Zalfie - How to Live

8. Zoe's Ghosts

"Can I show you something?" Zoe asked. She was holding her legs to her chest, shivering, and leaning against me.

"Of course," I said, though I didn't want to break the spell that hung over us. We had been silently sitting together for half an hour.

She stood up, wiping some dirt off her pants.

"Come on," she said, offering me her hand.

I took it and she helped pull me up.

She began leading me. I slowly followed her, enjoying the simple pleasure of our clasped hands.

She pulled a few branches of the bush we had thrown the empty wine bottles in back.

I peered over the thin branches. They were like skeletons as it was Autumn.

Tons of bottles were in a pile at the root of the bush. All different colors--blue, black, green, clear--all completely empty.

"My ghosts," she whispered.

I looked over to her and saw that she was miserably staring at the bottles.

"My mistakes," she whispered. "My sadness. My happiness. Every boy I've slept with. Every girl I've kissed. Every club I've gone to. Every time I danced on a pole. Every D or F I've gotten."

A tear slowly slid down her face.

"And, look, our bottles at the top," she said quietly. "Thrown in there by you and me."

She looked at me, sadness etched into every crevice of her face. "Do you think I'm a mistake Alfie?" she asked me.

"Of course not," I told her, pulling her to my chest. "I could never think that."

She sniffed. "You might be the first then," she said with a little laugh. I could tell she wasn't joking though.

"They haunt me, the ghosts," she added, stepping away from my grasp and glaring down at the bottles. "I can't do anything without thinking of this pile."

"How many?" I asked, because it seemed like the thing to say.

Zoe thought about this question for awhile, her eyebrows furrowing.

"I'm not sure," she said finally.

"Should we count?" I said.

"Yeah," Zoe said, nodding. "Yeah," she repeated, her head bobbing up a and down faster.

I began pulling out bottles and throwing them aside, counting in my head as I did.

One, two, three ...

Zoe miserably watched.

Four, five, six ...

She folded her arms, as though offering herself some assurance.

Seven, eight, nine, ten ...

"Alfie," she said quietly.

Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen ...

"I don't think I'm going to be able to do this," she whispered.

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two ...

"Please stop." Tears were dripping down her cheeks.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five ...

"Alfie!" she yelled.

Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three ...

"Alfie, stop!"

Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven ...

She clutched onto my arm.

Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty ...

She grabbed the bottle from my hand and threw it onto the ground.

Forty-one ...

The bottle shattered.

Forty-two ...

"Enough!"

Forty-three ...

I threw the last bottle.

"Done. That's it," I said, turning to Zoe. Her eyes were red from crying. "That's all. Forty-three mistakes."

"In the past two years," Zoe said, looking down at her arms, which were still crossed, but now covered in marks from where her nails had dug into her arms.

"I've made more," I whispered.

Zoe shook her head. "Not as big as mine."

"Probably worse," I said.

She shook her head and laughed.

"Zoe." She stubbornly looked down. "Zoe. Look at me." She finally glanced up at my face. "My mistakes they might be worse than yours ... But I'm not haunted by them ... Because I let them go."

Her blue eyes blinked slowly.

"I think it's time you let these mistakes go."

She continued watching me, her eyes as large as a deer's, her arms still wrapped around her body.

"Want my jacket?" I offered.

She nodded gratefully and so I handed her my plaid shirt.

When she put it on, it almost dwarfed her minuscule frame. The sleeves went inches past her hands and it looked like a dress on her.

I was wearing only a white tank top under so I was chilly, goose bumps littered up and down my skin.

I picked up a bottle and tossed it into the river.

"One boy. Gone."

I picked up another and repeated the action.

"One D or F forgotten."

She journeyed over to me and grabbed onto a green bottle. Her hand clenched around it so hard, the knuckles were white.

"Every fag," she whispered. Her arm arched and the bottle flew into the water.

I smiled at her, but she didn't notice. She was too intent on her purpose.

Bottle after bottle splashed into the water until there were only three more lying on the ground.

She wiped her hands on the plaid.

"Done," she said. "It's gone ... They're all gone."

She watched the bottles bob up and down in the water as they travelled down the river.

"Let's go," I said gently.

We walked up the hill and into the convertible.