Invincible

by Amy Reed

  “Did you bring any of those mushrooms?”

  “You shouldn’t do them too often. It can make you crazy.”

  “But do you have any left?”

  “No. We ate them all the other night.”

  “We should do them again soon,” I say. “Hey, can you get some Ecstasy? I really want to try that.” What is wrong with me?

  We sit in silence for a while. From here, the brightly lit bridge looks almost festive, like a carnival. A digital billboard switches advertisements every ten seconds. Our eyes are glued to it, like we’re in a living room, sitting on a couch and watching TV.

  This night should be magical, but I haven’t let it.

  Marcus hands me the pipe and lighter, and I take a huge toke. I hand it to him and make a silent promise to myself to be nicer. We pass the pipe back and forth a couple more times, then I take Marcus’s hand. We sit there like that for a while, watching the traffic on the bridge. Where are these people going so late on a Sunday night?

  I wonder what my family is doing right now. They must have realized I’m gone by now. I could check my phone for messages. I could at least text them to let them know I’m okay. But I won’t. Let them worry. Let them know what it feels like to have me gone.

  “Why don’t you ever talk about your life?” Marcus says, slicing the thick silence between us. “Tell me more about the cancer.”

  “No,” I say. I hear the sharpness in my voice and I know he did too. I grab the vodka bottle and take a huge gulp, feel it burn down my throat and into my chest, erasing my fear of his question.

  “But the other night. In the graveyard. I know it was a big deal for you to tell me. I want to understand what you went through.”

  I don’t want to talk. I don’t want Marcus to understand. I don’t want to bring him into that history. He is supposed to only exist now, here, in my present. He is supposed to take up so much space that it crowds the past out.

  “I don’t know anything about your friends or school or family,” he says.

  “They’re not interesting.”

  “They’re interesting to me.”

  “My parents are boring. My sister’s annoying. School is boring and annoying.”

  “Come on,” he pleads. “Tell me something real.”

  There’s something in his voice that melts me, that makes me let down my guard. Something real. He wants something real. Isn’t that what I want too? Isn’t that one of the reasons I love him, because I don’t have to hide, because I can let him see me? He’s the one I’m supposed to be letting in. He’s the only one.

  “Okay,” I say. “You’re the only person left in the world who doesn’t hate me. I’m letting everyone down. That’s what’s real.”

  “Why do you think you’re letting everyone down?”

  “I’m not who they want me to be. Ever since I got home from the hospital, all I seem to do is screw up.” I notice the slur in my voice. The vodka is doing its work. “But that’s the thing,” I say. “That’s what happens when you love people, right? You find out they’re not who you thought they were. Either that, or they leave you. Same difference.”

  “That’s what people have done to you?”

  “I guess.”

  “So that’s what you’re doing to them?”

  “I don’t have a choice. I’m not the person they love anymore.” The sadness snuck back in. I feel on the verge of tears. The vodka didn’t fix anything.

  “But why can’t they love who you are now?”

  “I don’t know.” If anything, the vodka is making the sadness worse.

  “Well, I know you. I know you’re amazing. And I’m pretty sure they’d think so too if you gave them a chance.”

  “But what if they don’t?” And this is when I start crying. Big, fat, pathetic tears stream down my face. What happened to tough Evie? What happened to the Evie who didn’t care what anyone thought? “What if they get to know me and they still hate me?” I cry.

  “Why would they hate you?” The kindness in Marcus’s eyes makes me cry even harder.

  “I hate me,” I say, and I am full of so much disgust, I don’t understand why Marcus is wrapping his arms around me, I don’t know how he can stand to be near me, how he can stand to touch me.

  “You have to let people love you,” he says. “You have to at least give them a chance.”

  This was supposed to be romantic. But I ruined it by bringing this shit up and turning into this crying, whiny drunk.

  “That’s the past,” I say, smiling big enough to wipe the slate clean. I will my tears to stop. “I want to focus on right now. Right here, with you.”

  I lean into him so his face is all I can see. I kiss him until I am sure he no longer wants to talk, until his body takes over and we have avoided the conversation. Our kisses make the past go away. I put my hand on his belt and we both forget.

  I keep my eyes open as we make love. I look into the night sky, saturated and dull with all the lights of the city. There is a smattering of bright stars, but not many; only the strongest and brightest shine through. I know there are so many more up there, infinite, but we can’t see them. They’re light-years away, burning their hearts out, but we’re so crowded down here, too busy to notice. I almost feel sad about this, but then Marcus moves against me in a way that makes me close my eyes and forget the sky. Finally, I am truly here, truly with him, and my mind stops wandering, stops wanting other things, and I only want him, I only want now, and my body finally feels everything it wants to feel.

  When we are done, wrapped up and warm in Marcus’s blankets, I say, “Let’s run away together.”

  “Okay,” he says sleepily. He doesn’t know I’m serious.

  The white noise of traffic lulls us to sleep. We are tangled in each other’s arms, cradled in this sea-smelling womb we have created. Maybe this is what freedom feels like: making a bed between two pieces of driftwood, being hidden from every direction except up. The sky is the only one who can see us and no one knows where we are. We can forget. We can be forgotten. Maybe this is what it feels like to win a tiny battle against the world.

  thirty-one.

  I WAKE UP WITH A DOG’S NOSE IN MY FACE. I SWAT HIM away, and he sniffs around us and pees just a few inches from my feet. My head is cloudy after a night of shallow, troubled sleep brought on by too much alcohol and sleeping on the ground.

  Whatever magic we managed last night is most definitely gone.

  The sun is too bright. The air is thick with the salty decay of a dirty beach. I look at the sand around us and it is filthy with rotting seaweed, flies, cigarette butts, beer cans, plastic bottles, broken glass, and unidentifiable other trash, none of which I noticed in the darkness of last night. I hear voices and look up to see a group of men in wet suits just a few yards away, getting kiteboards ready. The dog runs up and down the beach, barking, rattling my fragile head in its second consecutive day of hangover. The stillness of last night has been replaced by howling wind.

  This isn’t a romantic private beach. This is the kind of place gangsters dump dead bodies.

  “Hi,” Marcus says as he sits up next to me.

  “We have visitors,” I say.

  “Oops,” he says, and leans over to kiss me. His morning breath makes my stomach turn.

  The beach ends at a road that goes alongside the freeway. I see two trucks parked near the abandoned bus stop where we climbed over the fence and I skinned my hands.

  “We could have driven here,” I say. My body burns with the surprise of feeling so furious so soon after waking. “We could have slept in Bubbles. Why didn’t we do that?”

  “A car parked overnight would have given us away. We would have been caught.” He puts his arm around me. “Plus, wasn’t it way more fun to go the way we did? Wasn’t it cool to go back to where we first met?”

  “It was stupid, Marcus. You made me sleep on the ground like a fucking homeless person.”

  Marcus pulls away, as if I hit him. The hurt shock on
his face makes me want to eat glass. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. That was really mean. I’m just really hungover. It’s making me an asshole.”

  “You’re right,” he says, looking away. “It is.”

  “Hey,” I say, pulling him close. “I’m sorry. Last night was wonderful. Thank you. And sorry I got so emo. Alcohol seems to have a pretty unpredictable effect on me.”

  He meets my eye and smiles with one side of his mouth, as if he is only thinking about forgiving me. “Should I drop you off at school?” he says. “It’s a little after nine. I hope you didn’t miss too much.”

  “Ha-ha,” I say, because I assume he’s joking. But when I look at him, there’s no humor on his face.

  “I need to go home and take a shower so I can make it to school in time for my afternoon classes,” he says, completely serious.

  “You’re going to school today?”

  “My morning classes on Monday are throwaways, but I have calculus and AP American History later and I can’t miss those.”

  AP American History? Who is this guy?

  “Hello?” he says, staring at me. “Evie? Is anybody there?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. Don’t drop me off at school.”

  “At home, then?”

  Those are my only two options, aren’t they? Where else am I going to go? I’m sick and exhausted and I need to sleep and the only place that’s free and mine is my bed in my room in the house of my parents. I can’t be done with them yet. As much as they hate me, as much as I’m sick of them, I’m still theirs. They still own me.

  “Fine,” I say. “Take me home.”

  “Hey. Are you okay? Why do you seem so mad?”

  “Sorry. I just don’t want to deal with my parents right now.”

  It’s after ten when Marcus drops me off in front of my house. We managed to patch things up so that I’m pretty sure he’s not mad at me, but I can tell he’s worried now, like everyone else. He was supposed to be the one person I could count on, the one person I could be free with. But now he’s turning out to have some of the same fears and expectations as everyone else. I don’t know what to think about this. I don’t know what to feel. All I know is I need to sleep for a very long time, and as soon as possible.

  Mom storms out of the kitchen as soon as I walk through the door. “What the hell were you thinking?” she says.

  “I’m tired, Mom. Can I sleep for a few hours and then we can talk about this when I wake up?”

  “Not until you tell me where you’ve been.”

  “I spent the night at a friend’s house. You don’t know her.” I can’t look her in the eye. “I was upset.”

  “So you climbed out your bedroom window? You didn’t answer your phone all night? You didn’t even leave a note? Do you have any idea how worried we were?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And you missed your appointment with Dr. Jacobs this morning.”

  “I forgot.”

  “Damn it, this isn’t a game. You can’t just play with your life like this.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s at work. After not sleeping all night.”

  I look at the floor. I have nothing to say. He hit me. It’s hard to feel bad about making him worry.

  Mom sighs, taking a few steps toward me. “He made a mistake. He’s sorry. He was so angry. He was so scared.”

  “Scared? Of what?”

  “We almost lost you once,” she says softly. “We don’t want to lose you again.”

  I feel unsteady, like someone could blow on me and I would crumble to the ground. I think about what Marcus and I talked about last night, about letting my parents in, letting them know who I am now. Maybe they could love her. But maybe they can’t. I’ve made such a mess, I don’t even know where to start cleaning up. I don’t even know if it’s possible.

  “Go to bed,” Mom says. I fight the urge to fall into her, to wrap myself in her arms and tell her everything.

  “We’ll talk when your dad gets home,” she says. “There are going to be consequences this time, Evie.”

  “Okay,” I say. I walk into my room, shut the door, and crash into my bed and a leaden, lonely sleep.

  thirty-two.

  THE CLOCK SAYS 5:12. AFTERNOON LIGHT LEAKS UNDER THE curtains and draws a beam across my hand. I pull it away, back into the safety of shadow.

  I can’t lie here forever. I’m going to have to face my dad eventually. I might as well get it over with.

  I pull some clean clothes out of the pile of laundry on my floor. As I splash water on my face and brush my teeth, I repeat the mantra inside my head: Don’t feel don’t feel don’t feel. Just endure the speeches. Just nod and say yes. Don’t fight back. Just get this over as quickly as possible.

  I almost feel brave as I walk into the kitchen where I can hear my parents talking.

  As soon as I enter, Dad says, “Are you ready to talk?”

  “Can I get some water first?” He nods.

  I sit across from them and wait.

  “We got a call from the school while you were sleeping off whatever you did last night,” Dad snarls, ready to fight.

  “James,” Mom says. “Let’s try to keep things civil.”

  He turns to her. “How am I supposed to keep things civil when she has absolutely no respect for us or herself?”

  Mom sighs. She must be so exhausted from trying to keep this family from falling apart. “Principal Landry is worried about you, Evie. After what happened at prom. And your grades.”

  “And apparently you’ve been skipping class,” Dad adds.

  “We have an appointment with her tomorrow morning at eight thirty,” Mom says. “All of us.”

  “I have to take off work for this, Evie.”

  I say nothing. I take a sip of water.

  “Do you have anything to say?” Dad asks.

  “No.” I don’t look up. I don’t want to see the way he’s looking at me.

  “Who are you?” Dad says. “It’s like you’re not even our daughter anymore. We didn’t raise you like this.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “My Evie wouldn’t stay out all night doing god knows what and come home reeking of booze.”

  Maybe I’m not your Evie anymore. Maybe I’m nobody’s Evie anymore. Maybe that Evie is dead and gone and buried like she should have been all along.

  “Say something, damn it!” Dad pounds his fist on the table and the water sloshes inside my glass. I look up and see Mom shrunken inside herself. I don’t meet Dad’s eyes, but I can feel them burning holes into me.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, but it means nothing.

  “We think you need to see someone,” Mom says. “We think it would be good for you to talk to someone about what you’re going through.”

  “Since you obviously won’t talk to us,” Dad says.

  “What, like a shrink?”

  “Yes, a therapist,” Mom says. “I talked to Dr. Jacobs and he recommended someone who specializes in PTSD and—”

  “And addiction,” Dad barks when Mom can’t say it. “Because of what you pulled with the pills. And who knows what else you’re doing when you’re out all night.”

  “PTSD?” I say. “Why PTSD?”

  “Because of what you went through with the cancer,” Mom says. “It was traumatic.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?” Dad hisses.

  “James, you don’t need to have that tone,” Mom says.

  “Oh, don’t I? And you think your approach is really working? This gentle, understanding bullshit that lets Evie walk all over us?”

  “Evie, I think you should go to your room now,” Mom says. So I can let them fight in peace.

  “And you won’t be joining us for dinner,” Dad adds. “You have to earn that right back through your behavior.”

  “She has to eat,” Mom pleads.

  “Then make her a plate, for Christ’s sake,” he snaps. “She can eat alone in her room.”<
br />
  “Okay,” I say. I nod my head, as if the movement will keep me from crying. “Okay,” I say again, because what else is there to say when your father hates you and there’s no chance of him ever loving you again?

  I get up and walk to my room. I turn on my favorite of Stella’s songs, the one that makes me feel tough and invincible. I turn it up as loud as possible, but it’s not working. I still feel like the world’s biggest piece of shit.

  My door flies open and Dad storms into my room. He tears the CD out of my stereo and breaks it in half. “I am sick of this noise!” he yells. He grabs Stella’s hat from my desk and slams the door behind him. Silence follows. Emptiness. A great gaping hole that can never be filled.

  I text Marcus: Meet me at the graveyard in an hour.

  I grab my bag and climb out the window again.

  I can’t get high enough. No amount of weed will make the memory of the way my dad looked at me go away.

  And no amount of weed will make the voice mail Caleb just left go away either. I keep hearing it over and over again: “Hi, Evie, it’s me, Caleb. I don’t know why you haven’t texted me back yet, but don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. You’re probably the nicest person I ever met, so I know you must have a good reason. Anyway, I really want to talk to you. So could you call me back soon? Thanks. Oh, this is Caleb. Okay, bye.”

  I smoke and smoke and smoke but the sound of his voice will not leave my head.

  “Take it easy, killer,” Marcus says.

  I exhale a huge cloud of smoke.

  “Want to talk about it?” he says.

  “My parents are assholes.”

  “What’d they do?”

  “All they do is try to control me. They’re mad because I’m doing bad in school and they don’t know where I am and who I’m with at every moment.”

  “That seems pretty normal, don’t you think?”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  Marcus smiles and puts his arm around me. “Yours.” He kisses me. “Always. You know that.”

  We’re sitting in the grass in front of the tomb where we did mushrooms and made love for the first time. I wish I felt like I did that night, full of magic. I wish the rest of the world would disappear. But the weed is just making me feel heavy and slow. I keep thinking someone’s behind us, hiding, watching. All the creepy cemetery statues seem to be facing us, staring.