“Cassie,” Sarah says. She touches my shoulder and I turn around. “Merry Christmas,” she says, her face lit up like she actually thinks the words mean something.
“I hate Christmas,” I say.
“Me too,” she says. I am imagining her home alone tonight, in that empty house full of garbage and suicide. “What should we do?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.” I start walking without waiting for a response. Sarah follows like she always does.
I head for the parking lot across the street. It is the only place I can see where there are no families or strollers or Santas or Christmas carols booming out of invisible speakers hidden in streetlamps. The parking lot is the only place where everything is still normal, the place everyone has left and forgotten, the only place not pretending to be something it’s not. I am walking through rows of cars, zigzagging between red and blue and white and black metal. Sarah is following. She does not question the lack of direction.
I caress a red Porsche. It feels sticky under my hand. I tap the headlight with my finger and move on to the next car.
“Are you okay?” Sarah says.
“Yeah,” I say. I touch the blue Subaru. It is cold.
“You’re acting kind of weird,” she says.
I should look back at her. I should tell her I haven’t slept or eaten in two days. Instead, I reach into my purse and pull out a cigarette. I light it and blow the smoke at the car window, thinking maybe I am strong enough to make it pass through. Maybe my lungs have the power to blow through glass, to get inside something impermeable.
“Can I ask you something?” I say. The trees that surround the parking lot are skeletons. The sky is gray and will soon be black. There is no color anywhere.
“Yeah,” she says. She is behind me. I am looking at the sky.
“Have you ever had an orgasm?” I say. I am thinking about clouds, about how they look soft but are really cold slivers of water. “I mean, do you, like, like sex?”
I turn around. Sarah is thinking. She is looking at the ground. She looks up and opens her mouth but waits before she speaks, and I can’t tell if it’s like she’s embarrassed or like she’s apologizing.
“I’ve never had sex,” she says. “Not really. Not, like, with a boyfriend.” She looks at the blue Subaru. She rubs her hand along the side. She says to the door, “I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
I can see her reflection in the shiny paint, all distorted and blue and tragic. She is always tragic. She is always pale and weak and wounded and fragile and she is always following me around like a fucking puppy. I have a sudden urge to smash the door in where her face is reflected, to kick it as hard as I can, to find something hard and heavy and hit it until it is nothing.
“Do you want a boyfriend?” I ask her. I am seeing her in the backseat, on her back, her legs up and her eyes closed. I try the handle of the door. It is locked and I keep walking.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t think so.”
We pass by a gray Honda Civic, a little nicer than Ethan’s. It is locked.
“Do you think it’s bad to not like sex?” I ask her.
She pauses, like she’s thinking hard, like she’s contemplating the car’s paint job and tires and the meaning of life. Finally, she looks up at me. She cocks her head to the side and says, “I don’t see how anyone could.”
She is serious but I start laughing. She tries to smile and I can tell she doesn’t want to, but I don’t care because it’s the funniest thing I ever heard. She is standing there with a weird grimace on her face like she’s trying not to cry, and all I can see are movies projected onto the cars in the parking lot, all of them close-ups of a woman’s face in the throes of movie passion, eyes closed, lips quivering, head back and moaning that movie-sex moan that’s low and high at the same time, guttural and animal like some ferocious beast but also whiny and whimpering like a pathetic, starving kitten. This sound does not exist in nature. It is a special effect, made in some lab in Hollywood where they combine the sounds of predators and the sounds of prey, as if the two could coexist in the same body without destroying each other.
“It’s open,” she says.
“What?”
“The car,” she says. She is pulling the handle of a white Audi. The door is ajar. The distant sound of a police siren cuts through the cold, empty air.
“We should probably get in,” I say. It is the logical thing to do. It is winter. It is Christmas Eve and we have nowhere to go.
“Yes,” she says.
“I’ll drive,” I say, and she walks around to the passenger side.
We get in the car and close the door and I suddenly realize how cold I am. I rub my hands together. I blow on them. I wait for our body heat to warm up the car. Sarah looks in the glove compartment, but there is nothing interesting—some napkins, a map of Seattle and the Eastside, an owner’s manual. I put the seat belt on and it makes me feel better.
“Are you okay?” she says again.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” My hands are on the wheel. I am thinking of driving through snow. I am thinking of mountains. I am getting higher and higher and the snow is getting deeper and deeper. I turn left and I turn right. There are no cars on the road.
“You seem weird,” she says. “Are you on something?”
I keep turning the wheel. It is a video game. If I crash, I have three more lives until my quarter runs out. If I run off the cliff, I will materialize good as new.
“Just the Ritalin,” I say.
“But we did all that,” she says.
“No we didn’t,” I say. I park the car. I turn to Sarah.
“What do you mean?” she says.
“Don’t be mad at me.” The cars are still reflecting the faces of women, but they are sleeping now, calm and satisfied after great movie sex.
“I won’t.”
“There’s more,” I say.
“More what?”
“More Ritalin. A lot more. Justin gives it to me and I don’t give it to you.” I turn the steering wheel as far to the right as it will go. It locks and I pull on it, but it won’t move anymore.
“Oops,” I say.
“Do you give it to Alex?” she says.
“No,” I say. “And don’t tell her.”
“I won’t.”
The credits roll and it is the end of the movie. I lock the doors and it makes me feel warmer.
“Are you mad at me?” I say.
“No,” she says, and I look at her. She has folded a napkin in half, then in half again, and now it is a thick little square that won’t fold anymore. She holds it in her hand like she’s thinking of keeping it, like she’s proud of what she has created.
Then she opens up her palm and lets it slide onto the floor.
“You should be careful,” she says, looking out the window at all the motionless cars, the blank screens.
“About what?” I say.
“I mean, just because it’s a prescription doesn’t mean it’s safe. It’s the same as speed, you know.”
“You sound like a guidance counselor.”
“Sorry,” she says, and looks at me, still pathetic as always.
I smile. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m smart.”
“I know.”
We sit for a while looking out the window at all the cars stopped and waiting to be moved. A young family with a baby is fighting next to a truck. The wife is red-faced and crying as she holds the baby dressed like a little elf. For some reason, I suddenly feel like crying. That baby has no idea it’s wearing a stupid pointy green hat. He has no idea his mother and father hate each other. He doesn’t know there’s nothing he can do about any of it.
“I have something for you,” Sarah says.
“What?”
“A Christmas present,” she says. I feel a dull thud in my chest. I have nothing for her.
“I didn’t get anyone presents,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t even get my mom something.”
“It’s okay,” she says, smiling. “I didn’t get anyone else presents, either,” and that just makes me feel worse.
She looks through her purse, takes out a small red envelope and hands it to me. To Cassie, it says. Love, Sarah. I open it carefully and pull out a little cellophane packet with four hits of acid. I look at her.
“For us to do together,” she says. “Just you and me.” She is smiling, hopeful, like she just asked me to marry her.
“Let’s do it now,” I say.
“But you’re leaving,” she says. She looks at the clock on the dashboard. “You’re leaving in thirty minutes.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “Then I won’t be bored at my stupid family dinner and you won’t be bored when you’re home alone tonight.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then closes it. She looks down at my hand holding the cellophane, then up at me with her same old pathetic face. “Okay,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t want to, and I don’t care.
I pick up the two hits with my fingernails and stick them on my tongue. I hand the rest to her. She licks them out of the wrapper like someone’s holding a gun to her head, and I think if she doesn’t want to do it, she should just give the rest to me.
“Now you won’t be so bored tonight,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says.
We sit there for a while not talking. I know it should be an hour before the acid kicks in, but I keep hoping that it will be sooner because my stomach’s empty. But everything keeps feeling the same. The cars are still not moving and Sarah is still sitting there looking like someone died, like she wants me to feel sorry for her, but I won’t. It is Christmas Eve and it is time to be festive and fuck her if she wants to ruin it.
“I’m going to go,” I finally say.
“But it’s not time yet,” she says.
“I have to stop by the store for cigarettes,” I tell her, even though I know she knows it won’t take more than a minute.
“Okay,” she says. I open the door, but she keeps sitting there looking at the dashboard.
“You should get out of the car,” I say. “The people might come back.”
“Yeah,” she says, and we both get out.
(FIFTEEN)
The headlights of the oncoming cars are all blinking in rhythm to “Jingle Bell Rock.” Mom is tapping her foot and humming along, Dad’s wearing a tie that says “Ho, ho, ho” when you squeeze Santa’s belly, and I’m chemically enhanced in the backseat, listening to the cars sing to me and, for the first time, I’m not completely dreading Christmas Eve with Dad’s fucked-up family. I wish there was a way to feel like this forever, to not have to deal with the anxiety of coming down and running out, to not have to worry about the body needing to sleep or eat, to not have to worry about the money and ass-kissing and humiliation required to feel good again. I could become a scientist. I could invent the pill that would make me feel like this forever. I could make Justin invent the pill. I could marry him and pretend all sorts of things and he would make me the pill and it would be worth all the lies and slimy, smelly sex I would have to have with him.
Burien is not far, but I wish it were. I want to drive forever so I can stay curled up in this dark and soft little world where no one’s watching me, listening to this Christmas music like bubbles bouncing in my head, feeling the cool glass against my forehead as I watch the city lights swoosh by. Red and white and green trail neon in front of me. There’s the Space Needle with the Christmas tree on top. There’s downtown and the office buildings and the dock and the ferryboat and the water reflecting wavy moonlight. There’s Bainbridge Island, all wrapped up like a Christmas present with green, fuzzy, pine-needle wrapping paper. Somewhere on the island is my old house, square and full of some other family’s Christmas, a big cardboard box at the end of a gravel driveway with decorations only the birds and deer and raccoons will see.
“White Christmas” comes on and my dad starts singing in a fake Sinatra voice. Mom laughs and puts her hand on his and he doesn’t shake it off. They are holding hands and he’s singing and the city lights stream by like silent confetti. I have found the perfect chemical balance and I could die right now, I’m so happy.
Here is Burien and here are the strip malls and the rusty trucks and the strip clubs and taverns. Here is the Wal-Mart and the gas station and the church. Here is a neighborhood like Ethan’s turned upside down, the broken lawn mowers and mattresses and toys in the front yard, the yellow grass, the cars on blocks, the plastic reindeer and Nativity scenes, the red and white and green lights covering everything and trying to turn it into something beautiful. Here is my Aunt Lily’s house, the glowing Santa lawn ornament, my family’s ugly old cars lined up along the sidewalk.
And there is Uncle Charlie’s shiny black BMW parked in the driveway like everybody knew to save that spot for him.
All of a sudden, the chemical balance shifts and I start feeling anxious again. I have not thought about Uncle Charlie. When I think about this family, I think about the assortment of El Caminos and other dumpy, dented American-made cars. I think about their fashion that is always a couple years behind. I don’t think about him or his black BMW, his fancy suit, his cologne that smells like money. I don’t think about how everyone tries so hard to pretend his presence is the most natural thing in the world, how the conversation always comes back to someone bragging about something, hoping Charlie’s listening, hoping he’s impressed. I never think about Charlie and the way he doesn’t talk much. I don’t think about how he just sits there watching and grinning, silently judging us all.
We are getting out of the car and I can already smell his cologne. I am dizzy. The smell is clogging up my lungs. The black-green of the shadowed lawn is swirling around with Santa; fibrous dark plants and glowing red plastic are dancing, mixing, becoming something unnatural and sinister. Fanged Santa. Santa with bulging red eyes. Santa covered in black-green fur.
“Close the door and come on,” someone says from somewhere behind me, and I do. I walk toward the light and leave the tornado behind me. It is now time to act normal.
The light sobers me up. Everyone is in focus. The aunts all bounce out of their seats and hug us because that’s what they always do, smelling like a million cosmetics and hair sprays and baby powders. The uncles get up slowly to shake my dad’s hand, their big bellies straining against this year’s new Christmas sweaters. They say things to me and I say things back. I do not look them in the eye. I do not show them the giant black disks of my pupils. Uncle Charlie stays seated. I can see his hand holding a beer, his legs, his expensive shoes, but I do not look directly at him. I can feel his eyes burning into me. I can feel the grin on his face, the one that says, You people are pathetic.
“Charlie,” my dad says.
“Bill,” Charlie says. The sound of his deep voice makes me shiver, like it’s an eruption inside my ribs, an explosion of cold air, spreading and freezing everything in its path.
“The kids are in Tracy’s bedroom,” someone says. “Drinks are in the laundry room,” someone says. I make my exit without waiting for everyone’s “How’s school?” and “You look so grown up now” and “You must have to fight the boys off with a stick.” I get out as fast as I can.
The laundry room is set up like a bar, a red tablecloth covering the washer and dryer. It feels safe in here, cool, quiet. I would stay in here all night with the lights off if I could, but I know people would keep coming in and out, opening the door and letting the light in, filling up the space with their fat, white bodies and stealing the air.
I fill a plastic cup with ice and rum and a little Coke. I take a sip and it is the best thing I have ever tasted. Warmth spreads through my entire body and all of a sudden I don’t feel so much like hiding. All of a sudden, I feel like everything’s going to be okay and it makes me laugh a little. I am laughing to myself in a giant closet because it’s Christmas Eve and I’m on aci
d and speed and no one has any idea. I am laughing because I feel great even though two seconds ago I wanted to disappear. It’s crazy how feelings can switch that fast, how something as stupid as the taste of something can change everything.
The adults are sitting in a circle in the living room like they do every year. Folding chairs fill up the spaces between the couch and love seat and armchair. TV trays hold bowls of nuts and candy. Mom heads toward me on her way to the bar and I slip into the bedroom before she has a chance to say anything.
I have three girl cousins, all born within three months of each other, all three years older than me, all living in the three neighboring towns of Burien, SeaTac, and Seahurst. They share the same friends. They go to one another’s birthday parties. Here they are, sitting on the bed in the room with framed cat posters. They are sitting on the pastel, floral print comforter, surrounded by a hundred lace or satin or needlepoint pillows, surrounded by framed posters of cats with balls of yarn, cats sleeping, cats dressed up like sailors, cats in giant beer mugs. They are slightly different variations of the same person, with the same pale, greasy skin; the same mousy brown hair; the same plump, pear-shaped bodies.
“Oh my God,” says Tracy, the leader only because she’s the least homely. “Cassie?”
“Oh my God,” says Kelly, the short one.
“Oh my God,” says Becky, the zitty one.
“Hi,” I say. I am number four, the alien.
“You look sooooo different,” says Tracy.
“Yeah,” says Kelly. “Like, way older. And, like, not ugly.”
“When was the last time we saw you?” asks Becky.