because I’m drunk and a little stoned?
“It’s not just here, Abby. I’ll be there soon.”
And then there’s a cab, and I close my eyes, and the next thing I know it’s morning and someone’s pounding on my door. Or maybe on the inside of my skull.
My tongue feels like it’s covered with liquid flour and I’m quite sure that somehow my head has been turned inside out. But nothing feels as bad as the look on Zeke’s face when I open the door.
“Are you okay?”
It’s so far the only thing he’s said to me. That and “Where’s Alice?”
Otherwise, it’s been ginger ale and saltines and lots and lots of shaking his head. That and scanning me, like he’s looking for cuts and bruises.
He hasn’t touched me. In any way. He didn’t even hand me the ginger ale and crackers. He put them on my desk. And now he’s staring at me from across the room, his brow furrowed.
The worst part is that he doesn’t look concerned. He looks like a bad mixture of angry and disappointed, each one exacerbating the other.
“How do you say exacerbate in French?”
“Exacerber,” he growls.
“Oh.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Are you okay?”
His tone irritates my already-strained nerves, and I try to temper my response. “I didn’t realize it was a question.”
According to his face, I didn’t do a particularly good job. He shuts his eyes, shaking his head, and I feel bad. I feel bad because it can’t be that late in the day and I’m already being a bitch to him. I glance at the clock to find that it’s only half past nine.
Wait.
“You aren’t supposed to be here until tonight. You’re supposed to be in Boston all day.”
“Yes, I am.” His voice is not angry. It’s not angry and it’s not disappointed. It’s sad. I move from my desk chair, where I’ve been slowly eating through his box of saltines, and walk toward Alice’s bed.
“Why are you here?”
“Because I was worried.”
We should be speaking in French. We should be counting this toward our time, our log, all these good words.
“Do you even remember talking to me last night?”
I remember the common room and Chloe laughing at my desire to go out with them. I remember the bar and the flask and the joint. Eff me, I smoked a joint. And I remember the booth and Ethan’s hand. And Colin wanting to dance.
And . . .
“Fuck.”
“Good thing you don’t have a Cubs T-shirt or I’d make you wear it all day, since you swore.” Zeke laughs, but the sound is tinny and reedy.
I remember the phone. I remember speaking only French.
And my stomach—
“Fuck.”
I race out of the room, my stomach pitching and rolling. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw everything up. I retch and retch until there’s nothing left, until I’m quite sure I’ve thrown up some of my essential organs because I’m suddenly completely drained and hollow.
I told Zeke I liked him. I told him I was sad he liked Chloe and not me—
I dry heave one more time into the toilet, flushing it again even though nothing came up.
I may need to live in this stall. After I rinse out my mouth, of course.
Or maybe if I wait long enough, Zeke will go back to his room, or he’ll fall asleep. Or somehow I’ll be able to gather my things and—
There’s a knocking at the door. Who knocks on a swinging door?
“Abby, are you okay?”
A boy knocks on a swinging door for the girls’ bathroom. Un garçon frappe à la porte des toilettes des filles.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble. I don’t look in the mirror because I’m quite sure that if I did, not only would I take up residence in this room rather than have anyone see me again, but I would also try hard to escape by flushing myself down the toilet. Because apparently I’m not known for my good decisions.
“It’s okay, Abby, just come on out.”
The only reason I listen to the voice is because if I wait any longer, someone will see Zeke talking to the door of the girls’ bathroom, and me and my insane life will become everyone’s favorite story.
Not meeting his eyes, I leave the bathroom and walk back to my room, knowing it’s not even worth wishing he won’t follow me.
I slip back under the covers, curling onto my side. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t want to talk in French. It’s too sad, too utterly heartbreaking to belong in our French conversations. I’ve messed everything