Inside, the crowd was pushed up close to the stage. The old curtain still hung over the stage in huge velvet swags. There were plaster columns along the walls, and the molding around the ceiling was carved with birds and flowers and leaves. Dollhouse of Mayhem was on, yelling about corporate incentives and the government. Their lead guitar sounded like what would happen if someone wedged a traffic accident into a blender. The whole place smelled like rusting iron and spilled beer, and the bad, shaky feeling that had been looming all day broke over me in an ugly wave.
Roswell was saying something very analytical about the music scene at any given time being a barometer for civil unrest, but his voice was fading in and out, and my mouth was full of too much saliva.
“And then you get these bands like Horton Hears,” Roswell said. “I mean, no one would accuse them of being socially proactive, but—”
I knew suddenly that I was going to throw up and not in some distant, abstract future, but now, right now. I put up a hand to say hold that thought and went for the bathroom.
Crouched in a doorless stall, I tried to puke over the toilet without actually kneeling on the floor, which was pretty disgusting.
Behind me, Roswell, stood in the doorway. “Another day in the glamorous life of Mackie Doyle?”
His voice sounded easy and fake, and I got an idea that he was trying to counteract the moment. That he just didn’t know what else to do. My whole life, I’d been able to count on him to just look the other way and pretend really hard that everything was normal.
Afterward, I stood at the sink, rinsing and spitting. There was a heavily graffitied mirror above the counter and I tried not to watch myself through the web of black marker. Behind the illegible scrawls, my face looked pale and shocked. I couldn’t help thinking about Natalie. The fact that a body had been buried under her name when maybe it wasn’t even the real body made me feel like I might pass out.
“You’re shaking,” Roswell said. He stood against the counter while I washed my face and avoided looking at my reflection.
I nodded and turned off the faucet.
“You’re shaking really bad.”
I wiped my mouth with a paper towel and didn’t look at him. “It’ll stop soon.” My voice sounded hoarse, almost a whisper.
“This isn’t funny,” he said. “Do you think you should maybe go home? If you went easier on yourself, maybe—” Then he just stopped talking.
