Tara lay on her back in the tent. The knobby roots and hard, lumpy earth dug into her spine, but she was way too high to do anything about it. She could hear Jim lumbering around in the bush, collecting firewood. There was already a three-foot pile beside the unnecessarily large fire he’d built. The flames quivered and crackled to her left, and made the inside of her blue tent glow green.
There seemed to be a “Jim” at every bush party. That was the mark of a good party—some guy who drank too much or smoked up for the first time and spent the rest of the night crashing through the underbrush, trying to drag felled saplings out into the clearing.
“Yukinever have too mush,” he’d mumble if anyone bothered to ask him what the hell he was doing.
Tara knew that at some point Jim, cross-eyed and drooling, would either fall into the fire while pissing on it, or walk right into the centre of it and stand there till he ran back out, screaming and waving his arms, surprised at how much it hurt.
Tara listened to the swell of voices outside the nylon walls of the cheap, three-man tent. She isolated the sound of Darlene yelling about god-knows-what somewhere to the left, by the fire. And down beyond her feet, at the front of the tent, the party was building steadily as people parked on the side of the dirt road that lead to their camp site, or emerged from the bush beyond it. “Planet Caravan” warbled out of a car stereo. The bongos and the mellow, watery guitar were the perfect backdrop for twilight by a campfire. That’d be Dan’s doing, Tara thought. He paid attention to things like that, and had rigged up big stereo speakers in the back of his pickup for this very purpose. He’d stand there by his truck all night, playing all the right songs while everyone else drank to the point of chaos or unconsciousness.
Tara could hear two guys arguing about which Metallica album mattered more—Ride the Lightning or Master of Puppets. One of them said Master of Puppets was “a benchmark.” He actually said that. He must be a fucking idiot, Tara thought.
The guy labouring between Tara’s legs let out a moan and brought her attention back into the tent. Shawn. This guy’s name was Shawn. Tara studied his clenched jaw and felt his rapidly thrusting hips, and knew he’d be through in a couple of seconds. She turned her head to the right, and tried to see over the mound of coats and backpacks forming a ridge between her and the other side of the tent. She could see the profile of some other guy bobbing mechanically over her friend Michelle. Tara didn’t know the guy. Neither did Michelle.
Dan was over by the cars. He was Michelle’s older brother. Tara could hear him whooping it up with Paul, who was sort of Michelle’s boyfriend. They were out there telling tales about juvie. Shawn had just come back to town after serving three years, first in a juvenile detention centre up north of the city, then in the dilapidated maximum-security shithole downtown. That’s how Shawn ended up at this party with them—he’d met Dan and Paul in the can. Shawn had brought the other guy in the tent along with him.
Shawn stiffened suddenly and squished Tara’s ass cheeks in his hands. The meth was wearing off—she felt his nails break her skin. She watched his face freeze in that mixed mask of rage and fear men always wore when they shot their loads. To watch them, you’d think they enjoyed this even less than she did.
He pulled out of her the second he was done, tucked his flaccid, wet dick back into his jeans, and strode out of the tent while he zipped himself up. Tara heard him yell over to Dan for a beer before picking up the yarn they’d been telling, “Those goofs never woulda lasted two days on the inside.”
The guys all laughed.
Tara turned to see if Michelle’s guy was done. He was gone—must have wrapped it up before Shawn and left the tent. Tara hadn’t noticed. She could hear the snuffling sound of Michelle crying, but trying not to. Tara lit a smoke and pulled a couple of hauls off it before holding it out over the backpacks to Michelle.
“Here,” said Tara.
Michelle whispered thanks between hiccups and took the cigarette. Tara pushed her hips up into the air, reached down and pulled up her jeans, which had been scrunched around her knees. Then she rocked herself forward and left the tent. She walked over to Dan’s truck, where everyone was standing around drinking and laughing. She felt their eyes flit in her direction. They had all been standing there five minutes earlier when Shawn had given her a hit from the smoke wafting up from his foil and then walked her over to the tent for a quickie. Now he stood with his back to her, talking as if he hadn’t heard her approach.
Tara’s only currency in this group was her edge. She was reckless and people didn’t know what to make of that. Some guys liked it. Shawn had liked it. Shawn had matched it. So she knew there was only one play for her to make: she had to dominate the conversation while ignoring Shawn. Give him a reason to try and keep up with her instead of ignoring her. Except she’d already hesitated for a beat while all this social calculus rushed into the space in her head where her buzz had been.
“What do you think of Jim’s woodpile?” Dan broke her reverie. He smiled and looked her in the eye, like he could see what was going on in her head. He offered her a beer. Tara turned her back on the group, popped the can with one hand and took a long swig. She looked beyond her tent at the fire and the wall of broken branches that circled the clearing. She could see Jim’s staggering shadow flitting across the trees at the far edge of the firepit.
She wiped beer from her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “He’ll be in that fire before the end of the night.” She held out her hand for another beer and motioned with her head towards the tent. Dan nodded and handed her one.
“Good ol’ Jimmy,” he said. “Always fucking givin’ ’er.”
Tara headed towards the fire and stopped at the front of the tent to pass the beer in through the flap. She held it there for a second, then said, “Knock knock.” Michelle took the beer but said nothing.
Tara walked around to the side of the tent and sat on the damp grass, facing the fire. Darlene was making out with Michelle’s boyfriend on the other side of the fire. Tara lit a smoke and watched them. Paul mashed his tongue into Darlene’s mouth and reached down with his left hand to yank up her shirt. He broke off the kiss to suck frantically on Darlene’s boob. Darlene stared glumly over his head at Tara and took a sip of her beer without breaking eye contact.
In Tara’s experience, guys usually went straight for the main event and didn’t bother much with anything like kissing her or playing with her boobs. Paul must really like Darlene if he was doing all that. Sensing his audience, Paul stopped and looked over his shoulder at Tara. He swore under his breath and yanked Darlene’s arm hard enough for her to drop her beer.
“Fucker! My beer!” Darlene yelled.
“Shut it,” growled Paul, and they disappeared into the trees beyond the firelight.
For sure then, thought Tara. Paul likes Darlene.
Tara flicked her butt at the fire and closed her eyes. Her buzz was gone, which left her feeling jittery and annoyed. She could hear more people making their way up the dark trail towards the party, twigs cracking and popping under their high-tops. It seemed like there was too much going on, too many conversations, too many things for her to figure out. She tried to block out all the sounds except the car stereo, which was now pumping “Electric Funeral.” The fire burned high and hot. Tara felt the heat on her cheeks; it made her skin feel taut. Her jeans were heating up too, her knees and her shins, almost to the point of hurting, but not quite. It sharpened her focus into an uncomplicated point that obliterated everything else.
Michelle’s voice pierced her then, pleading, through the thin wall of the tent.
“Tara?”
“Yeah?” Tara said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice.
Michelle was still crying. Her voice was distorted in her throat.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” said Michelle, her voice cracking.
Tara bit her lip. Michelle was taking in big gulps of air between her strangled sobs, and it was obvious she was at that point—the point where you start to seriously lose your shit. Tara knew that feeling well but she had no patience for it tonight. She was too preoccupied by the ugly reality of her own situation. No money, no food, nowhere to live. A backpack filled with dirty clothes, her underwear now a gross mess. Tara usually had no problem hooking up with someone new for at least a couple of days, but most of these guys already knew her and weren’t interested. She’d thought it would take Shawn longer to lose interest in her, but she’d miscalculated.
The sound of Michelle’s panic, of her struggle to breathe through her snot, made Tara want to punch Michelle’s wet, bewildered face right through the wall of the tent. It was such a fucking waste of time and energy—feeling—feeling anything at all. None of it mattered. Tara shook her head and turned back towards the fire. She could sense Michelle in the tent behind her, trembling, leaning towards Tara’s shadow, needing Tara to do what she’d always done before. Only Tara could pull Michelle up off the sheer face of whatever it was she was dangling from. Only Tara could hold Michelle tight enough while she cried, could rock her back and forth until she could feel the ground beneath her feet. This time, though, Tara said nothing. Michelle would have to figure shit out on her own. Tara was done.
Inside the tent, Michelle whimpered and bit down hard on the fatty base of her thumb as she watched Tara’s silhouette loom larger and larger up the side of the tent, till it seemed to bend right over top of Michelle, as if Tara was using her body to protect Michelle from the screams and the running footsteps that hammered the earth beyond the tent.