Sicko

Day one of freshman year at a new college.

I make my way to my makeup bag and get started. This routine is natural for me. Conceal, fake a smile. Makeup is the curtain I hide behind, as if it confuses people who try to peek into the real me.

If only I could confuse myself too.

The first week of college went fast. I found that my classes were pretty easy to get to despite the fact that the campus was a lot bigger than I had initially assumed during orientation day. It’s Friday now and I’m dreading getting ready to go out to whatever it is Nellie has us planned on going to. I didn’t hear from James all week, though, so that in itself is something worth celebrating. We’re riding in Nellie’s car to the other side of LA when Sloane hands me a flask.

I take big sips before handing it back. My drinking got worse when Royce left. I found the more I drank, the deeper I fell down a hole that swallowed all of me—my pain included. I’m one big gaping wound, and alcohol just so happens to be the Band-Aid. It could have been worse. I could have turned to snow.

I rub my hands up and down my thighs. I kept it casual. Black skinny jeans with tears up the thighs and a white lace bodysuit that does more for my tits than any bra could have.

“God, I can’t with your perfect fucking tits!” Sloane grumbles.

“What the fuck are you talking about? Yours are huge!”

“So!” Her hands come to my breasts and she squeezes. “Fake ones always look better.” I whack her hands away and roll my eyes. If only she knew why and how I came about getting fake tits.

“So, are you going to tell us where we’re going?” I say, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the center console. Using the rearview mirror to rearrange my hair, I fluff it up at the front and run my pinky finger over my bright red lips.

“It’s a surprise.” Nellie’s eyes come to mine in the rearview mirror. A few seconds pass between us before she focuses back on the road. Weird.

“Hey, Jade, you know those varsity players we saw at the diner last week?” Sloane turns in her seat to look at me.

“Yeah?”

“Well, one of them has been asking about you.”

I freeze. “What? How do you know?” My heart skips a few beats. I’m embarrassed by how attracted I am to him.

Sloane flashes her phone in front of my face. “Because I’m fucking his best friend, also known as the linebacker.”

I roll my eyes. “You didn’t take long.”

“Would you expect anything less?” Sloane asks matter-of-factly.

“Actually, no.” My thoughts begin drifting. I’m envious of Sloane. She has the life that people think I have.

“Anyway,” she continues, handing me back the flask. “His name is Jensen Pracks. He’s the star quarterback. You should stalk him on Instagram. He’s already following you, and me, so let’s take a selfie and upload it.”

I take a long sip of the—whatever this is—and let her take the selfies, handing her back the flask as Nellie takes a turn onto an industrial street. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, opening Instagram.

4 new followers. Three messages.

I ignore the messages and go to the followers. J_Pracks started following you. My thumb hovers over the follow back button.

“Fuck it.” I hit the button and then quickly shove my phone into my back pocket.

The car begins to slow outside trade buildings. Some mechanic garages, others I can’t make out at this time of night. Nellie pulls up to a high wired gate that takes up multiple spaces. It’s definitely the biggest area down this street. A young skinny guy and a bigger man stand guard at the front. I still can’t see that much, and I’m semi-distracted by Jensen. Jensen. Even his name is hot. Maybe I can play it out a bit. But broken girls like me don’t get perfection like Jensen. Boys like him are reserved for the girls like him.

The car is moving inside the gates now, where music is spilling out. To the right, there’s a long covered parking area where bikes are lined. So many bikes. Behind those, there’s a six-car shed. To the left, there’s another covered area where there’s a fighting octagon, tables and chairs, a boxing bag, and more people. In the middle, there’s a massive bonfire burning and behind that is a two-story house. It’s large, with a porch and a swing. It looks like something you would find in the suburbs, not down an industrial street. People spill out everywhere, with men in leather and women in—almost nothing.

I don’t register right away, and when I notice they’re wearing vests, I freeze. “Nellie!” I tap her shoulder. “Where are we?”