A Whisper To A Scream (7 page)

Stepping outside, I close the door behind me.
“There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her eyes on
the vast property in front of her. The mounds of green stretch on
for at least two miles and are fenced in by barrier of dead trees.
Moonlight beaming down from the starry night sky creates a
shadowing effect and the wetness on the grass glistens. The sight
of it is calming yet eerie at the same time.

I hold out one of the cups and Wren pushes it
away gently. “No thanks,” she says.

“Are you kidding me? Do you know what I had
to do to get these drinks?”

She smiles innocently. “Burn down a
convenient store.”

“No,” I chuckle. “But close. I stole
them.”

“From who?”

“Adam.” I set the extra cup down next to me.
“What are you doing out here all by your lonesome?”

“I couldn’t take in there.”

“Yeah. They’ve taken the word loud to a whole
new level,” I say truthfully as someone stumbles into the back door
and jeers from the kitchen ring out. “I figured you’d want to be
somewhere quiet.” I hold out my cup to her, teasing her with it.
“Are you sure you don’t want some.”

“It’s all you,” she assures me. “Why Ellory
Graham, are you trying to corrupt me?”

So what if I am? She needs a little harmless
corruption in her life. In all the years I’ve known Wren, I’ve
never seen her unwind. She’s a ball of yarn—tightly wound. Once,
just once I want to see her let go. To see her rebel, be wild and
carefree. “No, not unless you want me to.” I hint at the end part
even though I already know the answer.

“No,” she says. “My Mom already thinks you’re
a bad influence.”

Tracy Thompson is one of those mothers who
thinks you are who your friends are. That’s so not true when it
comes to Wren and me. I’ve never been able to influence her. Ever.
“Tell your Mom I said she’s too uptight.”

Wren glares at me incredulously. “I’m not
going to tell her that.”

I chug the rest of the chilly liquid in my
cup and chuck it into the yard. I pick up the cup next to me. “Last
chance,” I tease.

Wren doesn’t answer. She shakes her head and
I bring the cup to my lips. Tipping my head back, I down the second
cup in record time. In fact, I convince myself that I could give
the entire football team in the kitchen doing keg stands a run for
their money.

After tossing the second empty cup aside, my
attention centers on Wren as she places her head in her hands and
whimpers softly. She sniffles, sucking back tears and I slide
closer and place my arm over her shoulder. “Wren, what’s wrong?”
She lifts her head, cheeks flushed, and swats at piece of loose
golden hair in her face. “Seriously, Wren. Did someone mess with
you? I swear I’ll kick their—a!”

She cuts me off in a low, quivering voice.
“That’s not it.”

I place two of my fingers under her chin and
tilt her head towards me. “Then what is it?” Seeing her hurt kills
me. I want to be a band aid covering her wound. I want to do
anything I can to help because she’s been there for me during every
low point of my existence. And I owe it to her.

“Why don’t boys like me?”

My mouth opens and I lean away. “Huh?” That’s
not what I expected to hear.

“Boys. Why don’t they like me?”

I don’t know how to answer that. I’m stumped.
So I try to answer the question the best way I know how. “You
intimidate them.”

She wipes away a few straggling tears with
her palms. “Intimidate them?”

Thinking hard, I try to put myself in a guy’s
shoes. If I had a girlfriend as smart and as pretty as Wren, I’d be
intimidated. “No guy wants to admit that his girlfriend is smarter
than he is,” I tell her reassuringly.

She sighs, frustrated. “Why can’t I be more
like Katie?”

Clearly Wren is delusional. “How can you say
that? You and Katie don’t belong in the same sentence or
category.”

“Boys like her.”

“No. Boys use her. There’s a difference.”
Again, I tried rationalizing Wren’s claim from a male perspective.
If a hot girl was handing out free sex, I probably wouldn’t pass on
it. “And that’s because she’s an idiot.” I pause. “And a skank
face.”

Sometimes the whole random hook-up scenario
that occurs between kids my age bothers me. A person’s innocence is
precious and beautiful and when you share that piece of yourself,
in my opinion, it’s supposed to mean something. Sure I’ve, made out
with my fair share of guys, but I decided that my virtue is special
and I should share that with someone I love. Someday.

Wren’s lips curl slightly and inside I’m
elated. So happy that I’m able to bring a smile to her lips. Sudden
warmth starts in my heart and spreads throughout my entire body.
“Thanks, Ells. You always have a way of making me feel better.”

I hug her, squeezing her tightly to my chest.
“Any guy would be a straight up moron not to want you.”

Wren pulls out of the hug and stands. I stand
too and motion to the backdoor. “You wanna go back inside?”

Wren and I both stare at the commotion going
on in the kitchen. Josh Turner is running around in a circle,
slapping several guys hands as a chorus of cheers erupts.

She looks at me earnestly. “Nah. I think I’m
going to call it a night. How bout you?”

“I’m gonna stay a little bit longer.”

She walks to the edge of the porch and nods.
“Call me tomorrow.”

“Will do.” I keep my eyes on her as she steps
off the porch and slips into the darkness.

Pushing my way through the crowded kitchen, I
stop at the keg and lean against the aluminum alcohol container.
Josh spins around and cracks a curious smile as the loud chatter in
the kitchen dies down. “What do you think you’re doing?” he
asks.

“Hoist me up,” I say adamantly. “I’m about to
show you boys how this is done.”

His chocolate brown eyes wash over me,
intrigued. “Is that so?” He lifts his arm and two linemen from the
football team move forward. One on each side of me. “We’ll see
about that.”

Twisting, I grab both sides of the keg. The
linemen raise me up effortlessly; I rest the nozzle in my mouth and
position my thumb over the red button that will eventually spill
liquid into my mouth.

Hanging upside down, I focus on Josh’s white
tennis shoes while he amps up the crowd. I can do this. Time to
play with the big dogs. Hoots and whistles throb in my ears. Then
Josh yells, “Ready…Go!”

I press the button and an explosion of cool
refreshing liquid fills my mouth. Kids start chanting and counting.
“One…Two…Three…”

After a while the voices fade out and my
vision blurs. The room is spinning. I’m seeing two of each person.
Then three. I thrash and kick violently and the two guys holding me
up help me down. I stumble, trying to focus, and Josh catches me by
the elbow. “One minute. Twenty three seconds. Not bad.”

“Thanks.” I’m slurring the‘s.’

“You okay to walk?”

“Sssure.”

He releases my elbow and I can still feel his
eyes on as I maneuver through the people. My head pounds. My
stomach does a back flip. And another round of cheers pound in my
temples. Ugh. I need to get out of here. I can’t see or walk
straight.

I’m in the hall, using the wall as a crutch.
I haven’t reached the point where my head is spinning yet, but I
know it will only be a matter. Once I hit that point, there will be
no going back. Vomit will decorate the beautiful, refinished cherry
hard wood floors and the contents of my stomach won’t be an added
accessory.

At the end of the hall, I dip my shoulder,
propping myself up against the frame separating the hall from the
living room. Squinting, I examine the few remaining couples swaying
back and forth on the dance floor, keeping an eye out for Blake. I
don’t see him.

Keeping my eyes on the floor, I turn slowly
going back the way I came. I need to make it to the front door. If
I get out of here now, there’s a good chance I’ll make it all the
way home without passing out in the grass somewhere between my
house and Adam’s.

Half way to the front door, I plow into
something or someone and my feet fly out from under me. My back
slams into the floor, the wind flies out of my lungs, and white
spots appear in my peripheral vision. The gold trim on the ceiling
spins and I blink several times as Adam appears above me and
extends his hand. “Are you okay?”

I slap his hand away and sit up. “I don’t
need your help.” Even when I’m drunk I loathe him.

Most of the time, when I’m sloshed, I’ll
lower my inhibitions and talk to anyone or anything. One time, at
another party junior year, Molly caught me talking to a
doorknob.

Adam props himself up against the wall in
front of a door. “You know. You should watch where you’re
going.”

“Don’t you have some tramp to attend to?” I
ask, trying really hard not to slur my words.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Nah. She left.”

“Oh. So now that she’s gone, you’ve decided
that you want to talk to me.”

“No.” He looks at his hand. “I still don’t
want to be talking to you.”

“Well, then I’ll make it easy on. I’ll leave
and save you from engaging in unwanted conversation.”

He eyes me oddly, examining me. He’s like a
biologist staring at an amoeba on a slide. All he needs is a
microscope. “You intrigue me,” he says sincerely. “I’m curious
about you, Ellory Graham.”

“What’s there to be curious about?”

“I don’t know. You. You’re life.

For a moment, I’m captivated. He’s seducing
me with his eyes. A nervous flutter swims through my stomach. I can
feel my heartbeat in my throat. Pounding. Constricting. I swallow
hard.

Then I find the better half of myself.

Marching forward, I point my finger at him.
“You wanna know something about me?”

His blue-green eyes sparkle. “Yeah.”

I ram my finger into his chest. “I don’t like
you.”

He smirks, amused. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. That’s so,” I mock him. “You can take
your curiosity and shove it.”

I turn speed-walking to the front door, but
on my way a door to my right opens out of nowhere and whacks the
back of my head. Hard.

Slumping, I go face first into the wood
floor. And after that, well I don’t remember what happened after
that because after the door whack me in the head, I pass out.

Chapter 7: A Tour Like No Other

There’s a power drill beneath my skull
drilling holes into my brain. The buzzing and pounding is in my
ears, my eyes. It’s everywhere. I struggle opening one eye at a
time. Then I try to sit up. The buzzing and pounding intensifies
and I lie back down as nausea rushes through my stomach. Massaging
my throbbing temples, I curse. “I’m never drinking again.”
Hangovers suck.

Glow-in-the-dark stars and the pristine white
ceiling cloud my vision. Looking down, my eyes adjust to the powder
blue walls and the rays of sunlight entering my window. I’m in my
room. But how did I get here? The last clear memory I have is me
talking to Adam after I ran into him. Maybe I walked home. Or
caught a ride with someone who was leaving the same time I did.

Mom pounds on the door. I lie back as the
pounding in my head throbs deeper. Ugh. “Yes,” I answer weakly.

Her voice is vibrant and cheerful. “You up in
there, sleepy-head?”

Another weak answer. “Yes.”

“Do you want breakfast?”

The thought of breakfast makes me want to
hurl. “No. Is there coffee?”

“Yep,” she says briskly. “It’s fresh.”

“Great.”

“Oh. And Adam called. He’ll be here in thirty
minutes.”

“Thanks, Mom.

Footsteps plod down the hall. I roll my head
and face my alarm clock. 11:00. Wow. It stuns me that she let me
sleep in until now. Mom has this theory about sleeping in, even on
weekends. She always says if you sleep in past nine in the morning,
you’ve wasted half of your day. Well, maybe she’ll waste half of
her day, but since I don’t go to bed until two in the morning, I
figure just before noon is a pretty good time to begin the day.

After tossing back four extra strength
Tylenol and throwing on some clothes, I join Mom in the kitchen.
She slides the chair out next to her with her foot, reading glasses
on, not taking her eyes off an article she’s engaged in in today’s
newspaper. “Have seat, sweetheart.”

I’m half-way to the coffee pot. “I’m
just—g.”

“She cuts me off. “I’ve already poured you a
cup.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“You bet.”

Taking a seat next to her, I shovel three
heaping spoonful’s of sugar and a dollop of milk into my cup. I’m
not really a coffee drinker. The only time I want the brown liquid
is the day following a drunken bender. Somehow the caffeine helps
with severe hangovers. Mom takes her with nothing in it. Just
black. I tried it black once. Never again. Drinking the plain black
coffee was like swallowing a mouthful of liquid compost.

Mom shuffles the paper and I feel her eyes on
me as I sip from my mug. I meet her gaze. She scans me up and down
with a disapproving frown on her face. I look at her puzzled and
shrug. “What?”

Another distasteful glare. “Is that what
you’re wearing?”

I tug on the sleeves of my extra-large
sweatshirt. “Yeah. So. What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

She closes her eyes, shaking her head. “You
look like you work at a gas station.”

“Mom, I’m giving a tour of our freakishly
small town. Not meeting the President.”

“I know, Ellory. That’s not the point.”

“I’m not going to get dressed up to point out
how many cornfields this town has.”

She buries her head in the paper. “I just
thought you’d want to look presentable, that’s all.” Her voice is
soft and sad. I think somewhere deep inside of Mom she wishes I was
more like Wren, frilly and girly. Always dressing up and going out
for mother-daughter shopping trips. That’s not me. That will never
be me. I like my worn jeans with self-made holes. I like my vintage
rock-n-roll t-shirts. And I like my sweats. End of story.