The top of the stepladder must be five metres from the water. It’s not a small pool in not a small house and this is not an insignificant distance to leap from. The crowd cheer as the guy turns around so he has his back to the water, before raising his arms either side of him for more encouragement.
When he feels like he’s ready, he bends his knees into a crouch grabs the underside of the stepladder platform tightly and springs backwards into the air. For a moment I think I’m watching something extraordinary unfold, that perhaps this guy, despite crawling along the diving board to get to the ladder, is actually a talented gymnast or high board diver before it becomes aware all too soon that what probably should be a backflip ends up being a kind of no-flip, and with a horrible slapping sound of tangled limbs in an action that can only be described as having the grace of a tumbling boulder, he breaks the water at a terrifying velocity, with his neck, chin and shoulder. The crowd gasp in unison, and the arena falls quiet for an extended period of time, long enough I become concerned for his well being, before the performer appears again, apparently unharmed by his experience, a huge smile on his slightly reddened face, seemingly happily with how his dive went.
He disappears into a swell of support, while the queue to get up on the stepladder grows ever larger.
“Want a go?” the guy asks us, now indicating the queue with his beer can.
“It’s going to be difficult to beat that”, I say.
“I don’t know”, Marcy says. “They don’t exactly look like athletes to me.”
“So, you guys go to the prom?” he asks.
Marcy and I look at each other and then back to him. “It’s not really our kind of thing”, Marcy says.
“Yeah, mine either”, he says, before crushing his empty beer can in his hands. “I didn’t go to mine. I’m Thomas by the way.”
We shake hands and introduce ourselves. Thomas is an old school friend of Alex’s brother, who left Walter Willis high three years ago and never looked back.
“I’m not a fan of the academic system”, he tells us.
“Neither am I”, Marcy agrees.
We chat for a while before Thomas goes inside to get more drinks.
“He’s cute”, Marcy says.
“I think he likes you, but I don’t think he’s got long term potential”, I tease.
“What, like Donkey have for you?” she retorts.
“Shhh”, I warn her. “The last thing I need is for that to become common knowledge.”
Thomas comes back with a can of beer for each of us, even though I’m still only half way through mine. I take it anyway, and put it into my bag for safe keeping.
“What the fuck?” Marcy says when I look back up.
She’s shaking her head. “Just drink the cold one.”
“Slow drinker, huh?” Thomas says. “You’ll get there eventually.”
I let Marcy take the first beer out of my hand, before I take the new beer back out of my bag and crack it open.
“Better?” I ask.
“Better”, Marcy agrees.
“You guys want to smoke a bowl?” Thomas asks.
“Sure”, Marcy says excitedly.
“I don’t know”, I stutter, “it’s not really my thing.”
“Okay, whatever”, Thomas says. “That’s cool.”
I sip the cold beer slowly, and while Thomas sets up his pipe and shares it between him and Marcy I eye the crowd eagerly for Donkey. I have no idea whether they’ll come or not. I didn’t ask them to come here and parties have never really been their thing, but I know there are a number of people they’ll want to say goodbye to and this is probably the last real chance they’ll get to do it. To be honest, there aren’t that many people here from school, and the ones that are here are the ones that wouldn’t have gone to prom anyway so it’s possible that they’ll either come later when prom finishes and the masses get here, or they’ll just have decided the whole thing’s not worth it.
I told them my plans, not that that’s going to make a difference, I just hope they haven’t suddenly changed their mind about the prom and turn up here later on with a girl on each of their arms. If them leaving wasn’t enough, that would absolutely destroy me.
I see faces I recognize, others I don’t, people laughing, smoking, drinking the world away and I feel like the only person here lost in my own little world without any clue how to get what I really want or cope with it if the inevitable happens and I can’t. Really, it’s happening already, or it’s happened and I’m watching it pass me by, like an observer in my own life, like I’m playing a cameo role in my own useless, unfulfilled existence.
“Jenny?”
It takes me a moment to realize that Marcy’s talking to me. Thomas is looking at me suspiciously and suddenly, as I try and focus on the group, I feel a little bit too drunk to be able to hide it.
“Are you alright?” Marcy asks, her hand on my arm. “You were doing that phasing in and out thing again.”
“Yeah, sorry”, I say. “I’m fine. Just, tired, maybe?”
Thomas laughs and pases the pipe to his right. Without realizing it, we are now five people instead of three. There are a couple next to Thomas I don’t recognize, one of whom has his hair shaved into a mohican. Everyone’s looking at me and it’s making me paranoid.
“Sure you don’t want to smoke?” I’m asked, the pipe extended out towards me. “It might wake you up a bit.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m ok.”
“Just alcohol”, the guy with the mohican says. “That’s very sensible of you.”
Marcy has finished her second beer, reaches inside her bag and pulls out another small bottle of rum.
Just looking at it makes my stomach turn and suddenly I feel like I want to leave.
“Marcy?” I say, louder than I want to. “I’ve got to pee, come with me will you?”
Marcy sips at the rum as though skulling a shot, and then passes the bottle to Thomas. “Sure”, she says, pulling herself to her feet. “Wait for us here guys, okay?”
I stumble a little as I stand, even though I’m careful to do it slowly, my head heavier than normal.
“Are you alright?” Marcy asks me again as we make our way inside the house to try and find the bathroom.
“I think I just need some water”, I confess.
“Are you seeing double?”
I shake my head. I’m not seeing double but I’m definitely not focussing right either. I’m upset with myself for not being able to control it, either the quantity or the effect it’s having on me. I shouldn’t have drunk so much in the car, but it was done before I even realized it.
“How much did I drink?” I say.
“Not much”, Marcy says, looking at me suspiciously. “Maybe too much for you.”
The bathroom downstairs is busy so we venture upstairs, hoping to find something quieter and less frequented. The main bathroom in the hall is locked but there isn’t anyone waiting, despite the corridor being filled with people.
“She alright?” I think I hear someone say, before the bathroom door swings open and a trio of girls emerge amongst a cloud of sickly sweet perfume.
Inside, with the door closed I feel both better and worse. Better that we are now on our own, but worse because it feels more real in the harshness of this artificial light. I’m drunker than I’ve ever been before and more so than I’m able to control, and I don’t like it.
I drink water from the sink faucet, guzzling the liquid down as quickly as the set up allows for, while Marcy taps a cigarette out of her packet and presses it to her lips.
“Marcus is cute”, she says.
“Which one is Marcus?” I ask between mouthfuls of water.
“The one with the Mohican and the groovy scar on his arm from where he came off his skateboard.”
“I thought you liked Thomas?” I say.
“Hey, if you can have two, why can’t I?” Marcy complains.
“That’s a fair point.”
“I’m okay”, I lie, feeling a little better for the water but definitely not one hundred percent.
“Want a cigarette?”
I shake my head.
“Want to barf?”
I shake my head.
“Want to drink more?”
I shake my head.
“Want to wait for Donkey to turn up?”
I nod my head and smile, while Marcy gives me a look of concern.
“You’ll be your own undoing, you know?” she says.
“It’s going to be my last chance, Marcy”, I reason. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it’s all that I’ve got.”
A bang from outside shakes the door firmly in its frame. “Come on”, someone shouts through.
“Just don’t hurt yourself”, Marcy warns. “And drink more water, a lot of it. You’re going to need to be on point if Donkey do decide to show up. You’ll never forgive yourself if you launch yourself at Jack or Zach only to fall face down on the ground because you thought the apparition next to them was real.”
“That would be embarrassing”, I admit.
“If in doubt, just close one eye, if there are still two of them, you’re good to launch”, she says.
“Got it”, I agree.
The door shakes in the frame again. “Come on”, the guy from outside calls.
“Marcy?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t leave me alone, will you?”
“Jenny, I wouldn’t even leave you alone if Donkey were here and you somehow managed to act out what you’ve written in your notebook. That shit I would have to see”, she says.
“Eww”, I say. “That is definitely not allowed.”
“Alright. Deep breath”, Marcy says, “Let’s do what we came here for, and party.”
When we finally emerge from the sanctity of the bathroom, and back into the swell of the party, I feel much better than I did before. Whatever little drunken episode just attacked me, I’ve somehow managed to ward it off with copious amounts of water, artificial light and Marcy’s level-headed reasoning.
I came here to find Donkey and find Donkey I’m going to do. If that doesn’t happen then I’m going to make sure I have a good time, drink just enough to keep me looking over the edge without falling, and maybe, just maybe, climb to the top of that stepladder and show people what I’m made of.
More than anything else, I’m not going to let this party beat me. I’m sick of disappearing into the crowd and having nothing to show for it, and I’m not prepared to let a small bottle of rum and a couple of beers take me down. I’m better than that and I’m stronger than that. I’ve had a wobble but it’s nothing but a warning sign to slow down and pace myself. If anything, now that I’ve settled myself, it’s only made me stronger. I’ve got all night, and I plan to make it to the end in one very sexy piece Donkey won’t think twice about sharing. Not only that, I can’t go home and let Marcy down, because I know if I go home, she’ll feel like it’s her duty to come with me.
“It’s about fucking time”, the guy who has been waiting outside the bathroom snidely comments to us as we walk past.
“Fuck you, pencil dick”, I say, without pausing for a breath, before taking the lead confidently and pushing my way through the crowd. Marcy hurries to fall in behind me, and when I reach to her to grab her hand, she’s shaking her head in amused disbelief.
In our absence, the group outside has swollen to half a dozen members or more, but it doesn’t faze me. I sit down, introduce myself to the people I don’t know and pretend I’m in absolute control of everything that I’m doing. We sit with them all for a while as the pipe gets passed around, chatting, drinking, and watching one person after another throw themselves from the top of the stepladder into the electric blue of the water below, while the thump of the music changes from techno to dubstep, sweeping through a whole range of subsections of electronica in between, and eventually my toe-tapping on the grass becomes too much to ignore, and I have to drag Marcy and anyone else who’ll come with me inside the house to dance.
We spend time around the floating island in the kitchen, while Marcy stands as a guardian at the portal to the fridge, taking orders and passing drinks around as though serving aid out of the back of a truck and later, alone, I stand around the beer pong table in excited awe, waiting for my turn to compete.
I do shots out of stranger’s belly buttons, fight with big pillows in rooms I’m not allowed to be in, hide under piles of coats and run from the front lawn to the back barefoot, screaming like a Banshee. I strip down to my panties and bra, encourage everyone I can into the swimming pool and then I dare myself up the diving board stepladder when a suggestion to leap to freedom becomes impossible to ignore.
When the neighbors finally come round to complain, threatening to call the police, I’m dripping wet, on my second bowl of super strength weed, and third, fourth or fifth round of tequila.
And then, and only then, of course, when I’ve given up on my imagined future entirely, just before everything else around me fades into a murky blur of drunken numbness I’m no longer able to control, I finally see them.
Twin towers of perfection, coming towards me like Greek Gods emerging unscathed from the flames of hell.
“Donkey”, I stutter, just about enough energy left in my body to vocalize it, before consciousness slips away from me completely and the night disappears in a hazy, gaussian blur.
Part Three.
The Notebook
Chapter Nine
The first thing I notice is the pounding in my head. Not just a normal not drunk enough water today headache, a full on thousand neurons screaming what the fuck have you done to us overwhelming explosion of agony. When I was eight I had a migraine that was so painful I thought my bones were swelling inside my body and eventually they’d get too big for my skin and pop it like an overstretched balloon but even that was nothing compared to what I’m currently experiencing. I have barely enough energy to open my eyes, let alone even think about doing anything apart from trying desperately not to die.
It’s day, I know that, even before I’ve somehow gained the courage to look. Day where and when I still have no idea. For a long while, longer than I’m happy to admit, I wonder how exactly I’ve ended up here, in this position, with this amount of excruciating pain, before it all comes flooding back to me, in gloriously uncensored detail, like water gushing through a crack in a dam.
The stepladder, the shots, the pipe packed full of super strength weed, Donkey. Fuck. I have a vague sensation of telling them something, of being with them, of doing something I shouldn’t and then an equally strong sensation of generalised guilt or remorse unattached to any kind of specific memory at all. I have the feeling I’ve done something hugely embarrassing, without even remembering what that thing might be. Whatever it is, though, I’m absolutely convinced that it won’t be good.
I’ll face that when I can, I’ll have to, of course, but right now, I have to work out where I am and how the hell I get out of here and back to normality. Initially, I just presume I’m at home, but when I dare myself to look, I realize I’m somewhere else entirely.
I think I know this place, but the memory seems so distant I doubt I actually really do. Perhaps there’s a fragment of this scene from last night that entered my subconscious, or the whole hangover thing is just fucking with my perception. I’m alone, I know that. I also know that this isn’t Marcy’s house, unless she’s recently redesigned, and it isn’t the hospital or the police station which is seriously good news.
I’m on a bed, with a towel underneath me (not such good news), and thankfully I’m still wearing clothes.
I don’t think I’ve been sick, although I can’t exactly be sure. I certainly feel like I want to be now. If I move my eyes too quickly from one side of my face to the other a wave of nausea rapidly de
scends on me, so God knows what will happen when I finally have to move the rest of my body for real.
I also know that the longer I leave it, the harder it’s going to be. I need to work out where I am, sort myself out, get home and explain to my parents that I’m not dead or missing and I haven’t turned into an alcoholic, and then bury my head for the rest of the summer and hope everyone has the common decency to forget all about what might have happened in the swimming pool, around the beer pong table or out in the garden when everyone was looking.
I don’t feel good at all. Mentally, physically, spiritually, my body and soul feel like they’ve been crushed up into tiny pieces and put back together again incorrectly. I’m never drinking again. Shots, slammers, depth charges or buckets. My short lived life as a drinker has come to an abrupt end. And fuck smoking. Who’s idea was that anyway?
Just thinking about it all isn’t helping, nor is trying to work out where I am or how I got here without better clues. If my memory isn’t going to help, the best I can do is force myself out of bed to get a good look at this room or at least the view from the window, before I dare myself out of the door, and as quickly as possible out of whoever’s house this is from the nearest exit.
There is a good possibility I’m still at Alex’s house, and while I take deep breaths to prepare myself to move, I clutch desperately onto the notion that somewhere inside my brain, as long as I look hard enough, will be a memory of me calling my parents, telling them I’m staying over with Marcy before bidding everyone good night and making my way up the stairs without embarrassing myself any further to this room and falling asleep like a good little princess. Yeah, right.
My mouth feels like sandpaper. I rake my tongue over my teeth and retch at the sensation. I start with my fingers, and make fists with my right hand, before attempting to lift it and bend my arm at the elbow. So far so good. The pain in my head is so intense it might make me pass out, but at least it doesn’t seem like it’s getting any worse. When I’ve convinced myself I’m probably not going to die, I roll onto my back and stretch out my legs.
The lampshade is a novelty one I’ve definitely seen before but can’t place. It’s an oversized, slightly rounded football, made out of wire mesh and thin brown paper, and could equally as easily belong to a TV programme or film as it could my own memory banks. I blink up at it trying to work out how to focus without the room spinning gradually, but after less than half a minute I realize I can’t.
Donkey Doubled: A Twin Stepbrother Menage Romance Page 6