For a moment I actually believed there was an elephant outside my room.

Then I realized it was four elephants—four very loud, very annoying elephants that had apparently gathered all the pots and pans from the kitchen and were banging at them like they were John Bonham.

I shot up out of my bed, the covers flying, then immediately regretted it on account of the wrecking ball inside my head. I groaned and the rock stars outside must have heard because their banging got louder. This seemed to fuel the wrecking ball as it pounded about, making me wish I could reach inside my head and yank my brain out. Worst headache ever.

I sank back down into my bed with a moan, and probably would have laid there for the rest of my existence had it not been for the sudden wave of nausea. Jumping up out of bed, I bolted out of my room, nearly knocking Lizzie over who was drumming away on a stew pot.

I made it to the toilet just in time to be extremely sick—everything in my body, down the toilet. When it was over, I pulled myself to my feet weakly, clutching the bathroom counter for support.

I was barely standing for a second before the nausea surged back in a wave that surfers can only dream about. If I'd thought everything was gone, I was extraordinarily mistaken. Apparently unsatisfied, my body was now expelling itself. I wouldn't have been surprised if there were a few organs that came up in the process.

I flushed the toilet with a trembling hand but couldn't bring myself to stand up again.

"How you feeling champ?" I heard Derek say with a sneer.

I looked over at him with bleary eyes. He was leaning against the bathroom door, arms crossed, smirking in pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"Am I going to die?" I asked feebly and not entirely joking.

Derek laughed. "That's what happens when you drink more than your body weight in alcohol."

I groaned.

"Oh and by the way, you're in deep shit."

I looked at him, momentarily confused before it all came rushing back—the table dancing, Mrs. LeBeau's banana-shaped shrub, Mom and George outside the kitchen, and Max. Max in his underwear. Max lying on the bed. Max kissing another girl.

I groaned some more and then threw up again.

"Casey!"

My mom was calling from downstairs. So much for going back to bed.

The drum quartet saw it fit to congratulate my success in managing to stand up without vomiting by engaging in their loudest banging session yet. I put my hands on my throbbing head, willing to yank my hair out if it would make the pounding stop, and ran down the stairs.

I made it to the kitchen to find Mom hunched over the stove, her back to me. I dreaded the angry glare and equally angry voice that was imminent. She kept me waiting though, her back turned, until the anticipation was almost unbearable. Yet when she finally did turn around there was no angry glare, but rather a dazzling smile. I frowned in confusion.

"Casey!" she said sweetly. "Have a seat, I made breakfast."

I wavered for a moment, and then took a seat hesitantly. This was strange. Very strange.

"How are you feeling?" she asked in that same sweet voice.

I was still suspicious, but opened my mouth to answer the question nonetheless. It was at that moment, however, that the most awful, high-pitched, ear-bleeding noise let loose from the laundry room.

I put my hands over my ears, which did little to block out the painful shriek. "What is that?" I yelled over the noise.

"Oh George is finally fixing the hinges on the back door," Mom explained pleasantly, still smiling. "About time, don't you think?"

I looked over, and sure enough, there was George, electric drill in hand.

"I asked him to do all the doors in the house while he was at it," Mom continued.

I wanted to cry from the pain in my head. He might as well have been drilling directly into my skull it hurt so badly.

"What's wrong Casey?" Mom asked innocently, her smile having transformed into something more of a leer. "Here, have some breakfast. I made it especially for you—gooey, runny eggs and greasy extra-buttered bacon." She put the plate down in front of me. One look was all it took to send me bounding out of the chair and running back to the bathroom.

"You're grounded by the way!" she called after me.

***

Sry, the text message read.

I resisted the urge to throw my cell phone across the room. It was Max's fifteenth text that day. I wished he'd give up already. He could say sorry all he wanted, it wouldn't take back what he did, wouldn't make the memory of it stop flashing past my eyes every time I closed them. I felt fragile, ready to break into tiny little pieces at a moment's notice. Pieces I didn't know if I'd be able to put back together.

When my phone started ringing, I lifted it up, ready to hurtle it at the wall, when I noticed it wasn't Max calling.

"Emily?" I said, answering the phone.

"Casey!" Emily exclaimed, as if she were surprised to hear that it was in fact me on the other end of the phone. "What happened to you last night?"

"I should ask you the same thing," I grumbled.

"I heard Max…" She didn't finish the sentence. It didn't matter. We both knew the end to it.

"I'm so sorry Casey," Emily said. "I can't believe he would do that. What a—"

"Jerk?" I suggested.

"I was going for something a little stronger actually. How did you get home anyway? When I heard what happened, I went looking for you."

"Derek took me home."

"Derek? That was sweet of him."

Sweet? Derek? I wanted to laugh, but stopped myself. After all, he had taken me home—a more difficult task then one would imagine, given my drunken state at the time. And he'd seemed strangely sympathetic when I'd told him about Max. I hadn't even thanked him.

Then I remembered the pot banging this morning and all nice thoughts of Derek were replaced by the usual "I wish you'd never been born" kind of ones.

"How many people know?" I asked, dreading the answer.

Emily paused. "It's a safe bet to say anybody who was at the party."

I sighed and lay down on my bed. Any energy I'd had was gone, sucked out of me in a rush that made me feel faint.

"Have you talked to him?" Emily asked after a while.

"Who?" I asked, playing dumb.

"Max," Emily replied impatiently.

"No."

"You have to talk to him."

"What if I don't?" I argued. "What if I just don't?"

"Casey—"

"Fine, I know. I have to talk to him, but can we please let it rest for today Em?"

"Alright," she agreed. "Now what's this I hear about you table dancing?"

"Ummmm…"

Thankfully I was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Sorry Em. Gotta' go."

"Don't think you're getting off that easy," I heard her say before I hung up the phone.

"Come in," I said, sitting up a little straighter on my bed.

Mom walked in, closing the door behind her. I bit my lip and wondered if she'd given up her passive-aggressive stint from this morning and had come to yell at me.

"Derek told me what happened last night," she said, sitting down on my bed.

It was official. Everybody knew.

"Now I don't agree with your methods of dealing with the situation…" She paused, shaking her head in disapproval. "But I'm sorry honey. I know how much that must have hurt."

I took a deep breath, feeling the tears coming. "Thanks Mom, I'm sorry too. For everything."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I replied. It was clearly a lie. I'd never been so un-okay in my life. Mom could tell I wanted to be alone though, so she accepted my response and left.

As soon as the door closed behind her, I closed my eyes, squeezing out the tears that had been lingering there. I rolled over onto my side and cried, tired of holding it in.

And with every tear I felt emptier and emptier, until there was nothing left. No more tears, no more feeling. Nothing.