Harsh Pink with Bonus Content

by Melody Carlson

  Andrea sort of laughs. “Not exactly. Oh, we do share the gospel with them sometimes. But mostly we just want to love them the way Jesus does — you know, unconditionally. And they respond to that kind of love. It’s amazing, really.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Well, I can see you’re not really interested in all that,” she says.

  “Mostly I wanted to let you know that Ruth misses you.”

  “Right.”

  She leans forward slightly now, just sort of peering at me. “You seem really unhappy, Reagan.”

  I shrug, look away.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but if you ever want to talk … well, you know where I live.” Then she stands.

  “Wait,” I say suddenly. “I’m just curious about something.”

  She sits back down. “What?”

  “What made you become … you know, like you are now?”

  “You mean how did I become a Christian?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You really want to know?”

  I consider this. “I think so.”

  So she tells me about how she used to be sort of like me. She was fairly popular and she was striving to remain popular, but she was unhappy. She pauses now and looks at me. “Have any of your friends ever told you about Lisa?”

  “Lisa?”

  “Lisa Carlyle.”

  “No. Who is Lisa Carlyle?”

  “More like who was Lisa Carlyle.” Andrea sighs. “Lisa was my best friend. She was also good friends with Kendra, Sally, and Meredith.”

  “So what happened with Lisa?”

  “She died.”

  I stare at Andrea, trying to determine if this is a true story or something she’s concocting just to reel me in. Maybe she thinks I’m like one of her old folks at the nursing home, like she can get me down on my knees and use me for another notch on her belt. “I take it I’m supposed to ask how she died.”

  “Have you ever heard of the choking game?”

  “Choking game?” I make a face. “That doesn’t sound like a very fun game to me.”

  “No, I didn’t think so either. Kendra was the one who taught us how to play it.”

  “Kendra?” Now, I find this hard to believe, but I decide to go along with her.

  “Yes. She had this slumber party in eighth grade and she showed us how to do it there. Even then, Kendra was the most popular girl. If you wanted to be liked, you listened to Kendra. If Kendra said, ‘Jump,’ you said, ‘How high?’”

  I give her a look that’s meant to convey my skepticism, but I don’t say anything. I wish she’d just finish her story

  “Anyway, we all tried it — the choking game. Everyone except Lisa. She was scared.”

  “Okay, back up the truck,” I say. “What exactly is the choking game?”

  So she explains how you use a rope or belt or something to constrict the blood flow around your neck. “You keep it there long enough to make you dizzy and sometimes you pass out. Kendra claimed that you could have visions or something. I guess some people find it euphoric, and I’ve heard it can actually become addictive.”

  I suddenly remember a friend who used to do something like that. She called it zonking, but she didn’t tie anything around her neck. Even so, I thought it was bizarre. And it’s pretty hard to believe that Kendra could be into something like that. In fact, that’s just what I tell Andrea. “I’m sorry, but I find this hard to believe. Kendra is not that stupid and I cannot imagine her playing a game like that.”

  “Well, we were only fourteen at the time. I’m sure she’s not into it anymore. But back then I have to admit it was sort of fun and exciting. Besides, like I said, if Kendra encouraged you to do something, you usually did it. If you didn’t, you were ostracized.”

  “So Lisa was ostracized?”

  “At first, but Kendra kept pushing her. She actually sort of bullied Lisa into trying it. Kendra didn’t want anyone to leave her party without trying it. I think she was afraid they’d tell someone and she’d get into trouble, but if we all did it, we’d be in it together. You know, sort of like a drinking party.”

  “I guess.”

  “Anyway, when Lisa finally tried it, she actually enjoyed it. She did it several times at the party. And I guess she kept doing it on her own too. I suppose it’s possible that she became addicted to it. I remember telling her that I thought it was stupid and she shouldn’t do it anymore. And she told me she had quit. But apparently that wasn’t the case. And one day she was doing it by herself in her room. She must’ve passed out for a long time, long enough that she never regained consciousness.”

  I frown. “She died from playing the choking game?”

  Andrea nods and her eyes get wet. “She died of asphyxiation.”

  Okay, I feel bad for Andrea, but I’m having a hard time buying this. It seems impossible to think someone could actually die from playing this silly game. I wonder if she’s just messing with my head. Or maybe she’s trying to turn me against Kendra. “So are you saying it was Kendra’s fault that this girl — Lisa — died?”

  “No, not exactly, but Kendra did pressure her into it. I mean the first time. I suppose it was Lisa’s choice to continue doing it. Still, it made me totally rethink the direction of my life.”

  “And that’s how you became religious?”

  “It made me start searching for answers.”

  “And you think you found them?”

  “When I discovered that God has a plan for me, and that I can have a personal relationship with Jesus, and that Jesus has forgiven me and given me a new life, yes, I knew I’d found the answers.”

  “Well, good for you.”

  “So you’re not looking for any answers?”

  I press my lips together and wish this obnoxious girl would just go away.

  “I’m not trying to push you, Reagan. It’s just that you do seem unhappy. And, whether you can admit it or not, I’m pretty sure you are searching. Or you’re about to start searching.”

  “I’m just fine,” I tell her, standing up now. “But thanks for the sermon.”

  She stands too. Then she smiles. “Sorry. I hadn’t really meant to preach at you. I only wanted to let you know that your grandmother misses you.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Then I lead her to the door and tell her to have a nice day, and it’s all I can do not to slam it behind her. What a bunch of hogwash about how it’s Kendra’s fault that some girl died in middle school. Like that’s supposed to be my problem now? Puh-leez.

  For whatever reason, I decide that I will go to Sally’s party after all. I even go out and buy her a birthday card and present — a pair of silver hoop earrings that I think are pretty cool. The more I think about it, the more I believe Andrea Lynch is crazy — and that whole story about the choking game is probably bogus. Maybe she’s jealous that I’m friends with Kendra instead of her. Whatever it is, I decide not to think about it.

  seventeen

  SALLY’S HOUSE ISN’T TOO FAR FROM WHERE I LIVE. ALTHOUGH IT’S AN OLDER neighborhood, it’s not a crummy one like where Jocelyn lives. And her house is actually kind of cool, a turn-of-the-century Victorian, although it’s in need of a few repairs. I’ve ridden over with Kendra, and instead of knocking she opens Sally’s door and walks right in.

  “Hey, you two,” says Sally happily. “You finally made it. Everyone else is already here.”

  “I like your house,” I tell her as I hand her the gift and card. “It must be a fun place on Halloween.”

  She laughs. “Oh, yeah, we used to decorate big-time when my sister and I were kids. We loved making this fake graveyard and everything. But Betsy’s in college now and I don’t really bother with it anymore. I think the trick-or-treaters actually get more scared when it’s not decorated. Especially if there aren’t many lights on.”

  “Yeah,” says Kendra. “It can look pretty spooky.”

  It turns out that Sally’s parents are gone for the we
ekend. I think this is a little odd, but then, Sally is turning eighteen. Maybe they assume she’s all grown up now. And she seems to think so too, since she’s got a variety of alcoholic beverages on hand. I try not to look surprised.

  “Good thing Falon’s not here,” I point out as I pretend to sip the drink she’s mixed for me. It’s not exactly a Cosmo, like Kendra made, but it’s kind of sweet and pinkish. Still, I think it tastes awful and I don’t plan to finish it. However, the rest of the girls seem to be enjoying their drinks. I wish I’d known this was what tonight’s party was going to be like. I’m not sure I would’ve come. Even now, I’m wishing I’d driven myself. I could just slip out, and I doubt that anyone would even notice.

  Sally points her finger at me. “You don’t seem to be having much fun, Reagan. Don’t you like your drink?” Then her eyes light up. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot what’s in the fridge.”

  “What?” asks Meredith.

  “Jell-O shots.”

  Everyone acts like this is the greatest idea. And soon the girls are popping them like they’re candy.

  “Come on, Reagan,” urges Sally. “Try one!” “I’m fine with my drink,” I say.

  “You’ve hardly touched it,” she shoots back at me. “You’re really not much of a party girl, are you?” She turns to Meredith. “Reagan is our little teetotaler.”

  “Want some tea?” asks Meredith. They both laugh like that’s the funniest thing. I’m sure the alcohol makes it seem so.

  “I don’t want to be a wet blanket,” I say quietly to Kendra as she pops another Jell-O shot into her mouth, “but do you realize how much alcohol is in one of those things?”

  She just laughs and shoves a red one toward my mouth. “Come on, Reagan. Lighten up. Have some fun.”

  I take the shot with my fingers and even pretend to taste it, but when no one’s looking I toss it into the garbage disposal.

  “I’m gonna do eighteen of these,” Sally announces. “For my birthday. Anyone wanna join me?”

  “Eighteen is a lot,” says Meredith.

  “My sister did twenty-one last month for her twenty-first birthday,” brags Sally. “And she was just fine.” She laughs. “Well, I think she had a pretty good hangover.”

  Kendra is counting out eighteen shots now, arranging them in colorful circles on a plate. “This can be your birthday cake,” she says, holding up her rainbow like arrangement. “But let me get some candles first. And then we’ll sing.”

  Okay, I’ve had enough. I follow Kendra into the kitchen and as she searches the cupboards and drawers for candles, I tell her I’m not feeling well and that I think I’ll go.

  “Really?” She turns and looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me.

  I make a face like I’m in pain. “Yeah. It’s cramps and I’ve got them really bad.”

  “Take some Midol.”

  “I did. I took a lot,” I lie. “And they’re worse than ever.”

  “Oh.” She frowns. “You want me to drive you home?”

  I shake my head. “No, I think I’ll just walk. Sometimes that helps with cramps. Sorry about this. Tell Sally I’m sorry.”

  “Hope you feel better.”

  So I slip out the door. But it’s dark outside and I’m not sure I want to walk. I’m not far from home, but having grown up in Boston, I’ve been taught that a girl doesn’t walk by herself after dark. I sit down on Sally’s porch and try to think. What should I do? If I call Mom, she’ll want to know what’s up. I can tell her I don’t feel well and that might work. But she might have questions too. I think about the fact that Sally plans to do all those Jell-O shots for her birthday. And she’s already acting slightly drunk. What if she gets sick? What if Kendra gets sick? I’ve heard stories of alcohol poisoning, but I’ve never actually been around anyone that sick. Jocelyn was pretty bad the night Kendra had her party, but I doubt she downed as much as Sally plans to.

  I remember the story Andrea told me about her friend Lisa who died from playing the choking game — a game she was initially pressured to play. I think about the pressure my friends have put on me tonight, pushing me to drink and do Jell-O shots with them. Is that really how friends treat each other? Or maybe they’re not really my friends. Maybe they’re just using me — the same way I’m using them, if I dare to be really honest. Do any of us actually care about each other? I think of how mean we can be, how selfish, how cruel. Is that what friendship is supposed to be?

  I feel extremely lonely. And I really want to talk to someone. If Kendra wasn’t in there getting drunk, I’d try to talk to her. But I know how that would go. She would skim over the surface, pretend that she was listening and that she cared, and then she would say something light and move on to something like shoes or boys. I wonder if that’s how they handled it after Lisa died. Did they just move on, pretending like it never happened? Did they forget about her and simply return to thinking only of themselves, devising new ways to put others down and make sure they came out on top? We always think we have to be on top.

  I remember the night Jocelyn insisted on being on top, I mean literally. And now she’s escaped this girl-eat-girl world. I almost envy her. At least she’s not still caught in the middle of the fray anymore. She doesn’t have to remain on the lookout constantly, making sure no one stabs her in the back. I already took care of that for her. I really do hate myself.

  Despite the darkness, I leave the porch and start walking toward my house. It’s only about nine, but with no moon it feels much later. I feel tears slipping down my cheeks now, quickly chilling in the autumn air. I no longer care that I’m walking by myself at night. I almost hope that I’ll be mugged. At least that would put an end to how miserable I’m feeling right now.

  I’m finally in my subdivision, several blocks from my house, when I hear a car pulling up behind me. I don’t even look at it, but just keep walking, quickening my pace a little and wondering if I should run. The car drives very slowly, moving at the exact same speed as I am walking, staying right next to me. My heart begins to pound and I feel certain that thugs are going to jump from the vehicle and knock me over the head, drag me into their car, and —

  “Reagan?” says a girl’s voice.

  I turn and look. “Andrea?”

  She smiles. “Need a lift?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure.” I hop into her car, which is this old Volkswagen Carmengia that her dad’s been helping her restore. It’s actually a pretty cool car. “Where are you going?” I ask, trying to act natural, like I’m not seriously traumatized.

  “Just coming home from youth group. I decided to leave early tonight. How about you?” She puts the car in gear.

  “I was at a party. I decided to go home early too.”

  She turns and kind of peers at me now. “Are you okay, Reagan?”

  I’m not sure if it’s the kindness in her voice or the relief that I’m not actually being mugged, but the floodgates open and I start to really cry. She just drives slowly without saying anything. I appreciate that. Then we’re in front of my house, but I don’t open the door to get out.

  “Want to go get a coffee or something?” she offers.

  “Uh-huh.” I choke out the answer, then put my face in my hands and sob as she drives away from my house. I am a mess. But somehow I manage to stop crying by the time she parks in front of Starbucks. I’m sure my eyes are red and probably swollen. Still, I don’t even care. For the first time in a long time, my image seems unimportant. We go inside and order our coffees, then sit down, and I tell her everything. Absolutely everything. I even confess to her the prank we pulled on Jocelyn. I finally end my tale with Sally’s drinking party tonight, admitting that the reason I left was because I felt pressured to drink with them. I just totally dump on the poor girl. And she just listens. When I’m done I ask her if she’s shocked.

  She just shrugs. “It’s not all that surprising to me. But it doesn’t sound like much fun either. I know I couldn’t live like that, at least not and live with myself as well
.”

  “I don’t think I can either,” I admit.

  “But I also know that if it wasn’t for Jesus in my life, I’d probably be doing those very same things.” She shakes her head. “In fact, I’d probably be with Sally right now, drinking and doing Jell-O shots — probably competing to see if I could do more than anyone else.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  She nods. “Seriously, if God hadn’t intervened in my life, well, I don’t know where I’d be right now. Maybe I’d be dead like Lisa.”

  I frown and take a sip of my now lukewarm vanilla latte.

  “So what are you going to do about it, Reagan?”

  I look up at her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what are you going to do? Are you going to keep living like that, going down that dead-end road? Do you like being miserable?”

  “No, of course not.” I sit up straighter, feeling slightly defensive.

  “Sometimes you have to make a decision.”

  “What if I don’t want to make a decision?”

  “Not making a decision is the same as making one. It’s like saying you like how things are going, that you want to keep heading in the same direction. But I think that’s a bad choice. I mean, why would you want to live a life that makes you miserable? It makes no sense.”

  I nod. I think I understand what she’s saying. Maybe I even agree with her on some levels. Just the same, I’m not ready to fall down on my knees and embrace her religion. I hope that’s not what she’s attempting here.

  “Okay …” I say slowly. “I guess I don’t want my life to keep going like this. I do hate the lies. I hate the meanness. And I really hate being mean. Most of all, I hate being such a hypocrite and … I hate myself.”

  “Then change.”

  “How?”

  She smiles. “See, that’s the catch. I don’t know if it’s really possible to change all by yourself. I mean, you can act differently. But real change — the kind that starts on the inside and transforms you — only comes when you give your life to God.”