Read Online Smashed: Story of a Drunken Girlhood by Koren Zailckas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Koren Zailckas
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far too dis-oriented to remember in full. I know I’m lying in my Wayne costume on an alien futon. I can vaguely remember the walk back from the cemetery, when Billie got sick on the side of the road and I lost my balance and skinned my knee.
I feel Billie’s hand on my elbow, shaking me and saying, “Come on, we have to go.”
I drag my revenant ass to the bathroom, where in the light of the vanity mirror, the lemon-colored wallpaper is too bright to look at. When I look at my reflection, my eyes are as bleary as they were the time I had pinkeye. The T-shirt I’m wearing feels damp, as though I had night sweats, so I change into a fresh one.
48 INITIATION | First Waste
I splash cold water on my face and use my fingers to comb the knots out of my hair. I dig two aspirin out of the medicine cabinet because it seems like the right thing to do.
Billie’s stepmom, Dawn, drives us to school in a silver Mit-subishi that has the new-car smell that turns my stomach. I sit in the backseat with my elbow on the sill of the child-safe window and my chin in my hand. My throat is raw and scratchy after smoking half a pack of cigarettes, and my fingers have retained the smell. Billie is in the front seat, pulling the sun visor down and mouthing I’m so hungover in its little lit-up mirror.
A few miles from school, Dawn steers the car into the drive-thru at Honey Dew Donuts as though this were some huge act of generosity. She leans her head out the car window to shriek into the talk box, saying, “We want two hot chocolates, two bagels, and donut holes,” even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. Neither Billie nor I can think of consuming a thing. The saccharine smell of donuts emanates from the pickup window, and when Dawn passes a bag back to me, I have to hold it far away from my face, for fear of losing my aspirin.
Billie tosses hers in her knapsack and says, “Thanks, Dawn.
We’ll eat them during homeroom.”
For the first part of the day, my mouth tastes bad. My stomach heaves. My head is filled with the dead space of a hangover. I feel dehydrated, but every trip to the water fountain makes my stomach fizzle. I can’t stand up without suffering vertigo. For the first three periods of the day, I think these symptoms could kill me, but by fourth period, I almost enjoy them.
Fourth period is earth science, where I decide I like being hungover because it gives me a focal point. The side effects of the night before allow me to focus on life’s details: raising my
hand, saying “Here,” resisting my stomach’s contractions. I am no longer worried about the big picture. I’m not paying attention to a quiz that got passed back to me with a fat red C, or to the girls who whisper when I walk by their lab table. For the time being, I feel far removed from those issues. The bad grade is like deforestation of the Amazon. The catty girls are like global warming.
As the day spins on, I am intently focused on the here and now. Here, my head throbs, so I ask the nurse for more aspirin. Now, my stomach somersaults, so I compute the number of steps to the nearest bathroom. For the first time in my life, I’m not worried about catastrophes until they arise. The discovery is al-most Confucian. I feel like I’ve found a religion.
Unfortunately , not everyone is a believer.
Margaret Feeney is my first and last pen pal.
We met at ballet camp the summer before I started high school, and we stayed in touch. She sends me a letter every few weeks. I love spotting Margaret’s stupid pink stationery in the mail-box. I love seeing my name lettered with curlicues on an enve-lope that is dotted with stickers. Inside, Margaret’s letters are short. Mostly, she writes to me when she has updates. She writes to say she got a boy’s phone number or a Dalmatian puppy and “Can you believe it?” Sometimes she includes goofy pictures she thinks I’ll appreciate. In one she wears a sequined tutu and looks
resentful. In
I feel Billie’s hand on my elbow, shaking me and saying, “Come on, we have to go.”
I drag my revenant ass to the bathroom, where in the light of the vanity mirror, the lemon-colored wallpaper is too bright to look at. When I look at my reflection, my eyes are as bleary as they were the time I had pinkeye. The T-shirt I’m wearing feels damp, as though I had night sweats, so I change into a fresh one.
48 INITIATION | First Waste
I splash cold water on my face and use my fingers to comb the knots out of my hair. I dig two aspirin out of the medicine cabinet because it seems like the right thing to do.
Billie’s stepmom, Dawn, drives us to school in a silver Mit-subishi that has the new-car smell that turns my stomach. I sit in the backseat with my elbow on the sill of the child-safe window and my chin in my hand. My throat is raw and scratchy after smoking half a pack of cigarettes, and my fingers have retained the smell. Billie is in the front seat, pulling the sun visor down and mouthing I’m so hungover in its little lit-up mirror.
A few miles from school, Dawn steers the car into the drive-thru at Honey Dew Donuts as though this were some huge act of generosity. She leans her head out the car window to shriek into the talk box, saying, “We want two hot chocolates, two bagels, and donut holes,” even though that couldn’t be further from the truth. Neither Billie nor I can think of consuming a thing. The saccharine smell of donuts emanates from the pickup window, and when Dawn passes a bag back to me, I have to hold it far away from my face, for fear of losing my aspirin.
Billie tosses hers in her knapsack and says, “Thanks, Dawn.
We’ll eat them during homeroom.”
For the first part of the day, my mouth tastes bad. My stomach heaves. My head is filled with the dead space of a hangover. I feel dehydrated, but every trip to the water fountain makes my stomach fizzle. I can’t stand up without suffering vertigo. For the first three periods of the day, I think these symptoms could kill me, but by fourth period, I almost enjoy them.
Fourth period is earth science, where I decide I like being hungover because it gives me a focal point. The side effects of the night before allow me to focus on life’s details: raising my
hand, saying “Here,” resisting my stomach’s contractions. I am no longer worried about the big picture. I’m not paying attention to a quiz that got passed back to me with a fat red C, or to the girls who whisper when I walk by their lab table. For the time being, I feel far removed from those issues. The bad grade is like deforestation of the Amazon. The catty girls are like global warming.
As the day spins on, I am intently focused on the here and now. Here, my head throbs, so I ask the nurse for more aspirin. Now, my stomach somersaults, so I compute the number of steps to the nearest bathroom. For the first time in my life, I’m not worried about catastrophes until they arise. The discovery is al-most Confucian. I feel like I’ve found a religion.
Unfortunately , not everyone is a believer.
Margaret Feeney is my first and last pen pal.
We met at ballet camp the summer before I started high school, and we stayed in touch. She sends me a letter every few weeks. I love spotting Margaret’s stupid pink stationery in the mail-box. I love seeing my name lettered with curlicues on an enve-lope that is dotted with stickers. Inside, Margaret’s letters are short. Mostly, she writes to me when she has updates. She writes to say she got a boy’s phone number or a Dalmatian puppy and “Can you believe it?” Sometimes she includes goofy pictures she thinks I’ll appreciate. In one she wears a sequined tutu and looks
resentful. In
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