Peyton. Yes? Well, pick up the phone honey.
Why Daddy?
No answer.
I can't get up now honey. My head hurts.
No answer again. It's ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing.
It's because you're drunk, daddy. It's because you miss mommy, daddy.
Yes baby. Your daddy's very sad.
No answer. The phone is still ringing.
Are you going to …….
NO!
When she wakes up that morning, she feels slightly ill. She stumbles down to the bathroom. Her face is thinner, more drawn than usual. She pushes her hair back behind her ears, but it falls down in her face again. She pushes it back. It falls again. Tears of frustration begin to form in the corners of her eyes. It's just a small thing, she tells herself. Stop stop stop it! Nothing.
She slumps against the cool tile floor. The world is empty. Her skin feels clammy. She's shivering. Her body is full of sadness. It's seeping out of her pores, creeping out from between her lips, leaking out of her eyes, evaporating from her fingertips, her feet. The warmth is leaving her body.
She stumbles towards the kitchen.
Bottles rattle. Cupboard doors bang open and shut. A cigarette weakly trembles from her lips, and falls on the carpet, until. She doesn't notice. A small sob escapes her throat. A thick feeling is blocking her throat; she wants to call Brooke, but she doesn't. It's just one of those days, those bad days, she repeats over and over. They come now and then. It'll all be over soon. Just sleep it out.
She swallows two small pills left over from Brooke's generous contributions. Vicodin, or maybe, Valium. She doesn't know the difference. She takes a sleeping pill too, and swallows two capfuls of NyQuil. The world is starting to blur lightly at the edges. The morning sunlight creeping in thin slats of pale yellow through the blinds seems sharp enough to cut her. She retreats to the bedroom, pulling down all the shades. She wants to sob, but everything is dry and clenching in her chest.
She curls deep under the covers.
It's ok. This happens sometimes, there's days like this. It'll go away soon.
She stands up, letting the covers fall. She has to go to school, there's a quiz in economics today. She's so tired all of a sudden, old pictures flashing behind her closed eyes. She crawls back into bed, and her body feels so heavy, she can't reach back to the floor to grab her covers. She just curls up in a ball and starts to shiver, drifting in and out of reality.
Peyton? Yes. Well, pick up the phone.
Don't want to.
No answer.
Why? Is it that dickhead boyfriend of yours? Is he bothering you?
No answer again. Ringing and ringing and ringing, penetrating and shrill.
For chrissake Peyton honey shut it off. My head hurts.
It's because you're old daddy. It's because you worked night shift too daddy.
Yes honey. Your daddy's very tired.
No answer. The phone is still ringing.
Are you going to…….
NO!
He notices when she's not in her classes with him. She usually never skips school. He guesses she must be sick, but he has a strange feeling as though she might not. She was perfectly fine yesterday.
Lila Slater notices, like she always does.
In the buzzing lunchroom, she sits down lithely next to Brooke, her long, tan legs stretching out on the bench, modestly pressing down her cheerleading skirt around her thighs as though no one had caught a full glance when she sat. She smiles sweetly, playing with her hair.
"Where's your soul sister, designated driver, llamaze-class partner today, Brooke-baby?" she asks innocently, and Brooke rolls her eyes. Brooke never shows signs of distress in public. She considers it a personal weakness.
"Somewhere not here, still keeping her mouth shut about that little secret of yours, Lila," replies Brooke in her cigarette voice, blandly sipping on a diet Coke, deliberately looking away from Lila. The blond girl recoils a little, but a spark of malice lingers in her eyes.
"Whatever. How was your weekend? Oh, Jenna kinda wants to go out with Josh Altmeyer, and she told me to ask you how he is in bed, since she said she figures you've probably already done him."
Brooke, for the first time since junior high says nothing.
Lila's voice gets a little louder.
"Hey, no snappy comeback, Brooke? What happened at Nathan's basketball appreciation night party? I heard a rumor that you threw yourself at Jake, Nathan, and Lucas and none of them wanted you. Maybe you're losing your touch, no pun intended."
Again, nothing but silence.
By now Lila is smiling, a twisted, stretching kind of smile. Everybody at the table is watching this.
Brooke suddenly turns towards her, fixing her with a point blank stare.
"So Lila, I guess no one here ever heard about how your cousin used to make you make out with him. Or about the fact that you sucked the coach's assistant's dick to make the cheersquad freshman year. Or that you used to steal from your church's donation box to pay for pot to give to your exboyfriend so he wouldn't dump you."
Lila's face turns bright red. Every face at the table is frozen in displeased shock. She stands up, sputtering.
"All those things are damn lies, Brooke, and you know it! Everyone knows it!"
"Do they?" grins Brooke tiredly, standing up, her face suddenly turning stone. "Do they Lila?" she says louder, and a hush settles over the cafeteria. "We'll never know, will we!" she says loudly and clearly, evenly paced. "No one will ever know if any of the disgusting things they hear us saying about each other are true! Because no one has proof, and they don't want it! They want lies!"
She turns around, facing the cafeteria.
"I know you all loved all the little whispers that originated at this table, you loved watching the showdowns, the little snappy repartee. Well, no more people. I'm sick and tired of your stupid fake-ass lies, Lila. You can dish but you don't like taking. Or at least that's what your boyfriend mentioned in regard to oral sex."
A collective gasp went up.
"See what I mean? That was bullshit but you all loved hearing it!" screams Brooke suddenly. "You love it you fuckin sickos!"
She turns around to Lila, her voice quiet.
"You love it, Lila."
She turns back once more.
"I'm done."
She sits.
A hand taps her shoulder. She turns her head to face Ms. Gray, the monitor.
"No-no," is the only thing the woman says, grabbing Brooke and Lila's arms.
He's standing on her porch that afternoon, peering through the half drawn shades. Her car is there, but there is no sign of her.
He puts his hand on the knob, and to his surprise, the door is unlocked.
He sees the cigarette on the floor, and begins walking faster.
"Peyton."
No response.
He looks in the bathroom, and sees the open bottle of NyQuil, the sticky green ring of the cup in the sink. It's mostly full. Maybe she's sick.
Maybe not.
He opens her door softly. The room is dark.
She is laying there, curled up, and the blanket is on the floor. Her eyes are open, and she's staring into space. The firefly tip of a cigarette is blooming red in her mouth, burning orange, then dying down to a dark glow again.
"Peyton?"
She doesn't reply. He sits on the side of the bed. Her hand falls to the side of the bed, dropping the cigarette into a wastebasket. The floor is littered with stubs.
Her immense sadness hits him then forcefully, and he can hardly breathe; he feels it pressing in around them like a weight on his chest, his back.
Peyton? Well, pick up the phone.
Don't want to.
No answer. Papers shuffling.
Pick it up honey, I can't now, I'm doing the bills.
Ok daddy.
Then silence.
It's for you daddy. Some doctor guy. Must be calling to schedule your flu shot daddy.
Here, hon. Bring it over.
Daddy where's mom? She's late. She said she'd watch the Fresh Prince with me today.
No answer.
No answer.
No answer.
He lays down beside her, pulling her into him. She feels so cold. He pulls up the blanket from the floor, covering them both. He takes her frozen hands into his and begins rubbing them, massaging the fingers like his mom showed him how to get the blood flowing, rubbing her wrists. He notices her eyes are leaking, tears spilling out of the corners irregularly, following each other in a slow, random pattern. She feels so small, so thin.
"Lucas," she whispers.
"I'm sorry," he says, just like his mom says to him when something bad has happened. He envelops her in his arms.
She lies there motionless in his arms, her tears absorbed into his shirt.
"It's just one of the bad days," she says in a flat tone, no indication. It sounds as though she could be eating or doing homework, not crying. "They come now and then."
He nods, wishing he understood.
"It'll be over soon," he says, stroking her hair. Her voice is numb and gravelly.
"I can't feel anything," she whispers.
He feels a genuine sorrow seeping into him.
"Tell me what I can do," he says, and she looks up at him, as though she is tired. She waves a hand nonchalantly, as though completely unaware of the tears streaming out of her eyes. Her voice is rather flat and bored.
"Hey, let's fuck."
His eyes open wide, startled. He's not sure what to say. A thousand thoughts race through his head.
"Peyton, you're crying," he says gently.
She turns to him, surprised.
"I am?"
She's fallen asleep, her tears drying sticky on her cheeks.
She never started sobbing, really crying. Tears just came out of her eyes like the air coming out of her mouth in short breaths. No emotion escaped, fought it's way out. It didn't have the energy too. In his arms, she feels heavy, sodden, as though already dead. He fights the thought.
He wraps her up, turning the heat up a little. He goes in the kitchen and scours around for something to eat, but there is nothing. Checking on her again, he grabs his keys and runs out. He picks some soup up at the café, some caffeine free ginger ale because he read somewhere it settles an upset stomach. He's not sure if she has one or not. He makes a cream cheese sandwich and a roast beef sandwich because he doesn't know if she's vegetarian. He throws in some fruit, because he guesses she might need some vitamins.
It only takes half an hour.
He drives back to her house, and sees Brooke's convertible in the driveway. Wary, he rings the doorbell.
A giggling Brooke throws the door open.
And he can see her there, in the living room, fully dressed and made up. She's drinking straight out of the gin bottle.
"Whaddya want?" asks Brooke curtly, jutting one hip out, hands crossed under her breasts, discreetly pushing them together a little. "You wanna talk to her? Not sure she wants to talk to you buddy. You might lecture her for drinking, since you don't do any of that bad stuff yourself. Or maybe you want to do her? Is that why you keep coming around?"
"Brooke shut up ya dumbass," he hears her giggle from inside.
Something in him is breaking or hardening.
"Peyton?" he calls out, and she appears at the door, shoving Brooke out of the way. Her face is worried, uncertain, and defensive.
"Are you feeling better?" he asks, unsure.
"What are you talking about?" she whispers with a frightened but steely look.
He feels so tired all of a sudden.
"Fine. Whatever. I brought you some food so you won't pass out, some ginger ale for your stomach. I didn't know if you were veggie or not so I made both, and eat some fruit so you don't get scurvy. And try to use some of it to absorb whatever shit you're drinking."
Her mouth trembles, her face almost giving her away before straightening up into it's dull, flat mask.
"I…."
But he's not listening. He's already walking towards his car.
She wants to cry.
But she can't. She's cried herself out today. There is nothing left. The alcohols is warm and spreading through her veins. Brooke throws an arm around her shoulder.
"It's just you and me baby," she slurs.
Peyton slams her door shut as he drives away, grabbing the bottle from Brooke who giggles and whoops.
She takes a long drink.