself out in the mirror. I’m really unhappy with my outfit. Everything—my fat knees, my underarm flab, the loose skin around my stomach from losing weight—disgusts me. My body is a map of all my past sins.
I wish I could wash everything clean. Start over. The fact that I haven’t started working much on my sketching or paintings nags at me again, like I’ve just been watching my dreams wither and die and I’m doing nothing to help them grow. And I’m pretty sure it has nothing to do with my second chakra.
I’m smoothing down my frizzy hair when Antonia saunters in like she’s having the time of her life.
“Antonia...”
“What?”
“I know she’s your cousin, but...”
“Spit it out,” Antonia says.
“I’m not against talking about spiritual energy or chakras or whatever, but Mika’s weird. Really weird.”
“I warned you.” She looks up at the mirror and fixes a piece of stray hair. “Talking to her can’t be that bad. She’s chatty. She does all the work for you.”
“I know the purpose of tonight is to make Heather feel comfortable and that you’re on a date and everything, but could you just join the conversation for a few minutes? Save my sanity?”
“Chill. You’re doing awesome and Mika really likes you.”
“Too much. Did you see her trying to help me unblock my chakra?”
“What?” Antonia laughs. “That seems like her.”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
“Just sit across from her. Talk to her for a little bit longer. Please? It’s working. Heather is loosening up. She’s starting to see that being out with a girl is not such a big deal.”
“Okay,” I say. “But only this once. And only for you.”
Antonia winks at me. “That’s my girl. Now try to have a good time, you deserve it. Relax a little.”
She checks her makeup in the mirror on her way out of the bathroom, then disappears into the lounge’s darkness. Even though I said I would stay, I start thinking about how I can get out of the situation anyway. Why did I get tangled up in this mess?
I’ll just go out there and see what’s up. I hear a band starting anyway, so at least I won’t have to talk to Mika for too long. Tonight’s opener is International Criminals. There’s a small crowd gathered around the band. As I try to move through, I see that Heather and Antonia are talking again. Mika’s nose is in her phone.
Then I spot Zach and Jackson in front of the stage.
Zach looks like he just stepped off the set of Sisters & Mothers. Everything about him is perfect. That head of dark hair, those cheeks tapering into a strong jawline around his pouty mouth. And I look like a lumpy sack of potatoes. I try to duck behind a tall guy next to me so they won’t see me, but Jackson spots me and summons me over to them.
I’m really not trying to ditch Antonia, but I can’t ignore him.
“What are you doing here?” Jackson asks. “Haven’t seen you around much lately...” He smiles like the thing on the boat never happened and hugs me, lingering a little longer than normal. I really don’t want Zach to get the wrong impression, so I pull back as soon as I can.
“Hey, Liv,” Zach says. “What’s up?”
I glance at him, taking in his sinewy arms that I wish were touching me. I want to say something, but I hesitate for too long. He turns his attention to the stage.
All right. He’s watching the music.
He’s not even acknowledging my presence at this point. What about those looks at the party? Did I imagine the chemistry? I don’t get why he’s acting so hot and cold. Maybe he was just trying to be nice on the boat. Or maybe he had had too much to drink and felt like I was far enough outside his world that he could confide in me.
Zach keeps watching the band play, but doesn’t talk to either of us. After the song ends, Zach tells Jackson he has a phone call and excuses himself from the dance floor.
“It’s my agent,” Zach says. “Text me later.”
I sigh under my breath. I’ve blown the one big opportunity I’ve had to talk to him outside of school. I thought I was obvious about how I felt about him, but I guess girls probably have crushes on him all the time. Maybe he just isn’t interested in dating me.
Jackson turns to me. “Have you been drinking?”
I smile mischievously. “What if I have?”
Jackson’s far from the perfect guy, but I don’t want to hang out with Mika or be the third wheel with Antonia and Heather. Flirting a little can’t hurt.
“Then you should definitely share some.”
“It’s all gone,” I say. “But I can try to flirt with a guy to get you some.”
Jackson laughs. “No. That’s okay. I have some in my car. Do you wanna go out there with me?”
“To your car?” I ask.
“It’s just so loud in here,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
My head is dizzy from the alcohol. I don’t want to give Jackson the wrong impression, but I figure maybe I can get on his good side. Or find out more about Zach. They’re best friends after all. I think about texting Antonia to let her know I’m going outside with Jackson, but decide not to. I won’t be gone long. She’s been super into Heather all night and probably won’t be checking her phone much anyway.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” I say. “I just can’t be gone too long. I came with some friends.”
In his car, Jackson turns on an R&B album and pulls out a flask. He offers the liquor to me, but I already feel pretty buzzed so I shake my head.
“Suit yourself. More for me,” he says, chugging from the flask. He doesn’t say anything else, so I start asking him about himself. The only thing I really know about him, other than that his father sells yachts, is that he’s on a club soccer team, so I start there.
“Are you going to play soccer after you graduate?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the idea.”
“I don’t know anything about soccer.”
God. I’m such an idiot.
“That’s okay,” Jackson says. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.” He turns in his seat and squeezes my bicep with his fingers. What’s he doing? Trying to test how jiggly my underarms are? I try to pull away, but he pinches my arm even harder. “You look so good, Liv. I wish I’d seen you more at the party.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling both flattered and uncomfortable.
Jackson leans over slowly and kisses me.
I panic. Have I already ruined my chances with Zach? I definitely should not be kissing Jackson, but based on how Zach barely spoke to me earlier tonight maybe I didn’t have a chance with Zach in the first place. At least Jackson isn’t sending mixed signals. My head’s spinning from the alcohol and, though I know this isn’t the best idea, I decide to kiss Jackson back. It feels good to be wanted. I’m not the best kisser, or maybe I am and I’m just underconfident, or maybe it’s the way Jackson seems to be pushing at me, like he’s trying too hard. I can go with this, and I do—it’s just making out—and I’m not entirely turned off even though Jackson goes way too fast. Talk about zero to sixty.
I pull back for a moment to get some air. It’s sticky and hot inside his car. “You’re a good kisser,” he says. “You must get a lot of practice.”
How am I supposed to respond to that?
“Not really,” I stammer, thinking I should kiss him again just so he’ll stop talking. He’s definitely not as charming of a conversationalist as Zach.
“Then let’s get you some more.”
He kisses me again, but then Jackson takes it too far. His hands start moving around my body, and I can’t keep up with them. He tries to grope my breasts over the fabric of my dress, but when I push his hand down he takes that as an invitation to try to lift up the skirt.
“No,” I say, squirming away from him. I want to shove him off me, but I’m worried he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a tease or, worse, a prude. Jackson completely ignores me. He’s moved his hand away from my legs, but now he’s awkwardly trying to slide his hand between the seat and me to grope my butt. “No,” I repeat again.
I’m totally uncomfortable.
I wish I were back inside the lounge.
Why did I ditch Antonia? Will she even be there when I get back?
I’ve ruined everything.
“It’s kind of hot in here,” I say. “You must be burning up too. Maybe we should get some fresh air.” He keeps pressing himself into me, running his tongue along my neck like he didn’t hear me. It feels like I’m suffocating. I start to take a deep breath, but I feel like I can’t draw any air into my lungs. I need to get away from him.
“I have to go. I better find my friends,” I nearly shout.
“But we just got in here,” he says.
“We’ve been in your car for a while.” I start to open the door. “Won’t Zach wonder where you went?”
“Not at all,” he says. “He’s probably still on the phone.”
He reaches for me again, grabs my arm, then my knee.
“I’m serious,” I say. “My friends will be looking for me.”
He finally gets the point. Jackson pulls away.
I feel relieved, but at the same time I don’t want to make him angry.
To soften the situation, I ask, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You should go now.”
And just like that he wants me out of his car. He’s disgusted by me. By my rejection of him. It’s clear that since he’s not getting his way, I’m not welcome. I can’t tell if I’m angrier at him for being so awful or at myself for coming out here with him.
Talk about a disaster. I feel a weight on my heart, a pressure as if my chest is pushing in on itself. You’re so stupid, Liv. You thought because you’ve lost weight a guy would be interested in you? No one actually cares. You’re lucky Jackson gave such a fatty the time of day. Zach’s not going to even look at you. You’re just sloppy seconds now.
I head back to the venue. Antonia, Heather and Mika aren’t at the table. Did they leave? Did she see me go outside with Jackson? Does Antonia think I ditched her? I check my phone, but I don’t see any messages. Maybe they’re on the back patio or out in front of the lounge. I think about going to find them, but I feel a heaving in my stomach that I can’t ignore.
I run back to the bathroom, this time to puke. A whirling ball of negative energy is spinning throughout my body. My nerves are on fire. I can’t stop rehashing the thoughts spiraling through my brain. Your family doesn’t like you. You’re a crappy friend. Boys will never really want you. They’ll all be like Ollie. And Jackson. Your stomach is a slab of fat. You’re a prude. You can’t even let them touch you because you’re so afraid...
I lock the stall and hold myself over the bowl. It’s the only thing I can think to do to feel better. Nothing comes out. There’s nothing in my stomach. Just this noise of the beat of the music outside the bathroom pounding into me, into the rhythms of my life, into the chaos of my heart, taking control. I start to feel my body shake, to lose control.
The squeezing is tighter around my chest, like everything is constricting into a narrow tube, like I’m being compressed from every angle.
I turn and sit on the floor. I stare at the door in front of me, at the gray-green paint, at its dullness, at how my life is turning into that door, how I’m turning solid, into an object, something for someone to get through, something covered with a splatter of drab paint. I take a small flat razor from my purse and lift up my dress.
I’ve done this a few times before, only when things get really bad, when I get so upset this is the only way I can hush the whirling inside my head. I feel sick. I can still feel his hands on me, creeping up my thighs, stroking my neck, grabbing my butt.
I make a cut inside my thigh. As soon as the blood pools on my skin—warm and wet—a sense of relief washes over me, like my heart is pumping blood again. The pain makes me present. It makes me feel real. Everything starts to come into focus again.
I’m Olivia Blakely. I’m in control.
I breathe in. I exhale. I breathe in.
I’m still here. I exist.
Then I stop up the blood with tissue paper.
Guilt washes over me. The tears well up. I don’t have that same pressure around my heart. I feel a different kind of pain. The kind that means I’m letting everyone down.
I leave the bathroom and the venue without knowing where I’m going or how I’m going to get there. I can’t bear to look for Antonia. She’ll be so pissed that I ditched her, and I don’t need another fight. I check my phone for texts from her. Nothing.
Before I know it I’m on a park bench drinking from a bottle of cheap whiskey that some college guys bought for me at the liquor store across the street. It’s pathetic, but that’s what the guys brought me. I’m not complaining.
The streets are dark except for the glow of streetlights. I take a swig from the bottle. Then another and another until I’ve slammed a quarter of the liquid. Instead of drowning out the thoughts—fear fear fear fat fat fat worthless—the whiskey only amplifies them until I can’t take it anymore. I need to talk to someone. I need Sam.
You’re drinking alone in a park. Pathetic.
All of a sudden there’s a loud banging noise. Realizing this probably isn’t the safest place for a drunk teenage girl to be sitting by herself, I scan the park. I think there’s someone digging through a trash can, but I can’t tell. It’s too dark.
If my parents ever found out I was here my life would be over.
I pull my phone out of my purse, balancing the whiskey bottle between my legs, and make the call.
“Liv?” Sam asks. His voice is crackly and hoarse, almost like he’s either been sleeping or hasn’t spoken to anyone for hours. “What’s up?”
“How are you?” I ask.
It’s lame, but I don’t know what else to say or how to start the conversation.
“Where are you?” Sam asks. I notice a hint of exasperation in his voice, but mostly he just sounds worried. I feel bad. I didn’t want to make him worry about me.
“Enjoying the night air,” I say, trying to keep him from realizing that I’m an emotional mess right now. I just want to talk to him so I can calm down a little.
“You sound weird,” Sam says. “Are you okay?”
Trying not to slur, I tell him about Mika and how everything was so weird, but I leave out the Jackson part. I’m vague about my location. I could be anywhere.
“That is weird,” he says. “Did you drink?”
I ignore him. I don’t want to answer that question.
“You’re so sweet,” I say. “So sweet to me. I want to put my head on your shoulder and just fall asleep.”
“You didn’t answer me.” He pauses and I can hear a girl asking him a question in the background. He tells her he’ll be there in a minute. “Do you need a ride?”
It takes a moment to sink in, feeling a tinge of jealousy that I immediately try to tamp down. Sam’s on a date.
“Liv. Seriously. Are you okay?” He sounds upset. “I’ll come get you.”
Here I am. Being the damsel in distress yet again. No wonder Sam thinks he has to be so protective. He should have never picked up the phone. I don’t deserve him as a friend.
“No,” I say. “I was just thinking about you. Look, I gotta go.”
I hang up on him. I don’t want Sam to see me like this. I can still smell Jackson on me. I feel so stupid. There’s no way I’m telling him anything more about tonight. I can’t even figure out what to feel about what happened in the car. Did I lead Jackson on? Was I assaulted? Was he trying to ignore me? Or did he really not hear me at first?
I suck up my pride and text Mason. He’s the only other person I can think to contact to give me a ride home.
I for sure can’t call Royce. He wasn’t perfect in high school, but he was an angel compared to Mason. He’d probably badger me to tell him what’s going on.
Mason’s a screwup. Like me. He may act different now, but he’s still afraid of himself. Still afraid of how horrible of a person he can be. I can tell. I may talk about how much I don’t get along with Mason, but we’re not all that different from each other.
LIV: Need a favor. Srsly.
MASON: What?
LIV: Pick me up? Plz?
MASON: U ok?
LIV: Just need a ride.
MASON: Where r u?
LIV: Silver Lake. Txt u the addy.
MASON: For real?
LIV: Plz mason?
MASON: Ya. I’ll be there.
By the time Mason shows up, I’ve polished off half the whiskey bottle. I can’t even look at my phone because the screen looks so blurry and makes me dizzy. I’m slouching on the bench, looking at the three missed calls from Sam, obsessing over how I’ve let him down yet again, royally messed up both my chances with Zach and ditched Antonia when this night—her first night out, out—was so important to her.
Mason parks his Lincoln Navigator and comes out to the bench.
“Come on,” he says, helping me up. “Get in the car.”
I stand up and leave the half-empty whiskey bottle on the sidewalk. Barely able to walk straight, I look down at my feet so I don’t trip. My toes and ankles are swollen and purple. I finally lift myself up into the passenger seat, sitting as still as I can to try to get rid of the spinning that’s starting to take over my brain.
“You need to get your act together,” he says.
“Coming from the guy who was drunk for half of high school and most of college,” I say, pressing my head against the window. “I was there.”
“I don’t need any reminders.” Mason hands me a bottle of water. He’s prepared. “It was hard to get clean but I did it. You need to think about what you want out of life. I don’t mind picking you up when you need me, but you’re better than this...”
I feel disgusting. I just want to take a shower and wash off all the grossness from this night—the vomit in my hair, the blood on my thigh, the feeling of Jackson all over me. I so don’t need this lecture right now. Not from Mason.
“Well, apparently I’m not,” I slur as I try to twist open the bottle cap. “Whatever. I don’t need a lecture from someone who turned into literally the biggest jerk every time he drank.”
“That’s not true,” Mason says. “And you know it.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.” I slam my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, trying to get rid of the spinning. “Going to rehab doesn’t mean you get to pretend it didn’t happen. You were awful to me when we were kids. Even when you weren’t drinking.”
“I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“You sound just like Dad.” I take a sip from the bottle. The cool water slips down my throat. “You probably don’t even remember some of the things you said to me.” Evidently I am trying to fight.
He focuses on the road, as if he’s too afraid to look at me.
I’ve never talked to him about those years. My feelings are hitting the surface so hard and fast that I’m barely aware of what I’m saying as I lay into him. “Let me remind you.” The way the words come out sounds so vicious that I wonder how long I’ve been holding on to all this anger. “It’s a Saturday night. I’m having a sleepover at home with my three best girlfriends. We’re making ice-cream sundaes in the kitchen.”
I close my eyes again. I can smell the fudge being poured over French vanilla ice cream. The frosty feeling of the spoon against my tongue sends chills down my neck. The memory’s so vivid I feel like I could reach out and touch the younger version of myself.
I miss that girl. I want to go back in time to tell her that she should never grow up. Things are only going to get more messed up. She would never listen to me though.
“Enter you. Drunk. You saunter into the kitchen, and all of my friends can only pay attention to you, the cute older brother, while I’m trying to hide how totally embarrassed I am. Does this sound familiar?
“You then walk over, lift up my shirt and pinch my stomach—in front of my friends—and tell me that no guy will ever want to date me if I keep eating like a... What were the words you used? Oh yeah. You said no one would ever love an obese porker like me. I was twelve years old.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, almost whispering.
It’s not enough.
Mason doesn’t speak for the rest of the way home and I’m grateful for that, grateful for the chill in the night, grateful for the dark and the quiet hum of the car engine.
Grateful. For now.