Page 7 of Malaise
I step back and turn away to leave, but Jasper’s hand catches my arm. Satisfied I’m not going anywhere, he turns back to Marcus. “Best you get your arse back over there and liquor that talent up some more, hey, otherwise a cocky jackass like you won’t stand a chance with them.”
“Fuck you, Jasper.”
“Fuck you too, Marcus.”
The two stare each other down and the grip on my arm gets a little tighter as Jasper’s frustration grows. Marcus steps away first, muttering something as he trudges across the grass to his posse, who has gathered around the member who’s chugging from a beer bong.
“Anybody gives you shit, you let me know.” Jasper ducks his head to level our eyes.
“Yeah, sure.” I don’t fully believe it, despite the showdown I just witnessed.
He says he’ll be there for me now, but give him ten minutes and he’ll have a set of tits that hold more importance than the whole of me.
“Why’d you do that?”
He shrugs and passes his hoodie over for me to use. “I guess everyone needs a break now and then, right?”
“Yeah.” I place the drink between my feet, still confused as to why he’s picked now to start giving a shit about a “troll” like me, and tug his hoodie on over my head.
He reaches down and passes me the bottle of JD and Coke back, top removed, while I sling my backpack over my shoulder. An awkward beat passes with us staring at each other, hands touching as I take the drink from him. What is his deal?
“Well, have a good one, yeah?” I take a couple of steps back, and then raise the drink in a toast. “And thanks again.”
“No sweat.”
I shake off the unease at what Jasper’s random acts of kindness could mean and melt into the crowd. People dance to the grunge rock that thunders out of speakers set up in the boot of somebody’s station wagon. The bonfire flames dance and lick at the sky, spitting hot embers out every so often onto the grass around the stone circle that contains the fire.
A memory of the only time we went camping as a family when I was barely school age comes in thick and fast, of Den throwing sticks he’d collected into the fire while Mum pleaded with him to stop.
I lift the bottle in my hand and press the glass neck to my lips, throwing my head back in an attempt to drown out the visual. The Jack Daniel’s is bitter on my starved tongue, burning as it hits my empty stomach. I should have grabbed something to eat from work at the very least before I headed out. Usually I have food left over from school, but today was a long-arse day and I ate every last scrap I took with me. If I’m lucky there’s a half-eaten muesli bar in the dark recesses of my bag, but I’m not game enough to check.
I was supposed to eat at home. I was supposed to drop all my shit off so I’m not carrying this damn bag around with me at a fucking party. Most of all, I was supposed to be reminding myself not to drink too much so Den would be surprised how hung-over I wasn’t at our lunch date tomorrow.
But things never work out as planned, and for what it’s worth, who really gives a fuck how much I drink now? As though to prove the point to myself, I stop walking and neck most of the bottle, ignoring the incessant burn that crawls back up my throat as I burp repeatedly. Fuck the pain—I need to get trashed. I need to forget why I’m here when I should be at home.
Why were my parents so angry with me? What the fuck did I do?
I shrug my bag off my back and riffle through it until I find my phone. Seven missed calls, all in the last fifteen minutes. Looks like Mum’s feeling bad after all. I clear the notifications and turn the damn thing off. Teach her some. If they wanted me there with them while we grieved the loss of the best person I’ve ever known, they should have fucking shown at least a little support while they had the chance.
Fuck them.
Fuck Den.
Fuck my life.
I scull the last of the JD and toss the bottle on top of an overflowing recycling crate somebody’s been thoughtful enough to bring along. It crashes and rolls down to the grass with several others, but not a single head turns my way despite the din. I’m the invisible man when it comes to these preppy fucks. Nobody gives a damn about the punkish girl with the dark-coloured hair and even darker makeup. I’m not one of them, I don’t fit in, and so I’m not worth their time.
Selecting a dark corner of the grove, I beeline for an empty log, snagging a new drink from some random person’s six-pack as I pass by. Alcohol is left unattended left, right, and centre. If I really wanted to, I could spend all night circulating the party scoring free drinks. In fact, I just might.
I crack the top of the supersized can of beer and take a healthy swig, coughing at the bitter taste as the yeasty beverage coats my tongue. Fuck I hate this shit. But it’s release. It’s oblivion, and I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Whatever that beer did to upset you, I think it’s paying for it.”
I swivel my eyes to the source of the voice as I down another healthy chug of the dirt-tasting cheap shit. Beer trails down my chin as I fumble with the can. Holy hell. I’ve seen the guy before, working at the auto shop down the end of town, but never this close. He’s a Carver, which means he’s also trouble. Still, I sit like a fool, blinking repeatedly as I take him in… all of him. He’s droolworthy at a distance through the workshop door, but he’s a fucking twelve out of ten in close proximity.
“Shit day,” I explain, looking to the can in my hand in an attempt to shake my impending creeper status.
“Shit drink, too.” He reaches between his black denim-clad legs and produces a Southern Comfort mixer. “Have this instead.”