My Monster

by Einat Segal

  Esmeralda’s wearing one of her famous dirty looks, except it’s directed at me for a change. "Well, yeah. You could’ve said something one of the million opportunities you had instead of acting all weird!"

  "Hey, what if I was wrong?" I ask, matching my tone to hers. "What if Ashley hadn't done it and Laurie was just some girl you really got along with? Would it have been better if I ruined that for you?"

  "It sure as hell would have. I'd have been able to see for myself if she was worth my time. Give me some credit, Soph."

  Oh. I take a step back. "Well, I didn't see it that way," I say. Everyone's bad at admitting they're wrong. I'm no exception. I still don't feel like I did wrong. Even if she says that's what she would have done, I'm not so sure, and there's no way to actually know.

  "You didn't see it that way? That's because . . ." Esmeralda stops speaking abruptly.

  "Stop making this about us," I say, surprisingly calm despite the fact that I'm feeling unnamed emotions right now.

  "I can't be around you right now." Esmeralda's tears have returned. She storms back into Dean Marklin's house and disappears down the stairs to the basement. I get it. She needs to be angry at someone. I try to put it out of my mind, but I don't know whether the sick sensation in my stomach is due to this whole night or to the fact that I'm not quite over my flu. All I want is to get home and crawl into bed. I dig into the top of my purple glove, searching for the car keys.

  I roll both gloves down, but there's only my phone and my scissors. I search the floor around me.

  "Dropped your contact lens?" asks a voice behind me.

  I turn to fix Shawn with one of my darkest looks. "I'm not in the mood."

  "She'll be all right," he says.

  He heard us. Well, that's not surprising considering the amount of attention he gives me.

  “Stop pretending like you know her,” I say as I straighten up. My keys aren't here. I feel like sitting on the floor right now and just staying there all night until Halloween is finally over.

  "I'm only assuming that if she somehow managed to become your friend despite your personality, then she's capable of seeing this whole situation for what it truly is."

  "Which is?" That sounded suspiciously like wisdom, and I never knew that anything remotely wise could come out of Shawn's mouth.

  "Stupid. The only person who will remember this night forever is Ashley Glick."

  I shiver. Shawn speaking this way is clashing with the image of Shawn that I have in my head. "Shawn," I say slowly, my voice almost gentle.

  He leans toward me. "What?"

  I look at him from under my mascara-laden eyelashes. "Can you," I say, "help me find my car keys?"

  Maybe it's my imagination, but it almost seems like he’s disappointed. "Only if you agree to dance with me."

  "Shawn," I try to say threateningly.

  "Just one song," he says with an impish smile.

  It's not like I hate dancing. I can actually do it better than most people because I really get into the music, have a good sense of beat, and whether I'm being watched or not makes no difference to me. And I'm already at a party. I don't plan to go to one ever again. "Fine, just one."

  * * *

  We don't find the car keys.

  And I end up going for more than one song. I don't know what comes over me in there. The moment I step into the party, everything that's powering my thoughts goes on vacation, and people are much more attractive and easier to tolerate in the dark. But that's not all. If I were alone, without Shawn, I wouldn't be able to stand it for long.

  He’s a total goofball on the dance floor. He doesn't take it very seriously like the other kids do, and he's good at moving his body. But it's as if the way he dances is a parody about dancers and people in general. It's clear he loves it.

  His mood is catching.

  I spot Esmeralda leaving with Dracula and Batman. I don't say goodbye. I assume she still needs to cool her head. We're not like other girls. It's not the first time we’ve had an argument. We'll forget about it by Wednesday.

  What must be hours later, and a whirlwind of lights, loud sounds, and grinding against various boys and girls, my legs are ready to give way, my chest muscles hurt because Jessica Rabbit's dress literally has zero support, and I'm as good as drowned in my own sweat. That's when Donatello of the Ninja Turtles comes into the room bearing a tray with plastic shot glasses. He sidles up to me and offers me one.

  I shake my head. I’m a lightweight on an empty stomach after the flu. "I'm good."

  He insists. "You look sober."

  My inhibitions are off, so I just do it. I take a shot glass and chug the whole thing down in one fell swoop.

  Oh, the stupidity.

  Shawn stops dancing when he spots what I'm doing. Despite losing most of his costume, he’s still wearing his pants and plenty of black eye makeup. He's at my side even before I manage to understand that I had just committed an idiotic mistake.

  He's catches my elbow, turning me around so he can look into my face. Ha. Shawn. Like I buy that look of concern. "Are you crazy?" he shouts into my ear. “That was from the bottle of Pincer Vodka that Eddie brought!”

  "Okay?"

  “It’s, like, ninety percent alcohol. You literally just drank a whole shot of pure alcohol. And you spent the whole weekend sick. Did you even eat anything today?”

  I shake my head. I'm not exactly a party girl. That thing I just drank didn't have a taste. It just felt like some sort of chemical that burned my mouth and throat, and now my stomach's unhappy about it.

  But aside from a slight discomfort, I'm fine.

  I'm totally fine.

  “So . . . what’s supposed to happen?” I ask. But I know what’s supposed to happen. It can take thirty seconds for alcohol to reach the brain under the right conditions.

  "You tell me, genius."

  Huh?

  I smirk and pull my arm away from him. Then I try to take a step toward a nearby sofa.

  My head spins, and it feels like there are weights connected to my knees. My stomach rudely nudges me.

  Shawn reappears next to me and is biting his lip. Great, he thinks this is funny.

  "I’m not drunk," I say, pointing at him.

  “Riiight." Shawn takes my elbow again. "Let's just find you some water."

  "Water?" I begin walking toward . . . water. My legs don't know how to navigate this floor, and I stagger sideways into Shawn.

  He can barely stand straight himself, because he's cracking up with laughter. "You're so drunk."

  "Don't you dare get any ideas?" I say. Why do I phrase that like a question?

  "Do I look like I have a death wish?"

  "Yes?" Again, a question?

  Shawn snorts.

  The next thing that happens is a blur of walking through the noisy dark with a very sleepy mind. My face’s so warm. My arms are heavy.

  I let Shawn lead me around. He presses a bottle of water to my lips. I gulp it slowly.

  He leads me outside.

  We're in the backyard of Marklin's house. There're a bunch of girls throwing up and a couple doing it on a blanket on the lawn.

  Looks fun. Wish it were me.

  Shawn sits me on a bench well away from everyone. Still, we both watch the banging couple in thoughtful silence as if we're watching the stars.

  I feel like my head will roll off my shoulders. It's heavy enough to break my neck.

  I let it fall into Shawn's lap.

  "I'm sad," I admit.

  "Why?" His hands absently begin sliding through my hair.

  "I just am," I say, closing my eyes and concentrating on his fingers in my hair. I wish he wasn't as good at this as he is.

  "Fee?"

  "Mmm?"

  "You like him? The Australian dude?"

  I think about it. "I guess? I don't want to like him. You know how I am, Shawn.”

  “I know you, Fee . . .”

  “Dating in high school is stupid. We’re just fo
oling around, y’know?”

  Shawn says nothing. I let him part my hair and gently scratch my scalp with his short nails.

  "Shawn?"

  "Yeah?"

  "It's unlike you," I say quietly.

  "What is?"

  “You can get any girl you want with zero effort. But you’re trying too hard . . . so hard with me. It's unbecoming . . ."

  "Well, yeah, that's—"

  "Do you actually have a thing for me?"

  His hand stops moving. He takes his fingers away. Oh shit, he does? I turn my head in his lap to see his expression.

  His face is shaded, and his eyes are looking down into mine. His fingers are back, tracing my cheek and pushing my hair behind my ear.

  "Gee, I don't know, Fee," he whispers. "Do I have a thing for you?"

  We look at each other. Ah, why does he look so sexy from here? He bends forward and plants a soft kiss on my forehead.

  On my forehead, huh? Rawr, so naughty.

  I tilt my head and bring my hands up to his face. Shawn’s lips are fuller than Landon’s, and taste salty from his sweat. My stomach twists with the rapid beats of my heart.

  He pulls away from me, his fingers still threaded through my hair.

  "I don't kiss drunk girls unless they kissed me before they were drunk," he says in reply to my outraged expression. I get out of his lap.

  What am I doing?

  "This would never happen if I wasn't drunk," I say, trying to save face.

  "We could've done this with you sober," he says wistfully.

  "In your dreams." I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts. "That's weird."

  "What is?" His voice is slightly choked. I try to ignore how hurt he sounds.

  "That Summer-whatever guy is gone."

  "What?"

  I shrug in reply, and finding Landon, I make the call.

  Shawn sighs. "I'm going to take a leak." And he leaves me there.

  "Is this the famous 2 a.m. drunken post-party booty call?" asks Landon. Over the phone, he’s so far. It sounds like some animal growls in the background.

  "Laaandon, play Patty Cake with me?" I ask, my voice rising from the depth of my throat.

  * * *

  When Shawn comes back from the bathroom—or wherever he peed—it’s very clear to me that he’s sulking. His whole face looks stiff when he sits next to me on the bench. He doesn’t look at me, either, and instead stares at the couple on the grass—yes, they’re still at it.

  Lucky them.

  “Oh yeah,” he suddenly says, pulling my car keys out of his pocket. “Apparently some guy dressed like Peter Pan who isn’t even from our school was trying to steal your car. Esmeralda saw it, and she and her friends wrestled the keys from him. That Elliot guy gave them to me while you were dancing.”

  I snatch the keys from his hand. “When did this happen, exactly?”

  “While you were dancing,” he deadpans.

  I shake my head. I don't know why I even bother to feel any form of surprise. This is Shawn Henderson I’m speaking with. “You’re so consistent it’s almost sad.”

  “At least I’m consistent in something. You’re all over the place.”

  “I actually view myself as very straightforward.”

  “Bullshit.” He rises to his feet, turning his back to me in an attempt to show me how exasperated he is. “You know, Fee, I just don’t get it. Sometimes it’s like you want me, really want me, but you’re just scared to admit it, and then other times, you actually hate me.”

  “So?” I say. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol that’s not wearing off, or the fact that it’s after 2 a.m., or the combination of both. It makes perfect sense to me that I want and hate Shawn.

  He turns toward me, his brow furrowed, and there’s a tremor in his voice when he speaks. What’s gotten into him tonight? “Which is it?”

  I lie down sideways on the wooden bench, closing my eyes. “I don’t know. Both? Why not? Whatever. Maybe both. Both. Yeah,” I mumble, pressing my hand to my forehead. “Sometimes you’re hot. Like . . . give me a piece of that, hot. Like, I can get turned on from hating you. But then sometimes you don’t tell me you have my car keys and that makes me want to . . . to defeat you. Shawn, if you make stuff into a game, I’ll play. But I’ll play to win.” I rub my face, trying to make the world stop spinning. “I would have slept with you the night you came to my house if you didn’t do things in your stupid-ass way. But that’s all too late. I prefer Landon now.”

  “Hah,” says Shawn. I feel the bench move slightly as he resumes his seat by my head. “You know, I think I like this.”

  “That I prefer the other guy over you?”

  “No, I hate that. I like when you’re honest. I never know what’s going through your head. This talk, we’re like . . . we’re open with each other.”

  “Oh wow, honesty between people. How genius is that? Why didn’t you come up with it sooner?”

  The bench vibrates some more as Shawn shifts his weight around. I remove my hand from my face and open my eyes to find him grinning down at me. “This is gonna be our thing, Fee. The honesty thing.”

  I groan. “No, it’s not.”

  “Shut up, you don’t get to choose.”

  Rising up despite the better interests of my aching head, I scoff, “That’s your problem right there. You think you can impose your—”

  “See?” His grin widens into a cheeky smile. “You’re doing the honesty thing.”

  “I always do the honesty thing, idiot.”

  “No, you don’t. You lie all the time. You even lie to yourself.”

  “I don’t lie to myself. I know who I am.” My voice is low, almost a growl.

  “Fee, I know there’s more to you than just hating things—”

  “I was born the way I am, Shawn. Just like you were born a douchebag.”

  He turns to me, angling his body to face mine. “You’re oversimplifying yourself.” He looks, for all intents and purposes, as if his point has just been made. “Now it’s my turn to be honest with you, Fee. Landon’s okay, but he’s weird. His secrets and lies are just waiting to bite you in the ass.”

  “I don’t care about that stuff,” I say, fighting down a wave of nausea that suddenly rises from the abyss of my stomach. “Secrets and lies? Everyone has those. Even if he’s a psycho-killer, he’s so good in bed, I can’t bring myself to care what he did with his life before I met him.”

  “I just have a feeling . . .”

  “You mean, a fantasy?”

  “Okay, Fee, that dude is suspicious. The way he acts, it’s almost like he transferred to our school specifically to target you. You’re the first person he talks to on the first day of school. You’re the only one he asked everyone about and the only one he interacts with. You can argue he has a crush, but it all looks so . . . so contrived . . .”

  Contrived? Since when does Shawn know such long words? “Now you’re just being jealous,” I say.

  We’re both distracted by golden sparks. It looks like somewhere in one of the other yards, someone’s lighting fireworks. Flashes of light illuminate the dark before vanishing without a trace. Shawn had successfully distracted me, but now I’m melancholy. My phone vibrates, and I answer to tell Landon that I’m in the backyard.

  “That was fast,” Shawn says with a roll of his eyes. He gets off the bench and begins wandering away.

  But he’s back by my side in seconds, because I can’t take it anymore.

  It’s just so awful. My stomach summersaults.

  I lean over the edge of the bench and hurl with Shawn holding my hair.

  And the strangest part? Even while I throw up, Shawn’s hands in my hair feel amazing.

  * * *

  Landon arrives. I’m lying on the bench, on my stomach, curled up and shivering. The cold suddenly found me, and it’s biting into my bloodstream. Landon throws his jacket over me. He and Shawn exchange a few words that I can’t follow because I’m half passed out.

>   Landon’s hands touch me. He guides my body into a sitting position. I don’t need too much prompting to melt into his arms and rest my head on his chest. Then he lifts me like I’m some kind of Disney princess.

  I let it happen because this is Landon. Maybe I have my doubts about him, but now that he’s here, I’m a little less empty.

  “I don’t have my car,” he says gently. I listen to his voice from the crook of his shoulder. “A friend dropped me off.”

  My fingers twiddle with my car keys until I’m able to lift them up. “It’s the grey Honda down the street.”

  He nods his head. I snuggle against him, tempted to kiss the side of his neck, but I don’t because of throw-up breath. When we reach the car, he puts me down on my feet. I hand him the keys before getting in and putting on my jacket.

  As he drives me home, I cry. I don’t know why I do. Maybe it has something to do with Esmeralda. I bawl my eyes out, and he sits there and lets me do it. He doesn’t judge or demand that I tell him what’s wrong. It’s like he knows that there’s no reason, that sometimes a girl just needs her tears.

  On the way to my house, we have to stop for me to throw up again, and then stop at a gas station because Landon decides to buy me a big bottle of ice-cold Gatorade and mint-flavored chewing gum. I drink in small sips like he instructs, and it really does help make me feel better.

  We take a long way home. We get lost on purpose. The third stop we make is to park the car in a deserted field. Then Landon helps me feel better by using his body, and we cloud the windows of the car with steam.

  Later, I think about the discarded condom we left lying in that field. I wonder if it will be a child playing there tomorrow who’ll find it. I once found a used condom in a vacant lot by my house when I was a kid. I didn’t know what it was back then, but it was gross.

  This is like closing a circle.

  * * *

  Esmeralda and I don’t make up by Wednesday because that’s the day Shawn posts Ashley’s video on YouTube. He blurred the faces and distorted everyone’s voices, but the school knows who it is and knows what she did.