Never Eighteen

by Megan Bostic

  I look up at her and she's staring at me. I momentarily forget the purpose of my visit. "A lot of people miss you, Allie."

  "Miss me?" She carefully unfolds the paper, revealing the pill, which is now nothing but a fine powder. "I see everyone at school every day; they don't miss me. I walk through the halls by myself, eat lunch by myself, sit in class by myself." Allie places lines of the powder in front of her and proceeds to snort them through a straw. Her eyes water as she wipes residue from under her nose and licks her finger.

  Not able to help myself any longer, I ask, "What is that?"

  She looks up and simply says, "OC," then snorts another line.

  "OC?" I ask, feeling stupid.

  "OxyContin."

  "Do you have a prescription for that?" The look she gives me answers my question.

  She continues our conversation without a second thought. "Austin, if everyone misses me so much, why don't they come over and say so?" She pauses shortly, then says, "I'm a ghost, Austin, nothing more than a ghost."

  "You haven't exactly made yourself approachable lately. Plus, that's not what I'm talking about. I mean, they miss the old Allie, that Allie you used to be, before, well, you know," I say.

  She looks right through me. "That Allie doesn't exist anymore, Austin. That Allie is dead."

  "She doesn't have to be," I say.

  "Yes, she does. She belongs in a cold, dark place. This is where she lives now." She points to her head. "Up here, in an unmarked grave."

  "Dig her back out," I say. She ignores me. More awkward silence, I'm struggling for the right words to make her see. "It could have happened to anyone," I blurt out.

  "But it didn't happen to anyone, Austin. It happened to me."

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "No." She becomes visibly frustrated.

  "Have you ever talked about it?"

  "No." Now she gets angry.

  "I think you should," I suggest.

  Allie rises from the couch and yells, "No! No one wants to hear that story, Austin. What? Do you think this is some kind of fairy tale? This isn't a fairy tale. It's a nightmare. My nightmare. I think you should mind your own damn business! What the fuck?"

  "I just want to help."

  "You want to help? Give me a lobotomy so I don't remember. Put a gun to my head and pull the trigger. Please! I've wanted to a million times—I'm just too chicken to do it." She begins to cry as she collapses back onto the couch.

  Her body trembles. She looks so fragile, so bony, like she could be easily broken. She cries, "It's just been so hard. My dad, he ignores me as if I don't even exist. When I try to talk to my mom, she shushes me and tells me I just need to get over it and on with my life. They don't even care! They see me as a disgrace, damaged goods, a stain on their picture-perfect family."

  "I'm sure they don't," I try.

  "Yes, they do!" she screams, eyes wild with turmoil, chest heaving with what must be painful gasps. She continues until her body tires, slows, comes to a stop.

  "It was broad daylight," she begins her story. "Broad fucking daylight," she repeats. "I can't believe nobody saw, nobody heard anything. He snuck up behind me, scared the shit out of me. I'm sure I must have screamed, but now the memory's so fuzzy, I don't know if I'm remembering it right. I was walking down to the Circle K to buy some candy, like I did every Friday after school."

  "I remember. You always had a major sweet tooth," I say.

  She looks over at me as if she had forgotten that I was there. She continues. "Yeah, I loved it all, chocolate, gummies, caramel, Nerds, Starbursts, Skittles. I'd always come home with a huge bag, enough for the entire weekend. Enough to share with you guys." She looks at me with disgust, as if she's casting blame, though I know she holds the expression for the memory, not for me.

  "He forced me into the bushes, where the old folks' community is now. I can't believe how fast that place went up." Her eyes drift for a moment as if lost in thought; then she comes back. "He pulled me in there and threw me down onto the fucking ground, right on top of the sticker bushes. He put a hand over my mouth, the other held a knife to my throat. He said if I did what he wanted he wouldn't kill me. I just nodded like an idiot; I didn't even try to fight back. I was such a chicken."

  "No, you weren't. You were scared," I say.

  She glares at me, eyes still crazed. "Yes, I was. I should have fought him off or I should have died trying," she says, almost in a whisper.

  "I stumbled home. There was so much blood. It got on my shoes. I loved those goddamn shoes; they were ruined."

  "I'm so sorry, Allie."

  "I tried to get back to normal after that, remember? Tried to hang, tried to forget. You tried to help, and Kaylee, I know. Don't think I didn't notice. But it was too much. Sometimes I wish he would have just killed me." Tears again fall. "And that's not all," she goes on. Although this is exactly what I have come here for, I'm not sure I want to hear any more, not sure I can take it. But I have to. I have her talking about it, something she's never done. I have to see it through.

  "That fucker got me pregnant."

  "Jesus, Allie, I didn't know," I say, shocked by this new information, heart now aching for my once good friend.

  "No one knew that part. My world came crashing down. My dad continued to ignore it, ignore me. He couldn't even look at me. Still can't. My mom took me to get rid of what she called 'the abomination.' The old Allie died that day, on the sticker bushes, right along with her virginity and her self-respect. Sex is an act of love? What a fucking joke. Painful and ugly, that's what it is. And don't even show me a piece of candy—I'll ram it down your fucking throat. I don't touch it anymore, haven't eaten a piece since."

  "It looks like you don't eat much of anything. Do you?"

  "Sometimes. I usually get rid of it though."

  "Get rid of it?" I ask, immediately regretting my ignorance.

  "Yeah, get rid of it. Stick my finger down my throat, puke it up," she replies.

  "Why?"

  "Because it feels good. It feels good to force it out, like I'm ridding myself of everything, everything bad, everything toxic that's ever touched me, been inside me. I was so stupid, such a fat cow. I just had to have that damn candy. If it weren't for that candy, none of this would have happened."

  "It might have," I say. "Another day, another place, another girl. It wasn't about you or your candy habit. It was about some psycho fuck that gets off on hurting people. You should get help. You're slowly killing yourself, you know."

  "I don't care. No one cares. Anyway, like I said, I'm already dead."

  "I care, Allie. That's why I'm here. And you shouldn't choose death. It'll come for you soon enough."

  Allie turns her eyes toward mine, glossed over from drugs and tears. "I don't know how to live anymore, Austin, how to be normal, how to deal. I only know how to get numb, how to purge. I don't even remember that fat girl that used to be me, and you're talking about getting her back? I wouldn't even know where to start."

  "Forgiveness," I tell her.

  "Forgive who? That fucking rapist in the bushes who took everything from me?"

  "No. You start by forgiving yourself."

  "Myself ?"

  "Yes, you can't blame yourself for what's happened to you. It's not your fault."

  "Why does it feel like it is?"

  "I don't know, maybe because the people around you made you feel that way by not hearing you, or seeing you, so it's been building up inside, eating away at you. You try to rid yourself of it through eating disorders and addictions. I want Allie back. My Allie. Fun, cool, totally hilarious Allie. I think she's still in there, dying to get out. You need to talk to someone—a counselor, your doctor, me, anyone you think can help."

  "What if I just want to die?"

  "Then I will be sad and disappointed that you cheated yourself out of your chance at existence. Not all of us have that opportunity, you know, to choose life."

  She sits, nodding at nothing in par
ticular, then says, "Why do you care so much? I mean, no one else seems to."

  I have to think for a minute. It's hard to put into words what's been driving me this weekend. I wasn't sure I even understood it. Then I say, "Because I'm looking at the world through new eyes, that's why. And I don't like everything I'm seeing. I guess I'm also a little jealous."

  She looks at me. "Jealous?" she says.

  "Yes. You have a chance to live and breathe. Take it. You never know when that life, that breath, is going to be snatched away." We sit in silence for a moment, and then I stand to leave. "I've got to go now, Allie. Are you okay?"

  She looks up at me, nods again. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks for coming by. I appreciate it. Tell Kaylee I said hey."

  "Sure," I say. I try to read her face, to see if maybe I had gotten through to her. It's hard to tell. I leave. She doesn't get up, doesn't walk me to the door, just sits, nodding, thinking. I did what I came to do, did my best. It's all I can do.

  I get into the car and tell Kaylee to drive. Once we're down the street, I cry. Maybe it was too much, seeing Allie, hearing her story, being a witness to her loneliness, her sadness. For the first time that day, I feel truly overwhelmed.

  Chapter Nine

  "How could someone do that to her?" I cry. "To Allie? He ruined her, Kaylee. He fucking ruined her. I don't know if she'll ever be the same."

  Kaylee pulls over, stops the car. "Austin, we should go home."

  I ignore her. "How can you do that to another human being? People like that selfish fuck, they don't understand. They don't see how valuable a person's life is! He treated her like a thing, Kaylee. Something to be used and just thrown away like a fast food wrapper."

  "Austin, I really think I should take you home."

  "No!" My tears are still flowing. My mind is beginning to disagree with my mouth. I think maybe she's right. Maybe it's too much. I wonder if I'm really making any kind of difference at all. I throw my head back onto the headrest, shut my eyes, breathe deep. Reevaluate. Kaylee stays quiet. I decide. "No," I repeat.

  She unbuckles, slides over, wraps her arms around me. I lay my head on her chest. Her hair tickles my head and face. I listen to her heartbeat, listen to her breathe. God I love her! But I know I'll never have her, and it kills me. She holds me closer still. I don't want the moment to end, but I know it has to. I still have much to do.

  I let the tears dry, then sit up, calm down. "Thanks." I gaze into those beautiful blue eyes. Eyes so bright, they're almost blinding, like looking directly into the sun.

  "That's what friends are for," she says. Her choice of words makes me sad, but the label fits, friendship being all we've ever had.

  "So, what do you want to do?" she asks once I'm calm.

  "I want to keep going," I say.

  "Are you absolutely sure? That seemed kind of rough," she says.

  "It was worth it. I'm sure."

  "Okay, so, where are we going?"

  "Seattle," I answer.

  "Sweet," she says, then hesitates. "There will be some fun involved, right? It won't be more fear and tears, will it?"

  "All fun," I answer.

  "Great!"

  "With maybe just a little fear," I add.

  She drops an eyebrow. "Well, then let the fear and fun begin," she says while turning the key, reigniting Candy, who in turn sparks and sputters and then calms to a dull roar.

  Kaylee flips on the radio for the first time that day. She pushes buttons until she finds a song she likes. She sings. It's a song about a girl named Shawty slapping her own ass. "What is this?" I ask.

  "You've never heard this song?"

  I look at her and shake my head. "Never heard it before. That's not real music anyway," I say as I begin to push the buttons on her stereo.

  "Hey! My car, my music," she says.

  I keep pushing buttons. "Kaylee, seriously, let me find an actual song with music and lyrics and meaning. Why do I care if Shawty's slapping her ass or whatever? You'll thank me later. Trust me." I flip until I hear a song I know. It's just starting, which is good, because it's one of my favorites. "Now, this is music," I say.

  It's one of my favorite bands. The singer sings of love and death, and I hum along and smile. I turn to look at Kaylee, to ask her what she thinks. She's facing forward, ramrod straight, watching the freeway ahead, tears streaming down her face. "Turn it off," she says.

  "But, Kaylee—"

  "I said turn it off! Shit, Austin!" I comply without another word, and we sit in silence the rest the way to Seattle.

  She parks the car and I reach into my wallet to pay for the spot. She gets out, puts the money in the proper slot, comes back to the car, and leans in. "Sorry," she says.

  I get out myself, come around to her side, hug her, and say, "It's okay."

  "That song was just so sad. It makes me think," she says.

  "It's not sad. It's about two people being together for eternity. What's sad about that?"

  She brushes away another tear forming in the corner of her eyes, rubs her nose, and says, "Nothing, I guess."

  "Exactly. So are you ready to have some fun?"

  "It's about time. What are we doing first?"

  "EMP," I answer.

  "Very cool. I've never been."

  "Me either," I say.

  The building looks like something out of a sci-fi movie: blue tile, purple and silver metallic squares reflecting the sun's blaring glare. We stop to take a self-portrait outside before entering.

  It's the Experience Music Project, a museum dedicated to popular music, honoring the Seattle-bred musician Jimi Hendrix and built by the cofounder of Microsoft Paul Allen. Standing in the center of the museum, we gaze up at the thirty-five-foot cyclone gracing the center of the room: Roots and Branches, a sculpture created out of a variety of musical instruments, including six hundred guitars.

  We grab a couple of audio guides, which are really just glorified iPods. They explain the exhibits we'll be checking out.

  We journey down the Northwest Passage, a hallway honoring all musicians that have come from the area and then head to the Guitar Gallery, an exhibit on the history of the guitar.

  Next, we head upstairs to On Stage. Brought into a darkened fake concert stage, we get to pick our own instrument. Kaylee chooses the drums; I take the guitar and mike. You don't need any talent whatsoever—the instruments play themselves and you're only lip-synching to your song of choice, ours being "Wild Thing." They film the entire act, burn it to DVD, and photograph you for a concert poster. I buy both, for twenty-five bucks, a small price to pay to feel like a rock star for three minutes.

  With so much to see and not much time, we go directly back downstairs to the Sky Church. If you ever want to be completely absorbed in music, the Sky Church is the place to be. It is a musical religious experience. Before us, a forty-by-seventy-foot video screen displays visions that seem channeled directly from some psychedelic dream. As the music flows from all different angles, it surrounds us, and we feel like we're swimming—no, being baptized—in music. We let it wash over us.

  A video of Jimi singing "Little Wing" comes on, and I grab Kaylee's hand, spin her around, and pull her in to slow dance with me. I can tell she's embarrassed at first. Giggling, she tries to pull away. I bring her in closer, and she relents, resting her head on my chest. I realize we've never danced before and more than likely never will again. I want to stay there for hours, pressed in to her like that, smelling her hair, feeling her warmth on my chest, but we have other things to do. I reluctantly pull away. She looks up and smiles, and we move on.

  Now done with our tour through the museum, we exit and collapse on a bench outside.

  "Ready to head back?" Kaylee asks, looking incredibly tired, which is exactly how I'm feeling.

  "Not yet." I look up toward that monument in the sky, the one that defines Seattle and its skyline.

  Kaylee follows my gaze and smiles. "I've never been up there. You ever been up there?" she asks.

&nb
sp; "Nope, never."

  "Then what are we waiting for?" I shrug my shoulders and rise, and we walk toward the Space Needle.

  Kaylee gets in line outside for the elevator ride. Secretly, I've already made reservations, so we have to check in at the front desk, which is good, because since it's a Saturday, the line is huge and I'm not sure how long I could have stood there, my legs weak, pain radiating from my feet to my back.

  "I want to go ask a question inside. Come on," I say.

  We get inside and I tell Kaylee to look around the gift shop while I check in. I don't want to ruin the surprise. Luckily, since she's never been here, she doesn't know the procedure. The elevator we'll be taking is for people with reservations for the restaurant. I motion her back over and we wait for the indoor elevator.

  "Why are we taking this elevator?" she asks.

  "Because it's here," I answer, hoping she doesn't question any more, which, thank God, she doesn't.

  It takes what seems forever for the elevator to arrive. I hand my reservation card to the attendant and we load into the elevator with our fellow riders. I get the camera ready to take pictures of the journey upward. My stomach tangles in knots as we rise higher and higher into the sky. Kaylee grabs the camera and turns it on me, recording my terror. If this, along with the Extreme Scream, doesn't completely cure my fear of heights, nothing will.

  The elevator stops just below the observation deck. The doors open and I grab Kaylee's hand and try to pull her out and into the SkyCity Restaurant. She yanks her hand away and says, "No, Austin, no way. It's too expensive."

  "Kaylee, come on. We already have reservations. Haven't you always wanted to eat here? I know I have. Please?"

  "Fine, but I'm paying for my own dinner."

  "No, you're not."

  "It's too much, Austin," she repeats as if I hadn't heard her the first time.

  "Where else am I going to spend it?"

  She looks up at me. I thought I would see those eyes full of understanding, kindness—pity, even. Instead, she glares at me, and I crack up, which I'm sure isn't the reaction she's looking for.