But she doesn’t.
An hour goes by. Everything is silent. I can’t even feel my own breath anymore. Am I breathing? Do I even care if I am or not? I close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to be gone. Non-existent.
The rooster crows in the kitchen. The turkey’s ready.
Happy Thanksgiving.
****
“Maura?”
Oh, fuck. The last thing I want to do right now is associate with someone from school. Being that this concert is an hour away in Orlando and on Thanksgiving night, I assumed it would be a safe haven to escape everything for a little while.
Apparently not.
Most of the insufferable hicks I go to school with can’t stop mudding or surfing long enough to make the one-hour trip here—which is, unfortunately, the closest thing to a sprawling metropolis one can find for hundreds of miles. It’s nothing but an endless array of chain restaurants and strip malls and stores selling knock-off theme park merchandise. These people wouldn’t recognize a museum or a gallery from a department store. The most culture you’ll find around here is the “Small World” ride at Disney.
But obviously I was wrong. These adventurous peers of mine put away the surfboards for the night.
“Yeah?” I ask, succumbing to the inevitable.
“It’s me, David. We had Algebra together last year?”
I sense about ten sets of eyes start burning into my skin. They hoard around this David guy and stare at me like I’m the Wooly Mammoth exhibit at the museum—cumbersome and hideous and smelling of wet trash. I want nothing more than to turn around and dart.
“Isn’t that girl in our class?” one of the blonde girls whispers to her friend. She’s wearing jeans and flip-flops—the trademark ensemble for most of the wannabe surfer girls from my town. I wish someone would clue them in to the fact that it’s November—perhaps it’s time to retire the summer shoes for something a little more…substantial.
“Isn’t she a mute?” the friend responds back, sipping from a can of cheap beer and trying not to seem only sixteen.
They flip their hair to appear as though they’re having a normal conversation about beauty products or periods or boys. Too bad they forgot to whisper.
A redheaded kid goes over to them and mutters into their ears. They nod. And cackle. Redheaded kid turns back and stares blankly at me. Great, now they all recognize me as the weird, introverted girl who doesn’t speak. If I run, it will just perpetuate that idea.
The beach in New Jersey. Cara’s family brought me along for their annual trip during the summer after 6th grade.
“I’m pretty sure she is. I’ve had classes with her since 9th grade and I don’t think she’s ever said a single word,” chirps the blonde girl.
They would spend the afternoon hunting for antique shops while Cara and I snuck off to the boardwalk and hunted for surfers.
“She is so devoid of…anything. She’s like the plainest, most boring person I’ve ever pretended to know,” says the redhead.
We were enthralled with the concept of each getting our first kisses from surfers.
“I don’t even remember her last name,” says some new guy I haven’t seen yet.
It never happened. Neither of us got kissed. But we did have the greatest summer ever—one that I will always, always remember, no matter what.
“It’s something ridiculous and un-pronounceable.”
Fuck this. I don’t care if I perpetuate anything. This is EXACTLY why I don’t give a damn about putting any sort of effort into socializing with my Neanderthal peers.
“Um, I’m gonna go,” I whisper to no one in particular.
“You meeting some people?”
That’s right. I’m talking to David from last year’s Algebra class.
“Yeah.”
“Well here, take a beer for the road.”
He holds out his hand and offers me a glass bottle. I grab it and offer a weak smile and nod in return, spinning on my heels and speed walking away as fast as my stumpy legs will move me. A guitar starts to warm up on the stage and I fall into a crowd of people I’ve never seen before in my life.
Perfect.
The stadium lights kick on and drown everything in sight with a white glow. A group of girls in front of me start dancing, swinging their long hair around their heads and waving their arms frantically above, cutting through the light and keeping beat with the drums. I open up the beer David so generously gave me out of pity and slam half of it down with one swig. Surprisingly, I don’t gag. I always assumed my first taste of beer would be revolting. But it’s not. It’s invigorating, actually. I get the second half down as fast as I possibly can and let the bottle fall to my feet. The white light covers me and warms my prickly skin. I can’t make out any faces. Everything’s in tunnel vision—the stage is all I can see. The lead singer steps out of a misty cloud and his guitar explodes. I lose control of my body and I let it do whatever the hell it wants.
I’m dancing. I think that’s what this is. I’ve never actually done it before, but I’ve seen it done on television enough times to understand that it involves swinging your body around with frantic and sexually suggestive motions.
I let my hips start to keep the beat of the bass and I let my eyes close and drown into the guitar solo. I don’t give a fuck who is watching me anymore. I don’t care about anything else in the world besides disappearing into this music.
“You want a drink?”
A frosty bottle presses against my arm, pulling me out of my entrancement.
“No thanks,” I say without even looking.
“How about one of these?”
I’m intrigued to learn what one of ‘these’ is. I turn my head and catch a sloppy, 20-something frat boy staring at me like I’m a piece of steak fresh off the grill.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He opens up his fist and shows me a tiny blue pill. My stomach knots.
“Just something that will help you enjoy the concert a little more.”
I raise my eyebrow and force my head to turn my gaze back to the stage.
“It’s safe, I promise. I’ve been doing them for years.”
No, I’m not going to take your date rape drug and let you have your way with me. I start bobbing my head and squinting to get a better look and the drummer.
“Ok, fine, I understand. But, in case you didn’t realize—they’re awesome.”
I listen to him crunch through the grass and retreat back to his group of khaki-wearing friends. I let my eyes relax. I wish I could do the same for my body. The wave of anger and panic that’s been shooting all around inside of me since this afternoon still hasn’t subsided. The brief thrill of leaving the house and coming to this concert without anyone knowing where I was going simply wasn’t enough to truly satisfy me.
Maybe whatever this guy has to offer will do the trick.
No, no, no. Maura. No.
This is exactly what I learned NOT to do in third grade. I distinctly remember a fat cop who reeked of stale coffee warning us of the dangers associated with taking any treats from strangers—complete with pictures and an accompanying film. ‘They could be riddled with poison or razorblades!’ he screeched at us.
Poison!
Razorblades!
Things I certainly shouldn’t risk ingesting.
But then I think about the fact that I don’t remember what it feels like to enjoy myself anymore. Have I ever truly enjoyed myself? Right now, listening to this music, standing in this crowd of strangers and letting myself believe I’m finally just a little free from the weight of my crumbling family—it is the best thing I think I’ve ever experienced.
Why not make this night even better?
“Can I take a beer too?”
Three sets of eyes follow his as I approach the group. One of his buddies elbows another and whispers something. It’s safe to assume they are commenting about how huge my boobs are—that is the only comment people EVER make abou
t me.
“Of course!”
He pushes the miniature blue pill into my open palm. I throw it into my mouth without a second thought.
“Beer, please?” I demand.
“Okay, okay, relax. I had to get it from the cooler.”
He puts the bottle in my open hand and I wash the pill down my throat with one deep swig.
“You’re a no-holds barred party girl, aren’t you?” he asks, his eyes widening with excitement. I gag a little. He’s disgusting. I want nothing more than to inform him I’m only seventeen and he’s a substance-pushing pervert, but instead I nod and focus my attention back to the music. His friend asks him a question that occupies his attention for a moment, and I take it as my invitation to scoot away from them. I fall back into a group of black-haired girls with heavy eyeliner and baggy pants that cloak their feet. They don’t look twice as I slide between them and start letting my head bounce to the music.
My head starts to get fuzzy.
Whatever the fuck I took…it was…
AMAZING.
My hands are detached from my body and floating in the air above me. Pink and green lasers slice through the damp air, and my hands fly up to try and grab them.
The ground underneath of my feet rumbles—an earthquake of violent bass is radiating through my body and making everything tingle. The moisture that’s been floating in the air for weeks has finally lifted, along with the wretched heat. My favorite time of year is almost here. These few months where the weather changes into something resembling normal, with crisp mornings that require jackets and maybe—just maybe—a scarf and hat. My arms blossom with goose bumps from the newly fallen chill and I’m more alive than I think I’ve ever been before.
Someone taps my shoulder. I focus my eyes. He waves.
“Having fun?”
I nod so hard my head falls off and rolls away like a runaway basketball.
“So much fun,” I say. My words sound like they’re sopping wet.
He grabs my hand and puts something cold and crunchy in my sweaty palm.
“For later,” he breathes into my ear. All of the hair on my body stands on end. He lets go. I reach out and try to find him. I don’t want to stop touching him. I squeeze the contents of my hand. Three round objects poke through the plastic baggie.
A different band is playing now. When the hell did the first one stop?
I want to get higher up—I need a better view of everything. I lower my body onto all fours like a dog and trudge up the hill behind me, above the slurring, drunken idiots who pretend to remember the lyrics. They don’t understand. They don’t hear what I hear.
I throw the three pills in my mouth and let them melt.
Everything’s so much clearer up here. A sea of heads bobs below me. I’m on top of everything. The band starts playing a more upbeat song, and everyone in the sea throws their hands up in the air and starts clapping along in unison. It’s remarkable. I let my head fall forward and swing from side to side for the rest of the song. Then the next, and the next, and the next. I’m stuck in a wonderfully endless cycle of beautiful music forever. Everything is okay again.
I open my eyes. Darkness surrounds me now. Last time I had them open, sunlight washed over everything in sight. I think a different band is playing now.
I close my eyes again. Floating away with the music. I’m not here anymore.
I fall back onto the grass. My ass hurts and I’m pretty sure it’s getting wet from the sopping beer puddles. I try to sit upright but that would require too much effort. I lie on my back and tilt my head to the side, trying to focus on the herd of people leaving the concert venue. I’m seeing everything through a kaleidoscope now. Purples and reds and blacks shuffle around, and some thin strings cut in between the colors. Arms. Excited people swinging their arms. My eyes are heavy and I just want to close them. One long blink. The kaleidoscope is even fuzzier now. I can hear the lead singer of the band saying goodnight. The show’s over. But I’m simply too tired to get up.
“Are you okay?”
My body is shaking but I’m pretty confident I’m not in control.
“Is she breathing?”
“I think so! But I’m not positive.”
I force my eyes open. All I catch a glimpse of is the color blue. Everything’s so blue.
“She opened her eyes!”
Please let me go back to sleep.
“Did you call the paramedics yet?”
I want to sleep forever.
“Yo, this girl is seriously fucked up on something.”
My brain rattles in my head. I want to scream at them all to leave me the hell alone, but my lips are glued shut. How long have I been here? I don’t hear music anymore. I flutter my eyes. The beautiful white glow that surrounded me along with the music is gone now as well.
“What the hell is she doing now?”
I’m retching. I can’t catch my breath. And I’m pretty sure all of my organs want to jump out of my body and free themselves.
“Sit her up! If she pukes she could choke to death!”
“The paramedics are here!”
“Alright folks! Back away! We’ve got it from here!”
I let my eyes close again as I’m lifted up into the air—perhaps all the way up to heaven.
****
“Any history of drug use?”
A peculiar man’s voice fills my brain. I want to open my eyes and look, but such a movement simply requires too much effort for me to exert right now. This coma-like sleep has been the most peaceful of my life, and I’m not ready for it to end yet. I paw at a soft fabric that’s enveloping me and pull it up around my face.
“No, of course not.”
Mom?
“Are you 100% sure?”
I let my left eye fall open. I’m on the couch. In my living room. And I have no recollection of how I got here.
“Are you implying I don’t know if my daughter is on drugs or not?”
The man shift in his seat and I snap my eye closed again.
“No, I’m simply stating that not all of us know what our teenagers are doing at all hours of the day. I’ve got two of them myself. And rest assured, the majority of their daily activities are entirely unknown to me.”
Oh shit. What the hell did I do?
“My daughter does not use drugs. In fact she’s been nothing but obedient and pleasant for a few years now.”
A pen clicks. Some scratching on a notepad.
“Ok…”
A knock on the door.
Please don’t let my father be here.
“She’s a good kid.”
Please. Please. Please.
“Well, like I mentioned over the phone, she vomited at the first aid station and was able to rid her body of whatever she took. The doctors at the hospital looked her over again. She’s going to be ok.”
“What the hell did she take?” Mom asks, her voice cracking.
“Not sure. Most likely a prescription drug—perhaps a Xanex. Those things get handed out like candy at these events.”
Another knock.
“Should you get the door?” asks the police officer.
No.
“I guess. Although I’m not sure if I want him around right now…”
Oh fuck.
His bitter voice fills the room before the door even has a chance to click back into its frame. He’s greeting the other police officer. They discuss how their precincts differ. The stranger is from two towns over—he happened to be working a shift at the concert I went to. ‘Luckily,’ he states.
A concert. That’s right.
Dad thanks him for his help. The front door closes.
Then everything becomes eerily quiet.
“Honey? How are you doing?”
My eyes pop back open. I must have fallen asleep again.
“Shitty.”
She lays a wet washcloth on my head and pulls clumps of sweaty hair off of the back of my neck, molding them together into a messy bun
. I let a few stray droplets of water run down my face and hit the pillow.
“Is he still here?” I ask, pulling the cloth over my eyes to try and relieve the pain throbbing in my pupils.
“He’s upstairs.”
His boots are above my head. They’re hitting the ground with more force than usual. My headache intensifies.
“We’ll work this out, I promise.”
“How Mom? What is there to work out, exactly? I’m fine.”
Her lips tighten, indicating an internal debate.
“We’ll get you the help you need,” she says as she pushes a plate into my hands. “Here, eat some dry toast. It will help your stomach.”
The thought of putting any food into my body makes stomach bile rise in my throat. “I don’t need anything, Mom.” I push the plate down onto my legs. She picks the plate of crusty dry bread up and lays it back on my chest.
“And honestly Mom, I don’t need any sort of psychiatric bullshit. I wasn’t trying to off myself. I can tell exactly what you’re thinking.”
I sit upright for the first time in hours. The plate falls but Mom catches it in time. She re-arranges the slightly burnt squares into a neat stack and sets the plate down on the coffee table, keeping her eyes focused on it as if it’s a wild animal that’s trying to escape.
“Maura.”
He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs clutching a suitcase, lips pressed into a straight line. Guess he used this spontaneous visit as a chance to pack up the rest of his shit.
“Dad,” I say, keeping my voice as monotone and unemotional as possible. He doesn’t get anything form me right now. I refuse.
“What the hell were you thinking? Taking some random pills from a guy? Are you trying to get yourself assaulted?”
Mom jumps up and makes her way up the stairs two at a time without looking at him. We wait until we hear the bedroom door close before we continue what is evidently going to be a heated discussion.
“I thought we were past all of this,” he says, taking a step forward slowly—just like a vicious summer thunderstorm does when it rolls in.
“Ditto,” I say, pulling my blanket securely around my body, mummifying myself. I can’t seem to get warm.
“What did you say?”
6 Seconds of Life Page 5