Alive Again

Maybe she was feeling masochistic. That could be a reason for why she kept replaying the video over and over again. Despite having played it over and over, Reese had yet to watch the video in its entirety on YouTube. She couldn’t watch her own sultry movements, not without the burning embarrassment evident on her cheeks.

She could, however, read the various comments at the bottom of the page. None of them were kind, not one was even hinting at positive defense for her or for Clary. Reese wasn’t expecting a knight in shining armour; she just wanted someone to tell them to shut up because none of these people knew her. They just thought that they did.

And they definitely did not know the real reason she was dancing. They didn’t even know why Clary was dancing. There was no alcohol involved, but no one would believe that. Reese was certain that Clary would encourage the rumours, encourage the idea that they were both trashed. Was it too much to hope that her sister might tell the truth to leave Reese’s reputation alone? Reese knew the answer to that, and it wasn’t a very nice one.

Clary was already doing enough damage to Reese’s reputation where it counted. Reese had woken up late Saturday—four in the afternoon kind of late. Being a social butterfly took a lot more energy than being a hermit did, but sleeping that late was still surprising to her. By that late in the day, Reese should have been woken up by the sound of Clary or their mother moving around—or at the least a car driving down the street. It wasn’t a noise that woke Reese up—it was the sun. For the first time in Reese’s memory, she woke up to the feeling of sunlight caressing her face. She lifted her sore arm to shield her eyes and let out a muffled groan at the ache in her body.

Reese definitely wasn’t used to the party scene, and definitely not the day after. Just because she didn’t drink didn’t mean that she didn’t feel the same exhaustion that her hung over classmates might be feeling. Her mind vaguely wandered to earlier in the morning, when she had brought John home. He was probably still in bed with a horrible hangover and almost thirty dollars poorer. Reese hadn’t wanted to take his money, but they had planned their evening poorly—either Reese walked home at three in the morning or stole John’s car. He suggested she take a cab and then that issue of her not having any money came up.

So John handed her thirty dollars—he didn’t know how much it would cost to get her home—and called her a cab, and then he waited on his lawn with her until the cab arrived. They hadn’t spoken in that time, either due to John’s drunkenness or Reese’s evident exhaustion. She ended up leaning heavily on her friend, her eyes drooping every few seconds. The night wasn’t particularly chilly, but John’s body heat was a comfort to her. When the cab pulled up, John opened the door for Reese.

“Do you have a pen and paper?” John asked the cabbie. The Indian man nodded and handed John a blue ink pen and a pad of paper. He quickly scrawled on the paper and ripped out the page, handing the pad and pen back to the driver. He turned his sobered serious face to Reese and handed her the paper.

“Make sure you call me when you get home, okay? It’s my cell number, so you won’t bother anyone.”

Despite their recent bouts of hanging out, Reese had never been given John’s personal cell number. She couldn’t even remember how he had coerced her into giving him her house number.

Reese stumbled home around half past three and crept through her near silent house to the kitchen where the phone was located. She carefully dialed her friend’s cell number and left him a voicemail when he didn’t answer. She left his cell number on the counter and went to bed.

And when she woke up late this afternoon, she was too lazy to truly get up. She instead reached over the side of her bed and powered up her beaten and abused Mac notebook. Just because it was outdated and slow didn’t mean that Reese didn’t love her Mac to death. It was her link to the close friends she had. Online friendships were more of Reese’s forte. She met the majority of them through MySpace music groups and message boards pertaining to specific musical artists. She could talk to these people about more than just music, because they didn’t know her and they would never know her in person. She could escape Clary’s dark reputation online and create a new persona.

Reese’s AOL told her that she had twenty-seven unread e-mails. This wasn’t surprising as she was on various mailing lists. She left those for last and instead found her curiosity piqued by an e-mail from Kennedy. He started the message out with a link, and then one sentence after.

Guess you guys really are sisters, nice moves, Reese.

And Reese had been on the YouTube page ever since. She didn’t know what to do now that this had happened—did she respond? Should she acknowledge it and own up to her own devious dance moves? No, Reese would just ignore it; it was what she was good at.

Reese refreshed the page to see if any new comments had been submitted.

“I have a newfound appreciation for this song. Too bad they didn’t take their clothes off, so hot LOL. Girl on girl, what a win!”

Reese slammed the lid of her laptop down in a fit. She regretted every second she spent in that house party. She should have known better, that her classmates would have taken something from it to use against her. Really, it was her fault. She had just wanted to make her mother happy and even to some degree she had wanted to make John happy, too.

Why had she gone to that party? Really, what did she hope to accomplish? Did she want to be more like Clary? Was she hoping, subconsciously, to run into Kennedy and possibly corner him? Did she honestly expect their talk to go down at a house party? Chances are he would have been buzzed, or drunk, and upstairs already with a Clare-like rebound.

If Kennedy was that kind of guy. Before the whole Kennedy-Clare debacle, Reese would have believed Kennedy to be the opposite of that kind of guy. He was chivalrous, kind, funny, and respectful. Reese never would have thought him to be the fuck-and-chuck, one night stand party kind of guy. Now she wasn’t so sure. Her beliefs in Kennedy’s decency had been shaken. Still, Reese couldn’t let that good guy image she associated with him die. Something had her believing that Kennedy was still a good person.

And it wasn’t like Reese was going to go ask her sister if Kennedy was a dick. Her sister would take one look at her and make an obscene joke about penis sizes. Reese wasn’t in the mood to deal with that kind of shit. She didn’t know whether or not Kennedy was worth another attempt at friendship, or if she should just accept that he was as shallow and sleazy as every other guy she had met.

Reese’s ponderings about Kennedy Brock were interrupted by her stomach. Sleeping for twelve hours can make one hungry. She softly padded out into the empty hallway, uncertain about if she had the house to herself, in her fuzzy bunny slippers, cotton short shorts and long sleeved white v-neck. If she could remember correctly, her mother would be halfway through her eight hour shift at her second job. As for Clary, Reese had no idea if her sister had come home last night at all.

She couldn’t find it in herself to care much about that, either.

The only thing she was worried about was what to eat. She wanted something quick and sufficient. A sandwich would work. Reese hadn’t had a tomato sandwich since the summer; the idea of one right now was very appealing. She danced her way to the fridge, pulling it open with vigour. She completely missed the phone number that was hanging in the middle of the fridge with a purple magnet. Reese dug around in the crisper for the lone tomato, and took out the mayonnaise while she was at it. She shut the door with a hip bump and skipped over to the counter where she placed her ingredients and spun on her heel toward the breadbox. She took two slices of bread and stuck them down in the toaster. Reese had no idea where this cheerful energy had come from.

She then grabbed a knife and began to slice her tomato. She was focused on not cutting her finger, until the smell of something burning captured her attention. It was all downhill from there, the knife slipped and the tip dug into the side of her left index finger. Shocked by her injury, Reese dropped the knife and lunged for the dish towel hanging in front of the oven. She gripped the towel around her injury tightly to staunch the flow of blood.

Then the smoke alarm started to beep and Reese became aware of the toast burning. She dropped the bloody towel and pulled the chord from the wall. She turned on the overhead fan and opened a window, while the incessant beeping provided a soundtrack for all of this. When the smoke alarm finally started beeping, Reese was able to focus on her bleeding finger.

She thumped her way up the stairs and to the main bathroom in search of the first aid kit. When she couldn’t find it, she began to rummage through the hall closet. The red first aid kit was nowhere to be seen. Her mother had obviously moved it (Reese was certain that Clary didn’t know how to use the first aid kit).

Reese jogged downstairs and continued to keep pressure on her wound. She dialed the familiar phone number rapidly, having had it memorized better than her house number by now.

“Hi Maggie, its Reese, is my mom around? This is kind of important.” Reese cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder, attempting to push her bangs away from her eyes with her elbow.

“Oh honey, your mom’s shift ended hours ago! She should be home with you!” Maggie, one of her mother’s co-workers informed with her Boston accent.

“Oh, thanks Maggie. Have a good day!” Reese ended the phone call before Maggie could retaliate. As far as Reese knew, she was home alone. Despite that, she went back upstairs and down the hall to her mother’s room. Just in case she was sleeping, Reese quietly opened the door and peaked in.

The room was abandoned.

Where the hell was her mother?