up the second-floor steps you shake Monica a little, hoping that she
throws up or something.
Ten minutes later you get your wish. You are holding Monica’s
hair while her head hovers over the toilet. She is now conscious, but has
yet to say a word in the English language. You hear a kid peeing one
stall over, hear him miss his target a little and splatter the tiled ground,
and you wish now that you had a private bathroom. The pee-er begins
to laugh out loud at the dynamic, high-to-low-to-high growling noises
Monica makes when she vomits, and his laughter is in turn bounced
around the tiled room, in and out of the cavernous showers in the corner
(wherein you pace back and forth some nights while the water runs hot),
then back to you. Your skin crawls again, but you can’t leave Monica to
go fight the pee-er or anything like that. You just have to sit and listen to
intermittent puking and laughing while holding Monica’s top-tier, dark
black hair and hoping she’s alright. You make up in your mind that you
are going to break up with her. You kind of hate her right now, though,
for some reason it doesn’t feel like your right to do that. Being a DTR
and all.
Little Pussy was the one peeing. Dressed as a lumberjack, he
comes out of the stall with his fly still undone, giggling to himself like
the dipshit everyone knows him to be. You flick him off as you walk
Monica out the bathroom door and back to your bedroom, where she
will undoubtedly puke again, this time on your twin bed. You come to
your door to see that one of Monica’s sisters, you want to say Megan, has
smashed your nice glass coffee table into a million bits and is still lying
in its framework. She’s atop a small mountain of tiny crystals – passed
out, bloody, but not ER-ready. You don’t see the other girl anywhere, but
it serves to reason now that the three were drugged, or at least had drink
after too-steep drink poured into them at this top-tier place they wanted
so badly to go to first. You sigh and pick Megan up to move her to the
couch.
Megan is the canon of Midwestern female beauty – a tortured
blonde-haired, top-heavy, beer-breath type of beauty that you understand
but don’t actively search for. She stirs a bit when you stand her up, then
looks at you with those glazed over, judging, pale blue eyes that only the
tip-top tier girls can pull off. Then she closes those eyes and leans in to
kiss you, pinching at your skin as if it was a shirt to pull you closer.
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