Page 15 of Fade into You
“Thanks, McGruff, I’ll make sure to alert the D.A.R.E. team.”
She turns to the mirror, checks her teeth, runs her hand through her blue hair, and darts her eyes at me. I have to come up with something; she’s making Kayla seem like this new Kayla is all she is.
“It’s not like Dade is all that much of a catch. Who wears a fedora to a coffee shop? And he could barely keep his eyes off my boobs, by the way. He’s slime in a suit.”
Her face flushes. Guess I finally hit a nerve. “Dade’s a stand-updude. He’s been there for me, and, well, what can I say, here you are covered in unicorn vomit and Kayla’s…” She’s in my face now and I can smell the coffee on her breath, the clinging scents of cloves and weed in her hair. I’m inches from her lips, full and rounded, and I see them twist into a cruel smile as she finishes, “WhereisKayla, exactly?”
“Damn, y’all,” Whatshername pipes up, “I think neither of you know shit. Your friends are both assholes. And I’m also pretty sure you two need to just get a stall and bang it out.”
She reaches up to open the stall door and waves her hand inside with a flourish.
“Seriously, I’ll watch the door. Go for it.”
Jessa turns beet red now, steels herself with a deep breath, and says, “I’d rather screw ninety-five dicks!” and storms out.
“Well. That’s a lot of dicks.” Whatshername hoists herself up from against the wall and comes to stand at the sink next to me, leaning in close to the mirror and puckering her lips for a moment while she studies herself. “It’s a bit too tense here for me. I’m out. But seriously, Jessa isn’t that bad of a chick. You don’t have to be so mean. She’s just… like whiskey or something.”
“What, an acquired taste?” I ask, somehow doubting that.
“She kinda sets you on fire a bit,” she quips, and winks at me. Then swooshes out as well, leaving me and my stained shirt standing in their clouds.
JESSA
When I get in, Momand Dad are already in bed, and I’m the lucky individual who gets to deal with Mack’s return. Much like the truck, she is destructive and very smashed. Currently she’s face down on the kitchen counter, ass nearly off the stool, and when I try to sneak by, she wakes up and grabs my arm.
“Do you love me?” She’s got a molasses slur to her words, and her mascara is raccooned around her eyes. She’s low. It’s easier to cope with than when she’s up, but I do have to watch my words. It sucks never knowing if you said the phrase that triggered an attempt or god forbid if she ever manages to succeed. My next couple of hours might just be spent trying to get her to bed safely. I sigh, grab a couple of glasses, and fill them with water—hopefully helping her future hangover and assisting my lingering dry mouth.
“Of course I love you, Mack,” I say, and plunk the glass in front of her. Falstaff wanders in sleepily at the sound of the fridge. I pour half my water in his bowl, and he enthusiastically slurpsat it before realizing it’s just water and not a treat. “Falstaff loves you too.”
“I don’t know why anyone would love me,” she says, and for a moment it’s hard not to agree. I love the old Mack, the one who used to laugh and play pranks and took me to ride on all the coasters at Miles of Fun. I loved the way she used to take me around with her friends like I wasn’t a little sister, let me join them at the pool and movies, sent me off to grab sodas or popcorn and jokingly “tipped” me with Monopoly money scavenged from abandoned board games. I loved when she would sit me down, spend what seemed like hours pulling a brush through my long, dirty-blond hair, and then lay in braids that were intricate and beautiful.
That time is gone, though. Most of my hair is in the trash, and my bob is bright blue if I remember to Manic Panic it before it fades, greenish blue if not. Today I’m very blue.
“Mack, I think you need to get some sleep.”
“I need a reboot,” she murmurs, head back on the counter.
“What?” Whatever she’s talking about can’t be good. I know the drinking is helping her cope, but it’s hard to love her when the psych ward sends her back to us on decent meds, she stabilizes, and I see that glimpse of Old Mack just before she goes off her meds and grabs a bottle and hops on that roller coaster once again.
“You know, like Dad does, just turn off and on again and suddenly it’s fixed.”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly how it works,” I say, noticing her shoes are gone, the soles of her feet filthy. She tends to take themoff when she’s up, says she can feel the world through her feet. Says potential just eats through her soles… I see what I think is gum and what I hope isn’t a gash caked with dirt on the bottom of her left foot.
“I just need to be rebooted and everything will fix itself,” she murmurs.
I don’t want to, but we’ve been instructed to ask it: “Mack, are you planning on hurting yourself?”
In a flash of horror, I see once again the bathroom, all the peach tile and sink and bathtub and toilet, everything spattered with blood. It’s me and Mack and no one else, and I’m thinking if I can find what she used, I won’t have to worry about her hurting herself further than she has while I call 911. I can feel my hands slipping on her wrists as I try to hold pressure on them. I remember thinking,She can’t still be awake with all this blood on the floor, but she was, awake and looking at me and trying to pull away, a whisper of “Let me go…” It’s like a movie in my head, and I thought I’d finally stopped seeing it, but I guess she brings it out in me. Swimming against the current of the blackness I’m in, I pull hard to return to the present.
I’m scared that one day I won’t swim back.
At first I think she’s asleep, but she raises her head and stares me down, icy blue eyes angry and red. For a second, I think she might actually come after me like she does Dad. “Why the fuck does everyone think I’m gonna fucking hurt myself all the time? Can’t I be fucking sad without hurting myself?”
Because you’ve tried,I think.Because when you’re sad, you hurteither yourself or Dad.I don’t say anything, just put a hand on her back. I know it always calms her a little. She leans into tears again, and once she’s cried for a few minutes, I hand her a paper towel to blow her nose and take the interruption as a chance to shepherd her to bed. We pass Mom on the way to Mack’s room; she looks haunted and pale. By the time I’m back in the hall, Mom’s collected herself into Stepford perfection, complete with fake smile and happiness. “Thank you, Jessa. I appreciate you helping your sister.”
“She’s talking about rebooting herself,” I say, wondering if I should stay in her room tonight, just in case.
“Oh, she probably just had too much fun with her friends.” She waves me off. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning.”
