I walk in to see her yawning like a lioness and stretching on the sofa.
She’s not drunk.
She’s sober and pleasantly renewed having just woken from an afternoon nap.
My mood lifts.
I have nothing to worry about after all.
“Hey. Do you want me to fix us an after school snack?” I offer, opening the pantry.
“Do you want to just have dinner early so you can get ready for the party?” I look at the clock and it’s almost 5 PM. My face scrunches realizing that I just spent more hours taping monster pop-outs onto windows and winding crêpe paper than I thought I did. “Let’s order pizza and I’ll make a salad.”
If I was the last person in the world and the only food left was unlimited pizza, I would die happy.
And full.
And very fat.
“That sounds amazing,” I say with a sigh and a stretch, mimicking hers.
“I’ll order while you take a shower. Then we can do your hair and make-up.”
She’s more enthusiastic about this shindig than I am. I am thrilled that she hadn’t gotten obliterated while I was at school.
After dinner, she helps me get ready. My hair is all pinned up in fancy swirls and my face accented with sparkling gray make-up. I pull on some gray leggings and then throw on a giant, round, fluffy felt sack that Mrs. Timlin helped me make in class. I look more like a storm cloud than a rock.
After the fifteen-minute photo shoot with my mom (seriously, she now has thirty pictures of a human rock/storm cloud), I’m ready to go. I kiss my mom goodbye. I back out of the driveway in my white Toyota and make my way to school.
Winding up these foggy roads evokes a creepiness that riddles me with anxiety. The same stress and anxiety I’ve had all day.
I’m uneasy about seeing Brett and Ryan tonight. I’ve barely spoken to either of them. I turn the heater up and sing along to my favorite Lumineers songs in hopes of settling my nerves.
I park the Toyota and give the mirror one last glance before making my way to the cafeteria doors. I’m almost sickened with anticipation of what the night holds. I can feel it in my bones the same way that some people claim they can internally feel the effects of a full moon. I feel something heavy and ethereal pulsing through the air tonight and I mean more than just the crisp chilly autumn breeze.
I meet Veronica and Jimmy at the front doors, waiting for me. Veronica is covered with red fabric and pipe cleaners going down her legs and red loops on her shoulders. Jimmy has two giant poster boards slapped on his front and back. We show Mr. Dirks, who is standing guard, our student IDs and walk in. We are quickly enveloped in fog, black lights, strobe lights, skeletons and orange crepe paper. I’m oddly proud. We did a decent job of decorating.
“Well, here we are. Last Halloween Dance of high school,” Veronica announces.
“Let’s make it the most memorable!” Jimmy declares with such enthusiasm, we all smile.
***
AND SPEAKING OF THE “most memorable,” we’re all standing around the food table eating snacks. Mr. Kovsky keeps eyeing us pathetically as if we should be out dancing instead wasting our youth eating sugar and sipping red punch.
Mrs. Timlin is on the dance floor dancing with her arms flailing and head bouncing as if she’s at Woodstock. I’m embarrassed for her, but equally envious that she has confidence to dance however she wants in front of people.
I casually look around for Ryan.
“V, I’m going to go pee. Be back in a few,” I tell her. She nods, chomping the chocolate and caramel of a Twix, shoving it in her mouth.
I’m relieved to be out of the strobe lights and into the school’s fluorescent hallway lights. I look down and my “rock” has lost some of its plumpness. I now look like a skipping stone. I look up just as Brett says my name.
“Ramona, I’ve been looking for you,” he says.
I turn around to look at him. I raise my left eyebrow absorbing his costume from top to bottom.
Mr. Oblivious is Sherlock Holmes for Halloween.
He has the jacket, hat and even a wooden pipe. I giggle before I can stop myself.
“What’s so funny?” he asks with a concerned expression. “Do I have something on my face?” I shake my head between giggles. He peers down at himself, opening his jacket. “Are you laughing at my costume? I think it looks great. Todd Bartlett was supposed to come as Watson but he bailed on me,” he explains sincerely, which makes my giggle turn into a laugh. “Now you’re making me feel self-conscious. What’s wrong with it?”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s a good costume. It’s cute. You actually look really good in it, I promise.” It’s true, he does look good in it. I finally gather my composure and breathe. My stomach muscles start to feel sore already. “It’s just really ironic.”
I make a start for the bathroom again. I make it a couple feet before he darts in front of me.
“About last night–”
“I really have to pee, Brett. I’m sure it can wait.” I sidestep again and break into a teacher-like speed walk. I can hear his fancy Sherlock shoes following me, releasing the sound of his firm heel on tile floor. Click-put, click-put, click put.
“Okay, but then can we–”
I stop abruptly when I see what’s happening down the left hallway. He runs into me and I bounce forward. He follows my gaze and tenses. I stop breathing completely and I’m in so much shock I forget how to move.
It’s like a train that pummels a car that then gets smashed by a plane crash––
Except I’m the person in the car.
It’s like a piano hanging by rope off of the roof, lingering on the side of the building––like in an old movie or cartoon––and then the rope gets cut and the piano pulverizes the person underneath–
Except I’m the person underneath.
Looking at it makes you sick to your stomach but you have to look to make sure it’s even real.
The kaleidoscope of butterflies in my stomach turn to moths.
Ryan is passionately kissing Daphne. His body is smashed so tightly against hers that it’s pinning her to the wall. Her shirt is un-tucked from the rest her tiny “librarian” costume, which is clearly against Halloween Dance Dress Code. Not to mention offensive to librarians everywhere.
It’s difficult to tell in the dim lighting but he has his hand up her shirt, groping her. Daphne finally looks our way, grins, and immediately stops to nudge Ryan away and begins smoothing out her shirt. Ryan follows her sadistic gaze and takes a step back from Daphne in shock. His eyes bounce between Brett and I in the same way mine are darting between Daphne and Ryan.
“What the fuck is going on?” Brett shouts at Ryan.
Daphne, the demon trollop, abrasively says, “You didn’t actually think Ryan liked you, did you?” She smugly smirks, bumps her shoulder into me as she turns and walks back to the dance.
If I could move, I would kill her.
But I can’t.
I’m completely paralyzed.
Next thing I know, Jimmy and Veronica are by my side.
“Hey! We won Best Group Costume! Come on, they’re waiting for us!” Veronica says, grabbing my elbow. She follows my vacant stare. “What’s going on?”
“Ramona, look–” Ryan starts.
“Don’t talk to her,” Brett yells as Ryan walks toward us.
“This has nothing to do with you, Dixon. You and Daphne broke up so mind your own business. Ramona–,” Ryan starts again calmly like he’s had this conversation rehearsed.
“This is my business. You can’t just hook up with Ramona and be doing god knows what with a bunch of other girls. Ramona’s better than that,” Brett says heatedly.
“Ramona and I can do whatever we want. This really isn’t your business. You’re making it your business because you want to be hooking up with Ramona.” He glances between Brett and I and continues, “Or you already are and you’re still jealous that she wants me. Come on Brett, don’t
deny it. I see how you look at her. Just admit it already.”
1...
2...
3...
4...
Long seconds of silence pass.
I want to look at Brett’s face but I can’t take my wide eyes off of Ryan.
I can feel my eyes prickling and my chin on the verge of quivering.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you–”
“Are you kidding me, Dixon?” Ryan exasperates. “You’re pissed because the girl we’re both hooking up with saw me kissing your ex-girlfriend?” Ryan says with his eyebrows raised. “Unbelievable.” Ryan laughs.
“What’s he talking about? Hooking up with Ryan and Brett?” I faintly hear Veronica ask me at my side.
I shake my head to deny it but no words escape.
Nobody else has a chance to say anything because Brett closes the few feet between him and Ryan and punches him right on the nose. Ryan nearly falls down.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hands. My eyes grow wide as I back up a couple steps, bumping shoulders between Veronica and Jimmy.
“Seriously, Ramona? Brett? I can’t belie–” Veronica’s voice sounds on the edge of maniacal and homicidal, completely ignoring that Brett just socked the hell out of Ryan.
“Veronica, it’s none–”
“Shut up, Jimmy!”
“What the–” Veronica doesn’t get to finish because Ryan staggers back up and nails Brett in the eye.
There is more punching and students running and yelling, but it all sounds faint to me.
I can only hear the ringing in my ears.
I can only see blurs of colors moving around me.
Veronica, disregarding the mayhem, grabs my elbow to turn me to face her yet my eyes are glued to the fight. She’s moving her mouth but I can’t focus enough to listen to what she’s saying.
I twist my arm out of Veronica’s lethal grip. I run away from all of them.
I need to get away.
I need to get away from Ryan.
I need to get away from Daphne.
I need to get away from Brett.
I need to get away from Veronica.
I need to get away from strobe lights, the sticky floors and the tangy, fog smell.
I need to get away from this school.
I need to be in my car.
I need to be home.
Suddenly I realize, I need–
My mom.
CHAPTER 24
I CAN’T BREATH UNTIL I’M outside by my car in the parking lot. I gasp in air like I’ve been underwater fighting for my life. Dashing into the shrubs, I heave out the acidic butterflies that were so desperately begging to get out. Unfortunately, pizza isn’t as good going out as it is going in. I can’t stop trembling. I bend over and grasp my knees desperately willing myself to catch my breath. I know I only have a few seconds before someone starts chasing after me. I see a dauntingly bulky shadow out of the corner of my eye as I’m doubled over. Before I can turn my head to see the owner of the shadow, I hear a voice that makes me gag once more.
“Ramona? Are you puking?” the husky voice asks. “That’s so gross,” Jet mutters, walking closer to me.
I squeeze my eyes hoping to wake up from this nightmare. I feel his hand on my shoulder. I stand up quickly and stiffly. I take every ounce of anger and energy in me and slap his face so hard it sounds like tin pan being slammed against a countertop.
I wipe the dribble of puke that’s resting on my chin and bolt.
“What the hell, Ramona? I was going to ask if you’re okay!”
I slam my car door shut and zoom out of the parking lot leaving Jet with a red-hot handprint on his cheek.
The floodgates finally open and I break down into erratic sobs.
Of all the people in all the world, why Daphne?
What’s wrong with me?
Why am I not good enough?
Now Veronica and Jimmy know that I’ve hooked up with Brett behind their backs like some kind of Benedict Arnold.
Benedict Arnold! What kind of asshole has two first names, anyway?
How could you be so ignorant and naïve to let all this happen, Ramona?
Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.
I can’t wipe the tears fast enough to fully clear my vision. All I need is to be home with my mom.
Once you get home to Mom and out of this ugly costume everything will be okay. Just make it home to your mom, Ramona.
Just.
Get.
Home.
CHAPTER 25
“MOM!” I YELL, PLOWING THROUGH my front door, tears still streaming and snot still running. I notice the kitchen light is on and there’s a soft glow coming from the living room.
“Mom, where are you?” I yell once more. Silence is the only answer I receive.
I throw my wallet and keys down by the stairs and run into the living room. I sniffle and wipe my face with the back of my hand. The TV is on so I round the corner to turn it off. I gasp and stumble backwards over my feet and harshly fall onto the wooden floor.
My mom’s legs are on the sofa but her top half has fallen off as if she was reaching to grab something on the table. The coffee table is shoved forward from its usual spot.
She looks freakishly crooked and grotesque.
Blood stains the corner.
A spilled glass.
Pills sprawled out on the table.
Her head is...
Bleeding!
I let out a loud scream and scramble on my hands and knees to her.
“Mom! M–mom, wake up!” I yell, slapping her face a few times.
She’s unresponsive.
I cry out in fierce sobs with snot relentlessly running down my nose.
“MOM!”
I dive for my phone across the room.
I can’t seem to get control of my shaking hands no matter how hard I try. I can’t see well enough through the tears to decipher my number pad.
“GOD!”
I manage to tap the icons to dial the person I last called on my phone in hopes that they can help.
“R–Ramona?” A static voice calls out through the speaker on my phone.
“HELP! Please! H–Help me! It’s M–Mom!” As soon as I wrench the words out, she falls to the ground and she begins to puke unconsciously.
I drop the phone, screaming, scrambling on my knees back to her head because somewhere lost in the thick haze of my mind I remember that Jimi Hendrix died from choking on his own vomit during an overdose.
“A–Are you there? Can y–you hear me?” the voice blares over the poor connection.
I take her head in my lap and turn it to the side.
She’s soaking in blood and brown puke that reeks of alcohol. Her face is the palest of green. In the blue TV light, her usual soft, dark golden hair is matted with damp blood making it look black. I’m shaking and sobbing uncontrollably.
I lose my mind when she starts convulsing.
“P–P–PLEASE, M–MOM, WAKE UP! GOD, PL–PLEASE! GET UP!”
“Are you at h–home? R–Ramona? What’s wrong? Should I call 911?” the crackled voice says, panicking.
“Y–Yes! Yes!” I shout hysterically.
She convulses again and I shriek.
I’m rocking back and forth on my knees and shouting at her until I slip back into settling in blood and slimy, brown frothy vomit.
My mother’s blood.
My mother’s vomit.
Pills.
Liquor bottle.
Broken glass.
Blood.
Vomit…
Then, just like the rest of my world, I fall apart and everything goes black.
CHAPTER 26
WHEN I WAKE, MY EYES groggily tell me that I’m in my bedroom. The soft glow from my bedside lamp allows my mirror to bounce light to the rest of my four walls. Through my crusty eyes, I see that I’m out of my hideous costume and wearing a giant t-shirt. I wipe my eyes with the pads of my palms. I leap a foot i
n the air when I see Sherlock Holmes is sitting on the floor next to my bed. He’s got his coat and hat on and a pipe sticking out of his pocket.
Am I dreaming?
I give my eyes a good rub and open them wide. Sherlock Holmes is, in fact, sitting in my bedroom. And he does, in fact, look like complete crap.
“It’s okay, Ramona, it’s okay,” he says jumping up. “Relax, don’t get up too fast.”
“Brett? What’s happening?” I ask simultaneously as the memories of the night charge back to me like a heard of horses. In a panic, I attempt to get out of bed. “My mom, where is she? What happened?”
“Ramona, you passed out. Don’t get up so fast. Sit down.” I oblige only because his voice is stern and insistent. I sit up in my bed with my legs unfolded before me. “She’s in the hospital. She’s going to be okay. The paramedics told me to have you relax and remain calm. They said you were in deep shock when they got here and then you passed out. That’s when I got here. You called me and told me to call 911.”
It dawns on me that I clicked send on whomever I last called. Brett is the last person I called, right before we met up Thursday night.
“What happened to her? Let’s go,” I demand, making a move until Brett’s hands land on my legs bringing them to a halt.
“She slid and hit her head on the corner of the coffee table and it knocked her out and split her head a tiny bit,” he says, sincerely. “I’ll take you to the hospital but you should probably shower first. You were covered in blood and...stuff.”
I know he’s trying to sugar coat it because as he says it I remember exactly how I passed out.
Covered in blood, puke, tears and snot.
My arms fly around my belly as my stomach churns. I gag and then heave stomach acid right into Sherlock Holmes’ anticipated open hands which look like they are about to receive the Body of Christ. But we are far from the reach of God.
We are frozen in dismay for a second before he jumps up and says, “It’s okay. Really. Are you okay?” He runs to my bathroom. He hurries back with a damp towel.
“Wait,” I say, finally noticing my shirt, which now has dribbles of green vomit. “Why am I–? How did I–? D-Did you–?” His cheeks blush faintly pink, a look that I’m not used to seeing on Brett.
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