Red Water: A Novel

by Kristen Mae

  Back in my room, Daphne is flattening Bethany’s red curls with a straightening iron. “What are you doing to her?” I rush to Bethany’s side. “Her curls were beautiful!” God, how must Bethany feel, Daphne snatching her like that and trying to ‘fix’ her?

  “Oh, stop, it’s fine.” Bethany waves a hand at me. “I’ve always wanted to see how I’d look with straight hair.”

  “I can’t handle this color,” Daphne says, sectioning off another lock of Bethany’s hair. “It’s fucking ridiculous.”

  I step back, chastised. “As long as you’re sure, Bethany.”

  “I was a huge nerd in high school…shocking, right?” She grins, but she’s a little stiff about it, like she’s afraid she’ll botch Daphne’s work. “I never got to do the whole ‘dress up together’ thing. It’s fun.” She turns as red as her hair.

  Daphne sticks her tongue out at me. “You wanna go tell Gabby and Ava we’re almost ready?”

  Who? “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “They’re coming with us. Room 220.” She’s so focused on Bethany’s hair, she’s not even looking at me. It’s actually turning out really pretty—long and shiny and sunset orange—but watching them together makes me feel like an outsider. Daphne and Bethany have suctioned onto one another, I have no idea who these other chicks are, and I’m on my own, grieving my dead mother. My stomach’s heavy and cold, a big block of ice inside me. Ugh, I’m being emotional. I shrug off the feeling and leave to find the other girls.

  The party is on the other side of campus, too far for Daphne, Ava, and Gabby to walk in heels, so I offer to drive. Bethany doesn’t drink, so she’ll be the designated driver later on. Gabby and Ava are bubbly cheerleader types, several degrees perkier even than Daphne, and the more they chatter, the more I want to stab myself in the head with my car keys. They make Daphne bitchy, gossiping about other girls in our dorm and swooning like idiots over different guys. This is the Daphne I don’t like—the stuck-up Daphne who thinks Rome isn’t good enough to be my friend because he’s too “street.” That it’s my mother’s death day only magnifies their childishness—every swishy jostle from behind my seat, every squeal of exaggerated delight, is a sandspur raking across my skin.

  My knuckles are white on the steering wheel by the time I find an empty parking spot, and I practically fall out of the car trying to escape Daphne and her friends. They’ve melded into a trio and have all but forgotten me and Bethany. Good. When I meet Bethany’s gaze, she widens her eyes at me, but I can’t tell if it’s because she also thinks the other three are annoying or if she’s trying to tell me to calm my shit. Probably both.

  The party is three houses down from my car, but the bass vibrates through the whole neighborhood, and shouting and laughter echo over the rooftops.

  Bethany snorts beside me. “They’re not playing Mozart? What kind of uncivilized chaos are we subjecting ourselves to?”

  I’m the only one who laughs, and it comes out like a hiccup. Jesus, I need a fucking shot.

  The five of us walk toward the party, Daphne speaking animatedly, and I’m thinking again how much I hate this version of her—this person who says “like” so much and flutters her hands in the air when she talks.

  “I mean, two hours in the gym today and I hardly ate anything,” Daphne’s saying. “For once I feel skinny.”

  “You are skinny,” I say from behind her. “Too fucking skinny.”

  She keeps walking, her little kitten heels click-clacking on the street. “Please. I have so much junk in my trunk it’s not even funny. I was just saying, for today—”

  “Fine, Daphne, you’re fat. You’re a huge, fat cow.”

  She glances back at me, stunned, but Ava saves the moment by starting up about the texting conversation she had with some guy she likes, and the effervescent girlishness of her voice, combined with the banality of her allegedly electrifying exchange, makes me want to vomit. God, I’m a fucking grouch. This day needs to hurry up and be over.

  We’ve arrived at the party house, where people are milling in and out of the open front door. Most of the crowd is in the backyard though, judging from the volume of chatter coming from behind the place. I look over at Bethany and she smiles wanly.

  “I need a drink,” I say. “Immediately.”

  In the backyard, speakers blare music over the throng of people. There’s a keg to the side with a line of students waiting to fill cheap plastic cups.

  Bethany nudges me with her elbow. “You holding up okay?”

  “I guess.” I gesture to the keg. “I’m gonna fill up, but I think I want something stronger than beer tonight.”

  She gives me an uneasy look. “Should I emotionally prepare myself for holding your hair later?”

  “I can put my own hair back.” We join the line, elbow to elbow. The other three girls have drifted away from us, to the other side of the keg. “Sure you don’t want even one?” I ask.

  “I hate beer.”

  “Shots?”

  She curls her lip in disgust.

  “You don’t drink at all, ever?” We’re at the front of the line now. I hold out my cup to be filled.

  “I prefer being in complete possession of my faculties at all times.”

  “You’re a nerd.”

  “And proud of it.” She smiles.

  I smile back, then swig half my beer in one go. “Let’s go inside,” I say, “and see if they have hard liquor.”

  She closes her eyes for a second. “Oh, lordy, Malory.”

  “It’s my mother’s death day.”

  She sighs, exaggerating it so I can’t miss it over the blaring music, and follows me into the house. Daphne, Ava, and Gabby have completely disappeared.

  I push my way into the tiny kitchen, where a thin, shaggy-haired guy in flannel is standing at a rolling kitchen island, brandishing a giant bottle of tequila. I think, He either plays guitar or wishes he does.

  “Can a girl get a shot?” I ask.

  “Hell yeah, you can, gorgeous,” he drawls.

  I chug the rest of my beer and hold out my empty cup, which he fills with only an inch to spare. I thank him and take a sip, then wince as the liquid lights my esophagus on fire.

  “None for your friend?”

  “I’m the designated driver,” Bethany declares, and I giggle because I love her for being so unabashedly responsible. The guy gives her a sarcastic thumbs-up.

  I take another fiery gulp of tequila and go outside again with Bethany. People are dancing now, their cups held up over their heads. I’m warm all over. “Come on,” I tell Bethany, “let’s dance.” I want to not care about anything. I draw another sip of tequila, swallow it down.

  “I suck at dancing.”

  “Just stand by me and kind of bob up and down. That’s all dancing is.” I pull her into the crowd. She’s making a face like she wants to kill me, and that makes me giggle some more.

  I down more tequila, now having consumed what I guess is the equivalent of three shots. My coordination is going, my thoughts are loose and fuzzy, and I’m already feeling much better, much less capable of stabbing anyone in the temple with a set of car keys. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the beat. I’m supposed to go to Garrett’s tomorrow night, but I wish he were here now. I wish for his hands on me, I wish for his hands off me, I wish for him to stand on the other side of the room and make me fuck myself while he watches, and whoa, I’d better not think about that. I’ll burst into flames.

  Then I open my eyes and of-fucking-course, there he is; Garrett has magically appeared across the yard as if some higher power has heard my silent wish and granted it. I stumble backward a little. He’s the most beautiful person here, in his dark denim and black shirt that highlights his almost-black hair, but his clothes, his body, that’s not what makes him so magnetic—it’s the way he stands like he owns the place, it’s how he’s talking to whoever-the-hell-that-is, smiling at them and leaning in just a little and crinkling his eyes, making them
feel so damn important. I stretch to get a better look, and thank goodness it’s not a girl but just another guy. Several guys, actually.

  Bethany nudges me with her arm. “Who are you looking at?”

  “It’s…him. Over there.” I’ve told her a little about Garrett, but not enough for her to suspect that my legs have gone as flaccid and useless as a pile of yarn—even though he’s not looking at me, doesn’t even know I’m here.

  A girl comes up behind Garrett, lays a hand on his elbow, and a jealous rage consumes me, so intense that I feel like I could grow into a giant, stomp over there, and pinch her pretty little head between my fingers until it pops. Bitch. Holy shit, I’m a psycho. But Garrett steps aside, almost recoils from her touch, and I’m so relieved I have to catch my breath.

  “He’s hot,” Bethany says. “You weren’t kidding.” She’s bobbing up and down exactly as I instructed her to and absolutely oblivious to the whirl of emotions in my head.

  “I know,” I tell her. “I think I’m…ugh. I…” My ankles are wobbly, like they’re about to roll out from underneath me.

  “Why don’t we go say hi?”

  “I’m…not sure. We’ve never been…out in public before.” Why haven’t we? I’m dancing still, but less enthusiastically than before. Just bobbing now, like Bethany. I’m pretty tipsy.

  She frowns. “Where do you go?”

  “For walks. And we…swim with manatees. Holy shit, Bethany, I’m drunk.”

  She presses her lips together and gives me a matronly smile.

  I take another swig of tequila, the last of it, and throw my cup in the trash. “I’m too drunk,” I say. “He wouldn’t—”

  But then he turns his head and looks right at me. Waves, and I wave back. Is that it? He returns to his conversation, makes no move to come over, does not look at me again. I feel like I’ve just taken a kick to the stomach.

  Bethany’s chewing her lip. “I mean, he sees you’re with a friend, and he’s obviously in the middle of—”

  “It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.” But I’m crushed. My throat is constricting. I’m trying not to burst into tears over rejection by a stupid boy on the anniversary of my mother’s suicide.

  Doesn’t he remember it’s my mother’s death day? He must. I think of how I begged him to fuck me, how I spread myself for him, fingered myself for him.

  I imagine him as a puppeteer, and me, a wooden doll dangling by strings, naked and spread-legged and touching myself while he jerks me around.

  My mother is fucking dead. I can’t cry over a fucking boy. “Fuck this,” I say. “I want another drink.”

  “Oh dear.” But she follows me, lets me drown myself in tequila, lets me be sad and drunk and stupid. At some point during the night I see Daphne with her tongue down Gabby’s throat, of course, WOOHOO, girls gone wild, have at it, ladies! I don’t remember getting in the car and I don’t remember the ride home but I do remember being on my hands and knees outside the dorm throwing up in the grass, and I think I forgot to put my hair up but it’s not in my face so I guess Bethany’s holding it after all.

  In the morning, Bethany’s there, in Daphne’s bed, and Daphne is somewhere else, maybe Gabby’s room? I don’t care. I grab the trash can and heave painfully, vomiting on top of vomit. I don’t remember throwing up in the trash can last night, but I’m glad it’s here now, that Bethany was kind enough to put it by the bed for me. I spit a few times, trying to clear my mouth of bile, and then I go rinse my mouth at the sink in our room.

  My black eyeliner, that silly attempt at pretty, is smeared down my face in a torrent of black tears. I do look like a doll, actually. A doll, carved and painted by an amateur but propped upright too soon, and now the still-wet paint, so carefully applied, has dripped down my expressionless wooden face.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I don’t know how much of my drunkenness Garrett witnessed last night, but he’s not calling or texting about our date tonight, so I’m guessing it’s more than I would have wanted him to see. He would not approve of the level of sloppy intoxication I achieved.

  It doesn’t fucking matter. I don’t fucking care.

  I’m lying. Obviously.

  But I need to pull myself together so I can make some money to send to Liza like I promised. It’s a warm, sunny day with a cool breeze, the kind of day that pulls people outside—a perfect day to busk. So around noon, I say goodbye to Bethany, pop a few Excedrin, and head downtown with my cello.

  I set up at my usual bench, my cello between my knees. My pulse is furious in my temples. No Garrett; of course I look for him everywhere I go. Fuck.

  My bow is angry against the strings today, and I’m making things up, ripping at my instrument and sliding into strange, angular melodies. The jagged sounds are like needles in my ears, aggravating my hangover headache, and that just makes me play harder—I deserve to suffer. A crowd gathers, curious and slack-jawed at my playing. Am I bad or am I good? I hate the scratchy, feral noises coming from the cello, but my case is filling with bills. I tear at the strings until the hairs from my bow begin to break away and my arm muscles are weak from exertion.

  After a short break, I come back to my bench and finish my session with more traditional fare, some Bach, a little Haydn, a few simple folk tunes. The crowd dissipates. Why does everyone like me best when I’m uncomfortable?

  I gather my money and count it—a hundred and forty dollars in two hours, more than I’ve ever made in one afternoon, though nearly all of it was made before my break, when I was playing like a crazy woman. I roll my cello down the sidewalk toward my car, pausing by a bag lady who’s sitting in a heap in front of a cafe. But I keep my money this time. For a second, I forget to be angry with myself, forget that I have a splitting headache, forget to feel guilty about a stranger to whom I owe nothing. I’m just happy I can send Liza the hundred dollars I promised her.

  Back at the dorm, I make myself a box of macaroni and cheese for a late lunch. I crave Garrett’s fancy food. I crave…Garrett. He’d stick his nose up at this imitation shit. But I sit on my bed and eat the whole box anyway, like a gluttonous pig. Daphne is still out, and there is no sign she’s even come home: her bed is still smooth from when Bethany made it up this morning. Her laptop is closed and off.

  Rome and I are supposed to study, and though my head is pounding, I meet him downstairs in the lobby. I’m in no state for a trek to the library, but I think we can study in the lounge today—it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday and no one is around. But Rome has a blanket under his arm. “The weather is dope today. You up for studying under a tree? I promise I won’t try to be romantic.” He winks.

  I laugh in spite of my still-throbbing head. “Fine by me.”

  We set up under the tree out front where Garrett always waits for me. For an hour or so, we compare our class notes to the material from our required reading. I’m trying to focus, I’m doing my best, but I can’t stop rubbing my temples. I keep glancing at my phone hoping for the text that I know is not going to come.

  “Hey girl, you okay today? You seem kind of…out of it.”

  “I have a headache. Hangover.”

  “Ah.” He sets his book aside. “We’ve done a lot already. Let’s chill for a bit and enjoy the breeze.”

  A few students mill about, wandering to and from the commons. The rays of light slanting through the leaf canopy are as warm and soothing as a blanket. “Yeah,” I say. “I could do that.” I let myself sink backward until I’m lying flat on my back, and close my eyes. For a brief moment, everything feels right; but the moment is a time-encapsulated bubble, and outside of this single, protected moment, everything is very, very wrong. Oily rainbows curl and slide over the surface of the bubble, echoes of my mother’s death intertwined with the headache of today’s reality—a multicolored braid of grief. I shouldn’t have tried to wash her away with tequila, shouldn’t have had such high hopes for Garrett. As if he could do anything to fill the space my mother left behind.
r />   I exhale a sad sigh, and then suddenly my mom’s face is swimming in my vision, as oily and incandescent as the rainbows, as ephemeral as the bubble. But I feel her with me as solidly as when she was alive. I think This must be a dream, but it’s more than that; I’ve done something amazing, here and now—something that undid all the bad things. I fixed something, did everything exactly right, and here she is, she’s really here, she’s reaching for me…

  “Yo, Garrett.”

  The rainbow bubble bursts with a brilliant, color-dashing splash. My eyes flutter open. Did I fall asleep?

  “Rome.” Garrett looms over me, silhouetted by the beams of light shooting through the treetops.

  I jerk to sitting, my mother’s face still swimming in my mind. They know each other?

  “Garrett,” I say, and my voice is high-pitched. Guilty. I’m smoothing my hair flat with my hands, trying to make sense of the moment. Yes, I fell asleep. Must have.

  “Busy studying?” Garrett says, his face as calm as a windless sea.

  I nod and pick at the corner of my closed book. My heart is pounding with such force that I can’t feel my headache anymore. Or maybe I slept it off.

  “I was dropping by to check if you wanted to come over early, Malory, but I see you’re occupied.” I’m sure I detect a bit of tightness around his mouth. Fuck.

  I can’t tell him I’d rather go with him, that Rome is just a stupid nobody and wouldn’t know how to give me whatever it is that Garrett gives me that makes me feel like my heart’s been tied in a knot. I stare, silent, like my tongue’s been cut out.

  “You hear anything about the stuff from Ty?” Rome says, his voice casual.

  “Not here.” Garrett’s eyes flick to me for a fraction of a second. “I’ll message you.”

  I thought he didn’t use social media? Didn’t he get the messaging app just for me?

  “Looks like you had a great time at that party last night, Malory,” Garrett says, and my heart stutters and stops and restarts because now I know that he saw. He saw me taking shot after shot and stumbling and hanging on Bethany and maybe he even saw me puke. But doesn’t he remember that I was sad? That I had reason to be sad?