The Wild One

by Gemma Burgess

  Topher won’t mind me dropping in. He never seems to mind anything. Though it’s kind of hard to know exactly what’s going on in Topher’s head. He’s always smiling.

  Maybe it’s impossible to ever really know another person, inside and out, you know? Even my friends and my sister … I’m not sure I will ever know what’s going on inside their heads. Like, why is Julia so slammed at work that she has to turn to prescription drugs to keep up? Why does Madeleine seem to be retreating even farther into herself? How can I ever guess when I don’t know what they’ve been through in their lives? I don’t know what they’re most scared of or want more than anything. How can I ever know someone else when I barely even know myself?

  Shut up, Coco.

  I need to stop thinking, find Topher, and kiss him. And my heart needs to stop beating so fast. Why am I nervous? I’m just at a party. It’s totally normal.

  “Coco, hey!”

  Topher. Over in a dark hallway just off the living room.

  “Hey!” I smile at him, relief overwhelming me.

  Topher reaches out to hug me hello. It’s the first time we’ve officially hugged, I think, and I can smell a lemony shower gel.

  “Glad you texted me. I didn’t know you were coming,” he says.

  “Um … I just … I was in the area.”

  Behind Topher, all huddled together in the hallway, I see a bunch of the guys he was friends with in high school: the jocks. Some of them are already so drunk their eyes are half closed as they slump against the wall. It’s not even nine o’clock.

  Topher hands me a glass of brown liquid. I take a sip. Cheap whiskey. Not nearly as good as the stuff I’ve been drinking at Potstill all summer. But I don’t say anything. I take a long sip, looking around.

  Didn’t any of them make any new friends since graduation?

  So this is what happens at a party with the popular crowd. Seems like a pretty average party to me. Our housewarming for Rookhaven last year was way wilder.

  The bathroom door right next to us bursts open, and four girls stumble out, all giggling and chatting over each other, pushing through the drunk guys. The last girl to walk out is Mel Arnett.

  “Hey, T-bone!” she says to Topher, then her gaze lands on me. “You. I know you. Do I know you?”

  “I’m Coco,” I say. “Thanks for—”

  Mel sniffs and rubs her nose. “Hi, Coco! Nice to meet you! Are you guys okay? Toph, do you want anything? I can get you anything you want. Anything at all. Oh, my God, there’s Jessica! I have to go! Byeee!”

  Topher meets my eye as she hurries away, and winks.

  “Bottoms up?” he says, and we both finish the cheap whiskey in our glasses. “Damn. Let’s have another.”

  “Sure!” I say. “Do you have any Kilbeggan?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s an Irish whiskey, kind of honeyish, um—”

  “All I know is, if it’s brown and it gets me loaded, I like it,” says Topher. “Scotch, rye, bourbon, Canadian, I don’t give a shit.”

  I smile. “I love whiskey. I think—”

  But he doesn’t hear me; he’s already gone back to the bar to refill our drinks.

  While I wait for him to get back, I look around at the party. So many people I haven’t even thought about since high school. I can’t believe they’re all still hanging out like this.

  Maybe it’s just me, but there’s a really weird vibe at this party.

  Actually, it’s not weird.

  It’s boring.

  Then I realize: no one is laughing. Everyone is just here to be here. They’re either looking at each other, or being looked at, or too drunk to see anything. Isn’t that bizarre? At the parties we’ve had at Rookhaven, all you can hear is people laughing and talking and shrieking with joy—the sound of fun.

  “Coco…” A male voice speaks up behind me.

  My chest freezes in horror. I know that voice. It’s Eric.

  Holding my breath, I turn around.

  “You look great!”

  I hate him.

  I hate his stupid hair and bad skin and sleazy smile. I don’t know how I could ever have thought I liked him. I don’t know how I could possibly have had sex with him.

  “Um, thanks…” I say, my voice barely audible above the music.

  I hate him. I really, really hate him. He never even called me after that one time we slept together. I tried to tell him about what was going on, about the abortion, but he wouldn’t even return my e-mails. He’s that kind of guy. He’s scum.

  “Come with me!” Eric says, grabbing my hand. “I need to talk to you about something in the bathroom.”

  “No, uh, no thanks…” I pull my hand out of his grip.

  “C’mon, don’t be boring!”

  “She said no, man,” says Topher, coming up behind me. “Back off.”

  Eric obediently backs off, going into the bathroom with a couple of the other guys he used to hang out with at school. Topher hands me another cup of cheap whiskey.

  I look up at Topher, overwhelmed with gratitude. He protected me from Eric. I feel like nothing could ever go wrong while I’m with him.

  “Don’t mind Eric. He’s a fucking douche,” he says.

  “He totally is,” I say. “A complete fucking douche.”

  Topher leans in to me, rubbing his shoulder against mine. “I’m glad you came.”

  I can hardly breathe. “I’m glad I came too.” I look up at him. His lips aren’t that far from mine. Maybe if I tilted my head, just like this, and gaze at him, he’ll lean down and kiss me.

  Kiss me now, I think, as forcefully as I can. Kiss me please kiss me kiss me kiss me now.

  But he doesn’t.

  How can I get him to kiss me? Do I just lean forward and kiss him? Do I gaze at him until he kisses me? How did I first kiss Joe? I can’t remember. It just happened. Damn, that was a good kiss. No, don’t think about Joe, that makes me feel weird. Should I just try to kiss Topher? Fuck it. Why not.

  So I twist my body to face Topher, get on my tiptoes, lean my face into his and—

  “Toph!”

  The most beautiful girl in the world is standing right in front of us.

  Long brown hair and long brown legs and long brown eyelashes that must be extensions, seriously, and a teeny-weeny little black dress.

  Oh, no.

  “Maggie!” Topher puts his arm around her waist, pulls her tight against his body, and kisses her passionately. I can see their tongues.

  I inhale sharply. My God, she’s like a Bratz doll. Her legs are so thin I’m surprised they can hold her up. Is she Topher’s girlfriend? He’s never mentioned a girlfriend, has he?

  She’s pressing her body against his so hard that I feel like I’m intruding on their personal space, so I look down at the floor.

  Maggie’s wearing four-inch platform heels, the kind that Angie always says are “urgh, so basic.” Her toes are pretty. She has a predictably perfect pedicure in the kind of shiny apricot-blush-nude color that I can never find at the nail salon, ever, no matter how many bottles I swatch before choosing a color. I glance at my ancient sandals with my three-week-old half-cracked purple pedicure underneath. Why did I choose purple? It’s the worst color. My toes look like dead grapes.

  Finally, Maggie and Topher pull apart, and her eyes swivel around the room, eventually landing on me. “This must be…”

  “An old buddy from Rochester,” says Topher. “Coco, Maggie. Maggie, Coco.”

  “Oh, right! Coco! You’re just like Topher described!” She smiles at me. Her eyes don’t seem to move or crinkle like they should and her forehead is all plastic and hard. I stare at her curiously. Does she have Botox? Is that already a thing?

  “You’re the reason Topher passed his class, I hear.”

  “I am?” I say. “Oh, um, you mean because I helped edit his paper?”

  “You didn’t edit it. You wrote it.”

  “Are you calling me stupid, Maggiemoo?” Topher kisses
her again. Wow, he likes to use a lot of tongue.

  “Um, so, how do you guys know each other?” I ask.

  “Maggie and I met last year,” says Topher. “She lives in L.A., but her parents live here, on the Upper West Side—”

  “Central Park West,” she corrects him quickly.

  “—so she visits a lot,” he finishes, not minding her interruption at all.

  They lock eyes for a moment, twinkling prettily at each other, like something out of a reality TV show.

  “Um, what do you do in California?” I ask just to fill the space.

  “I work for a movie producer.” Maggie has just enough brag in her voice to make me immediately sure that I hate her.

  “Maggie and I are heading to the Hamptons tomorrow to take a couple of weeks off before fall semester starts,” says Topher.

  I tried to kiss him and he has a girlfriend.

  What was I thinking?

  “Can you open this?” asks Maggie, handing Topher an expensive-looking bottle of white wine. “You know I can’t drink cheap alcohol.”

  “Sure, baby. Another drink, Coco?” says Topher.

  “No! I mean, um, no thanks,” I say quickly, draining the rest of my whiskey. “I have … to work! Yeah! I have to work!”

  “Oh! Where do you work?” Maggie asks, smiling prettily.

  “A bar in Brooklyn.” I drop my bag twice in my hurry to leave. “Bye!”

  “Nice to meet you, Coco!” She calls after me.

  As I’m walking away, I see Eric again.

  “Coco!” Eric reaches out for me, a full plastic glass of beer in one hand.

  I grab it from his hand and, splash, throw the beer right into his face.

  “What the hell?” he splutters.

  “Go fuck yourself, Eric.”

  I walk out of the apartment and slam the door behind me. Then I rush to the elevator, and as soon as I’m out on the street, I hail a cab. It’s going to cost a lot to get me all the way to Brooklyn, but I don’t care.

  I’ll never fall in love. I’ll never figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I need to distract myself from everything that is real, I need escapism in the true sense of the world, and no, a book won’t fucking cut it tonight.

  CHAPTER 26

  After a couple of hours in a very crowded Potstill, speed-drinking Joe’s best concoctions, I’m feeling ohhhhhh so much better about everything.

  “Everything okay, Coco?” asks Joe for the eighth time. The bar is unexpectedly busy tonight, and I should probably offer to work. But I don’t want to work. I only want to drink.

  “Is everything okay?” I repeat. “That’s a great question, Joe.”

  My sister is in the hospital because she’s abusing prescription drugs. I crashed a party and tried to kiss Topher. Topher has a girlfriend, and everyone else I idolized in high school is weird and boring. Joe just wants to use me for sex and I was stupid to ever think anything else was possible. I get everything wrong. I am such a dick.

  “No, everything is not okay.”

  Joe frowns at me. “I thought you were sick?”

  “Give me another Whiskey Smash. Smash me!”

  At that moment there’s the sound of a guitar from the other side of the bar. I look over, squinting one eye to help me focus. Spector is setting up. Madeleine is checking the microphone, Amy is tuning her guitar, and there’s a new drummer, who is adjusting her stool to be just the right height.

  I hiccup. “Fuck, yeah! Maddy!”

  “You’re so cute when you swear,” a blond woman next to me at the bar says. I look over. She grins at me flirtatiously.

  “Wrong tree, wrong dog barking, my friend,” I say. “Wait. That’s not what I … never mind. I didn’t know Spector was playing tonight!”

  “It’s a surprise set,” says the woman. “Just for friends, and friends of friends.”

  I look around the bar and suddenly realize that every single person in here, apart from Joe, is female. And young. And hot. And gay.

  “Well, at least I’m not going to go home with some random guy and get pregnant, am I right?” I say.

  “Damn straight,” says the blond girl next to me, reaching over for a high five.

  I take out my phone and text Angie.

  At Potstill. Come down! Madeleine is playing a gig!

  Then I add some emoticons: the woman in the red dress, the octopus, and a flag. Just because I think they’re funny and I’m drunk.

  “I’m drunk!” I say to Joe.

  “I know, honey,” he says.

  “I’m not your honey.”

  “You will be later.”

  I roll my eyes and turn back to the stage. Maddy is talking intensely with Amy, the pink-haired punk guitar player, and there’s something about the way they’re talking—faces real close together, half smiling at each other—that strikes me as unusual for band mates. Then Maddy throws her head back, bursting into laughter. I’ve never seen her so relaxed and happy.

  Amy leans over and whispers something, and Maddy looks at her with this funny glint in her eye, and smiles, it’s like—I mean, it’s like …

  Oh. I get it.

  Madeleine is gay.

  “Well, that makes sense,” I say to no one in particular.

  Moments later, the band starts, the lights go out, and spotlights—since when do we have spotlights in Potstill? Joe must have done it—light up the entire band.

  Then, with a big drumroll intro, Spector starts playing a cover of “I Saw Her Standing There” by The Beatles.

  And the entire bar is suddenly a dance floor. Everyone is going crazy. I shimmy along from my barstool, cheering and whooping for Madeleine.

  “Okay, my friends. Go grab shots for the next song!” shouts Madeleine. “They’re on the house!”

  Joe must have been primed, because there are fifty shot glasses lined up on the bar, and he’s pouring out a lethal-looking mixture from a huge mixing jug.

  “What’s in that?” I ask.

  “Rye whiskey, Peychaud’s bitters, sugar, lemon peel, and a smidge of absinthe.”

  “A smidge?” I repeat.

  “A smidge.”

  “How can we afford to give out free booze? We’re broke, remember?”

  Joe shakes his head. “Everyone here for the gig paid twenty dollars to get in. We can afford it.”

  “Why didn’t Maddy tell me about this gig?” I ask. “I was supposed to be working, you know, I would have found out…”

  “I was going to send you home before the gig started,” Joe admits after a moment of deliberation. “Maddy asked me not to tell you.”

  Why would she do that? I’m her friend!

  The crowd charges the bar to get shots, and I don’t want to miss out, so I take two and down them in quick succession.

  Then two things happen.

  The absinthe hits my brain.

  And Spector starts playing a fast, dirty amped-up version of “Wild Thing.”

  “I LOVE THIS SONG!” I scream.

  No one pays attention. So I do another shot and scream it louder. Then one more. And then …

  Blackout.

  CHAPTER 27

  I wake up looking into a bucket that shows signs of having contained vomit very recently. My head pounds. My stomach aches. I’m lying across my bed, my head and right arm hanging over the side …

  I look down.

  There’s vomit on the floor too.

  I try to groan, but no sound comes out.

  Oh, God.

  “Are you awake? Jesus, finally, I was about to call the paramedics.”

  Joe.

  Joe is lying next to me. Naked. Then I realize I’m naked too. And nothing is covering my ass.

  I grab the sheet with one arm to cover myself, but the movement gives me immediate motion sickness, so I lean over and retch into the bucket. Nothing comes up. My stomach cramps with empty pain.

  “Drink.” Joe hands me a coconut water.

  I choke down the coconut water
, shaking slightly with the effort, and then two seconds after I’ve finished it, I vomit it all right back up into the bucket. Some of the puke dribbles down my chin.

  I collapse onto my pillow, feeling tingly with nausea.

  “Poor little bunny…” Joe takes a Kleenex from my nightstand and wipes my vomit-strewn mouth. “What am I going to do with you, huh?”

  Why didn’t I remember that I’m not good at drinking? Why do I ever drink at all? What made me think that was a good idea? Why does anyone ever drink when this is what happens?

  “I hate alcohol.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I’m never drinking again.”

  “Heard that before.”

  “I mean it.” I close my eyes. The effort of talking is too exhausting to bear. “This is hell. I am in the fiery pits of hell.”

  “But Coco, you were amazing last night. The life of the party.”

  “Please leave the room,” I whisper. “I need to be alone with my shame.”

  Joe pulls on a pair of boxers and walks out, still laughing.

  Oh, God.

  Every time I close my eyes, my bed gives a terrifying lurch, without me actually moving. Like seasickness and vertigo combined.

  So I keep them open, staring at my bedroom ceiling and the glow-in-the-dark stars that don’t glow anymore, the same ones my mom used to look at. Oh, God, I hope she can’t see me now. For the first time I hope that there is no afterlife or heaven or whatever, so she can’t look down and see me and know what a pathetic moron I am.

  Memories from late in the night float back in snatches, a montage of crazy.

  I danced. I danced on the stage. I danced on a chair. I danced on the bar.

  I smoked a cigarette.

  I ordered more shots.

  I made out, just briefly, with the girl who came on to me earlier and then told her that I regrettably had to stop kissing her because I am straight, and that I just—oh God—“really love penises,” but that I fully supported her right to sleep with and marry anyone she wanted, with or without a penis.

  I made out with Joe in the bathroom (which is disgusting, seriously, that bathroom is cleaner than it used to be but still ew). In fact I maybe, yes, I did, I definitely did, have sex with Joe in that bathroom.

  I threw a glass of Whiskey Smash on the floor and shouted, “whiskey smash!” and laughed so hard I fell off the barstool.