says, as if we’re talking about the weather. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
He claps his hands, and the drummers begin to play. The noise confuses me, and everyone begins to sing something that sounds like a hymn. Is this one of those weird Christian intervention things?
I open my mouth to tell him I just want to go home, but he’s shaking my hands, first my left and then my right, and then he hugs me, pressing me to one shoulder and then the other, and I’m passed along, and now I’m shaking hands and hugging someone else, and on around the circle, spinning and shaking and hugging. I want to tell them that I just want to go home, but there’s a sound like a gong and then a million angry bees, and a ripple goes through the room. I stand stock-still. I’m facing Madison. She’s shaking her car keys and singing a hymn. I grab her by the shoulders and give her my killer face.
“Did you drug me?” I ask.
“Jon-ta-conku-er. Jon-ta-conku-er,” she murmurs.
But there’s no way to ask her what she’s talking about, because my legs go out from under me, and hundreds of hands are catching me, laying me on the floor, floating me down to it light as a feather, and draping an enormous piece of pink silk over my body.
The circle of people is moving around me counterclockwise, singing, drumming, stomping. They have their house keys in their hands, and they’re shaking them like a million metal maracas, and they’re stomping on the wooden floor that’s vibrating like a drum now, and I can feel it all through my body.
I roll my head to one side and see that the floor is covered with cakes. Pink cakes, yellow cakes, white cakes, wedding cake, birthday cake, all covered in sugar flowers and icing and sitting on bone-china plates. Something wet splashes my face, and I breathe it in and start to choke. It’s sweet and sticky, and I realize that someone has just emptied a bottle of champagne over my head.
“What the hell?”
I want to say something else, and then I realize that it’s Hayes and Madison, and they’re drinking from bottles of champagne and pouring the rest on my face. I can’t breathe. My face feels like thick rubber, and then something happens to me. I’ve never taken acid before, not even mushrooms, but suddenly a vision comes together out of the noise, the drumming, the jangling keys, the stomping, and the singing.
I see myself three times. One of me is wrapped in a woman’s arms, a woman who feels like my mother. I’m cuddled up like a kitten, and she’s stroking my hair and whispering to me and telling me everything’s going to be okay.
The second me is some kind of snake, slithering in the dust. I’m molting my skin and becoming something better. Different.
The third me, though, this one stops my heart. The third me is beautiful. My hair is glowing. I’m holding my body differently: My shoulders are back, my hips are tipped back, my legs are strong, my posture is straight. I’m not Pudge. I’m not Alex. I’m Alexandria. I’ve left a little girl behind me, like that snake shedding its skin, and I’m curvy and voluptuous and beautiful.
I see Doc Buzzard watching me with his yellow eyes, and I walk up to him and stare at him, daring him to say something to me. Then I whirl and begin to dance. I step into the circle, and I’m singing the songs and I know the words, and then I’m in the middle of the circle, and the candlelight is soft and beautiful. I see my grandmother, and in her I see my mother and I see myself. Someone hands me a piece of cake, and I eat it, and it’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. I want more.
I drink from a bottle of champagne. Someone hands me a cigar, and the smoke turns my lungs into rich mahogany wood. People take my hands on either side, and we float outdoors, and it’s as bright as day. Candles are lit all over the yard, and sixteen women are sweeping the dirt, back and forth, like they’re dancing. In front of me the swept yard leads down to the river and the dark rush of water, and everyone is moving that way while the ladies sweep and the candles sparkle. I drink another bottle of champagne, and it tastes better than