“Looks like you’re not shitting around,” Dan says, laughing two seconds after the last word hits.
We stare at him. I kind of try to smile but it isn’t funny.
Nikki elbows him. “What did I tell you about the bad jokes? That didn’t even make sense.”
Eventually, when the shit is finally off my shoe, we reach the front door. I watch Dan turn the door knob in slow motion. My whole life flashes before my eyes. Well, not really. Maybe time slows a little bit. The tension builds. My heart is racing. I’m paranoid there is still some crap in a crevice somewhere in my shoe but I follow.
The door opens and the music hits us. The voices. The bodies. They’re everywhere. When someone’s parents go out of town, a party usually goes one of two ways. It’s either a complete and utter failure, with maybe three to seven people sitting around with a cheap case of Natty Ice, or, like AJ’s party, it’s a fucking rager. A house party packed with more people than you’ve ever met in your life. Bodies fill the foyer, the living room, the kitchen. There are two kegs that I can see. A cheap laundry basket filled with jungle juice, probably the kind that will kill you with one cup, and a table in the kitchen stocked with a variety of different liquors.
Naturally, we make our way to the kitchen. Nikki and I have agreed countless times that too much beer makes us bloated so shots are the first choice. Plus, liquor before beer, you’re in the clear. Dan pours one for each of us and we see AJ entertaining a small crowd. Among them—hold your breath—is Charlie.
He is standing there in all his six foot something glory. Brown eyes just shining. I swear he makes eye contact. Even if only for a second. I look at him. He’s mid-laugh when he sees me. He holds eye contact for a moment, looks away. I don’t think he really saw me. Just a glance. But he has a smile that could steal your own. A dark gray T-shirt and jeans.
But he isn’t alone.
He has a girl tucked under his arm. She is blonde. Gorgeous. The kind of girl you stop and look at and wonder why that isn’t your face. She is wearing a dress. And heels. Fancy. The kind of girl who goes to a house party in heels, AKA the kind of girl who dresses up wherever she goes and lives her life impressing others even though she doesn’t have to. But better known as Ms. Steal-Your-Man. It doesn’t matter if she has a personality when she has a body and a face like that. She could have stepped straight out of a Maybelline commercial, challenged Gigi to a walk-off or whatever it is models do. I come up short miserably in comparison. There is no competition here. No chance of me stealing him away if she were to go to the bathroom and leave him alone.
Nikki looks at me, searches my face for any sort of disappointment or pain. I can see it, the way she holds my eyes and telepathically apologizes for bringing me here, for building me up for this let-down. I offer a smile and sort of shake my head. It’s okay, I answer back, silently. I’m okay. It’s not your fault.
AJ is friends with Charlie. I am friends with Nikki. Nikki is friends with AJ. We are all inside AJ’s house. We were destined to meet, at least. See how that works? The way the strings are tied together in a loose ball of thread? If I didn’t know Nikki, and he didn’t know AJ, and AJ didn’t know Nikki, this evening would have never manifested. I wouldn’t be standing in the presence of Charlie O’Sullivan at this very moment. And I certainly wouldn’t be feeling so unbearably small.
“Nikki!” AJ says. “I hope you made yourself a drink.”
“We did,” she says. “Thanks for stocking up. You know I can’t be anywhere that doesn’t have cheap vodka.”
Everyone laughs, because it’s funny. But it’s not. Because Charlie has a girl on his arm.
A girl who is not me.
Thirteen
At some point during the course of the night, I overhear Charlie say her name. Tracy.
Tracy. Tracy.
The girl who looks nothing like me. The girl who is his type. Blonde. Beautiful. Charming. She’s taller than I am. Curvier than I am, but also with a flat stomach. Her chest is at least a full cup size larger than mine, if not two, and I wonder if her bras are padded. If she goes running every day or does yoga. I wonder if they go to the gym together. If he spots her as she does squats with some weights that are a little too heavy for her.
The party is not fun. It’s a bunch of people standing around getting drunk. Some are dancing. Some are laughing. Everyone is having a good time except for me but I put on my best face and pretend I’m happy, too. I don’t look for Charlie. I may sneak glances whenever the opportunity arises. But I’m not actively looking for him or listening to him. Sometimes I overhear him through the crowd. Listen to his voice and the way he talks, differently than us. I try to hear if he’s happy with Tracy. If there are obvious signs of it in his smile when he laughs with her.
I might eavesdrop a little, to see if she’s funny. If she’s smart. To see what she has that I don’t. Show me who I need to be, Tracy. She doesn’t give much away. The most obvious thing about her is her looks. Her dress isn’t even that cute, really. And her heels make her look like she’s trying too hard. In my opinion, she doesn’t belong here. Not with him. But what do I know? I’m just the girl on the opposite side of the room wanting the boy she doesn’t have.
She passes me to go find the bathroom. Smiles at me. “Your top is so cute!” she says.
I force an almost-smile back. “Thanks.”
Nikki and I watch her walk down the hall. She’s not even the slightest bit unbalanced in those heels. What is she, a magician? Some form of human gold? She isn’t wobbling, swaying. There is no hint of drunkenness in her voice. No glassy look in her eyes, no red in her cheeks. Is she even drinking? I didn’t see her smoke a cigarette all night. Her or Charlie. And for some reason, I thought he smoked. Not like I’d mind either way.
“Oh my god,” Nikki says. “I’m so sorry. She’s really not that pretty.”
“Are you kidding? She’s gorgeous.” I toss back the rest of my drink. “Can we please just go soon?”
“I’m sorry for bringing you here. I had no idea he’d be with someone. Are you okay?”
“How did you not know? You usually know everything, don’t you?” I regret it as soon as I say it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.” The shots have gotten to me. I feel the familiar buzz, the sway in my head. “Can we just go?”
“We just got here. AJ will ask why we left so soon.”
Shocker. Nikki doesn’t want to leave a party. Even if that means her best friend will suffer the entire time. Do you want to know a secret about friendship? Something I’ve learned over the years? It’s usually about two people who need something from the other. Whether it’s companionship, or something less meaningful. Like maybe they just chose you because you were there and they felt like being a little less lonely. Sometimes it’s about who has the most power, the upper hand. Sometimes it’s just a relationship based on superficial things. Like finding someone you can go to parties with. Someone you can pass time with. Most friendships I’ve known were built just because girls were trying to find other pretty girls to hang out with. Power in numbers. A squad. A pretty girl gang even if you all secretly hate each other. And sometimes, it was about finding people you could control. Or people who would let you control them.
I don’t know what’s beyond high school, but if it’s anything like the “friendships” I’ve seen and known, I’m not sure I want friends. And I’m not saying my relationship with Nikki is like this. We have a real friendship. We do. We care about each other, would do anything for each other. But sometimes I feel more like her pet than her friend. Someone she keeps around. Sometimes I don’t even think she thinks I’m that smart and I wonder if she’d take a bullet for me if she had to. I don’t know why I think about that, why it has to be an extreme. For me, if it’s love it means you’d go the distance. Cross lines. Risk your life for another if it came down to it.
But you know something else about friendship? Even the best friendships have underlying feelings. Hidden undertones just below
the surface. Feelings sprouted from insecurity and misplaced anger. Even if there’s nothing to be mad about, eventually, you find something. Because every great relationship needs a little volatility and fire, doesn’t it? Every true friendship needs a little fuel to keep the engine running. And without any passion, is there anything worth holding on to?
An hour or two later and we are standing in a different spot. I’ve lost track of this terrible time somewhere. We’re on the deck now, chain-smoking cigarettes with the other kids out there. It’s a beautiful summer night but it’d be more beautiful if I didn’t have a reason to be sad. If the stars above me shone a little brighter on my tiny spot in this world. If Tracy didn’t exist.
Nikki asks me again if I’m okay and I lie. I say I am. But really, is there anything more depressing than having a dream that dies in a single night? Before you even got to really enjoy it? When the longing is brief and reality strikes hard?
I see Charlie through the window. He’s standing in the kitchen again, Tracy by his side. They’re playing beer pong. Tracy makes a cup and he lifts her in the air and kisses her. Playfully slaps her perfect little butt. She says something and grabs his face and kisses him. He laughs. From this angle, they look happy. They look like a couple, young and in love, like they have no place they’d rather be than with each other.
But in every relationship is a little demon just waiting to poke its head out. In every relationship there’s a flaw. An issue. A problem just waiting to be thrown into the pot by the hands of someone who wants to start a fight. I just had to wait for one of them to get hungry, restless. I just had to wait for the little monster to smile at one of them. Because he comes for us all, you know. Sometimes when you least expect it.
Fourteen
I get home and I am morose. I walk into my basement room. My Aunt V is long asleep by now and I almost wish she was awake just to give me a hug and tell me things will be okay. She’s good at that. We aren’t close but we aren’t not close either. She lets me be. Says I will grow into the person I’m meant to become. If she ever heard the rumors about me she might wonder if that person is deranged. But she knows me better than that.
Nikki’s guy dropped me off and sent me down my driveway with a wave, not even waiting for me to make it inside. She tossed an “I love you” out the rolled down window for good measure, like that would help heal my wounds from the night. Like that would help me feel better. Feel better, Love. That’s what she seems to say, constantly. Like a broken record. I’m starting to wonder if I can piece all my disappointments together like a puzzle and find her at the corner somewhere. Shit. I’m doing it again. Trying to blame someone for my problems. It’s almost 2am and I log onto Psychiatrists on the Gram. Check the comments, the likes, the new follows.
At least there’s one saving grace. Nikki left her Jack here. I take off my shoes and hop onto the bed, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig from it. My buzz isn’t strong enough to numb the throbbing of my heart. The familiar taste of a let-down. One day, I tell myself, I’ll stop getting my hopes up. I’ll learn my lesson, once and for all. But I’m young. I’m allowed to be dumb. Foolish. A risk-taker. You’ll grow out of this, my aunt has said to me, Nikki has said to me. Both act like they’re all-knowing deities just because they’re older than me. But will I grow out of the sorrow? This thing that has made a home inside the cavern of my chest? When will I grow out of that?
I check my message thread with Charlie.
Seen.
It stares at me, taunts me. I almost wait for him to start typing but I know he won’t. He’s with her.
I check my other messages, try to busy myself with something that means something. Something other than this devastating wanting.
I have a new message from Sarah. I don’t have many “patients” but I have a few regulars I spread throughout my schedule. One of them being Sarah, a girl who really should be medicated, even though I’m usually against it. She hears voices that tell her to do bad things, evil things. She says things sometimes that make my skin turn white. She blames it on her genes, says it runs in the family and she gets it from her father’s side. Both her parents are dead and sometimes I wonder if she killed them. It is a sour thing to have a trusting relationship with someone you do not trust at all. It is a bitter thing to know you are checking on someone so you feel more sane.
I have advised her to seek in-person treatment and I hope tonight is not one of those nights. On more than a few occasions I have suggested that she call 911 and check herself into a psych ward. She doesn’t believe she needs that level of help, or padded walls. But in my non-professional opinion, it’s pretty clear that she does. She’s terrified of being trapped in a room with no way out. She thinks they would lock her in and throw away the key, and that, she says, is when she’ll really become crazy. But that’s not what’s abnormal, or crazy. The crazy part is she listens to the voices, believes them. Has no idea this is not normal.
Sarah may be schizophrenic. The only reason I’ve been able to draw this conclusion is because she was diagnosed once before, placed on medication, sent to a place she didn’t like. She’s convinced her parents never loved her. That they were trying to contain her and put out her spark. Her own words. I think they were just trying to save her. They died in a house fire and sometimes I wonder if Sarah lit the match. I wonder if she remembers doing it. I wonder if she still sees the flames in her dreams. Sometimes I wonder how dangerous she really is.
I got a throwaway phone from Walmart a few months ago, when people started asking me if they could call me. I was nervous, of course. It’s sort of an unwritten rule. You don’t talk to strangers from the internet. Especially if they aren’t your age. But something broke in me when one person told me they were thinking about hanging themselves and they just needed to hear a voice tell them not to. I drove to the store that night. I sent them my phone number. And I talked to them for almost a half hour, well, listened, really. And you know something, I didn’t feel like I wasted a second of my time.
I have a message from her saying she needs to talk, asking if I can call her. I check the time. It is 2:17am and she’s in California (she says) so it is three hours behind. 11:17pm, and I will call her in three minutes exactly. My alarm is set for 2:20 am. She likes to be called at exact times when we talk. Something ending in a zero, a five, fifteen, twenty, thirty, forty-five, etc. I called her two minutes late once and she screamed at me, told me the voices were telling her I was the enemy and she needed to kill me. This line of “work” or “volunteering” isn’t exactly peaceful. No one likes having their life threatened after dark. And I’ve lost count how many times it’s happened with her. But I feel for her. And if I can help her, even if it’s for five minutes, just to drown out the voices because there’s an actual voice there, then I will.
My pre-alarm goes off and I watch the time, counting down the sixty seconds before I need to dial her in. I am sort of drunk even though I should be stone sober when I call her. With her, there is no room for even the smallest lapse in judgment. But here I am. Not all helpers can be heroes.
2:20am.
Ring. Ring.
“Hi,” she says. She sounds nervous.
“Hi, Sarah, how are you today?” I ask. There is no forced smile in my tone, no act.
“I don’t know. The detective is back. He says a crime is being committed and I have to stop it.”
“What crime?” I ask. This is her storyline, her perspective. She believes it all and I have to play along, have to make sure she isn’t going to hurt someone.
“I don’t know exactly. A murder of some sort,” she says. “I don’t know who the murderer is.”
“Who’s the victim this time?” I ask. I say this time because there have been many other times. And she never has said anyone actually got hurt.
“Me. You. I’m not sure.”
I swallow. “Who’s the murderer?”
“Me. You. I don’t know. It’s one of us.” Her voice becomes a whisper. “I
t’s me or you and one of us has to be stopped.”
“I’m not going to murder anyone. Are you, Sarah?”
“I don’t know.” She screams it. “I don’t know! Make it stop!”
“Try to think of the things that calm you, the things that get the voices to stop.”
“Nothing makes them stop!” she screams at me. “Nothing! Someone is going to die and I can’t stop it!”
“Sarah, I want you to call 911. Our sessions will no longer help you. I can’t provide you with the kind of support you need on the other end of a telephone,” I say. And I’m afraid. For her. Of her. Of what she might do.
“I’m not calling 911! I’m not the murderer here!”
“Sarah, you need to see someone. This is not safe. I feel you are in danger of harming yourself or someone else and…”
“Fuck you! I don’t need help!”
It takes this turn sometimes. I am the bad guy. The one she screams at. And I let her scream while trying to guide her in any way that I can.
“Sarah, please.”
She quiets. Soft sobs. Her voice is lower when she speaks again, calmer. “Someone’s going to die, and it will be because of you.”
She hangs up the phone on me and I am shaking. I grab my laptop and open it up. I dig through my emails. The phony subscription forms I send just in case I ever have to do this. Sometimes people refuse to provide this information, but she didn’t. I find her address.
With trembling hands I block my number and dial 911. “Hello, yes, I need to report someone who is a possible threat to themselves or others,” I say.
I go through the motions. I give them her name, her address, all the information I have. I don’t even know if any of it is real. That’s the problem when starting some sort of business online. Everything could be a lie, you have no idea. I tell them about the different voices she hears. About the possible impending murder she’s predicting. I tell them she needs psychiatric help.
The Gorgeous Slaughter Page 5