I read the next few entries in Abby’s journal, but it’s difficult to concentrate now that I’ve opened the can of worms I’ve so desperately tried to ignore for the last twenty years. My eyes skim over the words while my mind drifts backward.
Despite her drastic attitude shift, I hung out with Jen most days after school. The bullying had dwindled by that point, attention veering to the next scandal of Stefanie Jolinsky taking birth control, and I expected a typical Thursday night of finishing our homework, reading through her new supply of magazines (stolen), and trying on different combinations of chokers and butterfly clips (also stolen).
The evening sky was a milky blend of oranges, pinks, and dusky blues. I let myself in. Ringing the bell would’ve woken up Carol before her shift, and I did not want to make that mistake again. I was still scared about adults being mad at me.
I kicked off my shoes and ran upstairs to her room. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry, I would’ve noticed that there were more shoes by the door than normal, but as it was, I burst through the door and came face to face with Mary and Nicole.
What the fuck, I wanted to shout, indignation, shock, and disbelief exploding in my chest.
“Oh,” Nicole said, already losing interest. “Hey, Emily.”
“Emilina.”
“Whatever,” she shrugged, her pencil-thin eyebrows arched with attitude.
“You should totally let me crimp your hair, Jenny,” Mary said.
“Yeah,” Nicole agreed. “She’s like a pro. It’ll look so good on you.”
“Okay,” Jen said, beaming from her spot on the bed.
I already knew how that would play out, and I didn’t like it. “Jen, I need your help in the kitchen.”
She scrunched up her face and sucked her lips to the side. “I’m busy.”
“Yeah, she’s busy. Makeovers are serious, and this could take a while. Hey, how’s Patrick?” Mary asked. The crimper—a fat square with wavy gold plates set to 415 degrees—clacked in her hand. She took a chunk of Jen’s hair, pressed it between the plates, then jammed the crimper into the side of her neck.
Jen hissed and jerked forward.
Nicole and Mary laughed.
“Jen,” I said, yanking her down the hallway by the arm. “What are they doing here?”
She rubbed the angry red spot on her neck. “I ran into them before eighth period. They asked if they could come over.”
“You have History eighth.”
“I skipped,” she shrugged, wincing at the movement.
“Think, Jen. Why would they want to come over? They don’t even like you.”
“Shut up,” she spat. “You’re just jealous.”
“Jen, come on. Why are they here?”
She looked at me like I had asked her why the sky was blue. “Uh, because I told them my mom has a shit ton of vodka and lets me drink whenever I want.”
“Why would you say that? What were you thinking?”
“Something to do.” She brushed past me, knocking my shoulder, and screwed her signature too-cool-for-school smile into place. “Go home, Emme.”
I should’ve, but I didn’t. I followed her down the hall. The only explanation I’ve been able to come up with is that I wanted to protect her. And even though every nerve in my body was screaming for me to leave, I had to account for my lack of courage with the Henny Jenny incident.
“Looks like you got a hickey,” Nicole said when we returned. “You guys were totally making out.”
“Oh my god.” Mary’s words slurred together, ohmigod. “You totally were.”
“Psh, no we weren’t,” Jen said, but I knew she was rattled. Catholicism creates a special mixture of guilt and fear, especially in someone like Jen who was already ostracized. There was an accusatory tone floating through their statements. The I-know-your-dirty-secret-and-I’ll-tell type tone. Snakebites spreading poison under Jen’s skin.
Nicole sputtered and cocked her jaw out, signature teenage attitude. “Are you a lesbian, Jenny?”
Jen was reaching for the crimper when she paused. No more than a couple of seconds, but a vein of ice ran through me in that hiccup of time. I couldn’t explain it in the moment, but I realize now that on some level, at least, she’d made up her mind to act.
“Hey, how ’bout I make us some drinks?” Jen suggested.
They exchanged a look and shrugged. “Whatever,” Mary said.
Jen fixed me with an inscrutable glare. “Excellent,” she said. “Be back in a jiff.”
Mary snorted. “Who says jiff?”
I watched Jen trot down the stairs, a spring in her step, and a few minutes later she returned with three solo cups of cherry-red liquid.
“What’s in it?” Nicole asked, swirling the concoction around.
“A Dirty Shirley,” she said. “You’ve had them before, right?” She handed the last cup to Mary and turned her chin up at me. “Sorry, Emme. None for you.”
Mary took several gulps and wiped her mouth.
Nicole sniffed her cup and sipped. For all her talk, I’m pretty sure that was her first experience with alcohol. She didn’t think Jen would follow through on her promises, but now that she had, Nicole had to maintain appearances. “This is okay,” she said. “I prefer rum.”
“I think we’ve got that too,” Jen said, hitching her thumb toward the door.
“I’m good,” Nicole declined with a frown and wave of her hand. I saw Jen hide the ghost of a smile as she passed around an assortment of trashy magazines.
Leaning against the dresser, I flipped through the pages distractedly. Ads for drugstore cosmetics and cigarettes interspersed between celebrity gossip and movie news. Every so often, I’d sneak a glance at Jen, trying so hard to appear nonchalant in her chair while radiating nervous energy.
Jen held her magazine up, some blonde model with a low-cut orange bodycon dress against an orange backdrop, and made a noise of irritation. “Is your itsy too bitsy? What the hell does that even mean?”
“Vaginas are not one size fits all,” Nicole tittered. “Figured you of all people would know that, Jenny.”
Jen sipped from her cup.
I opened my mouth to say something but was quickly interrupted. Mary lurched forward onto the page she was reading. Seven Tips on How To Keep Your Pelvic Floor Strong. She groaned and clutched her stomach. She blew out air and moaned.
“What’s wrong with you?” Nicole asked with more than a hint of annoyance.
Mary doubled over. She burped, apologized, and burped again.
“Ew,” Nicole said, slapping her shoulder. “What is your problem?”
Mary clawed at her stomach, a pained, terrified expression spreading across her face as she burped again. Thick. Wet.
“I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to do for a strong pelvic floor,” Jen laughed.
“I think,” Mary belched, “I think I need to go home.” Another wet belch and an even wetter squelch, and the stench of rotten eggs filled the room.
“Ugh, oh my god, gross,” Nicole shuddered as we covered our mouths and noses.
“Oh my god,” Mary cried. “Ohmigod, ohmigod.” She pressed a hand to her mouth and bolted. A minute later, the front door slammed.
“Mary’s lame. Can’t handle her liquor,” Jen said, tipping a cheers in my direction.
I knew she was behind it. She was being too cool, too . . . calculated. She’d done something to the drinks.
Part of me understood why she did it; part of me might actually have been rooting her on. Vindication. Revenge.
If that had been the end of it.
But it wasn’t. Her intent was palpable, thick and prickly. She wasn’t trying to just teach them a lesson.
Jen had other plans.
“My mom’s going to wake up soon,” she said. “She’s cool about me drinking, but she might want to talk to your mom.”
“Um, why would she do that?”
“I don’t know, to be responsible,” she said, matching Nicole’s attitude. “You haven’t had that much, though, if you’re scared your mom’ll be pissed. It’s not like she’s going to smell your breath when you walk in, right? I’m sure you’ll be totally fine.”
“Unless you want to go to the field?”
“We’ve got homework,” I said. The rebuttal was spontaneous, my gut instinct working in overdrive, sensing Jen had something else planned.
“I did mine, Emme,” she clipped. “You should go home. The two of us are just gonna chill for a bit. Right, Nicole?”
Nicole tucked her chestnut hair behind her ear. It was fluffy from the round brush she most likely used to blow-dry it and immediately fell back into place. She took another sip and shrugged. “Sure, whatever. Nothing better to do.”
That might’ve been the last decision she ever made.