who say “Fuck my life,” like they’re these huge victims and the world is so completely cruel, like it’s taking advantage of them? Well, I’m not that guy. I did this. Me.
I’m so fucking real that it hurts.
“I like your hoodie,” Heather says, crawling into my lap. We’re in the living room somehow, almost like magic. She’s got her knees wedged down in the corners of the armchair so she’s straddling me. “I love that song, how the part about the fish tank goes.”
Her voice is high and soft, like a little girl, and I know she doesn’t care about Pink Floyd, and she doesn’t know that my dad gave me the hoodie for my birthday last year because
he
cares about Pink Floyd and thinks
Wish You Were Here
is a really good album and I’m such a loser that I should just love it automatically. And Heather doesn’t know that, but she thinks she knows the words. She thinks she needs to love it because I do.
I know I should be careful about making out two nights in a row. She might start thinking we’re like a real thing. Then she leans down and kisses me, and there’s nothing but the kissing.
After, I stumble my way down into the basement where Hez has his bedroom and everything smells like socks. I lock myself in the bathroom and sit on the floor.
It’s so hot in here I think I might melt and also, I’m starting to feel sick in that churning, sweaty way that gets worse every time I move my head.
The rush of saliva comes next, promising puke, and that’s okay. I’ll hold my breath and close my eyes. Get everything out, all the beer and the bourbon, the sloppy candy flavor of Heather’s kisses, and then I’ll feel better. I’ll feel empty.
The tub is not the cleanest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s got a crusty ring around the inside of it, but when I climb in, the ceramic is cool and I don’t want anything except to lie down someplace that doesn’t feel like a hundred and ten degrees.
I lean my head against the side. It’s so cold it makes my teeth chatter. My skin feels tight and sticky and I can’t think of anything except that I can’t feel my hands and I’m starting to get the spins, and it’s the best and worst feeling I’ve ever had.
I settle myself in the tub and lie back. My mouth tastes like failure. Like strawberries and bourbon.
WAVERLY
4.
When all my numbers dissolve into noise, I open my eyes.
I’m in a tiny bathroom with bad seventies wallpaper and no windows. Marshall Holt is slumped awkwardly in the tub with his head bent sideways. The floor is freezing.
“Marshall.” When he doesn’t move, I kick the side of the tub. “Marshall!”
He blinks up at me, scrubbing a hand over his face.
I crouch next to him, then flinch when I get a whiff of hard alcohol. “You’re
really
drunk.”
He nods, turning so that his head knocks against the wall. His eyes are red and he smells close to flammable.
Even this wrecked, though—this disreputable—he doesn’t fit with the peeling linoleum and the wallpaper. His face is waxy, all fragile mouth and cheekbones. I’ve never thought this about a boy before, but he’s too pure-looking. The floor feels ominously sticky. Everything smells like mildew, and the grim commitment to filth that can only really be cultivated by post-adolescent boys.
“What are you doing to yourself?” I hop awkwardly on one leg, trying to wipe my foot clean on the back of my calf. “This is gross. It’s stupid.”
“Yeah?” he says, gazing up at me. “Well, it’s still a fuckload better than how things look the rest of the time.”
There’s an edge in his voice, and I glance away. The way he’s staring at me is too honest. Everything is much too real.
“Are you a ghost?” he says suddenly, the words blurry and thick in his mouth.
“No.”
“What are you, then?”
“A girl.”
He drags a hand across his face, frowning like I’ve just presented him with a particularly difficult equation. “So at school when I see this complete
I’m so fucking real that it hurts.
“I like your hoodie,” Heather says, crawling into my lap. We’re in the living room somehow, almost like magic. She’s got her knees wedged down in the corners of the armchair so she’s straddling me. “I love that song, how the part about the fish tank goes.”
Her voice is high and soft, like a little girl, and I know she doesn’t care about Pink Floyd, and she doesn’t know that my dad gave me the hoodie for my birthday last year because
he
cares about Pink Floyd and thinks
Wish You Were Here
is a really good album and I’m such a loser that I should just love it automatically. And Heather doesn’t know that, but she thinks she knows the words. She thinks she needs to love it because I do.
I know I should be careful about making out two nights in a row. She might start thinking we’re like a real thing. Then she leans down and kisses me, and there’s nothing but the kissing.
After, I stumble my way down into the basement where Hez has his bedroom and everything smells like socks. I lock myself in the bathroom and sit on the floor.
It’s so hot in here I think I might melt and also, I’m starting to feel sick in that churning, sweaty way that gets worse every time I move my head.
The rush of saliva comes next, promising puke, and that’s okay. I’ll hold my breath and close my eyes. Get everything out, all the beer and the bourbon, the sloppy candy flavor of Heather’s kisses, and then I’ll feel better. I’ll feel empty.
The tub is not the cleanest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s got a crusty ring around the inside of it, but when I climb in, the ceramic is cool and I don’t want anything except to lie down someplace that doesn’t feel like a hundred and ten degrees.
I lean my head against the side. It’s so cold it makes my teeth chatter. My skin feels tight and sticky and I can’t think of anything except that I can’t feel my hands and I’m starting to get the spins, and it’s the best and worst feeling I’ve ever had.
I settle myself in the tub and lie back. My mouth tastes like failure. Like strawberries and bourbon.
WAVERLY
4.
When all my numbers dissolve into noise, I open my eyes.
I’m in a tiny bathroom with bad seventies wallpaper and no windows. Marshall Holt is slumped awkwardly in the tub with his head bent sideways. The floor is freezing.
“Marshall.” When he doesn’t move, I kick the side of the tub. “Marshall!”
He blinks up at me, scrubbing a hand over his face.
I crouch next to him, then flinch when I get a whiff of hard alcohol. “You’re
really
drunk.”
He nods, turning so that his head knocks against the wall. His eyes are red and he smells close to flammable.
Even this wrecked, though—this disreputable—he doesn’t fit with the peeling linoleum and the wallpaper. His face is waxy, all fragile mouth and cheekbones. I’ve never thought this about a boy before, but he’s too pure-looking. The floor feels ominously sticky. Everything smells like mildew, and the grim commitment to filth that can only really be cultivated by post-adolescent boys.
“What are you doing to yourself?” I hop awkwardly on one leg, trying to wipe my foot clean on the back of my calf. “This is gross. It’s stupid.”
“Yeah?” he says, gazing up at me. “Well, it’s still a fuckload better than how things look the rest of the time.”
There’s an edge in his voice, and I glance away. The way he’s staring at me is too honest. Everything is much too real.
“Are you a ghost?” he says suddenly, the words blurry and thick in his mouth.
“No.”
“What are you, then?”
“A girl.”
He drags a hand across his face, frowning like I’ve just presented him with a particularly difficult equation. “So at school when I see this complete
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