Zach keeps watching the band play, but doesn’t talk to either of us. After the song ends, Zach tells Jackson he has a phone call and excuses himself from the dance floor.
“It’s my agent,” Zach says. “Text me later.”
I sigh under my breath. I’ve blown the one big opportunity I’ve had to talk to him outside of school. I thought I was obvious about how I felt about him, but I guess girls probably have crushes on him all the time. Maybe he just isn’t interested in dating me.
Jackson turns to me. “Have you been drinking?”
I smile mischievously. “What if I have?”
Jackson’s far from the perfect guy, but I don’t want to hang out with Mika or be the third wheel with Antonia and Heather. Flirting a little can’t hurt.
“Then you should definitely share some.”
“It’s all gone,” I say. “But I can try to flirt with a guy to get you some.”
Jackson laughs. “No. That’s okay. I have some in my car. Do you wanna go out there with me?”
“To your car?” I ask.
“It’s just so loud in here,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
My head is dizzy from the alcohol. I don’t want to give Jackson the wrong impression, but I figure maybe I can get on his good side. Or find out more about Zach. They’re best friends after all. I think about texting Antonia to let her know I’m going outside with Jackson, but decide not to. I won’t be gone long. She’s been super into Heather all night and probably won’t be checking her phone much anyway.
“Yeah. Let’s go,” I say. “I just can’t be gone too long. I came with some friends.”
In his car, Jackson turns on an R&B album and pulls out a flask. He offers the liquor to me, but I already feel pretty buzzed so I shake my head.
“Suit yourself. More for me,” he says, chugging from the flask. He doesn’t say anything else, so I start asking him about himself. The only thing I really know about him, other than that his father sells yachts, is that he’s on a club soccer team, so I start there.
“Are you going to play soccer after you graduate?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s the idea.”
“I don’t know anything about soccer.”
God. I’m such an idiot.
“That’s okay,” Jackson says. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about anyway.” He turns in his seat and squeezes my bicep with his fingers. What’s he doing? Trying to test how jiggly my underarms are? I try to pull away, but he pinches my arm even harder. “You look so good, Liv. I wish I’d seen you more at the party.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling both flattered and uncomfortable.
Jackson leans over slowly and kisses me.
I panic. Have I already ruined my chances with Zach? I definitely should not be kissing Jackson, but based on how Zach barely spoke to me earlier tonight maybe I didn’t have a chance with Zach in the first place. At least Jackson isn’t sending mixed signals. My head’s spinning from the alcohol and, though I know this isn’t the best idea, I decide to kiss Jackson back. It feels good to be wanted. I’m not the best kisser, or maybe I am and I’m just underconfident, or maybe it’s the way Jackson seems to be pushing at me, like he’s trying too hard. I can go with this, and I do—it’s just making out—and I’m not entirely turned off even though Jackson goes way too fast. Talk about zero to sixty.
I pull back for a moment to get some air. It’s sticky and hot inside his car. “You’re a good kisser,” he says. “You must get a lot of practice.”
How am I supposed to respond to that?
“Not really,” I stammer, thinking I should kiss him again just so he’ll stop talking. He’s definitely not as charming of a conversationalist as Zach.
“Then let’s get you some more.”
He kisses me again, but then Jackson takes it too far. His hands start moving around my body, and I can’t keep up with them. He tries to grope my breasts over the fabric of my dress, but when I push his hand down he takes that as an invitation to try to lift up the skirt.
“No,” I say, squirming away from him. I want to shove him off me, but I’m worried he’ll tell everyone at school I’m a tease or, worse, a prude. Jackson completely ignores me. He’s moved his hand away from my legs, but now he’s awkwardly trying to slide his hand between the seat and me to grope my butt. “No,” I repeat again.
I’m totally uncomfortable.
I wish I were back inside the lounge.
Why did I ditch Antonia? Will she even be there when I get back?
I’ve ruined everything.
“It’s kind of hot in here,” I say. “You must be burning up too. Maybe we should get some fresh air.” He keeps pressing himself into me, running his tongue along my neck like he didn’t hear me. It feels like I’m suffocating. I start to take a deep breath, but I feel like I can’t draw any air into my lungs. I need to get away from him.
“I have to go. I better find my friends,” I nearly shout.
“But we just got in here,” he says.
“We’ve been in your car for a while.” I start to open the door. “Won’t Zach wonder where you went?”
“Not at all,” he says. “He’s probably still on the phone.”
He reaches for me again, grabs my arm, then my knee.
“I’m serious,” I say. “My friends will be looking for me.”
He finally gets the point. Jackson pulls away.
I feel relieved, but at the same time I don’t want to make him angry.
To soften the situation, I ask, “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You should go now.”
And just like that he wants me out of his car. He’s disgusted by me. By my rejection of him. It’s clear that since he’s not getting his way, I’m not welcome. I can’t tell if I’m angrier at him for being so awful or at myself for coming out here with him.
Talk about a disaster. I feel a weight on my heart, a pressure as if my chest is pushing in on itself. You’re so stupid, Liv. You thought because you’ve lost weight a guy would be interested in you? No one actually cares. You’re lucky Jackson gave such a fatty the time of day. Zach’s not going to even look at you. You’re just sloppy seconds now.
I head back to the venue. Antonia, Heather and Mika aren’t at the table. Did they leave? Did she see me go outside with Jackson? Does Antonia think I ditched her? I check my phone, but I don’t see any messages. Maybe they’re on the back patio or out in front of the lounge. I think about going to find them, but I feel a heaving in my stomach that I can’t ignore.
I run back to the bathroom, this time to puke. A whirling ball of negative energy is spinning throughout my body. My nerves are on fire. I can’t stop rehashing the thoughts spiraling through my brain. Your family doesn’t like you. You’re a crappy friend. Boys will never really want you. They’ll all be like Ollie. And Jackson. Your stomach is a slab of fat. You’re a prude. You can’t even let them touch you because you’re so afraid...
I lock the stall and hold myself over the bowl. It’s the only thing I can think to do to feel better. Nothing comes out. There’s nothing in my stomach. Just this noise of the beat of the music outside the bathroom pounding into me, into the rhythms of my life, into the chaos of my heart, taking control. I start to feel my body shake, to lose control.
The squeezing is tighter around my chest, like everything is constricting into a narrow tube, like I’m being compressed from every angle.
I turn and sit on the floor. I stare at the door in front of me, at the gray-green paint, at its dullness, at how my life is turning into that door, how I’m turning solid, into an object, something for someone to get through, something covered with a splatter of drab paint. I take a small flat razor from my purse and lift up my dress.
I’ve done this a few times before, only when th
ings get really bad, when I get so upset this is the only way I can hush the whirling inside my head. I feel sick. I can still feel his hands on me, creeping up my thighs, stroking my neck, grabbing my butt.
I make a cut inside my thigh. As soon as the blood pools on my skin—warm and wet—a sense of relief washes over me, like my heart is pumping blood again. The pain makes me present. It makes me feel real. Everything starts to come into focus again.
I’m Olivia Blakely. I’m in control.
I breathe in. I exhale. I breathe in.
I’m still here. I exist.
Then I stop up the blood with tissue paper.
Guilt washes over me. The tears well up. I don’t have that same pressure around my heart. I feel a different kind of pain. The kind that means I’m letting everyone down.
I leave the bathroom and the venue without knowing where I’m going or how I’m going to get there. I can’t bear to look for Antonia. She’ll be so pissed that I ditched her, and I don’t need another fight. I check my phone for texts from her. Nothing.
Before I know it I’m on a park bench drinking from a bottle of cheap whiskey that some college guys bought for me at the liquor store across the street. It’s pathetic, but that’s what the guys brought me. I’m not complaining.
The streets are dark except for the glow of streetlights. I take a swig from the bottle. Then another and another until I’ve slammed a quarter of the liquid. Instead of drowning out the thoughts—fear fear fear fat fat fat worthless—the whiskey only amplifies them until I can’t take it anymore. I need to talk to someone. I need Sam.
You’re drinking alone in a park. Pathetic.
All of a sudden there’s a loud banging noise. Realizing this probably isn’t the safest place for a drunk teenage girl to be sitting by herself, I scan the park. I think there’s someone digging through a trash can, but I can’t tell. It’s too dark.
If my parents ever found out I was here my life would be over.
I pull my phone out of my purse, balancing the whiskey bottle between my legs, and make the call.
“Liv?” Sam asks. His voice is crackly and hoarse, almost like he’s either been sleeping or hasn’t spoken to anyone for hours. “What’s up?”
“How are you?” I ask.
It’s lame, but I don’t know what else to say or how to start the conversation.
“Where are you?” Sam asks. I notice a hint of exasperation in his voice, but mostly he just sounds worried. I feel bad. I didn’t want to make him worry about me.
“Enjoying the night air,” I say, trying to keep him from realizing that I’m an emotional mess right now. I just want to talk to him so I can calm down a little.
“You sound weird,” Sam says. “Are you okay?”
Trying not to slur, I tell him about Mika and how everything was so weird, but I leave out the Jackson part. I’m vague about my location. I could be anywhere.
“That is weird,” he says. “Did you drink?”
I ignore him. I don’t want to answer that question.
“You’re so sweet,” I say. “So sweet to me. I want to put my head on your shoulder and just fall asleep.”
“You didn’t answer me.” He pauses and I can hear a girl asking him a question in the background. He tells her he’ll be there in a minute. “Do you need a ride?”
It takes a moment to sink in, feeling a tinge of jealousy that I immediately try to tamp down. Sam’s on a date.
“Liv. Seriously. Are you okay?” He sounds upset. “I’ll come get you.”
Here I am. Being the damsel in distress yet again. No wonder Sam thinks he has to be so protective. He should have never picked up the phone. I don’t deserve him as a friend.
“No,” I say. “I was just thinking about you. Look, I gotta go.”
I hang up on him. I don’t want Sam to see me like this. I can still smell Jackson on me. I feel so stupid. There’s no way I’m telling him anything more about tonight. I can’t even figure out what to feel about what happened in the car. Did I lead Jackson on? Was I assaulted? Was he trying to ignore me? Or did he really not hear me at first?
I suck up my pride and text Mason. He’s the only other person I can think to contact to give me a ride home.
I for sure can’t call Royce. He wasn’t perfect in high school, but he was an angel compared to Mason. He’d probably badger me to tell him what’s going on.
Mason’s a screwup. Like me. He may act different now, but he’s still afraid of himself. Still afraid of how horrible of a person he can be. I can tell. I may talk about how much I don’t get along with Mason, but we’re not all that different from each other.
LIV: Need a favor. Srsly.
MASON: What?
LIV: Pick me up? Plz?
MASON: U ok?
LIV: Just need a ride.
MASON: Where r u?
LIV: Silver Lake. Txt u the addy.
MASON: For real?
LIV: Plz mason?
MASON: Ya. I’ll be there.
By the time Mason shows up, I’ve polished off half the whiskey bottle. I can’t even look at my phone because the screen looks so blurry and makes me dizzy. I’m slouching on the bench, looking at the three missed calls from Sam, obsessing over how I’ve let him down yet again, royally messed up both my chances with Zach and ditched Antonia when this night—her first night out, out—was so important to her.
Mason parks his Lincoln Navigator and comes out to the bench.
“Come on,” he says, helping me up. “Get in the car.”
I stand up and leave the half-empty whiskey bottle on the sidewalk. Barely able to walk straight, I look down at my feet so I don’t trip. My toes and ankles are swollen and purple. I finally lift myself up into the passenger seat, sitting as still as I can to try to get rid of the spinning that’s starting to take over my brain.
“You need to get your act together,” he says.
“Coming from the guy who was drunk for half of high school and most of college,” I say, pressing my head against the window. “I was there.”
“I don’t need any reminders.” Mason hands me a bottle of water. He’s prepared. “It was hard to get clean but I did it. You need to think about what you want out of life. I don’t mind picking you up when you need me, but you’re better than this...”
I feel disgusting. I just want to take a shower and wash off all the grossness from this night—the vomit in my hair, the blood on my thigh, the feeling of Jackson all over me. I so don’t need this lecture right now. Not from Mason.
“Well, apparently I’m not,” I slur as I try to twist open the bottle cap. “Whatever. I don’t need a lecture from someone who turned into literally the biggest jerk every time he drank.”
“That’s not true,” Mason says. “And you know it.”
“You’re such a hypocrite.” I slam my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, trying to get rid of the spinning. “Going to rehab doesn’t mean you get to pretend it didn’t happen. You were awful to me when we were kids. Even when you weren’t drinking.”
“I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“You sound just like Dad.” I take a sip from the bottle. The cool water slips down my throat. “You probably don’t even remember some of the things you said to me.” Evidently I am trying to fight.
He focuses on the road, as if he’s too afraid to look at me.
I’ve never talked to him about those years. My feelings are hitting the surface so hard and fast that I’m barely aware of what I’m saying as I lay into him. “Let me remind you.” The way the words come out sounds so vicious that I wonder how long I’ve been holding on to all this anger. “It’s a Saturday night. I’m having a sleepover at home with my three best girlfriends. We’re making ice-cream sundaes in the kitchen.”
I close my eyes again. I can smell
the fudge being poured over French vanilla ice cream. The frosty feeling of the spoon against my tongue sends chills down my neck. The memory’s so vivid I feel like I could reach out and touch the younger version of myself.
I miss that girl. I want to go back in time to tell her that she should never grow up. Things are only going to get more messed up. She would never listen to me though.
“Enter you. Drunk. You saunter into the kitchen, and all of my friends can only pay attention to you, the cute older brother, while I’m trying to hide how totally embarrassed I am. Does this sound familiar?
“You then walk over, lift up my shirt and pinch my stomach—in front of my friends—and tell me that no guy will ever want to date me if I keep eating like a... What were the words you used? Oh yeah. You said no one would ever love an obese porker like me. I was twelve years old.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, almost whispering.
It’s not enough.
Mason doesn’t speak for the rest of the way home and I’m grateful for that, grateful for the chill in the night, grateful for the dark and the quiet hum of the car engine.
Grateful. For now.
t h i r t e e n
“Life’s under no obligation to give us what we expect.”
—Margaret Mitchell
Turning off the shower, I step out on the bath mat and wrap a towel around me. As I twist out the excess water from my hair into the sink, I face myself in the mirror.
I look like hell.
The mirror tells me all I need to know about last night. Red eyes. Puffy cheeks like a chipmunk. Swollen glands. After Mason went to bed, I raided our cabinets. I grabbed whatever food I could find that didn’t need to be cooked. Chips. Pretzels. Trail mix. Cashews. Rice cakes. Bagels. Royce’s old leftover pork rinds. Disgusting? Huh?
I can’t stop thinking about how horrible I feel about bingeing on all that food. It didn’t even taste as good as it used to. Nothing does. Nothing has a taste anymore.