Abroad by Katie Crouch Page B

ignored me. I yanked her arm, causing her to whirl around in annoyance.
    “Taz, come on , don’t be a killjoy. It’s early.”
    My entire body cramped. Anna was far away in the crowd. I struggled to make myself heard over the music. “Please. Can you just get me to—”
    “ Tab itha!” I turned at my name. It was Claire. Unlike the rest of young Grifonia, she hadn’t dressed up at all for the evening. In fact, she seemed to be wearing what I’d seen her in the day before—baggy jeans, a T-shirt, and Converse tennis shoes. “What’s up?”
    Just then a second wave of nausea hit, only this time I actually felt the bile in my throat, tasted it. I gripped Claire’s arms and stumbled into her.
    “Claire, can you—I’m…”
    My American flatmate understood instantly. Moving behind me, she took me by the shoulders and steered me at a sure pace through the crowd.
    “ Scusa! ” she called. “Move please. Scusa! Move! ”
    Once we reached the bathroom—a revolting, overused cell—she moved us right to the head of the line and banged on the door. “Sick girl here! Out, okay? I’m serious—get out!”
    For you to understand how grateful I was to Claire at this moment, you’d have to know that I’d never been sick in public before. And that while I often drank to quiet my nerves, I’d never actually seen the room spin. You’d have to know that my mother regularly cleaned the house with bleach due to a slight obsessive compulsive disorder. That, due to this, I often had nightmares about being attacked by germs and bacteria. And so, when Claire held me away from the urine-slicked floor, cleaned my face, found soap to wash my hands, pulled me outside, and found me a bottle of water, it was all I could do not to cry as we walked down the sloped alleys toward home.
    *   *   *
    The next morning, I woke with the poisonous remorse that is often alcohol’s parting gift. The very air in my room felt acidic. Claire was strumming the guitar in the living room, and though there was a door between us, it sounded as if her fingernails were raking my head.
    “Made you breakfast,” Claire said when I came out.
    I shuffled to the counter, where she had set out a bowl of fruit and some yogurt. In my diminished state, the colors looked positively radioactive.
    “Thank you.”
    “Time-tested U of M recipe. Yogurt to calm down your stomach. Fruit for detox. Juice for sugar. And the most important food group? Advil.” She pointed to two pills she’d laid by my plate.
    “This is so … kind.” I poked the yogurt with the spoon, knowing I’d never be able to get it down.
    “No worries.”
    “I’m so sorry about—”
    “Please. You know how many times I’ve puked my guts out from drinking? God.” She sipped her coffee. I sat near her, setting the food on the table. “I’m just glad I was there. Did your friends not hear you or something?”
    “No. I guess not.”
    “Pretty insane in there, I guess.” She looked at me over her coffee. “Taz, can I say something to you?”
    “I can’t pretend to be coherent. But yes, of course.”
    “Just because we’re away from home doesn’t mean you have to be something you don’t want to be.”
    I pushed the yogurt around. “I’m not following you.”
    “The clothes. The drinking until you can’t fucking stand up. It’s not … you.”
    “How do you know what’s me?” I said, my face flushing. “You just met me. And anyway, you’re the one who was talking all that liberation rubbish.”
    “I’m not saying I’m a guru. Half of what I say is bullshit. You have to figure out what makes you happy. You’re different.”
    “Different?”
    “I’m saying don’t push yourself into being slutty because your friends want you to.”
    “Well. Maybe I’m trying this freedom thing, too.”
    “All right, okay.” Claire held up her hands in surrender.
    “Who were you with, anyway?” I asked. “It was really nice of you to leave on my account. Did you get a