Beautiful Failure (4 page)

I walk over to it and lift it from its hook. Then I toss it onto the ground, shattering it to pieces.

I open my drawer and pull out my half-drunken bottle of tequila—the stuff I drink on my worst days, and prepare myself for what’s to come.

I know exactly how I’m going to get rid of this bitch...

––––––––

A
t four in the morning, the door to our room opens, and Amy stumbles in—laughing with one of her friends.

She hits the lights and her eyes immediately meet mine. “Well, if it isn’t NYU’s number one whore! Emerald ‘I Fucked Two Fraternity Brothers’ Anderson!” She slurs. “That’s what happens when you cross me. I’m Amy Houston...Amy fuckin’ Houston, and you should remember that for the rest of the year while you’re busy whoring it up.”

Her friend helps her to stand, and when she takes a few steps forward, she looks over at her side of the room and sucks in breath after breath.

I wait for the reality of what I’ve done to all of her things to settle in, wait for her to realize who the real queen bitch is.

All of her designer bed-sheets and clothes are in a pile on the floor, doused in my un-washable black acrylic paint. Her mattress is cut wide open—an automatic seven hundred and fifty dollar fee, and on her fifty inch flat-screen that hangs on our wall I have a video playing. It’s showing her giving our Ethics T.A. a blow job in our room last week.

She’s on her knees and he’s caressing the back of her neck, begging her to take him deeper and deeper into her mouth.

“I accidentally recorded that while I was gone,” I say flatly. “I left my webcam on and was planning to show it to you tomorrow so we could laugh about it over vodka. I was going to delete it right after.”

“That is
not
me...” She swallows.

“Ohhhh...Amy...Fuck...” The T.A. moans on the screen. “Fuckkkk...”

“Right.” I roll my eyes and turn the volume down. “Let me tell you how the next twenty four hours are going to go,
Amy fuckin’ Houston
. You’re going to have all of your shit moved out of
my
room by the morning. I don’t care what you tell our R.A., but you won’t mention my name at all. If you do, I’ll be the bitch you were to me and put this lovely video on Facebook,
after
I send a few copies to your parents’ colleagues. I’m sure the daughter of the governor’s top advisors would make front page news if this tape ever went viral.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m not done.” I cut her off and notice that her friend’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “You’re not sleeping here tonight. I don’t want you to
ever
make eye contact with me on campus, and I swear to God if I catch wind of you even
whispering
my name, I’ll personally make sure it’s the last word you ever say.”

She blinks and then she bursts into uncontrollable laughter. “Trace...” She looks at her friend. “Can you believe this slut? Is she seriously
threatening
me?
Me
?” She laughs harder and purses her lips. “First you’re a whore and now you’re
what
? Some type of mob person? Are you going to make me disappear if I don’t move out?”

“
Try me
.”

She stops laughing and raises her eyebrow.

I’m not flinching. I’m not bluffing. And if she does anything but walk out of our room, I’ll give her the black and bloody eye she rightfully deserves.

“I’ll um...” She’s wavering. “I’ll um...I’ll be back at seven.”

I cross my arms and wait for her to leave the room, and as soon as the door shuts I hit “post” on my Facebook wall. By this afternoon, the first fifteen seconds of that video—the part that shows her pulling some man’s pants down, will be seen by everyone.

I have to make sure she knows I’m not playing games. I’ll release the whole thing if she even
breathes
in my direction.

Although it feels good to put her in her place, I know my bliss is only temporary. The second that this alcohol stops coursing through my veins, I’ll have to let myself feel the gravity of this situation all over again.

I don’t even try to fall asleep. There’s no point.

I leave the room and head for the only place that brings me peace: the library. After finding a deserted couch in the back. I bring my knees up to my chest and shut my eyes—wishing that this semester would magically come to an end so I won’t have to deal with the aftermath.

I have no idea how I’m going to put that tape behind me, how I’m going to recover.

And I
don’t
.

I never do.

For the rest of the semester, I don’t do anything but go to art class. I keep my mini fridge stocked with things I buy from the campus grocery store afterhours—Ramen noodles, yogurt, and canned ravioli, so I won’t have to eat in any of the dining halls.

I stay confined to my room and write for hours at a time. And whenever it becomes too hurtful to read what I’ve written, I paint abstracts.

On the rare occasion that I do show my face on campus—to go to my one and only class, the stares, whispers, and smirks follow close behind. Sometimes people aren’t even polite enough to whisper. They just call out loudly.

“You want to fuck somebody who knows what he’s doing, Emerald?” “You interested in making a sex tape with me?” “Parker was way too good for you anyway!”

Sometimes I see Amy hanging with her group of minions, but she never makes eye contact and she always walks away before I can get close.

I slowly slip into a state of nothingness—where all my days blur together, where no matter how hard I try to look past that sex tape, it’s always there. Still, I try to heal myself with the things that have worked in the past—vodka, cigarettes, hot showers, and weed.

With each new semester that passes by, I ignore the numerous “academic probation” and “academic counseling suggestion” letters that are stuffed into my mailbox. I enroll in new classes that I never attend—except for the art ones. I
always
go to the art ones.

Each time my advisor emails me about setting up an “emergency meeting” I tell him I’m unavailable, if I bother to respond at all.

It’s not until the last day of finals week—during the fall semester of my sophomore year,  that I receive a letter telling me that I’ve been expelled from the university, that I need to have all of my things moved out of the dormitory before the spring semester begins.

With a heavy heart, I call the only people I know and quickly find myself packing all of my belongings into my grandmother’s pickup truck.

As she drives me from the bustling city of New York and towards the dirt roads that await us in Blythe, she cries.

She says it’s her fault that she pushed me into going to college so soon, that she should’ve let me take a year off to simply live in the South and get over Leah’s passing. Then she blames herself for not checking on me more often.

I don’t intervene and tell her about the sex tape because it’s pointless. She wouldn’t understand. 

“You’re going to be okay...” She squeezes my knee as she steers the truck onto a ramp. “Things will only get better from this point on. Just hold onto that belief. You’re beautiful and talented, and no matter what anyone else says you’re going to do something great with your life one day...”

I tune her out because I’ve heard this speech a million times before, but not from her. I’ve heard Leah say those exact same words to herself in the mirror over the years, and I know that right now my grandmother isn’t really talking to me.

She’s talking to Leah.

S
ometimes I try to make myself believe that the life I’m living isn’t really my life at all. I like to think that I’m merely an actress playing the part of a miserable girl who has very few options left.

That could possibly explain why I’m currently sitting in a brightly lit room with paper smiley faces hanging from the ceiling, staring at people who have been testing my last nerve for the past two hours.

“Miss Anderson?” A soft voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Yeah?”

“Care to introduce yourself to the group?”

I sigh and stand up. “My name is Emerald Anderson... And I’m an alcoholic.”

“
Hi, Emerald.”
The addict group says dryly.

I take my seat again and cross my arms, impatiently counting the remaining minutes of today’s session.

Everyone in this room is an alcoholic—
except
me, and if it wasn’t for this past Saturday I wouldn’t even be here. As a matter of fact, I’m still trying to figure out what exactly landed me in this room full of crybabies.

It was a typical Saturday and I was getting the mail: Another stack of rejections from the big publishers in New York—“Your writing is too descriptive for the market.” “Now is not the time for a story like this.” “We don’t believe you’d be a good fit for our agency, but we wish you the best in your ongoing search.”

Right after I taped them onto my “ceiling of failure,” I decided to check my email. Ten new messages that all said the same thing: “Thank you for applying, but...”

I needed to get away to breathe so I drove to a bar on the other side of town.

Four shots of vodka. Three shots of tequila. Three drinks from strangers I’d just met, and a seven shot jumbo margarita just for fun.

Child’s play.

It wasn’t enough.

I ordered two stiff brandy and gin concoctions—resulting in a raised eyebrow from the bartender, but I could handle it.

I could always handle it.

Hours later, when I was buzzed out of my mind, I convinced myself that I had a story idea that I needed to immediately write down. I stood up from the bar and stumbled outside, rummaging through my purse for my car keys. 

Once I found them, I realized I wasn’t standing in front of my own car. Confused, I searched the lot in a daze—telling myself that I was definitely going to sleep in my backseat for a while before driving home.

There was vomit at some point—as usual, and then I realized I was standing in the middle of a street, holding a stop sign I didn’t remember picking up.

There were bright headlights. Then a sudden blackness.

That’s all I remember before seeing my grandparents bail me out of the county jail the next morning.

I honestly thought I’d served my time, but one hour apparently wasn’t enough.

The judge berated me for being “foolish, reckless, and utterly out of control” and blamed me for causing a driver to swerve off the road and hit a streetlamp. And that stop sign I’d picked up was supposedly “so new” that the city had yet to permanently cement it into the sidewalk.

I stared straight ahead and counted the paint cracks on the wall as she continued to tell me how awful of a person I was.

I was halfway listening until I heard her say, “Miss Anderson, you have two options. Since you are a first time offender and a community citizen—
Virginia Marsh
, has so adamantly vouched for your character...You can serve ninety days in the county jail and upon release be remanded to six months’ probation with an $8,000 fine for the city’s damaged property, or...”

She hesitated and I bit my tongue, hoping that the second option would be better.

“You can serve ninety days of community service with the $8,000 fine, and attend mandatory rehab for the next three months.”

My lawyer tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “She’s being very lenient with you.
Take it
.”

Now that I’m listening to a woman cry about how her daddy never loved her, I’m starting to think I should’ve picked the first option.

“That’s why I turned to alcohol,” the woman says. “Whiskey loved me back.” She’s sobbing ten times louder now, shaking her head and being absolutely pathetic.

The twenty other people in the room are chanting words of encouragement—“It’s okay, hun.” “Let it all out.” “Way not to hold back.”—and she wipes her eyes and smiles.

“Well done...” The session leader, a man named Tim with thick glasses, pulls a number out of the ‘share bowl.’ “Number eighteen?”

Everyone is quiet.

“Number eighteen?” he says a little louder. “Who pulled number eighteen when you walked through the door today?”

I sigh and raise my hand.

“Oh! Okay then!” He’s a little too excited. “Can you tell us why you’re here today?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” He furrows his brow. “Why do you think you belong here?”

“I
don’t
belong here,” I say dryly. “I was in an accident and I happened to be drunk when it happened. I wasn’t even driving.”

“So...You’re
not
an alcoholic?”

“I’m here because the court says I have to be, not because I’m a drunken idiot. So, if you could leave me out of these little
heartwarming
activities until my sentence is over, I would really appreciate it.”

The room is dead silent now and all the alcoholics are staring at me in shock.

Tim frowns, but he quickly collects himself. “Whenever you’re ready to share we’ll be here,” he says as he pulls another paper from the bowl. “Number seven?”

I try not to laugh for the rest of the meeting as every person tells some type of hour-long sob story. If it wasn’t for the fact that I only have twenty dollars to my name—or the fact that I’m now subject to random urine tests, I would drive to the liquor store right after this meeting so I could forget all about it.

As a three hundred pound man begins to whimper about no one loving him, I turn my attention to the only window in the room, where the leaves of a pecan tree are in full bloom. There’s a couple holding hands and walking around it, looking as carefree as can be, and I can’t help but feel that that’s where I really belong.

Out there.

When the meeting finally comes to a close, I stand with everyone and murmur the shared mantra: “I am not alone anymore and I will beat my addiction.”

The second that last word is out of my mouth, I rush to the parking lot and start my car.

Technically, the judge could’ve suspended my license until my rehab was complete, but since I never actually slid behind the wheel of my car when I was drunk that night, there was nothing that legally warranted that.