Not Otherwise Specified

by Hannah Moskowitz

  I say, “I’ll sing if you eat something.”

  She pouts but nibbles on the crackers Rachel brings her.

  So I climb up onto the hamper, bothering her foot with my sock some just for good measure, and belt out the entirety of “At the Ballet,” which is ridiculous because I’m trying to do three parts at once, and Bianca helps me with the harmonies at some points, so quietly that I don’t know if she knows she’s doing it (would she sing right now if she knew? Has that been ruined for her?) but it’s still this ridiculous mess of me trying to do all the parts. And then I get to Maggie’s part, Maggie’s monologue about dancing around the living room with her arms up like this, and it’s hard to keep going.

  I make some excuse about not knowing this part as well, when really I know it a zillion times better than Bebe’s (that’s the second girl, I looked it up eventually) because lately when I’m supposed to sing Sheila’s part I find myself singing Maggie’s instead, which is stupid because I can’t hit the high notes and you need this sincerity to be Maggie anyway, and how am I supposed to go into an audition for a place I don’t even know that I want (can I just audition for a freaking city, can Bianca go to Brentwood and we’ll do brunch every day) and act sincere? No, I can be brassy and loud and not sing all that well.

  But they make me keep going, so I sing out Maggie’s three “at the ballet!”s, each one going higher and higher, and hey, big shock, I can’t hit the highest note.

  But I got the first two, and that’s new.

  The girls are just chuckling a little. “Yeah,” Rachel says, “Stick to the first part.”

  “I know,” I say. “I was going to.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get attitudey with me. What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. Eat your crackers, Bianca.”

  “I am,” she says, and she is. “Where are we going?”

  “Club Cupcake.” Rachel finishes her mascara, blinks in the mirror. “On the strip.”

  “The gay strip?” Bianca’s all excited.

  Rachel laughs. “Yeah, honey. Before they shut it down and ruin whatever Nebraska once had.”

  I say, “Ease her into this, okay?’

  Rachel says, “What, like a bunch of lesbians are going to be all that new to her? Maybe a bunch of lesbians and some loud music, that’s fair.”

  Jesus, I have got to find a chance to get Rachel alone and tell her that Bianca is so, so not gay. Bianca leans on me because she knows I know she’s not gay. The second she thinks I’m trying to pull her into this I become not safe to her and that’s going to scare the shit out of her, because right now I am her bridge between her and her brother and I get that, and that’s fine, but that doesn’t mean she should go swimming underneath me and getting all wet, you know? God, that wasn’t even supposed to sound dirty.

  So I just say, “She’s young and she’s drunk. Go easy.”

  Rachel turns on me, all of a sudden all sharp lines and painted lips. “What exactly do you think I’m going to do to her, Etta?”

  God, this is a shitshow. I take another swallow from the bottle. What is this, Everclear? All of a sudden I’m all emotional thinking about when I was Bianca’s age and I had to go to the hospital for alcohol poisoning after some sweet sixteen for this junior-year Dyke. I’m all weepy looking at Bianca on the floor with her crackers and yeah, this shit is strong and Rachel’s shoulder is warm under my cheek.

  She kisses the top of my head and dabs a little more blush onto my cheeks. “All right. Let’s get moving. Etta, you want the tie-dye coat?”

  I do. I do want the tie-dye coat.

  Rachel wraps a headband around Bianca’s forehead. “Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Cupcake is louder than I remembered and somehow gayer, and maybe that’s because everyone knows they’ve got a limited time left or maybe it’s because my gay experiences of late have been domestic little James and Ian and I’d forgotten about this other end of the spectrum, the glittiest glitter that has ever glittered, this was my life, these shirtless boys with their mouths on each other. I used to love this. I used to genuinely love this, and not in some damaged daddy-left-us-so-now-I-sleep-around way. I just liked it.

  And now Bianca’s clinging to me and I feel protective and guilty as hell, and why do I feel guilty, she wanted to come, I’m not her mother and there’s nothing wrong with a goddamn gay club, so what if I had to flirt a little with the door Dyke to get Bianca in, it’s not like she doesn’t have Xs on her hands so she can’t drink any more. (But it’s also not like they’re being very careful about who drinks because what does Cupcake have to be afraid of at this point, I know the feeling.) Maybe I just think that I’ve found something bigger for the same reason I thought I liked ballet (do I like ballet? I can’t remember). Something about the patriarchy. I’m dizzy.

  I bring Bianca to the armchairs where I found the Dykes the last time I was here and put her in one. “Stay.”

  “I want to dance!”

  “I’ll dance with you soon, I promise. But I have to take care of some stuff first.”

  “Are those the Dykes?” she says, like they’re celebrities. Drunk girl.

  “Don’t worry about it, sweetie.” I give her a kiss on the cheek and try to convince myself it isn’t because I know Rachel’s watching. Bianca hums contentedly and puts her head back. Okay.

  I swim through the crowd to Rachel and there’s the trifecta, matching maxi dresses tonight, aren’t we adorable. Isabel must have made them. She made us all T-shirts one time but mine was too small and I still don’t know if it was on purpose or not. God, why were these girls my friends? Everything is so clear now. Everything is fantastic! I don’t have to be friends with them and I don’t have to do this audition and I don’t have to fix Bianca! I can stay here and dance by myself forever and ever, yaaay I love alcohol. I don’t think I realized how much shit was weighing me down until right now when it’s gone. I’m a free bird with a mezzo-soprano voice and a big ass and I am dancing around like it is springtime.

  Natasha’s staring at me either like I’m disgusting or like she can’t believe I’m here or maybe both, but Isabel and Titania are smiling a little like maybe they’re over all this bullshit. Okay, Isabel and Titania, you can stay.

  We like Etta. Etta can stay. That was James! I should call him. I love James. Rachel gives me the rest of her drink.

  I grab Isabel’s hand and say, “Dance with me!” because what the hell, Isabel is so boring and maybe we can loosen her up. I’ve always kind of liked her, though. She’s nice to my sister. I wonder what’s going on with my sister. I bet Rachel knows. She hugged her. “What’s going on with my sister?”

  “What?” Isabel says.

  “I wasn’t talking to you! Rachel!”

  “I can hear you, Etta! Stop yelling.”

  “The music is loud!”

  “You’re louder!”

  “I’m going to mess up my voice!” Oh shit. I can’t be shouting. I shouldn’t be drinking at a club. Why am I doing this? Maybe that’s why Rachel wanted me out. Maybe she’s trying to sabotage my audition. Maybe this whole thing has been a trick to get me back in so the Dykes can mess with me some more. Maybe they put something in my drink. This is so weird. I’m not high, why am I this paranoid? Where’s Bianca? I think maybe I’m paranoid because of Bianca.

  Oh right, it doesn’t matter if I mess up my voice because I don’t care about this audition! Yelling and drinks for everyone! I’m so happy. I lean into Rachel’s shoulder. “You’re beautiful,” I tell her.

  “And you are drunk. Mmmm.” She squeezes me tight. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you!”

  “Let’s don’t fight again.”

  “Let’s don’t.”

  “Don’t go to New York, okay?”

  “Okay!”

  No. Hey. Wait.

  That’s not cool.

  Why did she just ask me that?

  Who does she think she is? She knows how much
I want to go to New York. Everyone and their mom knows how much I want to go to New York. What gives her the right to take me out and get me drunk and tell me not to go to New York?

  Screw her. Screw Rachel, screw my childhood, where’s Bianca? I want to get on a motorcycle. What song is this and why doesn’t it have more than four notes? Even I could sing this, come on.

  Then I hear Natasha’s voice, so close to my ear she doesn’t have to yell. “I can’t believe you came here, how fucking stupid can you be?”

  “Where’s Bianca?” Rachel says.

  “That’s what I’d like to know!” I probably said that more aggressively than I needed to but it’s not my fault I’m having interior monologues about how much I don’t like Rachel and that Natasha’s pinching me underneath my bra. Wait, why don’t I like Rachel? She’s tucking one of my dreads behind my ear. She’s lovely.

  “You are drunk, little girl,” she says. She used to call me that. I remember now.

  I remember now. “She’s in the armchairs. She’s over . . .” I turn around. I don’t see her. Bee?

  “She’s adorable,” Rachel says. “Even though she’s way too skinny.”

  “She’s smoke,” I say. “She’s blond smoke.”

  “You can get back into the Dykes!” Rachel says.

  “What?”

  “Have you guys slept together yet?” she says.

  “What?” How have I not told her yet?

  “Have you and Bianca slept together yet?” she yells over the music, and then over my shoulder someone goes “WHAT?” and yeah, three guesses who that is (Bianca, Bianca, Bianca).

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “We’re not . . . ,” I start to say, but I’m so dizzy and she slips away and no no no so I run after her and she’s trying to leave but I catch her before she can get to the doors because no no no you are not going out alone, you are just not.

  “Let go of me,” she says. She’s crying. Oh.

  “Bianca.”

  “You left me to hang out with the Dykes?”

  Oh God. That’s why she’s upset.

  “Yeah.”

  “They think we’re a couple?” Okay, so she’s upset about that too.

  “They think every two girls is a couple, it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them we aren’t?”

  “Because—”

  “If you’re hanging out with these girls who tortured you, if these people who make you feel like shit are your fucking friends, then what am I? What are we!”

  “Bianca. Come to the bathroom or something, okay, we’ll talk about this.”

  “Were you just using me?” she says, and holy shit if she thinks that this whole time I’ve been trying to sleep with her I’m just going to rip out my insides or something, how is it that all I do is tell people what’s in my head and I still can’t get them to know what I’m thinking? I try so hard. I want to get better I want to get better I want to be better Jesus Christ how many calories are in what Bianca had, how many have we had, how drunk is she?

  I should get Rachel to check her blood sugar, it tanks when she drinks—

  “I am not trying to be something with you,” I say. “I don’t even think . . . You’re not like that in my head. You’re like my little sister.”

  “But you wanted to them to think you were?” she says. “You wanted to make them jealous? Why are you hanging out with them?”

  “No! Don’t you fucking understand? I didn’t want to be friends with another damn girl, okay?”

  “W-with me?”

  “Yes, with you! I never fucking wanted this! I wanted to just put my head down until I got out of here and got to New York and I wanted to hate everyone here and I wanted to hate all girls forever because of what they did to me and I didn’t really give a shit if that was unfair because they hurt me so much, and then you came along, you just showed up, and all I want to do is take care of you and I just want them to love me again okay and you won’t do a thing to take care of yourself and now how am I supposed to go to New York if you’re going to drink and cry and fucking starve yourself to death if I leave you here?”

  “So what, you’re just gonna be friends with them because they’re not going to die?”

  Oh my God, what is wrong with me. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know!”

  “Fuck you, Etta,” she says, and then she pushes through the crowd and weaves her way to the bathroom. Probably to throw up.

  I’m a terrible friend.

  I am Etta Should Have Stayed Not Otherwise Specified.

  I give the bar my fake ID and they ignore the Xs on my hands and give me a beer and then I’m trying to find the Dykes again but it’s just Isabel and Titania and Natasha and they don’t even look at me and I think maybe they forgot about me and damn it I need to find Rachel I need to find Bianca I need to chug this damn beer.

  So I’m pretending to dance with some girls I don’t know and they’re pretending to dance with me and I’m shaking around in this skirt and I don’t even remember whose skirt this is and then someone grabs my arm and I spill my beer all over the floor. “Bianca?” No. It’s Rachel.

  “Something’s wrong,” she says. “You need to come with me.”

  “What? Are you okay?”

  “Something’s wrong with Bianca.”

  And it feels like I’ve been waiting for this sentence my entire life. That I’ve been dangling on the precipice of that sentence and now I’m falling.

  I knew this was going to happen.

  I knew this was going to happen.

  Bianca’s on the floor in the bathroom, conscious but limp, breathing shallow and fast with her head pillowed on her arms. Her eyes are squeezed shut and Rachel says, “Did she drink too much?”

  “She didn’t . . . She hasn’t had anything in hours.” I feel her pulse, expecting fast and light, hummingbird, but no, it’s so slow.

  Her body is breaking.

  “I need you to take us to the hospital,” I tell Rachel.

  For some reason I’m expecting her to say no.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “I’m gonna run and get the car. I’ll text you when I’m pulling up outside, okay?”

  How did I think we could be friends again when I thought she would say no to that? How can I keep putting this all on her when I’m the one who doesn’t trust her, and I’m not saying she hasn’t given me any reasons not to but God, I’m going to need to meet her somewhere in the middle and I don’t know if I can do that. I just don’t.

  This isn’t the time to be thinking about this because Bianca is floppy against my chest, and I’m just holding her and holding her.

  “Can you carry her?” Rachel says.

  “Uh-huh. Go go go.”

  Rachel’s gone, and people are coming and going in the bathroom and tripping over us and not stopping to see if we need help. I hate everybody but this girl. I tuck her in under my chin. She’s shivering now.

  “E-Etta.”

  “Shh shh shh. I know.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Yeah, whatever. She’s fourteen.

  But it still hurts.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” I kiss the top of her head. “I love you, baby girl. You’re going to be just fine, we’re gonna get you some help, okay?”

  “I don’t want help—mychesthurts.”

  “I know. Hang in there.”

  “I want Jamie.”

  “I know. I know I’m gonna get him, I’ll get him, please just hold on, okay, Rachel’s coming, we’re gonna go, I’m gonna fix this.”

  She’s crying, and she has stopped pulling away. She’s gripping me around the waist, shaking so hard I feel like she’s going to fall into pieces.

  “Gonna fix you,” I tell her. “Hang in there, you hear me? Hang in there.”

  21

  I GUESS THIS IS ENOUGH of a crisis to make James’s parents forget that they hate him, because all three of them show up at the hospital bedraggled and together, in pajamas
because I guess Christians go to bed before eleven, like my mom. I wish my mom were here. It’s just me and Rachel, who’s lingering by the coffee machine, making tea for me, all of that. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know what to say to anybody. I made sure Bianca was settled in her bed and that they were getting her fluids and she was going to be okay and then I came out here and I sat in this chair where I can see into her room (she’s sedated but still trying to pull out her IV, I think she knows there’s sugar in it) and I’m just planted here, I can’t move. I wish this somehow magically sobered me up, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. Everything’s spinning and I’ve thrown up twice and I still don’t feel any better. But I don’t think all of that is the alcohol. I’m not stupid.

  That’s my best friend (she’s my best friend) in there, and I’m out here.

  I watch her parents rush in and touch her and hug her and her mom is crying and they look like normal perfect parents, all blond hair and blue eyes and not at all who you’d expect would try to rehabilitate their gay son. The pajamas help the picture. If they were dressed, wrapped up in pashminas or some shit, they’d be too pretty to be real and you’d know there was something underneath, but no, they’re wearing flannel pants with holes in them because they’re poor and they look so plainspoken but they’re not, they let Bianca get here when she should so goddamn be in inpatient and they focused on freaking fine James instead.

  I’m looking down, and I watch his shoes come toward me, then hear his voice. “You all right?” He sounds like he’s acting, like it’s not really him.

  I nod without raising my head.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I picked her up and she was drunk. I took her over to Rachel’s. We made her up. She wanted to go out. We went out. We had a fight, she went to the bathroom, Rachel found her collapsed in there, we brought her here, her blood pressure was too low, they gave her electrolytes and now she’s okay. Her blood alcohol isn’t even that high. They’re bringing in a counselor to talk to her. Maybe a social worker. They weren’t sure.” I say it flat, like this is public-speaking class and I’m going to fail this speech.