This is not my idea of a good time. I mean, it’s not blatant debauchery, and I’m not that much of a prude. It’s just that...this is not my scene. It started off fine. Two of Mel’s roommates from last year live in this old brick house a few blocks off campus with two other girls. But then one of the girls called her boyfriend and he came over with a few friends.
No big deal, just a dozen or so people, hanging out and drinking a little. That’s what I keep telling myself as I sit on the front porch, making small talk with a girl whose name I don’t remember.
“You’re Phoebe, Mel’s new roommate, right?” my porch companion, who has long black hair, flawless skin, and cheekbones that could cut glass, asks. I think her name is Sophie or Kristin? I’m almost positive it’s one of those.
“Yea. I just transferred from community college back home, so this is...all pretty new,” I say, gesturing widely, as though she’s supposed to understand with an outward flair of my hands that I haven’t socialized in more than two years, that crowds intimidate me and that drinking terrifies me and I really want to know if we can leave soon.
Deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. The words of one of my many therapists float through my head, reminding me to breathe. I can do this.
Sophie/Kristin must pick up on the awkwardness, because she smiles kindly. “So, what classes are you taking?”
I rattle off my schedule, doing my best to breathe and sound normal. This is fine. Nothing crazy is happening. Sure, a couple people are drinking, but nothing is out of hand.
“Oh, I had Thompson last year for Civics,” she tells me. “He doesn’t take attendance, but everything on the test is from lectures. Trust me--you don’t even need the book. I might have my old notes somewhere, if you want them. If I can find them, I’ll let Mel know.”
“Oh, yea. Thanks. That sounds great.” Actually, it sounds like cheating. Is that cheating? Or is it just sharing? I’m not sure, but it seems like a heartfelt gesture, so I go with it and keep talking. “My lit class is really hard. It’s a senior seminar on Jane Austen, and British Literature is not my thing. I think I’m going to post an ad on the Bainbridge Board for a study group.”
When I get no response, I look up to see that my formerly attentive seatmate is now totally distracted by a guy walking around in board shorts.
“Sorry, what was that?” she asks.
“Nothing. Just having a tough time in my lit class.”
“Oh, there’s a tutoring center. You should try it. I went there for help with my freshman comp papers and everyone was really helpful.”
“Thanks, I’ll try that,” I say, thinking it actually is a pretty good idea. I’ve never done the tutoring thing before. School has always come pretty easy to me, but then again, I’ve always stayed in my lane and taken gen ed, college prep classes. College, as it turns out, is a whole lot different than high school.
While I’ve been stuck in my head, board shorts guy has wandered over and taken the seat next to Sophie/Kristin. I open my mouth to introduce myself, but his mouth is attached to hers and she’s pawing at his chest like he’s a scratching post.
Ok, that’s cool. I mean, it’s weird, but it’s fine. I check my phone and see that we’ve been here forty minutes. That feels entirely appropriate for a first-time-in-a-long-time social outing. I just need to find Mel and let her know I’m ready to go. I stand up and give a little wave goodbye, which is ridiculous. Neither of them even notices I’m leaving.
I scan the yard, but Mel’s nowhere in sight. I remember she went inside to see how they’d decorated the place. It doesn’t feel right to just walk into someone’s home, so I make my way around the side of the house, checking to see if maybe she’s on the back deck. I hear voices, so that’s a good sign. Maybe she’s back here. Turning the corner, I see a large group of people, but Mel’s not with them.
Leaning against the brick wall of the house, I start to text Mel, letting her know I’m ready to head out. I shoot off a quick text, letting her know I’m ready to go soon. I could just walk back, but I really don’t want her to worry about me.
Phoebe:Ready when you are
Phoebe:Actually, scratch that. I’m ready to go now. Can you meet me by the back deck?
Shouts and cheers erupt from the direction of the deck and I’m second-guessing my choice of meeting place.
Calm down, Phoebe. It’s fine.There are people here and people make noise. Not everything is a catastrophe waiting to--my inner monologue is interrupted by a pack of guys running by, one of them hoisting a cooler over his head, not caring that ice and water are sloshing everywhere.
“Dude. You fucking can’t. No one can,” Dude Bro #1 says, scoffing at the guy in a Hawaiian shirt.
“Bet me.”
“Twenty bucks says you can’t chug this in under a minute. This shit is brutal.” He holds up a gigantic can of beer.
Hawaiian shirt guy cries, “Shotgun!” then holds the can up to his mouth sideways, pops the top and somehow sucks the whole thing down.
It’s like I’m paralyzed. I feel permanently embedded into the brick wall supporting my weight because I can’t move, even though everything in me is screaming to get the hell away. I’m not even sure my legs could walk me out of here, and my heart is beating fast and loud and I swear I can hear it. Can everyone hear it?
No, no they can’t. I’m watching them and they’re just acting like this is a totally normal Friday night, blissfully unaware that this is the stuff of my actual nightmares. But it’s
like I’m transfixed. I’m trapped here and I can’t help but watch it all.
I clutch at the brick wall behind me, needing the bite of its hard surface against my skin to ground me, to steady me. My ears are ringing and all I hear from the back yard is ambiguous noise--it’s like everything is underwater, or I’m in a tunnel or something. I try breathing the way Patrick, one of my therapists, taught me, but it’s hard to concentrate. I can’t concentrate. I can’t move. And I can’t stay. And suddenly that underwater feeling is back, and it’s pulling me down with it.
