by Kat Pace
“Oh, good Em you’re here!” Zoë enters the kitchen with two other people.
“ZOË! Oh my god!” I yell. I look her up and down twice. “You were supposed to be dog!”
“Oh my –no fucking way. Why would I be dog? Hello?” She says, arms crossed staring at me.
“Um, because I am cat!” I laugh.
“Well, now we match, anyway.” Zoë throws her arm around me, so we are next to each other.
We do match, almost to a T. She’s got a black bodysuit too, but hers has short sleeves, and leather boots She has a pink nose instead of black and a weird glittery eye makeup thing going on. But other than that, yup we are basically twinning.
Zoë introduces me to the other two girls she brought: Devil & Angel (their costumes, not their actual names). After a quick tour of the rest of the place and one more blood martini, I am already feeling it. The spook.
There must be at least 50 people at this pregame. Everyone is dressed up, the guys too. I’ve already seen five NBA players, three pirates, two Power Rangers, and one dude who dressed up as ‘a catch’. A catch & release maybe.
10:59 PM
It’s an hour into the pregame when I fish my phone out of my cleavage (this cat suit doesn’t call for pockets). I am greeted by a blank screen. No calls, no texts, no noti’s of any kind. This doesn’t surprise me, but still. I put my glass on the ledge next to the bar and open my phone.
It’s loud on the media scene tonight. Haunted hayrides and house parties and who-can-be-the-sluttiest costume contests are going on all across the US.
I click on the mini face of Trix and see what she’s up to. It looks like a party is going on at Travis’s. Trix actually is dressed up like a mermaid and Travis some fancy prince with a cigarette wedged between his lips, smiling at the camera. What a selfie. Meg and Nate look like Romeo and Juliet wannabes. Alex is a rock star in a leather jacket, electric guitar hanging from his shoulder.
Man, I miss Travis’s deck on Back Bay. I’m homesick for New Jersey. EW.
Someone is absent from all these pics. Not surprising, since I know he’s back in NC. I fight with myself for 10 seconds before I find myself on his page. No new activity, not tonight anyway. Looking at his face, I can’t believe it’s been so long.
I haven’t seen him in almost two months.
I don’t care.
Still, blood martini #3 is V much tempting me to message him like a dutiful ex-lover drunk on Halloween. No. I can’t let what he is doing determine what I am doing. I need to do things for me. I finish #3 for me.
I search for Zoë and find her in the kitchen with Sophie. She’s leaning against the counter top, next to Bryan. He’s her boy toy for lack of a more distinguished description.
“Heey!” She says, smiling when I stop in front of her. “Em, here try this.” Zoë puts a plastic cup in my hand. I see bright blood red in the cup. Must be the brew.
“Shit. That’s good shit,” I say taking the cup from my lips. It tastes like raspberry Jell-O with vodka and rich chocolate. I don’t think there’s actually any chocolate.
“Isn’t it?” Zoë laughs. “Hey are you almost ready, cat?”
“Ready cat,” I say and nod my head. I sway slightly into the countertop myself. Zoe laughs at me.
“A group of us are going to the party soon. The one down town,” she clarifies, like this is a party too, not a pregame.
“Whenev-ur you-want.” I’m starting to slur. I’m at that line. You know, the one in your head If I have one more sip, then I’m definitely drunk. Point of no return line.
“Let’s finish our drinks,” she says and turns back to Bryan. He finishes his cup first.
I finish mine last, giggling to myself as I put it back on the counter and thank Sophie for her ‘pregame’.
We are halfway to the door with four or five other people (a Barbie, a princess and I think the NBA players).
“Wait!” Zoë says, grabbing my hand and yanking me away from the door.
“Whaaaaat cat?” I laugh, almost tripping over my heels. I flash to seeing Trix try to walk on sand and smile to myself. Miss my mermaid.
“We need a pic. C’mon,” she says, still pulling me sideways. She drops my hand in front of the glass windows. They’re almost crystalized now from the fog and the cool air outside. A cobweb hangs above our heads, flickering in the strobes.
“Take a video,” Zoë instructs, taking the phone from my hand and shoving it into Bryan’s.
“Let’s hug and turn,” she tells me. I nod and follow her lead.
We start hugging, our fronts completely against each other and then we turn to Bryan, to the camera, to our media followers. Zoë roars and makes a fake clawing motion with her hand and nails. I’m not so in-character. I panic and blow a kiss to the camera.
I know. EW. How very pleasant of me. I blame the boos (booze but boo, see what I did thurrr).
“Here,” Bryan says, handing back my phone to me. Zoë is already trying to usher us back to the door.
“Let’s go!” She yells at the group.
I follow her toward the door, but look at my phone. I can’t help it. I’ve been conditioned. I look at the 3-second video that plays on a loop.
You can really see the strobes –our faces like dark ghosts in the shadows flickering to life under the white. HOLY TITS. What a mf video. When we hug sideways, our waists disappear underneath each other’s hands. Our butts stick out in the way only leather bodysuits can allow. The 4” heels are advertising legs for days.
“Emmy, comeonnnn!” Zoë shouts from the door.
“Coming!”
I shake my head and press the tiny square button on the corner of the pic. It’s added. I can’t keep the smile from my face when I think I hope he sees this. Just kidding, I can. I lose the smile when I remember how basic I am, how basic I’m acting. Posting a #hotgirlhalloween pic and just HOPING Brooks will see it. At least I’m in the company of every other woman, ever.
EYE. ROLL.
FUCK. IT.
I lock my phone and put it back down my shirt, determined not to look at it again the rest of the night. I will have plenty of time tomorrow to check if he saw my strobe-lit self.
The party is five blocks away and it’s so cold I’m blessing my past self for having picked the bodysuit with sleeves. Zoë is busy falling all over Bryan and Barbie is locking lips with a bball player. Don’t tell Ken. My mind is already wandering back to my post. Well, it won’t hurt to just look at it, right?
I pull out my phone again and my heart races. Right there on my lock screen is an unopened message. Even his written name looks good. Even his name makes me want to explode. I swipe open and read.
Emmy… answer
Emmy answer? He hasn’t texted or called or tried to communicate via any way since this morning and this is what I get? Answer what? He didn’t even say anything!
I want to respond but I’m distracted by Barbie and NBA Ken. My phone buzzes again with a new message.
Rr u drunk?
ARE U? I type aggressively.
…
r u goin out?
ALREADY OUT Take that, Brooks.
…
I love the idea that he is jealous I am out. I love that he’s thinking of me being out. I also just love him, but that’s irrelevant right now.
My phone buzzes again.
Better not b drunk dressed lik that
WHAT? That mf, is he kidding me? Here he goes, being all possessive and rude Brooks again.
Long sleeves! Legit could not b wearing mor clothes!!!
…
who r u with
The nerve. I look behind me at Zoë all over Bryan. Next to me at the other couple. Ahead of us are the other bball guys, wearing jerseys. I’m inspired. I catch up with them, my heels clicking against the pavement as I walk.
“Hey, guys! Selfie?” I hold up my phone.
I notice up close that they are both kinda cute. One has dark skin, hair, eyes, everything. The other on
e is fair with light, sandy-colored hair. This is the first time tonight I am really paying any attention to them. It’s really a testament to the culture today that while they both just look at me like I’m crazy, they don’t question it. Don’t question me, the girl they’ve never met, asking to take a picture with them.
I position myself in the middle and point my phone at us.
Snap.
“Thanks!” I say and retreat back to my lonely spot on the pavement. Literally, I’m a whack.
The photo is great though. It’ll do its job. I open my profile page and send the pic as a message privately to Brooks. I caption it made new friends. Man, I’m a petty bitch.
I feel all tingly and anxious when I hit SEND. But serves him right, acting like some prehistoric caveman questioning my behavior. ‘R U drunk?’ and ‘Who r u with’ like really, does he think I haven’t been drunk since the summer? Does he think I haven’t gone out since the carnival?
Nothing. Radio silence. No new buzz, no ding, no message noti pop up. Great.
I wonder if it will be another three weeks before I hear anything from him. Maybe another nine years. I shake myself back to the street. I almost smack into Zoë when she stops in front of me at the bar.
I walk in and wow. Spook City.
Sophie’s party really was just a pregame to this. Strobe lights galore. 100% a fog machine. The smell is so strong I can taste it on my tongue. Silhouettes of ghosts hanging from the ceiling are stark against the bright lights. Pumpkins line the bar, some carved into jack-o-lanterns, some hollowed out and replaced with bar nuts.
A huge painted sign behind the bar reads the Halloween specials: Zombies, $12; Skulls, $10; Vampires, $6 (a jumbo syringe shot full of red Jell-O). All the beer taps are covered in spider webs with fake spiders crawling all over. The two bartenders are wearing matching masquerade masks: black and silver with gold sequins.
“Two Zombies,” Zoë orders from the bartender. “And,” she pauses, turning to me. “Will you do a Vamp? A syringe shot?”
“It’s Halloween. Gotta do a Vamp,” I shrug.
Zoë turns back to the bartender, “And two Vamps. Oh, make it four!”
“Zoë!” I laugh over my own tongue. She throws and arm around me and leans against me. “Zombie and two shots? I–I’m am already drunks.”
“I know,” she says, winking at me. “Sort of the point. Come on!”
“Here ya go,” the bartender says, dropping the first round of drinks on the bar.
“Excellent,” Zoë says, bringing the almost-black color drink to her lips.
“It looks like death,” I laugh.
“Shut up! Here, take yours.” She hands me the second drink. It sloshes down my arm. “And put your phone awayyyy!”
“S–sorry,” I mumble. I didn’t even realize my phone was out again, clenched in my fist like it’s my lifeline to the outside world.
It is.
Still, nothing. No text. No message. I’ll even take him yelling at me again. Jealous Brooks > no Brooks.
Zoë grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd to the side of the floor opposite the bar. Barbie is close behind us. Zero clue where the boys went. We pass more pixies, more cats, some knockoff superheroes, and of course the occasional pop culture reference. Fog machine in full effect.
“OK, Vamp one!” Zoë shoves a jumbo syringe into my hand and another one in Barbie’s. Seriously, what is her name? The contents shine deep red under the neon ghost hanging on the wall.
“THREE, TWO, SHOOT UP!” Barbie cheers. The three of us inject *empty* the syringe into our mouths. It’s like chunky raspberry syrup Jell-O.
Drink almost gone.
It’s called a Zombie for a reason. It’s what you become after you drink one. A quarter of one. OK, like three sips of one. My feet are like two lead stumps attached to my legs that I keep stumbling over. My eyelids feel like crescent weights I keep trying to push up off my face.
And SHIT do they make you have to pee. Why is finding the bathroom always a task?
“Bathroom,” I yell at Zoë. It’s more like I’m mouthing it though because it’s so loud I doubt she can hear me. Or maybe it’s not loud and the Zombie has taken my hearing.
“Yes!” To my surprise, it’s Barbie who answers me, taking my hand in hers like we are best friends and this is the casual sort of thing we do. It reminds me of something Trix would do.
She leads me around the room, back past the bar, and into a small alcove concealed by black webs hanging from the ceiling. Signs on the doors say Boos & Ghouls. Clever.
“Come on,” Barbie pulls me through the Ghoul door.
I pee. What a relief. I unzip my bodysuit and can’t help but check my phone.
Still, static. Less than static.
I use my elbow to turn the faucet and wash my hands. I’m already done with the dryer when Barbie comes out of the stall. Her outfit really is good. She’s got this neon pink workout bathing suit thing, high heel sneakers, leg warmers and a bright teal scrunchie in her ponytail. An 80s Work-out Barbie.
She catches me staring in the mirror so I quickly go back to looking at my phone. It’s starting to look funny –you know, like I’ve been looking at it too long and now all I see is a rectangular square of glowing LEDs with no actual shapes or words. It’s so tiny and petite in my hand but fuck, the damage it can do.
Shake it off, Em.
I look up again and walk over to the sink where Barbie is reapplying glittery lip-gloss.
“Can I have some?” I ask.
“Yes!” She hands it over.
I lean into the mirror and apply. The glitter looks oddly at home on my pouting lips. I blot once and then give it back to her. She takes it, smiling and then turns to face me.
“Why don’t you just call him?” She asks.
“Huh?”
“Call him. He’s prob not worth it anyway, but if it’ll make you relax, call him,” she says. The wisdom. Who knew?
“You’re right!” I nod too much. “I should call him. But not cuz I care cuz I don’t.”
“Exactly. You call cause you don’t care. You don’t care what he hears or what he thinks you’re doing.” She nods.
“Oh my god. Next l–level right. I do NOT care.” I whip my phone up to my face and open it.
Barbie is standing with me in front of the mirror and sink, watching. My moral support. This girl I don’t know here for me in my drunken time of need.
The bonds forged by drunk girls in bathrooms, amirite?
My finger presses onto his little icon.
“It’s ringing,” I giggle to my new bestie. Barbie gives me the thumbs up. “Shit. It’s ringing!”
I hang up. Or chicken out. Both.
Just before I hung up, I swear I heard a little noise. Like maybe he answered.
I put my phone face up on the sink and lean against the marble with my palms.
It buzzes to life.
Brooks.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Answer! Come onnn,” Barbs says, egging me on. She’s adding more glitter gloss to her pouted lips.
Don’t do it. Oh fuck off, drunk Emmy. I swipe to answer.
“Emmeline Lou’s phone.” I can’t keep from laughing at myself.
“Emmy? Em, is that you?” Brooks’s voice sounds so far away in my little black box of noise. Which is weird cause he’s still so close in my heart.
Drunk Emmy talking.
“Yes, it’s, I am Em. Am Em. HA-HA,” I giggle again. Zoë is going to pay for these Vampire shots. I roll my eyes and focus on my phone.
“Emmy. Why did you call?” He sounds angry. Grumpy. Annoyed. MF.
“Accidents,” I say. “Didn’t mean to. OK BYES!”
“DON’T hang up. Are you out?”
The door slams open and three separate superhero ladies walk through the door. Good. Maybe they’re here to save me.
“We’re on a call!” Barbie raises her eyebrows at them. “GET OUT!”
Barbie slams t
he door shut again. We are monopolizing the bathroom.
“Emmy where are you? You’re DRUNK!” Brooks is screaming into the phone now.
“I know I’m am, but whats are you?” I wink at Barbie. “HEY! Brooks. Did you like my pic?”
“You better go home, Emmy.” Brooks says. He ignored my question.
