The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

     "I'm fine. It's not me . . . Laney?"

     "Yeah, I'm here."

     "It's . . . Alessia."

     I pull at my pant strings. "Is she okay?"

     "I don't know."

     My teeth sink into my lip as my mind whirls again. "What happened?"

     "She didn't give me all the details, but . . ." My sister sighs. "Michael, um—"

     "I'll kill him," I cut her off with gritted teeth. "I'll get on a plane right now and I'll f—"

     "No, no," my sister blows out my fuse. "I don't know. At least, I don't think—I don't know. He just—I guess 'cause he's graduating soon and going away to school. He like—they like—you know. But I don't think she was . . . ready."

     "Oh." I sit on the edge of my bed before sliding my way back down to the floor. The little devil in my head is rolling her eyes like the "I told you so," pessimistic fool she is. But I ignore her because now is not the time.

     "Yeah," Violet breathes again.

     I curl my legs into a pretzel position. "Where is she?"

     "In her room, on her bed. I was sitting with her, but, like, I don't know what to do."

     "Did they," I hesitate, but still have to ask, "did they use protection?"

     "I don't know!"

     I almost laugh—almost, but instead another worry plagues my mind. "Is she in pain?"

     "I—" my sister starts before her voice drops again. "I don't know."

     "Let me . . ." I trail off because I'm back to carpet picking. "Let me talk to her."

     "Okay," Violet breathes again. "Just let me pee first."

     A laugh finally bubbles out of me when I hear the flush and sounds of running water, but I sober up again when I hear the sound of the door clicking behind her.

     "Hey." Violet's voice is distant, which means it's directed at Alessia instead of me.

     I expect to hear something goofy spill out of Alessia's mouth. Something like, "how was your dump?" or "did you befriend the toilet or something?" But nothing comes. The line remains silent of any noise except for Violet's legs and arms shuffling around the room.

     "I called Laney," my sister continues before I hear the mattress creak as she sits down. "I'm going to put her on speaker."

     I instinctively sit up a little straighter, tugging at the collar of my pajama t-shirt.

     "You're on speaker," my sister says a little louder, and I crack a smile again.

     "Hey, girly," I say even though who knows if she is even listening. "Vi, told me . . ." I trail off. "I just want you to know that, um—" That I wish Michael wasn't such a turd. That I wish I was there. That I wish I could give her a hug. That I wish I could jump on her bed and shake her off it. That I wish I could get her to laugh, yell, or cry, or all of the above. Not because she is just my little sister's annoying best friend, who used to follow me around and copy everything I did just like she did, only in curly blonde pigtails and sparkling ruby red shoes, but because she's a seventeen year old girl just lying in her bed. "You're not empty, okay? You're not . . . empty. . . And I love you . . . I love you both . . . Make Violet buy you some ice cream or French fries or something."

     "Hey!" my sister whines, which makes me laugh.

     "Okay?" I ask.

     "Yeah," my sister finally sighs, and even though I'm grateful she at least heard me because I'd say the same thing if it was her, my heart sinks again because out of the two of them, my sister, who enjoys being a pain in my ass, is usually, surprisingly, the quiet one. I hear her shuffle around a little more before she whispers into the phone again. "Thanks, Laney."

     "I wish I could do more," I admit.

     "No, no, you're fine. She'll be . . . fine."

     "She will." I nod even though she can't see. "Love you."

     "Love you, too."

     I hang up the phone and toss it beside my half folded laptop. My mind is even farther away from my essay than it was before as I curl my legs up and wrap my arms around my black sweatpants. I can't help but picture Alessia curled up into herself in her own pajamas or lying flat on her back on her bed. Her long, sunflower blonde hair, that she always straightens, thrown back behind her on her pillow, or thrown up in a bun, while her Cinderella blue eyes that have been covered in contacts since they both turned thirteen, stare off into a void.

     I can see it.

     I can feel it.

     Because that was me, lying flat on my back as I stared up at the blank white ceiling in my dorm room. My comforter used to be light pink, but now its black. Either way, it's still always matched Taryne's pink cheetah print, and Taryne even pointed it out when I changed it because she noticed. She was the only one to notice.

     "Hey." She had whipped around one day after rustling around with a few of her things. "Do you like coffee?"

     "Yeah." I shrugged but couldn't tear my eyes away from the ceiling.

     "Cool, so do you want to come with me, you know? To get some Starbucks?"

     I finally turned my head.

     She stared right back at me with her hair in a high braided bun at the time and a cropped light purple sweater.

     I almost blurted out, "Why?" But instead, somehow, for some reason, I said, "Sure."

     "Cool." She nodded, and while that coffee ended up filling the empty hole in my stomach and the radio silence that was our dorm room since the day we first met Freshman year, I held on to the void for a few more weeks.

     Not because I lost it on a random week, on a random Saturday, to a random guy, but because I reached a breaking point. I was sick of worrying about having it.

     I felt like I had nothing to lose.

     Little did I know that I'd be left feeling nothing.