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It takes longer than Jolyne thought it would.
She complained at first. ("What the hell?" she'd frowned, clutching at her stomach. "I have to shit all of a sudden. Did it just go straight through my digestive tract?" much to the delight of her friends, who had laughed and laughed and laughed.
"You can't be serious, Jolyne," Mari wiped her thumb where her eye had leaked, glistening wet trailing like glitter on her smooth skin. "You didn't think it'd kick in the second you swallowed it, did you?" That was their Mari, short for Marisol. With a name like that, a face like that, musical and serene and sweet reminiscent of angels, no one would expect her to do the kinds of things she does with Jolyne and the others. Though, it's not like people expect much of them, anyway.
Jolyne bristled. "I'm not fucking stupid," she scowled. "I'm just saying I have to shit really bad."
Fatima waved her hand dismissively, twirling a lock of wavy black hair around her finger. "Then go.")
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Then fifteen. It takes long enough that Jolyne forgets having taken anything altogether, curled up on Mari's bed with Fatima and Rae, burying her face into Rae's cotton pajama shirt as the other glides an idle hand through her hair. Rae's always been the nicer one.
She's the Man plays awkwardly on Mari's clunky, overheating computer, the sound quality shit and the graphics not much better. They would've used the DVD player in the living room, but then Mari's parents would wake up and they'd see Mari's red eyes and Mari's angel lips curved into a smirk and Mari's good-for-nothing friends prove the good-for-nothings they were; something like ratchet, or whorish, or a multitude of other things that were untrue but no one would fight over. Jolyne got arrested for the first time for what was nearing almost a year ago, after all. Her mother changed schools so no one would know, but her foul mouth carries the memory to anyone that can hear anyway.
"I hate Viola," Fati grouses, draining her juice box dry and hurling it at the trash can in the corner of the room. She misses. "She's so annoying. I want to punch her stupid smile off her stupid face."
"Then why the hell are you watching?"
"I'm hungry," Rae says.
"Me too, actually. Can we make something?"
"No! One of you is gonna drop something or do something stupid and then my parents are going to wake up."
"Not our fucking fault Ms. Princess chose tonight to get fucking high."
"I'll go my damn self! Don't say I never did anything for you!"
Their voices slip over Jolyne's head like the tide over sea-smoothed rocks. She doesn't notice when it starts but realizes all at once when Mari slips out of the bed, her movement rippling the sheets and jostling Rae, feeling that feeling like an impact delay, or a frame drop in Call of Duty. Jolyne fucking hates Call of Duty.
It takes longer than Jolyne thought it would, but settles faster than she thought it would, too. Fati shifts her position, lifting herself so her back aligns with the headboard with a thump. The motion forces the breath out of her lungs and she giggles a surprised laugh into Rae's shoulder, sepia haze transforming green pajama threads into a color like piss. Though she can't see her, she can hear the gleeful smile on Fati's face when she says, "It's hitting now, isn't it?"
Oh, it's hitting. Jolyne's space buns unravel and she snorts; if there was any definition of hitting, there's no doubt it would be this. Her vision swims and it takes a moment for her to focus on Fati's black eyes, her hooked nose, her washed-out Minnie Mouse shirt she'd owned since she was seven, apparently. Minnie Mouse's hands warp, elongating and gyrating with the darkening of her peripherals, fabric paint like an ink blot bleeding into the air. Jolyne blinks, and then it's only the sepia that remains.
Rae lifts Jolyne off of her, setting her down gently on the mattress, claiming a bathroom break. Her piss shirt gleams like a beacon in the shadowy dim, and Jolyne can't help giggling more, eyes shutting closed. "What's s-so funny?" Fati grins breathily, lips curving along with her own; a feedback loop. Jolyne shakes her head, "R-Rae is go-onna take a-a leak in the f-freakin' toilet!" and doubles over, heaving with her friend's raucous cackles. There's no reason for it to be that funny, but the hue and the lighting and something about the way Rae's steps fell on the carpet, mindlessly holding her crotch made Jolyne feel some type of way. She supposes that's just what getting high is like.
She has fucking school tomorrow. Mari didn't mention anything like a hangover. After all the shit she's done, she wouldn't be surprised if getting suspended for drug use was the thing that finally got her kicked out of the house, but it seems like no matter how disappointed her mother is in her, how upset, how angry, she never budges on that one thing.
Worthless daughter that she is, she only feels bad. Only wishes Viola kissed that one bitch for real. Only remembers that she needed to shit at some point, but now Rae is in the bathroom and is going to take forever to come out. It's never just a bathroom break with that girl.
She can hear voices in the kitchen and muffled clanging. Mari, conniving girl that she is, convinced her parents to soundproof her room so she could play her guitar without their neighbors screeching bloody murder for the noise. They were always out to get Mari's family for whatever dumbfuck reason: the smell of food bothers them, their accents bother them, speaking just a few decibels above average drives them into a fit, and they're always doing petty shit, like blocking their car in the apartment parking lot, or filing police reports over stolen vases or jewelry. Why anyone would ever want to touch some cracker family's belongings is a mystery to Jolyne; she suggested egging their windows when their shitty brat sneered at them and flipped the bird, but relented when Mari scoffed and said it was pointless.
The room is soundproofed for more than just a guitar. The rest of the house is not. Staring at the ceiling, eyelids drooping, she wonders why they're making so much noise now. Are they not afraid anymore?
The light shifts. Jolyne catches something in the corner of her eye and whirls to face it, but there's nothing there. Her heart starts thumping loudly in her chest and all of a sudden she feels uneasy.
The ceiling remains the ceiling, ever swirling. Jolyne runs her hand through her dyed bangs and tries to count. 1, 2, 3, 4...
... 5, 6, 7, 8...
... 9, 10, 11...
V-O-L-C-A-N-O. Volcano.
Fifteen times four is sixty.
No, wait. I was counting.
11, 10, 12...
No, wait, that's not right.
11, 12, 13, 14...
The fifth time she loses track, Jolyne gives up, pressing her palm to her chest to futilely search for her heartbeat. She can barely find it on the best of days and it's missing when she needs its reassurance the most. Her lungs are heavy and full, like someone's sat on her sternum and refuses to budge. Weed is a depressant, isn't it? she thinks to herself, the voice loud but the feeling not. She's uneasy. She's calm. Everything is slow and swimming, a butterfly fish swept up in the ocean current, a meteor caught into orbit, burning up into nothing and dust. She gulps as the walls of this dream start to cave in.
What would the others think if they found her corpse here? Knocked out by some fucking edible? That's the stupidest death she's ever heard of, Jolyne thinks as she grits her teeth and shuts her eyes against those visions.
Maybe they'd call an ambulance when they see her still and asphyxiating. The EMTs would see everyone's stoned-to-shit eyes and without a doubt send them all to a correctional facility. Mari's parents might cry. Fati would be pissed beyond belief. Rae would probably never talk again, all 'cause Jolyne couldn't handle a few milligrams of green fucking nuggets. How could a few milligrams be that big of a deal? It's so goddamn stupid.
And what else? Her mom would yell at her and refuse to kick her out. She'd keep racing back, trying to get Jolyne to stop, to stop being stupid, to stop getting into trouble, to stop being so brash and reckless all the time because it's pointless. And Jolyne knows it's pointless. It's as pointless as promising happy birthdays to a party of two. It's as pointless as sucking up to her math teacher for sympathy points when she knows he thinks she's just a stupid delinquent. It's as pointless as dressing down in the boiling summer to stave off the heat when it only gets that much more unbearable, gluing sweat-slick fabric to her skin and hair to her reddened nape. It's as pointless as expecting anything from anyone after a lifetime of broken promises and trust to endure.
If she was buried, wrapped in white sheets and lowered in her coffin six feet under to someplace dark and bitter, her dad would probably say he had work some place in fuck-ass Egypt or Japan and would miss the funeral, visiting her grave after weeks have passed, only to leave a flower or two and then whisk himself away to another country, not even bothering to say hello to her fucking corpse.
No matter how hard she tries, she can never seem to lower her goddamn expectations.
And now she's gonna ruin what was supposed to be a fun night with her stupid issues.
She tries with all her might to keep her eyes open in dreadful anticipation of what might happen if she never opens them again.
"Oi, Jolyne! Where were you? Why are you quiet?" Mari's voice is like a ringing church bell next to her ear and she flinches away, registering the hands shaking violently at her arm. She snatches the limb away and presses her lips into a thin line when her vision momentarily goes black.
"I..." she tries, unable to form the words. "I don't..."
"Huh?" Fati drawls next, returning with their food. Of course they're burritos. Fati would never make an effort to help out if it was something hard. She laughs incredulously, "Don't tell me you're freaking out."
Jolyne is, unfortunately, freaking out. She's come to recognize the full-body trembling and weird burning sensations as normal but her breaths only come heavier and faster, and she curses herself for letting her mind wander so far. Everyone else is fine. Good grief. Mari quickly brings a hand to her back and rubs circles into her shoulders, voice dropping into a smooth, even tone, the voice she always uses to get people to like her. "Don't worry about it!" she smiles. "It's your first time, right? I freaked out, too."
"This is so embarrassing," she grumbles. Fati shakes her head, puts the plate down, and pulls Jolyne into a side-hug with a sigh. It does nothing to help with her dream-like orientation and she feels all the more bitter as she noses into Fati's collarbone.
There was a night, she remembers, when she was being especially stupid. As in, more than shoplifting or robbing someone or stealing someone's car stupid. More than waiting for someone to walk through the door stupid.
Stupid in the way she'd holed herself up in the bathroom in the middle of the night, food poisoning from a bad burger sending her lower half into a frenzy. She'd groaned, sweat beading above her brow and taking its sweet, itchy time rolling down her face. Jolyne didn't have a weak fucking stomach; let it be known that it's just when she shits, she shits hard.
And it was so stupid, as she pressed her palms to the rolls of her tummy, trying to massage it out, the way her mind focused on a singular imaginary sensation. The way her eyes trailed from the floor to the cabinet beneath the sink, where her mom stored her disposable razors. The way her stomachache abruptly became pointless, the way she found her thumb trailing the body of the razor, watching intently the way the fluorescent lights made that steel blade glint like a grin.
A passing thought was all it took to reify something so stupid. When the first curious indent made it onto her skin, and she saw it, and she realized it, her eyes widened and she threw the razor at the far wall, hearing it clink obnoxiously when it bounced off the tiled wall and hit the floor.
She wasn't weak. She wasn't some fucking emo. And she sure as hell didn't want to die.
(After a week, the scar was nigh invisible, but Jolyne didn't forget the shame. It was her business and her business alone when she decided, years later, to get a tattoo with a band that wrapped all around her forearm, like a rewriting of the past.)
She really, really didn't want to die.
"You're not gonna die, Jolyne," Rae deadpans, having taken Fati's place at some point. They were all eating; she hadn't even noticed.
"If you die, I'm never going to forgive you," Mari says between mouthfuls. "You promised you'd help me pass the bio test. Don't flake out now."
"It'd be harder to get rid of the body that's in your room, I think."
"Yeah!" Fati cackles, spit flying out of her mouth. "You're fucking stupid!"
"I'm not stupid! Jolyne's the one thinking she's gonna croak!"
Great. They hate her now.
"Man, you're seriously messed up, haha! We don't hate you."
She doesn't know what she'd do if they hated her now.
"I could never hate you," Rae rests a calloused hand on her knee. "You're one of the best people I've ever met."
"Don't start making out now," Fati snarks to Mari's uncontrollable laughter, and Jolyne wonders if that would really be such a bad thing. Her mind halts, stutters, and banishes the thought quickly with the next bite of her burrito, chewing carefully so she doesn't choke. Like a scene of a dream, it starts slowly and drops her in the middle, scrambling to remember the distinction between this frame and the one before; this time, she's basking in the warmth instead of struggling for an answer, her blood simmering beneath her icy skin, pulling her closer to ocean-deep serenity. Like watching jellyfish float through a hazy purple window, casting the world in shades of consciousness and unconsciousness, she relaxes, no longer racing to know what that imaginary light is beyond her tunnelling vision. She was just freaking out. It's fine.
She'll keep this a secret from her mother, of course. Fati gets enough flak as it is for her brash personality. Mari uses her reputation as a tool to get away with anything, and she'd rather not break that streak. Mari is a good kid at the heart of it, after all.
And Rae... If there's anyone Jolyne doesn't want involved in her shit, it's Rae. So this night will stay a secret hushed to giggle over at other sleepovers, where they'll all make fun of Fati for crying or Rae for cursing out Lindsay Lohan or throwing it back or doing something equally as crude that she'll blush over, cutely hiding her face from the rest of them as they laugh and do it all over again. Jolyne won't freak out about accidentally killing herself then. With luck, she won't even care.
She's babbling into the darkness as Mari turns off the lights and climbs into bed about something or another: punching a girl in the face in first grade for calling her ugly, trying to make cookies on her own and burning them, wondering when she'll get a boyfriend, what kind of guy she'd like. Someone tall but not too tall, dark eyes. Likes plants, braids, maybe. Fati snorts sleepily as she nudges a quieter than usual Rae with her elbow, "Sure you want a boyfriend, Jo?" and Jolyne dismisses it, forgets it as her rambling tapers off, finally unafraid to succumb to sleep.
Jolyne's the first to wake the next morning, pale sunrise sunlight filtering through Mari's blinds, bending and warping over their sprawled and tangled bodies. It traces over their faces, free of tension and eyes dark with circles. Rae's lips are mauve and chapped. Jolyne looks away and then down when a strange sound catches her ears.
Her stomach is rumbling and, with a groan, she realizes she never quite made that bathroom trip.