Page 10 of Emmett
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Another week passes of my body glued to the couch with either a bottle or a can in my hand, frozen pizza and microwave chicken nuggets the only food that I pick at, before I decide that I can’t put off leaving the house anylonger and that the small deliveries of the things I need just aren’t going to cut it.
After throwing on a fresh shirt and pulling a baseball cap backward over my head, I grab my keys and head for the closest superstore in an attempt to get everything that I need in one go and get back to the dark little hole that I’ve carved out for myself in my living room.
Funny name for that, isn’t it, living room? I don’t think I’m doing muchlivingin there lately. I’m pretty sure that I haven’t even said more than ten words out loud over the past two weeks, and the only people I’ve spoken to or seen at all are those behind the screen of my TV.
Walking into the store, I pull out my phone to send my dad a text and ask if he needs me to pick something up. If I don’t send him signs that I’m still alive, he’ll just show up at my house, and I really don’t want him to do that.
I’m sure he knows something is going on; I’ve been ‘sick’ for probably too long, but he’s giving me space and I’m grateful for that. I don’t want him to see this. I don’t want any of them to know aboutanyof this.
I’m almost certain that I hear a few quick shutters of a camera from somewhere nearby, but I pull all of my focus into being present enough to find the things that I need, pushing my way through the hangover creeping in at the edges of my brain and the horrible voices swirling around in my head until I slam right into a hard wall of someone’s body and I stagger backward.
Bringing my gaze up from the ground, I’m met with a man maybe an inch taller than me, built wide and strong. If he wanted to, he could take up half of the damn aisle.
Nash Montgomery.
What the hell is he doing here?
“Excuse you, asshole,” he grumbles as he turns to face me. “Ohh. The Fowler kid, right?”
“Yup. That’d be me.”
“You look like shit, kid,” he chuckles and reaches past me to grab something off of a shelf. “Smell like shit, too. Daddy kick you out of the business because you couldn’t play with the big boys?”
“Sure, why not,” I mutter, squeezing past his brawny frame.
“That’s why,” he comments. “You’ve got no fire. It makes you look weak.”
He gives me a smirk and turns away from me to make his way through the aisle, and I take a second to recenter myself so I can finish up and focus on getting what I need and getting the hell out of the store.
You look weak.
The sentence plays through my mind alongside all the others as I plod through the aisles and try to get everything off of the list, which also unfortunately only exists in my mind, distorted by the thoughts that I can’t seem to push away.
Tissues. Pathetic loser. Beer. Coward. Pizzas. Disappointment.
Any other time, I would have stood my ground and said something to him. I’ve never had a problem dishing it out and putting someone in their place. In fact, I’ve always been pretty damn good at that.
Maybe Nash is right. Maybe I don’t justlookweak. Maybe Iamweak now.
•
There are a handful of fraternity houses around my school, a couple of which have loud, crazy parties almostevery night. I’ve seen them start as early as three in the afternoon – or maybe that’s when they were ending. I don’t live particularly close to campus, but tonight, I don’t mind driving the thirty-some minutes to get to one of them. I’ve never spoken to any of the kids in those frats, and I really don’t intend to change that tonight.
I stop my car on the corner of the street and head down the sidewalk on foot, passing by all of the houses and trying to decide which one looks the most like a distraction, finally choosing a three-story Greek revival with banners and streamers hanging all along the front of it. It looks like they’ve been there for a while, rather than replaced every time that they host something.
A medium-height guy stands at the door as if he’s trying to play bouncer, looking maybe twenty years old. He might be older, but his polo shirt and bermuda short combo makes him look a little young. I approach anyway, honestly expecting him to stop me or turn me away or find some other way to make things difficult.
Instead, he throws me a, “What’s up, dude!” Complete with the ‘rock on’ devil horns as I offer him a tight-lipped smile and slide past him into the house.
It would be a massive open space inside if it weren’t filled with so many people. One of those spaces that would verge on creepy if it weren’t jam packed at all times; too much room for skeletons to come crawling out of its many, many closets.
The entire house smells like multiple scents of the same cheap body spray brand have been poured out into the carpets in anticipation of their guests arriving for the night; probably to cover up the smell of vomit from the party that they probably hosted last night, and the one before that. Despitethe offensive sting in my nose from the smell, I shove my way through to the kitchen, which is fully stocked with three different kegs, a couple of plastic bins filled with jungle juice, and a plethora of assorted bottles spread out on the counters.
I reach for one of the brightly-colored plastic cups next to a giant tub of jungle juice and dunk it in, filling it it to the brim with fruit, a few ice cubes, and god knows what other kind of crap they threw in there to make the vibrant red concoction. I bring the cup to my mouth and quickly chug the drink down before refilling it and repeating the process until I reach a nice, warm buzz. It’s sickeningly sweet and nearing room temperature despite the few chunks of ice still floating around in it, but it’ll get the job done.
Between the alcohol buzzing in my mind, the noise of the conversations and terrible singing happening all around me, and the playlist of top forties blasting over the speaker system, the screaming in my mind has actually gone quiet. I heave a sigh of relief and dive full force into the party, playing a few rounds of flip cup, and I eventually find a table to start up a quick game of beer pong.