Nine lives

I heard the phone ring. From a dead sleep to wide awake in three beats of Chris Isaac’s throaty, raspy voice. Wicked Games, handpicked and programmed by Kat as her personal ringtone (“Are there any other games worth playing, darling?” she had asked at the time, the irritating beep, beep, beep of my phone punctuating her words as she saved her selection.) I knew what she wanted. It was Friday night—Oh hell, early Saturday morning, I realized after consulting the sleep-blurred numbers of my alarm—and there was only one reason for Kat to be calling.
“Oh. My. God. What?” I mumbled into the phone, the corner of my pillow lodged somewhere in the side of my mouth.
“Bella. Bella. Bella. Bella.” Kat giggled. Though it’s undoubtedly irritating, Kat finds my name a fascinating mantra to repeat over and over when she’s been drinking. I asked her about it once and she said that my name tasted like caramel after precisely four shots of rum and two shots of whiskey. I’ve never tested this theory.
“Yes, Kat. Its Bella.” I sighed and turned over. Prepared to swing my cotton-clad legs over the side of my bed.
“Bella. Bella. Bel—Hey, can you come out? I’m bored.” I could hear Kat grinding her teeth, a tiny knock cruising over the line as her jaw bumped the phone. “Aren’t you bored Bella?”
“No, Kat. Until thirty seconds ago I was sleeping. Sleeping pretty much rules out the possibility of being bored. That’s why I do it. At one-thirty in the morning.” Hoping that there was still some chance of staying cocooned in my warm, rumpled bed, I asked, “Kat, where is Sam? Can I talk to Sam?”
“Sam s’gone. She left at like…I don’t know. While back, I guess.” The grinding was getting louder and faster. Bump, bump, bump.
“She left?” From lying down to sitting bolt upright in a fraction of a second, I repeated, “She left you there. By yourself? Why?”
“I puked on her shoes. Then I cried because you know how much I hate puking. And she got all bitchy and left.” Imagine that, I thought to myself.
“Okay, I’ll be right there. Don’t. Go. Anywhere. Okay, Kat? You won’t leave, right?”
“I’ll be right here. At Sophie’s.” And she dropped the phone. She didn’t hang up. She just let the receiver go, causing a cacophony of noise to explode through the earpiece of my phone. “Dammit.” I muttered, dropping my head, sighing and getting resignedly to my feet.
I threw a sweatshirt over my tank top and slid my feet into a pair of obscenely pink flip-flops that had huge purple tropical flowers dancing across the top. A gift from Kat for my sixteenth birthday the previous month. How she managed to find something so bright and unusual in the little town of Hope Field, Kentucky, I really don’t know. Scooping my hair into a lumpy bump on the top of my head, I opened my door and stepped into the hall. I walked down the hall, taking no trouble to muffle the flipping and flopping of my feet. I was going to have to wake my parents anyway. There would never be any acceptable reason for me to leave the house at one-thirty; at least no acceptable reason that didn’t involve rescuing Kat. My parents adored Kat and had since the moment they met her at our first grade play. I was a blue person and Kat was a red person. She skipped up to me after our performance and said “Together we make purple and purple’s my very favorite color.” I responded, “Mine too!” So, purple had become a long-running theme in our friendship. We sent each other purple balloons every birthday, made each other purple cupcakes during breakups, and most recently the purple flowers on top of my shoes. I remember asking Kat why only the flowers were purple and she replied, “Darling, the part that gets walked on is silly-girl-pink, but we’re the bright, beautiful flowers on top that everyone wants to look at.”
My parents’ door was half-shut and through the opening I could see the moonlight laying stripes across the fluffy, blue comforter. I assumed both my parents were asleep until my father sat up and put his finger to his lips. He motioned me back out and rolled silently from the bed. Dad’s an architect; he’s a large man with strong, flat hands and big, thick feet. Yet, he managed to reach the hall without making a single sound, stepping lightly over the creaky spot under the pale yellow carpet. He crooked a finger to let me know I should follow him and started down the stairs.
When we reached the kitchen, he flipped the light switch, illuminating the roughly five million roosters that stared down from various places in the room. Roosters on placemats, throw rugs, plates; one poor creature even hanging from the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. My mom is a big believer in carefully matched décor. I’m pretty sure that’s why the sight of my purple walls, black carpet, and multi-colored scarf canopy makes her randomly mention how she would be happy to help me redecorate.
Dad walked straight to the shiny, chrome refrigerator (which sported a decal of a…yeah, rooster.) After pulling out a gallon of milk, he moved to the counter, picked up the cookie jar, opened a cabinet and pulled out a glass. Finally, he looked at me and smiled tiredly.
“Kat again?” He pulled a chair out and sat down, spreading his late night snack out in front of him.
“Yeah. Kat again.” I wanted nothing more than to sit down and munch on oatmeal raisin cookies with Dad. We’d eat a dozen between us and go back to bed. Instead, I was going to go out in the semi-cold, completely damp night to retrieve Kat.
“Bella, I trust you. I love you. But I’m starting to doubt that Kat is really having car trouble every single weekend. It seems odd that it only occurs late at night. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
I really wanted to tell Dad that Kat was starting to scare me, that what had once been a fairly well-controlled wild streak was becoming something that was out of my hands; worse, it appeared it was spiraling out of Kat’s hands. “No. I just gotta go get her. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, so I need to hurry and get her so I can get some sleep. I’ll be back soon. Ok?” My phone started ringing, and the familiar ringtone spilled from my pocket. “Its Kat again. I’ll be back really soon.”
“Be careful, Bella.” He looked at me for a second and I knew he was hesitant to let me leave for the third weekend in a row because of Kat’s mysterious, nocturnal car problems. Finally, he nodded and looked back at his cookies. I felt terrible because I knew he would sit up and wait for me to come back. I resolved to drag Kat out immediately and get home as soon as possible.
I grabbed my keys from the hook on the hallway wall, opened the front door and jogged down the porch stairs. The moist cold of late Kentucky fall slapped at me, petty and spiteful as the Prom Queen runner up. The popping sound of my shoes against the concrete echoed emptily around me. My neighborhood was inhabited mostly by retired couples who were either escaping the coming winter in a warmer location, or had been in bed for the better part of six hours. It was eerie to feel so completely alone despite the fact that I was surrounded by large houses and I knew Dad was probably looking out the window as I rushed toward the car.
I reached the car at a near run, chill bumps texturing my skin. I swung open the door, dropped into the seat, and jammed the key into the ignition. I eased away from the curb and turned the heater up as high as it would go. Once out of sight of my house, I opened the glove box and pulled out a battered pack of Marlboro Lights. Smoking was not something that I was particularly proud of; it was one of the few remaining vestiges of who I used to be. However, tonight I was open to anything that would help me stay fully awake. To that end, I opened the window a bit, twitched the volume button on my stereo several times, and began singing loudly. To the casual observer, it probably appeared I was having a grand time taking a late night drive. I was actually trying my best not to become really angry. Kat does not respond to anger. She ignores it until the person she has pissed off becomes so frustrated that they realize that it’s just easier to get over whatever has happened rather than continue to yell at someone who stares blankly back at you.
I was never more thrilled that Sophie Meadows lived only three miles from me. Actually, it had never occurred to me to care either way, but now I was relieved that I was not on my way up some “holler” that had a better chance of seeing the Yeti than a paving truck. I saw Sophie’s house and breathed a sigh of relief. Very few cars were parked outside and this gave me hope that most everyone had left. If there was no audience, Kat was much less likely to create a scene or try to persuade me to stay. I had no interest in staying, but it would take so much longer to get Kat out if she wasn’t willing to cooperate.
I pulled into a narrow space between a huge SUV and a tiny Toyota. My car used to belong to my Mom, but I got it when I turned 16. It’s a silver sedan that I was really happy to get. Kat called it the Audit-mobile because she thought it looked like the kind of car an IRS agent should drive. So with some bumper stickers, window tint, and a personalized license plate, Kat gave my car a makeover. I have to admit, I liked it before, but now it really felt like it was mine. I considered leaving the car running as an excuse to light a fire under Kat but I had a terrible vision of some sobriety-challenged football jock lurching his way toward my car and taking off in it. With that image in mind, I turned off the car, pocketed my keys in the front of my sweatshirt, and started toward the gaping front door.
Once I passed over the threshold it took less than three seconds for me to see that drinking was only one recreational activity taking place. The seven people who remained in Sophie’s living room were passing a joint clumsily from hand to equally unsteady hand. Here’s the thing, I loathe and abhor the smell of pot. It is insidiously sweet and yet bitter. Worse, I feel like it clings to me, gets into my clothes and is damn near impossible to escape from. The acrid smoke was so thick I imagined my skin was covered in a slimy, gray film; like I would slither off of anything I tried to sit down on, leaving a snail-like trail behind me. I spotted Kat reaching toward Cam Foster, smiling inanely and preparing for her starring role in the hit, hit, pass game.
“I swear by all that I hold dear if you even consider smoking that shit you’re not putting your smelly ass in my car, Kat.” I could deal with her drinking (except for the time she threw up out the window of my moving car and her vomit managed to simultaneously splatter the side of my car and come back to smack her in the face and drip down her long, dark hair) but I could not tolerate her bringing this stink into my car.
“Bella! What are you doing here?”
“Kat! You called me! Get up and get out. We’re going home.” I was fully prepared to drag her bodily from the house if the need arose, but I was also hoping to avoid going any farther into the room.
“I’m not ready to leave yet. Few more minutes, K?” She turned back toward Cam who was watching Kat and I argue, weaving his head back and forth as though he were at a really slow tennis match. By the time he managed to look at one of us, the other was already answering.
“No. Not OK. We go now.” I walked forward, stepping over a partially undressed senior cheerleader who was happily allowing herself to be groped by her boyfriend’s best friend—classy, yes?—and grabbed Kat’s hand. “Now, Kat.”
“Why do you have to be such a buzz kill, Anderson?” Cam asked me, leaning forward clumsily to run his hand up my leg. My skin tightened as though poised to leap from my body to avoid his touch.
“Do you really think that’s a good idea?” I glared at him with the look that Kat called my “this is how hypothermia occurs” expression.
“Bitch. I don’t get it. I know you can be fun, Bell. Don’t forget that I know just how much fun you can be.” He leaned back against the plush black leather sofa behind him, an expression of cocky amusement on his face. His words might have been slurred, but his meaning was perfectly, resoundingly clear.
The room became completely and immediately silent. I could actually hear the dry crackle of the joint burning. With temper pounding through me, it seemed that I saw the room through a haze that had nothing to do with the smoke now curling from Cam’s hand.
“Gee, Cam. I wish I could return the compliment, but I don’t remember anything fun at all. Let’s go Bella.” I didn’t pause to enjoy the look of unadulterated fury on Cam’s face; I didn’t glance to see if Kat had gotten up to follow me. I walked straight back out the door and knew that Kat was behind me only by the sound of her uneven steps on the wooden porch.

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Though it had taken Kat quite a few truly pitiful attempts before she had actually landed the majority of her ass in the passenger seat, once the feat was accomplished, I wasted little time slamming my already running car into reverse. Opting for lack of conversation as the safer course, I leaned forward with the intention of turning the stereo up from loud to make-your-ears-bleed. Kat, who was never one to take a subtle hint, slapped at my hand. Tucking her feet—one of which I now noticed was shoeless—into the seat, Kat turned toward me.
“Damn, Bell! Does “R” stand for reverse or retreat?”
Approximately five thousand retorts ran through my mind. For a moment I could only stare out of the windshield, my mouth opening and closing repeatedly while too many words rushed to escape. I could feel my anger, already aroused by my run-in with Cam, ballooning toward full-scale flash point. Before I had consciously decided how to respond, I found myself jerking the wheel sharply to the left, spewing rich Southern soil under my tires, finally coming to a halt on the shoulder of the road.
“Are you—you must be—what the fuck are you thinking?” How could you even consider making such a stupid comment right now?” Only when my fingers began to ache did I realize that I was gripping the steering wheel as though it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the last vestiges of my self-control. This was Kat, I kept reminding myself. I had to try to master my anger because I knew expressing it would do no good. I drew in a deep breath, closing my eyes briefly. Slightly calmer, I tried again.
“Kat, I’m really tired. And you’re really drunk or—or something. We’re not going to accomplish anything by talking about this right now. So, let’s just go home, okay?” I didn’t wait for Kat’s response before I checked my rearview, and finding the street as deserted as I’d expected, pulled back out. From the corner of my eye, I saw Kat stare at me a moment longer before she turned her head toward the side window, her hair making the tiniest whisper of sound against her shirt as she moved.
Only moments later we pulled up to my house. The two-story white and brown structure had always represented safety to me. In all my life, I could only remember being afraid to go home once. Tonight, I wanted nothing more than to drag myself through the front door, wake my dad—who I knew I’d find dozing on the couch—go upstairs, and snuggle back down into my bed. Of course, I still had to get Kat into my room before waking my dad; it wouldn’t be good for anyone if my dad caught sight of her. At the moment, though, I was more concerned with the odd, anxious feeling that made me want to throw open my door and escape before something irrevocable happened. Maybe this instinct was born of a long friendship, or maybe my intense exhaustion was causing me to be extremely sensitive to subtle signs; whatever the cause, my concern was soon proven to be painfully correct.
“I don’t want to be here, Bella. I want to go home.” Kat was not given to anger. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen her truly angry, which made the emotion pumping from her all the more difficult to comprehend. Shocked, my response was hesitant and stilted.
“Y-y-you…you don’t what?” Something was clawing its way up my suddenly tight throat. A mixture of tears and worry was clogging my breath, locking it in my lungs.
“I. Don’t. Want. To. Be. Here.” As though great enunciation alone could make her sudden personality aberration any more understandable, Kat turned from the window and looked into my eyes for the first time since leaving the party, waiting for me to…I wasn’t sure exactly what she was waiting for.
“Kat, I’m not taking you home tonight. It’s almost 3 in the morning. You live twenty miles from here. Just come in the house, sleep it off, and we’ll work everything out in the morning.” I wanted to believe that if I spoke calmly, rationally, things would simply snap back to normal. I felt as though I were tiptoeing around the edge of a deep pit. If I fell into the depths, things would change in ways that I wasn’t ready for.
“No, I’m not staying.” Anger seemed to have had a sobering effect on Kat. When she reached for the door handle, she made contact on the first attempt. Swinging the door outward with such force that she missed the green plastic trashcan on the curb by little more than luck, she stepped out of the car and slammed the door. Feeling foolish sitting in the car and staring blankly at Kat’s mid-thigh—the only part of her I could see framed in the widow—I cut the engine, opened my door, and climbed out to face Kat across the hood of the car.
“Sweetie, you don’t have a car. We don’t exactly live in a place that has a thriving taxi service, and if you try to walk that far, I’ll have time to go in the house, take a nap and pick you up halfway to your house in the morning. Please come in and just go to bed.” I started around the car, thinking that Kat was likely to simply fall into step with me; if Kat’s fury was an infrequent visitor, it was an even more fickle one. It tended to flash and burn almost immediately, leaving behind an even mellower mood than usual. However, I was less than halfway up the stone walkway when I heard Kat talking. And it wasn’t me she was speaking to.