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It's typical for her, after lunch or even before; after first or second period if her mother got her to eat a hearty breakfast at home that morning, something she insists on yet at the same time, often in the same breath, makes certain to mention that Chrissy needs to keep her weight down. As if she doesn't know she has to be a flier at each basketball game or other sports event, and you can't get lifted up on a member of your pep squad's shoulders if you're fat.
So Chrissy, as much as she hates it, kneels on dimpled knees and curls over the school toilet, looks at chips and cracks in porcelain and sees the smudged and carved names, words and messages scrawled on the stall walls from this year and years past, hearts and arrows and whispers that blur into snarling teeth and twist into hands on slowly ticking clocks...
She's gotten used to being quiet, but today she shakes and sobs softly, because she knows she must be going crazy, and she cannot talk it out because no one's listening, or if they are, they're telling her to talk to other people too, but the other people don't believe her and just tell her to get some sleep, stay hydrated, eat and pray.
None of those things are working, and her head jolts and pounds. It's like a giant pair of hands are squeezing, fingers jamming into both sides of her head as she sobs, her stomach turning over first from the force of her own hand, but even after that she continues to retch, to spit and whimper, and she hears a strange dragging drone of sound that blocks everything but the final slam of the bathroom door and a squeaking turn on of one sink. She gasps, and turns her head to one side as the water shuts off but her voice echoes a desperate sound.
And another voice, rougher, young, asks "...are you okay?"
(_) +(_)+ (_)
Max had ducked into the bathroom, sweating bullets and downing pills to stave off the headache that drills into her brows, skull base, and temples. She hears a noise after turning off the sink, and sees a pair of crumpled legs with high white socks and the bottom of a ruffly skirt. She hears the wrench of either a sob or someone throwing up, or both; and her stomach crawls even as her chest clenches. So "hey," she says, feeling terrible for whoever is on the floor in this low-litten space, with bulbs that flicker and buzz, casting dim bluish light that is not so glaring as in the halls or classrooms, yet still feels harsh. Especially in rough spots, especially to her.
Max clicks the button on her tape deck to pause and pulls her headphones down around her neck, atop her shoulders. She hears a hitch, a higher voice now says "I'm fine,"
And "...are you sure?" Max scrunches her face, because, call her crazy but "it sounds like you um. Just threw up, do you want...me to tell a teacher or something?"
"No!" It's sharp, almost terrified. "That's okay, I'm okay. Please just -go."
But Max hesitates. Her fingers are twitching. At the very least, she wants to offer something, maybe medicine or...she doesn't know, but when she'd get sick, especially when she was really little, her mom would get a washcloth cold and wet, and wipe Max's forehead, her face and neck and even her hair. It helped, at least afterward; even the shivering sometimes seemed to settle her stomach. She isn't sure, but rocks onto her toes, a stance not dissimilar to when pushing off whilst skateboarding. "...Are you sure?" She asks. Even though she hadn't wanted to stay and talk to Lucas, even as she practically ran in here to get away from talking to, interacting with him, which makes her chest and stomach clench, she doesn't want to leave somebody else alone when they might need help.
(_) +(_)+ (_)
Chrissy closes her eyes, clenches her fists, whimpers. No one can see her like this, she's the head cheerleader who's got it perfect, the perfect boyfriend, she's the queen of Hawkins high. She has it all together, good grades and form and a loving family at home. She's a good girl, perfect princess who doesn't get wild, doesn't do drugs, a size two if she tries.
But I'm letting the back of your dress out, Chrissy, her mother's voice says, and then growing louder and past frustrated to angry, I have to, but by the good lord if you'd just watch your figure, oh!
Chrissy gasps and closes her eyes, hands shaking she presses to her ears, hair bouncing as she shakes her head. She isn't fat anymore, she'd fixed it, no one need be ashamed of her. "Please - please just go away!" Her voice is high and loud, and then she screams as scrabbling feet, blood and the sound of slicing, stab to cut, the thunk thunk thwips and sharp tap tap tap of her mother's old sewing machine. Her heart pounds as the stall door rattles
Open this door, Chrissy, you fat little pig!
Chrissy wraps her arms around her head, curled up on the floor still, beside the toilet that begins to rattle, and the lights are starting to flicker above her...
(_) +(_)+ (_)
Max hears the first scream, the desperation in the voice, but then she hears whimpers and flailing sort of sounds, and something doesn't sit right. Maybe it's what she's been through with her friends, maybe it's her own (first at night and now waking) nightmares. Maybe it's because worrying about someone else's potential problems is easier than dealing with her own -
Whatever. The point is, Max drops, sees Chrissy Cunningham frozen curled up on the floor, basically leaning on the toilet (ew!) But it's like she needs support, somehow. Her face is screwed up but her eyes look ...weird. "Hey!" Max scrambles forward, snaps her fingers, claps her hands. Her heart pounds as her eyes flicker back and forth through possibilities.
She doesn't think her voice is loud enough, because Chrissy doesn't move. But Max thinks about her music. How it blocks out the worst thoughts, and even sometimes helps her deal with the ... images. Memories. Point is, she wonders if it could help Chrissy too.
Biting her lower lip and extending legs into a slide, Max pushes herself underneath the still-latched door of Chrissy's bathroom stall. "I'm sorry," she offers. "This is weird" but dipping her head forward and pulling headset out from around her hair, flipping out of the way her ponytail, she clicks 'PLAY' on the deck and hears faintly
It doesn't hurt me, yeah yeah yeah
Do you want to feel how it feels? (oh yeah yeah)
Do you want to know, know that it doesn't hurt me?
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making? You, it's you and me...
She carefully with fingertips holds onto the headphones and puts them over Chrissy's ears.
Chrissy blinks. She hears something other than her mother's voice now, other than the strange deep droning. It's shutting both out, but what is it? Sounds like the radio, but there isn't a radio around here...
Max keeps her hands close to Chrissy's head, eyes on her face. She can hear tinnily the voice of Kate Bush, and adds her own:
"And if I only could, I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get him to swap our places
Be running up that road
Be running up that hill
Be running up that building
See if I only could, oh..."
Chrissy feels herself beginning to cry as it's as if her ears become unblocked or something. She feels cold floor underneath her, hand and arm cramping as she clutches onto something hard and cold beside her. Her mother's voice is fainter, it's like it becomes an echo as she hears the words, words she hopes so desperately
You don't want to hurt me
But see how deep the bullet lies
Unaware I'm tearing you asunder
Ooh, there is thunder in our hearts
And then she gasps as, hearing two voices, one closer, softer. Younger, and somehow slightly familiar, it catches on the next lyrics, almost spoken instead of sung, because this is a song she's heard before, once or twice on the radio. And something - about what it says
"Is there so much hate for the ones we love? Tell me, we both matter, don't we?"
Those words, they make Chrissy cry, fling her arms and her eyes open, and she gasps, pants, coughs.
Hears one voice stop singing and instead say "Whoa! It's okay, you're okay," and it's as if she has woken from a daydream. She hears the buzz of florescent lights, the drip of water droplets in one sink, the gurgling of water having previously been flushed down a toilet.... and she sees a pair of wide blue eyes, a pale face with red hair in front of her. Freckles, she counts freckles on the girl's nose. And she's younger, Chrissy can tell that. Maybe...a freshman? Sophomore? Chrissy still hears the song in her ears, but now this voice, this girl's lips move after clearing her throat "uh, hi. I'm Max," she introduces herself. "And you're Chrissy. I know who you are because of Lucas - he's - well anyway I know him, and sorry for getting in your space like this but you were"
"Freaking out," Chrissy whispers, lifting her hands to touch her face, fingers dragging at her skin. She lifts her eyes and looks back and forth before back to Max, trying to smile.
But Max is seriously dropping a hand on her shoulder and replying "Yeah. I understand."
"Do you?" Chrissy knows she probably sounds ridiculous. Petulant. Hears her mother's voice start to shriek, but closes her eyes and shakes her head, clamping hands to her ears - and feeling the contours of a headset.
"Yeah I - oh sorry, this is my music, I just ... thought it could help." She's looking so earnestly, and Chrissy smiles, real and relieved.
"It did," she tells the younger girl. "-thank you."
"Oh, yeah," Max is nodding as she gets feet under her and stands upright. A little pause precedes her hand extending to take Chrissy's to help her up. Chrissy accepts it and stands facing Max, headphones still on and wire extending to the deck affixed to Max's belt.
Again Chrissy smiles, sniffling and dropping her face to swipe at tear tracks that the other girl makes no mention of. "I - I'm sorry, you're probably late for class, and I know my breath is -" she very nearly whimpers "terrible."
Max shakes her head. "It's fine, I'm just - glad I decided to stay." She offers up a half-smile of her own. "Also, uhm, here." They have walked to the stall door, Max ahead. She unlatches it and leads the way to the sink, which she turns on and runs cold water over a paper towel. The droplets collect along and dribble down her fingers. "Use this, or - I can help you, get your neck or face?" She thinks of helping El last year, and her chest squeezes. She misses her friend.
But Chrissy sniffles and tries for another smile, tears in her eyes as she says "okay" and lets Max help her wipe her face, closing her eyes to feel the cool dampness and gentle light back and forth movements. Max is certainly careful of the headset and its wires. "Here," Chrissy tips her head forward, hair falling too. "You need this back."
Max shakes her head. "I don't need it until you're sure you're good," she speaks so seriously that Chrissy wonders if Max has been in situations like this before. She clears her throat again, holding the paper towel out to Chrissy. "Are you good?"
Chrissy exhales, settles her shoulders and grabs the paper towel to throw it in the trash. Max looks a little surprised at how decisively she moves, but her eyes twinkle as Chrissy puts a hand on her arm. "I'm - okay," the sounds other than music have receded. Strange drone, mother's voice, and all. "Now I just - need to make sure they don't come back," she says aloud, freezing. But Max simply nods as she pushes the bathroom door open, holding it for the both of them.
"I get it. Good luck," as the door closes behind them, Chrissy nods and takes off the headset, handing it to Max again. Hers is a smile of gratitude and relief this time.
"You too, Max. Thank you - so much." She hesitates on any more, of asking if Max has had similar struggles, heard or seen things, and if she can do anything about it besides listen to her music. But she seems tough, Chrissy thinks at the firm nod Max gives her, something in her gaze as fiery as her hair.
"You're welcome, Chrissy," she replies, swinging headphones over ears. "I guess I'll see you," and she's walking away, only to startle at Chrissy stepping beside her once more.
"Yeah!" Chrissy speaks brightly, an honest hope within her to see Max again. She takes a deep stabilizing breath and waves as the other girl heads along a different hallway. "See you, Max!"
"Bye," turning up her music again and heading on, Max wonders if there's somehow something desperate in Chrissy to matter, to still belong. Or if, like her, the other girl will start drifting through days with music as her tether and dread of dreams the companion in her nights. She hopes not; they can both get better, things might change, right?
Right?