My brain has decided to no longer accept information about Biology. An invisible anti-Biology force field bounces it off my head. Not even in-one-ear-and-out-the-other. This is a dangerous condition considering I have:
1. a test next Monday
2. coursework due in a month
3. total lack of interest.
Give me Rothko, Vermeer, the beautiful mess of a Jackson Pollock or the cut-and-paste prints of Jamie Reid. Not Energy Flow Through Ecosystems… What has that got to do with Thermodynamics? I don’t get it! Ugh.
“I don’t understand this,” I tell Miss Tillsman after Monday’s lesson. “I’m really worried about the exams.”
“Carla, you just have to give it some solid attention. I know you’re bright. Self-discipline. Put some effort in if you want results.”
“I’m trying.”
“Not hard enough, it seems. I know what you can do. Your early coursework was superb. What’s happened? Are you having problems at home?” Cringe.
“No … I’m just tired, I guess. I’ll try to keep on top of it.”
“Come to Biology Club on Fridays. It might help.” Biology Club? Is she nuts? I might as well tattoo NERD on my forehead and give myself a wedgie.
Friday. Violet’s get-together…
“I have plans this week.”
“If you’re serious about passing, Carla, you need to come – if only to catch up.”
Well, I’ll skip it this week. Already made plans. It’d be rude to cancel. It’s only a test. I’ll be totally clued up for the exams, no problem.
The rest of the week is a whole bunch of nothing. Boring crap. It’s all about the weekend. Friday’s finally here and I’m so excited. I survey the contents of my wardrobe, and toss a few new things onto the bed, ready to road-test them. Finn’s iPod is in the sound dock. I click onto Traction, select “Water”.
The song starts slow, quiet, then builds, and the beat kicks in.
Like a breaker I could carry you, thrill you, together we’d ride. Or I could draw you under, let you drown in my depths. Fill your lungs with me, drink me in and never leave.
After Traction, I listen to a set by a DJ I’ve never heard of, but the bass reminds me of that first wonderful night, and the feelings come rushing back, flooding my senses … the incredible highs… In a few hours, I could feel that way again. It’s exhilarating just thinking about it.
I turn up the music. It thumps.
I find some ripped black tights, a lace of ladders down one leg. OK. I pull on a new skirt and T-shirt, and start on my make-up. I want big eyes – big smoky eyes – and a flash of red on my lips.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I say, still looking in the mirror. I see Dad in the doorway, reflected.
His eyebrows do their thing. I get the message, and reduce the pounding bass.
“Thanks. Where you off to?”
I consider my answer.
“Cinema.”
“Who with?”
“Finn.”
“Oh.”
“Problem?”
“No. No problem. Just asking.”
“OK, then.”
“I hear the door.”
“That’ll be him. See ya.”
I take a last look in the mirror. Here I am, world.
Outside, Finn wraps me in a hug. Isaac is loitering with Slinky and Fat Mike, leaning against the front wall. Slinky’s already smoking a joint. I only hope Dad doesn’t smell it. Isaac looks as sullen as ever, kicking at the moss between the bricks of the wall.
As we walk away Mike hands me a beer. It hisses as I open it. Finn offers his hand and I go to take it, but in his palm I feel something. He says nothing, just kisses me on the cheek.
I wait until we’re out of my road before putting the pill in my mouth, as subtly as I can, then knock it back with the beer.
I bet Violet lives in a palace. I bet she has her own pet white tiger and a staircase of gold and fifty servants catering to her every whim.
As we turn off the high street, I realize I’m mistaken. She lives in one of the chocolate-box houses. Pale blue, Violet’s house sits between a pink one and a yellow one. Window boxes burst with floral colour. The epitome of picturesque – well, as picturesque as they come in South London, twenty minutes from the city. It’s not a big house by any stretch, but small, perfectly formed, bijou. To one side, down an alley, I make out a distinctly normal-looking back garden; patio, slightly overgrown grass, sagging clothesline, even a few gnomes dotted about. I did not have Violet pegged as a gnome person, but it’s her parents’ house after all. They probably do the accessorizing. And she thought my butterfly sketches were cutesy?
I finish my beer, crunch the can in my hand, and place it in the bin outside her house.
Mike raps the door. Violet appears.
“Hey,” she says, “you’re all here.” She smiles and comes in for a hug. Not like her, but I go with it.
“Carla, let’s find Georgia. She’s around here somewhere.” Violet pulls me from Finn, towards the kitchen. I follow her, feeling torn. Torn from Finn, torn between him and the chance to connect with these new mates.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says, “but I’m glad you’re here.”
In the kitchen, Georgia throws her arms wide. “Heeeeey!” She pulls me into a hug. “Want a drink?”
“Yeah. What is there?”
“Vodka.”
“Sounds good. You’ll have to let me go to get it.”
“Nooooo! Hugs are soooo good.” She twists to whisper in my ear. “Double-dropped, he he!” she titters, full of warmth and childlike wonder.
“I’ll get it,” Violet says.
She returns with a full glass, complete with lime wedge and mini-umbrella.
Georgia releases me. I wince as I sip, but drink it anyway.
Definitely more than vodka. OK. It’ll help me get in the mood.
“So tell me all about you and Finn.”
I lose track of time talking with Georgia and Violet. It’s like … I don’t know … a blind spot. One minute we’re talking and then… No, it’s gone.
I sit at the kitchen table, empty glass in hand. Georgia and Violet have moved on.
Then I see it. The music is hurtling towards me. A stream of sound coming right at me. I can see it. Did you ever see Donnie Darko? – that’s what I’m talking about. I see ripples of music.
I stand up, wobbly, and go into the lounge.
The music’s thumping, curving, twisting, bending. I can see it.
I need to sit down again.
There’s a free seat on the sofa, next to Isaac.
“Isaac, Isaac, Isaaaaaaaaaac! Can you see that right there can you see that it’s weird ripples floating around the place. I think I can move them sort of like when I look at them they change direction or are they moving in time with the music I don’t know it doesn’t matter really so how are you?”
Silence.
“Of course I know it’s just my imagination. It’ll pass I just thought maybe you might have … never mind. Ignore me. How are you?”
A wall of silence fifteen metres thick.
I light a rollie, inhale and get a rush. Happy, this is what happy feels like.
“Can’t smoke in here, Carla,” he says. “Garden.”
“Oh yeah, course.” I go to stand up, but stumble backwards, circling my arms for balance in classic comic style. Isaac isn’t laughing. I steady myself, finessing the move with jazz hands and a muffled ta-dah!, the rollie stuck between my lips.
He’s still not laughing. Can’t get this stone to bleed. I stagger to the back door, strangely OK with the stumbling. It must be beer confidence, drugs confidence.
“Maybe I should take you home,” Isaac says.
“Why? I’m fine.” Fine and dandy. “Have you seen Finn?”
Isaac sighs. “Bedroom.”
I move for the stairs.
“Carla.”
“Yeeeeeesss?”
“The rollie. You can’t smoke in the house.”
“Oh,” I say. I spot a beer can on the coffee table, put the rollie in and let it fizz out.
The stairs are changing shape, thick, thin, high, low, tilting one way, then the other. I cling to the handrail to pull myself up.
I hear Georgia’s voice from behind a door and push it open.
Violet’s sitting next to Finn on the floor, carving up lines on the back of a French revision book.
“Hey, you.” Finn smiles. I crash onto his lap, planting a kiss on his neck.
“What happened?” I ask.
“You conked out for a minute,” Violet says. “Happens to all of us. Like Greggers here.”
Greg’s half-asleep, hand on stomach, head against the wall, long legs outstretched on the bed. Georgia’s bouncing cross-legged on the mattress, like when you play Fried Eggs on a trampoline. Greg is inevitably bouncing with her, looking pale and ready to hurl at any second.
“He’s just sleepy,” Georgia says, flicking her mane-like hair.
“Rack up one more,” Finn instructs. Violet doesn’t look up, but does what she’s told.
“Well, this is cosy,” Finn says, looking into my eyes. I hear the ssshhhhoosh of Violet’s line disappearing. She passes the book to Finn and he does his. “Merci beaucoup,” he says, and passes the book to me.
The lines look massive.
I push my nose from side to side and sniff. Got to be in it to win it, eh? I snort it like a trooper, and hand the book to Georgia.
“Brrrrriing, brrriiinggggg! Gregory, this is your wake-up call!” she says, nudging Greg awake. He stirs, and takes the book.
“That’s what I call room service,” he says.
Immediately, things change. I’m awake. AWAKE. Zip, ping, chemicals. VERY AWAKE. JUMP-STARTED AWAKE.
Greg is miraculously revived. He and Georgia bounce out of the room for a dance.
I stand up.
“Shall we dance?” I ask Finn. My heart’s galloping.
“Yeah.” He turns to Violet. “Coming, Vi?”
“Let’s all go,” she says, holding out a hand to be pulled up.
A few hours later my heart starts to sink. The clouds have cleared, leaving a sky of sapphire. The wind wraps around the trees in the garden as if choking them. We huddle together on a fluorescent orange blow-up sofa on the patio. I imagine we’re floating, adrift at sea on our inflatable tangerine life-couch, bobbing up and down in epic darkness, freezing water lapping at our ankles. Just another ridiculous thought emanating from my subconscious. Silly ideas flash on and off in my head like a faulty light bulb.
God, shut up, brain. Everything’s normal.
Finn’s got hold of my hand, tight, reassuring me. I shiver, freezing, no longer wearing my beer coat. He wraps his jacket around my shoulders, and whispers, “I love you, tiger.” I look at him, but … I have a bad feeling. Might just be paranoia setting in, but something isn’t right. The world’s askew. I can’t see straight. People seem crooked. Like I can see the dark side of people.
Shut up, brain. Everything’s normal.
I just rest my head on him, thinking how crazy my body feels, full of all these chemicals… I feel … helpless.
My mouth’s desert dry. I sip some water, then take a long slug, draining the glass, but it feels foreign in my stomach and I don’t think it’ll be there for long… Vomit cometh.
“I’ll get us a water refill,” he says.
I watch him walking away, rubbing his temples.
Georgia comes into the garden, and sways unsteadily above me, a can of Red Bull in one hand and a spliff in the other. Seems contradictory to me, but she dances to the beat of her own drum. Her red lipstick has rearranged itself into a map of Australia, smeared and colonizing the skin above and below her lips, but she still pulls it off. Don’t-give-a-fuck-chic.
“Have a toke,” Georgia says, offering me the spliff, smoked almost to the roach. “You look like you could use it.”
Can’t talk. I feel broken…
“Thanks,” I manage. My voice is someone else’s. I am someone else. Is this what I wanted? I wanted to be someone. But this someone? I don’t like it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I really don’t like it. Will I feel this way for ever, so out of control, so God-awful?
Maybe the weed will help relax me. I take a drag. “I’m feeling a bit messy,” I say.
“Yeah. Me too, honey. I’ve been bouncing off the walls tonight. Comedown’s starting to hit me now. Got to do this slowly, land it like a plane.”
I swing my legs from the sofa, making room for Georgia. She slides next to me, rubbing my shoulder to keep me warm. I finish the spliff and stub it out on the side of a giant terracotta flowerpot, where a gnome sits, fishing.
Finn reappears with water.
“Thanks,” I say.
He takes my hand. It feels cold and sweaty. Like melting ice.
My head pounds. I’m sick and spent and sad and empty.
“Let’s get you home,” Finn says. I think that’s a very good idea.
At home, stars bounce around the white-walled cube. I hunch over the bathroom basin, then stand bolt upright, roll my shoulders out, then hunch again. Can’t decide. Do I feel sick? Am I just hungry? No food since yesterday lunch. I tried to have dinner last night, but nerves had shorted out the circuit that tells my brain to eat. Anyway, eatin’s cheatin’ when you’re going out.
I nearly fall into the mirror like Narcissus. Eyes glassy and avian, I’m staring at a scary stranger. Not a bewitching beauty, definitely not a bird of paradise, but a strange creature who looks a bit like me and occasionally thinks the same thoughts.
My nostrils are caked in crap. I blow them out.
Head against the white tiles, I close my eyes and tiredness overwhelms me. Like a chainmail suit, it weighs every limb, yet, agonizingly, my brain still finds thoughts to keep me awake and my heart is going crazy fast. Fuck, fuck, fuck… I knew this would happen. Why did I do it again?
This is so messed up.
My internal organs have turned themselves inside-out and are making a bid for freedom. I can’t stop it. Acid rises, choking me, then projectiles into the bath and all over Mum’s fancy soaps. The loofah is coated. I’m surprised it doesn’t disintegrate. Whatever’s coming out of me is corrosive, fucking battery acid, and my raw throat gets more raw. I retch until nothing more comes, and my ribs ache from heaving and crunching over the hard edge of the bath.
I twist the taps and let the water fall, washing away the sick; then dunk my head under the water. I’m not even afraid of inhaling bubbles. I put the plug in.
I don’t wait for the water to rise, but haul myself into the tub, fully-clothed. The water gets too hot, but I can’t find the energy to turn up the cold.
A drop of red swirls in the water, and then another. I put my hand to my face and bring it back to see blood. Nosebleed.
I feel tears pressing like hot pokers. Can’t stop them. No control. My body’s being driven by someone else, someone evil, sadistic and cruel.
Fast-flowing tears mingle with blood.
This is it, the end. I wish… I wish I was dead. Don’t think that. It’ll pass. It has to. Don’t think that.
Just make it stop. Let me feel normal again.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I think I’m going to have a seizure or something… My heart’s racing. I’m so tired but it’s still hammering on without me … too fast … too much…
Sudden death.
Heart attack.
Cocaine.
Paranoia. Got to just be paranoia. I’m fine, right?
Yeah, I’m fine.
I’m telling myself I’m fine.
Oh God. Talking to myself.
It’s just paranoia.
I mean, I’m fine, right?
The steam rises, and then and then…
I hear hammering in my head. Bash, bash, bash. No, not my head. The bathroom door.
“Carla? You in there?” Dad calls. Bash, bash, bash.
“Um.” My voice is a rasp. The water’s cold – mind-bendingly sub-zero freezing. I pull the plug to let it drain. My soaked clothes cling to my hollow body, an icy suction suit.
“Just a minute,” I manage, panicking.
I hear footsteps fade away, peel off my clothes, wrap myself in a towel. My teeth chatter.
I crawl across the landing to my bedroom, embedding carpet grit in my palms. I’m a drunk, cumbersome animal. So far from human.
I lie, fixated on the ceiling, and click PLAY on Finn’s iPod.
My heart dances and aches for him all at once, all the time…
Like a breaker I could carry you, thrill you, together we’d ride. Or I could draw you under, let you drown in my depths. Fill your lungs with me, drink me in and never leave.