“Jesus, girl,” I said. I mean
she
said. I’m going to go wash my face again.
“Jesus Christ, girl,” she said. “How much did you drink?”
Wiping my face with my fist and feeling grubby, I looked at her and turned the flask upside down. The last trickle fell onto the grimy floor. I leaned my head back against the theater display case, inside of which was a poster advertising what was coming up, and felt the cold wash of shame fall over me like thick netting. “What happened to you?” Natasha asked, and I told her. I told her everything–kissing Gabriel, kissing Adam, Adam standing me up, and everything that had happened to Lillian. Halfway through that last part I realized she had been there for the movie. “Yeah, yeah, I was there for the movie,” she said, standing up and pulling me up, too. The whole street glimmered loudly at me like a snow globe. San Francisco fog was rolling in, canned
ambience for my own dense gloom.
“Now look at me, Flan,” Natasha said. She ran a hurried hand through her perfect hair, haloed in the streetlights. She took the flask firmly and screwed the cap on tight. “You were
screwed over
tonight. What are you going to do about it?”
“Are you mad at me?” I asked her, my lip quivering. “Why aren’t you mad at me?
You
were the one who got screwed over. I stood you up for our movie date, and I didn’t even call–”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said, holding up her hand. She reached down and picked up my forgotten bag, draped it over my shoulder like a bandage. “I’m always here, whenever you want me, you know that. I can take care of myself. It’s
you
you should worry about. What are you going to do? You have to do
something
.”
“You sound like Mr. Baker.” “What?”
“That’s Baker’s Rule: do
something
.” “Well, he’s right.”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course you don’t,” she said, sighing. “Well, I have to go. I have somebody to meet.” She raised her eyebrows, just slightly. Glamorous. “I’ll call you in the morning, Flan. Or maybe I’ll just come over. You might not want to hear the phone. Don’t forget aspirin, Flan.”
“You know,” I said, jumping trains as only a caffeinated drunk can do, “I always secretly thought you only had water in that flask.”
She smiled. The fog was rolling in thicker, thicker. “Sometimes it is, Flan. The secret is to keep everyone on their toes. Everybody’s got to keep guessing or you have nothing left. You shouldn’t have written him those letters, Flan.” She saluted me–her nails catching the lights of the theater–and walked off into the fog. It was rolling in thicker, and thicker; soon planes wouldn’t be able to land and I’d be stuck here for good. There was no trace of Natasha, which left me feeling empty and alone, like I’d been stood up for a date and just gotten drunk, by myself, in the back of a revival movie theater six
blocks from my home. Like this was my Saturday night. Disgus- ted, I found my car keys and shakily drove home.
Oh, shut up, Peter. I didn’t drive home; I’d
walked
, remember. I even gave you a clue in the previous paragraph: “six blocks from my home.” But you didn’t listen. What’s the use of even writing this all out if you’re not going to fucking listen?
Vocabulary:
GNASH EXORBITANT INEXPLICABLE INVULNERABLE SUBJUNCTIVE EXPECTANT DEFIANT IGNOMINIOUS
Study Questions:
Discuss the advantages and disadvantages of the I Have A Really Good Reason For This approach versus the Have Mercy on Me Mr. Baker approach. Which would you have used in Flannery’s situation?
Lily uses the word really eight times in a simple one-page note. Study your own writing and find a word you use too often. Look it up in a thesaurus and come up with at least eight good synonyms.
Flannery writes: “Well, life could be worse, I’m not trapped on ice floes or anything.” Which do you think is worse: being trapped on ice floes or being stood up by a man you love?
Everybody keeps getting mad at Flannery, but it’s not her fault. Discuss.
Monday October 4th
I’m glad you could join us today. Absinthe has had a variety of historical meanings, but never one as sinister as what it now means to all Americans: the Basic Eight, whose notori- ous deeds were spurred on by their abuse of this innocent- looking liquid. Here
with us to discuss American absinthe abuse are [as the camera panel-pans] Mrs. Ann Rule, grieving mother of an absinthe abuser and the founder of the American Association Against Alarming Absinthe Abuse, the first national organ- ization to have the courage to take on this tragic and complex issue; Peter Pusher, a nationally renowned expert on The Family, author of the book
What’s the Matter with Kids Today?: Getting Back to Family Basics in a World Gone Wrong
and president of the Peter Pusher Think Tank on National Re- form; Dr. Eleanor Tert, nationally renowned teenage therapist and author of
How Kids Tick (You Off)
and the forthcoming
Crying Too Hard to Be Scared
, a profile history of the psycho- logical torment behind famous Americans from Edgar Allan Poe to Marilyn Monroe to Flannery Culp; Flora Habstat, the member of the Basic Eight who pulled–
blew
–the whistle, currently in recovery under the auspices of a twelve-step program; and Felicia Vane, a teenager who claims she only uses absinthe socially. Thank you for joining us, everyone.
When my doorbell rang this morning it didn’t surprise me; I felt like the Egyptians must have when the rivers had already turned to blood and the cattle had all died:
Ho hum, locusts. Guess Ahmed wins the plague pool
. When I opened the door Douglas was stand- ing there looking both sheepish and dashing in an off-white linen suit.
“Oh, Douglas, you didn’t get another one, did you?” I said. “I just can’t be late to homeroom anymore. This is an important se- mester, and some of us don’t have the classical-musician thing to put on our college applications.”
Douglas put a finger to his lips and smiled like an elf.
With his other hand he held up a small bottle of greenish liquid, superimposing it over his face so he looked like a leprechaun.
“You found some!” I said. “Wherever did you find some?” “Oh, let’s just say I managed to procure some in my travels in
the underground,” he said.
I stood aside to let him in. “That’s right,” I said. “I forgot you live among the depraved now.”
“I have
always
lived among the depraved,” he said. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me?” He was twisting his voice like a wet towel, wringing it tight into casual tones. This takes practice, but it works on most people. I can spot it a mile away, though. It’s in the eyes. Douglas was scared.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Come on in before you’re spotted with a controlled substance.”
“I told Lily,” he said, suddenly and too loudly. He finally took the bottle of absinthe down from his face. Now he just looked like a person.
“Come on in,” I said again, and he came on in and I hugged him. I felt his arms, warm through the linen. Suddenly there was a reason to leave the house and see other humans, because some of them were
good
.
“I’m proud of you,” I said.
He stood there and gestured emptily, five times. “I’m proud of me, too,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“How did she take it?”
“Well, you know Lily. She had to think about it. She told me she wanted to think about it for a few days.” He shrugged.
“Oh, Douglas,” I said.
“Everything’s messed up,” he said. “I messed everything up.”
Dr. Tert: We’ve found that a general feeling of helplessness often leads to experimentation with substances.
“Everything might be messed up,” I said, “but
you
didn’t do it.” “It doesn’t matter,” he said, looking at the carpet.
“I have to get to homeroom,” I said. “Are you going to give me a ride?”
“Proudly,” he said, suddenly grinning. “I mean, who cares if we’re seen together in the student parking lot, once it’s known that I, um, don’t worship at your church?”
“Don’t shop at my store,” I offered. Suddenly it was easy. “Don’t eat at your salad bar.”
“Don’t play my board game.”
“Haven’t mastered your instrument,” he said, and we drove to school shrieking with laughter like happy-go-lucky teenagers on a joyride.
Felicia Vane: It’s a joyride. I can quit whenever I want to, but I don’t want to. It makes me feel–happy-go-lucky.
Mrs. Rule: That’s sad.
Peter Pusher: That’s not sad. That’s pathetic! Winnie: Dr. Tert?
Dr. Tert: Well, I think we should try and be fair. It’s both sad and pathetic.
“So, when do you think we should do this?” Douglas the Lepre- chaun said. You know, leprechauns are neither sad nor pathetic. Think about that, honored guests and experts. Airline passengers, bookstore browsers. True-crime freaks.
I took the bottle from him and regarded it. The greenish liquid inside was iridescent and a little thick. I looked through it at everything: dear, brave Douglas; the dreary student parking lot; the fogged-in Lake Merced; the lanky, awkward figure of my Applied Economics teacher Gladys Tall carrying an overhead projector to the side entrance, the cord trailing behind her like something umbilical. Everything looked magical through this green liquid. It looked like a pastoral place, a better place.
Mrs. Rule: Of course, many teens use absinthe for escape. They see a drug-induced haze as a means of getting away from the pressures of everyday life.
Peter Pusher: What pressures do kids have nowadays? Which channel to watch? They don’t have any
real
pressures. You’re just making excuses for them.
“Friday night?” I said. “That feels really far away, but we don’t want to do drugs on a school night. Plus, all eight of us probably won’t be free until the weekend.” How’s that for self-responsibil- ity, Peter? Incidentally, nice toupee you’ve got there.
“Maybe you and I should do a trial run,” Douglas said. He looked shyly at me and I realized suddenly that at least for now I was his only friend. “You know, try it ourselves before springing it on everyone.”
“Good idea,” I said. For the first time the prickly sensation of possibly doing something very stupid began its caterpillar walk down my spine. It was not an unpleasant feeling. “Tomorrow, after school?” I asked. “We could go to my house.”
“Great,” he said, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I must have jumped, because then he jumped and looked at me like I was going to swat him across the nose with a newspaper.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Everything’s going to be OK.”
The first thing I saw when I entered my beloved high school was Kate, leaning against her locker and talking with Adam. Could I have just one easy day, here? Could I just get home one day and have nothing to write in this journal? And it’s
Monday
. What sort of cosmic deal do I have to make?
Peter Pusher: If kids got back to the Lord, they’d find that all of these so-called pressures would go up in smoke. And I’m not talking about the smoke of absinthe!
“Hey, kids,” I said, and I heard my voice sound perfectly un- concerned. I even caught myself looking over the tops of their heads so they’d suspect there was someone more interesting in the background. “What’s up?”
They were friendly, unruffled. Both of them.
Adam
.
“Same shit, different day,” Kate said, rolling her eyes heaven- ward. Adam smiled thinly at me and shoved his hands in my pockets. I mean,
his
pockets. There, did you hear it? Gurgling, clear as–oh, of course you can’t hear it. Maybe when this book is put on tape for carpooling commuters who can’t read without getting carsick they can add the gurgling, thick and loud.
“How was your weekend?” Kate asked. There was no guile in her voice or in her eyes, but you can’t see it in the face of the good Dr. Moprah, either.
“Oh, you know,” I said. “The sun came up; the sun came down.
I think I had too much fun Saturday night.”
“
Fun
is an interesting choice of word,” Kate said. “I heard you and Natasha were out of control.”
That damn
usher
. I tried to clear my head rather than strangle my friend. “Speaking of which,” I said, “we need to meet vis-à- vis our upcoming activity on Friday night.”
“We certainly do,” Kate said, pretending to know what the hell I was talking about.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about,” I said, “but you will soon. Lunch, maybe?”
“We don’t have lunch at the same time,” she said, smiling. Her eyes met Adam’s for a second. “What’s the big secret?”
“Sorry,” I said, stage-glancing hurriedly at Adam, “members only.”
I should have known better than to attempt this game with Kate, so early in the morning. She could match me stroke for stroke. “Oh,” she said, in a resigned, indulgent voice. “Adam, would you excuse us?”
“Actually, I need to talk to Flan, too,” Adam said. His hands were still in his pockets and he was still looking at Kate. They looked at each other like two people pausing before an open door, negotiating who was going to enter first, not caring much.
“I’ll catch you later,” Kate said. “I need to copy over this French homework anyway or Millie will eat me for lunch.” She waved at us and walked lazily off. Adam turned and considered me, like a waiter on break. Would he do me the favor of refilling my water glass?
“I have nothing to say to you,” I said. Paradoxical but true, like just about everything in this journal.
“Well, I have something to say to you,” he said. “I’m sorry.” “That’d be a lot more convincing if you weren’t lounging
around against lockers,” I said. “Like, for instance, if you were saying it to me on the phone.
Yesterday
.”
“I had to spend all day with my family yesterday,” he said. “And the day before that?”
“What?”
“You know, Saturday? Six-thirty? Death Before Decaf before dinner?”
“You have to turn everything into a joke, don’t you?” he said. “What happened?” I said. I felt my whole body lean forward, like those bean sprouts we all had to plant in first grade, winding their way around construction-paper barriers with your names scrawled across them in primitive printing, reaching for the sun. I was trying to be furious at him, but all my fury was shunted by the photosynthesis of love. “Photosynthesis of Love,” nice title,