The Ones We're Meant to Find(73)
In the end, it took recruiting Rach as my designated babysitter to get Tabitha out onto the club floor. “Thanks,” I now say to Rach. We’re sitting at the bar as everyone else dances, the antigrav and fog machine making it appear as if they’re floating on clouds. “I owe you one.”
“My shoes were killing me anyway,” Rach says with a shrug, then asks if I want a detox, or if I’m up for more.
They assume I’m drunk. In reality, it’s been almost a year since I overdid the Allegro shots. Ever since repairing my relationship with Kay, I’ve tried not to worry her. She doesn’t like it when I come home wasted, or stay out too late. Which is why I’ve snuck out tonight.
“Detox sounds good,” I say. Can’t hurt. Might even help. I’ve been feeling shitty all week. Night sweats, cold hands, flailing in yoga—you name it. Now, I rub my fingertips. They tingle, numb. Maybe it’s time I reinstall my biomonitor. Reinstall notifications, that is. As annoying as the alerts are, I’m not trying to cancel my eco-city healthcare plan by deleting the app entirely.
“One detox for her, and one galaxy for me,” Rach says to the bartender while I glance to the club floor to see if Tabitha is having fun. I can’t spot her at first. Buzz is talking to Joelle. Zane, Ursa, Denise, and Logan are competing in some sort of dance-off that’s completely off the beat. Aliona has clambered onto the stage and seized the mic, and Rae is busy seducing one of the DJs. Then there’s Lou and Perry and … Tristan. With Tabitha.
He’s got an arm around her waist. She giggles at something he says.
“She was going to tell you but kept freaking the fuck out,” Rach murmurs into my ear.
“Yeah?” I rub my hands; they’ve become as numb as my fingertips.
“Yeah. So I told her I’d tell you instead. But then I forgot.”
“Of course you did,” I tease. Rach has a terrible memory. The rest of us are convinced they forget something every time they walk through a doorway.
“Yeah, yeah. But you’re not upset, right?” I shake my head and Rach nods in affirmation. “Who needs Tristan when you can get any fish you want in the sea?”
The bartender slides over our drinks and winks at me. I smile, then glance back to Tabitha and Tristan.
Tristan might look like he’s all brawn and no brains, but he’s actually really passionate about nutrient synthesis. And Tabitha is super into coding virtual culinary experiences. They’ll be a perfect pair. Plus, I was the one who broke up with Tristan amicably . I shouldn’t be upset. I’m not, I tell myself, deciding to order a galaxy as well. Rach grins and raises their matching drink once mine comes. “To graduating.”
“To graduating.” I grin past my anxiety. I still don’t know what I want to do or what I’m good at. Ester once told Mom that I had the compassion to be a doctor, but neither of them lived to see me almost flunk out of chemistry. I’m not as smart as Kay, or as driven as Mom. I don’t have a calling to improve the world, and as much as I like helping people, I don’t think I could handle having lives on the line.
I guess I still have time to figure things out, I think, and down the drink.
The world is spinning minutes later. What a lightweight I’ve become. I tell Rach I have to go to the bathroom, and barely make it into a stall before vomiting into the toilet bowl.
That’s it. Biomonitor, you win. I reinstall notifications. The app’s been off for so long it needs to update. As it does, I rinse out my mouth at the sink, and catch sight of my face in the mirror above it. Frowning, I touch the bruise at the corner of my lip. Not sure how I missed that. I pull out my concealer from my clutch and pause.
The girl in the mirror looks sad. Maybe clubs are no longer my thing. The music tires me out more than it invigorates me. I much prefer the sound of the sea.
“Celia?” Voice, from the bathroom entrance. I look, see that it’s Tabitha.
“Is everything okay?” she asks.
“Never been better.” I untwist my concealer. Swipe, blend, re-cap. Take that, bruise.
“Is that Zika Tu I hear?” I ask, going to Tabitha, looping my arm through hers, and cajoling her out the doorway.
She hesitates. I get it. She shared a moment with Tristan, then saw me run to the bathroom. Hard not to jump to conclusions there, especially if she was, in Rach’s words, “freaking the fuck out” about liking my ex.
But really, we’re cool. I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Tabby.” I know she’ll understand what’s implied, and after a moment, she smiles, tentative. I smile back; hers grows more confident.
I live for this. Seeing the people around me thrive.
Enough with the moping. Despite my dizziness, I join everyone on the club floor and dance my heart out. Keep on dancing even when my biomonitor finishes updating and floods my mind’s eye with warnings, hospel summons, and a prognosis that answers the question of my after-high-school future. If anything, I dance harder. In two months, my friends will be off at college, innotech firms, and making something out of their lives.
And I’ll be dead.
* * *
We live—shamelessly. We talk, we laugh, we breathe, and we do all the things that steal away speech, laughter, and breath, and when the hour beckons, we dress each other in the most ridiculous of M.M.’s sweaters and put on pants. We tend to the taros, tidy up the house, and sketch out a design for a real boat. Celia, I realize, would have envied us. This is what she craved: purpose and meaning, the simple act of creating something with her hands. It’s the perfect day.