The days after the party were mostly uneventful. I stayed in my bedroom for the majority of the time. Once, I went out and met Hugh for some sleeping pills.
I painted often. I had at least four half-empty canvases leaned up against my walls, swirls of bright colors that were still forming the final picture.
And I slept. God, I got so much sleep that sometimes I would wake up and think that I was still in a dream. It was heavenly. In sleep, I was away from all my problems. No runaway fathers or broken mothers could reach me when I was lying in bed, eyes closed, mind completely blank.
I didn't really see Billie. I was eating little, which I knew was a bad thing, but I couldn't bring myself to go downstairs into the kitchen. I was too scared I would run into someone and have to talk to them.
Then, one afternoon, I woke up from my third nap of the day to my phone ringing with a call from Hugh. I answered, groggy and disoriented.
"Camille! Hi."
"Hi," I grumbled. I was battling the strong urge to just hang up on him.
"Sooo. There's this concert thingy happening at a bar downtown. I'm going with some friends. And I think you should come."
"What? No thanks. I'll pass," I said immediately. I hadn't even known there was a downtown to this place. Nonetheless, it did not sound the least bit intriguing.
"C'mon. Please?" Then he lowered his voice. "I've got some new stuff that I think you'll want."
At this, I faltered. I was running low on my sleeping pills. Without them, I turned into a strung-out insomniac. Being unable to sleep is like experiencing a gruesome, slow death--all you want is for everything to go dark, for you to be put out of your suffering.
"Fine. I'll come. But only for a little bit," I snapped.
I could hear his smile as he said, "Good. I'll pick you up at eight."
I hung up on him then, without saying anything else. Flopping back into bed, I swallowed another sleeping pill dry and rolled onto my stomach, shutting my eyes and letting the emptiness engulf me fully.
*
When Hugh picked me up, the sky was beginning to turn hazy and grey, signaling the beginning of a nighttime storm. We drove in silence, the windows down. Someone was having a barbecue--I could smell it. There were little kids sitting on the curb outside one of the houses, eating ribs. The sauce was all over their faces.
"You're gonna love the bar," Hugh said to me. We were beginning to descend into what I assumed was downtown--the spaced out beach houses were beginning to morph into stores and restaurants, the crowds of people thickened. To me, all the days seemed to blend together into one endless fog--but according to my phone, it was Saturday night.
"I doubt that." I wasn't trying to be rude, just honest.
"Seriously. They do shows every Saturday with local bands and stuff. It's great. And they don't really check IDs because basically all their customers are underage."
"Sounds fun. But I'm really only here for..." I trailed off, worried that with the windows down, someone might overhear our conversation.
Hugh pulled the car into a parking spot outside of a small, squat brown brick building. It had a black awning with worn out red letters on it that read "Oceanview Bar."
"I know, I know," Hugh sighed. "But please--just stay here a little while. Maybe you'll actually have a good time."
I shrugged. I didn't have enough energy to contradict that statement. In the days I'd know Hugh, I quickly learned that he hardly ever took no for an answer. He was hungry and ambitious, which was admirable at times, but also really fucking annoying.
He rolled up the windows and reaching into the backseat of the car, pulling out two small ziplock baggies from a cardboard box. I dug around the pocket of my jeans until I found my money. Wordlessly, we made the exchange. Then we got out of the car.
Walking inside the bar, I was immediately hit with the smell of strong cologne and stale puke. The floor was black and white tiling, while the walls were painted navy blue. The lights were dim and tinted purpley. There were no windows.
I was sort of intrigued by the place. As Hugh had said earlier, the majority of customers there were teenagers. Nobody seemed to care much. I watched a girl who couldn't have been more than sixteen years old walk up to the bartender and order a round of shots.
Back home, the only way to get alcohol was to raid my mother's stash. Which I did often, before I discovered pills, and how much more useful they were.
Hugh waved at a group of people, grabbing my wrist and pulling me over to them.
"Hey guys. This is Camille. She's staying with Billie's family," he said, introducing me to everyone.
One of the girls, who was wearing a yellow sundress and stilettos, grinned at me. She was clearly tipsy, the way she keep teetering around, her eyes listlessly scanning the room. I smiled back at her politely.
Hugh told me everyone's names--there were five people total, not counting he and I. Three guys, two girls. The one in the sundress was named Penny, I learned. The other, who had on shorts and a tank, was Jasmine.
"Why're you staying with Billie's family?" Jasmine asked. She had a comforting vibe that I found myself drawn to. She was wearing a bunch of turquoise jewelry and her hair was down to her hips. Another person who, had my mother been there, I would've been scolded for talking to. Which made her all the more appealing.
"Um. Maggie is friends with my mom, so she invited me," I said, which was sort of like a half-truth. I hadn't exactly been invited, but Maggie had welcomed me there with open arms, so it wasn't a total lie.
"Cool." Jasmine was drinking a hard seltzer. Her rings clinked against the can as she lifted it up to her mouth to take a sip.
Suddenly, I felt someone tap my shoulder. I spun around. Hugh was standing there, holding two shot glasses. He handed one to me.
"To loosen up," he whispered.
We did the shots at the same time. A few minutes later, all of the guys disappeared into the men's bathroom.
"They're smoking weed," Jasmine informed me. "There's a window in there. And they're all too scared to smoke on the street because they don't wanna get caught."
I laughed. I could feel myself starting to loosen up.
"Were you at Hugh's party?" I asked.
"The one on Tuesday? Yeah. Were you?"
"Only for a while. I don't really like parties."
Jasmine nodded. "Me too. They're gross. I made the mistake of staying until the very end at a Fourth of July party last year, which meant I got to see all the wasted people puke in the kitchen sink. That kind of put me off parties for a while."
I was feeling so elated for some reason, that all of a sudden, I just really wanted to get high. It's sort of like when you're happy, you eat, because eating makes you even more happy. That's how getting high was to me. Like eating. I needed it to survive.
"I'll be right back. I'm gonna go to the bathroom," I told Jasmine, shuffling through the thickening crowd of people at the bar.
When I made it into a stall, I pulled out the baggie from my pocket. I extracted my credit card and a rolled up five dollar bill from my wallet. On the lid of the wastebasket, I placed my baggie down, crushed up a single Adderall ontop, and snorted it.
I could feel it hit me. The hazy, dreamlike state. The one that made everything better--my paintings, my feelings, my thoughts.
I already knew if there was such thing as heaven and hell, I would be going to hell. But suddenly, I really fucking envied the angels, because in heaven I bet it felt like you were high. Everything was brighter, sunnier, sweeter.
I exited the bathroom and made my way back to Jasmine, hoping she wouldn't see the dilation of my pupils in the dimness of the bar. A band was beginning to play up front on the makeshift stage.
Just as I was nearing Jasmine, I saw Billie standing there, talking to her.
Oh, fuck. What was she doing here?
I found myself dreading being in Billie's presence. Mainly because when she looked at me, I felt like she could see right through me, see all my secrets and fears and problems. It was scary, that feeling. Of someone actually knowing you.
Except, I had to remind myself, she didn't know me at all. And I was feeling too good to let her ruin my night. So I walked over to them.
"Oh, hi, Camille," Billie said. Jasmine waved at me. I avoided both of their eyes, because I didn't want them to see my own.
"Hi," I said. "Where's Hugh and all them?"
"Still in the bathroom," Jasmine said. "God, I sort of wish I could go in there with them. This place is giving me a headache."
"I didn't think you'd be here, Camille," Billie said to me. I could feel her looking at me. I stared at the floor.
"I could say the same about you," I replied.
"I always come to the Saturday night shows."
"And she sometimes performs," Jasmine added. "She's, like, insanely good at singing."
We all fell into a deep silence, before I was hit with another rush of joy. I took Jasmine's hand. There were people starting to dance in front of the stage where the band was playing. I led her over there.
It was only when my head turned for a split second that I noticed Billie still standing at the bar, where we'd been only seconds ago. She was talking to the bartender--clearly they were friends. But then she turned her head, so fast that I couldn't look away in time, and our eyes locked from across the room.
A chill ran down my back. I averted my gaze back to Jasmine and began to dance with her, giddy with artificial delight.
*
It was late. Around one in the morning. I had a migraine. Jasmine and I were swaying on the dance floor, both of us exhausted. Most of the guys from earlier had left--only Hugh remained, perched on a barstool talking to Billie.
"Guys," he called, waving us over. Jasmine and I stumbled into seats beside him. I rested my temple on the cool countertop, breathing in deeply.
"We should probably go," someone--Jasmine, I guessed--said. I grunted in agreement, lips feeling too numb to move.
Then there was the sound of barstools scraping against the floor, as everybody got up. I remained with my forehead pressed to the surface of the bar. I felt like I was frozen.
Someone whispered something behind me, and then there was a pair of arms wrapped around me, leading me outside, into the coolness of the night.
"Can you take her?"
"Sure."
Muffled sounds. The arms remained on me, lifting me, helping me into a car. I lolled my head to the side. I felt nauseous.
The driver got in next to me and the engine started. We pulled out of the parking lot.
How much had I had to drink? There was the shot at the beginning...or was it two? And then...someone gave me something in a fancy glass. I wasn't sure what it was. Another shot. And...what else?
What else?
I gave up. My head hurt too much, the world was spinning too fast, for me to make sense of anything at that moment. I tried to just focus on the feeling of AC blasting against my face, a much-welcomed relief after the hours in that sweaty, stuffy bar.
The car stopped at its destination. I cracked my eyes open. Everything was blurry--the streetlights looked like diamonds, the air smelled like salt.
Arms, once again around me. A small body, only slightly taller than mine, carrying me. The scent of rain. A strand of black hair sticking to my cheek. I noticed only the little details, the easy ones, because my mind could not handle anything more.
So, this person had given me a ride home. They were taking me somewhere--I could not remember the names of places, or of people, or of anything besides the ocean and the waves and the misery that was perpetually present in me, lingering like smoke, choking me, stinging my eyes and burning my lungs.
It was wearing off. The spell of euphoria I'd been under was decaying, dying, washing away. I still felt sick, still felt out-of it, but my emotions were re-developing, their nooks and crannies being once again carved into me.
Cool relief--sheets against my skin. A bed. A mattress. A pillow. The person had a hand on my face. They were watching me. They had put me in a bed and were watching me.
The hand lifted. I felt like I was hovering. Floating. Spinning, then falling. Reality smothering me. Then again--flying. It was an endless cycle. It was my life. Reckless joy, screaming at the top of your lungs as you cartwheel around above the Earth--and then that fall, suddenly, that knocks the air out of you and dents your skull and crushes your spine. The fall that breaks all your bones and leaves you lying, alone, back at the bottom.
But then--I was snapped out of my flying and falling. Snapped out of it by a pair of lips, pressed against my temple, the softest touch that sent a rush through my body. And though I was paralyzed by my current state, I had the strong urge to guide those lips down to my own, to mold our mouths together, to eternally link our bodies.
If I was not so shit-wrecked I would've.
Which was strange. I'd never wanted to kiss a stranger that bad before. Or--were they even a stranger? Or did I know them? Outside my drunken haze, was this person somebody I knew? Somebody I loved? Somebody I trusted?
I did not know.
I did not know anything, really.
Except one thing.
I had just been kissed.