❝i may look alive but inside i'm dead
then let's make it true, let's make it true
do you want to die together?
yes i do. yes i do.❞
➼ stars, "do you want to die together"
During Friday's long-awaited football game, Charlie sat in the bleachers in the same spot from the week before. The field was the polar opposite of that day with the fog and emptiness—everything glistened; the overhead lights shone onto the players with their blue and gray jerseys, running across the mass of green.
Lucky for her, Jonah was nowhere to be found. And twenty minutes in, Mateo scored the night's first touchdown. His family cheered the loudest, spinning jerseys in the air and waving a Venezuelan flag. The crowd clapped, stomped, and chanted, "Let's go puke boy! Let's go puke boy!" while Charlie watched from behind her camera.
She took picture after picture. She'd promised to support Peter at every one of his games—despite not knowing anything about football, or sports in general, even though her parents had owned a sportswear company.
The players moved too fast for her to snap a good shot, and she zoomed in on the cheerleaders dancing in distractingly short shorts. Even Raquel was there in the back of the ensemble. She threw her hands toward the bright, UFO-esque lights, a bow in her perfect hair.
At half-time, Quincy hurled himself against the cheerleaders like a five foot nothing tornado in his tiger costume. Girls toppled over, pom poms went flying, their school spirit song cut off by hooting and laughter. Quincy and the rival team's mascot, a bull, threw air-punches at each other. Charlie could feel Quincy's massive, shit-eating grin from behind his tiger head. He twirled then bowed to the crowd, the saber-teeth and large eyes of his costume unchanging.
Sabre College won. It surprised just about everyone—especially the University of South Florida boys used to their winning streak—and the loud cheering made Charlie's ears hurt as she and the students poured down the bleachers.
Peter took off his helmet and threw his fist in the air. He was smiling brighter than she'd seen in weeks, and he shocked her by crushing her in a hug.
"Congrats," she said.
He pulled away to high-five Mateo. "Next time, the ones with the stomach virus will be them."
Mateo laughed. "Look at you coming to the dark side."
"Did that long ago, bro."
Quincy came running at her. "Did I hear this right—it's your birthday today?" The tiger head muffled his voice until he took it off, and Charlie felt the full impact of his excitement. "We have to celebrate!"
"How did you know?"
"What was that?" he shouted. "But yeah, you're nineteen now. Can't drink, though, but Evan's got us covered. What do you think?"
"I'm not sure," she said, straining to speak over the noise.
"And we won the game!"
A hand touched Charlie's shoulder. Mateo. "Hey, happy birthday."
She managed a shy smile. "Thanks."
Quincy grabbed Mateo's arm. "Help me out here. Think we're due for a party?" He looked at Charlie. "I was thinking your house since your parents are out."
"Party?" Peter wedged himself into their group, huddled close so they could hear one another. "You guys are kidding me."
"I'm down," Mateo said. "We'll celebrate our win." He hooted. "Whole team fully recovered!"
Quincy playfully punched his shoulder pad. "Maybe we could even get the band together. We're so shit at getting gigs, this is the probably the closest thing we'll have."
"You're fine with this, Charlie?" Peter asked warily, and Quincy's face brightened.
His offer had to mean he cared. He wanted her to feel better the only way he knew how. She was silly to believe he would've been fine with a quiet weekend in, watching movies and eating pizza—no, he wanted things to be as drastic as possible, even if it was a million miles out of her comfort zone. What comfort zone? Her entire life had been ripped away from her comfort zone.
"I'm okay with it," Charlie said. "You can have it at my house."
Quincy threw himself around her in a furry hug. "I fucking love you."
He didn't know how much those words meant.
He interlocked his arm with Mateo's and pulled him close. "Come here. Peter, too. Group hug, right now, let's go!"
And thus the jocks wrapped their arms around Charlie and Quincy's short frames. They reeked of sweat, grass, victory, and she didn't mind it. She'd cherish the moment forever, forgetting the boundaries between her and them, lost in their excitement. She took Quincy's sudden affection as forgiveness—as much for her as for Peter and Mateo—until she saw his dilated eyes, pupils swelled to perfect black holes.
He pulled away, giddy. "Okay, let's go!"
"Wait, let me go talk to my family first," Mateo said.
Quincy wriggled his brows. "Need to get their permission to party?"
He laughed. "I'll be back."
Thirty minutes of chaos and celebrations later, and they finally piled into Evan's white van. Half the football team followed. They cursed and bumped into the musical equipment in the back—wires and speakers and cymbals.
Quincy climbed over Evan in the driver's seat. "Get your crusty ass out of my spot—I'm driving."
The other boys groaned in protest while Evan muttered, "It's my car."
Quincy shoved a furry foot in his brother's face and promptly kicked him out the open door of the van. "Now, who's sitting in the front with me? Birthday girl, come here!"
When Charlie stumbled to the front, the giant mascot head landed in her lap.
"Yo, you guys invited everyone?" one of the boys asked.
"Everyone," Mateo said, and Charlie's stomach twisted. He couldn't be serious. Either way, the last thing she wanted was to upset Quincy by backing out now.
And then he started passing around the pills. Cash flew into his outstretched hand. "Keep it coming; keep it coming. Hey Charlie, you want some?"
The sight evoked a deep concern in her. She'd always been terrified of him getting caught, remembering the violent drug lord and mobster movies Jonah once loved to watch. But Quincy always brushed her off. "This is child's play compared to the big guys," he'd once said. "This tiger only rules the jungle."
"Did sabretooth tigers even live in the jungle?" she'd asked.
"Fuck if I know."
Did she have the courage to protest his "business endeavor" when he was smiling so brightly now? It wasn't like she could wrench the money out of his hands.
Hesitantly, she resigned to taking more pictures while he posed for them, laughing and throwing up peace signs, tiger tail between his teeth.
"You guys better keep this out of the party," Peter grunted from the back. His gaze darkened when it landed on Charlie's camera. Was he thinking about her once taking pictures of him from afar? How she'd cut them up and glued them in a scrapbook with little paper hearts?
She lowered her camera. Mateo reached out to place a pill on Quincy's tongue, and the redhead grinned, swallowing it dry.
"We're partying at Charlie's place," Quincy said. "Not the house of God."
Mateo winked at him, then turned to Peter. "Yeah, man, chill."
Peter slumped against his seat with a huff—next to Evan who sat empty-eyed with his arms crossed over his chest. Charlie wrinkled her nose. There weren't enough windows in the van to wash the stench of sweat and boy away.
"Hey tiger," Mateo called out. "Can you drive already?"
Quincy yanked at the stick and swerved out of the parking lot. The boys cackled and slammed into one another, the world vibrating with their manic energy. Charlie felt like she'd spill out of her own flesh. She snapped more photos—the sole anchors in the blur of streetlights and trees.
● ● ●
The party came as a riot in an otherwise peaceful retirement neighborhood. Bottles littered the countertops. People stepped inside her home to throw back solo cups and make out on the leather couch, the red neon lights Quincy found in the garage casting a blood-like filter over their shifting bodies. Charlie took photos of people tipping over vases, picture frames shattering once they fell off the walls. Let them break, she thought. Let her parents see the mess she made while they were away.
Two parts of her clashed—Quiet, sensible Charlie who spoke too softly to be heard. Tailor-made for Peter Charlie, ripping out every chapter of the past she didn't like. Then the bratty, foolish part of her. Push-people-away-with-her-emotions Charlie, stalking anyone who gave her the time of day. The ugly thing she was before she'd let the need for the I love yous and the it'll be okays keep herself in check.
No one ever loved her when she was angry.
Lilith: I did.
"Charlie!" Quincy was yelling from behind. She spun around, accidentally snapping a blurry picture of his face, pupils swallowing all the blue in his eyes. "What are you doing out here?"
"Modern art," she said flatly.
"Come on, I hate to see you all mopey. Can I hang off the chandelier?"
"Go for it."
He stared at her in total shock, then gave her a wicked grin.
The glass chandelier hung high over the dining room table, where Peter and his friends were playing beer pong. Peter himself morphed into something loud and obnoxious, the others cheering as he chugged his first beer of the night.
Evan went next. He stood with the ping pong ball between his fingers and aimed at the cups—one, two, three seconds for the perfect shot until Quincy jumped on the table and kicked the cups away. A waterfall of beer spilled in all directions.
"What the fuck was that for?" Evan snapped—the first time Charlie ever heard him raise his voice.
Peter was next to shout: "You wanna get kicked out or what?"
But Quincy didn't listen. He grabbed onto the chandelier. It creaked on its chain, spinning, and his legs swung like he was being electrocuted before he fell onto the pool of beer on the table with a splash. The cheerleaders—including Raquel—backed away, shrieking while Quincy giggled, one of his mascot feet missing.
Charlie held her hand to her mouth. "My turn?"
For one night, she would let herself indulge in his brand of recklessness.
"Yes!" he screamed. "Give me your camera; this is historical." Drenched in beer, he took it from her hands, clicking all the wrong buttons.
She climbed onto the table. For once, she accepted the spotlight, even giving Raquel a sickly sweet smile, then reached for the chandelier.
As she swung, she was a child again. Destructive. Care-free. Peter was shouting something—"Are you crazy?"—and she kicked the dining room table so hard it toppled to the floor.
When she fell, the chandelier came tumbling seconds after in a crash of light. It missed her by a couple inches, shattering on the ground, shards flying everywhere. A screech of audio feedback sounded from the living room, where someone was setting up the music equipment.
"Charlie," Peter growled.
She stood up—careful not to cut herself on broken glass—and walked away. Chandelier pieces crunched beneath her Mary Janes.
Happy birthday to me, she thought.