OLD FRIENDS / BOOKENDS

Dirt fell through his fingers, back onto the flowerbed beside the curb outside the sorority house. Screaming and laughing behind him, punctuated by Spud’s repetitive bassline – God, he really was the worst DJ in the world, wasn’t he. All that water from the hose helped somehow, and for the first time since five that afternoon, he felt a little more clear-headed. Behind him, people he knew and people he didn’t – sprawled out on the grass, having a cigarette or smoking weed, looking at the stars. He fantasized that the house was rocking back and forth with the force of everyone inside. That it would topple over, go back into the earth like the house from Poltergeist, and everyone inside would disappear into the ground. With maybe a few exceptions – some of the folks in there deserved much better than that, he thought, patting the soil into a lump. Leaving a fallen flower on top of it in memoriam of nothing in particular.

Rotating around with as much subtlety as he could muster, his eyes scanned the lawn. Most were from school, the crowd trending towards Greek life. On the far left-hand side of the porch, his little sister, a sorority t-shirt on, hands all over someone he didn’t need to know the identity of. Crossing his legs, he got in a better position to watch this little world play out.

The door to the house opened and some of Spud’s ear-melting music spilled out onto the porch, as did a younger girl. He squinted; sophomore, probably. Old enough to party off the grid, he assessed, but not old enough to drink. Alternative girl, white face, dark eyes, dark lipstick, dark hair. Gaudy black outfit. Pursing his lips, he attempted to suppress his expression on the off-chance that anyone would see him entertained by something so juvenile – seeing a goth in the wild. I guess they make co-eds in all shapes and sizes these days, he thought.

Another boy followed her out of the house, grabbing her arm, and she wrestled him away. After a short confrontation between the two of them, drowned out by an insufferable soundtrack, the kid went back into the house and the girl took off, pounding pavement to the end of the curb.

“Hey,” Charlie said, wiping the dirt from his hand onto his pants. She looked around, irritated until she found him in the dark.
“Me?”
“Yeah. Hi.”
“You’re Charlie, aren’t you? Rosalie’s brother?” He nodded. “You’re the guy that drives everyone around.”
“That’s me.” He shrugged his shoulders – what a thing to be known by. “Chaz is also fine.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you,” the goth girl blurted out. “So don’t offer me a ride home.” A façade of exasperation was put in place to hide her fear, but with her arms crossed and legs tucked in at the knees, Charlie saw nothing in her but helplessness.
“I’ve been drinking, so I wouldn’t offer you a ride home in the first place. And don’t flatter yourself, I’m not interested,” he sighed, standing up from the curb. Heart rate dropped, slight tunnel vision, knees cracking. A body so much older than his age. He focused on her face as his vision cleared. She had sweat off some of that ridiculous makeup, and it was running onto her silk choker. “You alright?”
“What?”
“I saw you come out.” Charlie used his head to motion to the porch. “Those guys in there bothering you?”
“No,” she snapped. “Leave me alone. Stop trying all the ‘white knight’ stuff on me. I already told you I’m not going home with you.” Charlie took a deep breath in, his eyes widened in exasperation; telling Charlie to go away was all he needed to yearn for more closeness, to retaliate with intimacy. He took a couple of steps towards her, eye contact at the ground – can’t scare her too much, even if it would be a little fun.
“I know you’re not going home with me, I didn’t ask you to,” he muttered, voice quiet and harsh. “I’m not Dingus. Or whatever his name is.” Raising his head, he looked at the house behind her. “The stoner guy. Delivers pizzas on that stupid tiny bike.” She sucked her lips in, furrowing her eyebrows, trying not to laugh.
“Genghis,” she choked out.
“That can’t be his Christian name.”
“It’s not.” Her eyes scanned him. A little calmer now, if not still a bit reticent. “He’s my sister’s boyfriend. I think they’re both still in there.”
“Oh, so she’s the sorority girl, yeah?”
“Yeah, this isn’t really my… my scene.” Hot and cold, Charlie thought in so many words. He let the comment rest – another puff of smoke between two people on the lawn, disintegrating into the night air. “I’m sorry I—”
“If it’s any consolation, I don’t really know why I’m here either.” He chewed on his lip for a beat.
“Yeah, I thought you didn’t go here.”
“I don’t,” Charlie replied. “I go to Quest Labs for my day job, and here for my night job, technically.”
“They pay you? For the driving stuff?”
“Yeah. In food sometimes, money, beer, whatever it is. I give Rosalie credit for making it into a side hustle, I don’t have that kind of savvy.” The girl blinked a few times, nodding – the corner of her eyelash falling off, drooping into her eye. “I thought I was going to the… the pep rally thing to drive some drunk girls home, but I’m not… you know, gonna turn down a keg stand, or whatever it’s called.” Her arms uncrossed, falling to her sides. “You get so few opportunities in life for a keg stand.”
“They didn’t have those at your school?”
“At the college, I didn’t go to? Yeah, they weren’t super popular. Hence my appreciation for the things so commonplace in your lives,” he said. “Sorry, not true. Three weeks of LaGuardia Community College. But still, no keg stands.” Her arms re-crossed, knees squished back together, and eye contact fell to the ground. Oddly vulnerable, out of place – he was very suddenly reminded that she was likely seven or eight years his junior.
“At least you’re free to do what you want. You don’t have to go to class or hang out with people you don’t like or… anything like that. I guess.”
“You bet,” Charlie exhaled, shifting his weight and crossing his arms – sardonic boy to her regressed girl. “I would rather live on my feet than die on my knees, baby. An’ you can tell ‘em I died as I lived – free.” Her face still towards the ground, he saw her body racked with a sigh, punctuated with a chuckle badly played off as a cough. “I still have to go to work, you know. They don’t pay me if I don’t show up to draw all that blood.” Another moment passed between them where neither knew why they were still speaking.
“I’m gonna head out,” she said to the ground.
“How far do you have to go?”
“Uh, I was going to just walk to my parent’s house. It’s over on Pearl Street.”
“Big houses over there.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You in one of the gated communities?”
“I mean, my parent’s house is. I live in the dorms… mostly.” She took a deep breath, mustering up the courage to leave.
“Look…” Charlie began. “I’m not going to try anything, but… I mean, it’s almost three. Let me just walk you home. What’s it, like, twenty minutes?” Her legs loosened, her arms tightened, her eyes back up to meet his. Some weird bright color on her irises – couldn’t have been natural. A moment of desperate fascination went through Charlie, wondering what she may have looked like without those eyelashes, the heavy paint, the cracked lipstick, half-eaten and smeared. First thing in the morning, eating her cereal and watching YouTube videos. The feeling dissipated as quickly as it came on.
“I mean, I don’t want you to have to leave your sist…” The two looked over, synchronized, necks comparably craned to the porch, to Rosalie with a hand up her shirt. Charlie let out a groan of disgust, and the morose girl finally let herself smile a little. They turned back to face one another.
“Yeah, I don’t want to stick around for that. And I got some eyes on her in there. Once Spud’s done disrespecting the art of DJing.” Another little smile, cheeks lifted and lips puckered.
“That’s not his Christian name, right?”
“No, it is. His mother loves potatoes.” That look blew across her face again, trying her hardest to stifle a laugh. “C’mon. Let me walk you home. Just because I don’t have a car doesn’t mean I can’t do my thing.”
“I don’t think I can pay you in anything. I don’t have any cash or whatever.”
“I do a couple pro-bono every year. Looks good on my taxes.” Her arms came down again, hands squeezed into her pockets as she began to walk slowly, balancing on the stilt-like platforms of her huge boots. Charlie kept a safe distance from her, kicking his way down the street, letting her have the sidewalk. Stepping on the leaves as he went, crunching under his feet, nestling into the treads of his shoes. “There’s a nice graveyard up here. You people like graveyards, right? Sisters of Mercy?”
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. I respect your culture. I knew a goth girl in high school who...”

SARA LONDON is an author and freelance writer who produces content for a global client base. Her first book, 'The Performance Therapist and Authentic Therapeutic Identity,' was released in August 2023 with Routledge — she’s working on a second book for Routledge as well. She is also a former Psychology Today blogger and a current Substack columnist, creating think pieces and interviewing clinicians about topical mental health issues.