B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

Sara disappeared completely—it didn’t surprise me. She wasn’t a huge fan of drinking but she’d smoke if there were smokers, and there were. I’d seen them gathered in a circle in the muggy darkness of Benny’s parent’s garden, barely illuminated by a single porch bulb burning behind thick amber glass. Daphne never stopped circling—she’d orbit a group of talkers, shoot in a few choice interjections, and move on. When she floated past me and I called her on her nomadic tendencies, she rebuffed me handily with a strangely appealing explanation.

“Luce,” Daphne said, and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m a shark. If I stop swimming, I die.”

Wanda mingled—much to my surprise, she wasn’t nearly the social caterpillar I had been expecting. She rotated through groups at a respectable pace, and I even saw her laughing a few times. Granted, her whole body threw off the no sudden movements vibe, and she looked ready to bolt most of the time, but she still hung in there. I had to give her credit.

I did okay—I talked to almost everyone, but I couldn’t repeat half of their names or three-quarters of their stories without a gun pressed firmly to my temple. Or my stomach. Ha, ha. Even my metaphors were Freudian.

Mostly I watched. I enjoy people-watching—I always have. But part of me was clenched, ready, waiting for the hammer to fall. I couldn’t explain the sensation—a kind of loose worry of an unnamed thing. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the party. Maybe it was the fact that after an hour and a half, Zack hadn’t come looking for me once. Hadn’t even waved or checked up on me or—

I swallowed and shook my head.

I tried to pull myself into the now , a task not even remotely helped along by having to return to an agonizing conversation with a senior about his burnt orange 1965 Mustang Convertible. And the worst part? He wasn’t even hitting on me. It might have been an ego upswing if he was. Instead his eyes strayed not a centimeter from the eyes and overly exposed chest of one Emelia Beryl. A junior, cute, wearing too much eye make-up and not enough shirt. She didn’t fit the hot girl stereotype, and in fact looked a little too Goth-punk for my tastes, but this guy would not let up. I sighed and tried to find my place in the conversation.

I’d only even been involved in the conversation because I happened to be leaning against the same wall as Emelia, and I think Mustang guy was just trying to hit up as many targets as possible. Still, Emelia seemed to be the primary, and so after a few pleasant smiles and nods I managed to fade away.

Without even trying, and angry at myself for succeeding, I spotted Zack. Standing next to Benny, both of them gesturing in unison and telling a loud story. I couldn’t tell if they had practiced it or just told it too many times. Three girls hung off their words like the last helicopter out of Fallujah. Groan.

I was torn—break into the group and force my awesomeness on him, or bail and leave him high and dry. My phone buzzed in my purse instead. It was the first herald of a terrible night, and I wish I’d been lucky enough to suspect it. Instead, I flipped my phone and saw a name I didn’t expect—Morgan.

“Morgan?”

“What’s up?” she asked.

I frowned. Hadn’t she called me?

“Just…just the party.”

“Oh. Right,” she said. Even through the phone, her voice sounded clipped. Harsh. Uh-oh.

She tried again.

“How is it?”

I shrugged to no one. “It’s okay. Wanda seems to be in the lead for most-improved. I didn’t know that girl could schmooze.”

“She is on ASB,” Morgan said. Robotic.

“I guess,” I said. “Sorry you can’t-”

“Me too,” she spat, and I frowned. What the hell ?

“Morgan what—?”

“Forget it, Lucy. Say hey to Benny for me, okay?”

Benny?

“Morgan, what’s up?”

“You don’t know?”

I thought my question had made that obvious. I took a deep breath.

“Know what, hon?”

“Just forget it. Have a great party.”

Cell phones don’t click, and thus, don’t dramatically hang-up very well. I took the long ache of profound silence as her disconnecting. I stared at my phone like the traitor it was and exiled it to the bottom of my purse.

Benny? I didn’t expect Morgan to be happy about being so thoroughly and inescapably grounded, but why had she bitten my head off? I looked around, anxious to spread my annoyance to someone else, but none of my friends were in sight. None except Zack, laughing with a trio of junior girls.

I turned toward the kitchen at speeds blurrable. I blasted through the swinging double-hinged door and went for the counter with my still-outstretched hand. My fingers clenched around glass, and I spun it in my fingers. Jack. Okay. In the cup.

I closed my eyes and grabbed again. Smirnoff? In the cup.

Grab. Margarita mix? In the cup.

Grab. Fumble. Break. Cringe.

Shrug. Grab. Orange Juice, Triple Sec, Grenadine. Cup-Cup-Cup.

Tequila. Bleh. Double-cup.

I swished the devil’s brew I’d concocted and stared down the business end of the red plastic cup. It looked…orange. It wasn’t brown or gray or green—none of the real evil colors. Okay. I plopped a handful of ice in and swished again. It didn’t seem to help the smell—a one-two combo of kerosene and Otter Pops.

“You’re not drinking that,” a voice said, stiffening my muscles in unnecessary alarm.

I didn’t turn once I’d recognized the voice. I wrapped both hands around the cup and touched the rim to my chin. I tried to hone in on the particular Otter Pop—it was a toss-up between Sir Isaac Lime and Little Orphan Orange. And kerosene.

“Daph, shush,” I said.

“What’s up?”

Her words were slurred, but genuine. I sighed and turned around. She was leaning in the door frame of the kitchen, the swinging door hanging behind her, held open only by her butt.

“Nothing, Daph,” I said. “Come drink with me.”

Daphne fluttered over, managing to control her gait with a determined nose-crinkle. I wasn’t positive, but I got the feeling she was overplaying her inebriation. Daphne and melodrama go hand-in-hand. Maybe mouth-and-mouth. Tongue-in-mouth.

I missed Zack.

Ugh .

I tipped the cup back and took a huge swig of the foul drink. I gagged and clapped a hand over my mouth, but somehow managed to keep it down. I petted my stomach, trying to reassure it about the poison rocketing its way. By its violent thrashing, I don’t think I fooled it.

Daphne made the gimme gesture, and when I handed her the cup, she took a swig herself. She made a wine-tasting face, swished it around, and swallowed. She handed the cup back to me and shrugged.

“Little Orphan Orange,” Daphne concluded.

“That’s what I thought.”

She didn’t miss a beat. Her bad news dovetailed nicely with the direction of my night. “Tyler is here. Just got here, actually.”

Tyler. Wanda’s obsession and her kryptonite. She wasn’t strong enough to tell that user to go away, and he wasn’t cool enough to move on from someone as confused and easily-taken-advantage-of as Wanda. She was a pathetic jerk’s dream—scared, submissive, and lonely. I loved Wanda to death, but she had a target painted on her back.

If Morgan was here, she would have risen up like a mama-bear and would be thrashing the guy’s skin off his bones already. Morgan. I thought of the weird phone call and rubbed my cheek.

“What do we do?” Daphne asked.

“Do?”

“About Tyler?”

“We ride,” I said, and pounded toward the living room.

“Oh shit,” Daphne said. She leaped off her counter stool and bolted after me.