Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

Weirdly, Clay was the only one who had two stable, loving adults in his life. He’d been adopted by the Morrows after his mother had died. He had four sisters and a brother who were out in the world somewhere, but he never mentioned them, let alone bothered to reach out to them. Probably because the Morrows treated him like a gift bestowed on them by the Lord Jesus Himself. Clay wasn’t one to share.

“Em?” Ricky asked. “What’s going on with you lately?”

“Nothing.” Emily shrugged and shook her head at the same time. “I’m okay.”

Ricky flicked ash into the ocean. She was too good at picking up on Emily’s thoughts. “It’s weird, isn’t it? Like, we’re all on the precipice of starting our lives, but we’re still here, right?”

The railing shook as Ricky stamped her foot, indicating here on this spot outside of her grandfather’s diner. Emily was glad that her best friend was feeling the same sense of fracture. She couldn’t count the number of times they’d sneaked out the back door of the diner while the boys were arguing about which Angel was the hottest or quoting lines from Monty Python or trying to guess which of the freshmen girls at school had gone all the way.

Emily knew that she and Ricky would lose their sense of camaraderie once they’d all been away at college.

“Ugh.” Ricky frowned at her cigarette, which was only half smoked. “I hate these things.”

Emily watched her flick the butt into the ocean. She tried not to think about what it would do to the fish.

Ricky said, “You’ve been different since last month’s party.”

Emily looked away. The weepiness came back. The nausea. The shakiness. She heard the ding a typewriter makes when it gets to the end of the line. The clacks of the carriage sliding back. Then one by one, she imagined the individual typebars popping up, spelling out the words in all capital letters—

THE PARTY.

She had no memory of it. This wasn’t like forgetting where she’d left her keys or blanking on a homework assignment. Emily’s brain gave her context for those minor annoyances. She could imagine herself dropping her keys on the table instead of her purse or zoning out during class or forgetting to write down an assignment. When she tried to recall the night of The Party, her brain only took her so far. Walking up the concrete steps to Nardo’s looming front doors. The umber tiles in the foyer. The sunken living room with its gold chandelier and massive console TV. The large windows overlooking the swimming pool. The hi-fi system that took up an entire wall. The speakers that were almost as tall as Emily.

But those details weren’t from that particular night, the night of The Party. They were from countless nights before when Emily had told her parents she was sleeping over at Ricky’s or studying with a friend she hadn’t spoken to in years because they were all going to Nardo’s to get drunk and play board games or watch movies or smoke Mary Jane and talk about how to fix the screwed-up world they were all about to inherit.

The actual night of The Party was nothing but a black hole.

Emily remembered Nardo opening the front door. She recalled Clay placing a tiny square of paper on her tongue. She remembered sitting on one of the suede couches.

And then she was waking up in her grandmother’s bedroom lying on the floor.

“Oh well.” Ricky heaved a sigh as she turned her back to the waves. Her elbows rested on the railing, pushing her breasts out like a hood ornament. “I don’t know anything about acid, but Clay is right. You shouldn’t let one bad trip spoil things. Hallucinogenics can be really therapeutic. Cary Grant used them to heal his childhood trauma.”

Emily’s lower lip started to tremble. She felt a sudden disconnect, like her body was there on the boardwalk with Ricky, but her brain was floating off somewhere else—somewhere safer.

“Em.” Ricky knew that something was wrong. “You know you can talk to me.”

“I know,” Emily said, but could she really? Ricky had this weird twin thing with Blake where telling one immediately meant you were telling the other. Then there was Nardo, who could get anything out of Ricky. Then there was Clay, to whom they all reported.

Emily said, “The boys are probably wondering what happened to us.”

“We should go back in.” Ricky pushed off from the railing and headed back toward the diner. “Did you get that worksheet from trig class?”

“I was—” Emily felt her stomach tighten. The salty breeze or the odors from the kitchen or the smell of cigarettes or all three hit her at once and she suddenly felt very sick.

“Em?” Ricky glanced over her shoulder as she walked up the hall. “The worksheet?”

“I was going to—”

Vomit hurled up her throat. Emily slapped her hands to her mouth as she stumbled toward the bathroom. The door popped open then slammed back into her shoulder. She lunged toward the toilet. The sink was closer. Hot liquid squirted between her fingers. She released her hold and a torrent of puke sloshed into the sink.

“Jeez Louise,” Ricky mumbled. She yanked a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and ran cold water into the other sink. “God, that smells terrible.”

Emily dry-heaved, eyes squeezed shut against the undigested cookies and soda she’d had with Gram before leaving the house. Another dry-heave wracked her body. She was completely empty but she couldn’t stop.

“It’s all right.” Ricky placed the cold paper towels on Emily’s neck. She rubbed her back, making reassuring noises. This wasn’t the first time she’d performed the dubious task of vomit soother. Of the group, she had both the strongest stomach as well as the strongest nurturing instinct.

“Fuck!” Emily horked, using the word that she never used because she had never in her life felt so sick. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”