Cackle(59)

“Don’t cry,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t cry.”

I pull my head back and notice the graffiti on the stall door. I put the toilet seat down and sit on top of it with my head in my hands. I read the graffiti to distract myself.

RL NJ

Jess & Rocky 4everrrr

I love Dick!!!

It’s okay, Annie.

I stop. Read it again.

It’s okay, Annie.

“Sophie?” I say, tracing my fingers over the words written in what looks like red Sharpie. When I bring my hand away, the red has transferred to my fingertips. I rub my fingers together. It spreads. It’s fresh ink.

“Sophie? Is that you?”

Don’t worry.

The words have changed.

And they change again.

It’s one night.

“It’s miserable,” I say. “How did I ever think this was a good idea?”

It’s okay. You’re okay.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

The night is yours.

“What do you mean?”

Take it back.

Give them hell.

I run my fingers over the words again, and this time they disappear from the door altogether. There’s nothing there. It’s all on my hands now. They’re covered in sticky red ink.

I come out of the stall, and there’s a woman there with a flat mouth who’s looking at me like I’m a foul creature.

I wonder if she heard me talking. She must think I was talking to myself.

Or she sees my hands covered in red and thinks I’m indecent.

I avoid her on my way to the sink.

It takes a long time to wash the ink off of my hands. It requires a lot of soap, an aggressive lather. As I wash them, I look at myself in the mirror.

I hear Sophie’s voice in my head.

Take it back. Give them hell.

Why should I let these people ruin my night? Why should I let stupid Dan make me feel bad?

When I get back to the table, I sit up straight and pull my chair in. They’re all looking at me like I owe them an explanation. I don’t give them one.

“We were just talking about jobs,” Jill says. “Pascal works for his family’s logging business. In accounting.”

“Cool,” I say in a tone that makes it very clear I do not think it’s cool. I finish my whiskey and wave over the waiter. “May I have another, please?”

“What’s that?” Dan asks. “Your third?”

“You can count!” I say.

Jill does her awkward laugh. It sounds like a dying motor.

“Logging,” she says, “is really lucrative. Right, Pascal?”

He nods.

“Pascal is from Vermont. Vermont is beautiful,” Jill says. “Have you ever been, Annie?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Too busy burrowing in my NYC trash mountain.”

I look at Dan, who is busy examining the cheese he’s spilled on his shirt.

It occurs to me as he dips his napkin in his water glass and begins to pat away at the congealed orange glob that maybe this isn’t the best approach. Maybe I should accept that this night isn’t going my way and take the loss with grace, instead of getting drunk and sarcastic, doubling down on the unpleasantness and actively contributing to a collective misery.

When the waiter brings my next whiskey, I ask for a ginger ale and push the whiskey away. But it’s too late. I know I’m already buzzed by the motion of the room, by the way my eyes are reluctant to focus. I’ve been too nervous to eat anything all day, and while I’ve built up my tolerance over the past few months of excessive drinking, it hasn’t made me insusceptible.

I take a deep breath and spread my napkin across my lap.

“Did you grow up in the city?” Jill asks me.

“No,” I say. “I grew up in Connecticut. But I went to the city for college and never left. Well, until now, I guess. Obviously.”

“Why leave?” Pascal asks. It’s the first question out of his mouth all evening, and it’s rude.

“Personal reasons,” I say.

“What’s that code for?” Dan asks.

Code for “none of your damn business.” “Long story.”

“We’ve got all night,” he says.

But then the food comes, and everyone’s distracted.

I stab at my sad salad. Droopy romaine. Pieces of tough gray chicken. A pool of watery dressing at the bottom of the bowl. My stomach withers.

The good news is that the rest of the table is preoccupied with eating, so the quiet that ensues isn’t painful; it just is. I let it exist, find some sanctuary inside it. I’m getting through it. I’m doing it. I’m surviving.

“How’s your salad?” Dan asks.

“Good,” I lie.

“Here,” he says, leaning across the table and plopping a greasy chunk of sausage on my plate. “You need some meat on your bones.”

I gawk at the sausage, at its charred skin peeling away to reveal a too-pink center, the most unappealing, cratered texture. It oozes liquid onto my already damp, overdressed salad.

I push the plate away, unable to stomach its appearance.

“Uh-oh, better call the guidance counselor,” Dan says. “We’ve got a problem.”