AS SOON AS CARRIE STOPS talking, I run and throw up in her parents’ bathroom, which is completely mirrored. So when I look up, I get a full view of my vomiting from every angle.
After that, I throw up on Carrie’s parents’ walkway, next to a set of manicured tiny bushes capped with snow.
Next, a cab ride later, I throw up on my walkway, next to the glowing candy canes my mom still needs to take down. This is where I get to see that my barf is purple and orange. Wine and Cheetos.
The driveway is empty. My parents’ car is gone. Saturday night date night.
Inside, the house feels empty. I trip over the bodies of soggy shoes in the front hall and immediately my stomach flips and I run and throw up in the sink in the kitchen, which is mercifully dark. I hear a creak and spin around, and Mark appears in the doorway, snapping on the kitchen light, which burns my retinas.
“Are you drunk?”
I lean on the counter. “Where’s mom and dad?”
“At dinner. Look, Trevor is getting pizza.” Mark shrugs. “He’s just here for dinner then he’s going. Okay?”
“You’re not allowed to have people over.” I wipe the barf from my lips with the back of my hand. The thought of pepperoni makes my stomach flip, and a burp hops out of my mouth. A wet one.
“He won’t be here for like…,” Mark grumbles, sitting down at the kitchen table. “It’s just a visit. He’s my friend, G, chill out.”
“Oh, HE’S your friend.”
I look down at my feet, which are pooling water, on the floor. Gray rivers. I’m wearing the boots Mark gave me because he got new ones. My feet are shoved into them because I ran out the door while Carrie was still yelling behind me. So the tongue of the left boot is squashed up against my big toe. They’re too big. Really. I should get my own boots. But I think a part of me wanted these because they were Mark’s. Maybe because of our ages and genders, there weren’t a lot of Mark’s things that I got as a kid. The odd winter coat. A set of mittens. All protective layers.
“Where are your winter boots?” I ask.
“What?” Mark coughs.
“Where are your WINTER BOOTS,” I yell.
“I lost them.” Mark takes a sip from a can of pop on the table.
“Hodo you lose your boots?” I slur.
“You just do.” Mark frowns.
“When did you lose them?”
This is what I have been thinking about since Carrie started talking, spilling her guts to me, on the couch. This is what I have been thinking about since I started puking: Mark’s boots.
Mark looks up through his bangs. “Why do you care about a fucking pair of boots?”
“Because I think…” I steady myself. “I think you didn’t have your boots since after Todd died.”
“I fucking lost my boots.” Mark stands, suddenly obviously taller and stronger than me. “You’re giving me shit for losing my shit when you went INTO MY ROOM and stole money from ME.”
“I know,” I say, stepping back. “I know what happened.”
“G.” Mark’s voice gets low, subterranean. “Just. Don’t—”
I want to puke again. “Don’t what?”
“G. Please.” Suddenly, he looks scared. I want him to look angry again.
There’s the crackling of tires on the driveway, the pop of inflated rubber on snow on asphalt.
“Georgia.” Mark’s face is white.
“I FUCKING KNOW EVERYTHING,” I scream so it makes me feel even more hollow than I probably am at this point.
Just as the door bursts open and Trevor yells in, “Hey what’s—”
“FUCK YOU I FUCKING KNOW EVERYTHING!”
“Georgia!” Mark’s voice sounds like I’m falling. Like I’ve tipped back and he’s watching me fall.
I bolt up out of the kitchen, my feet slipping on the floor, making me fall into Mark’s arms. Like hitting a brick wall. I shove him away as I feel his fingers trying to grab my sleeve.
“Georgia!”
“What the fuck?” Trevor’s voice cuts through my blur.
I hear the pizza box clatter down on to the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers shaped like a paintbrush and tube of paint.
“FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING MURDERERS!”
I run, through the hallway, to the stairs, suddenly lost in my own house because I meant to run outside. My head feels like it’s going to pop. I can hear footsteps, huffing, behind me as I run up the stairs. I’m halfway when I hear a whump whump of feet, and I feel a hand wrap around my ankle, tight. The hand squeezes, yanks my foot back, and I fall forward, my other foot slipping off the stair so I’m briefly airborne, then, before I can blink, I feel my chin hit the stair with a CRACK. Something is broken. Sharp and warm fills my mouth in a wave.
The hand on my ankle pulls harder, yanking like I’m a fish on a line.
I hear Mark yell, “TREVOR!”
I can taste blood. It’s pouring down my chin. I can feel Trevor’s grip vibrating.
I’m going to die.
“STOP!”
Die for real.
“TREVOR!”
The hand lets go. I roll on my side, spit and blood comes out, soaking the already soaked carpet on the stairs beneath my chin. Somewhere outside my throbbing head I hear muffled voices yelling. I hold my hand up to my mouth and spit a piece of tooth onto my palm, a little white triangle like a piece of a tea cup. White on red.
I look up and see Mark holding Trevor in what must be some sort of wrestling choke thing, from behind. He’s dragging Trevor backward as Trevor kicks out and tries to get free, his face a blur of red and blond.
“Fucking asshole.” Spittle sprays out of Trevor’s lips.
“FUCK YOU!” Mark’s face is red.
As I try to get to my feet, I turn and see Trevor’s eyes bulging, against the hold of Mark’s arm. I fly up the rest of the stairs, my fingers grabbing for each stair, the smell of blood filling my nose as I scramble into my room and slam the door behind me.
I’m making noises I don’t understand. It’s like someone’s choking an animal in my room, but it’s me as I scramble to grab a chair and shove it against the door.
I’m up against the wall next to the door, breathing bubbles of yuck, when I realize I should call the police. When I hear footsteps on the other side of the door. Heavy breathing.
“Georgia? Are you okay? Georgia?”
“Go away,” I cry. “I’m calling the police.”
There’s a scraping sound, sliding down the other side of the wall.
“Okay. Okay, G.”
“DON’T COME IN HERE!” My hands are shaking and sticky. I can’t unlock my phone.
“Georgia. It was an accident. I swear it was an accident.”
“FUCK YOU! You fucking LIAR!”
“G. I promise. I didn’t. It was an accident. He fell.”