by Anna Roberts
Aw. Thanks. I thought you’d never notice.
Chapter Eighteen
Goodbye Horses, Hello Crazy
Last night Jesús shaved his pubes.
At first I persuaded him to trim them, but as soon as he realised that a trim made his dick look bigger he wanted to go for the full Brazilian. He came out of the shower with a silky smooth undercarriage and a boner nearly up to his fucking nose. He said he felt like a porn star, so I made him act like one until Hanna banged on the bedroom wall and screamed that we were perverts.
Jesús is currently sleeping it off, while Hanna is doing some serious passive-aggressive clattering in the kitchen. I've cut her a lot of slack lately on account of what happened to her car, but when it comes to emotional blackmail Hanna's the disproportionate response kind. Actually I think she's forgotten about the car and is now more pissed at me for mentioning that it's about fifty different kinds of effed to carry on boning a guy who can't even remember your name. If I didn't have my reasons for suspecting that My Little Brony is faking it bigstyle then I'd probably call the police, but like I say - I have my reasons.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
It's graduation day, and the dingus in the kitchen is actually going to go ahead with it - I think she honest-to-Christ believes that she's the genuine class valedictorian and not some moron whose mega-rich boyfriend bought her way to the top of the class. Hanna makes me think the pharmaceutical industry are missing a trick; I have a theory that there is some unknown neurochemical coursing through her weird little veins, some magical substance that bestows unfounded confidence in the face of totally contradictory reality. If you could sell it you'd make a fortune – it’d be like ketamine but without the screaming.
She's drinking a typical Hanna-breakfast of Twinings tea and air, which - if not exactly the breakfast of champions - is a great breakfast if you're a self-obsessed shithead who likes to imagine herself the heroine of a nineteenth century novel. It holds grand possibilities - possibilities of fainting, swooning and other neurasthenic antics.
"I didn't sleep so well," she says, the moment I catch her eye.
"I know," I say. "That's because I was having really noisy sex with Jesús." It's best to deal with Hanna this way - just come right out and say what she's needling at, otherwise you'll be there for weeks while she attempts to convey meaning via blinks, sniffles, sighs and simply looking sad. Once I got so sick of her shit that I told her to cut to the chase and take up interpretive dance, but she just sat there and looked confused and I couldn't be completely sure she wasn't doing it on purpose.
“How’s the man who never was?” I ask her.
More blinks.
“You know,” I say. “Whatsisname. Tabula Rasa. Your amnesiac amour.”
Hanna sighs into her tea. “Complicated.”
“Spare me the details,” I say, filling the coffee machine. The only thing I hate more than complicated men is assholes who describe their relationships as ‘complicated’ and think it makes them deep or interesting. Having shitty relationships does not make you Sartre and Simone – it just means you have shitty relationships and lack the nads to end them.
Phrases like ‘spare me the details’, ‘don’t care’ and ‘shut the fuck up’ tend to wash over Hanna, so it’s no surprise when she does a little more blinking and says “I had the most intense revelation last night.”
Oh God. “Hanna, if this is a G-spot story I don’t want to hear this...”
She frowns. “Um, no. It’s not that. Unlike yours, our relationship is based on more than just sex.”
“Okay, that’s true,” I say, since her relationship is also based on self-deception, bribery, corruption, co-dependency, emotional manipulation, alleged amnesia and possible grounds for a federal prosecution.
“I think...” says Hanna, gazing into the middle distance in a way that she thinks makes her look thoughtful but makes everyone else worry that she’s having some kind of brain event. “I think that I finally understand what it is that I want out of a relationship.”
“A yacht? Because I gotta tell you, I’m with Jesús on this one – you should definitely hold out for a yacht before you break it off.”
She glares at me. “Nobody has ever really loved him, you know,” she says. “His mother’s a harridan and his birth mother gave him up as a baby. And I’m so scared to try and love him. What if I disappoint him like every other woman who has abandoned him?”
I don’t say anything. What can you say to this kind of soggy, pop-psych fuckery, even when it’s not coming from the lips of a woman so creepy that she thinks amnesia is an attractive trait in a man?
“I just had this moment of blinding clarity,” says Hanna. “It’s like, I want his love. I need his love. It’s like I have this deep, fundamental need to be loved for myself. I never realised that about myself before.”
Holy shit. That’s her revelation? Will it blow her mind completely if I tell her that she has thumbs? “Yeah,” I say, slowly. “That’s not just you.”
“But you see, he’s damaged,” says Hanna, all breathy and big eyed. “What if he can’t love me the way I need to be loved? Because of his mommy issues? What if it doesn’t work out?”
I squint at her and listen to the coffee drip behind me. I like Hanna’s mom, but something went fundamentally fucking wrong here. Is this what happens when you praise your child’s every bowel movement?
“Hanna,” I say. “That happens to everyone. Everyone wants to be loved for themselves. Everyone feels apprehensive when they’re starting out in a relationship – that’s part of the whole roller-coaster ride. The only reason you think this is the greatest inner revelation since Sigmund Freud first wheeled out the couch is because if your head was any further up your own self-obsessed ass you’d be wearing your pancreas as a fucking hat.”
She gets up from the breakfast bar. “I know what this is about,” she says, with the serene, knowing air of one who is scarily clueless about more or less everything.
“Really? Do you?”
“Oh yes,” says Hanna. “It’s okay. I get it, Kate. I know you’re prettier than me, and blonde. And I know you think you should be the one who gets the billionaire...”
“...what the fuck?” I’m not mad anymore. I don’t have the energy. I always try not to get mad at her because there’s no point – most of the time she’s just too fucking stupid to understand that she’s being a terrible person.
“...but he chose me. Go figure.”
“There’s not much to figure out,” I say. “He’s a weird pervert who’s scared of normal women and you’re not a normal woman.”
Hanna peers down her nose at me. “Right. By normal I guess you mean blonde Barbie girls who date him for his money and look pretty hanging off his arm...”
“...and have enough self-esteem and experience to recognise that he’s fundamentally broken. Barbie girls? Will you listen to yourself? Do you honestly believe that every other woman in the world is a slut?”
“No,” she says, although she totally does.
She dumps her teacup in the sink and heads for her bedroom door. “Look,” she says. “I’m sorry that your boyfriend doesn’t have a helicopter, but there’s no reason to take it out on me.”
I laugh. I do that a lot whenever she forces me to think about Crispian Neigh in a boyfriend context; I read somewhere that smiling suppresses your gag reflex. “Oh honey,” I say, pouring out two cups of coffee for me and Jesús. “My boyfriend doesn’t need a helicopter to take me to heaven and back.”
I take the coffee into the bedroom, where Jesús is sitting naked on the bed, rolling up a doobie. “I’m guessing from the yelling that she's going through with it?” he says.
“Yep. She is.”
“Then I’m not going,” says Jesús. “I’ll puke if I have to watch her make a valedictorian speech. She has no right to. She didn’t even graduate.”
“I know.” He’d have a lot more moral authority if we hadn’t stol
en a bunch of shit from the Heathman, but then everyone steals shit from hotels. That’s why they hang notes on the bathrobes saying ‘Please Don’t Steal Me’. It’s like an invitation. Or reverse psychology.
My phone bloops – a text message from Teresa. “Hanna’s mom,” I say, holding it up.
“She must be so proud.”
“She’s pretty pissed, actually. She hates flying – says it upsets her chi or some such bullshit. She wasn’t even going to come but it turns out she’s an old friend of Professor Jarrett...”
Jesús perks up. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope. I think they went through That Phase together in college – well, Hanna’s mom did. Professor Jarrett was just born fabulous, but you know what I mean.”
“No,” says Jesús. “I don’t. Why is she texting you?”
“Because she doesn’t like Hanna’s boyfriend,” I say, confiscating the joint. “And she wants to see him suffer.”
“Then she should let him carry on dating her daughter.”
I laugh. “Get dressed, shitlord. We’re going to this graduation and it’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”
*
The hall is packed. We’re all dressed up in our doofy caps and gowns, waiting for the speeches and for the guest of honour to hand us our sheepskins.
Said guest of honour is sitting at the side of the stage, minus his fedora and dressed in a dull grey suit with a even duller grey tie. Hanna’s choice, probably. I almost feel sorry for him but then I see his gaze dart nervously to the corner of the hall.
I knew he was faking. Seriously – has there ever been a case of amnesia that didn’t turn out not to be amnesia after all?
Hanna gets to speak first, but I can’t see her lasting up there. For a start I snuck a couple of drops of laxative into her mid-morning Earl Grey and she’s bound to flip her shit (Maybe literally.) when she sees who Teresa’s brought along as her plus one.
Neigh looks satisfyingly antsy, still trying very hard not to look at the guys in the corner. They’re big guys, solid, but that’s not the most nerve-wracking thing about them. Their jackets are bulky in a way that makes you think they’re packing, and the chill in their eyes removes all doubt that they are – or maybe we shouldn’t have smoked up so close to the festivities; Jesús’ new sticky weed makes me paranoid as hell.
I slip backstage, only to find that Hanna is coasting pleasantly on her own brand of naturally occurring, scream-free pet tranquiliser. There are roses everywhere and tied to the back of a chair are several helium balloons that say things like Congratulations! and Happy Graduation! in pink, swirly letters. No ponies – a significant symptom of Neigh’s ‘amnesia’.
“Do you think this gown makes me look fat?” she asks.
“Yes.” There’s no way not to look fat in a graduation gown. We’re each wearing enough fabric to constitute a small yurt each. A modest Mongol horde could shelter and graze their horses in the shade afforded by our asses right now.
I don’t rationalise this to Hanna, hoping it will dent her confidence, but she just mutters something about her hair frizzing, adjusts her cap and looks patiently up toward the lectern where the Dean is still talking.
Worried, I head further back into the wings where Jesús is sulking next to the fire exit. “Okay, I think she’s really going to do it,” I say. “She’s amazingly chilled out. I thought she’d be bouncing off the walls by now.”
“So much for that fun you promised me,” says Jesús, tossing his cigarette outside and closing the door.
“I know. She hasn’t even shit her pants. Sorry about that.”
He sighs and takes my hand. “It’s okay,” he says. “I like it that you owe me some fun – gives me something to look forward to.”
The thought of having fun with Jesús takes my mind to interesting places. Mainly my lingerie drawer. I get so distracted by how hot he’d get in stockings and garter belt that I barely notice when his hand slips out of mine and he goes striding off towards Hanna, his graduation gown billowing dramatically as he walks.
He says something to Hanna and she just crumples, like a deflated whoopee cushion. She slides off her chair onto the floor, greenish white and already gasping. Ah, this is more like it – a good old Victorian case of the vapours, brought on by a breakfast rich in only fancy tea and self-regard.
I hurry to her chair, where Jesús, unnoticed, is removing one of the balloons. “Hanna, what’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”
The Dean is winding up his speech and Hanna knows it. Her huge eyes look like they’re about to pop clean out of her head and she gasps convulsively. I give her water to sip but she waves it away, panicking.
“Here,” says Jesús, handing her a large brown paper bag. “Breathe in, breathe out. That’s it – nice and steady...”
She takes a few slowing breaths and gets her panic attack under control. “Okay?” says Jesús.
Hanna nods as the Dean draws to a close. She starts to speak but no sound comes out, so she takes a gulp of my water before the Dean welcomes her on stage.
There’s scattered and grudging applause as she steps up to the lectern – nobody likes a cheater, after all. “What the hell did you say to her?” I ask Jesús.
“I told her I’d seen Professor Jarrett,” he said.
“Oh. You knew?”
“Knew what?”
“That Professor Jarrett was here?”
“She’s here? For real?” asks Jesús. “I was just lying to freak Hanna out.”
“No dude, she’s really here. With Teresa.” And judging by the look on Hanna’s face I think Hanna has spotted the Professor right about now.
“Fuck,” says Hanna, which was not the first word on her notes. Her voice sounds squeakier than usual and there’s a ripple of laughter from the crowd.
“Excuse me,” says Hanna, in the same Alvin and the Chipmunks voice as before.
Jesús opens the brown paper bag and shows me the inside. I see the crumpled silver foil of the helium balloon and suddenly Hanna’s squeakings make sense. “You evil piece of shit,” I say, impressed.
“Stop it!” Hanna is yelling. “Stop laughing!” As she gets madder she gets even higher, until her voice is close to a pitch that only dogs can hear. The ripple of laughter is now a roar.
As she runs offstage in tears I see Crispian Neigh checking out the exits. My first instinct is to stop him, physically if necessary, and that’s how I find myself standing behind the lectern.
Shit. Definitely shouldn’t have smoked that earlier.
The good news is that Hanna’s freaky boyfriend hasn’t run off stage after her and the big guys in the bulky jackets are still watching him like heavily armed hawks. The bad news is that I’ve just run on stage and the crowd are beginning to stop laughing.
And they’re looking at me.
“Er...hi,” I say. It seems like a good start. Oh God. My mind’s gone blank. I look down at Teresa, who is sitting in the front row next to Professor Jarrett. ‘Go on’, she mouths.
Somehow I make words come out of my mouth. I think I might have peed a little. Did I say that? Please say I didn’t say that.
“Um...so, our class valedictorian has some issues,” I say.
“No shit!” someone shouts.
I swallow and wonder if my tongue will ever feel wet again. “It’s crazy,” I say. “Being here. Isn’t it? Seems like only yesterday we were sitting our finals...”
“...it was like last week or something,” someone else says.
Huh. So it was. Weird.
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” I say. It didn’t mean to say it aloud but I obviously do because someone shouts back “Bad writing!”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. “Settle down.” For real – the last thing I fucking need right now is meta-hecklers.
“So...” I continue. “I guess I should just fill in for Hanna and introduce our next speaker and benefactor here – Mr. Crispian Neigh.”
He starts to rise from his s
eat but I wave him back down.
“Whoa there, Cloppy,” I say. It just slips out but I can see by the look on his face that he’s pissed. And here he’s supposed to be an innocent amnesiac, with no knowledge of his former life or his weird hobby. I glance at the bulky guys and realise that it might be helpful if I jogged his memory.
“I’m sure you’re all familiar with our special guest,” I say. “I’m sure you’ve all heard about his fortune, his talent and his sudden, tragic, inexplicable memory loss. I’m sure you’re all familiar with the inspiring story of how, despite hundreds of thousands in seed capital and a very expensive education, Crispian Neigh built his online empire from almost nothing. Sure, you might think him just another one-per-center who got lucky – and I admit, I thought the same thing. I did.”
I glance at him but he doesn’t react. “But that was before I got to know him,” I continue. “As a person. As a brony.”
Crispian Neigh’s right eyebrow does some kind of amateur dramatic move, something between ‘I have no idea what you are talking about’ and ‘proceed with caution.’ I don’t think he’s going to be bothering the Academy Award judges any time soon.
“Naturally I was heartbroken when I got that phone call,” I say. “Saying that he’d beaned himself on a bidet and couldn’t remember even one of his numerous addresses – not the ski-lodge in Aspen, the apartment in New York, the sleazy sex pad in Seattle. His mind - his brilliant, unique, innovative mind – was a total blank, which was a blessing for his attorneys should he have to answer for anything he’d done before the bump on the noggin, but for us, his friends...it was a tragedy.”
Hanna’s pale, pointy little face peers out from the wings. She’s never going to forgive me for what I’m about to do next.
I am so fucking okay with that.
“We miss the Crispian that we knew,” I say. “We miss his boundless enthusiasm for his stupid hobby, his unending obsession with My Little Pony. It didn’t matter to him if your eyes had glazed over five hours ago, or even if you’d given into boredom and straight up hanged yourself right in front of him – nothing was going to stop him from pontificating about the failures of the plot arc in the season two finale. That was how much he loved My Little Pony."
