"stop writing poetry on my face!"

Nov 12, 2006 22:09

tough week. don't- can't- talk about it.  not yet.

i'm taking the weekend off. had somewhat of a minor breakdown on thursday and a pretty major one friday. so i've decided to withdraw. and i stopped taking those damn meds.  still pretending to, though.  i even managed to not swallow one when my mom watched me put it in my mouth.  that's skill.  i'm barely speaking to my parents, haven't talked to toni or chris since thursday. i think i'm worrying her. for some reason, i'm a bit pissed at him, so i don't care what he thinks. (honestly, i don't know why. he hasn't done anything.)

i've spent the last few days watching tv late into the night (currently watching the wizard of oz for the third time in a row) and cuddling with the dogs.

and then i realized i'm wasting my life. so, today, i restarted my nanowrimo. it's crazy to start at a blank wordcount this late, but i'm totally insane, so why not? i've got nearly 2000 out of the last two hours. i'm planning on pulling an all nighter.

so let's forget about my issues and you can see what i have so far!

(p.s.  i turn 16 the day after tomorrow.  it's a tuesday.  goddamnit.)

"I'm going to tell you a secret,"  the boy sitting beside me said carefully, transferring his Smirnoff to his left hand and putting his right on my shoulder.

"I'm honored,"  I replied, taking the bottle from him and sipping.

He blinked at me for a moment, seemingly unfocused, and then smiled.  "I'm drunk."

"That's no secret."

Dresden was as close to an alcoholic as an underage musician can be.  Every party I ever went to, he was there.  I never saw him anywhere else since we went to different schools.  But each party, he found me, and we ended up outside, sitting on some ledge (this time on the edge of some rich kid's porch), drinking and chatting.  I did most of talking.  Besides the fact that I'm one of those loud girls, he was always smashed and had trouble forming sentences.

"Really?"  He hiccupped.  "And I thought I was being so... so... what's the word... help a brother out, Mandy..."

"Subtle?"  I suggested, and then flicked him in the side of the head, causing him to jump a little.  "Don't ever say that again, you're not black."

"It's dark,"  he said seriously.  "Everything's black."

I sighed, shaking my head and taking another deep swill of the lovely vodka.

"Uh..."  He stared at me and cocked his head slightly, a strand of moonlight highlighted dark hair falling into an even darker eye.

I brushed it to the side impatiently, "what?"

"I can't... I can't... remember..."  He frowned, licking his lips.

"How to talk?"

"No, no... your..."  He snatched the bottle and took a swig.  Like that was going to help.

"My name,"  I said, through clenched teeth, "is Mandy."

"Mandy!  Mandy, right!"  He coughed.  "Sorry.  Sorry, I'm really sorry.  Sorry, Mandy... sorry..."

"Dresden-see, I remember your name!-we've been meeting at least once a week since we were fifteen years old.  Do you know how many times that means we've been together?"  I cut him off, not that he was going to say anything worth hearing.  "Of course you don't.  You can't do simple math even when you're sober."

He drank sulkily.

"That means we've had this same conversation over a hundred times.  You'd think you could remember my fucking name."

"Is your fucking name the same as your regular one?"  He hid his impish smile behind the bottle.  I didn't respond, so he continued.  That's the problem with drunk boys.  You don't talk-or find some other way to shut them up-they just keep blathering.

"Because you're a whore, so if you were a prostitute, your street name, it'd be your fucking name, and-“

"Oh, you did not just call me a whore."  I got to my feet, glaring at him, wobbling slightly.  Not because of the alcohol.  I was in stilettos.  And I don't know about you, but I can't even walk in them when I haven't been drinking.  And It's either wear heels or be four inches shorter than this twit, and he has a habit of looking down on me, which I do not appreciate.

Come to think of it, I don't appreciate much about him.  Please tell me why I always put up with him at this parties.

He handed me the Smirnoff, an apologetic smile on his lips.

Oh, yes.  He always had the best vodka.  And he gave it to me without expecting sexual favors in return.

Really, you could look at it as sweet.  Here I was, younger and smaller, and sometimes barely standing up drunk, yet he never tried anything with me.

You could look at it as sweet.  I could look at it as stupidity.  Or even insulting.  If I valued his opinion in the slightest.  Which I didn’t.

I drank slowly, the cool liquid soothing my burning anger.  I sat back down, allowing him to pull me to him and even putting my head on his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t sleep with you, even if I was a whore,”  I commented mildly.

“Even if I was a millionaire, I wouldn’t be able to afford you,”  he replied, affectionate only because he was wasted.

“Even if you were a billionaire.”

“True.”  He glanced over at me, and I could see myself reflected in his glassy eyes.

I looked like shit.  My jeans were hanging too low, exposing jutting hipbones.  We’d had a week off school, exams and all that, except I decided not to study, so I had all these free evenings.  Meaning, party every night.  And that means, hangover every morning.  I’d lost a little weight from not being able to keep food down.

I swear you could see my ribs through my black halter top.  Dresden had poked them several times and then giggled, calling me his xylophone.  Nice to know he’s worried about my health.

What I was really concerned about was my hair.  Kinky (like me) chocolate curls down to my bellybutton (ring shaped like a zipper-that had also entertained Dresden greatly) that I was sure I’d pulled back before I got out of my car.  It was swinging loose now, getting in the way of everything.  Or nothing, more accurately.  Because nothing ever happened with Dresden.  It was the everything kind of nothing, though.

Maybe I am a bit tipsy...

“Dres?”  I cuddled closer to him.  “Were you with me all night?”

“Since eight.”

I’d only gotten there at ten to.  “Oh, good.”

“Why?”

“Just making sure there was no opportunity for me to get pregnant,”  I said with a wry smile.

He raised an eyebrow.  “What, you think I’m shooting blanks?”

I burst into laughter.  “Like there’s any chance of me having sex with you!”

“Now I remember...”  He looked down at his lap, jiggling his leg.

I put out a hand to stop it.  “Yes, it’s Mandy.  I told you already.”

“No.  I remember the secret I was going to tell you.”  He chugged the rest of the bottle.  “Okay, I think I’m drunk enough now.”

“What?”  I started snapping the black elastic on my wrist.  It’s what I do when I’m nervous.  And he sounded too serious.

The moment passed quickly.  The vodka turned his eyes less blue and his smile returned.  “The secret is... I’ve been trying all night to get you drunk.”

“Well...” I had suddenly realized that we were sitting on the wall enclosing the pool, and not a porch, so I had imagined windows and a door for the last hour, and all this forced me to the conclusion that I was drunk.  Possibly very drunk.  But until further proof, let’s just call it semi-drunk.

I made the mistake of looking into his eyes.  Blue.  So blue.  I decided they were blue like the sky at exactly 2:32 in the afternoon.  I then promptly forgot any romantic notions, and stuck my tongue down his throat.

There’s the proof that I was not only very drunk, but completely insane at the same time.

“You taste like vodka,”  he said, when I let him go.  Not that he’d pushed me away.  In fact, he’d kissed me back quite enthusiastically.

“You taste like... vodka,”  I agreed.  “Currently, I can think of nothing but vodka.  Vodka is simply swimming in my head, vodka is in my eyes and quite possibly coming out my ears.  I believe my blood has turned to vodka and I would probably pee straight vodka right now.”

“So that was just the vodka.”

“No, no,”  I assured him.  “Vodka is my friend.  Vodka doesn’t give me nasty hangovers and it can look like water, so I can drink it at school.”  For the record, I have never been drunk at school.  I don’t know if I was trying to impress him or what.  “No, vodka likes me.  Tequila is the enemy.  Therefore, it was just the Tequila.”

That is when I decided I had a drinking problem.  Or at least needed a thesaurus.  I’d just said vodka nine times within a minute.  And it had made sense.  It wasn’t just sitting in a bathtub yelling “vodka!” over and over on the top of my lungs.  Not that I’ve done that or anything...

“When were you drinking Tequila?”

“During the ten minutes before I found you.”  I hiccoughed.  “Before you found me.”

“How many?”

I counted to ten on my fingers, blinked a few times, shook my head, and made thoughtful noises.  “Four,”  I decided eventually.

“Four?”  Dresden gave me a disproving look.  “I have never known a girl to drink four shots in ten minutes.”

“Five.  It took me three to find the guy with the stuff and another two to convince him that I wasn’t a freshman.”

“Okay, I’ve never known anyone to drink four shots in five minutes.  Especially not a ninety pound, seventeen year old but looks twelve...”  he faltered, unable to think of an intelligent euphemism,  “girl named Mandy.”

“You remembered my name!”  I clapped happily.  Seriously, I was loaded.

“I also remembered my secret.  Again.”

“You already told you.”  Blink.  “I mean...”

“Maybe you should take a break,”  he suggested, taking the small bottle of rum I’d pulled out of the pocket of my denim jacket.  Which was wet for some reason.

“Were we in the pool?”  I inquired.

“No.”

I caught his eye and happened to spy my reflection again.  My lipstick was smudged, but that was probably from Frenching Dresden.  The answer to my eyeliner being streaked didn’t come to mind.

Then it did.

“Was I...”   I trailed off, horrified.

“No one else saw,”  he assured me, uncapping the rum and handing it to me.

I drained it in one gulp.  I needed it.  If he’d seen me... what did he think?  What had I said?

I hadn’t thought I was that drunk.  I’d spent the last three hours thinking I was fine.  Had I had something before I got here?  Had I driven drunk?  Why couldn’t I remember anything?

All I could remember was his name.

“Did I say why I was...”  I couldn’t bring myself to say it.  No one saw me cry.  Hell, I’d seen Dresden cry, but that didn’t change anything.  That kid was weird.  I found myself suddenly wondering what he was like sober.  Then realizing he was probably more annoying than he was drunk, I stopped wondering.

“Didn’t say anything.  Caught me looking, smacked me rather hard, and demanded I give you more vodka.”  He gave me a half smile.  “Then informed me I should wear eyeliner because I’d look pretty.”

“You would,”  I said, surprised.  I’d never thought of it before.  Actually, Dresden was naturally pretty.  Tall, slender waist and even smaller hips, shining dark hair, eyes that were black in the shadows but had pupils brighter than stars, and that lip ring did look rather hot...

“Okay, what is with this?!”  I threw the rum container to the ground, not even hearing it shatter. “I’m drunk!  You’re sober!  I can’t remember my own name, but I can’t forget yours!  And I can’t recall the last words I said, but it’s like yours are tattooed on my skin!  Stop writing poetry on my face!!”

“I’m not sober.”  Unexpectedly, his voice was husky and felt like liquid velvet pouring down my throat.  “If I was sober... I would never do this.”  He slunk an arm around my waist and pulled me to him, kissing me like...

Kissing me like he meant it.

I’ve been kissed by a lot of boys.  (A few girls, too.)  I’ve been kissed by even more drunk boys.  (And even more drunk girls.)  And trust me, you can tell the difference.

He kissed me like he was sober.

The worst part?

I kissed him back.

And I wasn’t nearly as drunk as I was pretending.

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