“Got it,” I assured him.
He looked at me dubiously. “Also, most of these people are conservative Republicans, so please don’t talk about how much you love Obama. I have to work with these people. And nothing about vaginas or necrophilia”—he’d actually been there for that one—“or ninjas or how your great-great-great-uncle murdered your great-great-great-aunt with a hammer.” I tried to nod an assent, but all of those things he’d just mentioned got stuck there in my head, and I struggled vainly to think of anything to talk about besides the prohibited subjects. I had nothing.
Luckily, the party was fairly loud, and, this being Texas, most of the guests were already drunk and talkative, and so I was able to just smile mindlessly and nod in agreement to whatever everyone else was saying. Victor and I settled into the periphery of a large group of his colleagues. Truthfully, it would have been difficult to get a word into the conversation dominated by a man dressed as John McCain (I shit you not), who launched into a tirade about Obama coming to steal all our guns (“Where would he even keep them?” I wondered), and I could see the panic in Victor’s eyes as he tensed and silently begged me to stay quiet. I bit my tongue and forced a smile. I could see the relief in Victor’s face as he sighed deeply, and I smiled and rolled my eyes at his doubt, but costumed McCain must’ve noticed our exchange, because he chuckled and raised an eyebrow suspiciously as he asked, “What’s this? Do we have a bleeding-heart liberal in our midst?” And that’s when everything started to get all fuzzy, because I was explicitly warned not to talk politics, and so I froze in panic and searched my mind for any appropriate response that would change the subject. Then, after a moment of painful silence that seemed to hush everyone around us, I blurted out what was likely the most improbable sentence ever uttered at a dinner party:
“One time I got stabbed in the face by a serial killer.”
And even more unsettling was the fact that I’d managed to utter the baffling non sequitur in a completely serious, nonchalant fashion. As if people got stabbed in the face all the time. Also? I have no fucking idea why I said that. Then Victor looked at me like he was having a stroke, and he started to change colors, and through a clenched jaw he forced out, “Ha, ha, honey! What the hell did that have to do with anything?” and I knew he was trying to give me an out, or possibly just trying to distance himself from me. I probably should have just blamed the booze, but instead I thought I could salvage the situation by explaining that not-McCain had mentioned guns, which reminded me of knives, and that’s when I was reminded of the time that a serial killer stabbed me in the face with a knife, but then it got even weirder when I explained all that, and people began looking uncomfortable and laughing nervously. Then Victor started glaring at me and I got kind of caught up in defending myself, because I’M TRYING TO HELP HERE. If anything, Victor should have been mad at McCain, because this was basically all his fault. The guy in costume, I mean, not former presidential nominee John McCain. He wasn’t even there. I’m not even sure why I have to clarify this.
Then Victor started clearing his throat and tried to change the subject, but there’s honestly no way to put the lid back on an open serial-killer story, and people start pressuring you, and then they notice the faint scar across your face, and that’s when you have to tell the serial-killer story. In fact, right now you’re thinking, “Did she really get stabbed in the face by a serial killer?” And don’t bother to deny it, because you just read it, so you have to be thinking about it. This is the way books work. Also? Velociraptors. Ha! I just made you think about velociraptors. Awesome. This is probably why Stephen King writes so many books. I am totally controlling your mind right now.