Harsh Pink with Bonus Content (22 page)

“What?” asks Meredith.

“Jell-O shots.”

Everyone acts like this is the greatest idea. And soon the girls are popping them like they’re candy.

“Come on, Reagan,” urges Sally. “Try one!” “I’m fine with my drink,” I say.

“You’ve hardly touched it,” she shoots back at me. “You’re really not much of a party girl, are you?” She turns to Meredith. “Reagan is our little teetotaler.”

“Want some tea?” asks Meredith. They both laugh like that’s the funniest thing. I’m sure the alcohol makes it seem so.

“I don’t want to be a wet blanket,” I say quietly to Kendra as she pops another Jell-O shot into her mouth, “but do you realize how much alcohol is in one of those things?”

She just laughs and shoves a red one toward my mouth. “Come on, Reagan. Lighten up. Have some fun.”

I take the shot with my fingers and even pretend to taste it, but when no one’s looking I toss it into the garbage disposal.

“I’m gonna do eighteen of these,” Sally announces. “For my birthday. Anyone wanna join me?”

“Eighteen is a lot,” says Meredith.

“My sister did twenty-one last month for her twenty-first birthday,” brags Sally. “And she was just fine.” She laughs. “Well, I think she had a pretty good hangover.”

Kendra is counting out eighteen shots now, arranging them in colorful circles on a plate. “This can be your birthday cake,” she says, holding up her rainbow like arrangement. “But let me get some candles first. And then we’ll sing.”

Okay, I’ve had enough. I follow Kendra into the kitchen and as she searches the cupboards and drawers for candles, I tell her I’m not feeling well and that I think I’ll go.

“Really?” She turns and looks at me as if she doesn’t believe me.

I make a face like I’m in pain. “Yeah. It’s cramps and I’ve got them really bad.”

“Take some Midol.”

“I did. I took a lot,” I lie. “And they’re worse than ever.”

“Oh.” She frowns. “You want me to drive you home?”

I shake my head. “No, I think I’ll just walk. Sometimes that helps with cramps. Sorry about this. Tell Sally I’m sorry.”

“Hope you feel better.”

So I slip out the door. But it’s dark outside and I’m not sure I want to walk. I’m not far from home, but having grown up in Boston, I’ve been taught that a girl doesn’t walk by herself after dark. I sit down on Sally’s porch and try to think. What should I do? If I call Mom, she’ll want to know what’s up. I can tell her I don’t feel well and that might work. But she might have questions too. I think about the fact that Sally plans to do all those Jell-O shots for her birthday. And she’s already acting slightly drunk. What if she gets sick? What if Kendra gets sick? I’ve heard stories of alcohol poisoning, but I’ve never actually been around anyone that sick. Jocelyn was pretty bad the night Kendra had her party, but I doubt she downed as much as Sally plans to.

I remember the story Andrea told me about her friend Lisa who died from playing the choking game — a game she was initially pressured to play. I think about the pressure my friends have put on me tonight, pushing me to drink and do Jell-O shots with them. Is that really how friends treat each other? Or maybe they’re not really my friends. Maybe they’re just using me — the same way I’m using them, if I dare to be really honest. Do any of us actually care about each other? I think of how mean we can be, how selfish, how cruel. Is that what friendship is supposed to be?

I feel extremely lonely. And I really want to talk to someone. If Kendra wasn’t in there getting drunk, I’d try to talk to her. But I know how that would go. She would skim over the surface, pretend that she was listening and that she cared, and then she would say something light and move on to something like shoes or boys. I wonder if that’s how they handled it after Lisa died. Did they just move on, pretending like it never happened? Did they forget about her and simply return to thinking only of themselves, devising new ways to put others down and make sure they came out on top? We always think we have to be on top.

I remember the night Jocelyn insisted on being on top, I mean literally. And now she’s escaped this girl-eat-girl world. I almost envy her. At least she’s not still caught in the middle of the fray anymore. She doesn’t have to remain on the lookout constantly, making sure no one stabs her in the back. I already took care of that for her. I really do hate myself.

Despite the darkness, I leave the porch and start walking toward my house. It’s only about nine, but with no moon it feels much later. I feel tears slipping down my cheeks now, quickly chilling in the autumn air. I no longer care that I’m walking by myself at night. I almost hope that I’ll be mugged. At least that would put an end to how miserable I’m feeling right now.

I’m finally in my subdivision, several blocks from my house, when I hear a car pulling up behind me. I don’t even look at it, but just keep walking, quickening my pace a little and wondering if I should run. The car drives very slowly, moving at the exact same speed as I am walking, staying right next to me. My heart begins to pound and I feel certain that thugs are going to jump from the vehicle and knock me over the head, drag me into their car, and —

“Reagan?” says a girl’s voice.

I turn and look. “Andrea?”

She smiles. “Need a lift?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” I hop into her car, which is this old Volkswagen Carmengia that her dad’s been helping her restore. It’s actually a pretty cool car. “Where are you going?” I ask, trying to act natural, like I’m not seriously traumatized.

“Just coming home from youth group. I decided to leave early tonight. How about you?” She puts the car in gear.

“I was at a party. I decided to go home early too.”

She turns and kind of peers at me now. “Are you okay, Reagan?”

I’m not sure if it’s the kindness in her voice or the relief that I’m not actually being mugged, but the floodgates open and I start to really cry. She just drives slowly without saying anything. I appreciate that. Then we’re in front of my house, but I don’t open the door to get out.

“Want to go get a coffee or something?” she offers.

“Uh-huh.” I choke out the answer, then put my face in my hands and sob as she drives away from my house. I am a mess. But somehow I manage to stop crying by the time she parks in front of Starbucks. I’m sure my eyes are red and probably swollen. Still, I don’t even care. For the first time in a long time, my image seems unimportant. We go inside and order our coffees, then sit down, and I tell her everything. Absolutely everything. I even confess to her the prank we pulled on Jocelyn. I finally end my tale with Sally’s drinking party tonight, admitting that the reason I left was because I felt pressured to drink with them. I just totally dump on the poor girl. And she just listens. When I’m done I ask her if she’s shocked.

She just shrugs. “It’s not all that surprising to me. But it doesn’t sound like much fun either. I know I couldn’t live like that, at least not and live with myself as well.”

“I don’t think I can either,” I admit.

“But I also know that if it wasn’t for Jesus in my life, I’d probably be doing those very same things.” She shakes her head. “In fact, I’d probably be with Sally right now, drinking and doing Jell-O shots — probably competing to see if I could do more than anyone else.”

I blink. “Really?”

She nods. “Seriously, if God hadn’t intervened in my life, well, I don’t know where I’d be right now. Maybe I’d be dead like Lisa.”

I frown and take a sip of my now lukewarm vanilla latte.

“So what are you going to do about it, Reagan?”

I look up at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what are you going to do? Are you going to keep living like that, going down that dead-end road? Do you like being miserable?”

“No, of course not.” I sit up straighter, feeling slightly defensive.

“Sometimes you have to make a decision.”

“What if I don’t
want
to make a decision?”

“
Not
making a decision is the same as making one. It’s like saying you
like
how things are going, that you want to keep heading in the same direction. But I think that’s a bad choice. I mean, why would you want to live a life that makes you miserable? It makes no sense.”

I nod. I think I understand what she’s saying. Maybe I even agree with her on some levels. Just the same, I’m
not
ready to fall down on my knees and embrace her religion. I hope that’s not what she’s attempting here.

“Okay …” I say slowly. “I guess I don’t want my life to keep going like this. I do hate the lies. I hate the meanness. And I really hate
being
mean. Most of all, I hate being such a hypocrite and … I hate myself.”

“Then change.”

“How?”

She smiles. “See, that’s the catch. I don’t know if it’s really possible to change all by yourself. I mean, you can act differently. But
real
change — the kind that starts on the inside and transforms you — only comes when you give your life to God.”

I consider this. And maybe it makes a tiny bit of sense, but I’m not really buying into the whole thing. Plus, I don’t think I’m ready for a big step like that. I don’t want to turn into someone else. I just want to be happy. For some reason this makes me think about my friends. Okay, they’re not perfect, but then neither am I. Suddenly I feel seriously worried about them.

“Look,” I say to Andrea. “I can’t really wrap my head around all of that right now. And the truth is, I feel seriously worried about Kendra and the rest of the girls. It’s like they’re really out of control.”

“Do you think someone could get hurt?”

I tell her about Sally’s plans to do eighteen Jell-O shots for her birthday. “And she was already drinking before that. I mean, I couldn’t believe how much alcohol was there. And there were only seven of us. Six now.”

“What do you think you should do?”

“I don’t know, but the more I think about it the more worried I get.”

Her forehead creases and I can tell she’s really pondering this.

“Any ideas?” I ask hopefully.

“Well, I was just wondering what Jesus would do — that helps me make decisions sometimes.”

I try not to roll my eyes. “So what do you think Jesus would do?” I’m sure she’s about to tell me that I should call the police or their parents or do something responsible like that.

She smiles. “Well, he’d probably go back and join them.”

“You mean he’d drink with them?”

“Well, no. I mean, he drank wine sometimes. But he wouldn’t drink if it was against the law, like if he was underage. And he wouldn’t drink to get drunk. But I do think he’d stay with them and try to make sure that everyone was okay.”

“Right.”

“Although I’m not suggesting you should — ” “That’s it,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ll go back there and just hang with them. That’s no biggie.”

“I don’t know …”

“No, that’s a great idea. I’ll just quietly slip in and make sure they’re okay. My overnight bag is still there and it won’t kill me to spend the night.”

She nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” And like a real friend, Andrea drives me back to Sally’s. “I’ll be praying for you,” she says, “and for them too.”

I thank her and slip back inside. The music is cranked up and I can hear voices and laughter. The girls are in the living room. Meredith and Kendra are dancing and the others are sitting on the chairs and couch, teasing each other and saying things that make no sense. Sally’s not talking at all. She’s leaning back on the couch with her eyes half shut in a weird sort of way.

“Hey, look who’s back,” yells Kendra in a slightly slurred voice. “Feelin’ better now, are ya, Reagan?”

“Yeah,” I say, perching on the arm of the couch. “I’m okay now.”

“Ya wanna dance?” asks Meredith, holding her hands in the air as she staggers around and finally collapses on an easy chair, which she only partially connects with before she slides down to the floor in a heap of giggles. The others laugh.

I glance over to where the partially full bottles of alcohol are still scattered about on the bar, along with a mess of dirty glasses, plates, used napkins, and some platters of party food. I decide it can’t hurt to clean up. So, trying to appear unobtrusive, I quietly begin putting some of the dirty dishes, as well as the bottles of liquor, away. I throw the remaining sloshy Jell-O shots down the sink. I put the dishes in the dishwasher, and I hide the liquor under the sink. Then I freshen up the food platters and walk around the room encouraging the girls to have something to eat. I carry a plate with sandwich wraps that are cut into neat little wheels. “Want some?” I ask, acting like I’m a waiter at a cocktail party.

“No thanks,” groans Meredith, putting a hand over her mouth as she looks away from the food. “I’ve had enough.” She does not look well.

“Do you need to get to the bathroom?” I set down the platter and take her by the arm. I think she’s about to hurl and I do not want to have to clean that up. I rush her down a hallway and luckily find the bathroom in time for her to throw up. Unfortunately I don’t get her all the way to the toilet, but she does manage to hit the big claw-foot bathtub.