A Flicker in the Clarity

by Amy McNamara

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I jump to my feet. Jack reaches out and tries to pull me back down. I shake myself free.

  “Wait. Please, Evie. I tried to leave the room then, I was going to get the floor monitor, but Jeb stopped me. Before I could shake him loose, Theo grabbed his stuff and left.”

  “You’re a hero,” I say as witheringly as possible, my posture rigid. “What the hell, Jack?”

  Jack deflates. “I’m sorry. I know it’s messed up. You have to believe me. I tried not to be part of it. I pretended I was asleep at first, but Jeb knew I was faking.”

  His face flushes deeper red, and he can’t look me in the eye.

  “And you couldn’t, oh, I don’t know, do the right thing? Stand up for him? Say no to Jeb, wake up your dorm floor counselor or something?”

  Jack shrinks. “It could have been me. But it wasn’t. I just wanted those guys to like me. To be one of them.”

  He looks at me for some kind of encouragement. All I can think is how ugly everything is. I run my finger over the black hole on my arm. Jack’s falling into it too, compressing faster than I can say good-bye, turning into a nothing little dot.

  “He’s an angry guy, Eves.”

  “Are you kidding me right now?”

  “He is.”

  “Well, I wonder why.”

  “You weren’t there. He was such a dick, acted like we were his intellectual inferiors.”

  “You were his intellectual inferiors,” I say quietly.

  A second ago I wanted to say mean stuff to Jack, to hurt him the way he hurt Theo, but there’s no fight left in me. Everything is complicated. There are no villains. No heroes. Just us.

  Jack drops his head. I look at his neck. It’s weird how plain it looks. Skin with little hairs poking out of it. Like any other neck. A week ago I would have had a hard time catching my breath with him stretched out next to me like this, exposed. Now it’s just another body, vulnerable, stupid. Between the glubs and thumps and other odd galloping contortions my heart is doing, my idea of Jack falls apart.

  “The wasps . . . ,” he starts again, but with no conviction.

  “Theo had nothing to do with those wasps, you idiot,” I snap, my skin prickling with something, my own kind of storm whipping up. “You made that up.”

  He reaches out like he’s going to grab me, try to make me believe him, but his plan dies in his eyes as it hits him. The idea that Theo planted those wasps is how he let himself off the hook all these years.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, defeated.

  I turn for the stairs because I just remembered Emma. She was upset about something and I promised to be right back.

  Jack stands too. “Evie, please,” he pleads.

  But I’m not listening anymore.

  Stiff and Bitter

  WE MEET ALICE ON THE STEPS. Her face is blotchy, like she’s been crying.

  “Alice.” Jack reaches out for her, but she shrugs his hand away.

  “Emma was trying to find you,” she says to me before I can slip by her.

  “I know,” I say, looking over her shoulder to the hallway.

  Em’s not there.

  Alice stays planted in my path. I close my eyes a second and lean against the wall. How long was I up there? This is why I don’t drink. One sip and time turns sly, ready to betray. The memory of her fingers pressing into my arm, the look on her face when she said she wanted to talk. Dread gathers in me, slow, heavy.

  “Where is she?” I demand, scanning the hall again.

  Alice shakes her head, her face stiff and bitter. “She left. A while ago.”

  My shoulders drop with relief. It’s a first, Em heading home before me, but maybe she’s starting to figure it out. I whip out my phone to text her.

  Wait up! I’ll join u.

  It bounces back, undelivered. Her phone’s off.

  “Thanks, Alice,” I say, trying to pass her again. “And it’s not what you think. Jack and I were just talking up there.”

  She presses her lips together, tight. Says nothing.

  I look at her another second, then step away.

  Before I get more than a few feet, though, she catches me, wraps her fingers around my wrist. Squeezes it, tight.

  “Wait. I think you need to go find her. Emma was pretty messed up. She left with a group of guys from Columbia, Ben’s brother’s friends?”

  “What? When? Alone?” I demand.

  “Yeah. Ages ago. When you went upstairs with Jack.”

  “Why didn’t you stop her?” I ask, with a sinking feeling.

  “You’re the one who came with her.”

  I swear Alice looks the tiniest bit happy when she says it.

  Nowhere

  SNOW KEEPS COMING DOWN, DOWN, DOWN.

  How did I let this happen? There are a few basic rules, and one of them is, if you go to a party together, you look out for each other.

  Emma’s nowhere.

  I circle Ben’s block, then wrap back, circle wider. Almost no one’s out, even though it’s a Saturday night. The sudden lurch back into winter has a few people darting and scurrying from bar to restaurant and cab to building, but mostly I’m alone on the quiet, whitening streets.

  Even though Ben’s dad’s is in TriBeCa and Em and I are a good mile and a half up, I pull her short jacket in as tightly as I can around myself and start to walk home, willing myself to find her, spot her out somewhere and whisk her away from whatever group of guys she’s using to erase herself.

  But the city’s quiet, Emma’s block deserted. No one’s even driven down it since the snow started to fall. There are no footprints anywhere near her stoop. By the time I round back down to my own corner, my feet are stiff blocks in my shoes.

  I fight back panic and let myself in to get warmer clothes. The apartment is dark and my mom’s bedroom door closed. I’m in my room, pulling on jeans and thick socks and a sweatshirt, when my phone rings. The number’s strange. I answer anyway.

  Emma’s crying.

  “Why am I such a worthless person?”

  There are too many s’s in worthless. Her speech is super slurred.

  “Em, where are you?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you. I saw you with Jack. Are you still in love with Jack? You should be. He’s nice. Who cares about Theo? You should definitely go out with someone Evie, you really should. You’re not all messed up like me.”

  “Emma, where are you?”

  Silence.

  “Em? Don’t hang up. I’m coming, but you have to look around, tell me where you are.”

  I’m hopping around on one foot, pulling on a boot, phone crushed between my shoulder and cheek. I can hear cars. They sound like they’re going fast.

  “Em? Where are you?”

  “Evie, you’re never lost, not like this, like me,” she slurs. “If you mapped me, I’d be in a garbage dump.” She takes a jagged breath. “Did you know they gave away his heart?”

  “What?”

  “Patrick’s heart. Someone has it. An old guy. And his retinas.” She can hardly say the word retina. She’s starting to scare me.

  “Emma, stop. You’re drunk. It’s making everything seem worse. Tell me where you are.”

  She drops her voice to a nearly unintelligible whisper.

  “I lost track,” she breathes. “Some guy passed out on me, and then . . .”

  A loud rustling sound crackles in my ear, like she’s going away or is being dragged somewhere. I start to panic. Where is she and what are those guys doing to her? “Em?!”

  More rustling, then she’s back.

  “This is his phone! I’m so messed up. . . .” More rustling noise. “Oh my God, where are you? You should see this, with the snow and the lights, the sky is all swirly like the guy without the ear did it? Who’s that guy?”

  Before I can say Van Gogh she drops to an awed whisper. “It’s not the sky, it’s water.”

  Jesus.

  I have to find her.

  “Em
ma, I’m coming to you, but you have to tell me where you are.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” she wails. “Where are you? People are always leaving me. I needed to talk to you. Roman said I was heartless and selfish and a bad person.”

  “Em, who are you with? Are you still with Ben’s brother’s friends?”

  “She was in my house.”

  “Who?”

  “Today before the party.”

  “Em, tell me how I can get to you.”

  “Mamie was in my house!”

  There’s a snuffling sound and I can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. She’s totally out of control and I have to figure out where she is.

  “Is someone else there with you? Can you put someone else on the phone?”

  I slip out of my apartment as quietly as I can and start pummeling the elevator button, then skip it and fly down the service stairs, one hand on the railing, taking multiple steps at a time.

  “You’re the only one who really knows me,” she sobs, sloppy. “I wear everyone else out. I don’t want to wear you out.”

  “You’re not wearing me out. Em, are you with someone else?”

  “Why am I like this? I’m such a fuckup. You’d never make your mom wish you died instead of Patrick.”

  “Emma. Put someone else on . . . ,” I beg. I have to get to her. What if she’s wandering in and out of traffic, hating herself?

  “I’m alone,” she whispers back. “Oh my God, Eves! I’m barefoot! What did I do with my shoes?” She laughs, loud. It hurts my ear. “My feet aren’t even cold!” She laughs again. “This is so cool. Why aren’t we like this all the time?”

  I stop midflight and rush back up to our floor, slip in again, and pack a bag for her. I stuff it with a sweater, leggings, thick socks, and a pair of Vans.

  Something really loud rumbles by. A truck or a bus?

  “Jesus. Emma,” I hiss. “Focus. I need you to listen to me. Stand still and look around. I hear cars. Tell me where you are.”

  She ahhs.

  “The river. It’s so black and beautiful. It’s like a fat snake. Why don’t we do this all the time? The river’s so pretty. Why do people say there’s no nature in New York? Remember when we made those little birch canoes for Lewis and Clark?”

  I hear what sounds like a group of drunk guys catcalling her, hooting and cheering. Their voices are loud at first, then fade.

  Cars and the river. Before I ran out of Ben’s, Mandi said she heard his brother’s friends talking about an NYU party in the West Village. Maybe she’s on the West Side Highway?

  I run back out to the elevator.

  “Hang on,” I say. “I’m coming.”

  “Evie! If you spin yourself, the other spinning stops!”

  “Emma, find a place to sit. Are there any street signs near you?”

  I hit the stairs again. The rubber soles of my boots bounce and echo lonely against treads on the steps, the shiny industrial green-painted walls. My phone’s signal is weaker in here and I’m scared I’ll lose her.

  I’m not religious and usually feel too stupid to pray, but I start mentally begging someone. Please don’t let her fall into traffic. Please keep her out of the river.

  Emma starts crying again.

  “I’m always alone.” Her voice is very small. “Does everyone feel this alone?”

  I rush out the door to find a cab.

  Hard Lemonade Times a Million

  THE DRIVER GUNS IT DOWN the West Side Highway. I beg him to go slowly so I can look for her. We almost blow by her when I spot someone sitting next to the Christopher Street Fountain, wrapped in a ball, knees hugged tight to her chest. It’s Em, and she is indeed barefoot.

  She’s too drunk. It’s like watching her drown. She throws up when I try to pull her into the cab with me.

  “Stupid bitches,” the cabbie curses, tossing my bag onto the street next to me. He guns it, the door swinging shut, leaving us in the snow.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats between heaves. “You hate me. You should hate me.”

  I hold her hair back and wait until she’s done. Because of the snow, the West Side Highway is nearly empty. Emma’s shivering terribly. I walk her down the path a bit until I spot a bush big enough to block her while I help her slip out of her puke-covered clothes and get into the clean, dry things I’ve brought. She smells like vomit and hard lemonade times a million. I stuff her ruined clothes into my bag and breathe through my mouth. When I was little I threw up whenever anyone else did. Maybe love grows you out of things like that.

  “My phone!” she says when it clatters onto the ground from the back pocket of her jeans. “Oh my God, I stole that guy’s phone for nothing!” she laughs.

  I pick hers up. It’s powered down. I turn it on again to check for texts. It vibrates with a thousand of them, all from her parents. My stomach lurches at the thought of her dad showing up.

  Em throws up again. Neater this time. Then she slumps over like she’s passed out. I slip her phone in my pocket and lean to help her.

  “Em?” I shake her shoulder. “How much did you drink?”

  She looks like she’s having trouble opening her eyes. I’ve never seen her this messed up.

  “I can’t—I just wanted everything to stop,” she mumbles.

  “What?!” I try to sit her up. She’s like a rag doll. “Em!” I shake her some more.

  She drowsily opens her eyes, sits up. “Doesn’t matter. S’gone now.” But she seems too out of it.

  “Where’d the other phone go?” I don’t know where she’s been or what might have happened to her. What if we need it for evidence?

  She looks around, unsure. Opens her eyes a little wider. Raises a shaky hand to wipe her mouth. Her makeup’s smeared in ghoulish circles under her eyes and the lipstick’s mostly gone from her lips. She turns away from me and vomits a third time.

  I’m panicking. This is the worst I’ve ever seen her, and thinking of her, like this, with a group of guys—I have to get a handle on myself, on the situation.

  She straightens up and wipes her mouth with her hand. She looks more alert, like that one woke her up.

  “Did you find it?”

  “Forget it. You called me from it. I still have the number.”

  She looks ready to lie down on the sidewalk for the night, so I wrap an arm around her waist and drag her over to a bench. I can barely hold her up, she’s noodle-kneed and hanging off my shoulder so heavy it’s hard to walk. We slide through the snow.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I stop to check it. Mrs. Sullivan. My heart lurches. We’re in so much trouble. I panic and click Ignore. I’m getting her home as fast as I can. We’ll be there in no time and they can talk to her then. There’s no covering up this situation.

  “I wreck everything,” she says, dropping her head to my shoulder.

  I don’t know what to say, so I hug her a second. “You don’t wreck everything. But we have to get out of here.” I stand. “I’ll grab a cab. Okay? Do not move. Got it?”

  She grabs my arm. “Wait.” Her grip is hard on my wrist. “Patrick was using Adderall. My Adderall. That night, well, for a while. I gave it to him.”

  Her teeth start to chatter when she says it.

  “What?” I look at her but also keep an eye toward the largely empty street, hoping to spot another cab.

  “You have to listen to what I’m saying,” she says, shaking. “No one wants to hear this part, but it’s my fault, Evie. You know how he was about grades, so competitive. I hated that stuff, but Patrick liked it. He used it that whole spring. It made him tense. Remember?”

  I do remember. Patrick changed. He was always a little righteous, like his dad, but this was different. He snapped at us a lot. Mamie smoothed things over. I steered clear and assumed being kind of ticked off all the time was his response to the remaining few months of life at Bly.

  I look at her.

  “He was high that night at the beach.” She sounds more sober now. “He’s de
ad because of me. I fuck everything up.”

  I drop back down onto the bench next to her.

  “Em, it’s not your fault. Patrick was beyond drunk when he died.”

  She starts to cry again, but less like a drunk and more like a person who knows something terrible has happened that can never be undone.

  “They all say I’m wrong, but they act like it’s true, like I’m such a bad person,” she wails. “And when Mamie came over to talk about her show, she filled our whole house. . . .” Em shakes her head like that’s not quite right. “Like she was breathing up all the last little bits of Patrick hanging around. Totally erasing him.”

  Snot runs over her lip and I’m worried tears are going to freeze on her face.

  “My mom wanted us to hug,” she says quietly, her eyes two sad holes darker than the river behind her.

  She starts shivering and shaking so violently, I wrap my arm around her shoulders. What if this is never over? She can’t move on? What if there’s no pulling Emma back together again?

  “They weren’t expecting me to show up,” she says. Bitter. “I surprised them in the middle of their feel-good-fest.” She’s doing that weird hiccup-breathing you do when you cry so hard you can’t breathe right. “They were in Patrick’s room! And this show . . .” She makes a small fist and hits the bench so hard her knuckles bleed. I grab her wrist before she can do it again. “It’s happening on his birthday.”

  It’s a sucker punch.

  Patrick’s birthday has been somber since he died, unmentioned, a day to get through, and until now his room has been a sealed archive. A mausoleum.

  “Em, you have to tell them what this is doing to you.”

  She shakes her head. “They don’t listen. All they care about is forgiveness. They want to forget it and move on, but you know what? Forgiveness is a total lie, don’t believe anyone who tells you it’s not. It’s a lie people tell so they can go back to not caring.”

  She’s so messed up, and nothing I say will make any of it better. This is how she feels. Emma sags like all the life has gone out of her, and for a second I check to see if she passed out. But she leans against me, opens her eyes again, and says in a near whisper, “My mom let her take one of his shirts.”