Page 121 of Dirty Chorus

“Fuck! Seriously, it’s been that long?” God I’m drowning in time, not even paying attention. She blinks at me, startled. “We don’t know anything yet,” I say, softer this time. “Don’t talk like that. You can’t.”

Her eyes fill again. “I just...”

I cut in gently, leaning across the table. “Right now you’re gonna eat, and you’re gonna hand over your phone. We are changing your number and you're deleting all of your social media. All of it.” I take a deep breath and she mimics me, nodding. “You need to get it together right now, okay? I know you’re hurt. I know Ryder hurt you too. But if he’s gonna come around, he will.”

She looks down at her burger as onions and lettuce slide slowly out of the greasy bun. She bites down again with tears streaming down her eyes.

I take another breath. “Right now, I just don’t want to be alone. I miss her,” my voice cracks a little. “You’re the closest thing to Charlie. I just need a friend who gets it.”

“You wanna be friends?” Her eyes get blubbery with tears again. I can tell she knows I’m not saying it to use her. It’s just the truth. I seriously need a friend. We sit there in silence for a while and she finally finishes her burger and starts chowing down on her fries.

The metal bleachers are cold beneath me, even through my jeans. I take another swig from the flask hidden in the center pocket of my hoodie. The rum burns down my throat, and I hear that whisper in my ear telling me to stop but I ignore it. If the holy spirit wants to talk it can start with apologizing. I start feeling the rum. I’m warm and it's spreading everywhere. I’m buzzed but it’s not the loose, happy kind. It’s the heavy one. The kind that sits in your chest and whispers all the worst thoughts you try to drown. I should stop, but all I do is take another swig.

Payton’s been out there for almost two hours, running drills and routines under the stadium lights. I didn’t think I ever realized how brutal cheer practice actually was until now. She’s been flipping, yelling counts, getting tossed in the air, and every time she hits the ground again, she looks like she’s ready to drop. But she doesn’t. She keeps going.

And me? I just sit here, drunk, too empty to play, too hollow to sing. My throat still hurts. I haven’t touched a guitar this week. My fingers ache as if they’re punishing me for not trying. I take another drink. The bleachers creak when I lean back, staring up at the cloudy dark sky.

By the time practice ends, Payton’s hair is sticking to her neck, her cheeks flushed pink, her clothing damp from sweat. She looks exhausted but alive. Something I haven’t felt in weeks. She jogs over, grabbing her water bottle from the bench. “You’ve been here this whole time?” she asks between breaths.

“Yeah,” I say, stuffing the flask back into my hoodie. “Didn’t have anywhere else to be. I mean, I do, but I don’t want to sing right now.”

“But isn’t singing what you love doing? I mean if you don’t want to sing, maybe the girls can teach you some moves.”

I grin weakly. “I’d rather die.”

“Yeah, I see that. Are you okay?”

“I dunno honestly,” I say. “You wanna go grab food or something? Walk around? Just... not think for a bit?”

She hesitates. “I’ve got a ton of homework to catch up on, but... yeah. I can hang for a little while.”

“Cool,” I say. Then she squints at me.

“Have you been drinking?” She asks, pointing her eyes at the flask that’s hanging out of my pocket.

“Maybe a little.”

“Maybe?” She gives me that unimpressed look. “You smell like a frat house.”

“Then maybe you should drive,” I tease, standing up and stretching and I slip on the bleacher, falling on my ass. “Ahh fuck.”

“You good?” She asks.

“Yep.”

“So funny thing about the driving...”

“You’ve hit more cars than mine on the highway?” I lay on the step of the bleacher like a dead fish.

“No... umm..” She bites her bottom lip and cringes at me as she says it. “I don’t have a license.”

I groan, taking the flash out and taking another swig. “Wait, seriously?”

“So, you only get three attempts on the driving portion, and I have failed twice. I have like another week or so before I can’t take it again, but my mum says she's buying me this random blue Volkswagen Beetle, super cute, but it’s a stick shift. So I dunno, I think I'm just gonna be that one chick who is gonna bum off rides for the rest of my life...”

God, she's rambling. “Okay okay!” I cut her off. “Get the beetle, and I’ll teach you how to drive a stick. It’s not that hard, and we will go get your license. It will give me something to do, and maybe I can muster up the courage to do this gig we have next week.”

“Really?” Her eyes beam.