Chapter 6 Ex Number One
Ex Number One
Marc
It’s amazing just how easily a shitty boy can ruin your whole night.
I’m sipping a Smirnoff Ice, already a bit dizzy, the usually sweet bubbles sour in my mouth.
Across the teeming living room, Marc and his boys are having a laugh, elbowing one another and downing cups of foamy beer.
They’re red cups, just like the kind from American shows.
Everyone says it’s so cool he got them. Marc, that is.
It’s his house we’re in for the prom after-party.
To be totally honest, Marc’s got a weird hard-on for all things American.
He says he’s going to Harvard to study, but it’s not clear to anyone whether he’s actually gotten in.
His parents, who are staying in a hotel for the night, could probably afford it, though.
They’re stupid rich. Which is kind of why we’re at Marc’s place to begin with.
It’s huge—they’ve got four whole bedrooms and a pool.
One time, Marc had me over and got me to give him a handy in it.
When he came, his voice slipped into this weird American accent. It was strange as fuck.
Anyway, I’m at Marc’s stupid big house looking at his stupid hot face and trying to make eye contact with him. I’ve been trying this for a good half hour now, and it’s like he’s deliberately not looking at me.
It’s strange to say, but in this new state of crisis, I feel a little more alive than usual. Terrified, but everything drawn into a sharper focus. I hate it. I need it.
Emily’s suddenly appeared, a bony arm around my shoulders. She’s been hitting it harder than I have, shiny copper curls wild from all the dancing.
“Come on, Nat. You’ve gotta dance with me!”
“In a minute,” I say.
Emily tracks my line of sight.
“What’s going on with you two anyway? You were all weird leaving the hall. You didn’t even speak to each other. You fighting?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
She hiccups and leans her head against my shoulder. “Babe, he’s kind of an asshole. You’re better off out of it.” She abruptly springs upright. “Now come dance with me!”
“In a bit. Promise,” I say.
I watch her pout and leave, and I gather what courage I can.
It never comes easily to me, bravery, but I’ve gotten good at faking it.
I strut across the room, imagining I’m a sexy model or actress, hoping that this will mesmerize Marc, who is now, at the very least, looking at me.
I catch the end of what his friend in the red hoodie is yelling, slapping Marc’s back to punctuate his point.
“Bullshit. No way have you jumped from the roof into the pool!”
“Can we talk?” I ask, hand on hip. A chorus of “oohs” erupts from the gaggle of twats around him.
He shrugs. “I don’t know that there’s much to talk about.”
“Marc, look, I—”
“I’ve said what I have to say and that’s it, okay?” More snickers break out around him.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Oh, fuck off, losers.”
Marc gives me the world-weary look of a forty-year-old divorcé. “Actually, guys, if you could give us a sec,” he says, and they slink off, smirking. Once they’re gone, he turns to me sharply. “What exactly do you want from me, Natalie?”
The edge in his voice slaps more life into me. I want this. I want him.
“An explanation for what the hell happened today woul—”
“What more could you need? I don’t want to be with you. I want you to leave me the fuck alone. Now, piss off.”
Despite the kind invitation, he’s the one who actually walks away. I immediately scan the crowd around me. A few people are looking over, hateful smiles on their faces. Nosy bastards and bitches, the lot of them.
Even though only a few people will have heard what he said, everyone could read our body language, and the few people within earshot have already whispered their version of events to their neighbors. I can see the gossip spreading through the party like wildfire in real time.
For the third time that night, my face is hot with shame. Emily finds me—rescues me, really. She whisks me away to a bathroom, dabs away my tears.
“You’re a bad bitch, Nat.”
“Yes,” I sniffle. “Yes, I am.” Although I don’t feel like one—and with Marc Baxter so publicly declaring me Unwanted, I’m not so sure other people will be convinced, either.
Being an object of desire for a boy like Marc Baxter comes with social currency, social currency I wasn’t born with, and social currency I’ve worked for. I can feel my balance depleting.
The party rages on. Emily and I unearth a bottle of top-shelf tequila that Marc has tried to hide away and we go to town on it. Before long, my dizziness graduates into blurriness. Everyone looks fuzzy. My casual clumsiness escalates into something more volatile, and several glasses are broken.
I’d love to say that my drama with Marc is quickly forgotten, but it’s obvious that people are talking about it through the night.
About me. Some of his friends come over to say they’re sorry to hear how things went down.
They touch my shoulder, my waist, my ass, as they say this.
I suppose I don’t have a “hands-off” rule on me anymore.
I no longer belong to Marc Baxter. I slip away from quick palms and into pulsating crowds of dancing bodies.
The tequila bottle never leaves my side.
Someone pinches my bum and I hate it, but I drink until I don’t care anymore.
And the rest is fragments.
Elbowing my way to the front of a toilet queue and chundering everywhere.
A text from my mother asking if I’m going to bed at a sensible time at my “sleepover,” ignored.
More tequila.
More dancing.
Spilled drinks. A bottle of rum carelessly elbowed to pieces on the kitchen tiles.
More tequila.
Cannonballing into the pool with my prom dress on.
Shivering.
More tequila.
A search for dry, warm clothes.
I know where Marc’s room is.
A door opened. A sudden scream. Two naked bodies interlocked.
Marc. Becky.
Pleading, tears.
More tequila.
In the bathroom again, face pressed against the cold plastic of a toilet seat.
Slurring, the world tilting on an angle.
My sister, someone’s called my sister.
Softness, warmth. I’m lying down somewhere and it smells like—
Marc. Hands. Kisses I don’t know how to return.
Pleading, tears.
I wasn’t doing anything she didn’t want.
Cold tiles.
Night air.
Fuck you.
Loud silence.
And then nothing.
—
The thing that draws me out of the darkness is the screaming.
It’s terrible, high-pitched. My whole body aches, muscles crying in a way I’m not used to, like I’ve actually hit the gym for a change.
I’m in Marc’s bedroom, which is immediately obvious from the posters on the walls: sixty percent hot women, forty percent cars.
A gentle breeze is blowing in from the large window, left ajar.
My legs swing out from under the sheets.
The moment I’m upright, the dull ache in my head becomes a painful, looping throb.
There’s a pile of soft blankets by my feet, and I get the notion that Claire might have stayed here. Claire. Where is she?
A quiet panic slowly rises through my body.
The screaming outside has been joined by more voices, all alarmed.
A new screaming voice has joined the first voice, a discordant wail echoing through the house.
I’m rushing out of Marc’s room and through the hall, down the stairs.
The screaming is definitely coming from outside.
As soon as I step into the unusually hot summer sun, the location of the commotion becomes obvious. There’s a crowd huddled by the pool. I can hear the sound of crying, blubbing. It doesn’t make sense, but I’m suddenly terrified for my sister, that something awful has happened to her.
“Claire? Claire!” I shout.
She bursts out from the crowd and sprints to me, face wet with tears. I kiss her cheeks and look her over. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head. “No. I mean, I’m fine. It’s—it’s Marc.”
“Marc?”
My chest tightens. I rush forward, elbowing my way through the throng.
On the stone slabs, two feet away from the pool, Marc lies with his head cracked open like an egg.
He has a halo of blood around him and blood streaming from his nose.
One arm is sticking out at an unsightly angle.
It’s immediately obvious that he’s dead.
Dread sinks in my chest. I look up to the place from which he’s clearly fallen. This section of the roof is square and flat. At the back of it, facing the pool, is a large window that stands ajar. Something flashes before my eyes. I remember a voice shouting—Marc’s voice.
What the fuck are you doing?
Cold grit beneath my feet, a soundless fall.
Pleading, tears.
I’m not sure what it means. But then Becky brushes past me, wailing.
She manages to stop long enough to shoot me a dirty look that lingers, scrapes to my toes and back up again, so sharp it feels like it’s raking my skin up like the peeler Mom leaves out for potatoes in the kitchen.
I catch something just as sharp then. Sharper, perhaps.
And white-hot. It’s fleeting, but suddenly, I think I know exactly what it means.
Under a mid-June sky, I hug my sister to my chest, and I pretend I’m not glad Marc is dead.
Don’t you know he was only with you ’cause he wanted to know what it was like to fuck a Black girl?
And I pretend I don’t wish Becky was dead, too.