A cigarette lit backward.., p.13
A Cigarette Lit Backwards, page 13
“I can’t drive, remember?”
“Ask your parents.”
“Dad works Saturday. Mom’s out doing mom stuff.”
“Find a way. I’m dying here.”
It wasn’t a hallucination; the love shack burned down. Only two walls were left standing. It must have been the candles or the space heater or a combination of both. He lost the TV, his skateboards, and the cash he had saved in a paper bag under the mattress.
He was left with nothing. Only the outfit he wore that blazing night. A good outfit, at least. Poor Jake. He was worse off than me. I’d do whatever I could to help him. He was staying with Dexter for the moment. On the couch in the Party Room. There hadn’t been a party in a while.
I took the bus downtown and walked to CVS Pharmacy. I picked up an apple, a banana, a carton of OJ, and a bottle of Pedialyte. I bought those. Meanwhile I lifted a Cover Girl powder compact, a tube of Revlon red lipstick, and a couple of trashy magazines to read while Jake slept. He warned me that he’d be “zoned out” most of the time but that he needed me to be near him regardless. “I’ll feel if I’m alone.”
On the way to Dexter’s I stopped at Open Eye Café. I’d need black coffee to face the task ahead. Every time I went to Open Eye, which was rarely, I wondered why I didn’t come more often. It was a great place to ogle cute girls who didn’t shave their armpits. From the line I spotted Bob. He was in the corner, sitting on one of the moth-eaten couches. He pretended not to see me, burying his face in a comic book. The sight of him made me long for a simpler time. To think that once he was my biggest problem. I tottered over to him.
“Hey, Bob.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hello,” he said to the comic book. “Don’t be afraid of me,” I said.
“Who said I’m afraid of you?”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
He looked at me. His eyes were angry.
“Can we forget what happened?” I offered.
“Nothing happened.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember you ran out on me like I’m some kind of creep.”
“Dude. I don’t mean that. I mean you being a dickhead about it?”
“Oh, come on. I just wanted attention.”
“You’re a grown man, Bob.”
“Well then maybe you shouldn’t be talking to me.”
He went back to reading. I stood there for a minute, snorted dramatically, and stomped away. I couldn’t believe he was hostile when I gave him a chance to make things right. I shouldn’t have given him the chance. Doing so canceled any superiority I’d held over him. Dammit, Kat. I knew why I did it. Bob represented my past. I wanted to hold on to it, grab hold of him, since the present was fucked. But the past was unreachable. Like who I was freshman year was unreachable. Would I morph into a new, terrifying person each year? I couldn’t fathom it. When I crossed the street I realized I left without my coffee. At least things can’t get worse.
Dexter’s Lab was spooky. The stereo buzzed Leftover Crack on minimum volume. Some bands shouldn’t be played that low. Dexter was dope sick in his bed and Jake was dope sick on the couch. Ashley nursed Dexter, I nursed Jake. I belonged to a damaged family unit.
“Did our boyfriends schedule getting sick at the same time? Like preppy girls plan matching outfits?” I joked with Ashley in the kitchen. We were mixing Pedialyte cocktails.
“Laugh now . . . cry later.” She looked haggard, like a mom.
“Have y’all been through this before?” I asked.
“It’s nonstop. He kicks, relapses, quits, gets sick, over and over. I’m stuck dealing with it.”
“That blows.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, at least we get to hang out. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Yeah, I miss you.” She sighed. “I miss the mall.”
“Let’s go soon.”
“Let’s go today.” She got a crazed look.
“Aren’t we stuck here?”
“They’re dead men,” she yelled. Then she covered her mouth and lowered her voice to a whisper. “They have no sense of reality.”
“What if they find out? Jake would be crushed.”
“Jake won’t know the difference between two minutes and two hours. When they pass out we leave. Deal?”
Jake was beyond reach. A human wasteland. A shell of himself. Sweaty, twitchy, agitated, irrational, unable to form cohesive thoughts. I fed him some Pedialyte and he refused to touch the fruit.
“I can’t eat.” He choked.
“You told me to get fruit,” I insisted, shoving the apple in his face. He slapped it away and it rolled on the floor.
“Watch yourself.” He moaned.
He twisted and turned endlessly on the filthy sofa, wearing only boxers. I shuddered to think how the scratchy upholstery felt against his skin. I put a sheet down for him when I arrived but within hours it was just a sweat-soaked ball of fabric pushed between his feet. He stank. He was pitiful. My heart ached at the sight of him. My maternal-girlfriend instinct throbbed with purpose. At the same time, I felt repelled.
When Jake stopped moving I took my new People magazine out from my bag. Just as I settled into the latest gossip, Ashley walked in.
“If we don’t leave right this second I’ll smother him with a pillow.”
We took the bus to the mall. The moment my butt hit the seat next to hers I recognized that feeling I used to get when diving into a mosh pit: freedom. I felt like a normal teenage girl. I leaned against Ashley and she held my hand. Out of character for us both. I think she was also relieved to be away from boy problems.
When we got off the bus we were new women. Ashley squealed as she hopped into the mall. Watching her bounce around in her booty shorts and go-go boots, I gushed with admiration. I decided to start appreciating our friendship more. I needed girl time.
“Kat, where are you going?” Ashley stopped me with her arm as I was darting to the left wing of the mall. I almost slipped and did a backflip.
“Victoria’s Secret. Don’t we start there?”
“Let’s go to Nordstrom.”
“Isn’t that place mad expensive?”
“We’re lifting, Kat.”
“I know. I mean, won’t there be security?”
“We’ll be fine.”
I followed her into the store. She disappeared into the racks but I held back. I pretended to browse the designer fragrances. I wasn’t ready to lift at Nordstrom.
Spritzing Dolly Girl, Pink Sugar, and Brit for Her kept me busy for several minutes. “I didn’t know you were a Burberry girl,” a voice said behind me.
I turned around to see Lucy. Her preppy friends lurked behind her. Lucy looked great. She was filled out, with some extra help from a push-up bra. Her face was glowing with youthful beauty. Her hair, which I’ve admired for a decade, and grown to love, as a sort of pet, was long and shiny. She styled it in mini-pigtails, so only half of her hair was pigtailed, the other half was straight and flowing. She wore Abercrombie head-to-toe . . . something she wouldn’t have been caught dead in years ago. I saw her looking me over disapprovingly.
My hair was greasy and stringy. Lately I got lazy and allowed my bob to morph into a shifty mullet. A rock-and-roll mullet, but a mullet nevertheless. I was sweaty from all the walking and nursing. I couldn’t recall if I had makeup on or not, but if I did, it was smeared. I wore my plaid skirt, ripped tights, Dr. Martens, and an oversized Rancid shirt I found under the passenger seat of Nosebleed’s car. It was covered in cryptic stains and smelled like mold.
“Hey,” I shrieked, like girls do when they haven’t seen each other in a while, or hate each other, or love each other, or all of the above. “What are you doing here?”
“Shopping. What else would I be doing here?”
“Oh, duh. This mall is great, right?”
“Yep.” She stared at me blankly.
Why the hell did you approach me if you aren’t going to talk? I wondered.
The chore of asking questions fell on me. That was our dynamic. We used to walk to Wendy’s every Saturday morning, after our weekly sleepovers. We’d eat a spicy chicken combo for lunch and talk freely, away from her parents. She’d go on about her crushes, her feelings, her problems. When I brought anything up myself she’d end up berating me. I didn’t dress girly enough. If your pants are baggy your shirt has to be tight, otherwise you look butch. Or my personality was preventing me from being loved. Boys don’t like you because you think you’re funnier than them. Or I lacked some basic grace I was unaware of. My mom says you’re obnoxious. I’d nod and gulp my Frosty. I realized I was better off accepting my role: the interviewer. Every friendship has the late-night host and the celebrity guest. I was her Jay Leno, she was my Charlize Theron.
“So, what’s new?” I asked.
“I’m so busy. I’m on varsity field hockey and I’m packed with AP classes since I’m applying to all the good schools.”
“Ouch.” I offered sympathy. She had no choice but to be perfect. Her dad beat her up for Bs.
“What about you?” She grinned.
“The usual. Playing piano. Sucking at school.” I pushed out a fake laugh.
“Since when do you suck at school?” She frowned.
“Since I got a boyfriend,” I stated matter-of-factly, as if the two were connected.
They kind of were, in my case.
“Is it Trippy Dope?” She looked embarrassed saying the name, and resentful. She was a huge Trippy fan.
I wanted to take her hand, get on the bus, run to her house, and spend the night. I missed it. I needed it. I’d give anything to be next to her in a sleeping bag. To tell her everything. The worst parts. Then watch her fall asleep. To wake up in the morning with a friend who carried my burden with me. “He isn’t my boyfriend,” I muttered, unable to look at her.
“Oh, right. You sleep with people who aren’t your boyfriend.”
My blood rushed into my hands and feet. “What’s it to you?”
“Just saying.”
I’d choke on my heart if I didn’t say something biting. “I know you think I’m a slut. That’s why you stopped hanging out with me.”
“What?” She reached a hand to her neck, like she had pearls to clutch.
“After the skate park thing, that summer.”
“That’s not why I stopped talking to you.”
“Really.”
“It didn’t help that you screwed a bunch of skaters without telling me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“That’s not the point. You never told me anything. You always had some secret life in the background. Like, you thought you were better than everyone else? That’s shitty. You’re a shitty friend.”
Her specialty was throwing a grenade at your head when you least expected. My “skate park incident” spread around town that summer, in various versions, like a game of telephone. She never bothered to hear my side. How could I tell her when she didn’t ask? Maybe I should have reached out to her but she was the least of my problems then. Anyway, even if I had done all those guys on my own, so what? She couldn’t be friends with a hoe? She preferred rumors to truth. Just like everyone else. Sheep.
“I don’t know what to say to that.”
“You never do.”
Lucy’s idiotic clones tapped her on the shoulder. “Time’s up,” they snapped, pulling her away. Tears filled my eyes when their backs turned. I let a few drops fall and shook it off. Where was Ashley? I scanned the room for red hair. Bird-watching. Between the stilettos and platforms I spotted my cardinal. She was my best friend and partner in crime. I’d never take us for granted. I loved watching her work so I held back to see the show. She plucked a pair of Louboutins off the display and shoved them directly into her purse. Strange, considering she didn’t wear sample sizes. Tall as she was, her shoe size was nine or ten, at least. Maybe she wanted them as a gift? Or a trophy?
She crept into the jewelry section, grabbed a necklace off a stand, and stuffed it in her pocket. She was never this reckless. I waved my arms to get her attention. We made eye contact and she waved back. I mouthed: Stop. She winked and pointed to the exit.
She always walked ahead of me so she arrived first. The instant she touched the doors, alarms blasted. That had never happened. It was the worst-case scenario. I couldn’t help. She tried to run, as was protocol, but a security guard was there already, he’d been there the whole time. He grabbed her arms, looked in her purse, said something to her, and dragged her away. She didn’t put up a fight. She had no chance.
Petrified, I hid behind the perfume counter, lowering myself to the ground. “Can I help you?” a lady asked. I’d hid behind the wrong side of the counter. The side where employees stand.
“Yes, ma’am.” I stood up. “Can I get a sample of the uh . . .” I looked around at the bottles and called out the first one I saw.
“Channel No dot five?”
“Chanel number five? That scent’s mature for your age.”
“I’m mature for my age.”
The lady looked at me like, Scram, kid. So I did. The alarms had stopped and the coast was clear. Everyone was back to minding their business, including Lucy, whom I avoided on my way out.
I walked around the mall anxiously texting Ashley. I hoped she’d reply, “I’m free. Meet at Cinnabon.” Or, “I kicked that cop’s ass, meet at the theater.” I’d even be happy with, “I’m in jail, bail me out.” She never answered. After a couple of hours I got ice cream and hopped the next bus home.
The following day I didn’t hear from her or Jake. Neither of them answered me. I didn’t dare call Dexter. Paranoia took over: Ashley’s in prison. Jake is dead. Or worse, they both hate you.
I had to take my mind off my mind. All day I hung with Mom at Weaver. I brought my schoolwork and she brought hers. Mostly she read the New Yorker and I read a comic hidden inside my history book. She knew it was there and I knew that she knew but she didn’t say anything. It was lovely, when I forgot what I was trying to forget.
Breakfast became lunch, which became dinner. “Can we stay longer?” I pleaded.
“Dad’s home alone,” she reminded me.
The thought of Dad sitting in his garage depressed me. He shouldn’t pay for my problems. He never did anything. I was the fuckup of the family.
Later I helped Mom cook dinner (watched her cook dinner) and we all ate in front of the TV. I force-fed myself half a stuffed pepper and moved the rest of it around the plate. The OC was on. I couldn’t tell if it was a new episode or a rerun because it was always the same: Marissa Cooper gets into trouble and everyone loves her so much that they help her out of it. Who wrote this crap? They didn’t know real trouble.
After we did the dishes my parents went upstairs and I stayed on the couch with the dog. I’d sleep there that night. The smell of paws relaxed me. They’ve got this delicious scent, like bread baked in sunshine. I sniffed them until I had my fill, then buried my face in her fur. Trying to sleep now was like trying to meditate in the middle of a highway. In an exhausted state I decided. Tomorrow you’re going to school.
NOSEBLEED’S
Nosebleed picked me up, as always. The only constant in my chaotic life.
“Where today? Dexter’s? The shack? A café?”
“This is crazy, but I was thinking . . . school?”
“Hell yeah.” He held up his hand for a high five. I missed his hand on the first try and got the second one, barely. “That was lousy,” he said.
“I’m not a high-fiver.”
“Clearly.”
I snorted. “So what have I missed? Fill me in.”
“Uhhh . . . huh?”
“What’s new at school? Our crew? The hill?”
“We don’t chill on the hill.”
“What?” That was like saying the moons of Jupiter moved to Mars.
“Well, you’ve been MIA. Madeline’s in the loony bin. Ashley’s always at Dexter’s. Charlie avoids me. Hah.”
“Shit. I abandoned you.”
“Nah.” He shrugged but I could tell he was beat up about it.
“What do you do at lunch?”
“Go home.”
“Can I come with you today?”
“Yeah. I’ve been holding some merch for you.”
“You should have said so.” I patted his leg and felt the muscles bulge as he slammed his foot on the gas.
School was . . . fabulous. I walked down the halls in slow motion. Gossip trailed me like flies on a cow. How I missed that rush. I fed my teachers various stories of my whereabouts. My math teacher was a dick but the others seemed relieved to see me.
Mountains of catch-up work and pats on my back. Exams to cram for and colleges to consider. Now that I wasn’t abandoning regular school for the arts academy (shudder) I had to figure my shit out. Surprisingly, the concept elated me.
My locker combination took a few tries but I cracked it open to find surprises inside. Including a rotten apple, a bottle of chocolate milk, random trash, and photos of Trippy Dope taped everywhere. Embarrassing. I cleared it all out.
In class I cracked jokes and even the jocks laughed. I smiled brightly at each passing face in the hallway. Catching the cheerleaders walk in their flock brought me unprecedented joy. I felt a kinship with everyone. Even my teachers seemed cool. My efforts weren’t one-sided. Adoration and attention followed me. Groupie Kat was back. Word on the street (in the halls) was I’d been spending quality time with Trippy on his tour bus . . . why would I burst such a gorgeous bubble?
Sure, being a delinquent had its perks. When you choose not to care about anything, nothing can hurt you. The world can’t touch someone so far lost. Nobody expects a bum to pay taxes. You aren’t part of society, you’re beneath it, and therefore above it. My problem was, no matter how “bad” I seemed, part of me did care, so my failures hurt, even if I failed on purpose. At the beginning I thought, Failing a test is cool if you don’t try to study. It’s only sad if you try and then fail. But if you care even a little bit, like I did, the first version is actually sadder than the second. Because it’s your fault. I was guilt-ridden. I wondered endlessly how to relieve the guilt associated with ditching, lying, and failing. It never occurred to me to simply go back to school.
