Damage

Chapter 4

“You want a sip?” Michael asks and Hutch reaches from behind to hand me the bottle of whisky that they’ve been passing around.  

The music in the car is turned up, the radio blaring a song I don’t know and my head feels so dizzy with excitement and fear and everything bad and good that makes me want to lose myself in the smiles of these people I just met minutes ago. The liquid sloshes around the bottle and I blink, hard, to clear my mind before responding. 

“No…No, I’m fine.” I begin, shifting in my seat and fiddling with Michael’s copy of On The Road that’s in my hands. “I don’t drink.”

“Ever?” Emily questions, turning her head to me as we sit in the backseat. Everyone’s mouth is nearly dropped open as they stare at the innocent girl who won’t touch alcohol. I shake my head in response and as almost everyone looks at me I suddenly wish for the ground to swallow me up.

They express their surprise, raising their eyebrows and laughing lightly, before going back to singing some song off-key as we turn a corner and park by the curb. It doesn’t seem to bother them much, but I can’t get it off my mind.

I set down On the Road and unbuckle my seatbelt before stepping out onto the sidewalk, still damp with a bit of summer rain. As I look around, it feels like I can pinpoint elements of each character in my newfound friends. Michael is the most like Dean, “tremendously excited with life” and lighting a cigarette as he laughs, walking backwards down the street. But where in the story do I fit in? Who am I?

 Hutch explains that at this time of night, trying to find a parking spot is pointless and we’ll have a bit of walking to do before we get to the party, but I don’t mind. They’ve almost killed the bottle of whisky and Will downs the last drop, wincing at the strong taste, before dropping it in a nearby trashcan.

 As we walk, all four of them laughing and talking and all of them running off a slight buzz, I get to know the other two boys in this group of people.

 Will is an only-child from Illinois, just outside Chicago. In the city lights I can make out his features, his dishwater blonde hair that’s almost brunette if you don’t look too close and his defined jawline that could cut glass if he tried. He’s majoring in anthropology and wants to be a professor. He’s relatively soft-spoken (compared to Michael) but has a dry (and very sexual) sense of humor that comes up rarely, but never fails to make everyone laugh.

The second boy’s name is Hutch. Well, his real name is Ethan Hutchinson, but everyone calls him Hutch. I wouldn’t be surprised if his own wife ended up calling him Hutch. He’s a senior and he’s majoring in English, the brooding-poet type of guy to write a quatrain about you after meeting you and never tell you about it.

“All I’m saying is, she’s hot, but I doubt that Amanda Ramirez would even look up from her Bio-Chemistry textbook long enough to take a look at a boy, let alone ‘love if a guy went down on her’,” Hutch says, laughing at Will’s claim. A cigarette rests in his hand, the end burning in the dark light of the night as Hutch’s hands move about while he talks.

Hutch continues cracking jokes and taking quick drags from his cigarette, his hands often in motion, making small but decisive gestures to emphasize a point, or to indicate a shift of direction in his thinking.

 “Wait, who is throwing this party?” I suddenly speak up, voicing the question I’ve had for a while now. 

We’re nearing a tall building and I can see light spilling out of the ground floor. This part of town is definitely high-end.

“That Hemmings guy right?” Emily asks, straightening out her dress.

“He’s a senior and his father is probably one of the richest people in the United States,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. “His family’s gone to this university for years and the bastard’s loaded with money.”

 “Well…let’s just say he’s not the most well-behaved son of a billionaire in New York City,” Will notes absentmindedly making everyone laugh as he pulls open the door to a tall building. The glass door opens to an expansive lobby covered in marble and gold finishings, dripping with everything that insinuates, or rather screams, wealth. 

We all get into the elevator and Michael presses the button to go to the top floor before wrapping his arm around my shoulder and speaking up, his tone placid and sarcastic. But when he says his next words, putting his hands out and almost painting the sentence like a movie title in his already drunk state, I feel a shiver run down my spine.

"Mia, welcome to the fathomless ocean where good girls go to drown." 

***

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