North Warren Street He’s never been to this part of Gotham before, where the townhouses are glass and brick and worth more per month than he’d be lucky to see in a year. Hell, there isn’t even a bus stop near here—he had to walk six blocks just to get to North Warren Street. That’s t he type of money these people have: “I don’t even want to see poor people” money. It almost makes him feel bad, leaving his mom in their apartment while he hangs out in Burnley with a bunch of people he’s never met before. Hell, forget “almost.” He feels bad that he only left her a lame sandwich in the fridge. He feels bad that he put her on the couch and turned on a movie. He feels bad that he looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m going to the library, Mom. Be back soon,” like some kind of teenage rebel. At least Grant was right. There is a lot o f free booze. Jason lingers by the cooler, fiddling with the sleeves of his flannel as he decides whether or not to start talking to someone. Anyone. Half of the people he’s seen randomly at school—passing through the hallways, tacking up announcements on bulletin boards, answering a question in class—and the other half are strangers. Private school kids, he guesses. Why is this so hard? Normally he’s fine in big crowds. Not a party animal, but not a wallflower either. Just one of those people who hangs out, has a decent time, and goes home with the mild euphoria of a buzz. Well. Except for that one time someone gave him pot brownies, but he didn’t know they were pot brownies, so he ate three. That was eight hours of paranoia that he’s never getting back. The party isn’t crazy or anything. There’s a few clumps of people dancing to heavy electronica while the pulse of the bass sends shivers up Jason’s legs. Others are hanging in groups, chatting, laughing, swaying to the beat. Out back a group is passing a joint around in a circle. Other than the location and designer clothes and the few people on coke and molly, it’s not at al different from the parties Grant has dragged him to before. Speaking of, where the fuck is Grant? Jason grabs another beer, his second of the night. It pops open with a hiss, and he downs half of it, not even stopping for air. A dark-skinned girl looks at him and raises an eyebrow. She’s pretty in a bookish sort of way. He raises the can in some sort of toast, and the girl laughs. “What? Are you drunk already?” she asks. He feigns an indignant gasp. “Please. I don’t need alcohol to be funny.” “Uh huh. Sure.” See? This isn’t terrible. Keep going. “Jason,” he says. “Karen.” “You’re a student?”. “I was.” There must be something on his face, because Karen laughs and says, “I have a boyfriend anyway.” She waves at a tall black guy on the other side of the room. “His name’s Mal. Want some advice?” Jason blushes. “Sure.” “Don’t ask people if they’re students. Unless you want people to think you’re in high school. Or, like, a predator or something.” He’s never thought about that before, but it sounds about right. “Cool,” he replies. “Thanks for the tip, Karen.” “Don’t be too irresponsible, Jason.” “I’ll do my best.” She winks and grabs a couple of beers from the cooler, then walks back to her boyfriend. Jason watches her settle into her place in the group. No one looks back at him, which is good, he guesses. “Todd!” someone yells. Ah. There he is. Jason turns around in time to see Grant push his way through a group of dancing people. A girl with platinum blonde hair follows behind him, winding through people without even looking up from her phone. Rose. “You got here early,” Grant says. “You said seven.” “Yeah, I said seven, but then I had to drag Rose from softball practice. Say hi, dumbass.” Rose looks at her brother, then at Jason. She rolls her eyes. “Hi, dumbass.” ‘Hey Rose.” She grunts and wanders off, still texting. In a moment, she’s disappeared into a crowd of people by the kitchen. “Don’t mind her,” Grant says. “PMS or some bullshit. How many of those have you had already?” “Huh?” Jason looks down and is reminded of the drink in his hand. Beads of water have condensed on the outside, wetting his palm. “Oh. This is number two.” “Good. I’d hate for you to get wasted without me. Wanna do some boilermakers?” “What the fuck is that?” Grant gestures vaguely. “You know. Shot of whiskey, lots of beer. What has your momma been teaching you?” Jason laughs uncomfortably. You have no idea. “ I don’t do fancy shit,” he says. “You know me.” “How many times do I have to tell you, man,” Grant laughs, “you’re with me now. I’ve got you covered. Besides, boilermakers are sports bar fancy. Totally your style.” “So is beer.” “Beer is boring. Come on. Let’s go let’s go let’s go!” Ugh. J ason rolls his eyes. “Are you high or something?” A wide smile stretches across Grant’s face. That’s an answer enough. Sighing, Jason follows him into the kitchen, sipping at his beer to get used to the soft bite of alcohol. The people around him smell like sweat and body spray. More are arriving every minute, and even though he knows he is not drunk he feels as if a haze has settled over the room. Then someone shouts for lights, and the room is thrown into dim, oscillating colors. It might have been fun if he were still with Isabel and didn’t think he had a problem. “So,” Grant says, pouring him a shot of whiskey. “Meet anyone yet?” “Some girl named Karen. She was nice.” “Nice? You’re not here to make f riends, Todd. Look,” he says, setting down the bottle, “See that girl? In the white shorts?” Jason looks over to the bar. The girl in the white shorts is tall, blonde, and pink. She’s talking with a redhead girl he recognizes from school. A tennis player, he thinks. The two of them seem to be gossiping, judging by the looks on their faces. Grant raises his shot. Amber liquid drips over the side. “I’m going to take one of these, walk up to her, and ask if she wants to make out,” he says. “How do you know she doesn’t have a boyfriend?” “That’s Angelica Smith. From algebra?” Jason shrugs. “Fuck man. Here.” Grant thrusts a shot into Jason’s open hand and, tipping his head back, pours the whiskey down his throat. After, he hisses between his teeth, cracks open a beer, and downs that too. “Hurry up, and maybe you can snag Elise.” What if I don’t want to snag Elise? thinks Jason. He looks down at the shot in his hand. The shot looks back. Why couldn’t it be something good, like a mojito or piña colada? Beer, whiskey, vodka, they get the job done, but they taste like crap. Fuck. That’s gay. Jason downs the shot before he thinks of more stupid shit. It washes down in a rich, smoky flavor, burning his throat and bringing color to his face. Before he can cough, he washes down the warmth with the rest of the beer. It’s not unpleasant, but it makes his organs reel. He waits. The warmth of the liquid washes through him, filling him from his legs to the tips of his fingers. Grant is talking with the two girls by the bar, grinning wildly, nodding in earnest to whatever Angelica is saying. He makes it look so e asy. Like it’s a part of his nature. Boy meets girl. Boy charms girl. Boy gets laid. Where’s all the second-guessing? The part where he has to force himself to want it, really w ant it, and not just stay content with kissing? Though, he supposes, it i s n ature. Bird meet bird. Dog meet dog. Bug meet bug. It’s all the same, isn’t it? It’s what makes them real. Jason looks around at the counter. Vodka. Whiskey. Jack. That’ll do. He pours himself a Jack and Coke and keeps drinking. After a moment, he thinks, t his is nice. The music beats in his ear. People seem a little friendlier. His cheap clothes feel more comfortable. He is an ember wrapped in skin, vibrating softly as the seconds pass by. “Football?” someone asks. The voice is light, feminine. It takes him a moment to realize she’s talking to him. He turns. The girl is around his age, maybe older, with pale skin and pink-tinged hair. Instagram goth. “Football?” he replies. “Do you play?” “Not anymore.” She laughs. Her lips are dark and purple. “Could’ve fooled me.” “I’m Jason,” he says. “Dawn. Wanna get me one of those?” Oh. Okay. He smiles at her and starts pouring. When he hands her the drink, he can smell the soft florals of her body spray. It’s pleasant, not at all harsh like the smell of cinnamon or mint. Across the room, Grant is whispering in Angelica’s ear. Jason wonders how he gets her to smile like that. What is he saying? Maybe he should just ask Dawn what she wants to talk about. Yeah. That seems like a good idea. “What should we talk about?” he asks. Dawn laughs again, and strangely, it doesn’t shake him. It’s more of a you’re funny l augh and less of a you’re lame l augh. Weird. Maybe this alcohol thing is working. She takes a sip of her drink. “Do you like working out?” “Working out? Like running and shit? Yeah.” “Thought so.” “I know, I know. I’m rocking the ‘dumb jock’ look,” he replies. This is so easy. Say something else. “ Your hair looks nice.” “Oh, this?” Dawn holds up a lock of her hair. “It’s so old. I’ve been meaning to dye it for weeks.” Jason finds himself laughing. “What? Fuck off. It looks good.” She giggles, and something warm stirs in his belly. He wants to kiss her on her purple lips, to sit down with her and talk about books and movies and life. And he thinks that maybe she wants to kiss him too. After all, she doesn’t take her eyes off him when she drinks. That’s what attraction is, isn’t it? Looking at someone because you like what you see? “You’ve run out,” Dawn says, pointing at his cup. He looks down. Huh. When did t hat happen? “You’re observant,” he replies. “Want something new? Or—” She meets his eyes and smirks. “—are you too smashed already?” “Please. I’m like, heavy and shit.” “Good.” Dawn grabs his hand and pulls him to the backyard patio. The people smoking have fucked off to god-knows-where, replaced by a group chilling in a hot tub and another sitting on some wicker furniture, sharing photos on their phones. Rose is with them, draped over an ottoman like a pin-up girl. Jason waves. Either she doesn’t see him, or she doesn’t care. Well. Maybe he doesn’t care, either. Dawn makes him a white gummy bear shot. It’s sugary, and hardly burns, and so he asks her to make another. His world is a little fuzzy, but that’s okay. That’s what he’s here for, isn’t it? “My mom’s on drugs,” he tells while they’re sitting on a couch. When did they go back inside? Was it before all the shots, or after? “Oh shit,” Dawn replies. “Yeah. And her dealer did this.” He points to his face. “You know the worst part? I can’t tell anyone.” She takes a sip of beer. “You’re telling m e.” “Yeah, but you’re not a nyone. And I’m fucked, man.” Jason laughs, rubbing his fists into his eyes. Everything’s even hazier now, as if the city’s filled with smog. Is it hot in here? When did the music get so loud? What time is it? Where’s Grant? When did Dawn put her hand on his thigh? Oh. “That’s so sweet,” she says. Her voice is slow. “Wanna make out?” “Yeah,” he replies, and her lips bump into his. She tastes a little like potato chips, a lot like alcohol. Jason presses into her, wanting to touch her pink hair, wanting to cave into himself, wanting to— —throw up. “Oh god.” Jumping to his feet, he throws a hand over his mouth. “What?” Dawn asks. Jason shakes his head. If he opens his mouth, he’s going to vomit. Dawn must realize this. All of a sudden she’s yanking him toward the bathroom and pushing him inside. He barely makes it to the toilet before he starts heaving. There was a time when he didn’t understand the phrase “waves of nausea,” but boy does he get it now. It starts in the lowest part of his abdomen and rolls upward, rising through his chest and crashing out of his mouth. Saliva pools around his tongue. “Are you okay?” Dawn asks. “I—” Jason leans over the toilet bowl and vomits again. F uck. He spits out a glob of saliva and braces himself against the toilet, trying not to fall over. W hen did everything start spinning? Dawn reaches down to rub his back in small, concentric circles. “Oh, baby,” she says softly. He groans. God, everything hurts. His eyeballs hurt. “I’m gonna get you a water, ‘kay? Then we’ll find somewhere to lay down.” Without looking, Jason gives her a thumbs up. It’s all he can do. When she comes back, he rinses out his mouth until he can’t taste the sick anymore. After that, he doesn’t remember much. He doesn’t remember which room they went into, and he doesn’t remember whether there was anyone else inside. He doesn’t remember Dawn lying down next to him, but he does remember that they talked some more and then she started kissing him again. She feels good. Her hands are on his chest and one of her legs is draped over his. her legs He moans, but he doesn’t know why. Why is he doing any of this? He doesn’t even—well, he does, but maybe not like that, and— Jason wants to tell her to stop. But that would be proving everyone right, Isabel and Grant and e veryone. He can’t do that and he can’t do that and he can’t do that and— He can’t do t his. “Stop!” Jason spits out. “What?” “Get—getoffme.” “Huh—” She yelps as he pushes her off and dives off the bed. “What the fuck? Wait. Where are you going?” He can’t look at her. He can’t look at himself. “Hey! I’m talking to you! What’s wrong? Babe—” Jason shuts the door on her and stumbles into the hallway. He doesn’t recognize this part of the townhouse. A basement, maybe? There are people still talking upstairs, music still playing. He finds the staircase and starts climbing toward the music. Some people are still lounging around the living room, drinking. The rest are gone. Grant doesn’t seem to be anywhere. “Hey. Buddy. You okay?” He looks at the person talking to him. That’s Karen’s boyfriend, he thinks. M… Monroe? Morris? “Do you need someone to call you a cab?” the guy asks. “No,” Jason mutters. “I’m good.” “Are you sure?” He nods and walks past him, pushing open the front door and nearly falling down the steps. The night is freezing cold, almost wet. Everything is dark: the streets, the townhouses, the trees that line the sidewalks. Nausea settles in the pit of his stomach, but there is nothing inside him to expel. His tongue is dry and scratchy. His head reels. Which way to the bus stop? Left? right? There’s a sports car parked at the end of the road. A million years ago, Jason passed it on his way to the party. So he has to go right, then. There are two blocks between him and the party when his legs turn to jelly. Jason slumps over and draws his knees into his chest, taking long, slow breaths. The chill of the air clears him enough to see things clearly: it’s too far. And the buses stopped running hours ago, anyway. He should have stayed at the party. He should have stayed with Dawn. Maybe it’s not too late to go back— No. He can’t do that. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he texts Grant: Im at te end off Lexingtonnn. Total fucked. Pic me up?? A minute passes. Then another. Grant doesn’t respond. He tries again. Buses not runnig anymroe. Need ride. Still, no response. Okay, okay… He can’t panic. It’s okay. This is Burnley. What’s going to happen? There aren’t any bums like Tommy to come at him with knives and bad intentions. Everyone is like Grant, living free with fat ambitions and dreams untethered to money. Grant. Despite everything, Jason laughs to himself. Why does a guy like that hang out with a guy like him? Sure, they like the same video games and play the same sports, and yeah, maybe Jason did give him the answers to a few quizzes, but in the end they’re so fundamentally different. Grant’s cool and funny and good with girls, and Jason’s stuck on the sidewalk, totally sloshed just after he couldn’t even make out with some girl— He gasps for air. When did he forget to keep breathing? Fuck. He needs to focus on getting home. Home. Home. Home. His contact list isn’t very full. There’s a few guys on the soccer team: Virgil, Bart, Richie. His mom. Tommy, for some god-forsaken reason. Isabel. Need help, he writes. D ive home. She starts writing something back. The three dots on his screen come in waves, rippling in their little gray cloud, then disappear. Jason adds: Please. I m so srory. Sorry. The dots don’t come back. “Goddammit,” he mutters. No, not a mutter. It’s a sob. His vision blurs; his lower lip begins to quake. Before he can stop himself, he is spilling tears onto the pavement, crying into his hands. What the fuck is wrong with him? A quivering breath rolls through him. “Please, please, please,” he mutters, but he doesn’t know what he is asking for. He doesn’t know where he is. He doesn’t know w hat he is. Light washes over him, bright and blinding, as a car pulls up the road. The driver doesn’t even look at him as she turns onto Lexington. Of course he’s only invisible when he does not want to be. His mom would be asleep by now, right? Wiping his eyes, Jason runs his thumb over her name on his contact list, his chest heaving. Maybe tonight was one of her good nights. Maybe she’s up and waiting for him to come home, worrying and pacing and— But they don’t have a car, so she can’t pick him up, which means— Does he have to call Tommy? No, that doesn’t seem right. And Tommy would never— Tommy would make it worse, call him a fag and a homo, maybe burn him again— Fuck. He’s going to pass out. He’s going to pass out on the side of the road in fucking Burnley. Jason can feel it in his reeling stomach, the vertigo that takes him even though he is already on the ground and braced against a stop sign. And then someone will find him and call the police...and he’ll be taken in...and no one will want to give him a scholarship...and he’ll end up in prison like his dad… Jason blinked hard, trying to clear the wooziness from his head. What...is he doing here? Where...is h ere? Maybe...maybe he should call Tommy...it can’t be that bad...after all… Suddenly, a light. Blinding. He groans and shields his eyes from whatever—whoever—is causing it. “Jason?” That voice—it reminds him of the color blue. But every time he grasps at a name, it evaporates. “Oh damn. He’s really out of it. Can I get some help?” Four strong hands grip him by the shoulders and pull him up. “Thanks, gen’lemen,” Jason slurs. “But I’m fine. Trus’ me.” “How many drinks did you have?” That’s the question. “I dunno. A lot?” Someone pats him on the back. No, they’re pushing him forward. Into a car. “Come on, buddy,” they say. “We’re gonna get you to a doctor.” Doctor? No, no, no, no. Something like a moan comes out of his mouth, but he can’t make himself form intelligible words. It’s too hard. And the car seat is so, so soft... “That’s it,” someone says. “I’m going to buckle you in now, okay?” “Mmuuh huuuh.” The last thing Jason remembers is a sharp click. Then shadows wash over him, and he is pulled under.
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