The Pursuit of Sarah Alice

I wasn’t very sure what I looked like to other people, and I’d often wondered. I wondered if they saw what I saw. If they did, they said nothing.

(I didn’t know about myself.) My gaze was one of the relaxed specimen and, if you didn’t know me well enough, you’d easily mistake my blank face for something along the lines of I don’t give a fuck. My cheek bones were really close to my eye sockets, and they stuck out a bit too much. I had dwarf ears that stuck out from underneath my hair. I was remotely tall; five-nine and a half at sixteen years old. Hips too wide, stomach too pudgy, fingers too beefy. But Goddamn it, I wasn’t the type to sit around and complain about it. It was stupid as fuck to feel sorry for yourself. I did something about it.

I supposed there were some vaguely nice things about my appearance. My eyes; they were a dirty blue, there was some kind of gray-like tinge to them, but not necessarily grayish-blue. They were just…foggy, kind of. I didn’t know, I thought they looked okay. I didn’t get sunburn often, so that was nice. And, even though quite thin, I got my hair to a considerable length; right below my (nonexistent) tits, tickling my (becoming-visible) ribcage.

I didn’t know. (I didn’t know about myself.)



I was with Jolie for the second time this summer. We sat in her living room while her father sat at the table in the kitchen, newspaper crossword in one hand and cigarette in the other. It wasn’t unpleasant, but when he hugged me I honestly hoped to God that his scent didn’t stick with me—Gran would slit my throat.

Jolie had a put a bag of white cheddar popcorn between us (which I only had one piece of, and that was only because she was looking at me funny when I didn’t automatically shove my fucking hand in the bag after she offered, so I won’t say that I shared it with her) as we watched some pointless documentary on bras and how they’ve made an impact on our sorry excuse for a society.

She talked in between commercials, but that didn’t really annoy me so much today (because I was barely listening). Only when she said the word ‘party’ did I turn towards her a little, and that was only because she had a look on her face that made me consider laughing.

“Hm?”

She clucked her tongue in faux annoyance and smiled. Okay… “There’s supposed to be a party tomorrow night—I thought you might’ve wanted to come or somethin’.”

(I pretended that) I thought about it and shrugged, “I don’t really know…I—”

She cut me off like some rude whore, “Oh, c’mon. Do you honestly got anything else to do?” I wasn’t sure if she meant to insult me or not, “My boyfriend will be there—c’mon, now. Please?”

I narrowed my eyes; partially because she hadn’t told me she was with someone to begin with, and partially because on top of that, she was using the offer to meet him to make me accept her invitation. I oddly found this clever and stupid simultaneously.

“Fine,” I grumbled.

“Jo! Essay!” Goddamn it, that motherfucking nickname. “What’s a seven-letter word for ‘bad news’?”



I didn’t understand (and to this day, I still don’t) why Jolie was so anxious for me to meet her boyfriend. On top of that, she wouldn’t tell me much about him, and I didn’t understand that, either. It wasn’t like he was an axe murderer or a sex offender or anything. Jolie wasn’t that crazy.

(At least, I didn’t think.)

All she said was that they’d been together for half a year and that he was cute. Otherwise she was pretty tight-lipped about it, and I didn’t care enough to push the subject further.

I remember thinking about this as Jolie stood on her tip-toes as to shove a white camisole over my head after claiming that my wardrobe was outright unacceptable. As if I didn't have any motherfucking feelings.

(But I digress.)

The camisole was uncomfortable as shit because it clung to me in the rudest way, and on top of that it had a bra already built in. So since I had on a bra prior—to cover and support what little bit of a chest that I had—you can imagine that I felt a bit...constricted.

(Christ.)

“Jolie? Why this so tight?” I asked her, trying to shove it over my stomach; as a result, my boobs pushed out the top. Goddamn it.

“’Cause it’s fitted, Essay," she explained slowly, enunciating each word as if she were talking to a pubescent boy about sex for the first time. (Right…)

The shorts came next. Or was the correct term was Daisy Dukes? I didn’t know. She threw a pair of light wash denim cutoffs my way, hitting me as a result. In the face. (Asshole.)

I shoved my legs through them, buttoned them and walked towards the mirror. My thighs didn’t fill them all the way out, but I was only paying attention to how they jiggled when I walked.

“You look hot, dude,” Jolie told me as she came up from behind to stare at herself in the mirror, adjusting the straps of some support bra that she got from Victoria’s Secret. (“I got it ’cause the Golden Girls are important, Essay.”)

She looked at my reflection again, pinching up her mouth. “But them shorts are too big. I think you need a size one. Hold on,” she instructed as if I were actually rushing her, rummaging through her closet until she pulled out a considerably smaller pair of shorts, dark wash this time.

“Yo, try them on.”

They fit better than the last pair. But my legs still jiggled.



Hot. Stuffy. Uncomfortable. That’s all I could think about in this very large house Jolie dragged me in. It was a bit disappointing; a house that nice shouldn’t ever be that damn sweltering. Personally, I wanted to stay outside where it was, well, not as hot.

“Aw, c’mon now! You wanna meet my boy, right?” she countered, pouring out the contents of her blue cup into the grass and letting it fall to the ground, taking my hand and tugging me inside as I uncomfortably pulled at the top that clung to my (ugh) stomach and tits.

No, I don’t, I wanted to say. (But then it’d have been a half-lie.)

So I (reluctantly) let her lead me through the sea that was a load of sweaty, more than likely horny people as the bass from the subwoofers in the living room made the entire house vibrate.

It wasn’t a pleasant experience.

Then we were going up the stairs, and Jesus, it was just as crowded. Again, not pleasant. We rushed past a certain couple in particular, their hands wandering (all over) as they openly went to first base.

I wasn’t entirely shocked, per se, when I saw them go to close and lock the door to some random bedroom further down the hall.

Jolie then pulled me into the last bedroom on the left. The lights were off and nobody was in the room aside from us, but I could see that there were people outside on what I assumed was the balcony, a little bit of light coming through the glass door. I kind of didn’t want to go out there, but she made me anyways because she was blatantly imperceptive like that.

“C’mon.” And the next thing I knew, she was pushing through the sliding door, and there was Link and some black guy. Then Jolie was in the black guy’s lap. Then Jolie was sucking on the black guy’s face. Then I was looking at Link. Then Link was looking at me. Then Link was smiling at me. Then I was barely smiling back.

But I, again, digress.

Jolie took her mouth off of his with an audible pop that I tried not to wince at. (I saw Link smirk out the corner of my eye.) “Oh—Essay, this my boyfriend, Lucas. Lucas, this my cousin Sarah Alice, but I call her Essay,” she introduces us, saying the last part unnecessarily.

He nods lazily, and I salute him, which causes him to nod again, except this time it was out of approval.

“And this Link,” she said to me, waving her hand towards him. When he didn’t do anything except look at me and half-smile, Jolie back-handed him in the chest. “Say somethin’, stupid.”

He sighed in her face, stood up and scuffed towards me, his hand out. He smiled. “Link.”

I took it, shook it. “Sarah Alice.”

And then I didn’t know what else to say.

Almost as if Jolie could sense this, she declared, “Beer here’s pissier than normal.”

Lucas’ laugh killed the odd silence as I took my hand away from Link’s, brushing past him to go sit in the fold-up chair that was beside his. “Tell me ’bout it. It’s all hot, ain’t no point in being here,” Link said as Lucas squeezed Jolie’s arm.

She sighed, her shoulders slumped. “Maybe we should just leave then. Ain’t nothin’ to eat, ain’t no good beer to drink, and the air conditionin’ is wack.”

I refrained from laughing because (for once) Jolie made a decision that I agreed with.

“Well shit, Jo, where’d we go?” Lucas countered as Jolie’s hand ghosted over his hair. I heard Link sit down next to me—gazing at him from the side out from the corner of my eye, I saw that his cheeks were a bit hollow.

I looked away (because it felt out of place, looking at him like that).

I heard Jolie’s voice. “I dunno. And I don’t too much care, neither. Wherever. I just want somethin’ to eat.”

“How ’bout McDonald’s? It’s only a couple blocks over,” Link offered lazily, slouching in his seat.

“Yeah,” she dragged out the word, “I ain’t had a chocolate milkshake in a minute,” she said as her posture straightened out; she was getting enthusiastic.

“What you wanna do?” Lucas asked, all eyes suddenly on me.

I only had been barely tuned in on their conversation, so when Lucas decided to be courteous enough to include me in a group decision, I had to pretend like I gave a damn and mumble, “Sure.”

We ended up walking the four blocks from the party to McDonald's since the person Lucas and Link rode with was ass-over-tits drunk, and Jolie and I had walked to get to the party in the first place.

It was warm out, and I was thankful because, albeit I felt extremely self-conscious, it made me not regret letting Jolie dress me tonight. Link and Lucas were up front; Jolie and I lingered behind them, and I glanced at Lucas for a couple of seconds.

“He’s cute,” I told her quietly so as the others didn’t hear, actually kind of meaning it.

“Who?”

I wanted to cluck my tongue because (if it wasn’t already obvious) Jolie tended to not pay attention. “Lucas.”

Who else would I—?

No!

Her smile was sly, and when—as if hearing the words that I had yet to speak—I saw her discreetly nod her head towards Link, I sincerely hated her for a second. I barely knew him; it was a stupid thought to think.

I was grateful for the darkness so she couldn’t see my face as I scoffed at her, aware of how pathetic I was. Knowing her, she’d have probably called me out on it. I thought on some subconscious level, she might’ve liked to embarrass me.

Our pace sped up considerably when we saw the lights of the logo off in the distance. The overall fluorescence was aberrantly bright as we stepped inside, and it was cooler, too. I rubbed my eyes, pretty much just pushing my knuckles into my sockets, letting Jolie guide me as I adjusted.

Under the humming lights, I could see Lucas…in all of his five-foot-eight glory. He really was quite cute, too. His skin was the same color as caramel, and he was obviously letting his hair grow out; it was a remotely small afro. Being a particularly light shade of brown, it was a tad kinky, but it was weird because it looked nice on him.

His eyes were blue, too. A little bit lighter than my own, actually. Well.

“What you want, Essay?” Jolie asked as she stepped closer to cashier’s counter.

I didn’t want anything, really, but I didn’t want to raise...suspicions. “Some fries and a Sprite, I guess.”

Since Jolie and Lucas were getting all the food, I assumed that it was only polite that I got us all somewhere to sit. I ended up picking a booth, because I was never quite fond of sitting at just a regular table for whatever reason. Probably a good eight seconds after I sat down, Link was sliding in across from me, his eyes on the phone in his hands as he typed away on it.

I let my head rest on the wall, closing my eyes and putting my arms over my chest (as I was pretty sure they visible now that we were under some type of fluorescence) because it was obvious that he wasn’t interested in a conversation, and I—barely, though—appreciated this, since I wasn’t, either.

“Where you from, Sarah Alice?”

Alright, so I was really off.

I lifted my lids to see him looking at me with his arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face bored as hell. I felt a little worn-out just looking at him.

“I’m ’bout thirty minutes away from where Jolie lives, on the river down the way,” I answered him honestly. His phone vibrated, causing him to look down before he began to press at the screen again. Rude. Rude as hell, as a matter of fact. You do not text someone while you're trying to carry on a conversation with someone else, especially if you initiated it. You don't. Because that's just impolite as fuck.

However…I tried to remain calm, because it didn’t matter. I didn’t know this discourteous boy and he didn’t know me, and at the end of the summer it honestly wouldn’t even matter. It’s just common motherfucking sense.

(It wasn’t that common anymore, though. Obviously.)

Then Link was looking up at me again, taking in my eyebrows and the way they were raised. “What?”

“Nothin’.” My smile was wry, and my voice sounded particularly mocking. Good.

He shook it off, still pushing forward with the conversation. I’ll give it to him—homeboy was bold. Either that or blatantly imperceptive like someone I knew. “She talks ’bout wanting to go see you all the time, you know.”

I raised my eyebrows again, this time out of curiosity as opposed to bitchiness. “Really.”

He shrugged, leaning back and stretching. His fingers were spread and straight and the muscles in his arms were strained, as if he were reaching for the ceiling, his foot brushing against my ankle. His eyes were closed and he had a bit of a constipated look on his face.

I couldn't help but smile a little; he looked so stupid. When Link looked back at me and the curve of my mouth, it was his turn to quirk his brow. “Yes?” he asked, and he let the word come out slowly.

“You look like you gotta take a monster dump.”

His eyebrow dropped as he pinched his mouth up to the side, cocked his head to the right slightly. “Don’t get that a lot.”

“Bet not.”

“Thanks so much—I ’preciate it, honest.”

My eyes narrowed of their own accord, and just as I opened my mouth to tell the cheeky asshole where he could shove that thank you, Jolie and Lucas approached the table, two trays filled with food and empty cups in both of their hands. As Jolie passed me my food and my cup, I glanced at Link’s face. He wasn’t looking at me, but I knew by the undercurrent of a smirk etched onto his mouth that he’d known he won, as ashamed as I was to admit it.

He got up a few seconds after I had, his feet scuffing a little against the floor. The ice was gathering in my cup as I held it underneath the dispenser when he came to stand beside me. I took my cup away from the dispenser, turned to stare at him. “Can I help you?”

His (douchey) tone mirrored my (equally as douchey) tone as he said, “’Scuse me, I’d like to get some ice, if that’s alright with you.”

Even though he was deliberately pissing me off, I couldn’t help but notice his little half-assed smile, the amusement in his face. God.

I scooted over a tad and put my cup under the dispenser with the Sprite label on it. I tried not to stare, but I was vaguely aware of Link as he held his large cup under each one of the soda dispensers for about a second and a half each.

“What you doin’?” I inquired when he reached the Sprite dispenser, little to no attitude left in my voice.

“I call this here a suicide,” he informed me as we each took lids and straws. I tugged my shorts down a little. Fucking Jolie.

“Why suicide?” I pressed quietly, actually a little curious (albeit I’d never confess that).

“’Cause sometimes it can make your stomach rumble,” Link explained. He half-smiled again.

I shook my head a tad and walked ahead of him (because he was being weird).

When we got back to the table I realized what kind of a mess I had just put myself in. Jolie had gotten me a large fry and a medium Sprite. Shit. I would actually have to eat.

“How much I owe you?” I murmured to Jolie, trying to distract myself with the current predicament that was consumption, because now I was starting to panic. She only shrugged, a bit too preoccupied with her dumbass milkshake.

I hadn’t eaten in almost nine hours, and even then it was five saltine crackers and a bottle of water that I didn’t even finish because I didn’t want Jolie to hear my stomach.

That was seventy calories right there.

I’d been able to not focus on the howling of my stomach up until now. The grease and salt of the fries and fizzy carbonation of the Sprite screamed at me in the face, made me light headed.

The Sprite had one hundred-ninety-four calories, over forty grams of sugar and sodium. There were two hundred-thirty calories in just a small packet of French fries. I had a large, and there were dozens of those little bastards in that red and yellow cardboard holder.

I thought I was about to be sick.

“You okay, Essay?” Jolie asked me in a hushed tone, as Lucas and Link sat across from us and talked about how much of a 'babe' some model was that they’d seen in the one of the photo advertisements hanging in the window of Victoria’s Secret in the mall. Oh, hell.

“I think I might be gettin’ a headache,” I lied simply, though not feigning my discomfort.

“You want some Tylenol when we get home?”

Fuck no, but I nodded my head so she would quit asking questions and picked up one of the fries. It was shiny from the grease and the salt stuck to my fingertips, and I didn’t know how on Earth I was going to get by.

And then, suddenly, I was just shoving that shit in my mouth. The rest came remotely easy. I was pushing them in my mouth and downing them with Sprite as if I were by myself.

(So I hadn’t had French fries in awhile.)

Jolie spoke up beside me, and there was laughter in her voice. (If it were only something to laugh about.) “Dude, slow down. You gonna choke,” she said from beside me as she bit into her chicken BLT. And when I looked up to see Link looking at me with that bored as a son of a bitch look, I did exactly that.

Jolie’s hand was coming down on my back. And damn, hard. It only made matters worse. When I was able to (barely) breathe again, I choked out, “’Scuse me, I gotta go to the restroom.”

When the door shut with no sound behind me to the abnormally clean restroom, I ducked to see if there was anyone in the stalls. After I realized (stupidly, because it was almost eleven o’clock at night) that there wasn’t, I locked the door (after I got over the shock I felt that there was a lock to begin with) and rushed to the family stall.

This had become something close to a vague mechanism; I hardly felt anything at all as I locked the stall.

Lifted the toilet seat.

Got on my knees.

Pushed my index and middle fingers down my throat.

Chucked.

The numbness completely disappeared after that, but that was usual—the burn in my throat was more distinguished than normal though, the pound of my heart inside my throat louder, as if I were trying to throw that up, too.

I flushed the toilet with my foot. I was unable to look at what had just come out of my mouth just then, and I knew that it was stupid. While washing my hands, I gazed at myself in the mirror, only to see that there was vomit in the corner of my mouth. I momentarily thought I might’ve gagged again, but I washed it away as best as I could and popped two pieces of gum into my mouth instead.

In hindsight now, I realize how bizarre it is that I was so calm afterwards. How I calm I was about harming myself as a whole, but that wasn’t what I thought about. (I just wanted to be pretty, Goddamn it.)

A thought occurred to me then, as I unlocked the door slowly (the fatigue was beginning to more or less hit me now) and walked back towards Jolie and Link and Lucas. I would be leaving tomorrow, and I was glad too, as fucked up as that sounds. I wouldn’t have to be sneaking around like this anymore.

Well. I wouldn’t have to be sneakier about sneaking around, anyways.