Where the Staircase Ends(23)

This particular day she drew a picture, the detailed shading a dead giveaway that she’d worked on it all afternoon. I smoothed the paper against my desk to get a better look while Sunny leaned over my shoulder to admire her handiwork. The grin on her face was enormous.

I knew immediately that it was a drawing of Alana, not because Sunny was an especially good artist, but because I’d seen enough of her artwork to know what her Alanas looked like. This Alana had her back to me and her face turned to the side. The main focus was on her naked butt, which Sunny exaggerated so that it took up half of the page. She’d drawn dimples and pockmarks all over the Alana’s enormous butt cheeks, with arrows pointing to each dimple and the word “seats” scribbled next to the arrows. At the bottom of the page there was a row of tiny stick people gathering at the Alana’s feet, with a little stand labeled “ticket booth” and “$2 per ride” next to the Alana’s gigantic big toe. Above the whole thing were the words:



Ride Inside Alana James’s Butt Dimples!

Feel Them Jiggle and Shake!

The Scariest Ride in the History of Rides!



Sunny clapped her hand over her mouth after I’d taken it all in, her face red from holding in her laughter. Usually I was right there with her, but something was off that day. Something about the picture made me feel a little sick, like she’d gone too far even though I’d seen Sunny draw crueler pictures and use meaner words to describe people.

I should have told her I thought it was mean. I should have said something to let her know I didn’t think it was very funny. But I didn’t. Instead I grabbed my pencil and drew a stick person into one of the dimples, passing it back to Sunny with a note reading, “It’s more realistic if you show someone riding inside one of her butt dimples.”

This made Sunny really happy, and she started to draw more stick people, all of them with wide open mouths, screaming in terror as they bumped and jiggled inside the Alana’s terrifying dimples.

Sunny wanted her artwork to get the attention it deserved, so she passed it to Mark Schroen who passed it to Tracey Allen who passed it to the girl with braces whose name I could never remember. I turned around and faced forward, pretending to be engrossed in the list of historical dates Mr. Montgomery scrawled on the board so I wouldn’t have to hear the snickers and titters filling the classroom. When the picture made its way back to my desk, I glanced at it long enough to see there were smudges and finger prints around the butt dimples, the paper sticky from all the fingers touching it. Sunny snatched it from my hands and sent it around the other side of the classroom before I could protest.

Sometime during lunch I noticed Alana occupying her usual spot in the cafeteria, sitting on the floor away from the other tables with her books spread out around her. She held a piece of notebook paper in her shaking hands, and even through the dim florescent lighting of the cafeteria I could make out the words “Butt Dimples” from where the black ink had bled through to the other side of the page.

I didn’t want to look at her face. I didn’t want to see her red, swollen eyes or the way her bottom lip trembled. I didn’t want to see the way she kept staring at the paper, like she was memorizing the details or looking into a mirror to inspect her makeup. But I couldn’t stop. It was like the stairs; all I could do was face forward. It made me wonder how many other notes and pictures had made it into Alana’s hands throughout the years, and how many times she sat quietly in the corner of the cafeteria examining our creations like she was looking at her reflection.

But the worst prank we played was last year, when Sunny gave Alana an invitation to her birthday party with the wrong address printed on it.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry, you know, for teasing you so much,” Sunny said when she handed the cream-and-pink swirled envelope to Alana. “Would you like to come to my birthday party on Saturday?”


Alana hesitated for a second before taking the invitation from Sunny, then opened the envelope slowly, as though she expected something to jump out and bite her. She flicked her eyes over to me, looking for reassurance.

Sunny glared at me expectantly, but my lips were suddenly thick and useless. I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I couldn’t even look Alana in the eye.

“It’s going to be fun, isn’t it Taylor?” Sunny prodded, then she mouthed “What is your problem?” at me while Alana waited for my answer.

I could’ve said nothing, and maybe Alana would have understood from my silence that it was a prank. Or I could have grown a pair and told Alana the truth. But I didn’t want to fight with Sunny. It was easier to play along.

“Sunny’s parties are legendary,” I finally offered.

It wasn’t exactly what Sunny had asked me to say, but she stopped giving me the stink eye over Alana’s shoulder, so it must have satisfied her.

“Seriously, you should come.” Sunny added.

My heart squeezed when I saw Alana smile and take in the swirly pink font and glittering picture of a champagne glass printed on the front of the invitation. I felt sick.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her words soft and fragile. “I’ll ask my mom if I can come.”

I’ve had my own idea of what happened the day of Sunny’s birthday party playing inside my head.

In my version, Alana took the invitation home and ripped it into tiny pieces, tossing them into the air like confetti. She stomped the flakes of paper into her bedroom carpet, taking care to twist her shoe over the top of each piece while picturing Sunny’s face. She never gave the party another thought.