Chapter One – Part 3
When Allison left the bathroom she saw someone had posted a note on the door. It read "Do not disturb," and had a crude cartoon of a cat with its head in a toilet. Allison ripped it off the door and crumpled it up. She would never hear the end of this. She never should have come to this party.
She hoped Macy hadn't left without her. She didn't want to walk home the way she was dressed.
Allison caught up with Macy, next to the nachos in the living-room. Most of the party seemed to have gone, the food mostly untouched.
"Where is everybody?" she asked Macy.
Macy turned around, looking surprised. "Allie, where've you—"
"Bathroom."
"I thought you left. What'd you do, fall in?"
Allison sighed.
"How you feel?" Macy asked.
"Better, I think. I want to go home and lie down."
"Sure thing. Let me get my coat—"
Allison looked at the uneaten food. "What happened to the party?"
Macy shrugged. "I'm not quite sure. Apparently a table full of food upended about the time I was helping you upstairs—"
Allison nodded. She could picture David's reaction, especially now that she saw all the stains on the carpet. The whole costume party was beginning to seem like a less than great idea all around. "Where's David? I should say good-bye."
"I think he's sulking in the kitchen. Is your coat in the bedroom?"
She tossed Macy her nose. "Yeah, and would you put this in my purse?"
"Ah— sure." Macy wrinkled her nose at the blue-stained toilet paper and said, "I ain't even going to ask."
Allison shook her head and started for the kitchen. There were still some people left, chatting quietly. Presumably they were uninvolved with the table incident.
Poor David.
He didn't deserve to have his party collapse around him, even if he could be, at times, what Macy unkindly referred to as a "prime-quality wuss."
She sighed. She didn't like thinking badly about David.
She was weaving past a sheeted ghost, toward the kitchen, when an arm appeared to block her way. She was brought up short and turned to see Chuck Wilson grinning at her.
Oh God.
"Hya, sweetcakes. Wondering where you went to."
Instinctively, she backed away and hugged her arms to herself. Chuck had managed to slip between her and everyone else. His jeans were rolled up over combat boots. He wore a wide leather belt with a brass Marlboro buckle. Hanging off the belt was a chain for his wallet and a sheath for a buck knife. He wore a red flannel lumberjack shirt that was rolled up to the elbows. He chugged the can he held in the hand that wasn't blocking her way.
"Don't want to miss you without a hello."
"Sure," she said. She tried not to appear frightened, even though she knew it was futile. The best she could do was look him in the eyes, and even that felt as if she had to fight invisible weights chained to her neck. "You've said hello."
He was only a foot away from her. She could smell beer and sweat. No one else seemed to notice them. There could have been a half-dozen people in the dining room, but she still felt terribly alone.
Don't let him touch me. Please, don't let him touch me.
Chuck had her cornered by the cooler. She could've ducked under his arm, but that would have meant brushing by him, in a leotard that felt more and more like it was only painted on.
"Come on, sweetcakes. You gotta know I like you."
Please go away.
Chuck bent to get another can out of the cooler. He had to reach across her, backing her into the corner. Allison was on the verge of panicking. Chuck's right hand was on the door frame in front of her, his other was reaching around behind her. Her back was pressed to the wall, and she felt a light switch digging between her shoulder blades. His face couldn't be more than three or four inches from her own. His breath smelled of alcohol.
"You don't know how special you are, sweetcakes."
She could feel his hand rummaging in the cooler. The plastic jostled against her thigh and she felt drops of water splashing against her leg.
"We should get to know each other—"
Chuck was moving his right hand, away from the door frame. She didn't know if he was going use it to touch her hair, grab her shoulder, or help him fish for beer— but it gave her an opening.
As she ducked around Chuck, her back brushed the light switch and the lights in the dining room went out. Someone on the far side of the room distinctly said, "shit," as he tripped over something.
"Where you going?" Chuck said.
Allison felt a tug on the tail of her costume. It felt like the fabric was tied directly to her heart. For a moment she couldn't breathe. She stood there, frozen, until she felt something brush the lower curve of her behind.
The feeling, knowing it was Chuck's hand, made her want to vomit. Pain flowered behind her eyes again, and she could almost see his hand. She screwed her eyes shut and tried to pull away, and this time it felt that the tail was tied directly to the middle of her brain. When she heard it tear, it almost felt as if it was her spinal cord, and not the fabric, that gave way.
However, the fabric was what gave way, and suddenly she was free and in a stumbling run toward the living room.
She turned to face the dining room in time to see someone turn on the lights. Chuck was on the floor. The cooler had upended, drenching him with gallons worth of melted ice and broken beer bottles. In his left hand he held the remains of her costume's tail, as well as about two square feet of her leotard.
She felt a breeze behind her, and her face began to heat up.
She backed away from the scene, grateful that Chuck was the center of attention. She kept backing until she bumped into Macy descending the stairs.
"What the hell happened?" Macy asked.
They were out of sight of the dining room now, but she could hear Chuck yelling, David yelling, everyone else laughing. Her cheeks burned hotter, and she realized that she was crying uncontrollably.
Allison took her jacket from Macy and wrapped it around her waist to cover the hole in the rear of her leotard.
"Allie?"
Allison wiped her eyes and said, "I want to go home."
