…”
I couldn’t take it.
“Here,” I said, pushing the clam roll at him. “Take it. Just take everything.”
I went directly to the bathroom. It was time to get this out in the open. Allison was there, gazing into the mirror, touching her face with the tips of her fingers, making small circles on her cheeks, admiring herself with a silent awe.
“Jane,” she said, not turning around. “I’m glad you’re here. We should talk….”
She leaned herself against the wall. She was getting a little thermometer-headed, pale right up to the hairline.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said, “and I can’t fix it. I thought it would all be okay if I was here with both of you because you two can fix anything. But I realized on the train that you can’t fix this. You can’t even talk to each other. This is pointless.”
Slow tears began to dribble down her face, ruining her perfect makeup. I took a heavy breath, and it staggered in my chest.
“I know,” I said. “I know all about it.”
“You do?” she said. Her eyes grew bright.
“Yes. I saw you. I followed you.”
“Followed me where?”
“To Elton’s.”
“Oh. Yeah. I should have figured that.”
Her chin sank, and she seemed instantly bored with that topic. I wasn’t quite expecting that reaction. I was expecting more of a dropping to the knees and begging for forgiveness. Instead, she went to the window and pushed it open with the flat of her hand. A sharp burst of cold air came in, and she breathed it deeply.
“I need your help,” she said. “I need you to talk to her for me.”
“Talk to
who
?” I said, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Her.”
“Her who?”
“The demon,” she said matter-of-factly.
All of my personal trauma dissipated, and I stood very still. Things had just changed. They had gone in a very unexpected direction, one that I immediately knew we wouldn’t be returning from for a long time.
All I could think to reply was, “The demon is a her?” Not, “What the hell are you talking about?” or, “What size rubber sack do you think they’ll put you in?”
“She is right now.”
“And she’s … nearby?” I asked.
“She’s at our school.”
“Right,” I said.
“I traded my soul, Jane,” she said.
“Right.”
“I did. This is not a joke.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I signed a contract,” she went on. “I was desperate. But there’s still time if you talk to her …”
I’d read somewhere that there is really no such thing as “crazy,” that we all slide along a scale of acceptable behavior and thought. But when someone starts telling you that they’ve been talking to demons—this is a sign that they’ve gone down the slippery slope to the far end of the scale. You are supposed to take them by the hand and escort them back to their seat in reality or find someone who can.
“I know you don’t believe me,” she said. “I was afraid of this.”
She pulled a small medicine bottle out of her purse.
“I took these from my mom’s bathroom cabinet this morning,” she said. “I don’t want to … but I have to take them.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“Penicillin.”
This would have little impact on most people, but it meant a lot to me. Allison was allergic to penicillin. One pill could probably do her serious harm. More than one would kill her for sure.
This is one of those moments in life that I feel like certain “very special episodes” of television shows and well-meaning school counselors try to prepare you for, but nothing can get you ready for an actual emergency. These moments aren’t backed up by musical sound tracks and careful camera angles. This was just me, in a Boston bathroom, my best friend holding a bottle full of a substance that was incredibly toxic to her.
“Allison,” I said, “give those to me. Put them in my hand.”
I held out my hand as far as I could without moving from my spot and spooking her.
“She
I couldn’t take it.
“Here,” I said, pushing the clam roll at him. “Take it. Just take everything.”
I went directly to the bathroom. It was time to get this out in the open. Allison was there, gazing into the mirror, touching her face with the tips of her fingers, making small circles on her cheeks, admiring herself with a silent awe.
“Jane,” she said, not turning around. “I’m glad you’re here. We should talk….”
She leaned herself against the wall. She was getting a little thermometer-headed, pale right up to the hairline.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said, “and I can’t fix it. I thought it would all be okay if I was here with both of you because you two can fix anything. But I realized on the train that you can’t fix this. You can’t even talk to each other. This is pointless.”
Slow tears began to dribble down her face, ruining her perfect makeup. I took a heavy breath, and it staggered in my chest.
“I know,” I said. “I know all about it.”
“You do?” she said. Her eyes grew bright.
“Yes. I saw you. I followed you.”
“Followed me where?”
“To Elton’s.”
“Oh. Yeah. I should have figured that.”
Her chin sank, and she seemed instantly bored with that topic. I wasn’t quite expecting that reaction. I was expecting more of a dropping to the knees and begging for forgiveness. Instead, she went to the window and pushed it open with the flat of her hand. A sharp burst of cold air came in, and she breathed it deeply.
“I need your help,” she said. “I need you to talk to her for me.”
“Talk to
who
?” I said, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Her.”
“Her who?”
“The demon,” she said matter-of-factly.
All of my personal trauma dissipated, and I stood very still. Things had just changed. They had gone in a very unexpected direction, one that I immediately knew we wouldn’t be returning from for a long time.
All I could think to reply was, “The demon is a her?” Not, “What the hell are you talking about?” or, “What size rubber sack do you think they’ll put you in?”
“She is right now.”
“And she’s … nearby?” I asked.
“She’s at our school.”
“Right,” I said.
“I traded my soul, Jane,” she said.
“Right.”
“I did. This is not a joke.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“I signed a contract,” she went on. “I was desperate. But there’s still time if you talk to her …”
I’d read somewhere that there is really no such thing as “crazy,” that we all slide along a scale of acceptable behavior and thought. But when someone starts telling you that they’ve been talking to demons—this is a sign that they’ve gone down the slippery slope to the far end of the scale. You are supposed to take them by the hand and escort them back to their seat in reality or find someone who can.
“I know you don’t believe me,” she said. “I was afraid of this.”
She pulled a small medicine bottle out of her purse.
“I took these from my mom’s bathroom cabinet this morning,” she said. “I don’t want to … but I have to take them.”
“What are they?” I asked.
“Penicillin.”
This would have little impact on most people, but it meant a lot to me. Allison was allergic to penicillin. One pill could probably do her serious harm. More than one would kill her for sure.
This is one of those moments in life that I feel like certain “very special episodes” of television shows and well-meaning school counselors try to prepare you for, but nothing can get you ready for an actual emergency. These moments aren’t backed up by musical sound tracks and careful camera angles. This was just me, in a Boston bathroom, my best friend holding a bottle full of a substance that was incredibly toxic to her.
“Allison,” I said, “give those to me. Put them in my hand.”
I held out my hand as far as I could without moving from my spot and spooking her.
“She
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