Burnt Orange

by Melody Carlson

  And just like that, we are in and I’m thinking, Hey, this is pretty cool. It’s like we really are grown-ups—like we passed some kind of test. The place is already getting packed, and we go up some stairs to a kind of balcony thing and stand at one of those tall little tables, where some other people are already standing around and sipping drinks.

  “What do you guys want?” Slater has to yell to be heard above the music, which I’ve already been informed is just the warm-up band and not DistanceWalker (the underground British band that Claire is so certain will become the Beatles of the new millennium—yeah, right).

  Claire orders a Long Island iced tea and I figure that sounds like a fairly safe bet, so I order the same. Then Slater goes off to wait in line at the bar.

  “Have you seen Eric yet?” I ask Claire.

  She just shakes her head and continues searching through the crowd. Man, I hope this guy shows up. I know she’s going to be bummed if he doesn’t. Then I ask her when DistanceWalker is going to play, and she says probably not until nine or later.

  “That late?”

  She nods, looking at me like I’m slightly retarded. “That’s not that late, Amber.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  It’s hot in here, and my sandals are starting to feel tight. They’re actually Claire’s sandals and a half-size too small, although they seemed okay when I was walking across the thick white carpet in her bedroom. Not only that, but the heels are like four inches high and the balls of my feet are starting to burn.

  “Is there any place to sit?” I ask her.

  She shrugs and points to where some others are starting to sit on the stairs. Great, I’m thinking. But then I remind myself, Hey, you’re supposed to be having fun!

  It feels like about an hour before Slater comes back with our drinks, although it’s probably more like fifteen minutes. How he managed to get the tray through the crowd without spilling too much is a mystery to me, but the tall glass of “tea” with lemon looks appealing since the warm room is making me pretty thirsty.

  The three of us click our glasses in a toast that Claire makes but I can’t hear. Then I take a drink. Of course, I realize this drink has alcohol in it, but somehow I convince myself that it doesn’t have that much. It tastes a lot better than what’s in Claire’s flask, and it’s not long before my glass is empty.

  Slater looks slightly surprised but politely asks if I want another drink. I feel kind of greedy when I say yes. Then I actually hold up my little purse that has only my ID and a twenty-dollar bill (since Claire said not to bring anything else in case I lose it) and offer to pay for the next round.

  “No way,” he tells me. “Put that away.”

  “You can just get me a Coke or Dr Pepper,” I tell him.

  “Don’t you want another Long Island?”

  I shrug.

  Then he grins. “Sure, you do. We all do. Right, Claire?”

  She holds up her almost-empty glass. “Count me in.”

  So off he goes to wait at the bar again. But this time it’s taking longer and the crowd is thicker, and while he’s gone, Claire spots Eric and takes off to say hello. So now I am standing by myself and feeling a little tipsy—tipsy but happy. Suddenly the music sounds better, and I’m feeling pretty relaxed.

  Before I know it, I’m talking to complete strangers—a girl named Amy who lives in Stanfield and her boyfriend, Peter, who’s from out of town.

  We’re all talking loudly so we can be heard over the music, and it’s not long before I’m so relaxed that I nearly let it slip that I’m still in high school. But just before I blow it completely, I recover and tell them that I just graduated from college. And then, pretending that I’m Simi’s sister Lena (although I don’t use her name), I tell them the things that Lena has done as though it were me. I tell them that my major was counseling and that I just moved back home to save money, and they nod as if this is totally believable. They seem like nice people, and I introduce them to Slater when he comes back.

  Then he points to a place to sit that has just been vacated, and I’m so happy that I run and sort of stumble on my way over. I get there just in time. As soon as I sit down, I take off the painful sandals, and although the floor is sticky and gross, my feet are so relieved that I don’t even care.

  “Good save,” says Slater as he joins me. He clears a place on the messy table so that he can set our drinks down. “Where’s Claire?” I point to where I last saw her, but I don’t actually see her now. “She found Eric,” I say as he hands me my second Long Island. We hold our glasses in another toast “to a fun night,” and then I take a long, cool sip.

  Okay, it starts getting a little blurry here. In some far corner of my brain, I realize that I haven’t had anything to eat since my lunch break at the mall, and that was just a big pretzel and a medium Orange Julius. Not only that, but I’ve just consumed not only two but two and a half Long Island iced teas (since Slater and I decided to split Claire’s), and I’m starting to feel a little strange—or maybe the room’s starting to move now.

  I have no idea how much time has passed, but I try to keep a brave front for Slater’s sake. I’m pretty sure that DistanceWalker has taken the stage, since the lighting has changed and there’s something up there making smoke and stuff.

  Off and on, I think I’m talking to Slater, making intelligent comments about the band, although I’m not really sure that I’m making sense. I’m not actually sure about much of anything. I’m not even sure if I’m still here or not. Everything is becoming this dark, noisy, smoky blur.

  Then suddenly, like out of the blue, I feel like I’m going to hurl. And it’s like I can’t breathe and I can hardly see, and although I’m on my feet, it feels as if I’m tilting sideways and falling.

  When I come to, I am in the bathroom with the girl I’d met earlier—was it Amy?—and she’s holding a wet paper towel on my forehead.

  “What happened?” I ask, or at least that’s what I mean to say. It sounds like “wha-happen?” to my ears.

  “You passed out,” she tells me. “Your boyfriend asked me to help get you in here. He thought you were going to lose your cookies.”

  “Did I?” I ask hopefully.

  She shakes her head no and then frowns.

  Then I close my eyes and wish I were dead.

  “Do you want me to call someone?” I hear her asking, but it’s kind of fuzzy like maybe I’m imagining it.

  “Call God,” I say, and I think that makes her laugh. But the trouble is, I am perfectly serious.

  “Are you going to be okay?” she asks when I finally open my eyes again, but I think I see two of her. Does she have a twin?

  “Yeah,” I tell her as I try to stand up. “Don’ worry ’bout me.” But as I make it to my feet, everything starts to spin again and I feel woozy and barfy and I’m looking for a place to throw up. I see what looks like about a waist-high trash can and I stagger over and make it just in time.

  I’m not sure how long I stand there hanging on to the trash can and barfing, but the next thing I know, I feel like I really need to use the toilet. And I’m not talking about just taking a little whiz. I mean, it feels like I’m getting diarrhea—full-blown “I’m-gonna-explode” diarrhea.

  But every stall seems to be occupied, and finally I am standing there yelling for someone to vacate or else I’m going to lose it right there on the floor—and it’s going to be ugly and smelly and gross.

  A girl shoots out of a stall, and I manage to go in. As I close the door, I hear another girl saying how they shouldn’t let some people into clubs. “They ruin it for everyone,” she says loudly as I barely make it down on the toilet seat on my second attempt.

  “Some people just don’t know how to drink,” says another girl.

  “Some people shouldn’t be allowed on the streets after dark,” says another, and they all laugh like it’s funny.

  But let me tell you, that bathroom gets pretty quiet after the smells from my stall start seeping out. A
nd I’m pretty sure it is nearly evacuated as I sit there and moan and groan, holding my throbbing head with both my hands and wishing I could just get this over with and die. Finally I think I’m done, and I do feel just a tiny bit better, but all I want to do is go home—and die.

  I look down at these filthy bare feet on the nasty bathroom floor and it takes me a minute to realize that they belong to me. Then suddenly my stomach is twisting and turning, and I feel like I’m going to barf again.

  “God, help me,” I mumble as I realize what a pathetic, messed-up loser I am. Is it possible that only a few weeks ago I was living a completely sane and normal life and now I’m just one step away from needing to be hauled out of this place in an ambulance? I make myself sick.

  Tears are streaming down my face as I cling to the filthy toilet and wait to vomit again, and the whole time I’m thinking, Are we having fun yet? What was I thinking to get into such a mess? I am such a fool, such a stupid fool.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but I somehow manage to pull myself together enough to make it out of the bathroom. Slater finds me sitting on a step just outside the door and asks if I’m okay.

  I tell him that I want to go home, or at least that’s what I’m trying to say. It comes out in these messy sobs that probably don’t make much sense. But somehow he gets it, and to my surprise, he doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve ruined the evening for everyone.

  I don’t know where Claire’s sandals are and think it’s hopeless to even try to find them, but Slater helps me walk out to the car without stepping on anything too disgusting. Feeling totally lame, I apologize about a dozen times as we’re walking. Then once I’m safely tucked into the passenger seat, he announces that he’s going back inside to tell Claire. I’m disappointed that we’re not leaving right away but sober enough to realize we can’t just abandon Claire either.

  “Will you be okay for a few minutes?” he asks as he locks the doors.

  “Don’ worry,” I say. “I’ll jus’ take a li’l nap.”

  I don’t wake up until Slater starts helping me out of the car, and I’m afraid he’s taking me back into Lola’s. But then my feet are on something wet and cold. I look down and see what looks like grass.

  “Where am I?” I mutter.

  “Your house,” he tells me.

  Now, there’s a somewhat sobering thought. I mean, I am definitely relieved to be home, but I can’t imagine how I’m going to explain all this to my parents—especially when they think I’ve been at youth group tonight. Youth group, ha-ha! Pretty funny.

  He walks me up to the side door that I’ve pointed out and then, pausing briefly, kisses me on the forehead. “I’m sorry you got sick,” he says.

  “I’m sorry too,” I say for like the hundredth time.

  Then I open the door and tiptoe into the semidark house and stand in the kitchen for a minute or two just holding my breath and waiting to become toast. I’m not sure what makes me think my parents would be up, since on a normal Saturday night they would have already gone to bed by now, and I can see by the kitchen clock that it’s after eleven. Of course, this has not been a normal night—at least not for me.

  For some irrational reason, I think that if tonight’s been such a horrible ordeal for me, well, then everyone else must know what’s going on too, like I really do believe it’s all about me. But as I slowly move through the house, making my way toward my bedroom while trying not to bump into anything, I assume by the crack of light beneath their door that my parents have already turned in for the night. Oh, I know they’re not asleep yet. They just go into their room and read and stuff, and when I get home, at least one of them will say something.

  “Good night, Amber,” calls my mom.

  “’Night, Mom,” I call in a voice that doesn’t quite sound like mine. I’m guessing my dad has already dozed off. My mom doesn’t seem to suspect anything, so I slip into my room and collapse on my bed and, with tears pouring down my hot cheeks, pass out.

  Will I ever wake up? Maybe I don’t care. And if I wake up, what will I find? What will be left of me? I think I’m in about a thousand pieces right now—pieces that are strung out along I-42 between Ashton and Stanfield. And like Humpty Dumpty, I don’t know if I can ever find the pieces and put them back together again. I am a mess.

  fifteen

  I WAKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND THINK I’M GOING TO BARF again. I try to be quiet as I go to the bathroom, but I’m shaky and disoriented and I have to hold on to the wall to get there. I sit on the edge of the tub crying. I wish this all would end. I even ask God to help me, and I promise myself and him that I will never touch a drop of alcohol again. I will go to church and youth group and maybe even become a missionary to China or Nigeria.

  Then I throw up and have diarrhea all over again. I feel like a dirty dishcloth that’s been wrung out again and again. How can there be anything left inside my body? I recall something I read online about alcohol poisoning and how your body reacts to an overdose of alcohol like it’s a poison, and I realize that’s what I’ve been doing—I’ve been poisoning myself! And then I start crying all over again.

  I brush my teeth and drink some water and then peer into the mirror above the sink. I look absolutely hideous. It’s like I’m a monster. My eyes look like bloodshot slits that have been carved into my blotchy and swollen face. And there are black streaks of eye makeup running down my cheeks. I stare in horrified amazement and tell myself to remember this—to remember this is what it looks like. I think that might help me to never do it again, not that I think I will ever be tempted. I mean, how could a person feel so bad, hit such depths, and then go back for more? No, that’s impossible. I know it.

  I consider taking a shower, but besides not having the energy, I know it would wake up my mom, and then I’d have to explain. So, feeling filthy and wrung out, I go back to bed and sleep fitfully until morning.

  I’m slightly better but not okay as I go back to the bathroom and take a shower. The water feels like needles penetrating my skin so hard that I think I must be bleeding, but I’m not. I’m shaky and breathing hard by the time I get out and towel myself off. But the towel feels like sandpaper and I’m sure that it is tearing up my skin, but it’s not.

  I put on some clean sweats and crawl back into bed, where I alternate between shivering and getting too hot.

  “Amber?” calls my mom. “You coming to church?”

  I sit up in bed and do my best to look normal as she peeks in the door. “I’ve got to be at work an hour early today,” I mumble, barely feeling guilty for the lie.

  She frowns. “That’s too bad. Maybe you should ask for Sundays off after this.”

  I nod, which makes my throbbing head ache even more. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  Then I lie back down and she leaves and I sleep until ten thirty. I get up and slowly get dressed, but I honestly don’t know if I can make it into work today. I still feel nauseated and weak and shaky.

  I make myself drink a glass of orange juice, which I think tastes a lot like vomit. Then I get in my car and start to drive. But here’s what’s weird: it’s like I’m still under the influence, like I’m still drunk. And it’s freaky. It’s like it takes all my concentration just to stay on the right side of the street and stop at lights and stuff, and I’m really scared that I’m going to get in a wreck. Finally I get to the mall and slowly walk to The Caramel Corn Shoppe’s back door.

  “Hi, Amber,” says Jan in a cheerful voice.

  “Hi,” I answer back as I put my bag underneath the counter.

  “You okay?” Now she’s peering at me like I must still look pretty awful. “You look like death warmed over,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really, you look sick. What’s wrong?”

  “I, uh, I think I have the flu.”

  “Well, why didn’t you call? You can’t work in here with the flu, Amber.”

  “I thought I was getting better.”

  Now she look
s even closer at me, and I can tell by her expression that she’s sort of confused. Finally she says, “Have you been drinking, Amber?”

  Of course I deny it.

  “Well, I didn’t really think so, but it was an honest question.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Well, you better go home. I can’t have you in here looking like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Maybe I can get Simi to come in earlier. She’s supposed to be here at two.”

  I nod but don’t say anything as I pick up my bag to leave.

  “I hope you feel better. Call me if you think I need to change next week’s schedule.”

  “Yeah.” Then I go back out to my car and get inside and just cry. I honestly can’t remember when I’ve felt as awful as I’ve felt during these past twelve hours.

  I go back to bed when I get home and sleep soundly until nearly two. Amazingly, I feel a lot better when I get up—not quite normal, but way better. I make myself eat a bowl of Rice Krispies with a banana sliced on top, and then I actually start to feel okay. I wonder where my parents are and then realize they probably assumed I was at work and went out for lunch after church.

  I go outside and sit on our front porch steps. I’m sitting in the sun, and it feels amazingly good, like a healing touch from the heavens, and it’s like I want to thank God for sparing me. Yet I feel so humiliated for having been such an idiot that I can’t even pray, so I just sit there and do nothing.

  Then a car drives up and I realize it’s Slater, and I look so awful that I’m tempted to run in the house and hide. But then I think, What difference does it make? I’m sure he thinks I’m a total loser anyway. I mean, I can’t believe how I messed everything up last night.

  “How you doing?” he asks as he comes up the walk.