Chapter 15 #3
“And yet, here I am,” I say, equally evenly. Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s the dress, but I’m feeling…bolder. Feistier. A little looser than usual.
And I like it.
Elena takes a dainty spoonful of bisque.
“That’s such an…interesting dress,” she says, nodding at me. Credit where credit is due: the pause between the indefinite article and the adjective is just too long to be accidental, but still too short to be audibly impolite. Masterful bitchiness. I almost want to golf clap for her.
“Thanks,” I say. For a split second, I consider name-dropping the designer, but reconsider; if the conversation steers toward fashion, I’ll be quickly exposed as a fraud. Instead, what comes out of my mouth is: “It was a gift.”
Elena coughs, and the boy to her left—a red-faced guy with strawberry-blonde hair whose whole head appears to be converging into the same color—snaps to her with concern, but she waves him off.
“Spicy,” she murmurs, smiling, and pats her mouth with her napkin. “Quite a gift,” she says, once she’s recovered. “Maybe I need better friends.” She tilts her head and laughs a little.
To my right, a steward is refilling my glass, like he’s appeared from nowhere, and I smile my thanks. Take a sip. And then, to Elena, a broader smile. “Well, the Pendragons are quite a generous family.” I give the ruffle at my wrist a little fluff. “Kai in particular.”
Bam . Direct hit. Elena’s eyes go wide as the salad plates. Wee-woo, wee-woo, you sank my battleship . I resist the urge to literally cackle. I know it’s petty, know it’s deeply stupid even to care, let alone stoop to her level, but right now, I’m helpless. I can’t resist my own bad instincts.
Besides , I think, with another strong pull of my wine. She almost left me to drown .
After a moment or two, Elena mumbles some conversational segue, turns to the red-haired, red-faced boy, and the discussion swirls and flows around us as the soup course winds down and the stewards whisk away bowls and spoons.
No one talks to me, not really, but I listen on neighbors, nod along as if I’m participating rather than eavesdropping, and sip at my wine.
Through the peaked windows, I can see the sky has gone a deep sapphire, the full moon pearl-bright against it, and I wonder how late in the night this will all go.
Wonder when I’ll get back to my dorm, wonder if Morgan will be there— and why isn’t she here?
—and how I’ll ever manage to explain away my new wardrobe.
Salads—blood orange, frisée, toasted almonds—come and go, and as the main dishes roll out, I notice Elena excuse herself—for the bathroom, presumably, although I find myself wishing it were for good.
The redheaded guy stumbles to stand and help her seat back, while I sample my merluza a la vasca —cod, apparently, in a white wine and herb sauce.
By the time Elena gets back, I’m properly tipsy. Just past that point of no regret where I realize I should have stopped half a glass ago, but it’s too late for me to do anything now.
She settles into her seat, smiling graciously as the stewards appear, white-jacketed, pouring more for all of us, and I’m no longer in any position to refuse.
“So,” she says, leaning in, her forearms against the table, just a few inches above. Her elbows, perfect manners, not to be considered rude. “How about we play a little game?”
She arches her eyebrows up, and people around us exchange glances and murmur.
“Oh, come on,” she says. “It’s fun. My cousin at St. Mary’s College in Oxford says they do it all the time. You just have to make sure the deans don’t hear.”
“I’m game,” says the red-headed guy.
“No pun intended,” I mutter into my wine glass. He either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t get the joke. A few others murmur agreement.
“Excellent,” Elena says. She sits back primly, smiling, and lifts her glass. “Never have I ever.” She sweeps a look around. “Everyone know the rules?”
I almost want to snort. Is she serious? What’s next? A round of beer pong on the long tables? But I don’t really care.
“You go first, Chet,” she says, elbowing the redheaded guy.
He goes, if it’s possible, even redder in the face. “Um,” he says, “never have I ever, uh…
“Fucked on the first date!” calls one of his buddies from down the table.
Chet goes pure crimson, and everyone around us laughs. We’ve crossed the line from an academic proceeding to college students again, albeit in all the fancy trappings of a swanky soiree.
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Chet says. “You got me.”
“You know the rules,” Elena says, looking at all of us in the eyes. “If you’ve done that, you have to drink.”
A few swigs from people around us. His titters as friends recognize unspoken truths about their nearest and dearest. I, of course, don’t need to take a drink. I haven’t even…well, it doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t say I’m fully a virgin, but certainly don’t need to take a drink in this case.
“Go, go,” Elena says, gesturing at the girl across from her.
“Um…” The girl twiddles the end of her hair, sucking her teeth nervously. “Never have I ever hooked up with two guys in one night.” She throws a sidelong glance at her friend down the table, who laughs, a little embarrassed, and throws back the rest of her wine glass.
I may not be well-versed in parties, but I’m starting to see the pattern.
It’s less about what you haven’t done, and more about what your friends have, and how you can get them sloppy drunk on their own indiscretion.
The game circles around, mercifully in the opposite direction from me, as confessions are solicited, or offered, and with pride.
I start to think about what I’ll say when it’s my turn.
Never have I ever gotten less than a B on a language exam.
Never have I ever had a curfew because my parents knew I would never leave the house because I had no friends.
Never have I ever… My thoughts trail off as a slight shift tilts itself under the legs of my chair.
I flatten my palms on the table for purchase. Look up at the chandelier.
The wine, I think . Way too much now. And it’s coming on all at once, like a bunch of ice cubes rushing from the bottom of the glass, hitting me in the face.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry, and my throat feels tight behind the impressive red collar of the Valentino dress.
There’s ice water, I realize, and I take a sip, but it does little to assuage the thick feeling in my mouth and throat.
I’ve been drunk before, but this is…I’m not sure. Different. Banquet drunk, I suppose.
The girl on Elena’s other side is thinking, “Never have I ever…” She drums her fingers against her jaw. “Had sex while my parents were home.”
Plenty of drinks at that. Even Elena takes a little sip, looking the tiniest bit embarrassed, although I feel like it’s for show. “Only halfway,” she says. “It doesn’t really count.” But she scoffs, tosses her head. “My turn?” she asks.
Everyone nods. I do too, except that my head feels heavy when I do it, rocking back and forth like my brain is sloshing with its own momentum.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, get yourself together.
I know the stewards are quick on the refills, but can I really be this trashed?
On wine? It’s not like I don’t have a full stomach .
I gorged myself on that fish. And I got seconds of the garlic toast. I even had a real lunch today, more than just an apple or almonds.
And still, I brace my thumb and forefinger against my temple, gently rest my elbow against the table, manners be damned. Things are spinning, fading, sliding. I need to get a grip .
“Let’s see,” Elena says, biting the tip of her thumb. It’s obviously fake consideration. I can tell. She knows exactly what she wants to tell all of us and is just making us wait for the theatricality of it all. Which, considering the state of my head, my body, I don’t appreciate at all.
Somewhere, in another universe, stewards are coming around with dessert plates, some sort of small chocolate cake that smells bitter and coffee-like, with a cinnamon-freckled cream dolloped on top of it.
But I can barely think about dessert, let alone the sweet-smelling port that they’re dosing out into snifters.
“Never have I ever,” Elena says. “Never have I ever. Oh, I know,” she says, her voice too perky, too certain. It makes my stomach feel like a block of ice before I even know why. “Never have I ever been locked up in a mental hospital.”
A few gasps, some uneasy giggles, and she’s looking right at me. Soon everyone else is, too.
“I promise,” she says, her voice distant, echoing. Her face, more a general area than something I can pinpoint.
I move my hand from my temple to the table again, press the other one next to it, pushing down, trying to be steady.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” Elena says, and draws a cross right above her heart, on the tan, expansive skin beneath her collarbone.
Right where my scar is.
Nobody moves. Nobody even laughs or says anything, let alone drinks. But Elena doesn’t take her eyes off of me.
“Shouldn’t you take a drink, Gwenna?” she says, her voice cool but friendly, non-confrontational. “Or was that something you were trying to hide from everyone?”
I can’t answer, won’t answer. My tongue is too thick, my temples are pounding.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I push off on the table, stand up, the chair scooting behind me, and the men in the general vicinity leap up from their chairs, showing sloppy decorum, but I wave them away.
“No, it’s…” I try to explain. “I’m going to…” I lurch to the side, clutch one of the chairs for balance.
“Oh my God,” I hear a female voice whisper, “she’s drunk.”
I’m not, I think. I mean, I am, but something’s not right.
“I have to go,” I mutter, I think, or at least I hear the words in my head, as I take loping, uneven steps down the length of the table, to the sound of ghoulish laughter, and out the arched doorways, to the foyer, and out into the night.
I gasp for air.
It hurts, burns to breathe, and nothing feels stable underneath me, like trying to walk across a treadmill that keeps changing direction, and these stupid fucking shoes aren’t helping.
I’ve been tipsy before, been drunk once or twice, actually, enough to rush back home and quietly vomit into my bathroom toilet, hoping my mom would never hear. But this feels different.
This feels…
Maybe I’m sick. Freshmen come down with things all the time, don’t they? Mononucleosis, the flu. Meningitis.
I press a hand to my forehead, suddenly clammy, and realize I’m sweating all over.
Sweating in this beautiful dress that I don’t deserve to have, my stomach churning up the gourmet food I didn’t even want to eat, my feet teetering beneath me, and I stagger along the cobblestone path toward Broceliande, and room 326.
Somehow, I make it to the room, just as my stomach gives a heavy lurch.
I barely make it to the bathroom sink. Wine, bile, something, whatever it is, it all comes up.
I wretch, feverish, wobbling, my knees giving out, and I catch my reflection in the mirror, pale as powder, sweating, lips flushed, eyes bloodshot.
It wasn’t just wine, I realize.
Someone gave me something. Slipped me something .
All at once, it feels impossibly hot in the bathroom. I swerve back into the bedroom, but that’s no better. It’s stuffy. Nauseating.
I need air. Cold night air. I latch onto the idea like a starving man in sight of food, and all but sprint down the hallway, the skirts catching between my legs, the hem nearly tripping me as I fly down the stairs two or three at a time, barely seeing anything.
I sprint, pell-mell, out into the cold, and my stupid, slender high heel catches on something I can’t even see.
Pain shoots up my ankle as I tumble to my knees in the ivy of the courtyard. My fingers find purchase, dirt and vines, and I clutch at them, desperate for something real, something grounding.
Somewhere at the edge of the universe, I hear footsteps. A voice.
“Gwenna?”
I lift my head barely. My vision is swimming, pouring over itself like spilled ink.
“What are you—oh my God.”
I’m about to topple forward, but a hand steadies me. He catches me, his arm firm and steady on my shoulder, and the last thing I see is the full moon and pair of bright blue eyes.
Then darkness.