Beautiful Elixir

by Addison Moore

  Brylee clucks her tongue. “He’s your attorney, Ken. You should be thrilled to see him. Hell, you should be hugging his leg as he tries to make his escape. He’s the one who’s going to help you nail Keith to a wall—no pun intended.”

  “I don’t really need him to do that.” A dull smile rides on my lips, but I snuff it out like a flame. “Are you headed back to Yeats?” I look over at Brylee, hopeful she’ll say yes.

  “Leaving in the morning. I’ve only got two classes this semester, Tuesdays and Thursdays, so I’m doing the commuting thing. Do you need me to do anything for you?”

  “Yes.” I pause at the sight of the Corner Store. If Caleb is in there, I want to steer clear. “I want you to tell my sisters I’ll be coming down for a special sit down this Thursday.” Thursday’s are the new Friday since the university doesn’t hold classes on that day anymore. “And I want my sisters good and relaxed, perhaps even good and drunk for what I have planned for them.”

  “Sure thing. You throwing a little party of your own?” Brylee looks genuinely worried for me as if even she understands what poor taste that might be given the salacious circumstances.

  “Sort of. I’m going to try and get to the bottom of all this bullshit that’s been going down in my life.”

  “Cool.” Bry shrugs as if I just told her I was hosting the next big campus kegger. “I’ll stick around and give you a ride back up the mountain. My first class is at ten so be ready by seven. You’re my ticket to the carpool lane!” She sings as she jogs backward. No matter what the circumstance, Brylee is Little Miss Sunshine. Neva, on the other hand, is darkness dipped in misery. It’s sort of nice the way they balance each other out.

  “Seven,” I whisper under my breath. “That’s going to hurt.” I’ve been living it up without an alarm all summer and now even into the fall. Not that I’m getting all that much sleep. Sleep once came easy to me, but that was before my parents started stabbing each other with the shears of justice, or injustice as it were. And now the things I’m dabbling in have me wide awake, seeing darkness even where there is light.

  “You know what’s really going to hurt?” Neva has her gaze set on the entry to the Corner Store. Through the oversized picture window we watch as Zoey slings her arms around Caleb’s shoulder, giggling into his neck. “Losing him to her.”

  “I’m losing, Caleb.” I swallow hard, watching as Zoey runs her finger down his ear, her teeth grazing seductively over him. “I don’t really want him.”

  I speed back to the house, and all the way there my heart shouts liarliarliar.

  * * *

  Fall in Loveless is a sight to behold. October is the most enchanting month to be on the lake. If I had my way, time would cease in this dark, full-mooned, Halloween-themed, leaf-dropping month. This is cozy sweater season, brand new leather boots weather—the thick buttery cable knit scarves and smoke rising from chimney stacks time of year. All of Loveless is pumpkin spiced—the heavy scent of cinnamon floats through the air. There isn’t anything that I dislike about fall, not even football. I head out on the exaggeratingly large wood deck on the second level of my mother’s chalet. The fresh scent of the pines in the morning has the power to intoxicate me, give me a happy buzz far more efficient and dizzying than vodka can ever do. I take in lungful after lungful as a thin veil of paranoid thoughts pass through me. Can I go to prison for what I’ve done? Aren’t I already in a prison of my own making? These are the thoughts that plague me. I suppose they would anyone else given my history.

  The lights are on next door in the Nicholson’s old house. I picture Caleb, showering—the water beading off that perfect, tight, hard-as-granite body, those biceps like tree trunks, water funneling down the hard V just below his abs, him slicking his hair back one last time before twisting off the pipes—one last fountain of water pluming from his lips.

  My thighs quiver just imagining what perfection Caleb McCarthy is silently withholding from the world. He’s called me all week, and all week I’ve avoided him. He’s let me know that he has his “guy,” whoever this mystery man is, working on my behalf. It’s odd how my life’s worst nightmare can be reduced to such nonchalant language. It almost sounds like code. Keith has done something terribly wrong and now he would have to pay. But I, too, have done something terribly wrong, and I wonder what lengths I’m willing to go to keep the lid on my acrid secret. I thought I buried it in the lake long ago, and, now, I watch in horror as it slowly bubbles back to the surface like foaming vomit. I thought I put a lid on it and watched as my lies sunk to the bottom of this algae-riddled basin, but now I’m wondering if the lid has rusted, if Keith, who I’ve whispered all of my earthly truths to under the cover of night during that pornographic season of our lives, is now so ripely pissed, he’s about to unleash the big one. The day the videos were released, I’m sure the world thought that was it, the big finale, but Keith and I both know better. There is so much more that can destroy far more people than simply just me. Just one more act of revenge on my part will most likely be enough to knock him over the edge and, then, boom—out comes the bile, the foaming vomit, eating away my world like acid.

  My mother once told me that little lies are all but sanitized—that they were far from a sin in God’s eyes. But if that’s accurate why do I feel so corroded inside? Those little lies have never felt so little to me. In fact, they tower over me like the shadow of this granite mountain, hard to bare and heavy over my shoulders.

  “Morning.” A deep rumble of a voice echoes from my right, and then I see him.

  Caleb McCarthy is stunning with the seven a.m. sun kissing his features, casting him a pale shade of salmon. His hair is wet and slicked to perfection just as I envisioned. He doesn’t withhold his smile, nor that determined lust in his eyes that’s just as ripe in the morning as it seems to be at night. Keith’s lust never burned this bright for me. He never wanted me half as bad as Caleb does. It’s a pity Caleb couldn’t have stayed on this damn mountain all those years ago. I wouldn’t be here contemplating a leap onto the driveway below, and he wouldn’t be compiling evidence against my ex in a sexual harassment suit that spans every inch of my naked body. Five hundred thousand views and counting. I finally have those 15 minutes of fame Andy Warhol promised the world. Lucky me.

  “Morning.” Our eyes lock in one of those uncomfortable, oh-God-what-now-I-can’t-move moments. Caleb’s eyes are quicksand. I should know; I’ve fallen into them more than my fair share. His jaw tightens, popping the muscles on either side, his eyes remain unblinking, determined, set on unholy intention, and, truthfully, I would not mind his unholy intention one bit, but deep down I think Caleb might actually deserve better.

  I turn to head inside.

  “How about breakfast?” he shouts, hopeful.

  “I’m headed down the hill,” I say, shuffling in my slippers to the door. “I’m going to school today with Brylee!” I’m not sure why I threw in that last part. Oh, hell, I do know. I’m just too embarrassed to admit to the fact I wanted him to know exactly where to stalk me. I want him to be there, to walk the long, dark, cherry-stained corridors of that uptight university with me so that all of my sorority sisters, the entire student body, can see what a gorgeous man I have on my arm—what an improvement he is from the scumbag who took my life and shoved it down the garbage disposal. Keith Stearns is going to pay for the living hell he’s put me in. Tonight at that sorority meeting, I’m going to rattle off a dozen new ways to make him do just that. Now if only I can pinpoint who the hell is doing my bidding.

  At this point, I guess it really doesn’t matter.

  * * *

  Reese and Ace live in a hovel of an apartment back behind the sororities and fraternities tucked in the triangular shithole that is married housing. I suppose it’s not truly a hovel or a shithole. I suppose if the truth were actually to bubble out of me, I might admit that it’s cute and private—not to mention a perfect love shack for a newly married couple.

  Her bathroom is the size
of a thimble, but, nevertheless, it’s romantic with its sunken tub, the one lonely candle that looks as if it’s actually been used during a romantic escapade. A touch of jealousy burns through me, and I wonder if I could ever have something as simple as a candle-lit bath with Caleb. I run a brush through my hair and retouch my lipstick. I lean into her bathroom mirror and inspect how aged I look—defined by my mistakes—hollow and soulless when you get right down to it.

  “You sure you don’t want me to come?” Reese hasn’t stopped hovering. She’s all worry and pittance.

  “I’m positive. I need them to trust me. You might set off alarm bells. You’re not a part of the family—no offense, but I’m referring to the crappy sisterhood I seem to have developed like a bad rash.” I rub my finger under my eye trying to remove the smudged liner. I’ve been hiding out here all day, snacking on carrots and Oreo’s, the only two things her kitchen had to offer. Apparently she and Ace like to eat out—a lot.

  “I’m not setting off any alarms. They all know me. In fact, if I don’t come to support you in your hour of need, they’ll think something is up.” She takes my hand and leads me to the door. “I’m coming with you.”

  We step out into the crisp, autumn air, our flesh numbed by the frosty chill on contact. In Loveless it’s an evergreen bonanza, but, here at Yeats, there is a colorful tree-lined path full of orange Sugar Maples—their leaves burnt with the sting of death, bright red Sourwoods, Dogwoods with their pink and lavender tips, wild peach Sumacs—they have all traded in their lime-green leaves for a riot of gold and fiery reds, yellows as bright as the noonday sun. At this time last year, I was warmed just looking at the thickly stacked trees with their booms of bright colors. They made me think of Caleb. Everything made me think of Caleb. We have a tree back in Loveless, an unassuming pine with our first initials carved into it. K + C. So sickly sweet and adolescent, but that damn tree brought me more pleasure than Keith could ever hope.

  Alpha Kappa sits high on a ridge surrounded by smaller, yet far more rowdy sororities on “the hill” as it’s known. I’m legacy at Alpha Kappa due to the fact my mother and her twin were Kappas—and I made no secret of it during rush. While other girls were getting their faces spray tanned a neon shade of pumpkin, I sweetly promised (read: vaguely threatened) the then-team of captains that I would one day extend the favor of bowing the legacy to their little sisters, and I was as good as in. Just like that, I was free from any pigment-faced harm. And here I am, was, the leader of this rabid pack.

  We head inside, and my sisters trample to the door. A mad hugging fest ensues. I can practically feel the red lipstick adhering to my flesh. Red lipstick and pearls is the external marker of a true Kappa. I’ve donned both in the event some rogue sister decides to think otherwise. I’m still running this whorehouse through Mel, so if any of these bitches plan on pulling rank, they’ve got another thing coming. (My sisters are totally not bitches, but I mentally like to assert an obnoxious amount of authority). I’m the equivalent of a Mob Boss working the family from the pen in that respect. Only, I’m thinking prison would be a less hostile environment than the free public. I’ve been avoiding humans like they were the new plague. I’ve never been a fan of being judged, and now that the Kennedy is back! high seems to be wearing off, they’re all taking an apprehensive step in the opposite direction, clutching at their pearls, wondering what in the hell to do with me.

  “Don’t you worry,” Mel whispers in my ear. “Everyone in the dayroom!” she calls out. “We’re holding an impromptu meeting!”

  A loose round of cheers break out, and I catch Reese rolling her eyes. It could be worse, Brylee could be here, too.

  An iced breeze blows in as the door springs open, and Brylee stumbles into the room on cue.

  “Am I late?” She trots over with the glee of a galloping horse.

  “No. In fact, you’re way too early.” If she were five minutes late, it would be right on time. I peer at the girls assembling themselves in the next room. There is an order of hierarchy to be observed during meetings such as this, though I can’t help but see that several of the girls are seated out of place, and I’m wildly displeased. It’s either anarchy, or they feel this is an informal get together. I’ll cling to the latter for now. I lean in toward Brylee and Reese. “You two sit in the back,” I whisper. “I need everyone relaxed. If there’s a mole in here, I’m about to throw some serious dynamite to get the weasel out.”

  I head in and clap the room to order.

  “Thank you so much girls for taking time out of your busy schedules. I know that midterms are right around the corner and that you have papers to write.” Dicks to suck, but I leave that bit of brash verbiage out for now. I’m so livid with my sorority bitches (yes, I lied, I really do believe they are all a pack of wild female dogs) I could bash heads until someone confesses to the lunacy that’s fallen upon my life. Tonight is about confirming a theory. Now, to set the bait…

  I take a seat next to Melanie with her warm, affable smile, her preppy upturned collar and loafers with the right kind of tread letting me know they’re the expressive originals and not the Target knock-offs. Mel has been my right hand gal long before this nightmare ever began.

  “So”—I give my signature don’t-hate-me-because-I’m-simply-one-of-you shrugs (even my body language is averse to telling the truth)—“I know things have changed with me not in attendance this semester.”

  “Will you be back?” A waifish girl raises her hand, her voice genuinely worried in anticipation of my answer.

  “Of course, I’ll be back. I just need to do a little damage control, that’s all. My attorney is working overtime, trying to get things handled in just the right way. Have any of you seen the videos?” I scour the room as each of their faces lights up an unholy shade of crimson. They all shake their heads feverishly, but their visceral response, Mother Nature’s polygraph, has long since ratted them out. They have all seen my quivering thighs, that disgusting wanton look on my face that screamed for Caleb while Keith was deep inside of me. Keith was a cheater in the flesh, but I suppose so was I where it really counted—in the heart.

  A pretty girl in front raises her hand, Carmen Getty, whose nickname is you guessed it, Come and Getty It. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell her parents were thinking.

  “Yes, Carmen,” I say it even in my best teacher voice. I often felt like more than a mentor to these girls, I feel like faculty.

  “I think your campaign is going real well. I mean all of the ideas we put together were delivered flawlessly. The magazines, the Craigslist ads, the box of dildos sent to those brats.”

  “His sisters are angels. That was a regrettable error on my part.” My eyes track across the blank vapid faces staring back at me for evidence of a twitch, a wink given by the true perpetrator. Someone in this room has taken to being my personal renegade savior, but who would have the balls to step out of bounds? At the very least, they’re arming Keith with the ammo to take me down. All these witnesses? Of course, the finger would point back to me. It’s brilliant, really. If I wasn’t so pissed at him, I’d congratulate him for putting his brain to use. “Now, it’s time for round two. The rules are the same. In no way shape or form are any of you allowed to initiate any of these tactics on my behalf. Understand?” Their heads bounce up and down like a box full of bobble-heads. “There will be legal consequences if any of you cross this line. I’m already up to my eyeballs in litigation hell. I’d hate to drag you along for the ride.” Lie. There is nothing I would love more than to drag the preppy princess who saw fit to initiate our drunken midnight musings and make them my reality—Keith’s nightmare. My eyes close a brief moment as I process the thought. It’s becoming harder to lie to myself by the minute. “I don’t simply hate Keith. I care enough to see that he gets the right dose of revenge. And you girls are here to help me think up ways to dish it.”

  “So”—Mel gives a thunderous clap—“let’s brainstorm and really get Keith Stearns’ blood boiling.
” She rubs her hands together as if relishing the idea of sawing off Keith’s proverbial balls.

  The think tank begins to stir, and, before we know it, the girls are churning out one vitriolic idea after another. Glue his keyhole shut. Sink enough sugar in his gas tank until cotton candy shoots from his tailpipe. Keith drives a Maserati so that will be particularly painful. But the rest of the ideas sort of fizzle in comparison to what’s already been done—to what he’s done.

  Cut up his clothes? Hire a male stripper to regale him with his package? Send him a positive pregnancy test (purchased from eBay of course.) All of these scream seventh grade caliber, ridiculous, slimy like I-have-to-take-a-long-hot-shower-when-I-get-home kind of feel.

  Charlie raises her hand and bucks on her bottom like she’s about to piss her pants. “You can write Keith Stearns is an asshole across the student lawn in shaving cream.”

  “No, stupid.” Mel rolls her eyes. I hate it when she puts down the other girls like that. It’s one thing to have a thought, but I’ve always been consciously aware of how I treat my sisters, and calling them names is never something I would do. I glower at Mel as she flips her thick strands of straggly hair. “She should do it with gasoline.” The room fills with oohs and ahhs. “Then set it on fire.”

  Applause breaks out over her genius.

  “Interesting,” I say, negating to mention the fact the university would most likely frown upon that, right before they issue me a big fat expulsion.

  “I have another one.” Charlie sits with her spine straight as a pin, cutting a dark glare to Mel. For whatever reason, Charlie and Mel can never seem to get along. Leave the two of them in a room alone, and only one will come out alive. “Start a Wikipedia page! You could say he has a thing for corpses. Heck, you could cover the Net with his obituary—put it in the Loveless paper. Send him ‘doctored’ lunches. Special delivery of dead fly pizza anyone?” She breaks out into a wicked cackle.