He fed her shots of Fireball, poured out into little clear plastic cups. She gagged and sputtered at first, the burning spirits gushed out her nose, red like liquid magma. He was solicitous, offering her the sleeve of his plaid shirt to dab at the stream of snot. Charmed by the gesture and determined not to be dismissed as a lightweight, she insisted on another shot with too much bravado. Her eyes took on a bright sheen in the flickering bonfire-light, and she returned to the bottle once more to pour a little dram of spiced whiskey out for herself with a mischievous giggle.
He liked the good girls. The type that had little gold crosses on delicate chains nestled between their modestly covered décolletage and dressed like they were headed to a church revival. The ones that wore white cotton panties and only gave blowjobs once they had professed their love, but always felt bad about it after, and of course never swallowed. Good girls, he told me, tasted so sweet and clean, just like vanilla ice cream. Girls like me, party girls, held no appeal for him. You couldn’t corrupt the already corrupted. They’d tag along to parties and ask him with the charming naiveté of the uninitiated to help them buy booze and drugs with pocket money their daddies had given them, or cash they’d earned working as counselors at Christian summer camps. Once they were properly wasted and begging for more, he’d lose interest and move on to a new girl.
We’d almost slept together once, but he said he valued our friendship and didn’t want to ruin it. The girls he dated either hated me, mistaking me for a rival, or tried to be my friend thinking I could give them an in—really help them become part of the group. They wanted longevity, to be the one to finally tame the stallion, and they weren’t above friendship sabotage or phony camaraderie to achieve it. But the truth was, I would have traded places with them in a heartbeat, and I hated myself for wanting to be them. Sometimes I’d end up babysitting them at parties. Listening to their drunk sobs while streams of black mascara ran down their pretty pink cheeks, or holding back strands of satiny, never-dyed hair from toilet water dotted with cigarette butts as they puked. I couldn’t quite decide if I felt bad for them, or if like me, they were fully deserving of their misery. They too, had watched the procession of smitten girls tag along behind him through the school halls. It’s not as though he made a secret of being a player, not like they were unaware of his status as a heartbreaker. The worst part was he’d always been sort of a gentleman about it. Never applying pressure, letting them make the first move, always making it clear he wasn’t up for anything serious. Faultless in his ruthlessness. This inflamed their pure little hearts. They were drawn to him, like moths to fire. Prepared to endure the worst kind of heartbreak to stave off the crushing boredom that filled their tightly regulated lives. Anything to break up the monotony of having to always be perfect. Good girls love a bad boy.
“Don’t you think she’s had enough?” I said, as she reached for the bottle to pour herself another shot.
“I don’t know. She seems to be having a good time. Let her have some fun.”
“I’m all good,” she hiccupped, as she filled her cup half full.
I hated his nonchalant lack of concern. He was so infuriatingly untroubled, always lived in the moment and let everything unfold with no care for the future consequences. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of idiot would bring a straight-lace to a bush party and let them drink like that. We were far down a mud-bogged cutline, deep into the back 40, at least an hour from the nearest emergency room. None of us were in any condition to drive. We’d brought our sleeping bags and planned to crash sprawled across bench seats or huddled in the backs of pickup trucks; aching backs pressed to the corrugated steel. I had a feeling this girl was going to need her stomach pumped if she kept on drinking straight shots of cinnamon whiskey. At best, I was going to have to show her how to make herself vomit by firmly pressing two fingers into the back of her throat. I shot him a look of annoyance before hopping down from the tailgate to stumble through a copse of birch.
I clung to a tree trunk for balance then pulled down my panties and let out a stream of Wildberry cooler into the dew moistened earth—coolers meant frequent bathroom trips, but I knew better than to drink hard liquor at a bush party. I wondered what it was about men who lacked a sense of responsibility that was so appealing. They seemed to provoke nothing but anxiety. I’d seen girls worry themselves into states of abject melancholia after they’d sacrificed their virginity to him on the altar of their misplaced devotion. They’d sink into despair once the phone calls and invites to hang out inevitably stopped. What was it about casual cruelty and glib indifference that was so attractive?
I made my way back through the woods. The light from the bonfire peeked through the tree branches, and I could see him silhouetted against it, his back to her while he did a line with another friend off the hood of a cherry red pickup truck. She stood alone on the tailgate, eyes closed, swaying to the music. Embracing intoxication with the abandon of the newly converted, as though she’d only just then found God in the bottom of a plastic Dixie cup. She teetered on the edge for a moment, her toes perched on the steel precipice. Then, with a swan’s elegance, she spread her arms out and dove headlong into the bonfire.
— Jennifer is an artist who lives in Canada with her family and five pets. Her short stories have been featured or are forthcoming in Hobart, Maudlin House, Expat Press, Roi Fainéant, and others. Find her on X (Twitter): @jrostopovich