by L. T. Vargus
His voice is deep. Textured. Almost raspy, but somehow smooth in spite of it.
She closes her eyes. Feels her heart beat faster in her chest.
“You. I saw you.”
Again she gets that feeling in her face — almost like an itch — all of those muscles in her jaw and cheeks want to twist and flutter and spasm.
“I know you’re awake. I take it your friend is still out, eh?”
She squeezes her eyelids tighter. Tries to hold back the tears that want to gush out just now, spill down her cheeks.
“Not in the mood to talk, are you? I can understand that, I suppose. Though I’m afraid I’ll have to insist. Just for a moment.”
She feels the car slow and pull over onto the shoulder, gravel pinging against the undercarriage.
The drone of the engine changes, goes slightly higher as he shifts into park, and then it holds. She thinks it’ll falter to silence any second, but it doesn’t. He leaves it running.
After a long moment, he speaks again.
“I knew you wouldn’t run. You never would, would you? You wouldn’t leave her.”
The wet spreads down her cheeks now, collects at the corners of her mouth, warm and salty, and she’s vaguely aware of the tremor jolting her torso. A stirring in her middle that cannot be calmed.
“Your friend there’ll go first. You understand? You will watch. And once you see everything — all of it, all of the ugliness, all that happens and doesn’t happen — you won’t want to run anyhow. Not at all. Not at all. You won’t want to run or walk or think or breathe. You will ask me to finish it. Beg and plead. You will be ready to go, and I will free you of your pain. You understand that?”
He’s quiet again, and after a pause, she hears his fingers drumming once more on the steering wheel. The beat he keeps is slow. Totally out of time with the racing patter of her heart. There’s something hypnotic about it.
Her eyelids flutter open, and the green lights from the dash look harsh through the lens of her tears.
He still doesn’t face her straight on. His head cranks back about halfway, and shadows drape the side facing her and she can’t discern the eye in the dark.
“Why?” she says, her voice small and tight and strange in her ears.
“What’s that?” he says.
The beat on the steering wheel stops, and his eyes turn to meet hers in the rearview mirror. At first they look like deep black pits, but he adjusts the mirror and they look normal. Totally normal.
“Why are you doing this?”
His gaze breaks from hers, and his eyes shift off to the right. He blinks a few times. Slow blinks that remind her of an intelligent dog.
“Because… Because nothing here makes sense until…Because nothing here is real until it’s written in flesh and blood. That’s why.”
He reaches into the backseat, and she freezes when she sees it.
The blade in his hand.
It’s like it just appears there. Drawing closer. The metal glinting in that pale green light from the dash.
The knife’s edge kisses the flesh between her lip and jaw, soggy with tears. So sharp she doesn’t feel the slash until his hand moves away again.
And the skin pulls apart. The wound opens. And the first wave of blood seeps down her chin. Hot and thick.
Chapter 10
March 1992
Spring came, and all anyone in the Senior class talked about was college.
“Do you know what you’re doing for school yet?” Tammy asked her one day.
Claire shrugged.
“Probably I’ll go to UNLV. Where else?”
Keith had protested her going to college at all. Said they couldn’t afford it. But Claire’s mom insisted on it. It was one of the only times she’d ever seen her mother stand up to him. When she found out he’d been taking part of Claire’s paycheck from her summer job as a lifeguard, she made him pay back every cent. That was Claire’s college fund, she said.
“But for what?” Tammy asked.
“For my major? I’ve been thinking about accounting.”
Tammy’s jaw dropped.
“Accounting! Why?”
Claire shrugged again.
“I’m pretty good with numbers. I figure everyone needs an accountant.”
Tammy’s head shook back and forth so fast her hair was a blur around her face.
“Claire, no! No, no, no! I won’t let you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Throw away your talent to do something snooze-worthy like accounting!” She crossed her arms. “I mean, if you really liked it, fine. But you don’t, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Then I ask again. Why?”
Claire didn’t have an answer.
“Why wouldn’t you go to school for fashion design? You’re good at it. And you love it. And oh! Lightbulb moment!”
Tammy was always having lightbulb moments.
“Once we have our degrees, we’ll both move to New York City where we’ll get famous and rich and be the stars of Broadway!”
Claire raised her eyebrows in doubt.
“Not right away, of course. I mean, we’ll have to start out at the bottom, naturally. We’ll get a shitty little roach-infested apartment together, because it’s expensive as hell to live in the city, you know. And we’ll slog through the smaller theater companies. But eventually… eventually, super stardom will fall right in our laps. I know it will. We’ll both have a whole shelf of Tony awards in our fabulous Manhattan penthouses — by then we’ll have upgraded from the dingy little apartment. People will come from all over the world to intern under you and learn all of your costuming secrets. Meanwhile, I’ll be featured in the tabloids and gossip mags every other week. Wild speculation about my very public break-ups with Patrick Swayze and Christian Slater. Rumors of a whimsical drug problem.”
Claire raised an eyebrow.
“Whimsical?”
“Well, it’s always a serious drug problem, you know? I want mine to be fun.”
Tammy stared out the window at the passing scenery: an endless repeat of withered grass, scrubby little trees, and the foothills in the distance.
“Honestly? It doesn’t even have to be as fantastic as all that. I’ll be happy just to get out of this damn town.”
She turned to Claire.
“Sometimes at night, I start worrying. You know my mantra is Shoot for the stars, but what if I never get out of here? What if I’m just stuck, and this is it? This is all I was ever meant for?”
Claire smiled at her friend.
“I don’t believe that. I kind of think you had it right with the super stardom falling in our laps thing.”
Tammy clapped her hands together and grinned.
“So it’s a deal then? We’ll be roommates, and you won’t major in something boring that you’ll end up hating yourself for?”
Claire laughed.
“Of course it’s a deal. Who am I to stand in the way of destiny?”
Chapter 11
Fall 1993
She and Tammy were practically joined at the hip that first year at UNLV. They went to orientation the same weekend and signed up to live together in the dorms. On the weekends, they went to coffee shops to study. Neither one of them was very used to caffeine, but it made them feel grown up and important. So they drank cappuccinos and cafe lattes, nibbled at scones and croissants, and always ended up jittery and buzzed by the end.
For Christmas, Tammy bought her a pair of really fancy sewing scissors with gold plated handles. It was such a classy gift, and Claire knew it had to be expensive. It made her own gift seem silly by comparison. But Tammy still squealed with delight when she opened it.
“It’s perfect! Where on earth did you find it?” Tammy’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe that’s just it. You didn’t get it here at all, did you?”
It was a Best Friends necklace, the kind that broke in two halves so they’d each have one to wear. Instead of the standard heart, this
one was shaped like an alien’s face and glowed in the dark.
Tammy pulled her half over her head and handed the other piece to Claire.
When summer came, they moved out of the dorms and into an apartment. Tammy wanted to decorate, though her exact words were, “I’ve got a Martha Stewart bug up my ass or something.” And so they went to the fabric store and picked out material. Claire sewed curtains for the windows and little cushions for the chairs at the built-in breakfast nook, all in shades of red, Tammy’s favorite color. Red car, red lipstick, red dress, red heels. That was Tammy.
Tammy even managed to get Claire to loosen up enough to get drunk a few times. The idea of Claire at a bar or keg party probably would have made her stepdad’s head explode if he’d found out. Of course, even the slightest chance of Keith’s ogre skull bursting almost made telling him about it worth it.
Claire remembered one party — some friend-of-a-friend of Tammy's — when the cops burst in and started handing out citations to anyone under 21. Tammy grabbed Claire and pulled her into a coat closet, along with six or seven other people. They were crammed in like pickles in a jar.
Pressing her mouth to Claire’s ear, Tammy whispered, "I am so high right now.”
She giggled, and someone shushed her.
"What's happening?" asked a voice from further back in the closet.
Claire was closest to the door, but the only thing she could see was the sliver of light let in by the crack at the bottom of the door.
"I don't know. I can’t exactly see through the door.”
"Well, can you hear anything?"
Her eyes were finally adjusting to the dark. As Claire pressed her ear to the wood, she saw that the guy standing next to her was doing the same.
At first all Claire could make out was indistinct mumbling, but eventually some of it became clear.
"Is that everyone from upstairs?" The voice was sharp and authoritative. A police officer, she assumed.
"Yeah. I mean, I guess so," was the response.
"What about the basement?"
Claire kept her voice low as she relayed what she'd heard.
"They're trying to find out if they missed anyone. So we can't make any noise."
"Oh no!" Tammy squeaked.
More shushing from the back of the closet.
"What?" Claire said.
"If they find us, I'm in super duper big trouble."
Tammy was still talking too loudly.
"We'll all be in super duper big trouble if you don't shut up," Claire said.
"Yeah, but you're only drunk! I'm drunk and high. That’s, uh, twice as much trouble, right?"
"They won't know that."
"Yes they will. They'll smell it on me! Oh god. Can you smell it on me, Claire?"
Before Claire could stop her, Tammy blew a big puff of her breath at Claire's face.
"There! Does my breath smell like weed?"
The hot air from Tammy’s mouth was all yeasty and tangy from the beer she’d been drinking. Claire’s nose wrinkled.
“It doesn't smell like weed."
"Why’d you say it like that?"
"Like what?"
"I have bad breath, don't I? What’s it called? Halitosis."
Tammy snorted and repeated the word, drawing out the O and S sounds.
"Halitooooosisssss."
"Will someone shut her up?”
“You shut up,” Claire snapped at whoever was talking.
“What's going on outside?” Came another voice. “Are the cops gone yet or what?"
Claire leaned forward to press her ear to the door again.
Almost instantly, Tammy's voice came from behind her.
"Does anyone have any mints?"
"Oh my god. Shhh!” said the whiny person in the back of the closet.
There was a tap on her shoulder.
"Claire, do you have any mints? Or gum? You always have gum."
Claire sighed and stepped away from the door.
"In my purse."
"Where's your purse?"
"On my shoulder, but I can't really get to it the way we're mashed together in here."
"I'll get it," Tammy volunteered.
Claire felt Tammy's hand inch its way down from the strap on her arm to where the bag rested at her hip.
With Tammy properly distracted, Claire pressed her face to the door once again. The guy next to her was also listening. The voices were too muffled to make anything out, but it sounded like the police were still there.
"Can you hear what they’re saying?" the guy asked.
"No," Claire said.
"Success," Tammy exclaimed in the dark. "Altoids!"
The tin rattled as Tammy opened it, and then there was a metallic clank and the sound of a few dozen mints scattering on the ground.
"Oops!"
The murmuring voices outside suddenly halted. Heavy boots stomped over the wood floor, moving closer to the closet, and all Claire could imagine was the door being yanked open by one of the policemen and finding them hiding inside. Would they be angry that they hadn’t come out? Was that considered resisting arrest? Claire didn’t know.
In the dim light, she could see the face of the boy standing next to her. His eyes had gone wide in the dark, probably a mirror of what her face was doing right now.
"I'll—”
Claire didn’t know how she found the space to do it, but she spun around and clapped a hand over Tammy's mouth. The group in the closet seemed to instinctively hold their breath. No one moved.
After five seconds that seemed more like five hours, the footsteps outside receded. She released her hold on Tammy and relaxed a little.
"I spilled them!"
"I know, Tammy. Its OK."
"I should pick them up. It would be rude to leave a mess like that."
"Just leave them for now. There isn’t room."
"But they'll get squashed under our feet! A curiously strong powder."
Before Claire could stop her, Tammy had forced herself into a squatting position, jostling everyone around her to make room.
Claire’s door buddy suddenly grunted and buckled at the waist. She thought he might be about to vomit, and she reached for his elbow to steady him. And also to keep him pointed away from her in case he was about to blow.
"Are you OK?"
It was a moment before he could answer.
Finally, in a choked whisper he said, "Yeah, but... she elbowed me in the balls."
The cops never did find them. A few minutes later, Claire heard the front door slam shut and their heavy tread thunking down the front steps.
The group filed out of the closet and ended up hanging out with the few stragglers that hadn’t been sent home. The guy Tammy cracked in the nuts introduced himself to Claire. His name was Kyle. A few weeks later, he became Claire’s first serious boyfriend. And now, some months later still, he also held the distinction of being her first ex-boyfriend.
That was part of the reason she was out on a Thursday night in the first place instead of waiting for the weekend. She wasn’t a heavy partier, usually. Not the way Tammy was. But she’d been pretty upset about the break up, and Tammy had been working on her for a good two weeks.
“Forget him. You need to get back on the horse.”
“I prefer men,” Claire said.
“Ha. Ha. You know what I mean. Let’s go out. It’s Dollar PBR night at The Mystic.”
Claire didn’t even like the taste of beer, but she’d drink it because it was cheap. And she liked the way it made her feel mellow, more so than hard liquor. When the alcohol hit after taking a few shots or downing a Long Island Iced Tea, it was like getting hit with a sledgehammer of drunkenness. Heavy and fast. But beer felt like a slow relaxing flutter that made its way from her chest up to her head. And there was a certain appeal to getting drunk enough to stop wallowing in her post-breakup self pity.
On the drive to the bar, Tammy had the radio on full blast and tuned to 94.9, aka Buzz 95, The
Alternative Rock Powerhouse. Tammy was next to her, bopping her head to the beat, singing along to Nirvana and They Might Be Giants. Claire was lost in thought, face angled to look out the window at the multicolored lights and neon signs streaking by in the night. Tammy suddenly turned on her.
“Dude!”
Tammy’s mouth was pulled back in a sneer of mock outrage.
“What?”
“Where the hell are you? I need you belting the Layne parts, or it doesn’t feel right!”
It was a moment before Claire realized what Tammy was talking about. And then she heard it. The song on the radio was Man in the Box by Alice in Chains. It was one of their favorites and always elicited a good twist of the volume knob when it came on. They had come to an unspoken arrangement in which Claire sang the Layne Staley parts while Tammy backed her up with Jerry Cantrell’s vocals. They were already mid-way through the first chorus.
“Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“No duh.”
“I was thinking about — ”
“I know what you were thinking about. Or rather who you were thinking about. Now quit it. Tonight is about forgetting him. We’re going to have fun tonight, damn it. The whole future is wide open, right? Anything is possible.”
Claire must have looked unconvinced.
“Right?” Tammy asked pointedly.
“Right,” Claire said, because the look Tammy was giving her said she didn’t have a choice.
Tammy gestured emphatically at the car speaker. Claire took a deep breath, shaking her head, and then started to sing along.
With a grin and nod, Tammy joined her.
By the end of the song, Claire was grinning too, and she thought maybe Tammy was right. Maybe it was time to move on. Time to forget Kyle.
Anything was possible.
Chapter 12
November 1993
Blood weeps from the wound. A diagonal trickle draining into her mouth.
She presses the sleeve of her sweatshirt against the opened place. Watches the heather gray cuff go damp and red.
The car barrels forward again. Rocketing through the emptiness.
The man in the driver’s seat has fallen quiet now that they are moving once more.
