Caitlin pulled a piece of tissue from her pocket and revealed three oval pills. “Xanax, anyone?” she said, sounding pleased with herself. “If we break them in half, there’s almost enough.”
Marta did the math. “Someone has to miss out.”
“I’m cool,” Hannah said, hoping she sounded generous and not like she was afraid to take Xanax, which she totally was.
“But it’s your birthday,” Noah said. “You should have one.”
“They just put me to sleep,” she said, then turned coy. “I don’t want to pass out on you.”
“Don’t,” he said.
They played music at low volume and danced. Ronni was all over Adam, grinding up against him in her sexy little outfit. He may have liked Lauren, but he was no match for Ronni’s aggression and soon, they were making out. Maybe the ecstasy had kicked in; maybe Ronni was just putting on a show, but she was dancing for Adam, pulling her top down, touching herself, touching him. . . . She had the champagne bottle and she was drinking from it, stroking it, rubbing it against her crotch. It was explicit, pornographic even. Lauren leaned into Hannah’s ear. “What a slut.” Hannah felt warm inside.
The alcohol circulated. Adam had brought a small bottle of whiskey to supplement the birthday J?ger. Hannah never turned down a mouthful—she wanted to lose her inhibitions. So when Noah led her to the sofa, she was relaxed and ready.
They made out for a while; she wasn’t sure how long. His hands were in her hair and on her breasts and between her thighs. She felt practically naked in her flimsy nightie, but she went with it, she didn’t chicken out. The other kids were only a few feet away, giggling and dancing, so she knew it wasn’t going to get too heavy. She wanted to show Noah that she was into it, that she wasn’t afraid.
She heard someone retch, and then Adam said, “Fuck me!”
There was more heaving. “Jesus, Ronni . . .” It was Lauren’s annoyed voice.
“Go to the bathroom,” someone, either Marta or Caitlin, said.
Hannah was tempted to pull away, but Noah was still kissing her, completely oblivious to the fact that Ronni was puking a few feet from them. This happened with ecstasy, Hannah knew. It was one of the reasons she didn’t want to try it. She pushed away the sound and the smell. She didn’t want to be distracted by the mess her friend was making. They could clean it up after; it was no big deal. Hannah didn’t want to be uptight about stuff like that; she didn’t want to be like her mom.
And then it came: a crash and a scream. Hannah pulled away from Noah and stood up. She saw Ronni lying there on top of the broken coffee table, bits of glass all around her. The champagne bottle she’d been holding had broken neatly in half—the neck, with its pink foil scarf, still clutched in Ronni’s hand. Hannah must have been in shock because she laughed; it just seemed so surreal. And Ronni seemed okay. She dropped the broken bottle, half sat up and said, “Fuck . . .”
Hannah hurried to her and grabbed her hand. “Get up,” she said, still giggling. She must have been hysterical. It was all so much: the drinks, the drugs, the boys, the puke . . . and now the broken table. She’d have to make up some really creative excuse to explain it to her mom and dad. Her hand in Ronni’s slipped and that’s when she noticed the blood. Ronni noticed it, too. Ronni looked, with bewildered detachment, at the gash in her forearm, the source of the blood that coated her arm and hand. The champagne bottle had made a deep, diagonal slice across the soft flesh of her inner arm. Ronni looked up and her eyes met Hannah’s. Oh Jesus, her eye . . .
Under the mask of puke and blood, Ronni’s face went pale, and her body went limp. She collapsed back into the pile of glass, unconscious. “Oh fuck.” It was a male voice, Noah or Adam.
“Oh my god! Someone get help!” Marta cried.
“I can’t . . . ,” Lauren said, and rushed toward the bathroom.
“Go get your parents!” Caitlin shrieked.
Hannah hurried toward the door, but Noah’s voice stopped her. “Hannah, wait!” she turned back. “We need to get the fuck out of here.” Hannah saw that Adam was already hoisting himself through the window. Noah, holding the empty liquor bottles, was on his heels. Her boyfriend looked back at her, at Marta and Caitlin, too. “We were never here,” he said firmly.
lisa
FORTY-FIVE DAYS AFTER
The vegan café was bright, kitschy but virtually empty. It was two in the afternoon, so the lunch rush was over . . . if there had been a lunch rush. Lisa knew the challenge of making delicious food without animal by-products. She had been a strict vegan for almost six months, back when she had time to care about things like that. . . . Now, she accepted that the world was a brutal place, and swapping almond milk for cow’s milk was not going to improve it.
Yeva and Darcy were seated beside and opposite her, enjoying their kale and tahini salads. Lisa had a roasted yam dish that was quite delicious, but she wasn’t very hungry. Her companions were talking about cleansing: a favorite topic among their cohort.
Darcy said, “For me, dairy was the devil. Once I gave it up, my skin just brightened and cleared so much.”
“Your skin is beautiful,” Yeva said.
“Mmmm . . .” Lisa murmured her agreement. Darcy was not particularly beautiful, but she radiated good health.
“When I eat dairy, the whites of my eyes have a grayish hue,” Yeva said.
“That could also be from sugar,” Darcy countered. “Do they have a yellowish tinge?”
“Not really . . . Sugar gives me dark circles, though.”
“I know!” Darcy cried. “I had one bite of cake at my brother’s wedding—one bite—and I broke out in pimples all over here. . . .” She indicated her chin.
Lisa forked a yam and put it in her mouth. She could have chimed in: she had done the same cleanses, had eliminated every evil food at one time or another, but it all seemed so indulgent now. As she chewed and pretended to listen to Yeva’s account of a single glass of wine giving her a yeast infection, she felt eyes upon her.
The woman was tall, angular, and unfamiliar . . . but she was the right age to be a Hillcrest mom. She was seated at a corner table with a man—her husband, probably—it didn’t appear to be a business meeting, given the woman’s yoga pants and hoodie. Her blue eyes kept darting over toward Lisa. When their gazes connected, the woman spoke softly to her companion and stood. Lisa hurriedly swallowed her yam as the tall woman approached.
“Sorry to interrupt . . .”
Yeva stopped talking about candida midsentence.
The woman said, “Hi, Lisa . . . my name’s Karen. You probably don’t recognize me, but my kids go to Hillcrest. I’ve seen you at school events—a play or a volleyball game or something.”
“Right,” Lisa said, though she couldn’t recall ever seeing this tall stranger. Ronni had never been in a play, never played volleyball or any other sport. Her daughter wasn’t really a joiner.
“I just wanted to offer my support. . . . You and Ronni have been through so much.”