THE WOMAN CHECKING us out at the grocery store doesn’t question why three teenagers are purchasing a single can of Scotch Gard just before midnight on a Tuesday. Her tiny mouth, pointed nose and close-set eyes make me think of a parakeet Aunt Stacey once had.
Checkout Lady looks like a mean, unhappy parakeet. I wonder if she’ll be going home to an empty house. She doesn’t look like anybody’s grandmother.
She starts to put our can in a little paper bag. Dom stops her. “Um… can I get plastic?”
“Paper’s better for the environment.” She sounds like she’s been saying this several times a day for her entire life.
“Oh, yeah... I know. It’s just that, um... my mom uses the plastic ones. For her collages.”
I hear Bronwyn make a weird snorty-choking sound and know it’s taking all the strength in her enormous body to hold the laughter inside. I don’t dare look at her because I know if I do, I’ll lose it, too.
As soon as we get out of the store, she explodes. “What the fuck... who makes collages with plastic grocery bags?”
Dom shrugs. “Who makes collages?”
We walk back over to the park until we reach the big wooden jungle gym. We climb up the little ladder, one at a time until we reach the platform at the top that has a caged dome over it to make it look like a rocket ship. From our hiding place, we can watch out for any random people passing through the park.
Bronwyn goes first. She spritzes a small amount of the waterproofing spray into the plastic bag and inhales a couple times, then hands it to Dom, who does the same, only with a considerably larger spritz.
He hands the can and bag over to me. Instead of taking my turn right away, I watch the two of them for a moment as they space out on their chemical high. Huffing, it isn’t my favorite thing, but the few minutes of oblivion are nice. I never told Bronwyn or Dom, but I wasted an entire day the summer before by huffing a can of Scotch Gard that Aunt Stacey bought for the sofa. I kept going until I puked on myself. Then I changed my shirt, grabbed the little wastebasket from the bathroom and set it next to the couch until I finished the can.
I told my therapist for some reason. Before I realized what I was confessing, I’d already blurted it out. I do things like that and I always regret it. I just don’t think before doing or talking sometimes. He said I should be dead and could have permanent damage, that I could have killed something in my brain. If that’s true, I’m sure the parts of my brain I don’t want survived just fine because they’re still annoying the hell out of me.
People like to put their paranoia on you to keep you from having the fun they’re afraid to have themselves.
Bronwyn comes to and asks me if I’ve taken my turn yet.
“Nah. I was spacing out.” I spray a burst into the bag until the fumes rise up to my face. I put the bag on my head and feel the wet of the waterproofing spray on my forehead, waterproofing my hair. The last thing I hear before the blast of color fills my mind is Dom’s voice.
“Jesus, Ivy. What the hell are you…”