She stumbled down the dark hallway, searching for a quiet place to breathe. To her right she found an open door, a wedge of yellow light. She pushed inside.
A familiar scent enveloped her: vanilla, almond, bergamot orange. Her mother’s perfume. A wave of nausea overtook her and she fell to her knees on the cheetah print carpet. For a fleeting yet real moment it seemed plausible that she would die. It was then she realized where she was: the Gold Room. Looking up, she took in the impossible sight of Damon Flintov and Ryan Harbinger scrambling in her mom’s underwear drawer. Terror hurled her heart against her ribs. Even through her haze she understood that she was powerless to stop them. Damon pulled out a lacy fuchsia bra, which he stretched across his fat chest, looping the straps over his shoulders, and in the trifold mirrors he began to dance. Ryan laughed with his whole body, bending over, stumbling around. Elisabeth struggled to process this. They didn’t seem to notice her, or didn’t mind the audience.
Damon danced on the little stool and pushed his forty to his mouth and sucked, the amber liquid sloshing in the glass. He was jerking his big body around on the stool, posing in the mirrors. He pointed to the cheetah carpet. “This shit looks like a strip club, yo!”
“You fag,” Ryan said, laughing.
Damon paused and puffed his chest. “What did you just call me?”
Ryan grinned, the lines deepening at the corners of his mouth. “I said, fuckin’ faggot.”
“Say that over here, bitch-ass motherfucker. Lemme hear you say that one more time.”
Ryan slid his palm over his face to make it serious, like someone doing an impression. He crept to Damon on the stool and raised his chin. The boys’ faces were as close as they could be without kissing.
“Mother. Fuckin’. Faggot,” Ryan said, his face twitching to stay serious.
“You’re dead, asshole.”
But Damon fell into laughing and Ryan too, and then they were at each other like dogs. Damon lunged at Ryan and vised Ryan’s head in his armpit and Ryan, bending over, his jeans sagging to reveal funny tight blue briefs, grabbed Damon around the waist and muscled him off the stool and they spun like they were dancing, grunting, Damon breathing hard, his face baby-pink and glowing, and Elisabeth released a scream as the two boys fell into the mirrors and Damon’s body smashed the glass.
—
After, shards of mirror glittered on the cheetah carpet.
Puddles of malt liquor soaked into the floor.
Her mom’s clothes had been rifled, tossed like streamers, stretched over strangers’ bodies, torn. Some had been stolen. She had no proof of this last. She just knew.
“Be careful, there’s glass,” a voice said.
She looked up. Dave Chu was there. He knelt beside her.
She nodded. She started to cry. As Dave leaned closer, something shifted, and she fell into his arms. She did not even think.
His arms hesitated. His heartbeat accelerated against her ear. Then he hugged her to him. Her eyelashes matted and wetted his neck.
“It’s so stupid,” she said. “I thought someone would thank me.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“My mom comes home tomorrow. There’s no way to hide this. She’ll see it, she’ll see everything.”
“She’ll forgive you,” he said.
Then they heard the sirens coming, a plaintive cry that echoed through the canyon, hurtling closer and closer to where they were.
“I’ll stay with you,” Dave said. “Don’t worry, okay?”
Elisabeth cried. She did not know what she would tell the police, and she did not know what her mom would do. Maybe she’d be furious. Maybe she’d be proud. Maybe she’d blame all the others. Or maybe she’d realize that Elisabeth was the one who made this happen, who let the function grow and morph into a beast that would not stop until it tore this house apart.
MISS NICOLL
“Miss Nicoll? Miss Nicoll? Molly?”
Molly awoke to find Nick Brickston staring down at her. She lay stretched across her classroom’s vinyl couch, where she’d intended to rest for only a moment at the start of her free period. Now the afternoon sun streamed through the open window, bringing with it the scent of oranges rotting in the heat.
Nick Brickston cleared his throat; she sat up hastily. She was intensely aware of her untucked blouse and twisted skirt, the crust in her lashes, the staticky frizz of her hair. How long had he been standing there?
She sat up. “Nick, hi. I was just resting my eyes. What’s up?”
“I just came to say hey.” He sat down beside her on the sofa, creaking the vinyl; Molly tugged at her hem. For a moment they sat quietly together, the sun on their shoulders. Nick drummed his thumb on the vinyl. From there, the whiteboard looked very far away, Molly’s cursive small and frenzied. Finally he said, “Oh, sorry about that reading-response thing you wanted me to do. Was that important? I could make it up if you want.”
“Sure,” she said, before realizing she didn’t actually care. “I mean, no. It wasn’t important. I know you’ve done the reading.”