The Tragedy of Dane Riley

by Kat Spears

  “I’m not mad.”

  “You are mad,” she says, and sounds like she’s enjoying herself. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

  “Well, you’d be wrong. It doesn’t matter to me what you do. I’m just telling you that Eric’s bad news. And if you think he’s a good guy, well … then I just lost all respect for you.”

  “Oh yeah? Is that your thing? Respecting women?” Before I even have a chance to respond she waves her hand, dismissing any answer I might give. “So, I’ll see you there?”

  “Maybe.”

  She just shakes her head as she leaves me then and goes back to the front of the store, to the display of impulse items on a rack near the register. I move to the end of the aisle so I can watch her without being seen, behind an end cap of Cheetos and Doritos and flavored popcorn. While she studies the processed meats and nut mixes, I have time to study her the way I want.

  She trails her fingers along the Slim Jims and packages of beef jerky as she seems to debate between teriyaki beef jerky and the supersize Slim Jims. The mental image of her lips closing delicately on a Slim Jim sends a shiver of excitement through my core, but then she dismisses the meat altogether and plucks up a bag of wasabi-flavored trail mix instead. In the world of snack food, I am a Slim Jim, and Ophelia is wasabi-flavored trail mix.

  * * *

  Ophelia texts me the address for Andrea’s party but I don’t respond to her message. And I have no intention of going. Instead I meet up with my friends and we take our skateboards down to the park near the pavilion. I’ll hang out with my friends and drink a few beers and skate and think about a girl instead of being with one and it will be like a thousand other Friday nights.

  It’s dark but there’s a couple of streetlights around the pavilion, just bright enough to kill your night vision if you try to go outside the puddle of light. My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text but I ignore it. It buzzes again with another text a couple of minutes later. Finally I take out my phone and the display is full of notifications, all of them meaningless. Except for one. Just Ophelia’s name, in clear black letters outlined in its gray box, is enough to make my heart skip in my chest. Then I notice that there are seven messages from her in my inbox.

  I’ve never sent more than two texts in a row to anyone without a response. At least not sober, I haven’t. It just isn’t done.

  Where are you? 10:52 PM

  Are you coming? 11:07 PM

  I really need you to answer me 11:13 PM

  I can’t believe I’m such an idiot 11:15 PM

  Why aren’t you answering me?!?!?! 11:20 PM

  Dane I really need you to come get me 11:30 PM

  Please come 11:31 PM

  If she’s drunk, she must be an amazing typist.

  I hold up my phone to show the guys.

  “She’s drunk,” Joe says without hesitation.

  “Maybe,” I say. “You think I should answer her?”

  “I guess,” Joe says, “unless you think it’s too late and she’s already dead.”

  “Very funny,” I say as I read the messages again. “She’s not much of a drinker. She might be in trouble.”

  “Then let’s posse up and go get her,” Mark says.

  * * *

  Andrea’s house is mobbed with people when my friends and I arrive. We split up to explore the house and look for Ophelia. Harry and Mark are obviously enjoying this as an adventure and not taking the whole situation very seriously.

  I don’t find her anywhere on the first floor. I don’t see Eric, either, and I’m ready to assume that they have already left. I decide to take one more pass through the house to be sure.

  On my second pass through the house I am distracted by the rising noise of a dozen people chanting outside. I step out though the sliding glass door onto the deck in time to see Harry do a keg stand. I’m irritated, though not really surprised, by Harry’s antics, but then I notice Eric among the crowd on the deck. He is with a girl, but it’s a girl way too small to be Ophelia. Eric’s arm is draped heavily over her shoulders, but she doesn’t seem to mind the weight on her neck.

  “Where’s Ophelia?” I ask him, ignoring our audience.

  “Dane!” Eric says, as if he’s thrilled to see me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Ophelia,” I say, ignoring his question. “She came with you to the party. Where is she?”

  “You tell me, man,” Eric says with a laugh. “She’s probably locked herself in a bathroom somewhere.”

  “Is she drunk?”

  “No,” Eric says with a shake of his head. “I wouldn’t say she was drunk.” Then he laughs again and the sound of it is so irritating to me, but everyone else with him is laughing now, exchanging looks, like they’re all in on a big joke. I just wait, saying nothing, and let him deliver his punch line. “I’d say she was wasted.”

  “You know, he sleeps with a different girl just about every weekend,” I say to the girl on his arm.

  “What’s your deal, bro?” Eric asks, but I’m already walking away.

  * * *

  Joe and I run into each other in the first-floor hallway and I tell him that I found Eric but not Ophelia.

  “You think she left? Caught an Uber home or something?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve texted and called her. No answer.”

  “Where are Mark and Harry?” Joe asks.

  “Man, fucking Harry is outside doing a keg stand. Useless.”

  “Maybe we should check upstairs,” Joe says. “Just to be sure.”

  “We’re here,” I say with a shrug.

  We climb the stairs together and start trying doors. Most of the rooms are occupied with people engaged in acts we have been strictly warned against in health class.

  At the end of the hall I open the door onto a bedroom. I shut the door after a look, seeing only what I think is a pile of coats on the bed. A half second after I shut the door my brain is still interpreting the image and I open the door again for a second look. The pile of coats is actually a girl. The girl.

  Ophelia is curled on her side, one arm trailing over the edge of the bed. I walk over for a closer look and put a hand on her shoulder. “Ophelia,” I say quietly, trying not to startle her.

  “What?” she says, startling me. I thought she was passed out but she’s just lying still with her eyes shut.

  “Uh, I got your messages.”

  “My phone is dead. It’s dead because I texted you so many times and you didn’t respond.”

  She’s still critical of me, which means she’s somewhat lucid. That’s a good sign, at least.

  “My friends and I came to get you. Take you home. You want to go?”

  “I can’t,” she says. “Everything is spinning.” Joe and I exchange a look in the atmosphere of sobriety we share above her.

  “I know,” I say, sympathizing. “You might feel better if you throw up.”

  “You think so?”

  “Maybe.”

  She pushes herself with one arm into a sitting position, but her eyes are still shut.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She doesn’t say anything, only clamps her lips together to stop her chin from quivering. She is trying not to cry and she’s doing a pretty good job. But even though she screws her face down like a watertight hatch, tears leak from her eyes and cut a trail down her face.

  Joe and I do the only reasonable thing we can think of, which is to stand there and watch her cry.

  “I guess that’s a no,” Joe says after an awkward eternity of Ophelia crying and us watching her helplessly. Joe nudges my arm, trying to force me into action.

  Ophelia is such a strong person it’s hard to watch her losing it. Like somebody telling you the sky is actually green when you’re standing under a dome of brilliant blue.

  “You’ll be okay” is all I can think of to say. I’m really useless in a crisis situation.

  She shakes her head, then seems to realize that is a terrible idea and
puts the palm of her hand against her forehead.

  “I’d say you’ve got less than a minute to find a toilet,” Joe says.

  Ophelia frowns at that but doesn’t seem to have the energy to tell Joe to shut the fuck up.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “We can go find a bathroom.” I don’t dare touch Ophelia, even to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. It seems to me that if I do touch her, one of us will shatter like glass.

  She reaches out a hand and places it flat on my chest, and when she leans her weight into me, my heart rate accelerates to a gallop. Her fingers are cold, I can feel, even through my shirt.

  Ophelia puts her hand in mine and I pull her to her feet. The way she sways and stumbles makes me revise my estimate of her state from drunk to shit-faced and I lead her with some difficulty back the way Joe and I have just recently come. We find the bathroom—sleek white tile and fluffy towels. It doesn’t look like a room where people are meant to go for shitting and puking.

  “I’m going to go find the guys,” Joe says as he keeps going past the bathroom door down the hall. “I don’t need to see what’s coming next.”

  Once we are in the bathroom with the door shut, Ophe-lia sinks into a seat on the edge of the tub, which is big enough to hold a few people. I lean against the sink and watch her, unsure what to do next.

  “You want to throw up?” I ask, as if I can help her with that.

  “Maybe.”

  “You want me to leave you alone?”

  She shakes her head as she squeezes her hands together, fingers interlaced, and bounces her forearms against the tops of her thighs. When she speaks again her voice ripples on the tears she’s holding back. “I feel sick, Dane,” she says. “Really sick.”

  “What were you drinking?”

  “Uch. I don’t know. I think somebody was mixing rum into something.” Now that she has managed to string more than a few words together in a sentence her slurred words make her sound even more drunk. In anyone else I would have found it annoying, but in Ophelia it just makes me disappointed that the person I like isn’t really there to talk to.

  “You’re a lightweight,” I say. “You shouldn’t be touching that stuff.”

  “I don’t care.” Then she bursts into tears so suddenly it makes me jump with alarm. One minute she’s fine. Wasted, and a little upset, but fine. The next minute her face is a faucet of tears, snot, and saliva. “I’m so stupid,” she says, which is not what I was expecting.

  A crying girl terrifies me because I have no idea how to handle it. With guys, if your friend starts to cry, you’re supposed to ignore it, pretend like it isn’t happening until he can pull his shit together. With girls it’s a different story. You’re supposed to say and do the right thing, but nobody knows what that right thing is.

  “Hey, no worries,” I say, my voice soothing. I move toward her and sink into a crouch so that we are at eye level. “We’ve all been there. Shit, I can tell you all about the time I puked my brains out at a party.”

  “No thanks,” she says, putting her hand to her mouth. She takes a minute to compose herself, then, as if she’s put aside all thoughts of puking, she says, “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about Eric. You were right. He’s not a nice guy.”

  “I never said he wasn’t a nice guy. I said he was evil.”

  “Well, you were right.” The gushing faucet has slowed to more of a trickle. Even with her face swollen and her eyes puffy and red, she still looks amazing. I try not to notice.

  “What did he do?” I ask.

  My question turns the faucet back to gush and it takes another minute for her to compose herself. After an audible gulp she says, “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  “He told me…” she says, I guess deciding she really can talk about it. “He said I was acting like a little kid. You know, that we know each other well enough and we’re at a party having a good time. It’s just what people do. He said I was being a bitch.”

  “Because you didn’t want to sleep with him.” It wasn’t a question. I was just finishing her sentence for her. This is who Eric is. People don’t see it because of the gilded veneer, but his insides are rotten.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she says again.

  “You’re not an idiot. Eric is the idiot. He’s too stupid to even know why he should want you.”

  “Oh my God, that’s not what I mean. I mean I was only going out with him to make you jealous, because you never pay any attention to me.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m always paying attention to you. We live right next door to each other.”

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head, and then seems to think better of it because it probably makes the spinning worse.

  “I don’t even like smoking. Most of the time I’m sneaking out just so I can get a chance to see you. And you’ve never once shown any interest in me.”

  She’s drunk, so I’m not going to put a whole lot of faith into anything she says. Some people think that the way a person acts when they’re drunk, that’s like the real person, without filters. But I don’t believe that.

  “Eric asked me to the party and I said yes only because I thought I might get to see you here. But you didn’t care. You didn’t even show up. Why didn’t you show up?”

  “I didn’t come to the party because I wasn’t interested in seeing you with Eric,” I say. She looks like she’s getting ready to cry again and I want to stop the flow before it starts.

  “Why don’t you like me?” she asks with a sniffle.

  “Of course I like you. You’re the coolest girl I know,” I say, figuring it’s okay to be honest. Chances are good she isn’t going to remember any of this conversation tomorrow morning. “You know, guys are terrified of you. Because you’re smart, Ophelia. And you’re funny. And … well, you’re beautiful. That scares guys, too. And when guys are scared, they act like total idiots.”

  “That’s really dumb.”

  “Yeah, well. It’s dumb, but that’s the way it is.”

  Ophelia’s eyes are shut against the glare of the constipation-inducing white tile, and the aggressive fluffiness of the bath mats. And I’m glad her eyes are shut. Because that way she can’t see in my expression what has to be obvious to anyone when they see me looking at her.

  I am already in love with her. But in that moment, I love her in a way that can only be understood by the great lovers of history—Romeo, Cyrano, Heathcliff. This is the perfect moment to unleash all of the love for her that there is in my heart.

  Which is why it’s probably for the best, that in this exact moment, she vomits into my lap.

  I am crouched in front of her, balanced on my heels. The force of her gag reflex makes her lurch forward as she vomits, so most of it goes onto me instead of onto the floor between us.

  Her vomit is bright pink and chunky, but mostly liquid. It covers the legs of my pants and the pockets of my hoodie and I feel the warmth and wetness of it spreading through my crotch, as if I have peed myself.

  The white bath mat is pink now and the chunks of her vomit cling to the bath mat fluff. There is so much vomit it’s hard to believe that it has all come from inside one person. The ceiling is the only safe place to look because the sight of someone else’s vomit always makes me want to vomit. Just the smell of it activates my gag reflex.

  “Oh, God.” Ophelia sounds almost hysterical. “Why is it red? Is that blood? Am I bleeding inside?”

  “I don’t think so.” My voice is tight from my gag reflex. “It smells like fruit punch.”

  “Oh, God,” she says again. And then she starts to sob.

  “Don’t cry,” I say. I pat her gently on the back and I notice a bit of the pink vomit on the heel of my hand. I wipe it on the shower curtain as my esophagus lurches again.

  She stops crying then but not because I told her to. She sways in her seat, her eyes closed, then slides down the side of the tub into the vomit-soaked bath mat, groans once, and goes s
till.

  “Shit.” I crouch down again and put a hand in front of her mouth to make sure she is breathing and after a few seconds of carefully watching, I can see her chest rising and falling in a sleeping rhythm.

  I clean my clothes as best I can without taking them off, shaking the front of my hoodie over the pedestal sink and flinging pink chunks everywhere. At first I just smell the fruit punch and think maybe girl vomit doesn’t stink the way a guy’s vomit does. But now that it has soaked into my clothes completely, it smells like regular vomit.

  Joe knocks on the door and calls out to me as I am scrubbing the white hand towel against the crotch of my jeans. When I let him in he looks around and lets out a whistle. “It looks like somebody murdered a Care Bear in here.”

  “Dude, I’m covered in it.”

  “She still alive?” he asks as he gestures toward Ophelia’s crumpled frame. She looks taller than five feet eight lying there on the bathroom floor. I have no idea what she weighs but I know it is more than I can carry.

  “I think she might have fainted at the sight of her own vomit.”

  Just then Eric shows up in the doorway and peers over Joe’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he says, and laughs.

  “It’s not funny, fuck nut,” I say, glowering at him in the mirror. “What the hell did you give her?”

  “Nothing, bro.”

  “I’m not your bro. Her curfew was probably hours ago. When were you supposed to take her home?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” Eric asks with an impatient frown. “What the hell is a curfew?”

  “How the hell are we supposed to get her home?” I ask, though why I’m asking Eric, I have no idea.

  “What do you mean?” Eric asks with an incredulous frown. “Take her home? Just let her sleep it off. She’ll be okay in a few hours.”

  “You want us to leave her lying on a bathroom floor in a puddle of her own vomit for a few hours?” Joe asks. “Is that your plan?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Eric says. “She’d probably rather hang out in her own vomit than face her dad right now. He’s a fucking nightmare.”

  “No shit,” I say.