Because of You (3 page)

“Are you ready to parrr-tayy?” Gina hollers at a random group of girls crossing the dark soccer field next to us.

They speed up, seemingly desperate to be as far away as possible. I can’t blame them. I want to abandon half our duo.

Gina is my roommate, and so different from me I wonder if we’ll work out. It’s like the people handling the roommate selection process wanted to mess with my head. I can almost hear two evil senior girls cackling. “Ohh, she likes to read, she’s into classical music, and she likes puzzles? Ha ha.” They high-five each other and pull an application from a pile. “Let’s give her this one. No one wants this one either.” Bam! I get Gina.

The only music Gina listens to isn’t even music. It’s some guy screaming. The band name is Black Veil Brides. I know this because she has posters of them all over her side of our dorm room. Plus, she plays their songs over, and over, and over. If that isn’t bad enough, she doesn’t own a single book—at least, she didn’t unpack any. Worst of all, she has no idea what Sudoku is.

“It’s funny,” Gina says, bringing me out of my reverie. “I scare them,” she points at the scurrying girls and continues, “but they’re heading into the lion’s den.” She shakes her head. “Are you scared, Maddelena?”

“A little,” I admit.

The truth is, this whole place makes me nervous. I mean, it’s college and I’ve been here for two days. It blows my mind. I received a full ride scholarship for music. It’s hard to believe I’m not the little girl with the scared eyes finding her parents dead. I’ve gone on living, while they are buried in the earth.

Gina’s features turn serious. “It’s okay to be scared. That means you’re growing.”

I’m shocked. Her words are deep. “Well, don’t be surprised if I wake one morning as a giant.”

She smirks. “Roommate is a comedian. You go.” She pats my shoulder awkwardly.

“I have my moments,” I say, eyeing her, hoping I haven’t crossed a line. Gina looks scary. Shaggy long blond hair reaches her waist, but the top is spiked. Gobs of black eyeliner circle her blue eyes. A slinky black dress and black ankle boots. Her vibe doesn’t say, “Hey, I’m sweet.” It’s more, “Look at me wrong and I’ll kick your ass.”

I wonder if the students crossing Asher Field with us are as nervous to be here at the University of Bellam Springs as I am. Gina doesn’t seem to be, but it’s my first time living on my own, without my aunt and uncle. I’m guessing it’s a first for most of these students. And going to a party without parental supervision, with no curfew—another big first—at least for me.

A part of me wishes the boy I made the promises to when we were younger could share this first, but I quickly push the thought away. It’s been seven years since I’ve seen him. And that’s for the best.

I gingerly touch the tattoo below my belly button, flinching at the pain. Reveling in it.

Definitely for the best
, I think.

Millions of stars glimmer overhead. Darkness covers the wild wilderness the University sits on. Gina and I are staying in Irvine Hall, the tallest dorm on campus. It’s across the street from the cafeteria. The smell of overcooked food swirls in the air, as does a feeling of exhilaration.

“We don’t have to go, you know. I’ve got—” I begin, but Gina interrupts.

“Don’t even try it, Maddelena Martin. We’re going to this party, and I demand you have fun.”

“It’s Maddie,” I say, correcting her for probably the twentieth time. I’ve always hated my name. It’s too long and seems pretentious. Plus, at almost every piano recital, the person announcing me gets it wrong.
Mad. Elle. Ayy. Na.
It doesn’t seem difficult, but then I’ve lived with it for eighteen years. “Why do you care if I have fun?”

She looks like I slapped her but recovers quickly. It’s a fair enough question. Two days ago I didn’t know she existed. “Fine. I’ll call you Maddie as long as you do two couch shots at this party. Deal?” She punches my arm.

I rub the spot she hit, worried. I have no idea what
couch shots
are, but after a moment’s pause I agree. “I guess.” I try to smile. My lips aren’t sure how it works, so I give up.

Gina doesn’t seem to notice my almost smile as she gives me a quick once over. “And next time we go out, you have to let me do your hair and makeup. You look like you don’t give a damn what the boys think. Those jeans. Really? They’re like two sizes too big.”

I blush, thankful she can’t see my embarrassment in the dark. Casually I glance at my clothes:
slightly
baggy jeans hanging off my bony hips, tan ballet flats, and a pink t-shirt. “What do you mean? This outfit is…awesome.” I know it isn’t, but I don’t care.

I have a serious infatuation with shoes, not fashion. All I own are ballet flats, but shoes are how I study people, the world.

She huffs. “Did you even brush your hair?”

I’m not one for confrontation, but Gina is getting on my nerves. “Yes, I brushed my hair,” I say, discreetly running a hand along the ends. “Rude much?”

Her face falls. “Shit, I’m sorry. My therapist says I need to work on thinking about what I say before I say it.”

She sees a therapist? Good to know. Maybe we do have something in common. “No problem,” I say.

We walk in silence until we’re across the street from the frat house. People are all over the lawn, on the wide wrap-around porch, and hanging out the second and third story windows. Everyone appears to be having fun. A part of me longs to let go, to be carefree. To “live a little.” That’s what my aunt told me to do when she dropped me off.

We cross the street and Gina asks, “We good?”

“Of course.”

The party-smile returns to her face. “Cool! Let’s rock,” she shouts, raising a fisted hand in the air.

Several kids at the frat house yell their agreement.

If outside is crazy, inside the frat house is wild, filled with young, sweaty bodies gyrating to music so loud it’s rattling the windows. Everyone has large plastic cups filled with a red liquid. Some people are smoking. Couples are making out. My cheeks feel hot and my eyes water.

This place is like nothing I’ve ever known. It’s harsh, sordid, and raucous. The noise, the brilliant colors—it all makes my head spin, and my heart racket against my chest.

It’s obvious how naïve I really am. I had no idea people did stuff like this. Living with my aunt and uncle was fine; they took care of me, gave me affection, but I was also homeschooled, kept in a pampered prison. Up until this moment my only social life was therapy sessions, piano recitals, and a yearly visit to the tattoo parlor.

The atmosphere around me is everything I never imagined. And I think I might like it.

“Come on, let’s get drunk and do something stupid,” Gina says excitedly.

I follow her, trying hard not to run into anyone, but it’s difficult. People are everywhere. Gina moves ahead of me, her lithe body sliding around people like they aren’t even there.

In the living room is a ratty green couch. Around it is a lot of commotion. People cheering. Bewildered, I stop to watch. A guy kneels on either side of the couch. Two girls sit down. The guys tilt the couch back and two more guys pour white liquid down the girls’ throats. Students are chanting: “Go. Go. Go.”

A couple of seconds later the guys on either end of the couch tilt the girls back up. The girls look flushed, their eyes glassy. Giggling, they wobble as they stand and stumble away. Two more girls take their places and the guys repeat the process.

If that’s what Gina means about couch shots then she can call me Maddelena for as long as she wants. I turn away, looking for my roommate, and she’s in my face, two cups of the red liquid in her hands.

“Here you go, Maddelena.”

I take the cup from her and sniff. Orange, lemon, and lime chunks are floating on top. It smells like gasoline mixed with citrus. “What is it?”

“It’s called Jungle Juice.” She tips the cup and chugs down the whole thing, takes out a piece of fruit, and bites the fruit off the rind. “Ahh, this stuff is good. Try it.”

I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip. It burns all the way down, but in a good way. It’s sweet and painful. As though it’s telling me to enjoy the scorching. And I do.

I pull the cup from my mouth, and look at Gina. My eyes are wide with surprise. “It’s good, right?” Gina asks with a knowing smile.

“It is,” I say, taking another drink, this one larger than the first. My insides warm and open and relax and sigh all at the same time. I chug down more.

“Welcome to the best part of college,” she says, touching her cup to mine with a plastic clink.

I pull the cup from my mouth but don’t say anything. My mind is reeling. It’s as though I’ve been waiting my whole life for this. And suddenly I want more, more, more.

Two guys stumble into Gina’s back and she falls forward into me. Jungle Juice from my glass spills down the front of my shirt.

“Great.”

Gina snickers, brushing a piece of fruit off my chest.

“Not funny,” I say, but for some reason my body disagrees and a gurgle of laughter escapes my throat.

Gina winks. “I need a refill. Want one?”

“Hell yeah.” My fingers cover my mouth. I’m shocked. Where did that voice come from? So full of excitement. Happiness even. Definitely not me. At all. Swallowing down another giggle, I say, “I’ll meet you back here. I’m gonna wash this off.” I point at the red juice staining my shirt. It’s ruined, but I don’t care. There’s a low furnace, warm and lovely, burning in my belly. I’m relaxed, moreso than I ever thought I could be, and I want to explore.

“ ‘Kay, see ya in a few.” Gina takes my cup.

The first thing I realize as I walk is I’m stumbling a little, leaning into people. Smiling a lot. Apologizing more. Someone hands me a drink.

“Thanks.” I gulp it down in three swallows. The liquid wasn’t red and fruity, but amber. My throat, my stomach, each and every one of my veins are on fire.

My head feels heavy and light at once.

It’s freeing.

No more pain. No sadness.

I forget for a moment what I was doing.
What was so important that I left Gina and the fruity drinks?
I think
.

“What’s on her shirt?” A girl asks, pointing at me.

“I think she puked,” someone answers.

I look down at my shirt and remember the red stain. Like my heart is bleeding.

“I spilled,” I say, laughing. “Do you know where there’s a bathroom?”

I’m bold, unencumbered, and ready to make friends with the world. A giant weight has lifted. So my parents died. I need to move on. It’s been seven years. No amount of depression will bring them back. As my shrink says, “Accept what you cannot change.” That’s what I’ll do. Experience all life has to offer. Maybe this is what my aunt meant when she told me to live a little. I didn’t need tattoos but alcohol mixed with punch, and chunks of fruit floating on top.

“That way,” the girl smirks, rolling her eyes.

I don’t even care. “Thanks,” I respond, waving.

When I find the bathroom I grab hold of the handle and try to turn. It’s locked.

A girl pushes my shoulder. “Hey, there’s a line.”

I glance at her, and see she’s pointing at a group of girls leaning against the wall. It seems to go on forever.

“Oh, sorry.” But I’m not deterred and decide to see if there’s a kitchen. There should be. This is a house. I spot an entry with swinging western doors and push my way in.

It’s the kitchen all right. There’s an island with pots hanging above it. To the left is a microwave, a stove, and cupboards. Straight ahead is the sink, but it’s occupied.

A couple is having sex. The girl’s ass is situated on the edge. The guy is standing, his pants around his ankles and her legs around his hips. They’re moaning, saying things, words that make my face heat and blister.

“Sorry,” I say, but either they don’t hear me or they don’t care, and I’m not waiting around to figure it out.

A delicious ache spreads low in my belly. Seeing the way they were so into each other, lost in the moment. I can’t help but wonder what that must be like.

At the end of the hall is a set of stairs, and I climb, still thinking about the pair, my body singing with hunger for something I don’t understand. Aunt and Uncle Martin weren’t exactly forthcoming on the “birds and the bees” front. They gave me the basics, methodically and without emotion. Then they played me a video of a woman having a baby. It was horrific, full of blood and goo. If they were trying to keep me from being curious, it worked. But as my thighs and knees quake with need, I get the sense there must be more.

At the top of the stairs is a long hallway, several closed doors on each side. I’m thinking maybe I should forget about cleaning my shirt and go find Gina. Get more Jungle Juice and maybe try a couch shot after all. But as I’m debating, I’m walking, and open a door.

The room is full of smoke and a strange smell. Two guys are sitting on the lower bed of a set of bunks, holding a python. It must be ten feet long. Its slithery body is trying to coil around one of the guys’ thighs. A couple of girls are in chairs across from them. They’re laughing. One girl passes a pipe to the guy getting his leg throttled. He takes it, inhales, and holds his breath. The girl across from him stands and places her lips on his. As he exhales, he rubs one of her breasts over her shirt.

They notice me and the guy whose thigh isn’t being strangled says, “Come on in.” He gives me a lopsided grin, showing off a dimple.

“That’s okay.” I close the door and head down the stairs. My sticky shirt is going to remain sticky—at least until I get back to my room.

This house reminds me of a fun house at a carnival, and it’s exhilarating. Every step, every turn is filled with strange and thrilling horrors.

I carefully make my way back to the living room and search for Gina. She’s talking to a couple of guys. They laugh. A coy smirk flashes across her face and she places a hand on each guy’s chest.

“Gina! Gina!” I wave, but the party is too loud. Moving past people, I make my way toward my roommate.

Another set of girls is being couch tipped. It’s like a weird ritual. I can’t help but stare. Which is bad, because that means I’m not watching where I’m going.