Page 5 of The Beautiful Collision
But tonight, alone in this shithole I’m about to lose, with forty-seven dollars between me and disaster, I let myself feel the full weight of how completely, utterly, spectacularly fucked I am. And then, another phone buzz later, the app helpfully tells me that the bank’s one-dollar monthly fee has been subtracted.
Forty-six dollars now.
Because even my poverty’s got a cover charge.
two
MAYA
Someone’s vomitingon my mother’s investment portfolio.
The sound carries over Cardi B at maximum volume, that specific retch-splash-gasp symphony that means someone just christened the bathroom my mother pays for. And they’ll probably use the towels she pays for to wipe their mouth, which willdefinitelyneed to be replaced.
I catalog both issues with the same clinical detachment I use for patient assessments. For the spewer: productive emesis, approximately 500ml, probable ethanol toxicity. For my mom: AmEx alert, delayed onset, and will probably require prescription Xanax.
Perfect.
I turn back to the party, which is pumping, glad I slipped the building concierge one hundred to keep the neighbors and the cops off my ass until 3:00 a.m. Three years of practice have taught me exactly where the line is, and I dance on it in Louboutins.
“Maya! This party islegendary!” Kelsey from clinical rotation screams over the music. “How do you always?—“
“Natural talent,” I lie, raising my red Solo cup in mock salute. “Dylan from the football team was asking about you.”
She beams at me, makes some sort of happy sound, then goes searching. Little does she know that I told Dylan she was asking abouthimonly five minutes ago, the puppetmaster manipulating the strings to bring two awesome people together.
I continue my rounds, sipping my drink, buzzed but not drunk enough that it puts my command of this beautiful disaster at risk. Someone needs to stay sharp enough to ensure maximum mayhem that my friends will talk about for months to come.
As I move back into the living room, I find bodies are generating their own weather system. The temperature has climbed past “uncomfortable” into “authentic club experience,” complete with that particular fog of sweat, designer perfume, and sexual tension that turns silk into a second skin.
And it’s not just my guests feeling it.
My dress clings in all the wrong places, and Tyler—or possibly Taylor—from anatomy lab seems to appreciate the view as he attempts to navigate toward me through the crowd. His beer-sticky hands reach for my waist and find only air and attitude.
“Maya, come dance!” he slurs.
“Later?” I spin away with a grin that promises everything and delivers nothing.
In the kitchen, I find tomorrow’s healthcare professionals conducting an impromptu study on ethanol absorption rates. Jessica—valedictorian of our cohort, and also annoyingly gorgeous—is letting an engineering major take a body shot, all in the name of science.
“You missed the clavicle,” I observe, adjusting Jessica’s salt placement. “The suprasternal notch gives better structural support for the liquid.”
I watch as the engineering major completes his task—salt, tequila, lime—and when Jessica wraps her arms around him and kisses him, tasting the tequila and lime and salt that was recently on her body, the lucky guy looks like he’s discovered God.
I laugh, taking in the marble countertop, which now resembles a Jackson Pollock painting. Unfortunately, my mother won’t seethatdamage until she visits. So, 2037 or so, but meanwhile I’ll just have to be content with the thought of her reading her credit card statement.
Vintners & Vines: $847.23. Pause. Subtle eye twitch.
Campus Liquor Mart: $623.50. Longer pause. Muscle tension in the masseter.
Jim’s DJ Equipment Rental: $450.00. Full stop. Time to call the doctor.
“—need more ice!” Sophie materializes at my elbow during a rare moment of stillness.
I turn and smile at her, but then my smile fades to a frown, because she’s holding what I recognize as her signature “Iamdrinking” beverage—soda with a homeopathic dose of vodka. It makes me feel like all the years I’ve spent pushing her towards chaos and debauchery were wasted.
And I blame Mike.
What started as a one-night stand with a hot hockey god graduated into a five-months-and-counting relationship that has not only made her more domestic—if that was even possible—but has also made her sickeningly happy. And, while I’m happy about the latter, the former is a buzzkill.
