by Jessica Park
“Tough shit. He was asking a lot of two inexperienced bakers working in a bare-bones dorm kitchen.” I look down at the food-stained recipe printouts in my hands. “And then tomorrow we’re supposed to make four side dishes? I can’t even read what these are!”
“Puréed squash, cranberry sauce, sautéed Brussels sprouts, and scalloped potatoes with three cheeses and heavy cream,” Chris recites.
I lower the recipes and watch as he continues to glare at the pies. He’s just listed the exact four side dishes that my mom used to make at every Thanksgiving. I smile as I realize that Eric is behind this; we’d discussed holiday food last month during one of our study sessions.
“Here’s the deal,” Chris says. “We’ll just dim the lights really low while we eat dessert so no one sees what these look like. It’ll be fine.”
“It’s going to be perfect,” I say. “Chris?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is it weird not to go home for holidays?”
He turns to me. “No. It’s wonderful.”
I hate this answer from him. It breaks my heart.
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s smart to end relationships that are poisonous. It’s a good thing. Sometimes you have to cut people out of your life to make things better. So you can move forward. Being here, with my brothers and sister, and you and Zach? This is exactly the kind of Thanksgiving that I’d dreamed of.”
Maybe he’s right. I certainly feel happier being here than being at Lisa’s.
“What about you?” he asks. “You’re not going to be with your family. Are you okay?”
“Except for James, I don’t have a family.”
He steps toward me and swipes a floured finger across my nose. “You do now.”
I can’t begin to think how to respond to this, so I don’t. “You helped plan all of this, too, then? The dinner and stuff?”
“Yeah.” He smiles and leans in, putting his hands on my knees, making white handprints on my jeans. “Just because I’m not gay doesn’t mean that I can’t party plan.” Then he kisses me quickly on the forehead.
Nope, he’s definitely not gay. Something I’m happy to attest to.
“I still can’t believe Sabin and Estelle got out of helping,” I say. “But Estelle went out somewhere tonight, and I know that Sabin is at the bars.” I take Chris’s face in my hands and grin. “I know this because he was relentless in trying to get me to go out with him, but I repeatedly declined because I took my pie-partnership duties with you very seriously.”
He reaches over and turns up the volume on the portable speaker that has been blasting his playlist all night.
“Poor baby. Has it been that awful?”
I grin. “You’re a nightmare. Hey, we should probably start cleaning up. It’s already close to midnight.”
I move to slide off the counter and he stops me with his hands moving to my waist. He looks mischievous. “Just one dance.”
“Christopher! Look at this mess. I’m tired, and we’ve got so much to do tomorrow, too.”
“C’mon, Blythe. Dance with me!”
“You’re a menace, and I think you’re trying to get out of cleaning.” But with the goofy look on his face and the way he’s shaking his hips at me, I can’t resist.
So we dance.
We spin around crazily, we hold tight to one another and sway back and forth, we hold hands and scream out lyrics at the top of our lungs. We stand on the two chairs and lift our arms high while we move to the rhythm.
We don’t even think about the dishes for another hour.
***
When we’re finally done cleaning up, we’re both exhausted. For once, it actually feels okay to separate from Chris at the dorm stairs and head alone to my room to get some sleep.
The sound of the door shutting wakes me and I glance at the clock: it’s 3:26 in the morning. Estelle must really be into this mystery guy of hers. I haven’t asked her about him yet. It just feels off-limits for some reason. Maybe it’s that I’m still nervous about having a friend. I’m scared to push, unsure of the boundaries in our friendship. I roll over and peek out into the dark room. I just make her out as she strips off her clothes and crawls into bed. I am about to drift off again when I hear her whispering to herself. And I hear the tremble in her voice and the near panic.
“Forgive me my sins, O Lord, forgive me my sins; the sins of my youth, the sins of my age, the sins of my soul, the sins of my body; my idle sins, my serious voluntary sins… .” Her words bleed together in manic praying, and I am frozen in bed. “… I am truly sorry for every sin, mortal and venial, for all the sins of my childhood up to the present hour. I know my sins have wounded Thy Tender Heart, O My Savior; let me be freed from the bonds of evil through the most bitter Passion of My Redeemer. Amen. O My Jesus, forget and forgive what I have been. Amen.”
I have no idea what to do. My impulse is to wrap my arms around her, but I think that if she wanted my help, she would have asked. I feel like I am invading her privacy by hearing her prayers, especially since she hasn’t invited me into her emotional world. And I know what it’s like to want to be alone when you’re upset, so I do what I can to block out her words.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but then I hear a familiar phrase that pulls me from the possibility of immediate sleep.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
I roll over quietly. I really don’t want to hear this.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth; and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord; Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary …”
I pray that Neon Jesus will fly across the room and knock her unconscious.
“Our father, who art in heaven; hallowed by Thy name; Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven …”
These words are recognizable to almost everyone, and I am swept up by their lyrical familiarity and romanticism. The moment is so dramatic I practically expect to hear a Hollywood movie sound track suddenly fill my room.
I hear a small clicking. It’s the sound of rosary beads.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee …”
Suddenly, I am flooded with emotion by Estelle’s words, and I miss the hell out of my father. He loved the traditions and the rituals of the Catholic Church. While I never took to Catholicism as he did, I cannot help clinging to Estelle’s words, even though her voice is shaking.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
She starts again, repeating the words over and over, and I am disgusted with myself for finding solace in mouthing the words along with her. Yet it’s a few minutes in which I feel close to my father, and I get to have a taste of what it’s like to lean on a higher power, to believe someone is watching out for me.
Tomorrow, however, I know I will wake up in more ways than one. I will again be grounded and know that there is no higher power in the real world, because it’s a place where there is no good reason why our souls are ripped apart or why we’re challenged in ways that nobody needs to be challenged.
For now, though, I listen to her prayers. Her voice calms and slows, and she falls asleep halfway through one of six thousand Hail Marys.
I, however, am left awake, wondering what the hell is making her run to Jesus for forgiveness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Smashed Up
There is a good possibility that I’ve had a touch too much wine, but I don’t care. I’m of legal drinking age, and if I want to get a little happily tipsy after Thanksgiving dinner, then I will not feel guilty about it. Not now that I’ve given up the hard-alcohol binge drinking. The wine is enhancing my already good mood, and I take another sip of the chardonnay. It feels just right to be way too full and sitting on the floor of the dorm lounge wrapped in a soft shawl while Chris, who is behind me on the couch, occasionally touches my hair and rubs my shoulders.
>
Sabin is sitting on top of the half-cleared dinner table where we spent most of our afternoon eating and drinking, and he’s got his guitar. For the past few hours, we’ve been yelling out song requests and trying to find something that he doesn’t know. And every ten minutes or so, Chris hollers a succession of song titles, “Freebird! Cat’s in the Cradle! Yesterday! Wild World!” and doesn’t stop until I swat his leg enough to shut him up. Fortunately, we seem to be the only students left in the dorm this holiday, so no one else has had to endure our constant noise.
Zach and Eric have been snuggling nonstop all night, and it’s pretty damn sweet. They’re on the floor, and Zach is sitting in front of Eric, leaning his back into Eric’s chest. Eric has his arms wrapped protectively around Zach, and once in a while he leans down and kisses Zach’s head or shoulder. It’s fucking adorable, and so adorable that I can’t even be jealous of what they have. As for what I have? I have a room full of people who I didn’t have a few months ago. I have more than I could have imagined.
“Well, kids.” Estelle gets up from the armchair she’s occupied for the past hour. She waves her cell around. It’s as if last night’s crying and manic praying had never happened. She looks as pulled together as ever.
“I’m headed to my history professor’s house. He’s invited people who are in town for Thanksgiving over for coffee and dessert.”
“Nooooo, don’t go!” Sabin takes a swig from his beer. “I was just about to do my rendition of ‘November Rain.’”
“In that case, I definitely gotta go.” She starts to pull on layers to face the cold.
“Fine, fine. Be that way.” He strums the guitar for a second and then lifts his head sharply as a huge grin appears. “But before you abandon us, I have a send-off!” He starts to head for the door to the hall. “Meet me out front on Blakemore Ave in five minutes.” And then he’s gone.
“Does he mean outside?” Estelle mock-whines. “Shit, it’s cold out! We’re into, like, negative numbers!”
“What’s he up to?” I ask.
“No idea. It could be anything.”
“He’s an asshole,” Eric grumbles. “But we’re still going.” He pats Zach’s shoulders.
Zach slowly stands before reaching out his hand to pull Eric up. “And then we are going home.”
Eric looks down to hide his blush. “Everyone bundle up. Hopefully this will be fast.”
“If we’re going out there, I’m finishing this glass of wine first,” Chris says. “Fleece has nothing on alcohol when it comes to staying warm.”
I follow Chris’s suggestion and finish my wine. “Okay, okay, let’s go. The sooner we go, the sooner we can get back to doing nothing. Just as it should be.”
Soon we are all assembled on Blakemore Avenue as instructed, shivering and waiting for Sabin. Fifteen minutes go by. The cold is truly painful.
“Where is that drunk bastard?” Chris demands.
“Ha! Look who’s talking!” Eric teases. “I think we’re all a little drunk.”
“Are you drunk enough to give me your coat, because even my tits are freezing,” Estelle says. “Pretty sure my nipples could cut glass right—”
“Hey! Hey!” Eric immediately takes off his coat and hands it to her. “If you promise to never again talk about your tits, you can keep this coat forever.”
“Aw, thank you, Eric! My savior!” She throws on his coat while he sticks out his tongue.
“Wait, shhhh, listen,” Zach says with a slight slur. “Do you hear that?”
The unmistakable sound of a guitar echoes around us. We all look up and down the snowy street, but Sabin is nowhere to be found. It is only when he starts yodeling that we collectively realize he is on the roof of the dorm. I look up and cringe. This is not a square, concrete, sterile dorm building from the 1950s, but rather an old architectural wonder, with dramatically steep eaves that project far past the edge of the building, an archaic slate roof, and several balconies. It usually strikes me as beautiful, with the snow-covered peaks and dips. Tonight, with Sabin on top, it just looks dangerous. For the moment, he is safely stationed on a flat area near the third story, but he is eyeing the steep eaves just below him.
“Oh shit,” I murmur. “Oh shit.”
“What’s that in his hand?” Eric asks.
I squint. “I think it’s a tray from the cafeteria.”
“Oh my God.” Chris rushes from the sidewalk up the few steps that lead to the dorm’s wide walkway. “Sabe? What the fuck are you doing?” he calls up to the roof. “This. … Dude, this is not a good idea. Whatever you’re about to do? No. No way, man.”
Sabin yanks the guitar strap from around his neck. “Catch!”
It is not a particularly small miracle that Chris manages to catch the poorly thrown instrument. “Estelle, take this.” Chris holds the guitar out without looking away from his brother. “Seriously, Sabin, get the hell back inside.”
“I’m going traying! It’s going to rock.”
“What the fuck is traying?” I ask no one in particular. Nobody says anything. “WHAT THE FUCK IS TRAYING?”
“I assume he’s going to sit on that goddamn lunch tray and sled off the roof,” Zach says in disbelief.
“No, he is not!” Chris yells.
“Yes, I am, too!” Sabin hollers drunkenly. “Come on up! Come with me! It’ll be awesome!”
“No, it’s not going to be awesome. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Chris is over-enunciating. “Very, very badly. Irreparably.”
This is true. Below Sabin are areas of ground that are either frozen solid or unforgiving concrete. Flying off the roof would certainly send him to the emergency room, if not the morgue.
“Shut your face and get up here, Chris. Don’t be such a pussy!”
“I’m a pussy because I don’t want to die? Get the hell off there, Sabin!”
“I’m not going to die.” He looks pointedly at us and holds his hands out by his side. “I can’t die. Estelle’s precious Jesus won’t let me die!” Sabin walks to the edge and peers over as if thoughtfully assessing his chances. As if he is actually calculating the angles and speed ratios and has decided that there is some possibility that he might not shatter every bone in his body upon landing. “Totally do-able.”
“No, Sabin, no! Back up! Back up!” Chris and I are screaming now. Zach and Eric seem too shocked to say anything, and Estelle has launched into incomprehensible praying.
Sabin slaps the tray against the snowy shingles. “Pray, Stellie! Pray to the power of that sweet baby Jesus, and I’ll be just fine!”
Estelle stops praying for a moment to yell, “Stop it, Sabin!”
“C’mon, ‘Stelle! Our father who art in heaven.” Sabin squats down and adjusts the direction of the tray. “Hallowed be thy fucking name!”
He is about to crawl onto the slippery roof when I scream. “Wait! Wait! I’m coming! Don’t go yet!”
Chris whips around and storms toward me. “What the hell, Blythe? You’re sure as fuck not going up there.”
“If we don’t stop him now, he’s going to break his neck. I just bought us a few minutes. Come with me.”
“Okay. And then what?”
“Well, fuck, Chris, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Let’s go!”
We run up flights of stairs until we reach the third floor.
“This way,” I tell Chris. “He must have climbed from the balcony that’s off the upper lounge.”
The lounge is dark, and we’re lucky that neither of us trips over the furniture in our hurry to reach Sabin. The old French doors to the balcony are open and we run out. The area is enclosed by only a thin, not particularly sturdy-looking iron railing, and Chris tosses the bistro table that’s there behind us into the lounge so that we can both stand. To my left is the small flat area where Sabin is standing. The sloped roof in front of him—his Goddamn runway—looks perilously steep. I take a second to catch my breath so that I can try and deal with Sabin in a relaxed-sounding manner.
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Chris, however, is too pissed off. And scared. “Sabin, man! Get the fuck back over here!”
“There you are!” Sabin turns our way and holds out the tray, which holds what’s left of a six-pack. The cans and plastic rings are covered in the snow that has started to fall. “Beverage, anyone?”
“I think we’ve all had enough,” Chris says. “Especially you. Stop screwing around. It’s time to come inside.”
Sabin just looks past Chris. “Coming, my Blythe?”
I step in front of Chris. My whole body is shivering. “Sabin. Look at me. This is dumb.”
He ignores me and throws the beer our way. We let it fly and it lands on the floor of the balcony. “Then I’ll go without you.” He plants the tray onto the landing and sits down, his legs hanging over onto the icy roof.
“This isn’t fucking funny. Please, Sabin.”
“Don’t you worry, B. Zach and Eric are going to catch me. See?” He points to the lawn just in front of where we are.
Zach and Eric are holding up a mattress by balancing it on their heads. Or not so much balancing it as they are reeling back and forth while trying to balance it. But the effort is there. Estelle has turned her back, clearly unable to watch.
“Oh God.” Chris sounds desperate.
“Sabin, please. Come back inside with me,” I plead.
“If you’re not coming, I’m flying solo.” Sabin inches the tray forward.
“You’re going to die!” Chris’s voice breaks.
“Don’t be so dramatic. I can live through anything. Watch.”
“Wait.” I throw my legs over the railing and stand a foot away from my stupid, stupid drunk friend.
“No, Blythe!” Chris grabs the back of my jacket and keeps me from going forward. “Don’t you dare. Do you understand me? Don’t you fucking dare.”
I turn to him. “I’m fine. Trust me.”
“He’ll pull you down with him. No.”
I remove his grasp on my coat, but he holds my hand tightly in his. “Trust me,” I say again. I slowly move out onto the third-story rooftop. I sit down next to him, my right hand still being nearly crushed by Chris’s as he leans over the railing. He won’t let me go; I know that. “Let’s just talk for a second, Sabe. If you still want to tray off here, we will. But first we talk. Deal?”