Aftercare Instructions Page 10

  I have so many questions and no phone.

  And more blood in my underwear.

  I call myself from the landline, but it doesn’t ring, and when I click into voice mail, there aren’t any messages. I dump my bag out. Gum wrappers, a compact with cracked powder chunks that stick to everything else in the bag. Lollipops from the girl at the clinic. A plastic water bottle with one sip at the bottom, which I gulp and feel sliding slowly into my body. Almost like it doesn’t want to. A deck of cards. A piece of string. A scrap of paper with a number written on it, and a message:

  In case you need rescuing.

  —Seth

  In case I need rescuing?

  I need my fucking phone right now is what I need. Language.

  I’m still in my clothes from last night, but it’s not in my pockets or anywhere. Fuck. Language. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

  What if Peter texts me?

  Like that’s what I should be worried about right now. I want to wash that other boy’s kisses out of my mouth. I swish Listerine around my gums and tongue. I spit into the sink and watch the blue streak down the side of the bowl. My eyes travel to the pictures I taped up like a frame on the bathroom mirror. Peter and me on the beach with sand beards and sunglasses. Peter and me snuggled into the bed of his truck at the drive-in. Peter and me before the winter formal just two and a half months ago. I peel that one off and try to look for something in his face. That was the night of Rose’s party. When we made the mistake in the bathroom. The broken condom that I just laughed at while Peter freaked out. Was there something I was missing before everything went down? His smile is perfect. Practiced. His arms are wrapped around me in a perfect side-hold pose. I’m not smiling. My eyes aren’t on the camera.

  Some pictures never taken:

  Peter and me fighting about how much his mother didn’t approve.

  Peter and me when we ran out of things to talk about.

  Peter and me at the abortion clinic.

  I can’t look at his face anymore. I rip any pictures with him down, and I tear the stack into quarters before throwing them into the toilet. The toilet that just held my vomit from a night I don’t remember. And then I can’t stand the thought of those two things mixing together so I extract all the ripped-up pictures from the toilet and spread them across the countertop to dry.

  What is wrong with me?

  I’ve been through so much worse than this. So much worse.

  I try calling Rose from the landline, but get her voice mail. I look at the clock: 10:00 a.m. Fuck, again. I was supposed to meet Ms. Karen at eight thirty for whatever extra counseling she wanted to give me. I don’t care, though.

  I grab some ibuprofen from the pantry. That’s where we keep it. Where Dad always wanted it. I remember sitting on this kitchen floor, the shake of the pill bottle, and Dad drinking half a carton of orange juice in one gulp to swallow the pills. Then cracking his elbows and shoulders and telling me not to get old. I swallow some orange juice as well, but can’t get down as much as he did. It burns.

  I take a long, hot shower and try to cry as the water hits my body. There aren’t actually any tears coming out, though. I’m empty.

  Wrapped up in a towel, I call Rose again, and again, I get her voice mail.

  I start to dial Delilah but stop myself. I’m afraid of what she might say about last night. I need Rose on this one.

  I really don’t know what to do with myself right now.

  And so I call my grandparents. A weird choice, I know. But I miss Ally, and I want to make good on my promise to Ms. Karen to arrange a dinner. A normal family dinner sounds like the perfect antidote to all this madness. I get their answering machine, which must mean I’m the only person left on this planet right now.

  “Hello? Anybody home? Pick up if you’re there. It’s Genesis. I was wondering if you guys wanted to come over for dinner. Maybe tomorrow night? I don’t know what we’ll eat but maybe we can get takeout. It’s been a little while.… Anyway, call me back … on the house phone.”

  And now who?

  I think about calling my mom at work, but the reception is really bad in the file room. Also, I don’t want to stress her out.

  Maybe I should go to school and talk to Ms. Karen. She wouldn’t care when I show up. She lives for talking to us. But instead, I decide I need rescuing.

  And I have a special piece of paper promising just that.

  “Hello?” His voice is muffled. Asleep.

  He clears his throat.

  “Hello?” he repeats.

  I want to hang up. But I don’t. “Hey.”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s, um, Genesis. From last night?”

  “Genesis! Shit, girl, you’re not in trouble?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, with your cousin?”

  I rack my brain for what he could possibly be talking about, but since I don’t remember how I got into my own bed, I come up blank.

  “What?”

  “I thought she was going to kill me when she barged in here.”

  “Barged in where?” Think. Think. Think.

  “At my place. Are you serious? And your skater friend? I was sure that guy wanted to smash my face in.”

  “Your place?”

  “My place.”

  “I didn’t go to your place last night.”

  “What?”

  “Weren’t we at Kendra’s?”

  He’s laughing. “Oh, shit. I knew you were drunk, but I didn’t think you were that drunk.”

  I’m breaking.

  “I was at your apartment?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  I was at this boy’s apartment? I’ve never been in a boy’s apartment. I don’t even know what a boy’s apartment would be like. But I do know what happens when you go to a boy’s apartment. My skater friend? Barging in?

  “Did weeeeee.…” I can’t finish this sentence. I don’t want to know. I do want to know, but I don’t want to say it.

  “Oh, man, now I feel like a total creep.”

  Pieces:

  1. I was at a boy’s apartment.

  2. Delilah barged in like a banshee.

  3. Will tried to smash his face in.

  4. Then somehow I got home.

  There’s a lot missing between #3 and #4. And a lot missing other places too. I just want to rewind. I want to fucking rewind. No one will ever rescue me now.

  And now Peter will never want to get back together.

  “Didn’t we stop? In the kitchen?”

  “Yeah, for, like, a second, and then we were all over each other again.”

  I do remember that. The pull. The not being able to stop.

  “You left your phone here too.”

  “I did!” Maybe this is a rescue agency after all.

  “Oh, man, Genesis, I can’t believe you don’t remember your cousin and all the drama. I’m sorry. I guess you found my note.”

  Shit. Drama with Delilah. I push my eyes tight together, and try to get an image. Even a fuzzy one. But I’m still coming up blank. I do remember her saying she would come looking for me if I wasn’t back in twenty minutes. I don’t remember much else, though. I was pouring back vodka like it would save me from myself. What did I do? Am I turning into my dad?

  “Do you live near the party?”

  “Same building.”

  “Can I come back?”

  “Of course.”

  “For my phone.” I don’t want him to think I’m inviting myself back for anything else. Resist the pull. The pull probably doesn’t even exist in the daylight.

  “Okay then, you know where I live. Actually you probably don’t.”

  His voice is low and smooth.

  “Yeah. No.”

  “I’ll be around, but I have class at four.”

  That will be perfect. There and back. No lingering. “I can get there before then.”

  He gives me his address and directions, and now I have to find my way to Brooklyn on
the train to get my stupid phone and see some boy I don’t remember having sex with because this is my life now. I sleep with random boys and then my cousin goes psycho and my friends try to beat him up even though it was probably my fault. Really leading the model existence right now.

  And what was the reason not to have sex after an abortion? I don’t know if they gave me one. Is that why I’m bleeding again? What if I can never have children now? Peter won’t want me if I can’t have children. I really really really hope I haven’t fucked up my life even more than it already is.

  The phone rings, and I let the machine pick it up.

  “Genesis? Genesis? Are you there?” It’s my grandmother. “Genesis, you just rang me. Where are you? Okay, well, I think tomorrow sounds great. Gen? Pick up if you’re home. Okay, well, we’ll see you tomorrow, honey. I’ll try your cell. Bye now.”

  Instructions for the afternoon:

  1. Get to Brooklyn.

  2. Get phone back from strange boy.

  3. Find way back home.

  4. Call Rose and get all the facts straight.

  5. Put everything back into a normal order.

  I can do this. These are instructions I can handle.

  * * *

  Bushwick looks different in the sunlight. It looks naked. Like what you don’t want to see after a night of drinking. No leaves on what few trees have sprouted through the cement. Graffiti-covered industrial buildings. Car alarms screaming to turn out the lights and go back to sleep even at two thirty in the afternoon. I draw my hood tighter as the foggy image of last night starts to clear. The trash has been picked up in front of the restaurant across the street. I scan for #431 on the cold metal box.

  The door buzzes, and I push it open. I remember these concrete stairs, this faint scent of mold and beer. I see red plastic cups in corners as I climb up to the fourth floor. The hallways are wide and rough with exposed drywall and unfinished wood floors. I see an open door down the hallway, and a head of wet, shaggy hair pokes out.

  Seth.

  He’s actually pretty cute. I guess I wasn’t totally blind drunk last night.

  “Hey,” he says, stepping into the hallway. He’s wearing a plaid robe that exposes a smooth, bare chest. He leans in toward me. To kiss? I draw back.

  “Okay, I get it. One-time thing,” he says, laughing.

  I can’t figure out what’s so funny about a one-time thing. I don’t run around and do one-time things. But I can play along.

  “Yeah. One-time thing. Do you have my phone?”

  “Come on in.”

  I don’t really want to come on in. I just want my phone and I want to get the hell back to New Jersey and then collapse with Rose and hear about my night last night. That’s the plan. That’s all I want from today.

  Stay the course.

  “No offense, but you look a little worse for wear,” he says. “Do you want some coffee?”

  I can smell it brewing. It might help with my headache. He puts his hands up in the air. “I promise I won’t try anything! I have to leave in about a half hour.”

  He guides me to his couch and puts a blanket over my knees, making a big pretend fuss to fit it perfectly. I try not to laugh at his grand gestures. He could be a medieval warrior in stature, reincarnated as a scruffy, laid-back Brooklyn dude. It’s a confusing combination—like there’s a lot of strength in his presence, but it’s not intimidating. It’s fun. I have to stop looking at him. So I look around his apartment: hanging behind me are three guitars, and the room is covered in Christmas lights. He has an orange construction cone with a lightbulb sticking out of the top, and the wall has two huge canvases splattered with bright colored paint. The wood floor is a little dusty, but the apartment is comfortable. I lean back into the arm of the couch and gather the blanket up tighter.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks from the kitchen.

  “I’m okay.”

  Not sure anything would stay down anyway.

  He bounces around the kitchen, putting dishes away. I see him toss out an empty bottle of vodka and can taste it in the back of my throat all the way down to my stomach. There’s an exposed brick wall across from me covered in tiny black frames with vintage portraits. The apartment is warm despite the icy-looking industrial window taking over most of one side of the room.

  “Sorry, my roommate has been on my case lately about dishes. I’ll be one sec.”

  Seth moves around with ease. Like the feeling of last night in his skin is something he enjoys. I, on the other hand, want to puke it all out and get back to what I know to be safe. But seriously, what is that?

  Detached infatuation. Another one of Ms. Karen’s jargon labels for me.

  I send a silent apology to Ms. Karen for ditching her today. I bet she’s called. I need that phone back. I should text my grandma to confirm tomorrow. She’s probably called fifty more times since the last message. She’s like Rose in that way.

  “I never answered your question,” he says, pouring the coffee. “Milk and sugar?”

  “Black. What question?”

  “Did we…?” He drags out the we-eeeeee like I did on the phone earlier.

  “What?”

  “You asked me if we, y’know … had sex.”

  “Yeah, didn’t we?”

  “Wow, I mean, I know I’m not like Romeo or anything, but I would hope even a blackout drunk chick would remember something if it’d happened.”

  “It did or it didn’t?” And by the way, he is kind of like Romeo. Handsome. And, like, impulsive. And I have to stop.

  He smiles. I want to kiss him. No I don’t.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, now you want it?”

  “No!”

  His hands go up again, then he leans back into the cushions and puts his legs up on top of my knees.

  “You were too drunk, Genesis. I think you’re hot and all, but I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

  “I just got out of a relationship.” Let that cat out of the bag.

  “You told me.”

  “I did?”

  He nods.

  “What else did I tell you?”

  “That you can’t have sex for three weeks.”

  Now I laugh. “I said that?”

  “Over and over.”

  I put my head down into my hands and can smell the lemon soap on his legs.

  “Can I see you in three weeks?” he says, winking.

  I shake my head. Then I hear a bus screech up outside, let out a gust of air like a sigh, and start beeping. Why in the world would he ever want to see me again? It seems like all I did was royally embarrass myself.

  “I’m an idiot.”

  He straightens up and takes his legs off mine. “Don’t be silly.”

  “No, really, I’m a big fat idiot.”

  “Hey, now. Everyone gets drunk and stupid sometimes.”

  “I don’t. I mean, not usually.”

  “Welcome to Bushwick. Land of drunk and stupid.”

  I shake my head again, and bend my knees into my chest.

  “You weren’t that bad, Gen. I had a lot of fun with you.”

  “You did?”

  “Come on. It seemed like you were having fun. Don’t tell me I imagined the whole thing.”

  Did I imagine the whole thing? No, I un-imagined the whole thing by drinking everything in my path to black out. “How old are you, Seth?”

  “Well, I tell people I’m twenty-one.”

  “But?”

  “But I’m really nineteen. The facial hair helps.”

  More relief escapes my body like the air from the bus. That’s not so bad.

  “I’m seventeen.”

  He acts like he’s about to spit his coffee out, but he swallows and smiles instead. I can’t tell if the gesture is a joke or not. “Well, good thing I didn’t take advantage of you, then!”

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “No. You behave much better than I do. Anyway, w
hen do you turn eighteen?”

  “Oh God. Sunday. I almost forgot.”

  “No one forgets their birthday. That’s such a cliché.”

  “I did until now.”

  “Sunday is in three days.”

  “Oh God.”

  He looks at the clock. “Shit. I have to get to class.”

  His face shifts a little, and I can’t quite tell what I’m detecting.

  “Okay, so can I have my phone?”

  “Oh, right, the phone. That’s why you came here.”

  He leaves and I flutter for a second. A split second. An untrustworthy second. That’s why I came here. To get the phone. Not to get swept back into the imaginary. This guy is really nice and I probably won’t ever see him again, and I shouldn’t anyway because he has an apartment and I live with my mom, but I don’t know. Do I want to see him again? He holds the phone out and when I grab it, he doesn’t let go. We playfully tug it back and forth for a second.

  “Can we please hang out again when you’re eighteen?”

  Too soon, too soon, too soon. But I’m trying to figure out how to take his compliments.

  “I don’t know.” (Meaning: I don’t know ANYTHING.)

  He shakes his head, and I pull the blanket up to my shoulders.

  “Will you wait for me to get dressed? I’ll walk you to the train.”

  I nod.

  “I’ll put some music on for you while I get ready.”

  He puts on Johnny Cash (because, DUH), and I finish my coffee. I think about my aunt Kayla telling her story of meeting Johnny Cash in a hotel elevator in Manhattan. And how she bumped into him later and he said, “Hi, Kayla,” like they were old friends, and how she said she could have died right then and there.

  I don’t tell Seth that story. Instead, he chatters on and on to me about his acting program and how he wants to be in something that’s not a part of his school so he’s auditioning for some non-union off-Broadway thing tomorrow that’s probably not any good, but he is just so irritated by the students at NYU right now that he needs to see what other types of people are making theater in the city.

  “How did you find this audition?”

  He walks back into the room. He still doesn’t have a shirt on, but now he has on black jeans and combat boots. As his hair dries, it starts to fly away with static.