Beautiful Failure (17 page)

“No, but you could be bi-sexual.”

“Next time I see you, I’ll make sure you never question my sexuality.”

“Looking forward to it.” I climb back into bed and hug a pillow to my chest. I’ve never been a fan of talking on the phone—or having phone sex because I’ve always had to fake it, but with him? I don’t want our conversation to ever end, and I enjoyed listening to him get me off.

“Are you going to be busy tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I admit. “I have AA.”

“All day?”

“More than likely.” I pause for a second and debate whether I should tell him more. “It’s ‘look into our pasts’ day so it usually lasts for at least eight hours.” I stifle a groan. Everyone in the group is only supposed to get twenty minutes to talk, but they always go over and we always end up being there past midnight.

“You’ll call me when it’s over.”

“What? I didn’t hear the inflection. I believe you meant for that to be a
question
.”

He laughs. “The next time you get out of my car without me opening the door for you, I’ll chase you down.”

“And tickle me?”

“I’ll do
more
than tickle you.” He pauses. “You should go to sleep now.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you don’t live alone, and if I stay on the phone with you I’ll be tempted to come by and do everything I should’ve done to you hours ago.”

I can’t help but smile.

“Good night, Emerald.”

“Good night, Carter.”

F
or the past two weeks, my mind has been picking the worst times to meander down memory lane.

Whenever I want to think about things that make me happy—things like Robyn and Sarah inviting me to Georgia to shop, it decides to remind me about “Amy fuckin’ Houston,” as if it doesn’t want me to completely give in to the idea of having friends.

When I want to think about things that make me “feel”—things like talking to Carter on the phone a few nights a week and him bringing me to my knees with a single kiss, it shows me what happened the last time I dated a guy, the last time he screamed his girlfriend’s name mid-climax.

And today, when I want to think about how I’m not like the other alcoholics because my mom
did
love me, it chooses to play a memory I don’t want to see—a memory I could’ve sworn I forgot.

“Em?” Leah steps in front of me, waiting for me to look up from my homework.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think about this dress?”

I watch as she twirls around the room, showing off the soft and airy fabric of her yellow and blue sundress. Her hair is pulled back into a curly ponytail, and as usual, she looks beautiful. Too beautiful for words.

“I like it,” I say. “It looks good on you.”

“Okay.” She rolls her eyes and stops her fashion show. “What’s wrong with you this week? First you don’t feel like drinking with me Monday, you bail out of a trip to the Versace store with Vincent, and now you’re using the word ‘good’? Like, that’s it? You usually hit me with one of those ad—um...One of those—”

“Adverbs.”

“Right.” She shrugs. “What’s wrong?”

I put my pencil down and lean back in my chair. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“You’re fucking gorgeous. You look just like me.” She laughs, then she stops once she sees I’m not laughing back. “I’m sorry.”

“I got nominated for homecoming queen last Friday.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I would’ve taken you shopping for a dress!”

“I pulled out of the competition...”

“What? Why?”

“When they passed out the ballots, everyone else’s name was right but mine. Somebody got a hold of them and crossed my picture out...Then they wrote ‘Fugly Slut’ where my name should’ve been.”

The principal had apologized to me profusely and swore to have the ballots changed by next week, but I’d told him that it was okay, that clearly I wasn’t meant to run. Even though he swore he’d get to the bottom of it and punish whoever did it, the damage had already been done.

At least in my eyes it had...

“Slut?” Leah wrinkles her brow.

“I’ve slept with two guys and I’m only sixteen.” I try not to cry because I know crying is pointless. “And everyone knows who those two guys were...One guy is understandable, but TWO? No one is going to vote for the school slut, Leah. I wouldn’t even vote for me...”

She crosses her arms. “Let me get this straight. You pulled out of the competition because some stupid bitches were jealous of you and jacked up the ballots?”

“I also don’t have any friends. You need friends to win. It’s a waste of time—especially if people already think I’m a slut.”

“First of all, having sex doesn’t make you a slut. The only people who believe that are the frigid virgin bitches who hold on to their cherries until they get married and realize their husbands can’t fuck for shit. Then they wish they had sampled around so they try to shame other women into sharing their misery by calling them sluts. Fuck them.”

I nod as she hands me a tube of mascara.

“Second of all, you’re putting your name back in that competition and we’re going to make sure you win, friends or not. I don’t need to see any of the other girls to know that you’re the prettiest one out of all of them.”

I don’t say anything. I just listen.

“Looks will always help you win, Emerald.” She pulls out her phone. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

I’m not sure who she calls, or what’s up her sleeve, but she steps out of the room for twenty minutes and then she comes back. 

“Okay. Let’s go get the dress for your big night.”

Two weeks later, my name is called at halftime and I’m crowned as the homecoming queen of Teaneck High School. The principal—a new one since our old one suddenly resigned for “marital issues” days ago, puts the crown on my head and I wave out to the crowd.

I expect Leah to be the loudest clapper. I expect her to wave back, especially since she went through so much trouble to get me back in the race, but she doesn’t.

Because she isn’t there.

When I arrive home later that night, I walk in on her sniffing a line of cocaine off our table.

“What’s up, homecoming queen?” She smiles.

“You said you were coming.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Em! I got a last minute call from Arnie and—he was really depressed, so I figured I could take him for double. But guess what?”

“What?”

“I got triple!” She stands up. “Looks like we both won tonight! Beer or wine? We have to celebrate!”

“Wine.” I sigh. There’s no use in being upset.

“Great choice! Oh, and I got some leftover weed from this morning. Could you roll it up while I look for the corkscrew?”

I shake my head, stopping it right before I tell Leah that I received an early acceptance letter from NYU, right before she tells me that I’m too pretty to go to college and should pursue modeling instead.

Opening my eyes, I realize I’m in Alcoholics Anonymous. On a Saturday.

It’s part three of “Share our Past” day since the last two sessions ran over by two hours.

I’ve admitted that I’m an alcoholic to myself, but I still don’t feel like I belong here—with people who just cry all the time. Nonetheless, I’ve gotten better about coming early to these silly little sessions. I’ve been setting out the chairs hours beforehand, writing words of inspiration on the dry erase boards, and buying refreshments for the group with my own money.

Last month, I asked everyone what their favorite coffee was, so I always stop by Starbucks and pick up personalized orders. Unfortunately, that nice and expensive gesture isn’t enough to get me out of coming.

I’ve already asked. Several times.

“So...” Our newest member, a girl who’s a few years older than me, starts to cry like she’s at a funeral. “So, my mom was my best friend. We did everything together. Parties, drugs, drinking—
especially
drinking...”

“Calm down,” Tim says. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

“She gave me my first beer when I was thirteen and it was gross, but after I had a few more I got hooked. It wasn’t bad for the first few years, but when I turned eighteen it got even worse. I had to drink every day...I
needed
it. We
both
did. Alcohol got us through when life was kicking our asses...”

I roll my eyes. I don’t want to hear this crap.

“She got me a fake ID at fifteen so I could join her at smoke bars. She encouraged me to lose my virginity to this guy who didn’t care about me just because she said it would feel good, because she said I should go ahead and get it out of the way. She said guys really liked the experienced girls...”

“Did you two ever talk about anything serious with each other? Your feelings?” Tim passes her a Kleenex.

“No.” Her chest is heaving. “Every time I came to her in tears, she would try and distract me. She never held me. She never consoled me. She’d just tell me to suck it up and pass me a beer...Or she would tell me to dry my face and put on more makeup.”

I stand up and grab my purse.

“Going somewhere, Emerald?” Tim looks up at me.

“Restroom,” I murmur and make a dash for it. I check all the stalls before locking myself inside and splashing my face with cold water.

I decide to stay in here for at least twenty minutes because I don’t want to hear the rest of that pathetic girl’s story. As a matter of fact, I’m going to suggest she join the secondary AA group once today’s meeting is over; that’s where all the cry-babies with mommy issues belong.

Forty more days...Forty more days...

There’s a sudden knock at the door and I take a deep breath before opening it.

It’s the crybaby.

“Hey...” I let her in.

“Hey.” She sniffles. “Tim just wanted me to make sure that you hadn’t left early.”

“Of course he did.”

She walks over to the sink and pulls several Kleenex from a box. “How come you never share anything with us, Emerald?”

“You’ve only been in the group for three weeks. How do you know if I share or not?”

“Everyone knows you don’t share. After every meeting someone always says, ‘I wonder when Emerald is going to share,’ so that clearly means—”

“It means it’s no one’s goddamn business.”

“I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

“Well, you did.” I roll my eyes. “Since there’s an AA
gossip
group, you can tell them that I don’t share because I’m trying to actually take responsibility for being a drunk in the past, unlike the rest of you. No one
forced
you to drink. Your mom didn’t hold a gun to your head and force you to down those beers.
You
chose to, and the sooner you wake the hell up and realize that
you
are the reason why you’re here, the sooner you’ll get out.”

“I’m not
blaming
my mom for anything.” Her voice is suddenly cold. “She was lost and she didn’t know how to help me, so she did the best she could. Her best just wasn’t good enough. That’s why she’s in prison and I’m in here. With
you
.” She steps closer to me and narrows her eyes. “It was your mother wasn’t it? Is that why you walked out during my story? Did it sound too
familiar
?”

I swallow.

“I bet you can
relate
.” She nods. “I bet your mom was your best friend just like my mom was, and you don’t want to talk about her flaws because you don’t think she had any. Because you don’t think
you
have any.”

My blood is boiling and I want to punch her in the face for mentioning my mother, but she doesn’t back down.

“She wasn’t a bad mother to me,” she says. “She gave it all she had, but ‘
all she had
’ fucked me up for life. Just like your mom fucked you up for life.”

I push her away from me as hard as I can and she gasps.

“Tell Tim to kiss my ass.” I hiss. “And you should consider joining the crybaby group. They meet on the days I’m not here.” I storm out and head for the bus stop that’s down the street.

I don’t have to sit and wait for one to come. I can see one in the distance so I wave it down as it rolls down the road.

Since I promised Henry and Virginia that I wouldn’t walk out of rehab early again, I can’t go home just yet. I know they’re there right now—preparing for another bake sale, and I’m not in the mood to be peppered with questions.

My phone vibrates and I pull it out, ready to face an angry message from Tim about a threat to call the judge, but it’s not angry at all:
“Emerald, Tina told me how she confronted you in the bathroom. I’m sorry she did that, and she’ll apologize to you in front of everyone at the next session. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you’re doing better and you’re close to your breakthrough moment. Please let me know that you’re safe.”

“I’m safe.”
I text him back and put my phone on silent.

Ten minutes later, I pull the bus’s stop rein and step off in front of a convenience store. I go inside, buy a bottle of water, and sit on the edge of the sidewalk.

I’ll need to sit here for another five hours before going home, to make it seem like I’ve been in rehab all day. I consider calling Sarah or Robyn since I know they’re off today, but I don’t feel like having fun right now.

I need to think.

All this time I thought Leah and I’s relationship was pretty damn good. We had our strains here or there, but I accepted them fully, never thinking that things could’ve been different. Or
better
.

Sure, she could’ve been there for me more—
should’ve
been there for me more, but no one’s perfect. And all those things she wrote in her final letter—words that I still have memorized to this day, they can’t be true.

They can’t be.

If they were, it would make everything we had in the past a blatant lie, and I just can’t accept that.

Was she really a ‘beautiful nothing’? Am I?

I’ve followed all of her early advice to the letter—never forming full friendships, never being open with anything except alcohol, and always knowing that looks will get me whatever I want.