Marianne

by Elizabeth Hammer

  He just looked back at her. Try again.

  “What do you want from me, Patrick?” She shoved her coffee into the cup holder, sloshing it out of the spout. “I don’t know what you want if you won’t believe me.”

  “I want you to knock it off.”

  “Fine!” Marianne threw her hands up. “I said it was stupid, and that I didn’t have to do it. I won’t puke, anymore. I promise.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said evenly. “I mean all of it.” He meant the diets. He meant the weight loss. He meant the scale obsession. He meant the drinking diet soda instead of eating lunch. He meant all the things she didn’t even realize he’d known about.

  No.

  She looked at him but didn’t say anything. He looked angry. He looked like he seriously meant it. Like it was a deal-breaker. He wasn’t going to budge.

  No.

  Her eyes started stinging. She was so mad. He couldn’t do this to her. She looked away, toward the passenger door. Should she throw a tantrum and storm out of the truck, or should she lie? She could lie. She could promise to knock it off; they were just words. “Okay,” she whispered.

  That hurt. And it wasn’t lying to Patrick that hurt; it was lying against her love of the thing. She felt like she’d just turned traitor on her soul. “Okay,” she choked out again.

  23

  Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth

  Well, that night sucked.

  This night was going to suck, too. No doubt about it.

  Marianne sat in the backseat of Ben’s two-door Pinto station wagon, wedged in beside Sally, Todd, and Andrew, on the way to the big Gothy soiree at Huntington Beach. Apparently, Goths didn’t turn to charcoal in direct sunlight like they claimed. Still, she couldn’t believe what she’d gotten herself into. Decked out in blood-red velvet like Scarlett O’Hara—intentional mascara lines running down her face to create an illusion of wretched grief—and a rolled-up baggy of Todd’s best weed in the pocket of her backpack. Hey, can you hold this for me, kid?—Sure. Why not? Marianne shook her head at herself as they pulled into the parking lot. There were no words.

  She hadn’t had to work very hard to lie to Patrick and get away from him for the night. He was very considerately giving her space. She clenched her teeth. She didn’t want space from him personally, just space from his brooding, mistrustful hawk eyes. By two o’clock, she could have stabbed him in the neck with a spork and enjoyed it. A lot.

  “Hey,” said Ben. “Anybody got money for parking?”

  All he got back were a bunch of apologetic humms and inhales through clenched teeth. “For Pete’s sake,” spat Marianne under breath. She dug around in her bag and pulled out the required twelve dollars. If she’d known that the Devil charged admission to Hell, she’d have brought more money. Ben took the cash and told her he’d pay her back later. She told him not to worry about it.

  Well, no... she actually told him to shove it up his rear, but he just shrugged it off. It’d been clear from the get-go how cranky she was tonight, so he didn’t take it personally.

  They parked in the back of one of the lots, facing PCH. Cool. They were only about seventeen miles away from the fire pit where the death party was. Marianne unstuck herself from the vinyl, clawed her way over the pile of Taco Bell trash, and almost hanged herself on the sweat-encrusted passenger seatbelt on her way out of the deathtrap. “Sweet ride, Ben,” she said.

  He smiled at her good-naturedly and tried to hand her a bundle of firewood to carry.

  She stared at him with enough hatred that he stepped back and left her alone. That’s right. Marianne shouldered her bag of dope and trudged across the sandy asphalt to find the fire pit.

  For the first hour, Marianne just sat on the edge of the cold concrete pit and bared her teeth at anyone who came too close. She probably would have been a little more social, except that the first greeting she received when she walked up went something like, “The Blackness bids you welcome and well met.”

  Marianne had stared at the boy for a moment, focusing briefly on the fingernails sharpened to nasty little points, and said, “Are you the blackness?”

  “Nay, but I have walked the path of the Shadow. I know its ilk and speak its flowered verses of soft death.”

  “Right. You know, I think you should speak normally. It... it’s better.”

  “How can the Void bequeath that which it does not have?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I guess it can’t... but maybe you should try.”

  “Your vanity and lust ask for more, but I am unwhole. I am empty. I am the pit that has no end. I have nothing to give and take everything I am offered. I consume—”

  Marianne cut him off. “It’s pretty hot. Why are you wearing that trench coat?”

  “We who dwell amongst perdition’s flames are yet cold. I am Witch and Vampire.”

  Both? “No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re a human being and you’re hot; I can tell.”

  He looked at the sand and didn’t answer.

  “Shape up,” she’d muttered and went to claim her seat on the fire pit.

  Near sunset, when the girls put away their lace parasols and the boys in black started blending into the shadows, she started feeling guilty for ignoring Sally. Marianne wasn’t the only person in the world who had problems. Sally had finally convinced her to come tonight because she needed a wing-man when she met up with Victor.

  Marianne lifted the hem of her gown above her ankles and weaved her way through the group, trying to locate Sally in the fading light. She found her getting wasted with a bunch of other people on a blanket over by a trash can. They even had an electric lantern glowing in the middle of the group. Marianne didn’t think that was very mythical of them, but she let it pass. They made room for Marianne in the Pit of Revelry, and she joined in with all the enthusiasm she could muster. Now that the novelty of getting drunk was wearing off, Marianne realized that she didn’t like it very much. Perhaps it would have been different if she hadn’t always been depressed and moody when she drank—all her associations with alcohol were tainted, like ginger ale for people who only have it when they get the flu. Marianne realized all this, but did her best to get drunk, anyway. Of course she did.

  After her first two beers, she started analyzing her choice. But what was she supposed to have done, really? Watch everyone get rowdy and incoherent while she just sat around in all her judgmental, clear-thinking misery? Or maybe she should have stayed alone by the fire pit to fill the now-vacant role of party-pooper? Even more, she could have stayed home altogether. She could have stayed with Patrick.

  Just thinking his name made her feel like she was wearing a turtleneck. He wasn’t the choking sweater; it was just... Bleh, she didn’t even know. Marianne lay back on the blanket and looked at the sky. It wasn’t as if anyone was asking too much of her. It’s not unreasonable to be expected to act like a good person; she was just really bad at it, apparently. But then, if she was just really bad at it, that would imply that she had no choice in the matter. She did have a choice. Didn’t she?

  Her thoughts were getting a bit philosophical, but that’s what happens when your life is decaying at an unnatural rate right before your eyes. Oh, who was she kidding? Decaying before her eyes? Hardly. She was deliberately beating it to pieces with a sledgehammer. But she didn’t want to do that! Wait, how could those two things be true at the same time? “Crap,” she whispered.

  “What?” said Sally. She was sitting close to Marianne, not talking to anyone.

  “I said crap.”

  “Oh.” Sally nodded and looked away toward the shore. “Hey, I’m going to walk down to the water for a minute, kay?”

  “See ya, sucker,” said Marianne. She returned her focus to the black sky, too lazy to offer Sally any company. She tried to go back to her ponderings, but her ears were now in tune with the ultra-lame conversation going on around her. Why the hell had she come here?

  “I don’t get that song at all,”
said Georgia. “Is it about puppets? Not the Sesame Street kind, the other kind. With strings.”

  Dark Lord Alvin sighed. “It’s about whatever you need it to be about. How it speaks to you. We are all our own creation. There are no absolutes. No standards.”

  His tone got Marianne’s full attention. It was like he’d been waiting all night to deliver that golden wisdom. No doubt he’d jacked the sentiment verbatim from some Gothic, red-fonted message board. How convenient that everyone just happened to be talking about lyric interpretation right then. Conniving, girlfriend-abusing douche.

  “Oh, okay.” Georgia nodded, but she had the glassy-eyed smile on her face that she got every time she felt out-gothed and humiliated. “Definitely, there are no standards. So, what does it mean to you?”

  “It’s about the way the darkness feels on your skin at night. The way you can connect with a graveyard and the souls that trapped there in torment.”

  Georgia looked confused. “Does it mention graveyards? I don’t remember—”

  “Forgive me, but I can’t really explain it all to you,” said Alvin. “It’s too personal.”

  Todd chucked his empty bottle behind him onto the sand. “Don’t you hate it when people try to interpret art? As if you could explain in words the way something resonates with your inner soul.”

  Georgia looked down and started fiddling with the knob of the lantern.

  Marianne sat up. “Children’s Motrin,” she whispered. They all turned toward her. “To me, it’s about Children’s Motrin. Suspension, not chewables. It may sound strange, but it’s, you know—” she touched her chest, “personal. Something from my childhood. Back when I was innocent and untainted. Before everyone put all these arbitrary standards on me.”

  Georgia turned her head to the side, trying not to let anyone see her smile.

  Marianne wished Patrick had been there to see that look. He would’ve liked that look. “You want to get another drink with me, Georgia?” said Marianne.

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  Georgia got to her feet and leaned over for Marianne’s hand, but her foot got caught on some firewood holding down the corner of the blanket. Marianne reached out her arms and tried to steady her, Georgia reached out at the same time, and they both missed. Georgia’s whole body came crashing down on top of Marianne, muffling her panicked screech.

  They ended up in a tangle of sand, lace, and hairpieces. Marianne tried to roll out from under her in multiple directions, but she couldn’t because Georgia’s bracelet was stuck in her hair and wouldn’t come loose. It was too much for Marianne’s unsteady grip on emotion—she started laughing hysterically and couldn’t stop, even with the pain of having her hair pulled out. That got Georgia going. A few people commented on how drunk they must have been, but that almost made it better.

  Georgia finally got herself under control. “Okay, hold still so I can free you.” She looked down at Marianne and then squinted in shock. “I... I think I smeared lipstick on your face...”

  “What?” Marianne wiped at her cheek where it was still stinging from getting knocked. “Did I get it?”

  “Uh, no...” Georgia grimaced. “It’s more like... right there.” With her free hand, Georgia touched the side of Marianne’s mouth.

  Marianne wiped again. “Did I get it?”

  Georgia gave her a worried expression and then giggled again. “Actually, it’s more like right here.” She drew a line from just under Marianne’s nose, down across her lips.

  That got them going again.

  Oh, forget it. Clearly, they were both too far gone to extract the bracelet, and she was never going to get Georgia off her. “Forget it,” she said when she could catch her breath. “Just slip it off and leave it on my head.”

  Georgia obeyed, and Marianne was able to get up. She followed Georgia to the cooler, holding her aching sides. Georgia rummaged through the cooler, and Marianne took whatever she handed her without question. She was about to take a drink when she remembered. “Hey, where’s Sally?”

  “She walked down to the—”

  Marianne didn’t wait to hear what she already knew. “Hey!” she shouted to the nearest shadow-shrouded clump of people. “Where’s Dark Lord Victor?”

  A girl whose name wasn’t really Raven like she claimed, said, “He went somewhere with Sally.”

  She knew it. “Come on,” she said to Georgia, pulling her by the sleeve in the direction of the water.

  Georgia tried to pull back. “They’re probably making out.”

  “Of course they are,” said Marianne. “And we’re gonna kick her ass.”

  Plan A was to march right up to Sally, slap her bra back into place, and drag her caveman style back to the party; but it was almost pitch black away from the fire pits, so they had to go with Plan B, which was considerably more lame: Pace the shore, shout at the top of their lungs, and ignore anything mysterious that tried to touch their legs.

  The ever-dramatic Georgia only intensified the lameness of Plan B. “I don’t think that was seaweed, Marianne.”

  Suffering silence.

  “No, I’m serious. It was heavier, like a body.”

  Admirable restraint.

  “It could have been...” Georgia was turning whiney. “I mean, it was probably just a fish body, but still. It wasn’t seaweed.”

  “Sally!”

  “Sally!”

  “Get your butt over here, Sally, before I trip and tear a hole in this dress!” Marianne stopped walking. “On purpose!”

  Georgia tugged Marianne’s arm. “You wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “We’ll see. It’s her choice!”

  “No,” whined Georgia. “She’ll never start letting me borrow stuff if you do that.”

  “Then start shouting louder.” Marianne caught the undercurrent in Georgia’s tone, though. “Doesn’t Sally let you borrow clothes, too?”

  “No, but I get it. You guys are like BFF, so—”

  Marianne had to cut in right there. “I do not now, nor will I ever, have a BFF.”

  “I thought Sally was your closest friend.”

  Marianne wasn’t really in the mood to explain, but apparently, that was the price for making cranky jokes. “She probably is, but I was just teasing you about the term BFF. It’s kinda—” She stopped herself before she said “goobery.” “Have you ever asked Sally to borrow stuff? I’m sure she’d let you.”

  Georgia laughed a little. “No way. I’m too scared of her. I don’t know, I always get this feeling like she’s mad at me when I first see her, but then she lightens up later. She’s kind of imposing, you know? Is that the right word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sweet. Anyway, she’s real standoffish and imposing. It’s funny, though, because when you’re around, you just bitch slap her for it and she gets all normal. She doesn’t even get mad.”

  Really? She knew that she never put up with any crap, but she’d never thought of it as a good thing for another person. Interesting. “Yeah, I’m a bitch-slap ninja,” said Marianne.

  “You must teach me these skills, master.”

  “The skills are within you, young one,” said Marianne, squinting through the blackness. “But you carry much fear.”

  “What do I fear?”

  “You fear that which cannot hurt you, the darkness and the stillness.”

  “Well hell, who wouldn’t, Marianne?” said Georgia. “Do you think I’m just afraid that she wouldn’t really like me, for me?”

  “What the?” Marianne stopped walking. “No. I was talking gibberish, not actually giving you ninja advice. And call me master.”

  A low, whispery voice spoke out from behind them. “You possess many wise answers, master, yet you lack wise questions.”

  Marianne spun around. “The prodigal grasshopper returns.”

  Sally walked up between them and put an arm around each of their shoulders. “Like a moth to a flame, I am compelled to you by the depth of your sagacity and the brightne
ss of the enlightenment you offer. Teach me, oh master!” she cried. “Show me again the way to self-realization and bitchy witticism.”

  “How the hell long have you been listening?”

  “I was here before you were, darling. Stumbling along this desolate strip of sand, torn between a sea of agonies and a fire of longing. What took you so long to come after me?”

  “Oh, the usual things,” said Marianne. “Selfishness and vodka.”

  “And you!” It sounded as if Sally punched Georgia. “Of course you can borrow my crap. It’s all gonna burn, one way or another.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Marianne. “Have you had another psychic vision of the apocalypse?”

  “No, I’m combining that old vision with my new one. Me, setting alight the foundations of my home in a fit of insanity, burning alive the lot of us.”

  “We call that a tantrum,” said Marianne.

  “Just as you like, master.”

  “Where’s Victor?”

  “Who?”

  Nice try. Marianne just laughed and moved the trio like a sideways caterpillar back toward the fire pits.

  “Look, nothing happened,” said Sally. “He’s still dating that other girl at the moment. I don’t even know if we’re getting back together.”

  “Right,” said Marianne. “So, how does it feel to have that little self-respect?”

  “Like crap, darling,” said Sally. “It feels like crap. But not everyone is like you. Not everyone finds the mythical Patrick at the end of the rainbow. Some of us have to make hard choices.”

  Georgia sighed. “Ah, Alvin.”

  Marianne looked at Georgia. “There we go—I was wondering when you were going to chime in and make this all about you.”

  Georgia scowled. “Thanks, Master Bitch Slap.”

  “Be careful there, young one,” said Marianne. “You are not yet skilled enough in sarcasm to spar with your master.”