Halle Butler - Jillian

It was already a little after noon, how did the time fly so fast? She was running out of money, so she had to cut a few corners, but it would be fine. Instead of the pre-cut carrot sticks she got bags of carrots, and instead of the pre-mixed Hawaiian Punch she got packets of Kool-Aid. Other than that, she stuck to the list (buying the store brand dips and cheese, though, of course, because she had a discount card at that particular grocery store).

She loaded up the car, congratulated herself on not getting pulled over (and totally busted and ruined, but no good to dwell on that!) and getting everything before 1:00 as she’d been asked.

She went into the church basement with an armload of her spoils and saw Elena there with a few of the other women from church. They were moving tables around and pointing at different parts of the room.

“Oh, thank God, where have you been?” asked Elena.

“Just on the errands. It’s before one, isn’t it?”

“Ok, bring all of the decorations down so we can get started.”

“Ok. Hey Elena, I can get you the receipts for this stuff, can you pay me back tonight?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Cool.”

It took three trips since none of the women offered to help, but in the end it didn’t take all that long to get everything down into the basement. When she came down with the last bags of snacks, she noticed Elena looking mad at the bags in the middle of the floor.

“What is all this stuff?” she asked.

“It’s the decorations and costumes,” said Jillian.

“Yeah, but what’s this blank paper for? And there’s nothing that says 80s.”

“Oh, there weren’t any 80s decorations, so I thought we could, um, make some real quick.”

“Jillian, the 80s are really popular right now, are you sure you looked?”

“I looked everywhere, I couldn’t find anything.” Elena held up the Ninja Turtle party hats.

Jillian said, “Because it’s from the 80s.”

“Is it? Is it, Jillian? Because my boys watched this show, and they didn’t watch it in the 80s.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it is. But, look, these are all 80s colors,” she said, kneeling down by the bag. “And I got these puffy markers.” She held a puffy marker up to Elena.

Elena sighed. “I just didn’t want this to look so amateurish, that’s all.”

“Oh, no, Elena, it’s going to look nice, I promise.”

“And what’s with all of these sweatshirts? What am I supposed to wear?”

“I thought we could cut off the necks,” said Jillian. “And we could make fingerless gloves.”

Elena didn’t respond. “Carol,” she said. Carol came over. “See what you can make of all this.”

Elena went off.

“I’m going to make some posters,” said Jillian. She picked up the poster board and markers and took them to a corner. She laid out a neon orange sheet and, in bubble letters, wrote “80s.” She got some tape and taped one of the signs that said “Party” to the bottom of it. Carol spread the tablecloths out and set out the plates and forks. Jillian walked to the table. She had that nice floating, hilarious feeling that her Tylenol gave her and she lifted her hands a little high and set them on the plates. She stopped there for a second, then she sorted through the plates and removed the “Girls Night”s.

She went to the kitchen, chopped the carrot sticks, and mixed the Kool-Aid.

“Oh my, what is this,” she heard Elena say. Her hands started to tremble when she noticed there was no sugar. She looked from side to side. She went into the hall.

“Melissa,” she whispered. She waved Melissa over. “Hey, Melissa, is there any sugar?”

“Hmmm. I know someone was at the store.”

“That was me. I forgot to get the sugar.”

“I think there are some packets under the coffee maker.”

“Great.”

Jillian found a box of Splenda under the coffee maker. No one will see me, she thought. No one will see me. She tried to turn “No one will see me” into a protective mantra, then she took the box over to the punch bowl and started dumping the packets into it.

Rip dump, rip dump, rip dump, frantically rip-dumping until the punch was a little too sweet, then she mixed it and brought it out to the main room and set it next to the plate of home-made (and wasn’t that better?) carrot sticks.

“Can we get this dip put into bowls?” said Elena.

“Oh, yeah, are there bowls in the kitchen?” asked Jillian.

“I really don’t have time to check.”

“Ok. Hey, do you want me to start cutting up those sweatshirts?”

“Yeah, I called Sandy and she said she has some costume things she can bring. We probably won’t need those sweatshirts.”

“Oh, ok,” said Jillian.

Everyone in the basement was laughing and taping up streamers and blowing up balloons.

“I think I need you to go on a sandwich run,” said Elena.

“Ok,” said Jillian. “But, I need you to give me some money.”

Elena stared at her. “Can’t I just write you a check?”

“No, because I don’t have a checking account, so, if you wrote me a check I’d have to pay ten percent to get it cashed. I need the cash or a money order.”

“Ok, here’s thirty for lunch, that should be enough for some Subway.”

“Ok, great,” said Jillian.

When she got back with the sandwiches, Elena was mad that the dip hadn’t been put into bowls. The party was almost starting.

As Jillian filled the bowls with the dip (she could wait a second to eat her sandwich) Susie from the kids room came up to her.

“Hey, we have a little problem.”

“What?”

“Well, Adam is in the ladies’ room and he won’t come out.”

“Oh, are you kidding?” asked Jillian.

“Nope,” said Susie.

The party went until 9:00 p.m. At 9:00, Jillian said, “I’m going to run now.”

“What, you’re not staying for take-down?” said Elena.

During the walk home, Adam looked like he was sleepwalking. Maybe he was.

She opened the door. Crispy had strewn the dirty clothes from the hamper all over the floor and was slowly sucking on the crotch of a pair of Jillian’s underwear.

SATURDAY WAS NO BREEZE for Megan, either. She woke up and immediately felt embarrassed. That nasty, awful, hollow, endless embarrassment that was becoming her life. Randy was still asleep. She lay there, wishing she could be unconscious again. If she got up and out of bed, what would there be to do? She could shower and weep and see if that freshened her up. Maybe she could weep while making pancakes and then, with her gelatinous face, walk into the bedroom and say, “I made breakfast, honey, do you want some?” She could make coffee in the French press and imagine every step as the symbolic destruction of her soul. Grind the beans, boil the water (she could open her mouth for a silent scream when the teapot whistled—possibly that would be satisfying) and then wrap her fist around the plunger and push those fucking grounds down there where they belonged.

She decided this was a good enough idea. As soon as she was under the water, she started bawling. She sat in the bottom of the tub, cried, and washed her feet.

When she got out of the shower, Randy was making coffee in the Mr. Coffee. She didn’t want to interact with him until she was dressed, so she walked right past him. Her hair was wet. Her skin felt brittle. Maybe she would be able to go to sleep again.

Randy sighed.

On Monday, the phone rang. “Good afternoon, doctors’ office,” said Megan. “Sure, hold on, one second.” She put the phone down. “It’s for you.”

“Who is it?” said Jillian.

Megan shrugged and handed her the cordless.

“Good afternoon, this is Jillian.”