Wrecked(5)

Richard blinks: no pain. He runs his tongue over his teeth: no cotton mouth. His eyes sting a little, but that’s probably from the smoke. A bunch of them had been sitting around a campfire they’d made in one of those metal dishes. A very Out--House--y way to pass a Saturday night. As opposed to the usual weekend “activities” in his house.

“Not much,” he says. “But I can’t speak for you.”

She rolls over, stares at the ceiling. “My skull feels like eggshells.”

“Want me to get you a glass of water?”

“Oh god. Would you?”

He pulls his arm out from underneath her and flips back the comforter. The cold air in the bedroom hits him like a slap; the students in Out House thrive on keeping the thermostat at igloo levels. It’s only October, but nights and mornings are cold. He searches quickly for his boxers. He’s already gotten an earful from the Hippie Witch, who shares the floor with Carrie, about seeing him slip into the bathroom without them.

“Nobody needs to see your naked ass first thing in the morning,” she cawed, like some crow, the morning he’d just needed to take a piss and mistakenly thought the coast was clear. He doesn’t get why Carrie lives with these people. It’s not like the house is that great.

“Hippie Witch caught me,” he’d reported the morning it happened. Carrie had gotten up and the dragon kimono was on.

“You know I hate when you call her that,” she’d said. “She has a name: Mona.” She’d brushed past him with the mesh bag, exiting.

“Exactly. Mona the Hippie Witch,” he’d directed at her retreating back, but she didn’t laugh. She also didn’t seek out his company for the next thirty--six hours; not even a text. Then, around eleven o’clock at night, while Richard was studying alone in his bedroom, Carrie knocked. He opened the door. She stepped in and her mouth was on his and she was unbuckling his belt before the latch fully clicked shut.

He figured she’d gotten over the Hippie Witch comment. But he’d learned his lesson.

Words, which Richard batted carelessly among his friends, were powerful things to Carrie. With the guys, he slipped easily into some shorthand that didn’t mean much beyond what was just said in the moment, possibly less, since their word choices were reflexive, unconsidered. For Carrie, words were volatile, intentional, Molotov cocktails of meaning.

Deep down, Richard knows she’s got a point. He should respect accuracy in language. But choosing words carefully was one thing; navigating minefields of political correctness was another, far more exhausting, thing.

Sometimes he wonders why he’s with her. Then Jordan reminds him.

“Older women have . . . knowledge,” Jordan had commented the Sunday of the chocolate chip pancakes. He’d tracked Richard down after brunch, discovered him in the library, and dropped his laden backpack on the long table where Richard had just started on his problem sets. Jordan sat. Waited.

“They do,” Richard agreed. That was it. He wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about Carrie. He wasn’t sure he knew what to say.

“So, this is a thing now?” Jordan continued. “You, the lowly sophomore, and Eco Carrie? Who just happens to be a senior?”

Richard laughed. “People call her that? Seriously?”

“Uh . . . everyone calls her that. Maybe not to her face. I mean, she pretty much is, right? Lives in the nuts and berries house, protests fracking, wears hemp . . . or does she eat it? Can you eat hemp?”

“No, but you can smoke it.”

“Oh. Does she?”

“She wears flannel, eats local, and would never smoke,” Richard said, immediately sorry he’d taken the bait. He wasn’t superstitious, but for some reason he hadn’t wanted to jinx their relationship, or whatever it was. Hadn’t wanted to expose it to the brutality of his friends’ conversations. The whole thing felt as fragile and random as a bubble to him: one wrong move and it’d pop.

She was the one you always noticed who never noticed back. The type who couldn’t quite disguise her curves inside oversize clothes—overalls and plaid shirts, soft dresses brushing the tops of scuffed Carhartts—this girl--woman--goddess with untamed hair, half held in place with a fist--size clip.

He still couldn’t get over that she’d chosen him. Neither could Jordan.

“Way above your pay grade, don’t you think?” Jordan had teased.

Richard forgave the dig. Jealousy was the highest compliment. He’d rewarded Jordan with a wink and no comment. Let him imagine.

The bathroom, where he goes to fill a glass of water for Carrie, is shrouded in mist. Hot air from the shower mingles with frosty air from the wide--open window, creating a mini meteorological event. Moisture drips from the ceiling, like it’s raining indoors. How is this environmental?

He slips out before the someone who has created their own personal rain forest emerges from behind the plastic curtain. Gotta be the Witch. Hypocrite of the highest order. Her dad, a VP for some oil company, pays her tuition so she can stick it to him by growing her red--blond hair into white--girl dreadlocks and organizing protests against the college’s portfolio of investments in climate change – related industries.

Hell, what’s not a climate change – related industry? If the Hippie Witch had her way, exhaling would be outlawed.

Carrie has shifted to a half--sitting position, a pillow rolled behind her neck, cradling her head. While he was in the rain forest, she had retrieved the dragon robe. She lies atop the covers now, arms folded across her chest, robe wound tight across her body. He holds the glass out to her and slides beneath the comforter.