Empty

by K. M. Walton

  I put my phone down. I blink, and my eyelids are in no hurry to open. If I took another Vicodin, I probably wouldn’t care about being up onstage. Hell, with that much Vicodin in me, I probably wouldn’t care if I were naked onstage. Doing jumping jacks.

  A Demented Circus Clown

  I IMAGINE THE HOT STAGE LIGHTS WARMING MY skin, my voice filling the auditorium. The audience loving me, clapping and chanting my name. Mountains of love and adoration directed at me. That sounds so good right now.

  I want that.

  A landslide of objections form. I have nothing to wear. I have a broken toe. How am I supposed to get to school? I can’t walk. What if the baseball dicks show up and start mooing in the audience? What if Taryn is there? That would get ugly.

  It seems like the universe or God or whatever is trying to give me signs. Don’t do it, Adele. Just stay home and eat a sandwich. Stay away from that stage. Stay away from those people. Stay away from that moment.

  That moment.

  But I love that moment.

  The rehearsals have been dipped in perfection. The applause and cheering. My stomach flipping with joy. The skin around my mouth tingling as my face burst into a smile. I want to feel that again. It made me feel seen—really seen. And alive. Even Mrs. Salvatore cheered.

  I need to feel joy, especially after all the crap I went through at school today. It might fill some of the empty space inside of me.

  I text Cara and ask her if she can pick me up because I hurt my toe on my walk home (lie) and don’t feel like walking (truth). She texts back that I’m a klutz and she’ll honk at quarter of six.

  I guess I’m actually going to sing.

  I look at my watch. I’ve got an hour and a half until my mother gets home. I didn’t tell my parents about the show because they wouldn’t care. My father is too busy gallivanting around with Donna anyway. But if I’m going to sing, then I need to shower so I’m ready to go as soon as Cara honks.

  Meggie is mesmerized by her show. I hop to the bathroom. I’ve never been more thankful that we live in a tiny apartment. As the hot water pours down my body, the wrapping slides off my toes. I stare down at the wet mound of tape. “Mother-effer.”

  After my shower I hop back to the kitchen to rewrap my toes. More swearing and more pain.

  Four hops to my bedroom with freshly wrapped toes, and I’m searching for my black T-shirt with the white tree on it. It’s my nicest one, and doesn’t everyone say black makes you look skinnier? It takes me almost five minutes to get my jeans on because of my stupid toe. Even sliding the worn cotton over my toe makes me gag into my bent elbow. Those two Vicodin aren’t touching the pain. I take a third. I figure that should take the edge off the throbbing and give me a nice buzz.

  I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, caking on my mother’s eye shadow. I have no clue how to put this on. Painting my droopy eyelids with a shaky hand isn’t easy. I am awful at applying makeup. That third Vicodin must be kicking in, because I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. I rub my cheeks to blend in my blush, and my skin feels like warm pudding. I need to sit down. My chin drops to my chest, and my body slowly tips to the right. I reach out and fumble for the towel bar. I steady myself.

  “Whoa.” I’m feeling pretty wasted right now.

  A laugh builds in my chest, then bursts from my mouth. I spray spit all over my reflection in the mirror and yell out, “Ugly!” I need more makeup. Cara said so.

  This time I don’t bother looking at the colors as I apply. My hand just swipes and smears over and over and over again. It has to be dark enough now. I squint and concentrate. My makeup can’t get any darker. I bet when I’m onstage, I’ll be visible from the baseball field across campus. This makeup can power through walls. Lockers. Solid brick. It’s that heavy.

  “Girls,” my mother shouts. “I’m home!”

  I have no story prepared for why I look like a demented circus clown.

  “Adele,” my mother says from the doorway of the bathroom. From the corner of my eye I can see that she’s holding Meggie and smiling at her. I don’t think she’s looking at me. I keep staring in the mirror. She asks, “What are your plans for tonight?”

  “Thetalentshow,” I mumble.

  “The what?”

  My lips feel squishy. My toe throbs like the bass of a dance song. Bam. Bam. Bam. Bam. I wish I’d put a sock on it. Maybe my makeup will distract my mother from seeing my taped-up toes. But I still can’t look at her. “The talent show. I’m going. With Cara. She’s coming to pick me up.”

  “You’re doing what with Cara?” my mother clarifies. Apparently what I’m thinking and what I’m saying aren’t aligning at the moment.

  I bite my lip and then say slowly, “The talent show.” I continue staring at my face in the mirror. I raise my eyebrows up and silently mouth a long “Wow.”

  My mother snaps, “Did you tell me you were going to this?”

  I shake my head, and she exhales loudly. “What if I’d had to work late, Dell? Who would’ve watched Meggie?” I am given no time to respond because she turns and walks away. Nice talking with you, Mother.

  I grab the edge of the counter and exhale agony into the sink. I’m doped-up and still in pain. Great, just great. Now that mom’s home, hopping is out of the question. I’m going to have to limp around and stick with the stubbed-toe story. I take one small step away from the sink, and stars pop into my vision. I feel woozy.

  Deep breaths.

  I open the medicine cabinet, grab the bottle of Vicodin, and shove it into my front pocket. As I exit the bathroom I resume the least traumatic way of getting around—only putting pressure on my heel. It’s a tricky way for a drugged-up fat girl to get around, but it beats the heck out of putting my full weight on the toe.

  Whispering curses, I manage to wrestle on a sock. As I sit heaving and sweating on the edge of my bed, I spy my Adidas slides in the corner. I get the best idea. I heel-hop over and pick them up. They’ll totally work. I clutch them to my chest in a hug. The thought of squeezing my broken toe into a sneaker was making me want to chop it off with a butcher knife.

  Slides on, I hear Cara’s horn.

  I check my reflection. I look like I’m ready to give a blow job in the alley or eat some brains. I hear the car horn again.

  I’m hobbling down the hallway, when my mother is suddenly in front of me. “Oh my God, Dell!”

  My eyebrows lift. “Relax, it’s just makeup.” I put my foot flat, and clawing pain makes me dig my fingernails into my palm.

  Another honk blares from the parking lot, this one longer and more insistent. “I’m going.” As nonchalantly as I can, I heel-walk to the door.

  “Why are you limping?” my mother asks from behind me.

  I turn only my head, unable to endure the pain of maneuvering my entire body around to face her. “Stubbed my toe on the sidewalk.”

  “Dell, you look ridiculous. Between the face paint and the slides with socks . . . come on.”

  “Thank you, Mother.” I close my apartment door and slowly take the steps down one at a time.

  Floating in a Padded Bubble

  “HOLY EFFING SHIT!” CARA SHRIEKS.

  I close the car door. “You said heavy makeup. So sue me for being a good listener.”

  “What did you say?” She eyes me up and down. Apparently I am only still making sense to myself right now.

  I shrug and do my best to fasten my seat belt. Getting part A into part B is hard when your eyes won’t stay open.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Comfort.” I finally click my seat belt. I stare out the windshield, trying to ignore that Cara is glaring at me like a lunatic. She’s not moving.

  I give in and look at her. “Let’s go,” I say. Seeing her face makes me realize that she’s right—I’ve overdone it. Embarrassment isn’t the feeling I was hoping to experience. I feel so stupid. Cara’s dress is purple and pretty, and she has stockings on with heels. I look like I’m ready to mow the l
awn.

  “Are you drunk?” she asks.

  “No.” I leave out the part about swallowing three Vicodin.

  “You’re acting weird. Are you still mad at me or something?”

  At the moment, my anger floats in a padded bubble, its spikes no longer poised to slice and stab. “Thanksforpickingmeup,” I mumble, ignoring her question. I’m doing my best to keep my breathing steady. I still don’t know how I made it into this car without passing out. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Cara.” I want my best friend to know how much I appreciate her driving me.

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying, Dell.” Cara starts the car.

  Since my mouth isn’t working, I stop talking. We drive to school in silence. I trace the pill-bottle bulge in my pocket with my fingers. Over and over again. Cara pulls up in front of the auditorium doors. I wipe my palms on my jeans and smack my thighs a few times to get me going. Somehow I’ve gotta get out of this car without falling over or puking on the sidewalk. Cara is already out and at my door. “Let me help you.”

  She certainly is Miss Helpy-Pants today. First telling Mr. Drueller to come talk to me, and now assisting me out of the car. If she really wanted to help me, she would produce a spare wheelchair or a pair of crutches. “I’m good.” I steady myself as I gingerly stand. I slam the car door.

  Cara’s back behind the wheel in a flash. She leans down and says through the open passenger window, “I’ve gotta park. Meet you in there?”

  I give her an a-okay. My trek to the auditorium is a slow go, but I make it. I’m sitting in the last row, wheezing like an old lady, when Cara, in her purple glory, shows up. I endure about ten thousand questions and comments from her as we walk down the aisle. Her last one is a whiny “Why didn’t we go shopping for youuuu?”

  I shrug. No one cares how the fat girl looks. I. Am. Invisible. No one will see me. They’ll hear me—but no one will be able to remember what I’m wearing onstage. Period. End of story. Good night. The end. I pucker my lips to blow Cara a kiss. The stars are back, and I feel queasy. I never ate dinner. I shake my head in amazement. Me not eating is equal to the tides not coming in. Unheard of.

  “You’re as white as a ghost, Dell,” Cara says.

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Maybe they’ll have snacks backstage. Come on, hold on to my arm.”

  I do, and it’s 50 percent easier to heel-walk while holding on to her. Cara sits me in a chair backstage. It’s a small space where the performers usually stand and wait before going on. It’s got a door that opens to the hallway near the main office. There’s a similar space on the other side of the stage. From where I’m sitting I’ll be able to watch acts as they perform.

  “I’ll tell Mrs. Salvatore you have to stay here because of your toe. Don’t go anywhere.”

  I can only nod. The wall and curtain swirl together, a jumble of tan and red. So pretty. I grin.

  I lean my head back and close my eyes for a while. I startle as two cheerleaders come through the door. One is Brandon’s beautiful sister, with her creamy skin, bright blue eyes, and black hair. They stand in front of me like frozen statues. I look them up and down. They’re decked out in full cheerleading gear.

  They whisper back and forth, and I hear the other one say, “You ask her, Kim.” Then she nudges Brandon’s sister. They look at each other with bulging eyes.

  “Boo!” I say. They jump. I pull my foot back for protection because it’s a tight space. “Ask me what?”

  “Where do we go?” one whispers. I’m not even sure which one said it.

  “Out there, I guess.” I raise my hand to point, and it feels like my bones have disintegrated. My arm flops onto my lap. I want them to leave. “Goaway,” I mumble softly.

  Kim tilts her head a little and looks at my face. I can tell she’s admiring my stunning makeup application.

  They both snicker as they back out into the hallway. The door hisses shut, and I overhear Kim say—obviously loud enough for my benefit—“Taryn was right; she is a fat bitch.”

  Super.

  Do Something Stupid

  “DELL, THIS IS ALL I COULD FIND.” CARA’S IN FRONT of me now, holding out a candy bar and a can of soda. “There’s nothing back here to eat. I got Mrs. Salvatore to open the teacher’s lounge so I could get these from their vending machines.”

  “Thanks.” Perfect for my “diet.” I grab both and crack open the soda.

  “Here’s ibuprofen for your toe. I got them from Melissa.” She places them in my open palm.

  I don’t tell her I’ve already taken the Vicodin. Or that she kind of has two heads right now. I snort and giggle and wash down the pills with a sweet, fizzy gulp of soda.

  Cara pulls the curtain aside and peeks out. “A lot of people are out there already. Do you want my mom to save your parents seats?”

  I turn my head and pretend to be extremely interested in the stage crew kids working on the microphones. “Not coming,” I say nonchalantly.

  Cara drops the curtain and whips around. “Didn’t you tell them you were singing? What do you mean they’re not coming? I swear to God you seem wasted right now.”

  I lick my lips and taste some leftover soda. I love soda. Why is Cara flipping out? Doesn’t she know that my parents are both fucked-up, so lost in their own worlds of misery that they wouldn’t care if I blew myself to bits onstage. “Not sure what you mean.”

  “Are we doing this right now? Are we?”

  “You have four eyes.”

  Cara leans down so we’re practically nose-to-nose. “You are drunk!”

  Mrs. Salvatore walks in on our little “moment.” I catch a quick flinch when she looks me in the eye. I think my makeup startled her. “Dell, I have no problem with you sitting here during the show.” She riffles through papers on her clipboard, then she smiles at me. “I just ask for no movement and no sound.”

  I nod.

  She writes something. “Will you be all right waiting until the end to sing? Do you need me to shuffle things around?”

  “I’m last?” Since when am I last? I was never last in rehearsals. They always have the best performer close the talent show. “What about Semih?” His violin performance was insanely good.

  “Broke his arm skateboarding about two hours ago. His mother called from the ER.”

  The irony of this is not lost on me, despite the fact that I can’t focus my eyes. One broken bone is being replaced by another. I burst out laughing. Both Cara and Mrs. Salvatore are clearly confused by my inappropriate response to Semih’s broken-arm story. I breathe through my nose to silence the other giggle trying to escape. “Sorry,” I whisper. “Not funny. It’s not funny. But ’nother gimp is taking his place. S’kinda funny.”

  Cara gives me the evil eye. “Dell’s had a long week. She’s tired, Mrs. Salvatore.”

  Mrs. Salvatore says, “Right. Well, you’re closing the show now. Blow them away, Dell. Just like in rehearsals.”

  “Exactly,” Cara says. She crosses her arms and uses her eyes to plead with me. When Mrs. Salvatore is out of earshot, she leans down and whispers, “Holy shit, Dell. How are you going to sing? What did you drink?”

  I grunt and then laugh. “No drinkie. Some of Mommy’s pills, Car-car.” I like the sound of that. Maybe I’ll start calling her Car-car. Maybe it will lasso her back to me and it can go back to being just the two of us. Cara likes nicknames. She called Emma “Em.”

  “Pills?” she hisses. “What pills?”

  “Oh, Car-car. I only took three.”

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got to get yourself together, Dell. Everyone’s out there. You can’t—”

  My laugh cuts her off, and soda shoots from my mouth. I couldn’t be any more un-together. I am like scattered rabbit turds. Tiny little me-pellets everywhere.

  “What is the matter with you? You got that on my dress! I am done. Done!” Cara stomps away.

  I’m alone.

  I never got to thank her for trying to be a hero and talking with Mr.
Drueller. “Shit.” I close my eyes and listen. The auditorium sounds like it’s full now. Lots of people talking, a little kid squealing, someone hacking up a lung. All of a sudden, the lights dim and brighten a few times to signal that the show is about to start. I gaze down at my throbbing toe and wish I had something to rest it on. There’s a box of ropes and an orange traffic cone in this dark nook. The traffic cone might work. I nod, agreeing with myself, and go to stand up.

  Not good.

  My one leg buckles—I forgot all my bones are gone—and I smash back onto the chair. Hard. It makes a loud noise, and I can feel the laughter barreling up my throat like a charging bull. Apparently my arms are still working, because they react and cover my mouth. I howl into my hands. Melissa’s voice cuts through my laughter as she introduces the show and asks everyone to turn off their cell phones. No one comes to scold me about being so noisy, and I am pretty calm by the end of the first act.

  When the curtain closes, my stomach suddenly grumbles. I feel faint, so I close my eyes again. Why did I take those ibuprofen? Now I’m nauseous. I put my energy into not vomiting. Even though I can’t see them, I know the dance troupe is jiggling and thrusting on the stage.

  Maybe a sip of soda will stop my stomach from churning. I reach down and grab the can. Across the way I can see a freshman pacing. He’s next. I take a long swig. The bubbly sweetness slides down my throat. I have high hopes for this soda because in addition to stopping the nausea, I need a boost of energy to hop over to the corner and grab that traffic cone. I’ve gotta get my toe up. It couldn’t possibly hurt any freaking more.

  The audience erupts into applause. I go. I figure the clapping will drown out the sound if I crash to the floor in a dead faint. I hop the two steps to the cone, grab it, hop the two steps back, and plop into the chair.

  Everything goes black. “Uh-oh,” I whisper. I should’ve done that slower. It takes a few minutes for my eyes to work again.