fucked up to move.
Melanie’s really into it now, whipping her hair around like a rock star and leaning over far enough for everyone to see down her shirt, sans bra.
“Hey, Mel!” Trevor yells, pumping his hips. “Show them what you show me!”
Melanie turns her back, then whips her shirt off, cascading giggles. How can she do that? I can’t take off my shirt in front of one guy, much less five. She’s running her hands over herself and shaking her hair and feeling so good and…
I come to and the room’s empty and dark. I’m so thirsty. I go to sit up but I’m pushed back down. I can’t…I can’t breathe. Gasping, I try to sit up again, but something’s pushing me down. There’s a weight on me and this pushing, on top of me, inside of me. In a haze, I see Derek’s face floating above my own, wincing. What…what’s his face doing there?
Sun streaks through the curtains. I pull the blanket up over my head and curl up in a ball. Shit! I feel last night’s activities coming up. I grab a bag from the floor and let it go. I’m sweaty and shaking, my teeth chatter.
“Mia?”
Melanie gets up and comes over to me, pulling my hair from my face and stroking it. Her hands are refreshing and cool.
“Come on, sweetie, let’s go eat, you’ll feel better.”
Nodding, I pull the cover off to get up and immediately throw it back on. I’m naked from the waist down.
“Did I fall asleep like that?”
Melanie grabs my jeans off the sofa. “Damn, Mia! You don’t remember anything, do you?”
Well, no shit. I pull on my jeans and suddenly Derek’s wincing face flashes. I stiffen and push his face out of my head.
Fuck it Mia, what happened, happened. Just forget about it.
When Melanie calls next I make up some excuse for not wanting to go to the Wilkinsons. I’m afraid to be around Derek, of him pretending nothing happened. Of me going along with it.
“Brian Starcher told me about a party tonight, he’ll pick us up at my house.”
I’ve seen Brian at school. He roams the hallways in his wife beater, muscles bulging, chains and cigarette dangling beneath multicolored spikes.
We go to some guy’s house and party until late. Brian and I drop acid under the stars and have one of those “deep” conversations. There’s a fair tomorrow, he says. By the time the acid wears off, it is tomorrow.
“Mia’s run again, Claire.”
The phone call we’ve been dreading. Paul knows before I say anything, by the way I drop into a chair with the phone. He slams his fist on the cabinet.
The police find her later that day outside a raunchy bar in another town. The officer tells me she was with ex-cons. Parolees at a biker bar. It’s Venice, country style. Vivian picks her up from the police station with her bags already packed. She can’t put her on a plane fast enough.
If I thought she looked bad at Vivian’s, she’s even worse now. Her eyes are always pinkish, her nose runs, her cheeks and eye sockets are sunken. She barely weighs a hundred pounds.
She’s coarse, rabbity, aggressive, secretive. Sometimes she cackles with hoarse laughter that’s so unnerving, I’m almost afraid of her, of this Indiana Mia. She’s picked up the accent and mannerisms of rural druggies so well, I think she needs an exorcism rather than therapy, which she refuses anyway. “No freakin’ way, I don’t need no therapist.”
Sometimes she’s so blue and quiet, it’s painful to see, painful that she refuses to open up to me. Other times, she’s beaming and fizzy, saying I’m so glad to be home! Of course, she’s high when she’s like this, so it poisons my joy. It’s obvious she’s completely addicted now. Her unspoken threat is that if we say anything about it, she’ll run again.
She’s become both stupid and cunning. What I’ve come to realize is that she doesn’t need to be any smarter. Just as a scholar thrives on how much she knows, a druggie thrives on how little. Their knowledge and energy
Melanie’s really into it now, whipping her hair around like a rock star and leaning over far enough for everyone to see down her shirt, sans bra.
“Hey, Mel!” Trevor yells, pumping his hips. “Show them what you show me!”
Melanie turns her back, then whips her shirt off, cascading giggles. How can she do that? I can’t take off my shirt in front of one guy, much less five. She’s running her hands over herself and shaking her hair and feeling so good and…
I come to and the room’s empty and dark. I’m so thirsty. I go to sit up but I’m pushed back down. I can’t…I can’t breathe. Gasping, I try to sit up again, but something’s pushing me down. There’s a weight on me and this pushing, on top of me, inside of me. In a haze, I see Derek’s face floating above my own, wincing. What…what’s his face doing there?
Sun streaks through the curtains. I pull the blanket up over my head and curl up in a ball. Shit! I feel last night’s activities coming up. I grab a bag from the floor and let it go. I’m sweaty and shaking, my teeth chatter.
“Mia?”
Melanie gets up and comes over to me, pulling my hair from my face and stroking it. Her hands are refreshing and cool.
“Come on, sweetie, let’s go eat, you’ll feel better.”
Nodding, I pull the cover off to get up and immediately throw it back on. I’m naked from the waist down.
“Did I fall asleep like that?”
Melanie grabs my jeans off the sofa. “Damn, Mia! You don’t remember anything, do you?”
Well, no shit. I pull on my jeans and suddenly Derek’s wincing face flashes. I stiffen and push his face out of my head.
Fuck it Mia, what happened, happened. Just forget about it.
When Melanie calls next I make up some excuse for not wanting to go to the Wilkinsons. I’m afraid to be around Derek, of him pretending nothing happened. Of me going along with it.
“Brian Starcher told me about a party tonight, he’ll pick us up at my house.”
I’ve seen Brian at school. He roams the hallways in his wife beater, muscles bulging, chains and cigarette dangling beneath multicolored spikes.
We go to some guy’s house and party until late. Brian and I drop acid under the stars and have one of those “deep” conversations. There’s a fair tomorrow, he says. By the time the acid wears off, it is tomorrow.
“Mia’s run again, Claire.”
The phone call we’ve been dreading. Paul knows before I say anything, by the way I drop into a chair with the phone. He slams his fist on the cabinet.
The police find her later that day outside a raunchy bar in another town. The officer tells me she was with ex-cons. Parolees at a biker bar. It’s Venice, country style. Vivian picks her up from the police station with her bags already packed. She can’t put her on a plane fast enough.
If I thought she looked bad at Vivian’s, she’s even worse now. Her eyes are always pinkish, her nose runs, her cheeks and eye sockets are sunken. She barely weighs a hundred pounds.
She’s coarse, rabbity, aggressive, secretive. Sometimes she cackles with hoarse laughter that’s so unnerving, I’m almost afraid of her, of this Indiana Mia. She’s picked up the accent and mannerisms of rural druggies so well, I think she needs an exorcism rather than therapy, which she refuses anyway. “No freakin’ way, I don’t need no therapist.”
Sometimes she’s so blue and quiet, it’s painful to see, painful that she refuses to open up to me. Other times, she’s beaming and fizzy, saying I’m so glad to be home! Of course, she’s high when she’s like this, so it poisons my joy. It’s obvious she’s completely addicted now. Her unspoken threat is that if we say anything about it, she’ll run again.
She’s become both stupid and cunning. What I’ve come to realize is that she doesn’t need to be any smarter. Just as a scholar thrives on how much she knows, a druggie thrives on how little. Their knowledge and energy
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