Hothouse

They’re waiting on me. I’m late and I need to leave now, but I’ve sunken into the floor, the foundation, the earth below. It’s all too heavy to push off. I can’t move. 

“Get up,” Dad says. 

I can’t move. The sofa cushion below me is damp with drool. 

He jabs my shoulder. “Up.” 

He rips away the jacket I’m using as a blanket. Morning air pierces my skin like hail. “No no, no nono no no.” I tuck my arms under my body and curl into a ball. “I can’t.” “Stop whining. You knew we had practice this morning and you went and did stupid shit anyway. Made all the wrong choices.” 

Everything was right, though, until that last shot. I’d been teetering sweetly on the edge before then. Until I hurled myself off. Always do. 

“Sorry,” I say into a pillow. 

“You’re not. And I’m not either.” 

My nails cut into my palms. It wakes me up a little. 

“Car in ten,” he says. Then he’s gone. 

I sit up. I know what will happen if I don’t get in the car, don’t run. He’ll leave without me. I’ll sleep for another three hours. He’ll come back and not say a word. I’ll go to my room, sleep more, scroll on the computer until the space behind my eyes starts pulsing. Then dinner, more or less silent, maybe some questions about school or Alice. Nothing about last night or me bumbling in at two, nothing about the training session I missed. I’ll be the first to crack, I’ll say something safe, like did Nate show up? Did he make up some ailment to get out of shit like always? Dad’ll answer, detailed and animated. He knows how to tell a story. Quiet again then I’ll finally start. Nosedive into the grimy pool we’ve been dancing around. It was an off day, I’ll say. It would’ve been a shit practice anyway, not even worth it, won’t happen again. He’ll say he’s not keeping me in it, you can quit if you want, there’s no point if you’re miserable. I don’t want to quit. I don’t. Then stop acting like you do. Empty hours. This is the one thing you’re good at. What are you without it? Drown out all the noise with a police procedural. Probably an episode I’ve already watched. A detective gets kidnapped, and the rest of the team has to race against time to save her. They trace calls and decode messages hidden in sonnets sent by the serial killer. Everyone starts yelling at each other, swinging dicks, losing it. They’re too close to the case, they shouldn’t be working it. But they break procedure because they care. Their friend’s in trouble. They don’t want her to die. I’ll miss the rescue operation and the final shootout. I’ll already be asleep with my earbuds still wedged in. 

Not worth it. Never worth it. So instead I stand and tie my hair up, ripping my fingers through matted knots. My breath comes faster. I swallow the nausea. 

I tie my sneakers as tight as they’ll go. The knotted laces dig into the top of my feet. The heat’s on full blast in the car and we don’t talk. No radio, either. Just the sound of the blinker and the engine and the snowslush spin of the tires. 

____________________ 

We park at the track and it’s bright, nearly glowing under the floodlights. The rest of the team’s already there, fidgeting to keep the cold at arm’s length. 

Alice looks at me then looks away. I called her last night and left a voicemail. I might’ve been crying. Was definitely wasted. This is how we communicate now. 

I fucking chuck it. See? See? There.

My body’s vibrating, singing. My thoughts are watery. I can’t hold them long enough for anything to form. 

Dad gives me a “good,” but only once. He gives Nate pointers about his technique for the whole practice, though. I run so hard I feel the impact of my feet hitting the ground all the way up through my jaw. 

It’s not enough. I gave too much too early. Alice beats me on our last rep. I scream and kick the fence. It feels good but only for the split second before the ache sets in. 

Dad sniffs. 

Alice walks over, hands laced behind her head, chest heaving. “Are you okay?” she asks. I’m leaning on my knees, still catching my breath. “You’ve been saving up…. all morning….just to do that on the last one.” 

“I haven’t.” 

“I’m fucking better than you. That doesn’t mean anything.” 

Alice goes to stretch, but she keeps glancing back at me. Trying to get a glimpse of the flipped eighteen-wheeler on the side of the interstate. She has to move on, though. Eyes forward or she’ll wind up in that ditch, too. 

I watch from the car as everyone files out, thanking Dad. He locks up. 

“You could’ve beat her,” he says. “You got sloppy on the last hundred.” 

He idles in the Andover cul-de-sac and waits for me to get out. 

Before he can say more, I start. Dad stays in the car, driving it alongside where I run on the sidewalk. It’s stopped burning. Now it just feels like nothing. Like floating. He calls out my pace and it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I stop. Legs wobbling, I fall and land hard on my ass. Bone meets cement. 

“We’re not finished,” he says. 

“I’m done.” 

“You want a repeat of today? You want to keep getting beat? You want to feel like this again?” 

Not enough. Never enough. I start again. Two more loops around the neighborhood. Three more. I trip on the fourth and skid forward on the heels of my hands. The icy concrete scrapes off skin. My wrists nearly bend the wrong way. I prop myself up with an elbow and vomit. 

Dad crouches next to me. The car’s still running. Exhaust flows into the sky. “Let me see,” he says. 

I hold out my hands. They’re shaking and wet with blood. Dad turns them over gently and rolls my wrists around. 

“You’re alright, bug.” He hauls me up by my shoulders, wipes my mouth with his sleeve, buckles me in. “I think that’s plenty for now.” 

____________________ 

“Slow down, M,” Alice says. 

She doesn’t do parties. I didn’t expect her to be here. I wouldn’t have come if I did. Morning practice, when I last saw her, feels like a week ago. My throat burns and I breathe fast in and out through my nose. The bottle suctions my lips. They lose circulation as I drain the last of the drink. I swallow the air that bubbles up from my stomach, and it lodges somewhere behind my sternum.

“Why are you hovering?” I ask. She stands with her arms crossed like the old lady on the corner of Strawn and Hillside shuffling outside to get her paper. 

“You’re kind of freaking me out lately.” 

“I’m fine.” 

I root through Dill’s ice maker and crunch a cube between my molars. The screeching nerves steady me. I move toward the living room. Alice is still there with a sour notch between her brows. 

“If you want to go home, Alice, just go home,” I say. 

“Come with me. This sucks anyway.” 

“I’m staying. Do what you want.” 

A few girls I know from class huddle in a corner. There’s a gap in their circle, and I imagine myself walking up to them, filling it. They’ll smile, whole-face genuine. Their eyes’ll get a little brighter. 

Alice asks, “Does your dad know you’re here?” 

“Can you fuck off?” 

“You know. I’m tired of your shit. I’m done. You’re mean and–and…you’re just mean.” “Okay, Alice.” 

“I don’t know why you text me and say you’re sorry and you want us to be good if you turn around and do this every time. So stop doing that. You can fuck off.” “Okay, Alice.” 

Then she’s gone, I’m free, let the night begin. I linger behind the group I’d decided on, close enough to hear their conversation. I wait for them to say something I know how to respond to. It’s not promising.

Ryan B’s shoulder smacks into my face and I bite my tongue. Some of his drink sloshes over the edge of his cup and soaks into my shirt. The shock of it makes my eyes water. While he’s getting his bearings, before he can figure out if he hit a wall or a person, I shut myself in the hall bathroom. I don’t want his sloppy apology or his blank expression when he can’t remember my name. I know my way. Earlier, I laid on the cool floor and found patterns in the tile while I waited for everything to kick in. 

There’s a body in the bathtub. I flinch when it sits up and looks at me. 

“…Sorry,” I say. 

“Shhhh.” She blinks. “Too loud.” 

I reach for the knob. 

“No,” she says. “Stay.” She beckons with a hand. I sit on the toilet. She shakes her head, flaps her fingers some more. I step into the tub. She nods and pulls her legs to her chest to make room. I hunch forward so the faucet doesn’t dig into my spine. 

She asks, “Why are you upset?” 

“Someone ran into me.” 

“Okay.” 

“Why are you in the bathtub?” 

“It kind of makes me feel like I’m in one of those log flume sleds from the Olympics.” She presents a wrinkly bag filled with rainbow gummies. I choose a blue star. The ceiling spins. 

____________________ 

There’s pounding on the door. 

“Cops are here!” someone says.

It takes me a few tries to get out of the tub. “Come on.” 

She says, “I’m good here.” 

“You’ll get suspended or expelled or something.” 

“Bye, Mommy.” 

I put my coat on backwards as I run out of the house. Mud snatches at my shoes and does its best to pull them off, but I’m gone I’m gone I’m gone. Into the woods, legs eating up ground. I’m faster than everyone, nobody’s better, I’ll never get caught. 

I duck under branches and sidestep divots in the ground that wait to twist my ankle. I swear I have night vision. 

“M! Mary!” Someone stumbles behind me. I whip around. The motion makes me queasy. “Jesus, Nate!” I say. 

“Sorry, sorry…I didn’t…” He wheezes. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Same as you.” 

“Going home?” 

He nods. 

“Can I come?” 

“Fine. But if coach asks you were never there.” 

“No shit.” 

____________________ 

Nate pauses his video game. His character’s hidden in a bush preparing to snipe an enemy. The TV screen bathes the basement a pale green. 

“You’re gonna get your ass handed to you,” he says.

The carbonation from the vodka Coke makes me feel like I could float away. “He’d still shit all over me if I stayed home and went to bed at seven,” I say. “He’d find something.” My legs throb. They’re still fucked from this morning. 

Nate flicks at the Xbox controller. “Yeah if coach was my dad I’d be getting hammered, too.” 

“Well, do it anyway so I’m not bored. You need to get on this level.” I pass him his can. Later: 

“Nate do you think I’m a hard worker?” 

“What?” 

“Do you think I’m a hard worker?” 

“You’re the fastest girl on the team. You grades are—” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Yes, obviously you are. I don’t think you can do what you do without working hard.” “Dad— I mean coach says I only give eighty percent. Says I can be better.” “Eighty percent’s a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever given eighty percent to anything I’ve done ever.” 

I straighten. If I touch Nate’s hair, it will probably be soft. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. 

“I’m just looking,” I say. 

“Do you wanna make out?” 

“I think maybe.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.”

We stare at each other. He doesn’t move until I do. I keep my eyes open and watch his lashes flutter. He pulls away. 

He says, “I–I don’t think… This isn’t… Your dad’ll kill me.” 

“Yeah,” I say. 

We don’t talk any more but I stay until he falls asleep on the sofa with his arms cradling his head. I go out his sliding doors. It’s snowing. Heavy flakes, big. They’ll stick. In the morning the ground will be covered. 

I claw a hand through the grass. There’s not really enough to roll a snowball, but I try. Water drops trickle down the lines of my palms, stinging the cuts there. I hurl the ball at the brick side of Nate’s house and it bursts and breaks apart in every direction. I mold another, and another, sliding one into my pocket to see how long it’ll keep. I toss the other straight upward and it lands softer than I expect. My shoes leave prints on the sidewalk. I jump as far as I can, then shuffle my feet without lifting them off the ground, connecting the pairs of prints with straight lines. 

On a pole, I see the individual flakes. Their delicate points and perfect symmetry. (See this, buggy? No two are the same. 

They’re actually pretty like that? I thought snow was round. Just all pretty in movies. He smiled, pointed to one. Clear as day against a black mailbox. 

Nope. Real life, too. ) 

The block is dark. One side of my coat is wet now, the snow melted into the fabric. I’m shivering but I feel hot. Like I need to strip a layer. I wrench off my jacket, drag it behind me. Just a thin sweater between me and the winter.

The long way home is still too short. I’m standing on the porch, frozen. I can’t get the key out of my pocket, can’t fit it in the lock, can’t go inside. 

I sit cross-legged in the yard. Snow seeps into my jeans. A flake catches on one of my eyelashes and the world is half-white until I blink it out. 

The kitchen light snaps on, and I can’t see him moving around with the blinds closed, but I know he’s there. Wiping down the counter, maybe cleaning out the fridge, leaving crusted old glass jars to soak in the sink. He doesn’t sleep. Hasn’t for as long I can remember. I’m just like you, now. 

There’s a picture of me from when I first started cross country. I’m holding the first ribbon I ever got. It’s pink or something. A participation prize. Back then, my ponytail was stubby and my face was my father’s. I was always called his spitting image. 

I used to be so proud, Dad, when they said that. I was so proud for everyone to know that I was a part of you. And you were proud, too. You’d put a hand on my shoulder and look down at me with a crooked smile. Maybe a wink. But you lingered for a second too long on the slope of my nose, the curve of my chin. It was like you were checking that they matched yours. Like you weren’t convinced that you–you–had brought me into the world to cling to your side. “Mary?” 

The front door opens. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. “I was worried.” 

I’m quiet. I haven’t spoken in a while, and I don’t know if sound will come out of me now. 

“Come inside.” 

I shake my head, cross my arms. Like a toddler would.

He goes in, and without the warmth from the hall light, the snow seems gray. My socks are soaked through and the wind makes my nose run. Snot trickles down my nostril and I suck it up. 

Footsteps behind me. Dad’s in his boots and coat. He holds out a hat and sweatshirt for me. I take the things but don’t put them on. He grunts as he lowers himself beside me. “Where were you?” he asks. 

“Nate’s,” I say. 

“You’re drunk.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“What was that?” 

“Fuck you.” 

He exhales like he’s trying to push something out of him. Something stuck deep in his center. “Why are you doing this?” he asks. 

“Not doing anything.” 

“It’s my fault.” Dad zips his coat up as far as it’ll go. I wrap my arms tighter around myself. 

He says, “Your mother always said I would ruin you.” 

“Do you think I’m ruined?” My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I taste blood. He gets up. “I just…” The snow comes down steady.